In the office of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape slammed his fists on the desk, making it thud loudly.
"He knows! He definitely knows!" Snape snarled, his voice dripping with venom.
"That look on his face! That look!"
He gritted his teeth, his words practically hissing out. "It's exactly like his father's! Exactly the same!"
Snape looked like he was on the verge of losing it, teetering on the edge of madness.
Dumbledore let out a weary sigh. "He's still just a boy, Severus…"
Snape, wild with rage, didn't hold back. "But he's a Black! He's already taken up the family business! You told me just the other day that Green couldn't possibly know about Black's affairs. But today? His behavior says otherwise. That look he gave me! The same arrogance, the same infuriating attitude as his father! I've seen it too many times to ever forget! He did it on purpose! He knows something! He's dangerous, and he can't be allowed near Potter!"
Dumbledore sighed again, rubbing his temples. "That's no excuse for trying to strike a student, Severus."
He paused, his tone firm but calm. "Thankfully, Professor Flitwick stopped you. If you'd so much as touched a hair on his head, believe me, tomorrow's Daily Prophet would have a front-page headline screaming about a Hogwarts professor brutally attacking a student."
Snape's expression was still unhinged, his eyes blazing with fury. "Fine, I admit it. I wasn't calm. He got under my skin. He vanished Malfoy's hair with a puff of air, then deliberately taunted me with the same gesture! I fell for it. I shouldn't have raised my hand. I should've just done the same and vanished his hair!"
Dumbledore suddenly felt ten days older, while Snape seemed to have regressed into a petulant teenager. "Severus, you're in your thirties, not your teens! Your maturity is nowhere near Mr. Green's."
Dumbledore privately thought this batch of professors was a nightmare to manage. First, that controversial buffoon Lockhart, and now Snape, who'd lashed out at a colleague and nearly attacked a student. It was almost enough to make him consider retirement.
"You've already investigated this Mr. Green thoroughly," Dumbledore continued. "So you know he's no ordinary child. He single-handedly wrested the Black family fortune from the clutches of multiple pure-blood families. His strength and intellect are clearly exceptional. Whatever he may seem like on the surface, Leon Green is not Sirius Black. Severus, I don't want your hatred to blind you."
"Hmph!" Snape scoffed. "I hope you haven't misjudged someone again!"
"Why do you say 'again'?" Dumbledore asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You'll regret this!" Snape spat.
"I'm the headmaster of Hogwarts!" Dumbledore shot back.
Bang! Snape stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Whoops, seems like we've switched channels for a moment.
---
Meanwhile, Leon Green had successfully provoked Snape into trying to attack him, only to be stopped by Professors Flitwick and Sprout. Thanks to their intervention, he escaped any punishment like point deductions or detention.
It was a grand victory for Gryffindor.
With breakfast out of the question, the students headed to class, excitedly planning a celebratory party in the common room that evening. Leon, however, decided to keep a low profile. He was almost certainly on every professor's radar now, so it was best to lie low for a while.
Under Professor McGonagall's icy, winter-sharp gaze, Leon calmly aced a Transfiguration lesson, performing admirably. After class, he slipped away to the Chamber of Secrets.
Inside the Chamber, the basilisk was still playfully chasing its own tail, while Kreacher, the house-elf, was frantically working on Leon's History of Magic homework, due tomorrow. Leon was really pushing Kreacher's limits—house-elves typically only mastered simple domestic magic, not academic wizardry. But after being tasked with doing Leon's homework, poor old Kreacher had to start learning the Hogwarts curriculum from scratch.
Seeing that Kreacher had made decent progress, Leon decided to finish the rest himself. He had a new, important task for the elf.
"Kreacher," Leon said, "for the next month, I want you to feed Mrs. Norris every day—you know, Filch's cat. You can stay invisible to make it easier, but do not let Filch catch you. Feed her cat food, and add five drops of this potion. It's a mix of catnip, concentrated wormwood liquor, and a pet supplement. If you run out, come to me for more."
With Kreacher sent off to tend to Mrs. Norris, Leon turned his attention to his right hand, which he'd transformed into a wand. He recalled the process: slicing open the flesh, carving a long string of magical runes directly onto the bone, healing the wound, and then etching another set of runes onto the skin.
Leon wasn't an expert in wandlore, but he was well-versed in alchemy and runes. He figured the runes on his skin were standard for wand-making. But what about the wand's core? Did it require special treatment?
He decided he needed to consult a professional.
Without wasting time, Leon left a note for Ginny, asking her to cover for him with Professor Sprout during Herbology, claiming he was feeling unwell from "shock" and needed to rest. Then he borrowed Aunt Sybill's fireplace to Floo straight to Diagon Alley.
Diagon Alley was quieter than usual on a weekday. Leon emerged from a pet shop he now owned, thanks to his Black family inheritance, looking completely different. Gone was the handsome Hogwarts student with black hair and silver eyes. In his place was an unremarkable, brown-haired, brown-eyed wizard in tattered robes, looking like he'd seen better days.
Transfiguring his appearance and hair color was second nature to Leon. Adjusting his build and height was trickier, requiring precise magical control, but he managed it well enough for now.
The scrawny, down-on-his-luck wizard hurried through the shops until he reached Ollivanders, the famous wand shop. He paused, then stepped inside.
The shop's interior was only slightly less worn than its weathered storefront, with traces of age etched into every corner. With most students back at Hogwarts, the shop was even quieter than Diagon Alley itself.
As Leon entered, he was greeted by stacks of narrow wand boxes. The faint smell of mildew mingled with dust, adding a touch of mystery to the chaotic swirl of magical energy in the air.
"Good afternoon, sir," came a soft, almost ethereal voice.
Ollivander appeared as if he'd risen from the floor itself, standing suddenly before Leon. His pale eyes seemed to pierce right through him.
Leon quickly double-checked his Occlumency shields, suddenly aware of just how formidable this old man was. No wonder Ollivander's wands were never returned—his presence alone was enough to convince customers that any issues with their wands were their own fault.
"A stranger… one I haven't seen before. A foreigner, perhaps?" Ollivander said, unable to glean much from Leon's hastily crafted disguise.
Leon nodded silently.
"Here for a wand?" Ollivander asked, pulling out a measuring tape. "Which is your dominant hand?"
"Righ—er, left," Leon said in a gruff voice, pretending to struggle with English.
The measuring tape sprang to life, taking measurements on its own. Ollivander bustled between shelves, retrieving wand boxes while delivering his well-practiced sales pitch.
"A foreigner, come to see us, no doubt! Our family has been making wands since 382 BC. Every Ollivander wand is unique, typically crafted with cores of unicorn hair, phoenix tail feathers, or dragon heartstrings—powerful magical substances, because…"
Leon cut him off. "Do wand cores need special treatment during crafting?"