Early March arrived with late winter transitioning toward spring as the snow had mostly melted from the Hogwarts grounds, leaving behind muddy patches and the first green pushing through the earth, though the air still carried enough chill to require cloaks when venturing outside.
Nearly all the students at the school were eagerly anticipating this upcoming Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff Quidditch match with an enthusiasm that had been building for weeks.
Morris who generally found sports tedious wastes of time had nevertheless decided to come along and join in the collective excitement.
Half an hour before the match was scheduled to begin, the stands were already packed with students jostling for the best viewing positions.
Morris took his time climbing the wooden stairs to the spectator stands, pausing halfway up to scan his surroundings with interest. He noticed that not only had what seemed like the entire student body turned out, but even the professors had all arrived early to watch the match.
It was quite unusual, actually.
Morris suspected this unprecedented faculty turnout had more to do with certain security concerns than genuine enthusiasm for Quidditch.
There was Dumbledore sitting prominently in the very center of the teachers' section. Professor McGonagall sat beside him, leaning close to say something that made the headmaster nod thoughtfully.
The scene was considerably more lively and well-attended than the last Quidditch match Morris attended.
Perhaps because there were so many spectators this time, the usual house isolation had broken down. Students hadn't sat together in their traditional house sections but were instead jumbled together in a chaotic mixed crowd.
"Mo... Morris."
While still searching for an unoccupied seat, Morris suddenly heard someone calling his name with hesitation.
Following the sound through the crowd, he discovered it was Neville, sitting about three rows down and waving somewhat awkwardly from not far away, his face was flushed either from the cold or from the social courage required to call out to someone.
He immediately altered his trajectory and walked over, sitting into the narrow empty seat behind Neville's position.
"Want some candy?" Morris offered immediately, reaching into his robe pocket and retrieving a small wrapped lemon sherbet he'd purchased during his last Hogsmeade visit.
Neville accepted the candy with an expression of surprised pleasure, looking somewhat flattered that Morris would remember him and offer such a gesture. "Thank you,"
While they waited for the teams to make their entrance onto the pitch, Morris casually asked.
"Neville, how's your charm practice going?"
Neville's posture immediately became more hunched and defensive, his head was lowering as if expecting criticism. "When I practice by myself, the Levitation Charm works quite well now. I can make things fly steadily."
He paused, and his voice became even smaller. "But... as soon as someone's watching me, I can't recite the spell properly anymore. My mind goes blank, my hands shake, and nothing works right."
Morris's expression became somewhat strange. "Didn't you perform it quite smoothly in front of me last time?"
Neville's head hung even lower, practically touching his chest, and he stammered out his response: "That... that was different."
Morris sighed. It appeared his encouragement-based teaching approach hadn't been completely successful in addressing Neville's psychological issues. The confidence boost had been temporary.
However, this outcome was relatively normal and expected, honestly. Completely changing someone's deeply ingrained personality and self-perception couldn't possibly be achieved simply by saying a few kind words and providing one successful practice session.
"What should I do?" Neville asked, his voice revealing confusion and a desperate desire for answers. "I definitely won't be able to cast spells successfully in front of Malfoy either. I'll freeze up like always."
Morris was quiet for a moment, thinking carefully about the best advice to offer, watching the players finally beginning to emerge from their locker rooms for pre-match warm-ups on the pitch below.
"Then just practice more," Morris finally said slowly. "Practice constantly, obsessively, until your hands and mouth can execute the spell movements and incantations on their own through pure muscle memory and automatic response, completely regardless of whether your hands are shaking or your mind is blank with panic."
He continued, making his point clearer: "As long as you keep practicing every single day, you'll eventually be able to defeat Malfoy."
Neville looked at him with an expression of partial understanding.
'Well, Morris was right about everything.'
Neville secretly made a firm resolution to himself.
Starting tomorrow morning, he would practice the Levitation Charm a hundred times every single day, along with a hundred repetitions of the Leg-Locker Curse.
Finally, after another ten minutes, the referee's whistle blew, and the match officially began.
The fourteen players shot into the air on their brooms, and the crowd erupted into cheers.
Then, almost anticlimactically, five minutes later, the match ended abruptly.
That's right—only five short minutes from start to finish.
It wasn't because of some catastrophic accident or unprecedented event. Rather, it was simply because Harry Potter had caught the Golden Snitch in just around five minutes of play time.
According to the fundamental rules of Quidditch, as soon as one Seeker successfully catches the Snitch, the match ends immediately regardless of the current score, awarding one hundred and fifty points to that Seeker's team and almost always deciding the outcome.
Morris didn't quite know what to say about this development, staring down at the pitch where Harry was being mobbed by his jubilant teammates while the Hufflepuff players looked stunned and deflated.
This match was truly lackluster. All that build-up, and it was over before most spectators had even fully settled into their seats and stopped talking to their neighbors.
"Malfoy! Take this, you git!"
Just then, sudden sounds of commotion and raised voices came from somewhere very close by, pulling Morris's attention away from the anticlimactic scene on the pitch.
Morris turned to look with interest and discovered that while everyone's attention had been focused on Harry's spectacular catch, a different drama had erupted in the stands around them. The spectator section had fallen into chaos.
Ron was swinging his fists wildly, clearly aiming for Draco Malfoy's face. His freckled face was flushed with rage.
'Ah, that one must have really hurt,' Morris thought as Ron's fist connected solidly with Malfoy's nose with a thump that was audible even over the crowd noise.
Malfoy's nosebleed splattered out immediately. He staggered back, hands flying to his face, his expression was shocked and outraged that someone had actually dared to physically strike him.
But Malfoy wasn't one to accept defeat or back down from a fight. Unwilling to let such an insult stand unanswered, he fought back viciously, also delivering what was meant to be a devastating punch toward Ron's face, putting all his furious strength behind it.
Ron managed to block the strike with his arm, and then they were truly grappling with each other, rolling on the wooden benches, students around them scrambling to get out of the way or else crowding closer to watch the entertainment.
Ron clearly had the upper hand in this physical confrontation.
Meanwhile, poor Neville stood nearby, frozen and trembling with anxiety, his hands were clasped together in distress.
"Please stop fighting... stop fighting..." he pleaded uselessly audible and was completely ignored by the combatants. "Someone's going to get hurt... professors will come..."
Unfortunately, his appeasing intervention had no effect.
Eventually, Neville too was drawn into the expanding brawl when Goyle and Crabbe decided to even the odds by attacking Ron's friend.
Which meant Neville suddenly found himself facing off against both of Malfoy's larger, more intimidating bodyguards simultaneously, alone and terrified but unable to retreat without abandoning Ron.
Seeing this development, Morris quietly and subtly helped him by discreetly casting Weakening Curses on both Goyle and Crabbe.
The two large boys immediately felt their strength draining away, their movements became sluggish and uncoordinated, though they were too stupid and too focused on Neville to understand what had happened.
Having given his covert assistance, Morris then silently relocated himself several seats away from the combat zone and settled in to watch the escalating battle with interest and amusement.
A proper fistfight between young wizards, wasn't this considerably more exciting and entertaining than a disappointing five-minute Quidditch match that had ended before anything interesting could happen?
But speaking of which, Morris realized he actually had no idea why they were fighting in the first place. What had sparked this?
He'd been seriously watching the match itself the entire time Harry had been chasing the Snitch, focused on the players rather than on the crowd around him, and hadn't noticed the initial commotion.
The brawl continued with escalating intensity—Ron had gotten Malfoy in a headlock, Neville had somehow managed to land actual punches on both Goyle and Crabbe (who seemed oddly weakened and uncoordinated, much to everyone's surprise), and several other students had started shoving each other as house rivalry flared and old grudges resurfaced.
It wasn't until the prefects finally arrived and began forcibly separating the combatants that this farce finally came to an end.
"What happened?" Morris asked Ron once order had been somewhat restored.
Ron had a thoroughly bruised and swollen face that would probably look quite spectacular by tomorrow. But despite his injuries, he looked remarkably proud of himself, grinning through the pain.
"Malfoy was talking bad about my family," Ron explained, his voice had righteous satisfaction. "He deserved everything he got and more. Don't you think so, Neville?"
"Yes... yes, absolutely," Neville agreed, though his voice was still shaky with adrenaline.
He looked down at his own fists with an expression of complete disbelief, turning his hands over as if they belonged to someone else.
Just moments ago, he had actually punched both Goyle and Crabbe, each of them at least twice his size and then those two had stumbled and fallen down like they were drunk or exhausted. It was simply incredible.
Could it be that he was actually naturally good at physical fighting?
Maybe it was true—his grandmother had always praised him for being quite sturdy and resilient.
However, Ron didn't sense anything odd about the fight's outcome, accepting Neville's surprising success at face value without question.
He just kept enthusiastically patting Neville's back, telling him repeatedly that he'd done brilliantly, that he'd really shown those Slytherin goons what Gryffindor courage looked like.
After Hermione had finally finished excitedly discussing Harry's spectacular performance with anyone who would listen, she turned her attention to her male friends and looked at them with concern mixed with exasperation.
"Are you guys going to be okay after fighting with Malfoy right here in front of everyone?" she asked worriedly, glancing around at the watching crowd. "Professor Flitwick glanced this way several times during the brawl. He definitely saw what happened."
"Come on, Hermione, we didn't use magic," Ron said dismissively with a wave of his bruised hand. "It was just a regular fist fight. Muggle-style. The professors can't be bothered to care about that kind of thing."
Morris, watching this exchange with amusement, thoughtfully reached into his robe pockets and retrieved a small bottle of essence of dittany that he kept on hand. He gave it to Ron with a slight smile.
"Oh, thank you, Morris," Ron accepted the bottle gratefully.
He applied several drops of the potion to his various wounds, carefully dabbing it on his split lip, his swollen eye, the cuts on his knuckles.
He immediately felt a soothing, cooling sensation spreading from each application point, and the sharp pain that had been throbbing with every heartbeat almost completely disappeared within seconds.
For wizards, this kind of superficial flesh wound really was nothing serious.
The crowd began its surge toward the exits, the match was concluded and the entertainment value of the fight was also exhausted. Students pushed and flowed like water finding its level, everyone was eager to return to their common rooms or the Great Hall for lunch.
Morris followed along with the general movement, making their way across the muddy grounds back toward the castle.
The March wind still carried a distinctive chill despite the time of year, cutting through robes and dispersing the lingering noise and excitement of the Quidditch pitch. The temperature had dropped noticeably since the match began.
As Morris walked through the castle's corridors, separating from the Gryffindors to head toward Ravenclaw Tower, he could still faintly hear the wild cheering and celebration coming from Gryffindor Tower.
He quickened his pace toward his own dormitory. His supply of Draught of Living Death had run low again and it was time to brew a fresh batch of thr potion
The next morning, Morris was sitting at the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall eating his breakfast.
Across from him, Cho Chang kept enthusiastically discussing yesterday's Quidditch match with anyone who would listen, her face was lively with excitement, still riding the high of having witnessed such a spectacular moment.
"Wood must be absolutely thrilled," she said for probably the fifth time that morning, gesturing with her fork.
"That's apparently a new Hogwarts record. Potter caught the Snitch in just four minutes and thirty-two seconds! Four minutes! That's absolutely mental. Watching him fly like that makes me want to get back on a broom and fly around for hours."
Her friend Marietta Edgecombe was encouraging this enthusiasm from beside her, nudging Cho with her elbow and grinning.
"Why don't you try out for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team next year when positions open up? You fly brilliantly—I've seen you during flying class. You're even better than some of the current players. How about becoming a Chaser?"
Cho Chang's face clearly showed a longing, wistful expression at the suggestion, her eyes going slightly distant as she imagined herself in Quidditch robes.
The morning owl post arrived right on schedule with a rush of wings and hooting, dozens of owls were swooping down from the ceiling to deliver letters and packages to their recipients throughout the hall.
An owl with patterns on its face dove down from the flock in a somewhat wobbly trajectory and dropped a package onto the tablecloth in front of Cho.
The owl left behind a single spotted feather as evidence of its presence, then immediately flew off without waiting for any treats or acknowledgment.
Cho Chang was stunned for a moment, staring at the unexpected package with confusion. She looked around the table at her fellow Ravenclaws, then at nearby tables, trying to figure out this mystery. "Whose package is this?"
She was certain she hadn't ordered anything recently.
"It's mine," Morris said with helplessness and exasperation, reaching across the table to retrieve his wayward delivery.
"This silly owl often delivers things to the wrong person. It especially likes dropping them off to pretty girls."
This was the regular delivery owl used by Frick in Knockturn Alley—probably containing some miscellaneous potion ingredients Morris had ordered.
The previous several times he'd ordered supplies through this same channel, this specific owl had been extremely and consistently irresponsible about proper delivery, always dropping packages at the wrong person and always, without exception, choosing attractive female students as the mistaken recipients.
It was truly baffling and honestly rather embarrassing.