"Welcome."
A witch wearing a checkered apron hurried out from behind the counter the moment the shop's bell chimed. Her hands were dusted with feed, and a faint smell of straw and feathers clung to her clothes.
Her gaze lingered on Harold for a brief moment—long enough to note his stiff posture and unmistakably Muggle attire—before shifting to Morris at his side. A knowing smile appeared on her face.
"Preparing for Hogwarts?" she asked warmly. "We have plenty of owls that are perfect for first-years."
The interior of the shop was alive with sound. Owls of every breed filled the space: tawny, barn, snowy, and species Morris couldn't immediately identify. They hooted and fluttered, wings beating against wooden perches in a constant, layered chorus. Feathers drifted lazily through the air like pale snowflakes.
"Yes," Morris replied. His eyes were already scanning the room, drawn irresistibly toward the birds. "I'd like to look around myself."
"Of course." The witch nodded, clearly accustomed to young witches and wizards wanting time alone with their future companions. "Call if you need anything."
She retreated behind the counter, leaving Morris free to wander.
"I'll wait by the door," Harold said quickly, already rubbing his nose. "Birds make me sneeze."
Morris nodded absently and walked deeper into the shop, weaving slowly between the rows of perches and cages. His movements were deliberate, his gaze sharp.
A courier owl needed to be sturdy. The stronger the bird, the better. It would need endurance, intelligence, and resilience—qualities Morris valued far more than appearance.
The owls seemed aware they were being evaluated. Several tilted their heads in unison as Morris passed, round eyes tracking his every step. One let out a low, questioning hoot.
Other customers browsed nearby—children roughly Morris's age, most accompanied by parents. Their excited whispers and hushed arguments confirmed his suspicion: Hogwarts first-years, just like him.
"Oh—sorry!"
A girl who had been focused intently on a nearby perch bumped into Morris's shoulder.
"No problem," Morris replied automatically, barely registering her presence.
His attention had locked onto a pure-white owl perched proudly near the center of the shop.
A Snowy Owl.
It was noticeably larger than the others, with sharp, intelligent eyes and pristine feathers. It stood tall, its posture confident, almost regal.
Perfect, Morris thought.
"Um… hi," the girl said hesitantly. "Are you a Hogwarts first-year too?"
Morris turned his head slightly, acknowledging her existence. "Mm."
It was neither agreement nor refusal—just a sound. Then he turned back to the Snowy Owl, his interest clearly elsewhere.
The girl hesitated, clearly disappointed. Her lips pressed together, and after a moment, she drifted toward another shelf without another word.
Sensing a decision about to be made, the shop clerk approached once more.
"Have you decided?" she asked pleasantly. "That Snowy Owl is very healthy—strong wings, excellent eyesight."
"I'll take—" Morris began.
Then he stopped.
Something tugged at the edge of his awareness, cold and faint, like a breath against the back of his neck.
"Wait," he said. "That owl looks odd."
Behind him, partially hidden in the shadows of a lower shelf, sat a small cage. Inside was an owl unlike any other in the shop.
Its feathers were black as ink, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. They were ragged and uneven, some missing entirely. Its eyes were dull and half-lidded, lacking the sharp awareness common to its kind.
It looked… tired.
The shop clerk followed Morris's gaze and sighed softly.
"A Tawny Owl," she said. "Though one this dark is quite rare."
"Is it sick?" Morris asked.
"Perhaps." She avoided his eyes. "It hasn't long to live. You'd be better off choosing another."
Morris understood immediately.
To him, the owl carried the unmistakable scent of death—not overwhelming, but present. Lingering. Patient.
No wonder, he thought.
"If I want it," Morris asked calmly, "how much?"
The clerk blinked in surprise. "You really want to buy it?"
"How much?" he repeated, his tone unchanged.
Lowering her voice, she said, "Honestly, sir, a Dark Wizard cursed it. It has two days at most. We keep it comfortable—that's all we can do."
"That's fine," Morris replied. "My uncle might be able to cure it."
That part wasn't entirely a lie.
Even if it died, it would still be useful. He could simply turn it into an undead creature.
The clerk stared at him, momentarily at a loss for words.
"Even so," she said at last, recovering her professionalism, "we can't discount it. Store policy."
Morris didn't respond. Instead, he reached toward the cage.
The Tawny Owl stirred weakly. With a slow, trembling movement, it lifted its head and brushed its beak gently against Morris's finger.
A connection—fragile, fleeting.
"I'll take it," Morris said firmly.
After a brief pause, the clerk nodded.
"Ten Galleons," she said. "That includes the cage and a month of feed."
She retrieved a polished cage from behind the counter and carefully transferred the owl inside. The bird fluttered once, then settled, its body going still as though it had fallen asleep.
"Good luck," the clerk whispered, handing the cage to Morris.
When Morris finished paying and reached the shop's entrance, he found Harold deep in conversation with a well-dressed couple.
"Ah, Morris," Harold said when he noticed him. "These are Mr. and Mrs. Granger. Their daughter's a Hogwarts first-year too."
The couple smiled kindly.
Morris returned the greeting politely, immediately noting Harold's stiff posture. The Muggle suit stood out like a beacon in Diagon Alley.
Mr. Granger's eyes drifted to the cage in Morris's hands.
"Nice-looking owl," he remarked.
"Yes," Morris said honestly. "Very."
Then he added, without hesitation, "Though it only has two days to live."
Mr. Granger froze. "Why… why buy it, then?"
"Because I'm going to roast it."
"?"
Mr. Granger opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"We should go," Morris said calmly. "Goodbye, Mr. Granger."
"Er… goodbye."
Morris grabbed Harold's sleeve and pulled him out of the shop.
Outside, Mr. Granger glanced back at the sign, his brow furrowed.
It clearly read: Pets.
Not Groceries.
"Why the rush?" Harold asked once they were a safe distance away.
"Talking to strangers is dangerous," Morris replied without looking back.
Harold blinked, then sighed. "Fine. You're the wizard."
Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that their roles had somehow reversed.
"So… that's your owl?" Harold asked, eyeing the cage. "It looks rather lethargic."
"It's dying," Morris said casually. "Two days. Just like I told him."
"You're not really going to roast it, are you?" Harold exclaimed.
Morris stopped walking and stared at him.
The look clearly said: Are you stupid?
Harold laughed awkwardly. "Right. Sorry."
As they resumed walking, Morris explained, "Even if it dies, I can bring it back."
Harold's eyes widened. "You can resurrect dead creatures?"
"More or less," Morris said. "Ever seen a zombie movie?"
Harold went pale.
Images of shambling corpses flooded his mind. "You're not turning it into one of those, are you?"
Morris gently rocked the cage. "Don't worry. Mine will be far more elegant."
Harold had no reply.
Wizards are terrifying, he decided.
After a moment of careful reflection, he added silently:
At least this one doesn't seem offended.
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