Chapter 8
What is it about the magical world that attracts you most?
The image of Mrs. Weasley waving her wand as kitchen utensils scrubbed themselves floated through Sainz's mind. Then another thought flickered to life: various ingredients soaring from their shelves, dancing mid-air, spinning, searing—and finally falling onto a plate as a perfectly grilled kebab.
For Sainz, the true wonder of the magical world wasn't about shooting blinding curses from a stick. It wasn't about explosions, duels, or grand heroics. What thrilled him most was that quiet, elegant shift—from impossible to possible. A life transformed, effortlessly, with the flick of a wrist.
Sure, a spell powerful enough to level a street could make one tremble. But what made Sainz's heart race was a charm that tidied your bed, poured your tea, or cooked your dinner. That was magic worth chasing.
Shaking his head to dispel this brief poetic interlude, he scooped the last of his melting ice cream into his mouth. The sugar rush gave him a sudden, absurd idea: Maybe he should get a pet.
The Magical Menagerie was located on the south side of Diagon Alley—a loud, cramped place overflowing with every imaginable kind of creature, magical or otherwise.
Cages lined every inch of the walls. Orange-glowing slugs oozed over glowing leaves. Turtles the size of soup pots blinked lazily from under jewel-encrusted shells. Sleek black mice raced one another in synchronized loops. Owls and ravens hooted from the rafters. Cats purred, hissed, or slept, depending on their mood. One peculiar rabbit was flipping itself into a top hat on loop. A row of cattails, popular with little girls, flicked their tails sassily. And in one particularly foul-smelling corner, a toad the size of a watermelon was devouring what looked like... flies? Hopefully flies.
As Sainz stepped inside, the noise of Diagon Alley was instantly muted, like the shop existed in a soundproof bubble. Hundreds of tiny heads turned in unison. The black mice, clearly born performers, began tumbling over each other theatrically.
But none of them caught his eye.
His attention had already locked on a single, silent figure: perched high above the chaos, on top of a tall crate, stood a blue-gray bird with an intense gaze. It didn't move. It simply watched.
"What a good eye you have!" came a cheerful voice. A witch in her fifties, wearing thick, foggy glasses, bustled up beside him. "Isn't he handsome? That one's something special—I'm the shopkeeper, by the way."
Sainz pointed upward. "What kind of bird is he? An owl?"
"Oh, heavens no, dear. He's an Asian peregrine falcon—a swift little elf of the skies. But I'll warn you, he has a bit of an attitude. Oh! I shouldn't have said that…"
"I think he seems calm. Not impatient at all."
"Yes, quiet, sure—but not friendly. Most young wizards can't take his stare. His eyes frighten them. He doesn't like to be handled. But I promise you, he's loyal. Absolutely trustworthy. Would you like me to bring him down for you?"
"No need, ma'am," Sainz said, slipping between rows of cages. "I think I should approach him."
Up close, the bird was even more striking. Nearly half a meter tall, lean and sharp, with eyes like molten gold. Its beak and legs were vivid red, and faint golden sheen flickered in the feathers of its chest—like sunlight filtered through egg white.
Definitely not an owl. This was a predator.
"Ahhh," the shopkeeper murmured from behind him. "You've noticed, haven't you? That shimmer in the chest feathers? That isn't normal. Ordinary Asian peregrine falcons have white chests, yellow-orange legs, and gray beaks. But this one? Crimson beak, scarlet claws, golden glint… I'd bet anything he carries Golden Snidget blood. A rare trait. The speed, the coloring—it's uncanny. Sometimes, I almost want to keep him for myself. But no... I always knew he belonged to someone else."
Sainz raised an eyebrow. Sure, lady, he thought. That's one way to upsell.
He locked eyes with the falcon. They stared at each other for a long thirty seconds. In the end, it was the bird who blinked—gaze softening, eyes flicking away.
Sainz extended an arm slowly.
"If you come with me, I'll make it worth your while. Rats, every day. And if you want something different… maybe grilled lizards. No peregrine falcon can resist grilled lizards, right?"
Who could say if it was the promise of food, or simply that they understood each other? But the bird spread its wings and dove silently from its perch, landing gracefully on Sainz's outstretched arm.
His first reaction: light. Incredibly light. For a bird nearly half a meter tall, it weighed far less than a chicken. A kilogram, perhaps?
His second reaction: power. Those claws were massive. Longer than his own fingers, sharper than a dagger. Without even touching, he could sense the strength in the falcon's thighs, buried beneath soft feathers. There was no doubt—this bird could kill.
"Oh, dear!" gasped the shopkeeper. "You really did it. Thirty years in this business and I've never heard of grilled lizards being the trick! Where's my notebook? I must write this down..."
Sainz watched her scribble furiously, suppressing a smirk. Sure. Add it to your trade secrets.
In the end, he paid thirty-five Galleons for the falcon. Quite the bargain, honestly.
And so the bird had a name now: Speed.
Considering what a rare magical creature it seemed to be—maybe even part Golden Snidget—Sainz couldn't help but question the pricing logic of the magical economy. In the Muggle world, even a mundane peregrine falcon would cost hundreds, maybe thousands, of pounds.
Then again, maybe capturing one was far easier with magic.
Another business opportunity... he mused. I came here to study magic, not get rich! I'm not interested in money!
…He was lying to himself.
With Speed perched in a new cage and a batch of secondhand supplies bought for cheap, Sainz strolled back to the Leaky Cauldron, satisfied.
"Boss! One room for the night!"
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