The Draught of Living Death
"Seriously," Morris said, glancing up while polishing the base of a trophy engraved with First Wizarding Lame Joke Competition, "why don't you use magic? Scourgify should work perfectly well for this, shouldn't it?"
"Professor Flitwick calls this 'labor reflection,'" Fred replied with a shrug. "Besides, these trophies have been enchanted. Cleaning Charms don't work on them."
I see.
Morris didn't particularly mind this sort of work. He had long since grown used to manual labor back at the orphanage. Compared to scrubbing floors or hauling crates, polishing trophies was practically relaxing.
That said, the number of trophies here was genuinely excessive.
They filled several entire walls, gleaming faintly under the enchanted lights. Some were tall and majestic, others oddly shaped or comically small, and a surprising number were engraved with achievements Morris had never heard of.
Some of them were outright bizarre.
For example, the trophy currently in Morris's hands was for the First Wizarding Lame Joke Competition. He turned it slightly, squinting at the inscription.
The winner's name was etched clearly into the metal.
Lily Evans.
"…Huh."
After working for nearly half an hour, the three of them finally tossed their rags aside and leaned against the wall to take a short break. The corridor was quiet, filled only with the faint metallic scent of polish and the distant echoes of students elsewhere in the castle.
Fred wiped his hands on his robes, then suddenly turned to Morris.
"Morris," he said casually, "I get the feeling you didn't come looking for us just to help clean trophies, did you?"
"I was thinking the same thing," George chimed in. "And whatever it is, you're definitely up to no good."
"I'm hurt," Morris said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense, though he couldn't keep the smile off his face. "I can't believe you'd think so poorly of me."
"Then prove us wrong," Fred said. "What is it?"
"Well…" Morris straightened, his expression growing uncharacteristically serious. "I wanted to ask you something a little… strange."
That immediately caught their interest.
"Go on," George said, eyes brightening.
"I was wondering," Morris continued slowly, choosing his words with care, "is there a way for a wizard to enter an extremely realistic state of suspended animation?"
The twins blinked.
"Not just a coma or magical sleep," Morris clarified. "I mean a state that is infinitely close to actual death—both magically and physically. Something where the person could be mistaken for dead, yet still return to life under preset conditions… or after a specific period of time."
Fred and George exchanged a glance.
Then, in perfect unison, they spoke.
"The Draught of Living Death!"
Morris raised an eyebrow. "The Draught of Living Death?"
"Exactly," Fred said. "It's a potion."
"Yes," George nodded enthusiastically. "A very famous one, actually."
"The Draught of Living Death," Morris repeated, committing the name to memory. "What kind of effects does it have?"
"It can plunge someone into a death-like state," Fred explained. "With a sufficiently large dose, the drinker's pulse slows to almost nothing, their body temperature drops, and they become completely unresponsive."
"Cold. Stiff. No reaction," George added. "Looks just like a corpse."
"But it's not real death," Fred continued. "In reality, it's an extremely deep magical sleep."
"A skilled wizard—or a Healer—could still tell the difference," George said. "But to most people? It would be convincing."
"I see," Morris said thoughtfully, nodding.
He didn't yet know whether the potion's effects would fully meet his requirements, but it was close enough to be worth investigating.
Fred scratched his head, frowning slightly. "So… why are you asking about this, Morris?"
"Just curious," Morris replied with a laugh. "I want to experience what death feels like."
That wasn't a lie.
It was, in fact, one of his goals.
The twins looked at each other again, sharing a silent exchange of understanding.
We don't get it—but we respect it.
After all, Morris was a Ravenclaw freshman who kept an Acromantula as a pet. Compared to that, wanting to experience death didn't even rank particularly high on the list of strange behaviors.
"Can the Draught of Living Death be bought in Diagon Alley?" Morris asked next.
His finances weren't exactly in great shape, so he sincerely hoped it wasn't prohibitively expensive.
Fred shook his head. "That's not exactly common cold medicine, Morris. The Draught of Living Death is a controlled substance."
"Buying or selling it requires a special permit from the Ministry of Magic," George added.
"I thought as much," Morris said calmly. He had expected this answer. "Then do you know the recipe? How difficult is it to brew?"
"I only know the basics," Fred said. "The ingredients include powdered root of asphodel and an infusion of wormwood. That's all our textbook mentions—and yours will say the same."
"But the real brewing process?" George said seriously. "That's definitely more complicated. And extremely dangerous."
Fred opened his mouth to say that it wasn't something a first-year student should even think about attempting—
Then he remembered that Morris was the kind of person who casually raised an Acromantula.
"…Anyway," Fred finished instead, "it's risky."
"Maybe you could try looking for the recipe in the library," George suggested. "It might be in the general section… or possibly the Restricted Section."
"Either way," Fred said, "you won't know until you check."
"I'll keep that in mind," Morris said sincerely. "Thanks."
He turned immediately, clearly intending to head straight for the library.
The general section, of course.
The Restricted Section required a professor's signed permission slip, and no professor in their right mind would give one to a first-year who had only just started school.
"Wait," Fred called after him.
Morris turned back, confused—just in time to catch a rag tossed into his hands.
"At least help us finish wiping the trophies," Fred said with a grin.
At noon, after finishing lunch, Morris finally set off for the library.
The moment he stepped out of the Great Hall, something dropped from above.
A black shape landed neatly in front of him and immediately began circling his feet.
"…Canned Food?"
The black cat looked absolutely filthy. Its fur was tangled with blades of grass, streaked with something suspiciously slimy, and its head was still dripping wet.
"Where have you been?" Morris asked, both annoyed and concerned.
"Meow~~"
Morris grimaced slightly and cast several Cleaning Charms in quick succession before finally picking the cat up.
Canned Food immediately began purring, rubbing its head against Morris's chin as if nothing were wrong.
For the past few days, neither of his two pets had been consistently by his side. Fireworks returned every night without fail, but Canned Food had been almost constantly missing.
Who knew what kind of trouble it had been getting into outside?
Carrying the cat, Morris approached the entrance to the library.
The moment he stepped inside, a stern voice stopped him.
"Sir."
Morris looked up.
Madam Irma Pince, the Hogwarts librarian, stood before him with an expression sharp enough to cut glass.
Her eyes immediately locked onto the cat in his arms.
"Pets are forbidden in the library," she said coldly.
"No problem, Madam," Morris replied obediently.
He set Canned Food down.
The black cat, displaying a remarkable level of intelligence, nudged the door open with its head and darted out like a shadow, disappearing down the corridor.
Madam Pince watched it leave, then nodded slightly.
"Very well," she said, her expression softening just a fraction. "Proceed. Be careful not to damage any books, and do not make unnecessary noise."
"This is Morris's first time here," he thought as he stepped inside.
The library was far larger than he had expected—easily bigger than any library he had ever seen. He suspected powerful space-expansion magic was at work.
Towering bookshelves stretched into the dim light, packed tightly with countless volumes. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and ink, heavy with age and history.
This is a nice place, Morris thought.
Because it was the weekend, the library was busy. Nearly every table was occupied, and students—mostly older ones—moved quietly between the shelves.
What caught Morris's attention most was an area enclosed by iron railings not far away.
The Restricted Section.
Through the bars, he spotted a familiar figure.
Robert Hilliard.
The Ravenclaw prefect was standing inside, studying a tattered notebook. As if sensing Morris's gaze, Robert looked up.
Their eyes met.
Robert paused, then smiled faintly. Closing his book, he passed through the iron gate and walked over.
"Good afternoon, Morris," he said warmly.
"Hello, Prefect Robert," Morris replied
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