Tea and No Sympathy

Chapter 6

The next time that time resets, Draco feels actually sort-of cheerful. The previous day had, to his surprise, been almost entertaining. His good mood wavers when he remembers that Potter won't remember it, but, flinging the habitual blanket over the time-turner to cover up its annoying glow, he suppresses the thought. The more cracks he gets at this – at befriending Potter, at getting him to open up – the more successful he'll become at it. It should be useful, no matter the outcome.

He goes downstairs for breakfast as usual, still mulling things over.

"Good morning, dear," his mother says – also as usual – setting her paper aside and looking at him with sympathy. "Are you nervous about your speech?"

Draco sits down and spreads a napkin on his knees, while his mother pours him a cup of tea and summons a house-elf. "No," he says – and means it. "Not at all." But he adds, since he's never broached it with his mother before, "Do you think father would be especially angry if I decided not to give my speech today, after all, though?"

His mother's look of sympathy deepens into one of concern. "Are you not well?" she says, and she rises and paces over to him, putting a cool palm on his forehead. "You do feel a little warm. I'll fetch you a Pepper-Up Potion after breakfast."

"No, Mother," Draco says hastily, "I'm fine, it's just . . ."

His mother bends and presses a kiss to his forehead. "I think you're nervous, dear, and you'll only be letting yourself down if you don't go ahead and give your speech. You've been planning it for months." She frowns at him, as if she can see disagreement in his face. "Though if you truly don't want to give it, I'll speak to your father. Your happiness is our main concern, Draco. Nothing is more important to us than that."

Well, Draco hadn't been feeling guilty about the thought of bunking off from his speech before, but now the guilt hits him like the Hogwarts Express at full speed. "I'll be fine," he says quickly. "It'll be fine."

His mother gives him another kiss and then returns to her seat. "Be brave, Draco. It'll be over soon, and think how proud your father will be of you."

Draco tries not to squirm, and he escapes from the dining room as soon as he's able. He knows that by this time tomorrow the conversation with his mother will have been wiped from history, but . . . he still feels honour-bound to make a speech today, even if it's not the speech. In a sulk, he sits down on his bed; this was not the way he wished to start the day. And he'd been feeling so optimistic before! He casts around for something to cheer himself up again; the idea of letting off a large quantity of Filibuster fireworks in the Lords Chamber briefly amuses him, but he dismisses it as too childish.

He quickly showers and dresses, and as he smooths down the fine fabric of his robes, tugging at them to get the lines falling perfectly, he remembers the day before – and the way the little owl he'd intended to give to Potter had sat on his shoulder. He smiles; it was certainly no respecter of his dignity.

A thought strikes him: he could go back to the Magical Menagerie and buy it again.

He's barely processed the thought when he's Apparating with intent, and he lands directly outside the shop, which is just opening for the day. He dithers for a moment, curiously nervous – but it's these nerves that make him stride in, moving directly to the back of the shop where the owls are kept. He doesn't want to be nervous about whether an owl will like him or not; the idea strikes him as ridiculous.

He's just looking up at the owl's cage when the owner sidles up to him with an unctuous greeting, but he barely notices the man – because the little owl is looking down at him with wide, amazed eyes, and Draco would swear on his own life that the bird recognises him.