"Hey, there's a rat."
Leon's voice was soft.
His attention seemed suddenly caught, and he wandered curiously over to a cage, peering at a sleeping gray rat.
"Dean, whose pet rat is this? What's its name?"
Leon played it cool—spotting something, getting curious, asking a casual question.
Dean Thomas didn't even look up, answering offhandedly, "It's Ron's rat. Name's Scabbers."
"Scabbers, huh?"
Leon studied the chubby rat. It was a mess—covered in scars, one ear torn, half its whiskers white, missing a toe on its front paw, its dull gray fur looking lifeless. It seemed ancient, like it was on its last legs.
Their voices weren't exactly quiet, but Scabbers didn't stir.
"Is Scabbers sick or something? He looks rough," Leon said, poking the rat's faintly heaving belly with his wand of the day—a stick transfigured from a chocolate bar.
"Dunno," Dean replied distractedly. "That rat's always looked half-dead. I don't think I've ever seen it properly awake."
"Got it," Leon said, still prodding Scabbers' belly with the stick. "How old is he? I thought pet rats only lived about three years. Does he have some special bloodline or something?"
Dean muttered, "No clue. Ron's had him since last year, said he was a hand-me-down from his brother. Gotta be over three years old."
"Oh, no wonder he's so out of it. Way too old," Leon said.
Finally, he stopped poking.
Scabbers' whiskers twitched slightly upward, as if sighing in relief.
But Leon wasn't done. Instead of walking away, he rummaged in his ring—a magical storage space like a treasure chest—and pulled out a tiny bottle, about the size of his thumb.
"Found it! Super-Strength Pet Tonic!"
He fished out yesterday's wand—apparently transfigured from a soup spoon—and, wielding both wands like chopsticks, maneuvered the bottle back into the cage.
Before Scabbers could react or scuttle away, Leon jammed the bottle's narrow spout into the rat's mouth and tilted it, forcing Scabbers to chug half the contents in one go.
Dean wandered over just in time to catch the scene. "What'd you just give Scabbers?"
Leon leisurely pulled the bottle back, capped it, and set it beside the cage.
"Special tonic I got from a magical pet shop. My parrot turned out to be allergic to one of the ingredients, so I couldn't use it. This tiny bottle cost ten Galleons—total waste to toss it, so I figured Ron's pet could use it. Poor thing looks pitiful."
Dean didn't comment.
It'd only been a week since term started, but Leon's reputation as a rich kid was already legendary at Hogwarts. Casually giving an expensive potion to a friend's pet? Totally something he'd do.
Leon hung out in Dean's dorm for a bit before leaving. He didn't head back to his own dorm or Leon in the Gryffindor common room. Instead, he wandered the castle aimlessly.
It was the first Sunday after the start of term, and the only sunny afternoon in a while. The castle was practically deserted—everyone was outside soaking up the rare sunlight.
Leon wasn't roaming to bump into anyone specific. But after nearly half an hour, he still hadn't found what he was looking for.
Thinking it over, he headed to the fourth-floor Armor Gallery, a corridor leading to the Trophy Room, lined with heavy suits of armor.
At night, when no one was around, these suits would shuffle positions on their own. Some even sneaked to other floors.
They were kind of valuable, but left out year-round with little upkeep, most were rusty. Not valuable enough to guard properly, but if anyone so much as brushed one—
"Mrowl!"
The castle's guardian saint, Mrs. Norris, appeared like she'd Apparated, right in front of Leon, who was this close to touching an armor.
Her bulging, lamp-like eyes locked onto him. One skinny paw hovered, ready to bolt and fetch her master, Filch, to catch the rulebreaker.
But Leon, to the cat's disappointment, lowered his hand.
"Hey there, Mrs. Norris, good to see you again! Just looking at the armor, not touching. No rule-breaking here, right?"
Leon's tone was warm and cheery, trying to charm her.
Mrs. Norris flicked her patchy tail, gave him a withering glare—how a cat could roll its eyes was beyond him—and turned to leave.
No time to ponder feline sass. Leon quickly pulled out a small bowl of pre-prepared cat food, laced with catnip and the same tonic he'd given Scabbers.
Not much, just a shallow serving.
He set it on the floor and slid it toward Mrs. Norris.
"Well, I won't disturb your meal, Mrs. Norris. Enjoy!"
With a graceful bow, Leon strolled off lightly.
Just a cat-loving guy, overcome with the urge to feed a stray, right?
Mrs. Norris warily watched his retreating figure, then sniffed the irresistibly fragrant food. Hesitantly, she stepped forward.
Leon, hiding around the corridor's corner, peeked out. He watched as Mrs. Norris went from a cautious lick to gobbling the food with enthusiastic mrow-mrow noises.
"Yo, mate, what're you up to?"
A voice startled Leon, and an arm slung over his shoulder.
He nearly fired off a Petrificus Totalus in reflex but recognized the voice instantly.
"Didn't peg you for having such weird hobbies, Leon—spying on Filch's mangy cat eating?"
Another arm draped over his other shoulder.
"Hey, Fred, you're selling it short. I'm curious too, alright? I always thought that scrawny old cat didn't eat anything," George said.
"Yeah, I figured Mrs. Norris only munched on Filch's bogeys."
"Ugh! Gross!"
The Weasley twins, George and Fred, flanked Leon, their voices ringing in stereo.
"…"
Leon sighed. He'd let his guard down, and these two caught him red-handed.
He had no doubt that by tomorrow, the Hogwarts rumor mill would be buzzing with "Leon was spying on Mrs. Norris eating." Give it a few days, and it'd morph into "Leon wants to eat Mrs. Norris." He wouldn't even be surprised.
Their chatter startled Mrs. Norris. She abandoned her bowl, fur bristling, back arched, yowling as she charged toward them.
"Oh no, we're busted! Shut it, or Filch'll come running!"
Leon snapped out of his thoughts, urging the twins to bolt.
Fred and George, seasoned pranksters, were unfazed. This was child's play for them.
"No worries, no worries. Come with us, mate, we've got a great spot!"
Still in their one-arm-each formation, Fred and George hoisted Leon and took off down the corridor at a sprint.
Behind them, Mrs. Norris gave chase, with Filch's heavy footsteps closing in.
Leon, about their height but much slimmer than the burly Beaters, couldn't break free. He was dragged along, helpless, as they raced halfway down the fourth-floor corridor.
One twin darted forward, whipping out his wand and muttering a spell, while the other kept pulling Leon along, not missing a beat.
They moved so fast Leon barely saw what they did.
Next thing he knew, the three of them were crammed inside a statue of a one-eyed, hunchbacked witch, squeezed together like sardines.
"Mrow!"
Mrs. Norris's piercing yowl followed, joined by the dragging thud of Filch's footsteps.
Filch was here.