Tea and No Sympathy

Chapter 7

The next day, Draco snaps awake as time resets; he's slept, he thinks groggily, for at least fourteen hours, and he feels extremely embarrassed for being so melodramatic. It helps that no one will remember how melodramatic he was – but since he remembers, it doesn't help all that much.

He uses his en suite bathroom, and once he's showered, washed his face and shaved he feels much more awake and alive. And . . . determined. He's not sure what he's determined to do, but first things first: he needs to pick up his little owl and name it. He feels sure that if he'd had his owl around yesterday, he wouldn't have locked himself in his trashed bedroom like a humongous twat.

So he Apparates directly to the Magical Menagerie, arriving before it's even opened. He doesn't want to wait around though – if anything, the time loop has taught him that patience is not a virtue – so he hammers on the door until a very irate old man in a nightcap peers down from an upstairs window.

"We're not open!" the proprietor croaks down. "Come back later!"

"I just want the little owl," Draco calls, and he levitates fifteen galleons up to the man, who catches it, muttering something Draco can't hear, and disappears from the window. But before Draco can worry that he's been ripped off, the little owl, obviously Summoned from downstairs in the shop, zooms out of the window and lands on Draco's waiting raised finger.

It gives him an extremely sulky look and pecks his finger – hard.

"Ow!" Draco says. "What was that for?"

The owl's sulky look turns stern – as stern as a tiny owl with eyes almost larger than its head can manage – and shakes its head, before flying off his finger to land on his shoulder . . . and peck his ear.

"OK, OK, I'm sorry," Draco says. "What am I sorry for?"

Another peck. Draco's ear will be shredded at this rate.

"I'm sorry for not picking you up yesterday," he tries.

The little owl hoots, and then snuggles up to him.

Draco blinks; the little owl can remember that? It seems extremely unlikely. But, a snuggle is better than a peck, so he grips the little owl tight to his shoulder and Apparates back home to his bedroom.

He's not sure what to do once he's there, though. He doesn't think he can face Potter today after their abortive kiss; while Potter won't remember, he'll remember. Just thinking about it is making him turn vermillion. Merlin . . . he wanted to kiss Potter so badly. But, he thinks firmly, it was probably a good thing he didn't. Potter was drunk – extremely drunk – and Draco was . . . available. Thinking that takes the shine off everything immediately. Potter had probably wished he was Finch-Fletchley, Draco thinks sourly. He'd have kissed anything that moved and had a dick at that point.

No; he doesn't want to see Potter today. But, on the other hand, he doesn't want to sit about his room sulking either.

The little owl hoots, bouncing up and down on Draco's bed and then flapping its wings, taking off and zooming around the room, before landing on the bed again and bouncing.

Draco smiles at it; he still can't think what to call it. How do normal people name their pets? He has no idea; he's never had one. But, looking at the owl, he has an idea. He apologised to the bird and it made him feel about one hundred percent better. Maybe . . .

It seems dim, and unnecessary, but he's filled with an urge to apologise en masse to other people. Other people who have fewer feathers and are one hundred per cent more human.