On a windless, moonless night, the sky sparkled with stars, while the foggy streets of London glowed faintly below.
A massive flying motorcycle hovered thousands of meters in the air.
A young couple, locked in a heated tussle, was tangled together on the bike's wide seat.
The aftermath caused the scene to flicker and shake, all static and black-and-white snow from a lost signal.
The jittery perspective didn't make Leon dizzy—something else did.
The city, the altitude, the open air, the motorcycle.
Above, an endless starry sky; below, the twinkling lights of countless homes.
The cold, hard mechanics mixed with romance, paired with the fiery passion of human desire.
Thrilling. Too thrilling.
Shocking. Utterly shocking.
So shocking that Leon would regret it forever if he didn't jump in.
Such wild, freedom-loving souls were destined to be his parents!
Leon got carried away and made a bold leap.
His locket flew out, its chain whipping around the woman's steadying hand.
With a soul-sliding tackle and a burst of magic, he made it aboard.
Oops—forgot to check Kreacher's memories first. Not sure which Black this is.
Oh well, better pray to Merlin.
Please, no magical girls!
…
Years later, in Kerry, Ireland.
"Squawk! Lazybones, get up! Squawk! Lazybones, get up!"
Leon was dreaming of that impulsive moment for the second time when his pet parrot rudely woke him.
"…Squawk! Get up! Sun's burning your bum!"
The blasted creature perched at Leon's bedside, shrieking in its grating, gravelly voice.
"Shut it, Tom! Enough!"
Leon, bleary-eyed, reached out from under the covers and made a grabbing motion.
The parrot, with its vibrant, multicolored feathers, froze mid-squawk, silenced instantly.
Leon opened his palm and beckoned lightly. The chubby bird, Tom, reluctantly fluttered into his hand.
Still nestled in bed, Leon ruffled Tom's feathers until the irritable bird pecked at his fingers. Finally, he got up.
He dressed, washed up, and headed downstairs for breakfast.
Tom, eager to tattle, zoomed into the dining room:
"Squawk! Maeve, my beauty! Leon bullied Tom! Bully behavior! Bully behavior!"
Leon ignored the silly bird, stretched lazily, and shuffled to the table, pulling out a chair.
"Morning, lovely lady! Any fun news today?"
Leon took a swig of milk and chomped into a sandwich from his plate.
Across the table sat a woman with a striking presence.
Her wild, fiery red curls exploded outward, adorned with four or five chunky gold chains around her neck. A ruby ring glinted on her right hand, and her silvery, moon-like eyes were fixed on the newspaper in front of her.
The headline read The Daily Prophet.
"Morning, handsome!"
Maeve Green leaned over to kiss her son's cheek, then said casually, "You know, it's all about the Quidditch World Cup. Scotland's made it to the finals, and everyone's convinced they've got the trophy in the bag…"
Leon shrugged. "The English wizard papers are even worse than their Muggle ones. Popping champagne before the match? Canada's got this in the bag."
"Exactly. The stars lately show Britain's luck is down," Maeve said, sipping her tea and flipping through the paper.
"Oh, and Minister for Magic Millicent Bagnold is retiring. Lots of folks want Dumbledore to take the job."
Maeve shook her head. "If you ask me, Dumbledore wouldn't touch the Minister's job. It'd ruin his vibe."
"Minister! Squawk! Tom for Minister of Magic!"
Tom, annoyed at being ignored, screeched and flapped toward Maeve's head.
Maeve plucked her wand from her fluffy curls and flicked it. "Silencio!"
Tom went mute, dropping like a toy with dead batteries, landing with a soft thud on the carpet, out cold.
"Mum, that's way too harsh!"
Leon dramatically unfolded a napkin, draping it over the stunned parrot like a tiny blanket.
"Hmph, don't play innocent. That noisy little pest is your doing, you little troublemaker," Maeve teased, ruffling Leon's dark, curly hair.
"No divination appointments today. I'm meeting your Aunt Sybill in Diagon Alley for some shopping. Muggle school's out—coming to London with me, or got other plans?"
"Got a date," Leon mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich.
"Ooh! With who? Judy, the baker's daughter? Annie, the mayor's niece? Or that classmate you mentioned, the one always sneaking you chocolates?"
Maeve's eyes sparkled with gossip.
"…All three, sure, why not?"
Leon rolled his eyes. He'd just said it offhand, not expecting his mum to pounce on the topic.
Truth was, he was off to meet Kreacher.
Maeve never spoke about his origins, and Leon's questions always hit a dead end.
He couldn't exactly explain how he knew about his past.
So, the fact that he'd inherited the Black family's house-elf had to stay secret.
Meetings with Kreacher were always hush-hush.
"Fine, my boy's all grown up with his little secrets. I won't pry," Maeve said, folding her newspaper and standing up.
"I'll keep an eye out for that Snitch for you. Stay safe and don't wander out of town."
She paused, her voice taking on a dreamy tone: "Saw something interesting in the crystal ball yesterday… Stay put, and good luck will find you."
Leon gave a half-hearted "Mhm," brushing it off.
His fortune-teller mum was at it again, spinning tales. Growing up, Leon had fallen for her predictions plenty of times.
At first, he'd believed in divination and prophecies.
This was the wizarding world, after all. The Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries had an entire room just for storing prophecy orbs.
Voldemort, at the height of his power, had gone out of his way to personally hunt down a child over an incomplete prophecy.
If he hadn't taken it so seriously and just sent his minions, he might not have lost one of his lives.
That showed how rare and profound prophecies could be.
But over time, Leon realized their practical use was far less impressive.
It was like the difference between a product ad and the real thing—expectations versus reality.
Divination was too dependent on talent, too whimsical.
It wasn't logical or precise, clashing with Leon's practical, Muggle-born mindset.
Maeve, unaware of her son's skepticism, waved her wand. The used dishes and cups marched to the sink, clattering as they washed themselves.
Just then, the dining room clock's hands banged against its face, its raspy voice bellowing, "Eight o'clock! Your date with Sybill! You're late! Dawdling!"
"Oh, blast!"
Maeve rushed to change into her wizard robes, then hurried back.
She tossed a scoop of Floo powder into the fireplace, shouted "Diagon Alley!" and vanished in a burst of flames.
Leon finished his second sandwich, added his plate to the washing queue, and tucked the sleeping Tom back into his nest.
Stepping out of the dining room, he was greeted by rare southwest Irish sunlight streaming into the cozy house, warming it up.
Leon gazed at the sprawling green fields outside, thinking how peaceful days like this wouldn't last once he started at Hogwarts in two and a half years.
He pushed open the door, stepping into the beautiful scenery.
Blue skies, green grass, a red-roofed house—Leon's home.
Next to the house was a swimming pool, its blue-green hues blending perfectly with the vibrant landscape.
At the pool's edge, Leon raised his arms, puffed out his chest, tucked in his stomach, and dove in.
Splash!
What a wave!
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