Back home, the Grangers had wanted to invite Leon to stay for dinner, but he politely declined.
Hermione, though she’d also been hoping to chat with him a little longer, could only purse her lips when she saw he had no intention of lingering.
She gathered up the textbooks they’d just bought and retreated to her room.
Leon said his goodbyes to the Granger family and headed home with his things to get them sorted.
Once that was done, he went out to the vegetable garden, picked some fresh tomatoes, and made himself a pasta dish — his own twist on a noodle bowl — and ate until he was thoroughly satisfied.
Then he went to the living room and picked up the landline to call his mother.
Ring… ring… ring… ring… A string of busy tones stretched on for several minutes, but no one ever answered.
Leon was at a loss, though there was nothing he could do about it.
He pushed down his unease, went upstairs, and opened One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi alongside Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them — two books covering the flora and fauna of the wizarding world — and settled in to read with genuine enthusiasm.
He read all afternoon.
It wasn’t until dusk fell and the streetlamps flickered on outside that Leon finally, reluctantly, pulled his attention away from the wonderful field guide to magical creatures.
It had been a productive few hours.
At the very least, he now had a working understanding of how to cultivate a number of herbs and fungi, along with the characteristics of most known magical beasts — and in his mind, he’d already begun sketching out cooking methods and ingredient pairings tailored to each of them.
Whether those ideas were actually sound, effective, or delicious would have to wait for practical testing.
I should stock up on antidote potions, and keep some digestive ones on hand as well.
I need to get on good terms with Professor Snape, Professor Sprout, and Hagrid.
If I can get close to those three, a lot of things will fall into place.
Turning over his future social strategy at Hogwarts, Leon tucked away his books and headed downstairs to start on dinner.
Normally this would have been the housekeeper’s job, but earlier that morning — after Professor McGonagall had shown up — Leon had told her she could take the day off.
So tonight, he was on his own.
Not that he minded cooking.
People who love eating and people who love cooking tend to find their way to each other, and without that genuine interest driving him, Leon never would have pushed his culinary skills as far as he had.
He had just finished eating and hadn’t yet cleared the dishes when a commotion from the vegetable garden outside caught his attention.
Leon was on his feet in an instant, stepping to the door and grabbing the bow he’d made himself.
He wanted to see exactly who had the nerve to mess with his garden.
But when he got outside, he stopped cold.
There, in the vegetable bed, a crow and a small raccoon were fighting.
From the look of it, the raccoon was losing badly.
Patches of its grimy fur had been ripped away in several places, and fresh wounds marked its back, while the crow appeared completely unharmed.
Stranger still, the raccoon was clearly trying to flee — but the crow had no intention of letting it go.
Every time the raccoon made a move, the crow swooped in without mercy and tore out another clump of fur.
Faced with the reality of its situation, the raccoon had no choice but to cower in the corner of the garden, trembling — the very picture of beaten submission.
The little creature did look pitiable, but Leon had no inclination to intervene.
The vegetable plants had taken a fair amount of damage, and the tracks in the soil and the snapped stems made the culprit obvious enough.
Still, he found he wasn’t particularly angry about it — not the way he might have been before.
After all, he’d be leaving for Hogwarts soon, gone for a full year.
This garden didn’t have much use left for him.
There was also the matter of the wild raccoon being a walking colony of parasites and bacteria.
Otherwise, Leon might not have minded turning it into a late dinner.
So rather than seizing the opportunity to catch the thief, Leon stood and watched with genuine curiosity as the crow that had so thoroughly subdued it.
One look was enough to tell him this was no ordinary bird.
Its size alone was striking — far larger than a common crow, closer in scale to a young hawk or falcon.
And its sleek feathers, caught in the light, gave off an almost metallic sheen.
Sensing Leon’s gaze, the crow on the vine-covered trellis turned to look back at him.
Those two crimson eyes, fixed on him with unblinking directness, gave off an unsettling feeling.
Leon didn’t feel frightened, though.
If anything, he was curious.
He rifled through his memory of the afternoon’s reading, trying to place whether this creature — so unlike a common crow in both appearance and scale — might be some kind of magical beast.
Meanwhile, the raccoon in the corner noticed that the crow’s attention had shifted away from it.
Animal instinct told it this was its chance.
It spun around and made a break for the edge of the yard.
The next moment, the crow — which up until now had been content to torment without killing — spread its wings and gave chase.
It moved decisively: one talon hooked the raccoon mid-flight, carried it upward, then released it from height.
What happened next didn’t need to be said.
The body landed outside the garden, so Leon couldn’t be certain whether the raccoon had survived.
Once the crow had settled its business, it flew directly down and landed on the ground in front of Leon.
Then, with surprising elegance, it extended its left wing, folded the right one in close, and dipped its head.
A bow.
Leon stared.
When the crow realized it had gotten no response, it seemed mildly put out.
It let out a few sharp caw caw caws in Leon’s direction, then repeated the gesture — holding it this time, eyes fixed on him steadily.
Leon caught on.
He returned the bow, feeling slightly ridiculous, and watched the crow straighten up with what appeared to be satisfaction.
It hopped around on the ground for a moment to express its delight, then, with no particular ceremony, fluttered up and perched on Leon’s shoulder.
“Heavy,” Leon muttered.
It felt like someone had dropped a bag of rice onto him.
If his physical conditioning weren’t what it was, he might have buckled.
Still, he could tell the bird meant him no harm.
Beyond claiming its perch, it hadn’t done anything threatening — and those sharp talons had been visibly restrained; they hadn’t curled into his shoulder at all.
“Can you understand what I’m saying?” Such an intelligent, well-mannered bird had Leon thoroughly intrigued.
He asked the question carefully, testing the waters.
The crow didn’t speak.
It simply nodded.
That deliberate, unhesitating nod settled it.
This creature genuinely understood human speech.
Leon was about to press further when the crow shifted, began preening — and then, with its beak, drew something out from where the feathers had folded closed.
A letter.
No crease marks, no signs of folding — a perfect, intact envelope, produced from within its plumage and dropped into Leon’s hands.
Before Leon could even begin to wonder how the bird had kept it in such flawless condition, the crow butted its head lightly against his cheek, as if urging him to stop thinking and just open it.