Tea and No Sympathy

Chapter 6

"I'll take that one," he says to the owner, and the bird flies in a tight, dizzying circle around its cage in unparalleled glee, hooting like mad. It might, Draco thinks, as well be saying, yay-yay-yay-yay-yay-yay-YAY!

"Thank you, sir," the elderly owner rasps, looking bewildered but pleased at such an easy sale, "that will be—"

Draco presses fifteen galleons into the man's hand, swishes his wand to unlock the bird's cage, and it flies out and lands – with hoots of joy – on the top of his head.

For a moment, Draco and the proprietor look at each other, and then Draco – with unshakeable dignity – walks out of the shop with the bird still on his head. A camera flashes, and Draco knows he's been papped, but he grins – it doesn't matter, because the resulting photo will never be published, and it dawns on him that for once he has the upper hand where the media are concerned.

Draco can't decide where to Apparate to next – home? Straight to the Houses of Parliament? – but he has to go somewhere because he's attracting attention. So he reaches up, and when the little owl hops obligingly on to his finger, he clasps it to his chest and thinks, determinedly, of the park near Potter's house, and steps with deliberation into the blackness between the two locations.

The owl seems unmoved by the whole experience when they arrive, and Draco, shaking his head to clear it from the journey, releases his grip on it. It flies off – but only a short distance, to sit on the arm of a wooden bench. Draco joins it, sitting down, and it hops on to his knee, regarding him in a knowing way – at least, as knowing as an owl can be. He can't think why the little creature might remember him, and perhaps it doesn't, but . . .

The little owl hoots impatiently and pecks at Draco's pocket. Draco pushes it off, but it gives him an indignant look and goes back to pecking.

"All right, all right!" Draco protests, rummaging around to see what it is that the owl is obviously interested in. There's not much in his pocket; just the notes for his speech, along with a few spare bits of paper and a self-inking quill. He draws them out, and the owl looks smug.

"Yes, I have to give a speech, so what?" Draco says, aware he's talking to an owl.

The owl rolls its enormous eyes and pecks at a blank piece of paper.

"Oh," Draco says, "you want to deliver a note for me?"

The little owl gives a joyful bounce and stands to attention, quivering with excitement.

Draco thinks it would be cruel to deny it, but . . . who the fuck should he write to? His mother? "Ow!" Draco says as the owl digs its claws into his leg, and he glares at it. The owl looks back innocently. It really is fucking minuscule, Draco thinks, and he wonders how on earth it managed to get from Potter's South London home to Wiltshire yesterday without its wings dropping off. And then he sent it back, on a return journey, without even thinking! He knows that post owls are imbued with magic to give them extra speed and stamina, but even so . . .

It strikes him that he's not in Wiltshire right now though, and Potter lives only a few minutes' walk away. The owl could be there and back in no time at all.

It takes him twenty minutes of dithering, though, to pen a simple note to Potter, with the little owl 'helping' by standing on the paper and jogging his arm every time he tries to write, leaving a trail of ink blots. He can't decide between formal – Dear Potter, would you like to do something with me post today's event? Yours, D. Malfoy – semi formal – Dear Potter, want to go out after the event? From, D. Malfoy – or just plain informal – Potter. Want to go out and get pissed after the tedium is over? Malfoy.