"Honestly," Morris said sometime later, carefully polishing the base of an ancient trophy labeled "First Wizarding Dad Joke Competition."
He looked up from his work to ask, "why don't you just use magic for this? I think a proper cleaning charm would work quite well and save hours of labor."
The trophy was surprisingly heavy, made of silver that clearly hadn't been properly maintained in decades.
"Professor Flitwick specifically calls it 'labor reflection,'" Fred explained with a dramatic sigh, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn spot of grime on a Quidditch trophy. "He believes manual work builds character and encourages contemplation of one's poor choices."
"Besides," George added, assaulting a dusty award for excellence in Herbology, "these trophies have all been specially enchanted with protective spells—cleaning charms don't work on them at all. Spells just slide right off. Trust us, we tried immediately."
'I see,' Morris nodded with understanding.
He didn't have much particular resistance to this kind of tedious manual labor, he was already quite used to it from his years at the orphanage, where chores were constant and unavoidable.
But speaking of which, the sheer number of trophies displayed here was truly excessive, almost overwhelming. They covered several entire walls floor to ceiling, creating a maze of glass cases and shelving.
And some of the trophies were inexplicably strange, celebrating the most bizarre accomplishments.
Like the dad joke competition trophy Morris was currently holding, its brass plate was gleaming under his efforts.
The winner's name was inscribed on it: Lily Evans.
Morris wondered briefly what kind of jokes had won. Whether they were actually funny or just wizard-humor he wouldn't understand now.
After working diligently for nearly half an hour, their arms aching and fingers cramped, the three of them finally tossed their dirty rags aside and leaned against the wall to rest.
Fred turned his head to look at Morris with knowing eyes and suddenly said, "Morris, I assume you didn't actually come here just to visit us during our punishment, did you?"
"I'd guess so too," George agreed immediately, his grin matching his twin's. "And you're definitely up to no good. We can smell mischief."
"I didn't think you saw me that way," Morris put on an exaggerated hurt expression and laughed. "I'm wounded, truly. I just wanted to ask you a rather strange question. That's all."
"What question?" Fred and George both leaned forward, immediately interested. Strange questions from Morris would not be boring.
"I was wondering..." Morris shifted to show a very serious expression. "Do wizards have any reliable way to enter an extremely realistic state of feigned death?"
He paused to organize his thoughts. "Not just simple unconsciousness or ordinary sleep, but a state that appears infinitely close to actual death from both magical and physical detection. Yet the person can return to normal function under preset conditions or timing."
The twins exchanged a long glance.
"Draught of Living Death!" they both exclaimed in perfect unison.
"Draught of Living Death," Morris repeated carefully, branding the name to memory. "That's a potion, then?"
"Yes," Fred responded, his expression becoming more serious.
"The Draught of Living Death, also sometimes called the Draught of Living Hell by people who've experienced it, is a potion that can make someone fall into a death-like state.
After a large enough dose, your pulse nearly stops to almost nothing, your body becomes completely cold and stiff like a corpse, your breathing becomes undetectable. But in reality, it's just extremely deep sleep."
George picked up the explanation. "We've never personally used it ourselves, it's too dangerous, and unpredictable but according to what we know, a truly skilled wizard with proper diagnostic spells could definitely tell it's not genuine death. But to most people, you'd appear dead."
'I see,' Morris nodded thoughtfully, his mind was working through possibilities.
Although he didn't yet know if the potion's effect would perfectly meet his specific needs for The Gate Between Two Realms, it was definitely worth investigating and trying.
Fred scratched his head; his eyebrow was furrowed with confusion. "So, Morris, why exactly are you asking about this?"
"Just curious," Morris smiled mysteriously, giving no real explanation. "I want to experience what death feels like."
He wasn't entirely lying as that was indeed one of his purposes.
Understanding death meant understanding his magic.
The twins exchanged glances again, both seeing the same thought reflected in each other's eyes—they didn't understand his reasoning at all, but they respected his right to pursue strange knowledge.
Although Morris was only a first-year, he was a Ravenclaw after all. Having some odd and peculiar ideas was quite reasonable for that house.
"Can you buy the Draught of Living Death in Diagon Alley?" Morris asked next.
His financial situation wasn't particularly great, he had only a few Galleons remaining so he sincerely hoped this potion wouldn't be too expensive.
Fred shook his head immediately. "That's not an ordinary cold remedy or headache potion, Morris. The Draught of Living Death is a Ministry of Magic controlled substance. Both buying and selling require special permits and documentation. You'd need to prove legitimate need."
"I figured as much," Morris sighed, having somewhat anticipated this. "Then do you happen to know the complete recipe? And how difficult is it to actually brew successfully?"
"I only know that its ingredients include powdered asphodel root and wormwood infusion," Fred said, trying to recall. "Because our textbook only mentioned those basics in passing, and yours would be the same. But I imagine the actual full recipe and detailed steps are considerably much more complex and extremely dangerous to execute. It's not something a first-year student should—"
He had wanted to say it wasn't something a first-year student should attempt under any circumstances. But remembering that Morris was the kind of person who casually kept an Acromantula as a pet, he swallowed the rest of his warning sentence.
"Maybe you could try looking for the complete recipe in the library," George suggested helpfully. "It might be in the regular section under advanced potions, or possibly in the Restricted Section? Either way, go have a look and see what you can find."
"I'll definitely consider it, thank you both," Morris said gratefully, already standing.
He immediately turned around, planning to head directly to the library to search for detailed information about the Draught of Living Death.
Of course, he'd start with just the regular accessible section.
The Restricted Section required a signed professor's note to enter legally, and no professor would simply give such a note to a first-year student who had just enrolled a week ago.
"Wait a moment," Fred called out to him.
"What is it?" Morris turned back in confusion, wondering if they'd remembered something else important.
He found a slightly damp cleaning rag thrown into his hands, which he caught reflexively.
"At least help us finish wiping the rest of these trophies," Fred said with a mischievous grin. "You can't just get information and run."
George nodded in agreement. "We've got at least another hour here. Suffer with us."
At noon, after eating a quick lunch in the Great Hall, Morris set off for the library.
Just as he walked out of the Great Hall's doors into the courtyard, Tin-Tin suddenly jumped down from the stone eaves above and began circling around him energetically.
His pet undead cat had been who knows where all morning, probably hunting or exploring. Several grass leaves and some suspicious, shiny slime were stuck in its black fur, and its head was completely soaking wet, dripping water onto the stones.
"Where have you been?" Morris asked, eyeing the mess with disgust. "What did you get into?"
"Meow~~" Tin-Tin responded, rubbing against his legs and leaving damp marks.
Morris felt somewhat disgusted by the state of his pet and used several cleaning charms in series on it—Scourgify, Scourgify—before finally holding the now-dry cat in his arms with satisfaction.
Tin-Tin purred contentedly, rubbing its cold head against his chin in appreciation.
In recent days, both of Morris's pets had barely been by his side, off doing their own things.
Sparkles at least came back every night to rest in his shadow, reporting in regularly. But Tin-Tin had been missing almost constantly, and who knew what trouble the undead cat was getting into outside.
Holding the cleaned cat, Morris walked to the library entrance.
As soon as he pushed through and entered the space, a stern-faced person immediately stepped into his path, blocking the way forward.
It was Hogwarts' librarian, Madam Irma Pince. A thin, elderly witch with sharp face and an expression of continuous suspicion.
Madam Pince stared at Tin-Tin in Morris's arms with disapproval and said coldly,, "Pets are not allowed in the library under any circumstances. Library rules. No exceptions."
"No problem, Madam," Morris said politely becoming immediately obedient.
He bent down and obediently put Tin-Tin on the floor outside the entrance.
The black cat, quite intelligently understanding the situation immediately pushed the door open with its head and darted out like a shadow, disappearing behind the door.
"Very well," Madam Pince showed an extremely faint smile, more a slight softening of her scowl. "You may enter. But be extremely careful not to damage any books, or make loud noises that disturb other students."
This was Morris's first time actually visiting the library. He walked in and looked around with wide eyes, finding the space astonishingly large.
The library was bigger than any he had ever seen in either life, undoubtedly using some kind of powerful space-expanding magic.
Towering bookshelves stretched up toward a distant ceiling, easily twenty feet tall or more, filled completely with thousands upon thousands of books. The lighting was dim and atmospheric, with floating candles providing soft light. The air was thick and heavy, flooded with the distinctive smell of old parchment and ink.
It's a wonderful place, Morris thought with appreciation. I could spend weeks here.
Because it was the weekend, there were many students present taking advantage of the free time.
Almost all the study tables were occupied by students bent over homework. The aisles between the bookshelves were bustling with people coming and going, browsing and searching, mostly upper-year students working on essays.
What caught Morris's attention most immediately was a specific area nearby enclosed by iron railings.
The Restricted Section.
Through the bars, Morris could even see a familiar figure among the shadowy shelves: Robert Hilliard, the Ravenclaw prefect.
Robert was standing alone, looking down intently at what appeared to be a very old, tattered notebook. His expression was serious, focused, absorbed in whatever he was reading.
As if sensing Morris's gaze on him, Robert seemed to feel eyes on him. He looked up sharply, his head was turning.
Their eyes met across the space.
Robert was startled at first, his eyebrows rose. Then his expression softened and he smiled slightly in recognition. He carefully closed the book in his hands, tucked it under his arm, crossed through the iron gate separating the Restricted Section from the regular library, and walked over to Morris.
"Good afternoon, Morris," he said warmly.
"Hello, Prefect Robert," Morris greeted him politely in return.