Morris admitted that this shocking statement left him briefly speechless. He steadied himself, taking a slow breath to compose his thoughts, and pressed further. "Kill you... what exactly does that mean, Professor?"
If he wasn't mistaken and he was quite certain he wasn't, Professor Binns should be a genuine ghost.
Logically speaking, ghosts were already dead by definition. They'd died once. How could they possibly die again? What would a second death even mean for someone already departed from life?
He needed a considerably clearer explanation before agreeing to anything.
Professor Binns seemed to have anticipated Morris's confusion and questions. He stroked his translucent beard thoughtfully and his voice remained steady despite the heavy topic.
"I imagine you know that not all the dead become ghosts," he began, as his tone began taking on a slightly lecturing tone. "Ghosts are the result of the deceased actively choosing to remain in the mortal world one way or another."
He paused, gathering his thoughts. "If I were to explain my situation in proper detail, I'd have to start from when Hogwarts was first founded. That's quite a long story.
Simply put, for your purposes—I became a ghost due to a curse placed upon me. And I myself... actually had absolutely no desire to become a ghost."
His expression grew even more weary.
"What's worse is that a ghost like me, cursed into this existence, has no way to end their own existence even if they desperately wish to.."
Morris slowly nodded, finally understanding. Professor Binns's situation had become clear.
Became a ghost due to a curse, forced into centuries of teaching the same material, trapped in the same castle, unable to find release.
That truly was a tragic circumstance beyond measure. An absolute nightmare.
Even suicide, a last resort for those in unbearable circumstances was impossible for him.
Morris tentatively reached out and tried to touch Professor Binns with his hand, some instinct making him want to offer comfort. But obviously, his hand passed right through Professor Binns's translucent body, encountering only cold air.
As everyone in the magical world knew, ordinary people, even ordinary wizards cannot touch ghosts. And naturally, therefore, they have no way to physically "kill" a ghost or harm them in any way.
But Morris was different. Morris was a necromancer, even if only a novice one. He had the Mage's Book, he studied death magic, he'd created undead creatures.
He believed that someday, somehow, he would be able to accomplish what Professor Binns asked.
"If it doesn't require me to pay any particular price," Morris said carefully, making his conditions clear, "or sacrifice anything I'm not willing to sacrifice, I'd be happy to help you, Professor Binns. I promise to try."
As he continued to unlock new spells from the Mage's Book over the coming months and years, one of those spells might very well be able to help Professor Binns achieve his desired end.
Having received this affirmative reply, Professor Binns smiled warmly and narrowed his eyes with what appeared to be genuine relief.
"Thank you, Morris," he said with sincerity. "Truly, thank you. Of course, this must wait until you're actually able to accomplish it. No rush. Perhaps it will take a few years, perhaps decades, or perhaps you'll never achieve it in your lifetime. I've waited centuries already. I can wait longer."
"I'll try my best," Morris said earnestly, meaning it. "I can't promise success, but I'll dedicate effort to finding a solution."
Professor Binns reached out and patted Morris on the shoulder with satisfaction though his hand passed right through without making contact.
"If you truly succeed, Morris," he said with sudden mysteriousness, his eyes glinting with something sly, "when you successfully lift the curse binding me and allow me to finally rest in peace... I'll give you a surprise as your reward."
"A surprise?" Morris paused, his curiosity was immediately piqued. "What kind of surprise?"
"If I told you now, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?" A flash of cunning passed through Professor Binns's eyes. "Look forward to it. Anticipation is part of the gift."
Morris wanted to continue pressing for details, but Professor Binns waved his hand.
"Well, I've said quite enough to you for one day. My head is beginning to hurt. I cannot maintain this aware, present state for very long.
Goodbye, Morris. Thank you again."
As his farewell words fell, the lively, warm expression on his face instantly faded like a candle being snuffed. It was replaced immediately by the hollow, indifferent look from his usual classes.
The transformation was unsettling.
"Professor Binns?" Morris waved his hand experimentally in front of Professor Binns's now-blank eyes, testing for response.
But the professor merely nodded slightly and then his transparent body merged smoothly into the blackboard behind him and disappeared.
Morris felt somewhat helpless, uncertain how to process what had just happened.
He vaguely realized something important about the ghost's nature.
Professor Binns had two distinct faces.
One face was how he appeared during his classes: without much emotional fluctuation or awareness, like a stern teaching machine operating according to a rigid program, simply going through the motions he'd repeated for centuries.
The other face was how he appeared when speaking privately with Morris: with considerably richer emotions, a gentle and warm tone, giving Morris the feeling of a kindly neighborhood grandfather offering wisdom.
He was truly a peculiar ghost.
The private agreement with Professor Binns did not significantly affect Morris's daily life or routine at Hogwarts.
In the blink of an eye, a week had passed since that conversation. Seven days of classes, meals, studying, practicing magic in his dormitory. And Morris had already experienced all the various courses that first-years were required to take.
There were a total of eight courses that Hogwarts first-year students needed to study: Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Astronomy, History of Magic, and Flying lessons.
Each subject had its own character, its own peculiarities.
The Charms professor was Filius Flitwick, whom Morris had encountered before during the spider incident. Professor Flitwick was truly powerful indeed, despite his short height.
Morris's undead pet cat, Tin-Tin, had tried to scratch the professor's beard one afternoon (completely not at Morris's instigation or encouragement, just the cat's natural mischief). And before the cat's claws had even gotten within six inches of touching the white facial hair, Tin-Tin was knocked completely unconscious by a Stunning Spell.
The speed of that spell's casting was terrifyingly fast. Its trajectory through the air was not even visible to Morris's eye. One moment the cat was reaching, the next it was crumpling to the floor.
That level of skill was impressive.
Astronomy and Defense Against the Dark Arts classes weren't particularly worth much detailed mention in Morris's assessment.
The former subject consisted of simply identifying stars and constellations through telescopes at midnight—it was pleasant enough, but was hardly magical. The latter was taught by a nervous professor named Quirrell who stammered through reading the textbook aloud with a turban wrapped around his head.
It was completely meaningless, even more boring than Professor Binns's History of Magic lectures. At least Binns was skilled at droning.
Of course, no one ever fell asleep during Defense Against the Dark Arts despite the tedious content. The strange, overwhelming garlic smell emanating constantly from Professor Quirrell kept absolutely everyone painfully awake. The odor was inescapable, nauseating, and very strong.
What most captured Morris's genuine attention and interest was Potions class.
Potion-making was revealed to be a precise, challenging art form. More chemistry than magic in some ways, though with magical ingredients and impossible results.
Morris had only tried brewing once before developing a strong interest in the subject.
The process appealed to him. Processing, mixing, and stirring various materials according to strict methods and exact timing, following recipes with precision, ultimately leading to a definite, predictable result.
This process, full of logic and control and measurable outcomes, deeply fascinated him in a way that more intuitive magic didn't.
And there was also the professor of this class to consider: Severus Snape. A tall, imposing man with sallow skin, greasy black hair, and a hooked nose.
He seemed to be an exceptionally strict person who would unhesitatingly criticize and mock anyone's mistakes, no matter how minor. He took points away freely, insulted students' intelligence, and made cutting remarks about their competence.
But Morris didn't particularly dislike this type of professor—the harsh, demanding type.
Moreover, Snape gave off the impression of being "frighteningly powerful" in ways that were hard to explain. Especially those sharp eyes of his that seemed to see through lies and incompetence.
However, for some mysterious reason, Snape seemed particularly focused on Harry Potter.
Or rather—was it hostility?
He would single Harry out for criticism, deduct points from Gryffindor for Harry's apparent failures, question him aggressively during class. As if Harry were the child of his mortal enemy.
September 7th arrived.
This was Morris's first weekend at Hogwarts.
Students couldn't leave the school grounds freely on weekends, unfortunately. Only upper-year students of third years and above were qualified to visit the neighboring village of Hogsmeade at specific designated times throughout the year.
Fortunately, because of the existence of magic and the castle's size, students' extracurricular activities were abundant and diverse enough to prevent boredom. There were clubs, common rooms, the library, the grounds, countless corridors to explore.
Morris decided to wander around the castle for the first time in a while, exploring areas he hadn't yet visited.
Of course, he wasn't just wasting time aimlessly. His wandering had purpose.
While walking through corridors and climbing staircases, he kept thinking intensely about one particular thing that had been occupying his mind.
That was the mysterious new content that had appeared in the Mage's Book several days ago—The Gate Between Two Realms/Worlds.
Morris's intuition told him that this magic circle was extraordinary, and something significant. A spell that absolutely must be mastered eventually, regardless of difficulty.
However, the requirements for using this magic circle were far too harsh, seemingly impossible to meet.
It needed to be used in a state of death.
Morris had absolutely no plans to die for the foreseeable future, if he could manage it. So, if he wanted to use this particular magic and discover what it did, he could only rely on some alternative methods.
For example: feigning death.
Yes, Morris believed that feigning death would be a viable option worth investigating. The question was how to achieve a convincing recreation.
The reason magic is called magic, after all, is because it has the ability to make virtually anything possible.
Since even things like ghosts and undead creatures and moving staircases existed in this world, simulating a temporary state of death didn't seem entirely beyond imagination either.
With this thought firmly in mind, Morris decided to first seek out someone who might be able to help him research this problem.
In fact, he didn't have many close friends he could turn to for help with dangerous experiments yet. His social circle was still quite limited.
So, he went to the Trophy Room—where two poor fellows currently being punished by Professor Flitwick were serving detention.
As soon as Morris pushed open the door and entered the large, dusty room lined with glass cases, he saw two identical red-haired figures crouched on the stone floor. They were scrubbing trophies with rags.
George (or was it Fred?) was trying to smear a blob of soapy foam onto Fred's (or was it George's?) nose, while the other nimbly dodged and retaliated with a wet rag.
Despite their punishment, they were clearly making it entertaining.
"Oh, look who's here?" One of them looked up from his scrubbing, his eyes immediately lighting up with mischievous delight. "You actually came to visit us—no, wait, you came to help us! You're a real friend, Morris."
He stood up, grinning widely.
As a result of this enthusiastic greeting, Morris also found himself joining the trophy-scrubbing ranks (forced to participate in reality).