Tea and No Sympathy

Chapter 5

One day Draco wakes up and says, "Day twenty-three," and then . . . all of a sudden, he isn't sure. Could it be twenty-two? Or four? He tries to mentally catalogue the preceding days, recall what he's done on every one. He writes it down, reasoning it's best to keep a record. The thought of losing track suddenly seems overwhelming. After some frenzied calculation, and copious notes – because he's mostly been working on his fitness, this past week or so, so he can properly impress Potter the next time he sees him; or, at the very least, comfortably keep up with him – he concludes he was right first time. It's twenty-three. He's fairly sure.

The next day, when he snaps awake, the list is – of course – gone. It's winked out of existence, like it was never there. Because it wasn't. He hasn't done it yet. It's day twenty-four. Or three. The near certainty of yesterday slips away, and he can no longer tell.

Some days, the time loop has felt liberating – freeing. But today, unanchored, for the first time it feels like a trap.

Draco sits, and broods, and the walls close in on him.

^^^^^

The next time the day resets itself, Draco snaps to with a burning, overwhelming need to feel useful. To do something. And not just tread time, going running or pretending that if he follows Potter on his daily jog, he'll be somehow saving the world. He knows he's being ridiculous; his capacity for self deception only goes so far.

But . . . he wants to see Potter. It's been days. There's no point denying it; he wants to. And since he's fucking stuck in a time loop, he doesn't see why he can't indulge himself in that. So, he breakfasts as usual, leaves a note for his mother as usual, bunking off his duties, and Apparates to Diagon Alley. He has an idea.

He's inside the Magical Menagerie on North Side just after it opens. It's the first time he's ever been in – he's never been very interested in pets, himself. He had an eagle owl when he was at school, but it was just a family owl, and he didn't even give it a name – why would you name a post owl? But the place is surprisingly interesting, if putrid-smelling – cramped, and packed with cages, containing hundreds – thousands – of cawing, cooing, screeching, purring animals, in every size and shape and colour.

The shopkeeper gives him some time to browse – which isn't long; perhaps the wizened old man suspects that if Draco has to stay somewhere so noxious for more than ten minutes, he'll leave empty handed – then hobbles over. "May I help you, young sir?" he creaks.

"I'd like an owl," Draco says shortly.

"Certainly, certainly," the man says, nodding and bowing and scraping. "This way, sir." He leads the way deeper into the bowels of the shop, until Draco is standing in front of a wall of cages, filled with birds – most asleep, but some eyeing him balefully through the bars of their cages.

Draco tries not to shudder; there's something about their beaks that he's not keen on.

"What is sir looking for in an owl?" the shopkeeper croaks. "Size? Prestige? Speed? Practicality?"

It's a good question; what is sir looking for in an owl? Draco tries to remember what Potter's Hedwig looked like and draws a blank. There's something hissing behind him, which is putting him off. "Something . . . friendly, I suppose," he says dubiously, "but with good pedigree."

There's a rustle from one of the cages, near the top, and Draco spots the most ridiculous bird looking down at him. It's truly minute – it would fit in one of Draco's mother's tea cups – with eyes almost as big as its body.

The shopkeeper catches him looking up at it and shakes his head. "A poor stocking decision on my part," he says, tutting. "Too small to carry even a standard sized letter very far. I don't know what I was thinking. The creature's been unsold for months."