Chapter 3: Unwanted Guests

Draco had never liked animals. He could attribute that dislike to one too many bad experiences in Care of Magical Creatures at Hogwarts, but that wasn't truly the reason. Animals just didn't seem to like him all that much; a confrontation with a cat would land him a smattering of scratches and a dog would be more likely to growl at him and back away than to approach him for a belly rub.

He'd swear to within an inch of his life that it was because he disliked animals that they were so averse to him. That they were able to tell that he disdained them and so returned the feeling in kind. Only to himself would he admit that it was actually the other way around.

Birds were no better than cats or dogs. Anything with a mouth even vaguely resembling a beak immediately transported Draco back to his third year and the bastard of a hippogriff that nearly tore his arm off. He had since learned that he valued his appendages far too greatly to mingle with the feathered cretins. It had taken nothing short of exposure therapy to quash the reflexive inclination to clench his fists whenever he even saw a bird.

For that reason, among many, Draco would never understand what compelled him to pick up the broken merlin that day.

It was late on an early spring evening when Draco was trudging home. He was exhausted; only recently had he been promoted from what was largely acknowledged as the dregs of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. 'Office worker' was hardly a glamorous title, but Draco was proud of himself. At least now he was no longer the first one the higher ups turned to when they wanted a coffee. He must be at least fifth down on the list now.

Smittson's View was a ghost town after six o'clock in the afternoon. It was nearly ten o'clock in the evening, over twelve hours since Draco had left that morning. The handful of streets of identical little houses with nearly identical front gardens hunkered in sleepy quietness. Ever early, the artificial lights of the surrounding Muggle homes were flickering out. With weariness weighing upon his shoulders, Draco doubted he'd be far behind his neighbours. Their general reclusiveness was one of many reasons why he'd chosen to move to the little town in the first place.

He nearly stepped on the bird as he crossed the rain-damp road into Wanderer Lane. At first through the heavy darkness, Draco had considered it to be a misshapen discarded rag, or perhaps a deflated sack of rubbish. Then, upon closer inspection, peering uneasily into the gloom, he'd thought the bird was dead.

It wasn't. Sidestepping the creature and affording it a wide berth apparently wasn't distance enough for him to escape its notice. In a shuffle of feathers and spasm of wings, the bird flopped into motion.

Draco nearly leapt a foot in the air. Not that he was scared of the bird, but… it did have beak. And he was certain said beak would bite if he got to close, even in what was evidently a state of near-death. He had no inclination of getting close enough to be touched.

I should kill the thing. Put it out of its misery.

The charitable thought flashed across Draco's mind quite unexpectedly. Had a quick glance around himself into the overcast gloom of the street not proved him to be quite alone, he may have suspected that another had pushed it upon him. Still, for whatever reason, it clung to his mind, unshakeable.

Stepping tentatively towards the dying creature, Draco drew his wand from his pocket. Crouching a foot away, he pointed towards it. A simple spell would do the trick; bird bones were fragile, could snap with a well-aimed jerk of the neck. It wouldn't take much.

And yet, as he opened his mouth to speak the words, his breath stuttered to a halt. For even sprawled, apparently broken in the middle of the road, the bird had trained its eyes upon him. Eyes that, even in the darkness, Draco could somehow discern. They reflected what little light the faded Muggle street lights shed, flat black yet somehow defiant. As though it refuted his very thought that would trigger its death.

Which was utterly ridiculous. A ridiculous notion. There was no way the bird could…

No way it could have…

How Draco ended up levitating the creature home was beyond him. He hated animals, hated birds most of all, but somehow that unblinking gaze, the rapid, frantic rise and fall of the birds breast while the rest of its limbs remained in taut motionlessness, had caught him. The bird would probably die anyway; he just wouldn't be the one to hasten it along.

Draco's house was nearly identical to those on either side of it. A small flat, the picture perfect building was plain to the extreme, with white-grey walls and terracotta roofing. It lacked even the tentatively blossoming vibrancy of the garden beds ringing his neighbours front lawns, leaving the white-grey picket fence starkly bare.

Inside was just as sparse; since moving from Malfoy Manor, Draco had found it difficult to make any place truly homely. He lived in the little single bedroom flat, number eight, Wanderer Lane, but it wasn't his home. Even if it was slightly more so than the stained walls and empty rooms of the manor no was. A modest kitchen outfitted with rudimentary Muggle appliances – Draco was still in an uneasy state of mixed disdain and wariness when considering the microwave – a similarly simple dining room and a sitting room just large enough for a two-seater couch and low coffee table wedged around one of the smallest fireplaces he'd ever seen. His bedroom was the largest room afforded him and with his desk and bed within he found he spent most of his time there.

It was functional. Simple to the extreme. Spartan, perhaps, if one were to tag it with a specific name. Draco refrained from adorning the walls with pictures, from placing nostalgic ornaments on every available surface, even from filling the minimal shelving with anything less than the bare necessities of functionality. His general desire for cleanliness likely enhanced the minimalistic outfitting, but who was to judge? He let few enough people past his doorway anyway. And it was how he liked it. Besides, it wasn't as though Draco spent more than a handful of hours within the four walls, and most of those were in sleep.

Illuminating the dining room with a Lumos – because he'd never quite grown comfortable with Muggle lighting in the months he'd lived alone – Draco directed the levitating bird into the centre of the table. After an Impervius charm cast on the wood, of course, because the bird was dirty; he didn't want it spreading its germs. It landed with a heavy thump that he refused to cringe at and lay immobile save for the rapid rise and fall of its breast. And those eyes.

They still stared at Draco, watching and suspicious, defiant despite its incapability to do anything. It almost seemed to dare Draco to make an aggressive motion towards it; he very nearly believed that, even injured as it was, it would be more than capable of attacking him at a moment's notice.

Folding his arms across his chest, Draco studied his would-be patient. Under the white glow of his Lumos, he could make out more of its features, the smattering of colouration dulled to shades of grey by the darkness. From the shape of it, of the beak and the talons just visible under the haphazardly skewed feathers, he knew it to be a bird of prey of sorts. A hawk, maybe, or a falcon. A small one, though, at not even the length of his forearm. He was no expert on birds, and he could hardly profess the desire to be as much, but he thought the pale, speckled plumage of its chest, the equally pale collar around its neck, looked vaguely familiar.

Shaking his head, he took a step towards the table. The bird didn't move, though its eyes stayed fixed upon him. He crouched to get a better look at it, an attempt to gauge the site of the injury.

He didn't even know what to look for.

"I'm no bloody Healer, let alone a veterinarian. What am I supposed to…?" Shaking his head in exasperation at his own impulsivity, he edge forwards slightly more. He wouldn't touch the bird – no, he had a wand and magic for that – but maybe he could try and fix it up. Bandage it or something before sending it on its way. Maybe the injury wasn't that bad?

Hefting his wand, he swept it in a series of diagnostic charms over the bird. Granted, they were intended for humans, but he didn't very well have the knowledge to do as much. As it turned out, he didn't really need to. A list of faintly glowing words hung suspended in green-white script above the bird, reflecting in its black eyes.

2.5mm fracture, left humerus, upper dorsal side

Mild concussion, residual effects

13.7mm cutaneous laceration, left forelimb, upper dorsal side

Internal bruising, left ribs 1, 2, 3

Skin abrasions: lower left hindlimb; metatarsals 1, 2, 3; upper left torso; upper dorsal left forearm…

The list declined into what was evidently constituted of lesser severity and finishing with 'forcible removal of excrescences from left cheek'. It was an admirably long list. Draco turned his attention back towards the bird. "You've done a number on yourself, then, haven't you?"

The bird didn't reply except to glare. Or he thought it glared. It looked like a glare.

Sighing, Draco tapped his wand onto the crook of his elbow. It sent the shadows to dancing on the wall, but he hardly noticed. Though a big part of him was still questioning what in the name of Salazar he was doing attempting to look after an injured bird. The other part, smaller and faintly curious, was already considering what to do next.

He could take it to a veterinarian. He should. Not that he knew the location of any – Wizarding animal doctors were a sparse breed – but that would be the logical thing to do. Or he could attempt to patch up the bird himself.

The notion caused him to snort at its very ridiculousness. Patch it up? What, bandage the creature? Wrap its poorly wing in gauze and splint, stitch up its cuts and smooth its ruffled feathers like a mother cat fussing over her wayward kitten? No, such an approach was not an option. Not for him. He'd sooner kill the bird. In fact, he was still questioning why he hadn't yet.

If he knew anyone that had the faintest knowledge of birds he'd send his charge over to them. He didn't. He purposefully avoided such enthusiasts. The closest that came to it was his friend Millicent Bulstrode and her interests lay more in the overflowing masses of cats she'd accumulated in her two-bedroom flat in London.

Which… wasn't all that much of a bad idea, actually. Surely she'd know the nearest veterinarian to contact, at least.

Abandoning the bird, Draco made his way to the living room fireplace. A spark from his wand immediately grew into a crackling flame, and a pinch of Floo powder later saw him kneeling face first into green flames, the words "Millicent Bulstrode, Living Room, nineteen Albania Cresent, London" rolling from his tongue.

Millicent's living room swum into visibility after mere seconds of swirling vertigo. Draco's tongue paused in the act of announcing his own arrival to twist his lips in a disgusted sneer. "Millicent, are those beasts attempting to smother you?"

From his window through the fireplace, Draco could make out the sight of his friend curled sleepily in her leather couch, a cup of tea in her hands and a veritable blanket of what must be at least a dozen cats sprawled atop her. The plump, short-haired young woman appeared nothing of the kind to fuss and coo over kittens; even at barely twenty she possessed a sharp severity to her blunt features that suggested her more inclined to smile as she drowned said kittens. She turned her severe expression from the book propped across her knees at Draco's words and that hardness faded infinitesimally.

"Draco. What an unexpected and unpleasant surprise."

"Answer the question, Bulstrode. Should I offer you a lifeline or leave you to your doom?"

Smirking slightly, Millicent closed her book and settled herself more comfortably into her seat, fingers wrapping around her teacup. "Are you still afraid of cats, Draco?"

"I am not afraid of them –"

"Oh, really? When did that change?"

Scowling, Draco glanced to the side in deliberate disdain of her question. He paused for long enough to inform his old friend that such a conversation was now very much dropped. "I require your assistance."

"Is that so?"

"It is. Now, if you would."

Millicent paused to take a sip from her cup. "No."

The answer was expected. "And if I say please?"

"Still no."

Pausing to avoid any sense of urgency from seeping into his tone – such a slip would be intolerable, not to mention it was irrelevant to his current circumstances – Draco sighed. "Are you otherwise occupied at the moment?"

Millicent shrugged. "I was reading."

"Which you now are not."

"And I'm drinking my tea." She took a deliberate sip that slurped just short of rudely.

Rolling his eyes, Draco fixed Millicent with a hooded expression. "Spare me the indulgence. You don't even really like tea. I require your assistance. The cause is just, I can assure you."

Millicent pouted at his words, the expression disconcerting on her unforgiving face but so familiar to Draco that he barely batted an eyelid. "When have you ever done anything 'just', Draco? And I do like tea."

"Anything with more than two sugars classifies it as a beverage other than tea."

"No it doesn't. Don't be objectionable. The ratio of dirty water to milk to sugar matters little when considering the basic components –"

"Millicent, spare me, please," Draco repeated, sighing once more at the fact that Millicent dared to suggest that anyone else was 'objectionable'. His tiredness from a long day at work was beginning to make itself known and he was regretting more and more not simply killing the bird that was currently sprawled across his dining table. "I have a situation with a near-dead creature in my dining room which I would much rather sort out now rather than after your tirade. If you would be so kind?"

His words seemed a trigger for Millicent; they actually stoppered her rising spiel. Lowering her teacup, she frowned. "A near dead animal."

"I believe that is what I just said."

"Is it a cat?"

No. "Yes. Would you -?"

Draco didn't even get the chance to finish his sentence before Millicent was urging her cat-blanket from her lap and rising to her feet. She was dressed as for bed, shrouded in a night robe, but that didn't appear to phase her resolution for immediate action now that she had decided to undertake it. She paused only to place her cup on the coffee table and shoo Draco from her fireplace before following him through in a spit of ash and flames.

If there was anything that could urge Millicent to move post-haste, it was a cat. Any cat. Anywhere.

"Did you find it injured?" Millicent asked as she followed Draco from the living room. The snideness and mulish undertones had faded, curiosity and even a hint of concern taking their place. Draco knew that Millicent would never allow such a part of her character to become known to anyone other than her closest friends. She'd be nothing short of horrified to be considered even the slightest bit kind.

"Are you suggesting that I perhaps injured it myself?"

Millicent shrugged. "If the insanity I've long been waiting for suddenly overcame you, yes."

"Hilarious," Draco replied dryly. "And no, I didn't. I found it like that." He gestured with his still-lit wand towards the table. Towards the bird that had not moved an inch since he'd left it. It still glared at him, though that glare appeared to have dampened somewhat. Or perhaps it was simply that its attention was now divided between two people. Maybe it was already dying?

Millicent paused at the edge of the dining table. Her expression became deceptively blank as she stared down at the creature spread before her. Very slowly, she turned towards Draco. "Draco, are you perhaps going blind?"

Smirking, Draco raised an eyebrow. "I am not."

"Then perhaps your sanity is truly degrading. Are you senile?"

"I am not that either."

"I would suggest you get yourself tested. For that," Millicent gestured towards the bird. "Is certainly not a cat."

Inclining his head, Draco smiled wider. "Ah, but would you have come had I suggested otherwise."

"Most certainly not."

"Then I rest my case."

The glare Millicent turned upon him rivalled that of the birds. "You try my patience, Draco. I don't know why I even consider you a friend."

"That you do positively warms the cockles of my heart," Draco said, before deliberately turning from her increasingly fierce glare towards his charge. "But since you're here already, perhaps you could offer your assistance?"

"I'm disinclined –"

"Then perhaps a veterinarian?" Draco interrupted over Millicent's disgruntled reply. "I've hardly the inclination myself to care for the thing. It would be a delight to get it off my hands."

He could still feel the glare spearing him, but Millicent didn't reply immediately. The silence stretched until finally Draco deemed it safe to glance towards her once more. Her expression had become thoughtful and speculative rather than bordering on murderous and, grateful though he was, Draco wasn't entirely sure that was a good thing. A thoughtful Millicent didn't bode well for him.

A moment longer of unblinking staring, long enough for Draco to develop a very distinct feeling of unease, and Millicent nodded her head shortly. "Alright. Fine. I'll patch up your bird for you."

"You will?" Draco blinked in rapid succession, surprised. "Wait, my bird."

"Yes, your bird." Millicent elbowed him out of her way as she drew her wand and leant over the immobile creature. "If I do this for you, you're going to look after it."

The thought caused Draco's gut to clench horribly. "I most certainly will not."

"Yes, you will," Millicent replied, scanning the results of her own diagnostic charm. "Unless you want me to inform Blaise of what a pathetic mother hen you are, picking up a poor, injured little bird off the side of the road."

Well, she was certainly throwing out the most dangerous of threats. Blaise was the very cogs of the rumour mill, even more so than Pansy when it came to starting rumours. If he knew that Draco had acted even faintly coddling – whether it was entirely true or not – then such knowledge would become public within the hour. Blaise had little want or ability to hold his tongue. "You wouldn't."

Millicent smirked cruelly at him over her shoulder. "Oh, I most certainly would. And you'll look after your bird until it gets better. No veterinarian or anything."

Draco found himself shaking his head in horror. "You wouldn't be so cruel."

"Believe me, I would. Take it as a lesson to never try to trick me into anything ever again." She wordlessly spelled a ribbon-like strip of bandage into existence and coaxed it towards the bird where it promptly began winding itself around the conjured splint and left wing. The bird trembled and flinched under her ministrations but whether it was due to stupefying fear, exhaustion, anger or pain was uncertain. At least it didn't attempt to escape.

"Oh, don't look so mortified," Millicent chortled as she cast Draco another glance. "It won't be for long. Look, it's just the fracture that will take a couple of days. I don't know how bird arms work –"

"I believe they're called wings," Draco muttered dazedly.

"- so I've just had to put an healing accelerant on it. It'll be out of your hands before the end of the week."

"Millicent…" Draco uttered in almost a moaned. He was only distantly aware that his words sounded more of a whine than anything else, but the crux of the matter was far more important. I don't want to look after a bloody bird! The temptation of his bed was looking like a mocking impossibility. Why hadn't he just killed the thing and saved himself the trouble?

"And don't even think about killing this bird, Draco," Millicent continued, as though she'd read his thoughts. "It is by no means on death's door, so you have no excuse if it dies."

Draco glared at her. She smiled back. "Watch yourself, Millicent. You may find a rather delectable and unusually tasting fried chicken appearing on your doorstep come morning."

"You wouldn't dare," she replied sweetly. Her smile was terrifyingly sickening.

"You don't even like birds."

Millicent shook her head, a distasteful curl of her lip agreeing with Draco's words as she bent over the bird slightly to examine its leg. She swept her wand over it once more and murmured an inaudible charm that sent warm orange sparks dancing over the frayed feathers. "No, I don't. They're loud and obnoxious and they smell funny."

Draco snorted. He folded his arms, feeling nothing if not petulant and disgruntled. "And cats are so far removed from such a traits?"

"Of course they are. Not to mention they don't have beaks." She flashed another cruel smile over her shoulder that nearly caused Draco to flinch. She, like the rest of his closest friends, was more than aware of his reluctance to associate with anything remotely avian. "But you, my friend, have no such favouritism. There is absolutely no reason why you can't look after your new pet here."

"It is not going to become a 'pet'." Draco shuddered at the very thought, taking a step back from the table. "I don't even know how to care for a bird."

Millicent nodded consoling. "I know, Draco. You lack a single nurturing bone in your body. I believe you killed the cactus that Gregory gave you in sixth year, didn't you?"

"That was because Blaise over-watered it," Draco grumbled. He'd never really liked it anyway; what kind of a Christmas gift was a cactus? Greg had misinterpreted Draco enthusiasm for the Cactus Brew that Draco had as being a desire to own one of the things. The Brew didn't even need a cactus! And no matter how Draco tried to explain that it was a rehydration potion, and so named for the plant, Greg didn't understand.

Millicent snickered. "Well, even so, you have a duty of care –"

"No, I don't. It's a bird."

"Oh, so you do know what it is?"

Draco scowled at her and clamped his lips shut. Her smirk returned with renewed satisfaction. She looked very much like the cat who'd got the cream, suitably enough. Sparing one last glance towards the bird, still nestled in the middle of the table, she turned towards the living room once more. "Alright. I'm done."

Draco was momentarily left floundering at Millicent's abruptness. She'd disappeared into the adjoining room before he had the presence of mind to follow her. "Wait! You can't just leave it here with me."

Sifting through his Floo powder pot, Millicent raised a falsely befuddled eyebrow at him. "Whyever not?"

"We just discussed the cactus situation."

"That bares no relevance to the situation, Draco."

"I can't look after it!" Yes, his tone was definitely pleading now. Draco was too horrified by what seemed an increasingly likely prospect at that moment to care.

"Yes you can, and you will."

"But I don't know what to do with it!"

"Read a book on bird handling, then," Millicent replied, walking casually towards the fireplace.

"On handling what? I don't even know what it is." Draco followed behind Millicent, on the verge of forcibly grabbing her shoulder to prevent her from leaving him. From abandoning him. Only general etiquette prevented him from such an uncouth response. That, and she'd likely snap his fingers off. "How am I supposed to know what sort of book to even look for?"

Millicent turned another condescending glance his way, her expression illuminated by the green light of the Floo she'd just reopened. "Helplessness doesn't suit you, Draco. You just seem pathetic rather than inducing assistance."

"Millicent –"

"I'd guess it was prairie falcon by the look of it. Or maybe a merlin. It's a bit big for an American kestrel, so I wouldn't bother looking for books on that."

Draco blinked at his friend, once more rendered momentarily speechless. Then he frowned accusingly. "Oh, so you don't know much about birds, hm?"

In the faintly green glow, Draco thought he saw Millicent flush slightly, though what she had to be embarrassed about he had little clue. "I do read, Draco. Perhaps you should try it some time?" And with that she turned and stepped through the fireplace. Draco's repeated call of "wait" evidently fell on deaf ears. An instant later the fire dwindled into a smouldering orange crackle of embers.

Great. Fantastic. Simply marvellous. Now he was left to care for a bird he'd unwittingly saved – or at least spared – without the faintest knowledge of how to do so and even less inclination.

He should have just let it die. Everything from sparing the bird a timely end to contacting Millicent that night was a regret. A very sore, very frustrating regret. The cruelty of Millicent, to hang the threat of telling Blaise that Draco was to any degree not as cold-hearted as he wished to appear was distressing. True, Blaise wasn't any more fooled by Draco's act than any of the rest of his friends, but he didn't have the solid evidence to prove that knowledge. Not yet, anyway. In the eighteen years of their friendship, Draco had managed to avoid that, at least. He was hardly going to risk exposing himself now, for Blaise wasn't the type that would consider their very friendship to be a deterrent from revealing his embarrassing secrets.

Scowling, he turned back towards the dining room and edged slowly into the doorway, folding his arms. The glare he directed towards the bird in the middle of his table didn't seem to dissuade it at all; it simply stared straight back at him. As unblinking and unwavering as Draco's gaze itself. It shouldn't have seemed even the slightest bit imposing, not with its wing in a bandage and lying more than perching upon the polished wood, but Draco was still left feeling uneasy.

"This is all your fault," he muttered accusingly. The bird didn't reply.

Setting his jaw, Draco pointedly ignored his new charge. Giving the table a wide berth, he skirted around to the kitchen and filched the leftover Chinese from the night before from the refrigerator. Draco had never been one to cook for himself and the distinct lack of house elves, left instead to his mother in her ostracised residence, made buying out a necessity. A tap of his wand with a Warming Charm later and the take-away container was steaming ready.

Without sparing the bird another glance, Draco strode towards his room. He was tired, he was hungry, and he was frustrated. All round, it was not a good combination. He paused in the doorway of his bedroom only long enough to cast another charm over his shoulder, unlatching and opening the kitchen window, before he stepped through and closed the door. Perhaps with more force than was entirely necessary.

With any luck, the bird would be gone by morning.

The bird was not gone by morning.

Draco had almost forgotten – or had perhaps repressed – the events of the previous night's encounter when he hastened from his bedroom to the bathroom the next day. He wasn't late for work exactly, but he'd made a habit of getting there early and it was a good impression he intended to maintain. Most of his co-workers already saw him as a quiet, unsociable character, reclusive since the war, and though most attempted formal friendliness he never made the effort to offer as much in return. His hard-working demeanour was his one positive characteristic. At least, that was what he intended for his employer and fellow employees to believe. Let that be the boundary of their relationship.

It wasn't until he was showered, dressed and striding into the kitchen that he was faced with reality. A reality that nested where it had been left in the middle of Draco's table.

He froze in step, staring at the bird. The bird stared back. It had seated itself properly, now, huddled like nothing so much as a clucking pigeon with a distinct air of entitlement. In the brightness of the daylight streaming through the window, Draco could make out the patterns of its plumage more acutely; with a pale orange chest, its front was patterned in fletching while its dark grey wings speckled with pale trim contrasted in a dusty cloak. A grey cap covered the crown its head above an orange-white cheeks and ruff, broken by faint, whitish eyebrows and stripes drawing away from its beak. By the looks of it – and revisiting his assumption from the previous night – the bird was indeed some sort of hawk or falcon. Though small, it was heavier, sleeker, than its plump pigeon cousin, more formed from lean muscle than plumpness. The beak was definitely not built for pecking at seeds.

Draco would have even called it a handsome creature, except that he hated the thing. Utterly.

"You're still here," he said, a little redundantly. The bird stared up at him, silent and unblinking. He was left with the impression that he was being subjected to intense scrutiny, though the unbroken blackness of those eyes spoke nothing but open disdain. Maybe a little wariness, but it was disdainful wariness.

Sighing, Draco pointedly turned back towards the kitchen. He would just ignore it. Millicent had said it would only take a few days. A few days and it would be healed and he could be rid of it.

How many was a few? He wouldn't have to feed it or anything, would he? Draco flipped open the pantry cupboards and allotted himself a two slices of bread.

What about water? He pulled the butter from the fridge, lathering up a knife and smearing it across the cold bread. He had no time for toast.

Did the bird need a nest or something? Would blankets do? Jam followed the butter. What about warmth? Or cold, for that matter? Did they -?

Suddenly aware of what he was thinking, Draco cut the thought short. No. He would not do this. So long as the bird didn't die, he had no reason to actively participate in its care.

He glanced over his shoulder and… yes, the bird was still staring at him. It regarded him flatly, as though waiting for something. Or simply loading its continued disdain upon him, Draco couldn't decide which. What did it want? Why did it just stare? Was it afraid of him, or more inclined to want to bite his nose off?

Was it was thirsty?

Moving almost against his will, Draco pulled a bowl from the cupboard and half-filled it with water. Feeling like nothing if not the village fool, he approached the bird and slid the bowl across the table.

"There. Drink it if you want." He paused, because the bird hadn't even glanced towards the bowl. "Or die of thirst if you'd like. I honestly couldn't care less."

And here I am talking to a bird. Draco shook his head, hastening back towards the kitchen and his makeshift breakfast. Perhaps Millicent was right. Perhaps he was going insane. Or maybe he'd just been avoiding people for too long.

The thought urged him towards the door. Work. There were more important things than recently acquired and entirely unwanted houseguests. He paused once more in the front doorway to heft his briefcase and glanced once more at the – yes, still staring – bird in the dining room.

"Actually, if you could not die, that would be great. I'd rather Millicent not be put out that I somehow managed to kill you."

And without waiting for an answer – because the bird wouldn't answer him, dammit – Draco slammed the door.

He actually managed to forget about the bird for the first half of the day. There was an undertone of tension in the office, something about a questionable operation of which he wasn't privy to, that was interesting enough to pique his curiosity. Then, when stopping by the local café to pick up lunch, he was assaulted by a flock of pigeons and was reminded all too considerately once more of his house guest.

Then it was the only thing he could think of for the rest of the day. Which was distressing because one, Draco had work he should be doing, and two, was he truly so hard-pressed for novelty that his current situation was interesting to him? The thought was distressing in itself.

For whatever the reason, for the first time in months he left work at six o'clock that evening. Not five, like most of his colleagues, but still before his current manager, Phnieas Owderman. Owderman gave him a faintly surprised glance as he left which Draco refused to be irked by. If he wanted to leave on time for once, it was his right. His decision. Owderman could wiggle his eyebrows all he wanted.

Draco by-passed the Floos and Apparation points in favour of taking to the streets. With purpose, he wove through the congestion of Muggles and the odd magical or two in search of the nearest mall. He studiously ignored the sideways glances his robes were affording him from passing Muggles. He had long since decided that he would in no way attempt to adopt their attire merely to fit in. Muggle fashion sense was truly abominable.

Besides, he hadn't even known he was going amongst Muggles that evening. Otherwise…

The bookshop was nestled between a rowdy café and what looked to be some sort of antique store with windows so cluttered with junk it was actually impossible to see inside. The overhead bell jangled merrily as Draco stepped into the quiet ambiance of the shop.

A smiling, middle-aged woman, the only other occupant of the store, leant over the counter at his entrance. "Good afternoon. Can I help you at all?"

Pausing in step, Draco regarded the woman flatly. He immediately reached the conclusion that, like the majority of shop assistants he'd come across in the past, she smiled too much. Although,at least she wasn't looking askance at his robes. He had to wonder as to her clientele that she didn't bat an eyelid; did witches and wizards often frequent Church Street in search of non-magical bookshops?

He slowly shook his head. "No, thank you. I'm merely browsing." And stepping deliberately past her he made good his claim.

The shop was long and large, a network of column-like shelves, narrowly spaced to an almost claustrophobic degree. Those shelves adorned every wall as well as in between, stretching feet above Draco's head. And for that tight-packed status, it apparently boasted texts pertaining to every subject imaginable. Draco was gratified to acknowledge his sense in pursuing information on anonymous birds in a Muggle store rather than a Wizarding one; Muggles may be inferior to wizards in every other way, but in terms of sheer, encompassing vastness they were one up. Wizards simply didn't possess the populace to spread their knowledge into every possible literary genre. Flourish and Blotts only held so much, and that much was significantly dominated by magical texts. Draco doubted he'd seen a book on birds on those shelves in his entire schooling career.

The Muggle bookshop – Page-Turners, he recalled it was called – was entirely different. Not only did he find a long stretch of wall dedicated to non-magical birds, but a whole two shelves of that solely regarded birds of prey. Shaking his head – was bird research a common career pursuit in the Muggle world? – he set to peering at titles and drawing hardbacks from their slots to flick through the pages.

Pages and pages of colourful depictions and meticulous descriptions later and Draco had found his bird. Or at least, he thought it was his bird. Millicent had been right; he was tossing up between two, a merlin and some species of kestrel. Clutching a book featuring both in either hand, he made his way up to the counter.

The smiling woman beamed at him once more. "Studying birds?"

Draco refrained from rolling his eyes with difficulty, just catching the "obviously" on the tip of his tongue before it tumbled from his lips. He simply inclined his head slightly.

"What kind? Birds of prey are fascinating, aren't that?"

Narrowing his eyes slightly, Draco regarded the shop assistant. Carol, from her nametag. She didn't exactly look like a bird enthusiast, with her short, greying bob and thin spectacles, the ruffles of her blouse and the adornments of rings on every finger, but then what did he know on the subject? Maybe that was how they all dressed? Nodding his head once more in a curt assent, he replied, "Merlins. Or Prairie falcon, I'm not sure which."

The shop assistant tilted her own head in a nod of reply. "Ah, yes, they can be a little tricky to tell apart."

Draco raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued despite himself. "You know of them?" It seemed far too coincidental that the shop assistant would have any clue of birds.

Shrugging, woman beamed once more. "Not really. I just pick up things here and there. Little facts that interest me. I've always liked falcons. They're beautiful when they fly, aren't they? I grew up on a little acreage that used to get them every now and then. They came for the sparrows."

"The sparrows?"

"Yes, hunting and the like. Our barn used to be full of house sparrows."

Draco absorbed the titbit of information silently, nodding. He was hesitant to talk to the woman – Carol – being that she was Muggle and he strove not to talk to anyone as much as possible. Not so much for his dimmed prejudice but simply because they were Muggles. What did one even talk of with Muggles?

But she evidently knew what she spoke of, at least on the subject of birds. So forcing down the uneasiness that urged Draco to leave the store at once, he propped the two books he'd acquired onto the counter and flipped them open. "I wonder, could you perhaps assist me?"

Carol seemed ecstatic at the prospect, albeit in a motherly, coddling fashion. "Of course! What am I here for?" Leaning forward slightly she peered at the open books. "Merlin and… what's that, a kestrel? Yes, some species of them are quite similar, aren't they? Are you looking to tell them apart?" She glanced up at Draco questioningly.

Fighting the urge not to look down his nose at her, he nodded. She smiled – again – at his response before turning back to the books. "Well, from what little I can discern, kestrels tend to be bigger, and they're seen to hover quite a bit when flying. The merlin," she tapped a flat finger onto the image of the orange-white and grey bird, "is quite a bit smaller, and has more of a speedy flight, very agile. There's the tail, too; it's sort of squarer, has more distinctive stripes and a white tip. Kestrels tail tips are usually darker."

Lifting his eyes from the page, Draco regarded Carol thoughtfully. "Are you a bird expert?"

Chuckling, Carol shook her head. "No, not in the least. I just like them." She peered up at him over her spectacles. "So which one is it?"

Regarding the two pictures once more, Draco slowly drifted a hand towards the merlin. "I would assume, given the size…"

"Did you get a close look at the tail?"

"I tried not to," Draco replied before he could catch himself. Carol gave him a puzzled glance, which he pretended not to see. He closed the two books and proffering the one with the more details on the merlin. "It'll do."

Carol was smiling again before Draco left, a merry friendliness that mirrored the jangle of the tinkling bell. Draco shook his head. The odds were uncanny that he'd come across someone who would know what they were talking about, but he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. He wove his way through the increasingly thinning crowds towards the nearest Apparation point and jumped towards Smittson's View.

The sun had disappeared below the horizon by the time he stepped through the door into his house. The short trip from the bookshop had been long enough for Draco to begin to wonder once more just what exactly he was doing. Buying a book? Actually familiarising himself with the bird? Why, so that he really could really learn about it and care for it properly?

Shaking his head, Draco pointedly dropped the paper-wrapped parcel of "British Raptors and Other European Birds of Prey" onto the half-moon table beside his door and shrugged out of his outer robe. Then, with deliberate casualness, he strode into the dining room.

And paused.

The bird was gone. A quick glance around the room, at the table, across the kitchen counters, a glance into the living room, showed no feathery cretin with piercing eyes that accused him of being less than a pampering slave. Was it… actually gone?

The tentative flickers of hope had just begun to spark alight when Draco saw the bread crumbs. He'd momentarily disregarded them as the scant mess from his own breakfast that morning. Distraction and haste, not to mention the discomforting study of a glaring bird had left him uncharacteristically careless in his mess. He did not, however, think he had spread said crumbs quite so vastly, nor scattered a thin carpet of them on the floor.

Tugging open the pantry cupboard doors, Draco shook his head in disbelief. The loaf of bread, of his bread, had been ransacked as though by rats. Or pigeons, as would be the more accurate analogy. More crumbs decorated the shelving.

"How did it even…?" Draco felt a rising incredulity settle beside his upwelling annoyance. Not only had the bird attacked his pantry, but it had somehow opened the cupboard doors, feasted, and then closed them once more. The little bastard! He'd never considered birds to be particularly cunning, but this…

Turning with a scowl from his pantry, Draco dropped his eyes to the crumbs coating the floor. Like the breadcrumb trail from the story of the evil Hansel and Grettle children, it made a slowly fading path towards Draco's bedroom. And like the kindly old witch whose house had been invaded by said children, Draco followed the evidence.

It was sitting on his bed. Not the pillow – thank Merlin! – but nestled quite comfortably in the midst of his tightly tucked blankets, bandaged wing stark white against his dark quilt. The moment Draco filled the doorway, the snoozing bird snapped its eyes open and trained him with a glare. The presumptuousness set Draco's teeth on edge, a steadily rising anger that tightened the skin of his face almost painfully and settled a stone of broiling disgruntlement in his gut. His anger was only exacerbated by the sparse flecking of crumbs atop the blankets.

Drawing his wand from his pocket, Draco trained the bird with a hateful glare of his own. "Right. Enough. Out, get out." He strode into the room, brandishing his wand. "Move, or I'll blast you out myself."

The step forwards urged the bird into motion. Uttering a strange, chirping "ki-ki" it stumbled onto its feet and splayed its wings in a haphazard stumble backwards across the bed. That glare remained, but Draco got the distinct and heartening impression he'd unnerved it. It filled him with a savage pleasure.

Until his eyes were drawn once more to the bandaged wing, half-stretched gingerly and flapping at only half the strength of the right as the bird scrambled into motion. And Draco paused.

Millicent.

He was supposed to look after the bird or Millicent would tell Blaise, and then the comfortable, static quietude of Draco's life would be upturned. Blaise would delight in making sure of that. Even if only for a short time, Draco didn't want to face such horror. It would be an entirely different disruption to the bird's intrusion into the quiet containment of his lifestyle. Because then the world would think that Draco had a soft spot for helpless creatures. Which he didn't.

He couldn't abide that.

Pausing at the side of his bed, glare still trained on the bird as its scrambles abruptly froze, he lowered his wand. The bird didn't glance at it once, not sparing a moment of their eye-to-eye staring contest. For contest it was. A battle of wills. Draco's teeth were clenched so tightly his jaw ached.

Finally he secreted his wand in his pocket once more. "Fine. Fine, whatever. Do what you want. It's only for a few days. But," and he pointed a finger at the bird this time. "As soon as that bloody wing is healed, you're out of here."

The bird didn't reply, though in a very deliberate, wary motion slowly lowered itself into a squat once more. Clicking his tongue in frustration, Draco turned from the room, tugging the door behind him once more.

And I'm talking to the bird once again. I must be going insane.

For surely, it was only insanity that could have urged Draco to instead sleep on the couch that night. Or to spend a solid hour skimming through his newly acquired book and filling his head with trivial knowledge. It was with marked distaste that he fell to sleep that night to the sound of flapping wings and wheeling birds.

And a merlin. He didn't miss the irony of its name.