Chapter 30: Leon: "Don't Doubt It. You're the Man I Trust Most."

Chapter 30: Leon: "Don't Doubt It. You're the Man I Trust Most."

Inside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, Leon maintained a facade of calm indifference, but his left hand had already crept to the pistol tucked at his waist. His right hand, hidden in his pocket, tightened its grip on his wand.

If anything unexpected happened, he wouldn't hesitate to give Quirrell a taste of both guns and magic.

"P-Professor Snape asked me t-to remind you," Quirrell stammered, "about your d-detention. He said you m-missed it over the weekend, which was b-bad enough, but you didn't report to him on M-Monday either."

"..."

Leon blinked. He actually had forgotten all about it.

"P-Professor Snape seemed q-quite angry," Quirrell continued, wringing his hands. "You might be in a b-bit of trouble. But d-don't worry. Young wizards your age... always f-forgetting things..."

The smell of garlic emanating from him was overpowering. Leon subtly shifted backwards.

But Quirrell didn't notice. Or rather, his entire focus was on what he wanted to say next.

"L-Leon," Quirrell began, looking uncomfortable. "I know this might be a b-bit forward, but... I heard you used a M-Muggle weapon... to injure three older students?"

Understanding dawned instantly. According to the timeline, Quirrell, weakened by Voldemort's possession draining his life force, would be nearing desperation. Soon, he would have to start sneaking into the Forbidden Forest to drink unicorn blood.

His approaching Leon now was likely because he wanted a gun himself. Perhaps even to use Leon as a scapegoat.

"I must confess, Professor," Leon began, his voice filled with sudden remorse.

"I haven't slept well these past few nights. Every time I close my eyes, I see the faces of those students I harmed."

"When I think of the blood... my heart fills with regret and shame."

"Professor Dumbledore was right. I should never have used a Muggle weapon! Such evil things should be utterly rejected by the wizarding world!"

Leon spoke quickly, his expression one of perfect sincerity, utterly condemning his past actions without batting an eyelid.

Honestly, if Quirrell hadn't personally seen the state of the three students Leon had injured, he might have believed him. Even Death Eaters weren't usually as brutal as this Shelby boy.

Quirrell awkwardly adjusted his turban, a faint 'don't play games with me' expression flickering across his face. He clapped Leon on the shoulder in a overly familiar gesture.

"It w-wasn't entirely your fault... Besides, it's just a w-weapon. Not Dark Magic," Quirrell coaxed. "There's n-nothing inherently evil about it. I happen to be a c-collector of such things. If you could sell one t-to me..."

"One thousand Galleons."

Quirrell stopped, stunned. "W-what?"

"My own was confiscated by Professor Dumbledore," Leon explained smoothly. "These things are difficult to acquire. Hence the price."

"One thousand Galleons, and I can sell you the last one I have in my private collection."

Leon looked Quirrell directly in the eye, his offer blunt.

"One thousand..." Quirrell winced. His Master was no longer the all-powerful Voldemort, just a fragment of a soul clinging to life. They weren't exactly flush with cash.

Leon's expression immediately hardened. "If the price isn't right, then forget it. I'll be going."

A sharp pain lanced through the back of Quirrell's head. His face contorted, but he forced himself to speak. "A very f-fair price! When can I expect d-delivery?"

"Tonight. I will have a reliable associate bring it to you. You can give him the Galleons then."

With that final word, Leon turned and strode out of the classroom.

Once Quirrell was alone, a harsh, rasping voice echoed from the back of his head.

"If only I had found this boy in Albania... instead of a useless fool like you."

Hearing his Master's displeasure, Quirrell immediately fell into a state of terrified grovelling, tears streaming down his face as he begged for forgiveness.

But Voldemort, seemingly disgusted, did not speak again. Only Quirrell's pathetic sobs echoed in the empty classroom.

Meanwhile, Leon, having left Quirrell, showed no reaction. He calmly went to the Great Hall and ate his lunch.

In the afternoon's Transfiguration class, Professor McGonagall was, for some reason, exceptionally friendly towards him. Although Leon did indeed transform his match into a silver needle quickly and precisely, the number of points Professor McGonagall awarded him seemed excessive.

In just one class, Slytherin gained fifteen points.

As the class ended, Professor McGonagall leaned in and whispered in Leon's ear, "I sincerely apologize for my words to you in Professor Dumbledore's office."

By the time Leon looked up to say it was quite alright, the stern witch had already composed her features, clasped her hands behind her back, and was walking briskly to the front of the classroom.

Because of this, Leon remained in a remarkably good mood for the rest of the day.

At dinner, however, he kept looking around, as if searching for someone.

Unlike Leon, Malfoy felt his life had become unbearable. To avoid Shelby, he hadn't eaten in the Great Hall for days.

As an arrogant young lord, he had naturally considered fighting back, drawing his wand and hexing that smug look right off Shelby's face. But whenever that thought arose, the image of the three older boys Leon had brutalized would flash in his mind.

And then Malfoy would tell himself to lie low. Wait. His father would sort the boy out once he knew the situation.

Tonight, his father's reply finally arrived by owl.

Malfoy's eyes filled with tears of relief. He shoved aside the dinner Goyle had brought him, muttering, "You're dead, Shelby. My father won't let you get away with this," as he eagerly tore open the letter.

He read it quickly, fuelled by visions of revenge.

And then, his expression froze, as if doused with ice water.

His father seemed completely uninterested in the fact that his son was being bullied. Instead, the letter repeatedly mentioned a shop called 'Shelby Arms.'

Even more bizarrely, his father had given him a direct order: find out if 'Leon Shelby's 'Shelby' was the same 'Shelby' as 'Shelby Arms.'

Draco felt his world collapse all over again.

As he stared blankly at the letter, utterly bewildered, there was a knock on his dormitory door.

He opened it numbly. He saw who it was and rubbed his eyes.

After a moment, a look of grim resignation settled on his face. Like a zombie, he stepped aside and let his visitor in.

Staring at his living nightmare, Draco forced a smile that was more painful than a grimace. "What is it, Shelby?"

"I have a very important task," Leon said, his expression completely serious. "And it requires someone I can trust."

"And Draco... you are that person."