Kidnapper? What nonsense!
Leo slammed the system window shut in his mind, heart still prickling with indignation. "That was a white lie a harmless white lie!" he muttered, pacing across the kitchen tiles. "And you have the nerve to brand me with that ridiculous title? Despicable Kidnapper?!"
He jabbed at the air as if scolding a person. "This is slander. An insult to my character. A trampling of my dignity! I will never absolutely never equip such a shameful thing."
The system, as usual, remained silent, smug in its mechanical way.
Leo exhaled hard, trying to let go of his irritation. Dinner wouldn't cook itself, and sulking wouldn't put food on the table. He diced tomatoes with a bit more force than necessary, the sharp blade thudding rhythmically against the board. At least he had a plan for tomorrow he'd head into London. Less than ten days remained on his mission timer, and Professor McGonagall still hadn't shown her face. If he wanted that mission reward, he couldn't keep waiting.
But fate, as it often did, decided to interrupt.
A sudden clatter at the window made him glance up, knife still in hand. On the other side of the glass sat an owl, amber eyes gleaming in the dusk.
Leo blinked, then laughed. "Well, speak of the devil."
He hurried to open the window, and the owl swooped in with a brisk flutter, dropping a thin envelope into his palm. While the bird ruffled its feathers, Leo crumbled bread into a saucer and poured fresh water. "Long flight, hm? Eat up, guest."
Only when the owl was settled did he sink into the sofa and unfold the letter.
Dear Mr. Turner,
Professor Adrian Fox, Defense Against the Dark Arts, will visit on July 3rd at 9 AM.
Sincerely,Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress
Leo stared at the signature, eyebrows climbing.
Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?
Of course it had to be that position. The cursed one. Voldemort's handiwork, if rumors were true. Every year the post turned into a game of wizardly Russian roulette: professors disappeared, resigned, or wound up worse.
And now, 1990 just a year before the famous Boy Who Lived would start at Hogwarts. Adrian Fox. A name that had never appeared in the original story. Unknown. Unpredictable. A blank space in the script.
Leo groaned. "Just my luck. Dumbledore's judgment in professors is questionable at best. What if this one's a dark wizard? Honestly, I'd prefer sour-faced Snape over an unknown old fox."
The owl, meanwhile, finished its meal, fluttered around the room in a satisfied circle, and slipped back into the night.
Leo sighed. "Well, McGonagall vouched for him. If she trusts him, I'll manage. Tomorrow's problem for tomorrow's me." He rubbed his temples and turned back to his tomatoes. "Today's me has dinner to finish."
The next morning dawned bright and sharp. Leo jogged his usual route, cooked breakfast, and carefully set the table with tea and snacks. He smoothed the cloth twice over, trying to look like a proper young gentleman.
Then he waited.
And waited.
By half past nine, the tea had gone lukewarm. By ten, his patience frayed. "Did I just get stood up by a professor?"
As if answering his complaint, a thunderous crash shook the house. The windows rattled, and from the backyard came a sound like an airplane dropping nose-first into the earth.
Leo sprinted outside then froze.
Half his lawn was gone. Turf ripped out in clumps, soil sprayed across the flowerbeds he'd tended with such care. And in the middle of the destruction lay a silver-haired old man, face-first in the dirt, with what looked like the shattered remains of a broomstick twitching behind him.
"My lawn…" Leo's chest tightened. The grass wasn't just grass it was money. His inheritance provided a fixed allowance, and every spare coin was meant for Galleons in Diagon Alley. Replacing the lawn? Impossible. He felt faint.
The old man groaned, slowly levering himself up. Tall and gaunt, he brushed clumps of soil from a long trench coat. Beneath it, a white shirt and tie gave him the air of a scholar one who had just wrestled with a dragon and lost. Even streaked with dirt, his presence carried weight.
He adjusted his glasses and peered at Leo. "Leo Turner?"
"…Yes?"
"Good. Didn't fly the wrong way then." The man gave a curt nod. "I am Adrian Fox, your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. You may call me Professor Fox."
Before Leo could even think of replying, the man flicked his wand. The twitching broomstick stilled. Then Fox strode forward, seized Leo's arm, and practically dragged him back inside.
"Er Professor, about the lawn—"
"No time." Fox's voice was clipped, hurried. His face had taken on a worrying pallor. "Listen carefully, boy. My body's not well. I need your help to prepare something. Very important. Understand?"
Leo's irritation melted into alarm. "Understood."
Fox wasted no time. He dug into his trench coat like a magician performing a trick, pulling out items one after another: a cauldron, a spirit lamp, bundles of roots, jars of grease and powder. Soon, a mountain of clutter lay between them.
"Cauldron, lamp, tubers, grease…" Fox muttered, rifling through. Then his eyes lit with urgency. "Alcohol. I need alcohol. Not wine not spirits. Barley-fermented alcohol!"
Beer.
Leo blinked. "I don't have any at home, but there's a shop two hundred meters east. I can grab some."
Gratitude flashed in Fox's tired eyes. "Please."
"Right. Be back in five."
Leo grabbed his coat, dashed out the door, and tore down the street. The cashier at the corner shop gawked as he slammed a pack of canned beer onto the counter, tossed down cash, and bolted without waiting for change. Only as he disappeared did the cashier realize that kid's underage.
Halfway back, Leo slowed, thoughts racing. Something didn't sit right. Fox hadn't looked chased. If this was a recurring condition, why wouldn't he carry the potion ready? And why on earth did any recipe call for beer?
By the time he reached the house, his suspicion had peaked. He threw open the door—
And stopped dead.
The living room was a scene from a culinary fever dream.
Two knives danced above the cutting board, chopping vegetables with perfect rhythm. Thin slices of potato and lettuce sprouted little legs and hopped neatly into waiting plates. A rich, savory aroma filled the air, steam rising from a cauldron where crimson broth bubbled merrily.
At the center of it all sat Professor Fox, chopsticks in hand, happily dunking slices of mutton into the cauldron. His silver hair gleamed in the steam, his glasses fogging as he turned to smile at Leo.
"Oh, Turner, back so soon? Splendid. And you even own chopsticks saves me the trouble of transfiguring a pair."
Leo stood in the doorway, breathless, beer still in his hands, staring at the man who looked exactly like what his name implied an old fox caught mid-theft, completely unashamed.