Chapter 30: The First Class (Part One)

Early morning.

The sky over Hogwarts had just begun to glow with a faint, pale light. In the distance, the mountains were shrouded in mist, resembling a hazy ink-wash painting. The Black Lake lay silent and still, its surface a vast silver mirror reflecting the dim light of the sky, occasionally rippled by a gentle breeze. Willow trees along the shore dipped their long, slender branches into the water, where dewdrops from the previous night rolled along the tips of the leaves, shimmering with crystalline brilliance.

The air was filled with the scent of fresh earth, mingled with the unique dampness of the lake. The occasional call of a bird in the distance added a touch of vitality to the morning. The castle of Hogwarts was still asleep; most windows remained tightly shut, with only a few showing a faint glow, as if early-rising students were preparing for the day ahead.

Of course—those lights were likely coming from the direction of the Ravenclaw common room.

Morris stood on the side of the Black Lake near the Forbidden Forest, the hem of his grey robes fluttering in the morning breeze, his wand glowing faintly in his hand. He took a deep breath and whispered a spell. As he flicked his wand, a pale blue light struck the rock in front of him like a bolt of lightning.

"Boom!"

The rock shattered instantly, fragments flying in all directions, kicking up a fine spray of morning mist. Morris paused, his brows slightly knit. He walked around the pile of shattered stone, carefully observing every crack as if contemplating whether the spell's effect had met his expectations.

"Reparo."

He cast a restoration charm in a low voice, and the fragments of the rock quickly gathered and reset themselves, as if they had never been broken. Immediately, he raised his wand to try again. This time, the motion was faster and the power greater. A silent shockwave rippled out from the point of impact, pressing the surrounding grass down into a circular fan shape, sending dewdrops scattering like crushed diamonds against the sky.

Yet, Morris remained unsatisfied. He shook his wrist, loosened his shoulders, and resumed his stance.

This was not the extent of Morris’s training. He proceeded to cast a series of advanced and complex spells—including, but not limited to, those of immense power, those requiring extreme precision, and combination spells for emergency scenarios, cleverly integrating offense, defense, and displacement. His movements were crisp and decisive; he was not at all like a wizard constrained by the traditional view of a wand (as some in the wizarding world believed the wand to be a shackle), but rather like a dancer whose body and magic had become one.

Every flick of his wrist revealed his relentless pursuit of power and precision.

Such training had long been a habit for Morris. From the very first day he arrived at Hogwarts at the age of eleven, this grueling practice had become his routine. Much like now, his purpose back then was also revenge. It was just that compared to his current target, his revenge back then had been smaller, more like a desire for vengeance sparked by a need to prove something.

In general, Morris was a man who existed for revenge. His life’s dictionary contained only that one word.

In his view, only power allowed him to stand firm in this world where magic and danger coexisted. Thirteen years ago, due to sudden, unforeseen circumstances, he had been forced to leave Hogwarts, interrupting his routine for a time, though he soon resumed it with even greater intensity. In the past year, the cage of Azkaban had made his spell practice nothing more than a luxury. But now, he had returned to this state.

As the morning mist gradually dissipated and the first rays of sunlight pierced through the clouds, casting a golden hue over the Black Lake, Morris remained standing by the shore. Sweat dripped down his temples, but he showed no intention of stopping. Each movement became more fluid than the last, and every spell more precise.

It was only when the birdsong grew frequent and the light on the lake grew bright that he finally lowered his wand. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and a faint, satisfied smile touched his lips.

"A good start," he muttered to himself. He smoothed his rumpled sleeves and turned to walk toward the castle.

The halls of Hogwarts were slowly coming to life. Sparse figures of students and staff began to appear; when they saw Morris, their gazes were filled with curiosity or a touch of apprehension, but he paid them no heed. Today was Morris's first class in his new capacity as a "professor."

Wizarding Sociology—an entirely new subject.

Within this castle with its thousand-year history, he intended to use his own methods to shatter some of the students' ingrained perceptions of the wizarding world. This was no easy task—changing one's mindset never is—but Morris was full of anticipation.

He strode into the classroom located in the fourth-floor tower—a well-lit but somewhat austere room. Large bookshelves were filled with heavy tomes, some from the wizarding world, others he had purchased from the Muggle world. The desks and chairs were arranged neatly, though the layout was unconventional.

As time passed, several students gathered outside the classroom door in the fourth-floor tower. To attend Morris’s class, students had to meet three criteria: First, they had no other classes at this time. Second, they were at least in their third year. Third, they were interested in Morris's speech from the day before or in this emerging field of study.

The number of students meeting all three requirements was very small, yet there were seven or eight of them—each with different intentions.

Percy Weasley wore neat robes, his badge shining in the sun. His purpose was clear: as a Gryffindor prefect, he wanted to show Dumbledore his proactive attitude toward new subjects while setting an example for his housemates. In Percy's own words: "This is a brand-new course, and I feel it is quite necessary for a prefect to understand it."

Penelope Clearwater, standing beside him, appeared more relaxed. As a Ravenclaw prefect, she had a keen interest in anything related to knowledge, and besides, this professor had once been a Ravenclaw himself. Penelope was quite curious about Morris’s past—a wizard from Ravenclaw who had later left Hogwarts for unknown reasons and ended up in Azkaban; she couldn't help but imagine the story behind it all.

In contrast, Marcus Flint’s presence was particularly jarring. He stood a little further away, arms crossed, with a careless smirk on his face. Truth be told, he had no interest in this course; even the word "sociology" sounded obscure and tedious. However, as the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, Marcus often socialized with pure-blood students, and the night before, he had been goaded by a few companions who claimed this "Azkaban professor" would be easy to mock.

So, he had come. The reason might sound rash, but for a teenager, it was perhaps to be expected, wasn't it?

"Right, we should go in," Percy said, checking his watch with a serious tone.

They nodded and pushed open the classroom door, stepping inside. They soon discovered that the room was laid out quite unlike any other. The classroom was circular, with shelves lining the walls filled with various books—some from the Muggle world that they had never heard of—with titles like *Das Kapital*, *Utopia*, and *The Wealth of Nations* clearly visible in gold lettering.

Beyond that, a massive painting on the wall depicted a wizarding conference from the distant past, each figure so lifelike they seemed to be whispering to one another. The desks and chairs were arranged in a circle, with the podium placed in the center, creating no sense of separation.

"Please, take your seats," Morris gestured.

Having seven or eight students show up for his class was far beyond his expectations; in fact, he had been prepared for an empty room. Once the last student was seated, Morris walked to the center of the room, paused, and cleared his throat.

"Welcome to the first lesson of Wizarding Sociology. Perhaps some of you are filled with doubt and unease—who am I? Why am I standing here teaching? What will this course actually cover?"

His gaze lingered on Percy for a moment, then shifted to Penelope, before sweeping across the room.

"You need not rush to answer these questions," he paused, a faint smile playing on his lips, "because in this class, one of our themes is—posing questions and solving them."

"First, what is Wizarding Sociology?"

"The point of this course is not to teach you how to cast magic or how to gain the upper hand in a magical duel."

"Its purpose is to make you understand—as wizards, what is your position and responsibility in this society, and what is your true connection to magic?"

He walked over to a side bookshelf and gestured toward the Muggle books. "You may have noticed these. They do not belong to our wizarding world, yet they recount profound reflections on society, economy, power, and culture."

"And these are the core of what we are going to discuss today."

He paused, his eyes sweeping across the audience. "Wizarding Sociology, simply put, is the study of how the wizarding world operates from within."

"It covers the structure of wizarding society, the distribution of power, the formation of law and culture, and our relationship with the non-magical world."

"Why did we form the society we have today? Why do some wizarding families hold immense power, while others are marginalized? The answers to these questions go far beyond 'bloodline' or 'magical ability'."

"Professor," Penelope couldn't help but raise her hand, "you mentioned the distribution of power in wizarding society. What exactly do you mean? Is it the strength of one's magical ability that decides everything?"