New Day

Harry was laying flat on his back, wheezing and buried in blankets. Yet, somehow, it felt like he were freezing. His throat was caught on something, but he couldn't tell what. He'd never had such a bizarre dream... he tried to sit up, feeling around for something.

"Harry-- Harry, stop moving, you're going to--"

It was too late at that moment though, because by then, his hand was placed on nothing, and he lost his balance in a bout of weakness, falling off the side of his bed. Someone was standing over him, sighing.

"-- fall. I should've listened to Mrs Potter... ooh, Harry, are you okay? Do you want some water?" Though very blurry, Lisa came into view. Where were his glasses? No-- that wasn't what he was worried about. He was worried about the pain in his head that wouldn't go away. It was probably his stupid scar. 

"Mione! He's awake! And he fell! Again!"

The door creaked open very loudly.

"Mum's making the potion for him-- she had to go get a new cauldron. The old one, er, melted. She said it'll just be a few more minutes, I think. Help me get him back up on his bed."

Then Hermione came into focus, and Harry was being pulled off the ground. Harry heaved himself onto his bed, rather lightheaded- his scar was hurting tremendously. He tried his best to ignore it, deciding to remember his dream. 

The dark room, with the only light source being a low, dim fire... and... a man named Wormtail, but he doubted that could've been his real name, and Voldemort... Harry couldn't place it, but there was something very wrong about those names. He knew them, but he couldn't remember what-- or where-- he knew from. Voldemort... was that the name he heard?

He could remember what Wormtail looked like. He knew Wormtail, and he couldn't remember how, but he still knew him. However, Voldemort was out of the question, because the moment the chair swung around, Harry woke up. Was it the cold feeling in his body that woke him? Or the pain? Or maybe something to do with how he was, apparently, some kind of sick? He only felt a bit weak-- but he was fine. But Voldemort was planning to kill someone, Harry remembered that... but the name had fled his mind. 

And who was that old man? There was an old man, he was sure of it-- Harry watched him fall to the ground, most likely dead. No, definitely dead. The look in his eyes couldn't have possibly been fake, not even if he were very simply paralysed. Wormtail and Voldemort were talking about wizards and Muggles, and there was a pit in his stomach that just told him something was very off. It was all just so confusing.

He opened his eyes, getting a view of a dark, high-ceilinged, grim-looking roof. Right. He was in his room in his Grimmauld Place. His hand came into view, reaching out-- he thought it was his hand, atleast, because everything was very, very blurry.

"Harry, do you want your glasses? Your mom should be here soon." Lisa said, picking something up off the bedside table. Harry's glasses, presumably, by the way she lowered them down towards his face before letting him grab them to properly put them on. Things became clearer after that.

“What happened, anyway?” asked Lisa, and Hermione sighed. “Whatever Quinn had, he ended up giving it to Harry. Honestly, I think even the dust in this house is cursed.”

“Well, what about Gringotts? Did Sirius get a letter back?”

“Family assets are frozen until me and Harry are, er, ofage... since he was disowned. We're only lucky it was just the money, he's still got some rights to the house.”

Their words went right over Harry's head. He was still struggling to get a grasp on the details of his dream.

Voldemort ... Professor Trelawney's prediction from the school year prior echoed in Harry's mind. Servant will break free and rejoin his master.

'Yeah, right,' said an echoing collection of annoyingly familiar voices in his head. 'As if anything she'd say would come true. You know better than that. To believe her bullshit.'

Great. They were back. He had been doing very well once third year began, and the voices suddenly had run out of things to criticise him about(that is, if it hadn’t already been drilled into his mind) and fell silent forevermore. Or, he thought they had. 

But it didn’t matter, not really. It had been a dream. A terrible, terrible dream, but still. A nightmare. That was all. Those were never real... 

"Harry? What's wrong?" Hermione asked.

"Nothing," he muttered, shaking his head, trying to get the image of the dead man from his mind. "Nothing."

"I guess I can go down and help Uncle Moony clean." Hermione sighed. She stood, walking past the bed.

"Oh, wait," Lisa stopped her. "Hermione, Kreacher came wandering in during the night-- again. I had to throw a shoe at him to make him leave, but he was muttering about how he was “checking on Harry”-- which I seriously doubt. Can you tell Sirius he's- he’s being weird? Like, weirder than normal?"

Hermione nodded. "I can... try. Kreacher's... a bit difficult. I think it's something to do with--"

"Hermione, we know he's crazy because he was lonely for, like, a decade."

"Not what I was going to say," Hermione glanced at Harry, and then, she whispered to Lisa, "I think it's because of... er, Grandmother's portrait." Harry had to strain his ears to catch much more. "... no clue whether she thinks he's Pureblood, because two of our parents... were, or she's just... very... delusional, but she is really... fond ... of Harry. I don't think you've seen how civil she can actually be. And she's-- she's only ever civil to him and Quinn, but even she's got her moments with him... Harry’s only person she doesn’t scream at..."

"What's that got to do with Kreacher?" Lisa whispered back.

"It's complicated. I... I think she's having him abuse himself when he doesn't do tasks to her liking, that's what. How you said Kreacher tried to sneak in-- if he... really was, checking on Harry, and she'd told him to do it..."

" Oohh ," said Lisa finally. "Oh no, that's..."

"And  just imagine while we weren’t here," Hermione nodded, and she cleared her throat, turning to face Harry. "Haz, Mum 'll be up in... erm, eventually. She said she was going to make a potion, but then I saw doxies flying about. I don't know how they keep getting in."

Harry nodded, unsure what else to do. Hermione sighed at him. 

"Right," she looked a bit unsteady, as if she was nervous. She began to speak, but decided otherwise, shaking it off as she turned to leave the room.

"You are so out of it," muttered Lisa, sitting back in an armchair beside his bed. "You slept right through your Grandma's daily screaming routine. She's so loud, I thought she'd gotten her portrait upstairs."

She forced a laugh, staring up at the roof. "If I'm being honest, you're so lucky you're sick. We're cleaning out the drawing room today-- eurgh. I think Kreacher goes in there when we're not looking and makes it worse."

Harry didn't answer. His throat was feeling oddly sore. 

Lisa took a sharp breath. "Awkward silence. Cool."

The door creaked open, and both Harry and Lisa's heads turned quickly. Lily was walking into the room, her dark red hair tied in a bun, and a pair of thick rubber gloves on, holding a steaming vial. She didn't look too pleased.

"Doxies," she said, through gritted teeth. "I nearly lost the new cauldron. They're rabid... and we've no clue how they're getting in. I imagine it'll be hell when we get to the rest of the house... they're just on the first floor.... And, now, the basement. But I suppose they'll enjoy those biting pans much more than me."

"Er, sorry, Mrs. Potter," mumbled Lisa.

"It’s not your fault," Lily said, and she waved a hand, handing Harry the vial. "How're you feeling?"

He shook his head-- really, something was the matter with him. His stomach felt odd.

"I don't know how much the fever's going down, but I think it has, atleast," Lily sighed, pressing her hand on his forehead. "Hm... a little less warm. Lisa, I think he'll be sick again through the night--"

"Oh, great," murmured Lisa, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Just the best."

"No, I meant you can take a break. Sleep in your own room-- for the, well, first time this summer."

Lisa scoffed, though she failed to hide her smile. "It won't be the first time."

"Of course not," Lily smiled. "But the best counter to sarcasm is sarcasm."

Lisa gaped at her, though she looked amazed. "You are totally Harry's mom."

Lily laughed. "Well, I'll be out to check on Quinn. Harry, do drink that vial while it's steaming. Now, Lisa, I think you should go on ahead downstairs-- and don't worry about Kreacher. For once, Walburga's doing some good and keeping him distracted."

"'Kay," said Lisa. "See you, Harry."

Now, he was really alone. For some reason, the thought sent a jolt of fear through him. He didn't know why, but in this house-- he didn't like the thought of being alone. There had been far too many times where things had found their ways into clean rooms-- and far too many where Kreacher had been the one to let them in. And for the time being, there was no way to keep him out.

He drank the vial, eyeing his wardrobe just to be sure it wasn't moving. The potion was possibly one of the worst things he'd ever tasted, but he managed; very shortly, his headache subsided. He felt better just from that. Not completely better, though. As he contemplated his dream, the house seemed to grow rather quiet. He could hear voices, but they were too distant to be entirely certain. He heard Mrs Black's portrait, screaming like normal whenever just about anyone in the house passed by too loudly for her liking-- he could hear shuffling, and things being moved... if he strained his ears, he could hear someone talking... but he didn't care enough to try and figure whose voice it was.

Maybe he should've tried to say his scar was hurting too. He didn't think... whatever he'd had would make his scar hurt. He didn't like it. It stung, and felt like a thousand needles were pricking his mind at any given moment. It was like a pain he'd had before, but one he couldn't place...

" One more murder... my faithful servant at Hogwarts... Harry Potter is as good as mine, Wormtail... "

The words echoed in his mind, and Harry could not quite place why. It felt like a foreign idea to him, but he was sure he knew it well... someone was out to get him. It wasn’t new... but they weren’t near him. That, he somehow knew. Yet, still, he had the intense urge that he wasn’t safe. 

Working up much of his energy, he forced the blankets off of him and got out of bed. He had a weird feeling, thinking about something in the house... he shouldn’t have known where it was, what it was even, but the more time that passed, the more he found he was aware. He knew who was after him. He heard voices down the staircase as he passed it... he should go and help, now that he was up. He should do something .

When he finally worked his way to the drawing room, the others were pulling things out of the dusty, glass cabinets. They'd spent multiple days on the drawing room alone-- many things seemed very unwilling to leave their places, and there was a range of creatures-- alive and dead alike-- that had gotten in during the house's inhabitation. Hermione, Lisa, and Remus were moving around boxes and trash bags. Hermione was the first to notice him--

"Harry! We weren't expecting you down so early! You're feeling better?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded, though he imagined it must've been obvious to everyone the contrary. His voice was still very raspy, and he was having trouble seeing-- he had to blink every few seconds to make his eyes focus. And unbeknownst to the rest of them, he might have taken a number of breaks just getting to the drawing room. But he felt much stronger than he had moments ago.

"Are you sure, Harry?" asked Remus.

"Very sure," Harry lied. "I'm just a bit tired, but I feel fine now."

Remus nodded, but Harry didn't miss the worried glances from everyone else.

"Then maybe you should rest a bit," Remus suggested, "a bit of sleep may do you some good."

"I'm fine, really." Harry said, a bit more forcefully than he should've.

"If you're sure," Remus replied, a hint of concern in his voice. "Do be careful. We're moving things that are rather dangerous. Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

Harry didn't bother to respond, reaching for what was nearest to him. He found that it took much more concentration than he thought it would to clean out-- things were very reluctant to be moved from their shelves.

“Huh,” hummed Lisa, blowing a large layer of dust off a heavy-looking book. “ Nature’s Nobility... a Wizarding Genealogy.... Wow, I just wonder whatever this could be about...”

“I think there’s some kind of powder in the dust,” said Hermione, staring at something within a dusty box. She was picking something up a moment ago, but she was now itching her wrist and trying to hide it from view. 

There were things that were not nearly as unwilling to be moved, but they were just as willing to not be thrown away; There was a small musical box that emitted a soft, tinkling tune when wound up, and they all found themselves becoming weaker and sleepier with every note until Lisa forced her limbs to move and shut the top. There was a small silver instrument, looking like a multi-legged pair of tweezers that scuttled up Harry's arm when he reached for it and tried to puncture his skin-- he had to slam himself against the wall to get it to break. And then there was a small, surprisingly heavy locket that none of them could open. To Harry's own surprise, when he was sure no one else was watching him, he shoved it in his pocket. He couldn't place how or why, but he got a very sick feeling at the thought of the locket being thrown away-- a very different kind of sick feeling that pained him differently than his own sickness.

Remus was right, Harry realised as he yawned, leaning on the wall. His eyes felt incredibly heavy, and it was so much more comfortable here, even with the room being the worst in the house. It was as though the music box were playing again...

"Maybe it's time for a lunch break," said Remus, glancing at all of them. Apparently, Harry wasn't the only one who was tired-- Hermione was rubbing her eyes, and Lisa had been sitting before the cabinets, seemingly not caring however much dust she got on her. "I think Sirius may be back, anyway... he went to go get food. Something ate all the food in the fridge, and we've yet to find it. And, Harry, I'll tell your mother you're feeling... better."

He disappeared from the room before Harry could ask him not to, and he was too tired to give chase.

"It'll be a delight when we can finally go to another house," Hermione muttered, as the three of them settled on the itchy-fabric sofa, but they were so tired it didn't really matter. "I mean, the house has gotten far better since when we got here, but really, I think with every room we clean, another gets twice as worse..."

"It does, I bet," Harry agreed, letting his head fall back. He could've sworn he could see a faint shadow move across the ceiling, but his vision was swimming and everything was hazy. Maybe he should've gone back upstairs to rest when Remus suggested...

After a moment, he let himself close his eyes-- and sneak a bit of sleep, maybe-- but a sudden rustling made him jump.

"Kreacher!"

Hermione had lunged forward suddenly, and Harry sat up. Hermione was crouched beside Kreacher, prying something that looked like a ring from his thin, wrinkled fingers and forcing it back into the bag.

Except for the filthy, torn suit that Kreacher refused to take off, he looked rather put together, in some way. There was no comparison to be made between that and how he truly acted, however- he was as mental as he looked old, having been previously rummaging through the trash bags they'd emptied the contents of the cabinets into. His skin seemed to be several times too big for him and though he was bald like all house elves, there was a quantity of white hair growing out of his large, batlike ears. His eyes were bloodshot and a watery grey otherwise, and his nose, though long and snoutlike, reached the floor as he suddenly bowed. Harry knew at once that he wasn't paying any mind to Hermione-- he was looking right at Harry.

"Young Master Regulus," croaked the old elf.

"For the last time," said Harry, "I am not Regulus. I am - Harry. Just- just Harry ."

"Yes, young Master Harry."

Harry couldn’t help that he sighed. "I- get up, Kreacher. What did you want?"

"Kreacher is cleaning, young Master," he croaked, and he turned around to resume going through the bags. “Kreacher serves the noble house of Black, as Kreacher should... Kreacher does his job as the noble family’s house-elf..."

"Kreacher," said Hermione tiredly, " we're cleaning, and you stealing everything out of the trash is not cleaning ."

" Traitor ," muttered Kreacher-- or what he imagined was muttering, because whenever he did so, he seemed entirely unaware that he could be heard. "waste of Mistress's blood, she is- telling Kreacher what to do... if Mistress saw Kreacher now, following the blood traitor’s orders..."

Hermione sighed. Kreacher seemed to like her less than he did Sirius, even-- for what reason, none of them knew. All they'd ever come up with was because he knew that, unlike Sirius, Hermione wouldn't threaten to throw him out if he muttered anything particularly rude-- Sirius made it very clear that he wasn't quiet at all, but Hermione was always quick to defend him; talking about how he had lost his mind, all those years alone with only Mrs Black's degrading portrait for company...

"Well, it's clean enough already, but thank you, Kreacher," said Hermione, working her way around him to tie up the bag before he could grab anything. He'd grown a habit of taking things whenever they were cleaning, to hide them who-knows-where so they couldn't be trashed.

"Undeserving brat ," muttered Kreacher furiously, as she carefully stepped over him, "Mistress's own blood, no respect, no respect at all... dear family heirlooms, all gone... disrespectful scum..."

"Oh, we're not trashing them," Hermione scoffed. "It's only the bags we put them in. I've told you dozens of times, Kreacher-- they're just in the way and dangerous, you know this."

"Yes, young Miss," Kreacher said, nodding unconvincingly. Then he returned to his muttering, "She lies, the traitor, they'll go straight to the garbage, right in the filthy Mudblood neighbour’s bins..."

"I think I hear Remus!" said Lisa loudly, staring at Kreacher with evident annoyance, "Ooh, wait, I-- oh no, I think he's throwing out the pans in the kitchen!" she gasped dramatically, adding, "Not the biting pans!"

Kreacher immediately jumped up, his ears twitching. He shuffled quickly towards the kitchen, muttering, "Not Mistress's kitchen... oh, not Mistress's kitchen, no no no... precious silver... no, no, no..."

"Thanks," Hermione muttered to Lisa, who scoffed.

"You're too soft on him," Lisa said. “ Precious silver... huh, I wonder how many curses she put on those stupid things.”

"I'm not soft on him! I'm being perfectly strict--"

"You're letting him get away with all that whispering stuff!"

"Oh, he's not so bad... he's not in his right mind. I mean, just about ten years, all alone in this house... really, who wouldn't go mad?"

"And what about the time he called mum a Mudblood, Mione?" Harry asked. "Really, I'd like to see you try and defend him for that . You know how bad that is."

"I'm not defending him," Hermione protested, "he's horrible, but it can't be helped... even, he could be worse. I'm just saying-- he- he still calls you Regulus, see... he's just holding on to the past... and- and we can't blame him for it..."

Harry shook his head.

"We can. I mean, Mione, really, you can't be serious. He calls you horrible names just because, and don't get me started on--"

"It's not his fault," Hermione frowned. "Remember the head-plaques on the wall? Remember? He's spent his entire life thinking that's what's best--"

"Oh, yes, and casually calling our mother a slur is what's going to get him put on one of those. Might get him one in gold, actually,"

"Slu-- Harry, you're not listening!"

"Neither are you , apparently! It is a slur and you know it!"

"What's this?"

They turned around. Sirius was standing in the doorway.

"Hermione's trying to convince us that Kreacher's not all that bad," said Lisa.

"He's not!" Hermione insisted.

"Kid, Kreacher is the worst elf you'll ever meet in your life," said Sirius, raising an eyebrow. "and I'll say it a million times over. The little bastard's not getting any pity from me, no matter what. That muttering he does-- he did it long before my bitch of a mother died. It only got worse when she let him do it. And I don't care if he's been alone for ten years. He deserves to be."

"Oh, come on, Sirius," Hermione groaned. "I'm just saying-- wizards practically enslave house-elves! He was brought up around all the-- er-- Pureblood etiquette things- he wasn't given a choice! Is it not bad?"

"I never said it wasn't bad, but Kreacher? He didn't need a choice." Sirius sighed. "I tried helping him when I was young and stupid, and nothing changed. He didn’t want my help, and he is the way he is. Look, the only reason why I'm even keeping him around is because he'll be worse off on his own. I've got a heart-- just, with elves like him, it's hard to act like it. They don't have the same moral code as wizards, and, well, I can't blame them. Kreacher's not stupid-- he knows how badly he's been acting, and he doesn't care. Just leave it."

"It's still wrong."

"That's how it is."

Hermione didn't have a response, going red in the face, and her ears-- pointed and a bit longer than normal ears, much like Harry's own-- fell.

"Anyway," Sirius said. "Moony sent me up. ‘Got fish and chips."

"Fish and chips?" Lisa repeated. "Like, Doritos? Who eats Doritos with fish?"

"What?"

"He means those, er, potatoes," Harry muttered-- the word was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't place it. “The little, er, sticks--”

" Fries ?" Lisa blinked, looking back and forth between Harry and Sirius as if they were both crazy. "What? Fries-- er- ch- chips ?"

"Oh, right," Hermione realised, shaking her head. "American things... where'd-- why do you call them fries?"

"I- I don't know, like, uh- the- french fries?" Lisa stammered.

"Fre-- but they're not French?" Hermione looked as if she were trying not to laugh.

"I don't know!" Lisa whined. “I didn’t name them!”

Harry snorted. Sirius grinned.

"Come on, brats, before it gets cold."

*

Harry was awoken very suddenly by a loud tapping upon the window. For a second, he thought the window might shatter-- but maybe it were for the better... it was an old and dirty window anyway. But it wouldn’t do him any good to have a broken window. He felt a bit of relief when he spotted Ulysses to be the one on the windowsill. Ulysses was the eagle owl of Draco-- someone who Harry had known since first year. They’d started dating- if it could be called that- in their previous year, and Harry had become surprisingly well acquainted with Ulysses since the summer began.

With much effort, he got the window open. Hesitantly, Ulysses forced his way underneath what looked to be the cleanest part, and the moment he was through, he ruffled his feathers and pecked Harry’s wrist, looking some kind of furious. 

“It’s not my fault,” Harry muttered, “and why are you still annoyed about it? It's been a month and--”

Ulysses nipped his finger again, hooting as he dropped the letter in his talons, flying to the top of his wardrobe. Hedwig, who was practically Harry's own owl now, screeched at him, abandoning the spot and flying to her perch. 

Harry rubbed his wrist, rolling his eyes. Well, Ulysses must've learnt somewhere, and Draco was just barely much better... but Harry was still undeniably happy. It had been a while since Draco's last letter. He ripped open the envelope, and read the note inside:

"My Dearest, Harry,

I hope you're doing well. I'm sorry I haven't sent any letters recently, but my father was incredibly displeased with me when he learned that I assisted in Sirius and Buckbeak's escape. Initially, I wasn't allowed to send letters at all, and I'd been having Ulysses sneak them out. He caught me just after Ulysses last return, and that didn't help my punishment. Despite his anger, my mother convinced him to leave it be once she learned it was mostly you I was sending letters. It's ridiculous, I know, but I'm tired enough as is of having to be scolded.

You know I'm not very good with letters, so I'll keep it brief.

I've been keeping in minor contact with Weasley and Padma, and he's been teaching us how to use house phones; they're terrible really, and I'm only doing this for you, so you ought to be grateful. Weasley's said that his father got prime tickets to the Quidditch World Cup, and Padma's said she'll be staying with them until summer break ends. It's the first time Britain's hosted the Cup in about thirty years, so he's invited you, Granger, and Turpin if any of you would like to go. The reason he's said he can't tell you himself is because he doesn't know where you currently stay, and his family owl apparently isn't all that reliable. I could've told him, but I hardly thought it mattered.

My father's gotten tickets as well. You wouldn't believe my shock when he came right to me and demanded I send you an invite. I believe it's the only time he's ever told me to send a letter, let alone to you. Apparently, he got the tickets from Cornelius Fudge himself, who made the discovery that we're friends (fortunately, that's all he knows) and insisted you, your mother, and your younger brother come. I don't think he's aware about Granger, but I suppose that's fine with you? 

Personally, I say you go with the Weasleys, if you go at all. You know from personal experience that Fudge can be quite bothersome at his best.

It's entirely your choice what you do.

-P.S: Padma says hi.

Sincerely,

Draco"

Harry snorted. Of course he had to be snarky, even in a letter. Reading back over, Harry took a minute to think. The Quidditch World Cup? Ron had mentioned it on the train before summer, but Harry hadn't thought much of it since. With the Weasleys or with Fudge? Well, that was obvious enough. If he was lucky enough, he could avoid Fudge entirely. Cornelius  Fudge, the Minister for Magic, was someone Harry truly hated. He was one of the few people who'd practically refused to call him anything other than Harley-- the name he hated , much more than he could ever hate a person.

But... even if with the rest of the Malfoys, it would be a nice change, seeing Draco instead of writing back and forth... and maybe they'd get a bit of time alone... admittedly, Harry missed seeing his face. But still, he contemplated-- he didn't want to spend any time with Fudge at all if he could help it...

He was broken from his thoughts when a knock sounded at the door. He quickly stuffed the letter into his pocket, and opened the door. Lisa was at the door, holding a letter of her own.

"Ron wrote," she said, smiling. "He invited us to the Quidditch World Cup. He said his dad got tickets! How cool is that?"

Harry spotted, just inbetween Lisa's fingers, that the letter was for Hermione. She forced a grin. "So, I might've, like, intercepted the letter, but it's totally Lainee's fault for giving it to me."

"He's practically a baby," retorted Harry. Lainee, his mother's owl, was very small and excited nearly all the time, was always overjoyed to deliver letters. T, but he couldn't tell the difference between who was meant to receive a letter and who wasn't if they were in the same house. It had been on too many occasions that he'd brought a letter to the first person he saw. 

"Okay, but he still gave it to me," said Lisa dejectedly. "And I'm gonna show it to her, anyway. Like, I'm not gonna just keep it."

"Okay, okay. Draco wrote too," Harry sighed, gesturing to the letter in his hand. "Thought I might go with him, but, Fudge is gonna be there..."

Lisa winced, frowning. "So, Ron's?"

Hesitantly, Harry nodded. "Yeah, probably. We'll... probably see Draco there, anyway."

"Cool," She smiled, waving. "I'll write back! Um, I'll give it to Hermione so she can write back."

"Just give her the letter next time!" Harry called, before closing the door. He took a long breath, feeling weirdly faint. Maybe he should to write back to Draco. it would be rude if he didn't, he told himself-- but it didn't really matter in the long run, did it? They'd see eachother anyway...

"Ulysses," he called, sitting on his bed. "Did he tell you to stick around until I write back?"

Ulysses flew over to him, landed on his shoulder, and then nipped his ear. Harry sighed.

"Right. What if I don't write back?"

Ulysses pecked him again. Harry frowned.

"He'll live. It'll be- what, three days? Just go back and show him that you haven't got the letter-- he'll know I got it."

Ulysses didn't budge, only gave him a hard stare.

"Oh, come on," Harry huffed, pulling out his wand and a bit of parchment. "You hate it here. I'm giving you an easy-out."

The owl still didn't move, only fluffed up its feathers and began to groom itself. Harry stared at it for a good minute. It had never been so apparent that he was Draco's owl.

"I'm not writing back."

Ulysses took a brief moment to stop preening and nipped Harry’s ear again. 

Of course any owl that belonged to Draco would be as stubborn as him.