A few days later, Frick's reply arrived.
The letter stated that the bone Morris had sent was most likely a femur from some species of dragon.
Unfortunately, due to a combination of improper preservation and the passage of far too many centuries, the bone had long since lost whatever inherent magical vitality it once possessed.
Morris folded the letter and tucked it into his inner robe pocket, then picked up his toast.
Even so, he decided without much pondering, he was keeping it.
He had already been half-entertaining the thought before the letter arrived—the bone was simply too unusual, too large, too inherently interesting to discard on the grounds of limited current utility.
He figured that when he had a free moment, he could slip back into the Forbidden Forest unnoticed and cover more ground.
If one femur could be found buried in that particular stretch of forest, there was no reason to assume it had arrived there alone. If one bone could be found, there could just as easily be a second, a third, a series of them following the natural scatter pattern of a large carcass or, if fortune was genuinely generous, an entire skeleton preserved in layers of soft earth.
If he ever managed to restore the remains into an undead creature, so much the better. A dragon, even an ancient and structurally compromised one, would be an extraordinary addition to his collection.
And if the bones proved too far gone for successful transformation, too brittle or too magically depleted to hold the enchantment together through a ritual... well. They would still make for a rather spectacular display piece.
He could already picture it. Some years from now, a visitor arriving at his home whoever he was by then, wherever that home was, their eyes travelling across the room and stopping suddenly on the enormous bones arranged in one corner.
And Morris would glance over from whatever he was doing and say with indifference:
"Oh, that? Just the skeleton of a hundred-foot dragon. I collected the pieces one by one from the forest during my years at Hogwarts."
Then he would sit back and savor the look of disbelief on their face. It was a harmless sort of vanity, but satisfying all the same.
So, over the weeks that followed, Morris made several quieter excursions into the Forbidden Forest, quieter in the sense of more deliberately planned and more timed, taking advantage of the periods when the centaurs' patrol cycles were at their most predictable and the weather was heavy enough to muffle sound.
The Death Compass guided him efficiently, and the Undead Unicorn covered the distances between sites in a fraction of the time any on-foot search would have required.
His patience was rewarded. More bone fragments surfaced and shortly, he had assembled what was nearly a complete right hind leg, missing only two toe bones.
The progress was enormously encouraging.
Of course, frequent trips into the Forbidden Forest were not without risk. The centaurs seemed to have noticed something was off. Starting one particular night, they intensified their patrols, their routes were growing unpredictable and erratic.
Fortunately, mounted on his Undead unicorn, Morris was impossible to catch. They couldn't even get close.
Still, he decided it was wise to pull back for a while. Knowing when to be patient was always the better strategy. There was no hurry. He had time.
A Tuesday, one week after the Easter holidays ended.
A Tuesday, one week after the Easter holidays ended.
At midday, as Morris sat in the Great Hall working through a buttered potato, Harry and Hermione appeared with Ron in tow.
"Help us, Morris, please—I know you're brilliant at Potions." Hermione's words came tumbling out before she had properly reached the table. "We didn't know who else to ask."
"Slow down." Morris set down his fork and swallowed his mouthful. He looked at the three of them properly.
"Tell me what you need. Actually—" Morris paused, his attention catching on something. "I think I already see it."
He had noticed Ron's hand, swollen to nearly double its normal size and tinged a faint, unsettling shade of green.
Morris lifted his wand and gave it a gentle tap.
"Ow— don't touch it!" Ron yanked his arm back, nearly leaping out of his seat in pain.
Harry asked anxiously, "Is there a potion that can treat it?"
"Have you tried Dittany essence?" Morris asked the obvious first question, given that Dittany was what most Hogwarts students reached for first when anything went wrong with the flesh.
"No effect," Ron said through gritted teeth. "I think I might be poisoned. I felt it almost immediately—there was this spreading sensation, like cold moving up from the hand."
Morris considered this for a moment, then reached into his robes and produced a small vial from his inner pocket. He held it out across the table.
"A basic universal antidote. I brewed it myself. Try this."
Harry took the bottle. He uncorked it with his thumbnail and pressed it into Ron's uninjured left hand. "Drink up."
Ron grimaced, then tilted his head back and drained the clear liquid in one go. He smacked his lips.
"Ugh... tastes a bit like gone-off pumpkin juice, with a hint of rust."
He stared at his swollen hand with expectation.
The swelling did not budge. The green tinge sat exactly where it had been, and the stinging was just as fierce as before.
After roughly fifteen seconds, it became apparent that nothing was happening.
Morris said nothing. He reached into his pocket again and produced an identical vial.
Ron blinked at it. Then at Morris. "Is it a matter of dosage? Should I drink this one too?"
"No," Morris said, shaking his head once. "That one's for external use. Direct application to the affected area."
A brief silence fell over the four of them.
Ron's expression underwent several rapid transitions. He became intensely aware of his own stomach.
Hermione pressed both hands to her forehead and closed her eyes for a moment. "Will drinking it cause any side effects?"
Morris gave a light shrug. "Based on my own tests—none."
"By accident?" Harry asked.
"For testing purposes."
This did not appear to reassure anyone.
Harry helped Ron apply the second vial correctly, both of them were working carefully to distribute the liquid across the swollen hand without causing additional pain, Ron was hissing once through his teeth at the contact.
Morris leaned forward to observe the result.
"The effect is minimal," Morris observed, studying Ron's hand closely. The green tinge had faded only slightly. "This isn't simple poisoning—there's a residue of magic energy as well."
He tilted his head, puzzled. "What exactly bit you? A fully grown Acromantula?"
The three of them exchanged a glance, conducting a silent debate.
Finally, Harry leaned close to Morris's ear and murmured, "A dragon."
Morris hadn't expected that answer.
In his estimation, the odds of Ron being bitten by Professor Quirrell were higher than the odds of Ron being bitten by a dragon.
"Where on earth did a dragon come from?" he asked.
"Keep your voice down..." Hermione said. "Hagrid got hold of a dragon egg. He hatched it a while ago, and Ron went to see it and got a little too close when it was... enthusiastic."
"Ah—a hatchling, then." Morris shook his head with a mild tone of regret.
Ron held up his injured hand. "Never mind where the dragon came from, Morris—what do I do about this?"
"If you use my antidote," Morris estimated, "the swelling should go down in about two weeks. Honestly, though—I'd send you straight to Madam Pomfrey. She is the proper professional for this sort of thing."
"Guess that's that," Ron sighed. "If it stays like this much longer, I won't be able to hold a quill properly, let alone revise for exams."
Hermione's brow furrowed. "I told you to start studying for exams weeks ago, Ron. I said it before Easter."
Ron twisted his mouth but said nothing. "I'm off to find Madam Pomfrey, then. Don't worry about me—just explain things to the professor when class starts."
Harry nodded. "I'll sort it."
"Thanks." Ron departed through the hall.
Harry and Hermione both released their breath at roughly the same moment, their shoulders dropping in unison.
'At least it hadn't been worse.' The thought was present in both their faces without needing to be said.
Morris had already turned back to his potato. He ate one forkful, then looked up. "Could I come and see the dragon? I'm genuinely curious."
Harry blinked, then laughed. "I had a feeling you'd say something like that, actually." He thought for a moment. "Let me ask Hagrid first. It's his dragon."
For Morris, even a newborn hatchling was more than enough to pique his interest. The chance to see a living dragon up close was rare beyond measure.
And beyond simple curiosity, he had another idea—one that could only be tested in the presence of a living dragon.
Two days later, at noon, Morris followed Harry and Hermione down to Hagrid's hut.
"Come in, come in."
Hagrid swung the door open.
He had been forewarned of Morris's visit and greeted him warmly, without any sign of suspicion. For the big-hearted gamekeeper, the chance to show off his dragon to someone who actually wanted to see it was a source of genuine delight—provided, naturally, that the secret stayed safe.
Morris stepped inside. The floor was an obstacle course of brandy bottles and chicken feathers; there was barely a clear patch to stand on.
His eyes landed immediately on the small black dragon curled in the corner, gnawing away with great enthusiasm at what appeared to be a length of wooden chair leg.
"Norbert just dismantled my armchair," Hagrid announced with enormous pride. "That was solid oak, that was. Look at the spirit in him."
Harry stared. "He's twice the size he was when we last saw him!"
"Aye." Hagrid beamed. "Lots of brandy—that's the secret. He's been drinking it up and shooting up ever since."
Morris moved a little closer to the hatchling named Norbert.