September 2nd, early morning.
The Slytherin dormitory was still steeped in gloom.
Beyond the windows, the waters of the Black Lake shifted gently, casting rippling green shadows across the room.
Morrin opened his eyes at precisely six o’clock.
He needed no alarm clock.
[Logical Mind Palace] allowed him to perceive the passage of time down to the second.
Sitting up, Morrin glanced towards the bed opposite, where Draco Malfoy was still wrapped tightly in his blankets, pretending to be asleep.
Ever since Morrin had smashed the common room coffee table apart with a single blow the night before, young Mr Malfoy seemed to have developed a peculiar case of ‘Morrin allergy.’ Whenever Morrin was nearby, Draco became remarkably quiet.
He hardly even dared breathe too loudly.
“A sensible choice, Draco.” Morrin chuckled softly and threw off the covers.
Unlike the other first-years, he did not stumble about trying to find missing socks.
He washed, dressed, and prepared himself with methodical efficiency.
Every button was fastened perfectly into place.
Then he picked up his heavy wand, gave it a casual spin in one hand, and sent a sharp whistle slicing through the air.
When he left the dormitory and entered the common room, the coffee table he had destroyed the previous evening had already been restored to its original condition, presumably repaired overnight by older students or house elves.
But when the students sitting around the common room saw Morrin appear, the volume of their conversations still dropped instinctively by several degrees.
Such was the combined deterrent effect of violence and capital.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ The Great Hall.
At breakfast, the army of owls arrived right on schedule.
Hundreds upon hundreds of birds wheeled above the tables, dropping letters and parcels into the students’ hands.
“Look!
That’s Neville’s Remembrall!” “Did Harry get a note?” Amid the commotion, an enormous Eurasian eagle owl with an impressive wingspan swooped down and landed neatly upon the Slytherin table, a thick brown paper parcel clutched in its talons.
It was Morrin’s owl.
Nasdaq.
“Good work.” Morrin sliced off a piece of bacon and fed it to the owl before opening the parcel.
Inside were neither sweets nor letters from home.
Instead, there was a stack of newspapers still smelling faintly of fresh ink: the Daily Prophet’s financial edition, Wizarding Weekly (Business Edition), and several encrypted letters from goblin brokers at Gringotts.
Across from him, Malfoy was opening a parcel of sweets sent by his family.
When he noticed Morrin reading page after page of figures and financial reports, he swallowed and muttered quietly, “You can actually understand all that?
It’s nothing but numbers.” “Numbers don’t lie, Draco.” Morrin did not even look up.
He sipped black coffee while rapidly scanning fluctuations in goblin currency exchange rates.
“While you’re eating sweets, I’m calculating how to monopolise the ingredients used to manufacture them.” He turned a page.
“That is why, in the future, you’ll be working for me rather than the other way round.” The sweet in Malfoy’s hand abruptly became considerably less appetising.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Nine o’clock.
Potions.
The classroom lay deep beneath the castle, even colder and gloomier than the Slytherin common room.
Glass jars lined the walls, filled with revolting animal specimens suspended in preserving fluid, their distorted shapes rendered even more sinister by the candlelight.
Harry and Ron had arrived early and were huddled in a corner, plainly nervous about the lesson.
Morrin entered with Malfoy in tow.
The latter now resembled an unwilling junior assistant who had somehow found himself assigned to Morrin permanently.
Morrin proceeded directly to the best seats in the front row.
“This place…” He surveyed the classroom and took a measured breath of air thick with herbs and preservatives.
“Poor ventilation.
Excessive humidity.
Hardly ideal conditions for preserving precision potion ingredients.” Morrin shook his head slightly.
“A textbook cottage industry operation.” BANG!
The classroom door slammed open.
Professor Severus Snape swept inside like an enormous black bat carrying a gust of winter air with him.
He strode rapidly to the front of the room and turned, his black robes billowing around him.
His cold, fathomless eyes swept across the class.
The room fell silent instantly.
“You have come here to learn the exact science and rigorous craft of potion making.” Snape’s voice was so low it seemed almost like a whisper spoken beside one’s ear, yet every student heard him perfectly.
“Since there will be little foolish wand waving in this classroom, many of you may fail to appreciate that this is magic at all.
I do not expect most of you to understand the subtle beauty of a cauldron simmering over a low flame, releasing its vapours and delicate fragrances…” Morrin sat in the front row with his cheek resting against one hand, a trace of appreciation appearing in his eyes.
Excellent opening.
He evaluated Snape silently.
Establish the technical nature of the subject, lower expectations, then assert authority.
Put him in front of investors on Wall Street and he could sell almost anything.
At the same time, Morrin quietly activated Inspection.
━━━━━ 🔍 SCAN ━━━━━ Scanning target: Severus Snape Danger Level: 🔴 Red (Extremely Dangerous) ━━━ [Traits detected] 🟡 Gold | Potions Grandmaster He can improve ancient formulae and even devise entirely new spells.
Within the field of Potions, he is an emperor.
━━━ 🟡 Gold | Master of Occlumency His mind is both a labyrinth and a fortress.
Even Voldemort cannot see through his lies.
━━━ 🔴 Red | Sectumsempra An extraordinarily lethal cutting curse.
━━━ 🔴 Red | Extreme Remorse The source of his strength, and the root of his suffering.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Two Golds at once…
For the briefest instant, Morrin’s breathing quickened.
This Head of House was practically a walking treasure vault.
He absolutely had to find some way to raise Snape’s opinion of him, or at the very least attract enough of the man’s attention to create an opportunity for physical contact and an extraction.
Snape began taking attendance.
“Harry Potter.” He stopped.
A thin, mocking curl appeared at the corner of his mouth.
“Ah, yes.
Harry Potter.
Our new…
celebrity.” What followed over the next several minutes was the familiar ritual of humiliating the Boy Who Lived.
Powdered asphodel root.
Bezoars.
The distinction between monkshood and wolfsbane.
Harry stared helplessly ahead, unable to answer, while Hermione’s hand shot into the air like a flagpole.
“Pity, Potter,” Snape said coldly.
“It appears fame is not everything.” Having finished tormenting Harry, Snape seemed to be in a marginally better mood.
He turned.
Then those empty black eyes suddenly settled upon Morrin in the front row, who was looking back at him with the expression of someone assessing a potential business partner.
Snape frowned faintly.
He did not like the way this student looked at him.
It was far too…
mature.
Far too calculating.
And although Morrin was a Slytherin, the faint oppressive presence emanating from his [Half Giant Bloodline] made Snape distinctly uncomfortable.
“Morrin White.” Snape abruptly called his name.
“Present, Professor.” Morrin set down his quill and sat with effortless elegance.
“Since Mr Potter is unable to answer even the simplest questions, perhaps Slytherin’s newest star can enlighten us.” Snape slowly approached Morrin, black robes rolling around his legs.
“If I wished to brew a potion capable of placing someone into a sleep so profound it resembles a living death, the Draught of Living Death, why does the formula call for powdered asphodel root rather than fresh asphodel root juice?” The entire classroom fell silent.