𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄

Part 21

1.

It is a cold, clear day in March. Draco cracks open the attic trapdoor and climbs up the stairs, irritated with the house elf because it is too lazy lately to bother feeding the owl. He’s sick of climbing up here, mostly because it’s dirty and full of owl shit, because the house elf hasn’t bothered to clean either.

“Goddamn useless thing,” he grumbles.

The owl is equally useless. Draco wanders through the stacks of boxes, filled with clippings from The Prophet about Potter, or fanmail to Potter, or even some old Quidditch gear and baby clothes. Under the rank smell of owl shit and heavy must, Draco can almost smell the talcum powder and sour milk. He closes his eyes, remembering the feel of tiny hands gripping his as they curled up to his chest, staring up at his face with unseeing slate eyes.

He almost misses it.

And he almost trips over an old scarf of Potter’s. He kicks it across the floor, scowling and picking up the scattered owl treats he’s dropped across the floor when he notices the white scarf isn’t actually so much a scarf as-

“Bugger,” he mutters, poking the owl in the side. It is as stiff and dead as the world outside. He sighs and levitates it downstairs in front of himself before depositing it in an empty cauldron box of Viola’s that has lain in the hallway since Christmas.

He thinks Crap and How am I going to tell Potter I found his owl dead? Draco prods it with a spoon, not wanting to get sick from worms or maggots. He has no idea when the owl died- didn’t he just hear it flapping around the attic last night? Or was that last week? He doesn’t even remember the last time someone fed it.

The feathers look a bit patchy on the side of the owl he tripped over, so he waves his wand and uses a quick glamour charm, but a few more feathers fall off into the bottom of the box, leaving the wing nearly bare.

“Bugger bugger bugger,” he hisses, spell-o-taping the box shut. He shoves the box into the bottom of the linen closet for now.

The house elf does manage to make chicken stew for supper. Draco sits across from Potter, James in between them, and he cuts James’ chicken into small pieces for him. Potter asks, “How was your day?”

“Oh, the same as ever,” Draco lies, waving his hand. “Nothing of note.”

“That’s good,” Potter says as he flips through yesterday’s Prophet.

Draco bites his lip. The words sit heavy on the tip of his tongue- by the way, Potter, your owl is dead, but he can’t bring himself to say anything, not in front of James, at any rate.

After Potter gives James a bath, Draco lingers in the doorway of the kitchen, watching Potter watch the telly and eat a slice of chocolate cake off a napkin. Potter coughs. “Is something wrong?” he asks.

“Well,” Draco sighs. He can’t say anything more, so he takes the box out from the closet and shoves it into Potter’s arms. “I- I found her like this. I’m…er…sorry and all.”

He expected Potter would be sad, maybe say a few words, maybe shed a tear or two, but he doesn’t expect the unending silence that follows as soon as Potter pulls back the flaps of the box lid and simply stares at the dead bird.