Chapter 13: Birdbrain

Knockturn Alley was, to be generous, a bleak, creepy place. The cobbled street and side streets were all poorly lit with dreary gray buildings blocking out most daylight, and there was more trash than grout between the stones. Everything smelt of mildew, poison, shady deals, and dark magic. Wizards and witches that ventured through the alley did so quietly, sneakily, as if they wanted nobody to notice or remember their passage.

For good reason, since often these wizards and witches were there shopping for things of… questionable legality.

This is why the pair casually chatting and trotting down the alley's cobbled street right now were so peculiar.

The taller of the two wizards had pale brown hair, wavy locks peeking out from under a hilariously too-large pointed hat. He had an easy smile, unconcerned that he was passing stores selling everything from human bones to shrunken heads, giant black spiders to cursed jewelry. His funny hat, colorful robes, and carefree demeanor stood completely at odds with his surroundings.

And that hadn't even taken his odd companion into account.

A child in Knockturn Alley—maybe a Hogwarts first year at the oldest, and even then he was pretty short—was unheard of, at least so long as they weren't associated with a traditionally dark family. This one was so pale that it looked as if all of his color had been drained away, but it wasn't because he was afraid. Pure white hair framed a round face, a broad Cheshire grin, and a pair of clever black eyes. And there was something about his appearance as a whole that made him seem… different: more like he was a rare, ageless magical creature than a school age wizard. But that perception was then completely overshadowed by his far-too-big blue muggle hoodie, red plaid pajama pants (also too large), and pink slippers.

Wizards are known to be eccentric, but really.

The short one tripped over one of the long ends of his pants, barely managing to catch himself before face-planting on the cobbles. His friend watched with a raised eyebrow, though his smile only seemed to grow; especially when the kid began grumbling and trying to fold up the pant legs with minimal success.

"Remind me again why you've been wearing my old clothes, Sans?" he asked, a flick of his wand and a spell neatly solving the size problem.

"i spilled ketchup on my shorts yesterday," said the now-named Sans with a shrug. "haven't gotten around to cleaning them."

He started to nod in understanding, large pointed hat flopping up and down, but then paused and glanced down at his companion in confusion. "How did you even get ketchup? I haven't seen any in the kitchen."

"oh i have my ways, paddy. i have my ways."

Paddy—what a weird name—rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you do."

Mr. Moribund, owner of a store by the same name, had seen all sorts walk down Knockturn Alley's grim streets: dark wizards and witches, vampires, half-breeds, deranged lunatics, and more. This pair stood out more than any of them. Returning to checking the locks and wards on his shop's front door, he shook his head: the stupid buggers would probably get themselves cursed, and good riddance.

"Hey! You there, with the grouchy face!"

Startled, Mr. Moribund turned back to the odd pair. The tall one, Paddy, waved to further catch his attention. Flabbergasted and somewhat annoyed, the shopkeeper asked, "Are you talking to me?"

"well yeah," replied the kid, voice sounding somewhat like he was chuckling to himself. "though i suppose a lotta people around here have grouchy faces, so i understand the confusion."

"Did you happen to be at The White Wyvern, say… I think it would be two nights ago now?" Paddy seemed to ignore the other man's wary countenance, charging right into asking questions.

"Who wants to know?"

The colorful wizard raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "Me. I asked, didn't I?"

"Then," Mr. Moribund scowled more than he already had been, "who are you, and why do you want to know?"

"cautious dude, ain't he."

"They all are," Paddy replied before answering Mr. Moribund with another question. "If you were, did you happen to notice a fellow there with a small, hyper scops owl? I want to buy it."

Mr. Moribund—who was, in fact, the fellow from the pub with a small, hyper scops owl and willing to sell—was becoming progressively more confused by the moment. This wizard knew that there had been someone at the pub two nights ago with an owl he didn't much want, but didn't know that that someone was the person he was talking to right now? Besides that, what kind of wizard goes to a pub in Knockturn Alley of all places to try an buy an owl?

"And if I did notice such a person?"

"I'd ask if you know where to find him. Like I said, I want to buy that owl if it's still available."

The shopkeeper considered. He had bought the owl with a few others, in hopes of using them for local deliveries. One in particular was far too energetic for his tastes, however, so he had been looking to get rid of it. Of course, if it was too energetic for him, it makes sense that none of the other regulars at The White Wyvern would be interested either.

This colorful crazy wizard, though…

"8 galleons."

"What? I'm not paying that much for information!"

"No." Regardless of how the man had known about the visit to the pub, it didn't change the fact that Mr. Moribund didn't want to keep the owl. He was a businessman, and in the end the how didn't matter nearly as much as the gold. "That's how much I want for the owl."

Paddy blinked. "Oh. Oh, perfect! That sounds good to me, assuming it's the right owl."

Shaking his head slightly—he had no idea what the man meant by 'right owl'—Mr. Moribund unlocked his store and went inside. He left the odd pair waiting at the entrance, not wanting to let such… light people into his shop.

"glad that's done." Sans poked the taller wizard's arm and winked. "it was a hoot getting to sightsee, but owl of this walking is tiring me out."

Yes, he certainly didn't want them anywhere near his merchandise.

Mr. Moribund was more than happy to leave the pair behind when he fetched the small bird from inside his shop. He was even happier to feel his wallet 8 galleons heavier and see all three of them out of his life. The kid waved goodbye with another Cheshire grin, and part of the shopkeeper thought it might have been purely to unnerve him.

It's more likely that the boy's just far to friendly. The whole lot of them, actually, owl included.

=X=X=X=

Sans appreciated the discomfited twitch he received from the shopkeeper when he cheerily waved back as they walked away. It's the little things in life that make it a worthwhile: like low-key freaking out random dark wizards just by being nice.

They made their way back to Diagon Alley, leaving the darker shopping area behind—and yes, they did cross Horizont Alley, and Sans was still amazed that he had needed to explain to Sirius why he had burst into laughter the first time he had spotted the ironically crooked street sign. As they walked, the disguised skeleton peered curiously into the cage Sirius was being careful not to jostle; the little owl inside was being oddly silent. Sirius had said Pigwidgeon had been a tiny, energetic attention-seeker. Not right now, though. The bird was perched perfectly still, fluffed up as much as possible, and looking quite aloof.

It was an impressive show of fake confidence, but the poor owl was obviously (to Sans, at least) very dejected. Thus Sans decided that this sad, technically-not-yet-named Pigwidgeon needed to be informed of their plans.

"neat place," he remarked, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "gonna send birdie off to ron now or what?"

The owl seemed to deflate a little bit more, hearing that he was soon to be sent off yet again: that these new people wanted him just as much as the last.

"I still need to write a letter, so they don't send him right back thinking he's mine." There was a sad hoot from the cage, so Sirius held it up to smile at the worried bird. "No need to get so puffed up, little feather ball. For all Ron's complaining, he really loved having you as his owl."

And now the owl was somewhat confused.

Sans waved in the direction of an ice cream parlor they had passed by earlier, though the motion was more of an indistinct shove because he didn't bother to take his hands from his pockets. "wanna grab some unhealthy grub and write up your note?"

"I'd say yes, but I don't have any quill or parchment."

"you can't just… magic them into existence?"

"No," Sirius replied, shaking his head and then needing to re-adjust his large pointed hat. "Conjured items don't last very long, especially the farther it's taken from the conjurer."

The pale eyebrows of the skeleton's disguise quirked up, disappearing under his bangs. "so not like my bones and stuff, then. if i don't un-create them they just stick around." He smiled softly. "my bro actually kept a whole box of 'em in his room cus he was always so proud of his handiwork."

"That's… alright, not going to lie, but that's pretty adorable."

"he's the coolest," Sans agreed, voice sadly wistful, before reluctantly moving on. "anyway…"

With a lazy sigh, he pulled his hands from his pockets and made a strange grabbing motion at empty air—which suddenly wasn't empty at all. Sirius's favorite eagle-feather quill—easily recognized by the black stain along one side from a mishap when he'd charmed it to be self-inking—popped into existence. Sans handed it over to his surprised friend.

"all the paper on the table has scribbles on it," he said, as if that explained everything. It didn't, and Sirius kept staring. "where do you keep the blank ones?"

"I, uhm, the desk drawer in the corner?"

"you sound real sure there, paddy-paws." Another grab and Sans had a few sheets of parchment in hand.

Sirius stared between the newly-appeared items, his disguised friend, the owl, and back again before he swiftly turned and strode toward the ice cream shop. Despite having his hands full of birdcage and quill, he still managed to get his colorful robes to flare out dramatically when he gave the multi-dimensionally understood shrug of 'well, there's no use arguing with that'.

Acceptance, of course, didn't mean he wasn't going to question it. So, as they wound through the crowd of shoppers, Sirius only somewhat rhetorically asked, "Let me guess: was that more shortcut trickery?"

Sans sassily winked and, though he had been smiling already, smiled broadly; interestingly, the left edge of the lips on his glamour pulled a bit higher than the right, something his boney skull (while more flexible with expressions than logic would suggest) couldn't replicate. "i do have a very particular set of skills."

"More like a— a…" He floundered for a second before recalling a particularly suitable muggle phrase he'd heard before: "Like a veritable Swiss Army knife of skills, Rattles. And that's just based on what I've witnessed."

Of course Sans just kept right on grinning.

Giving up his argument, Sirius continued in a quieter tone, "We don't even know if you can even use wizarding magic yet, and if so that would be in addition to all your cheat skills!"

"…'yet'? have you been planning again, paddy-paws?"

"Well, yes." The wizard looked a bit sheepish, but defended himself by clarifying, "Of course the plan won't go anywhere if you can only use your magic so I wasn't going to bring it up quite yet."

They had reached their tasty treat destination—the sign read 'Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour'—and as such dropped that conversation in favor of more sugary things. A bell on the door tinkled when Sans pushed it open, a quiet and cheerful sound that suited the store's quiet and cheerful ambiance. It was a bit of an awkward time of day for ice cream, being before noon and the lunch rush, but there were still two witches and a wizard perusing the frozen selection, a father cleaning up his child's sticky sugar mess, and a nearly sickeningly affectionate couple sitting at the table by the front window. The owner watched them all from behind the counter, looking over his store with the air of someone perfectly content with his lot in life.

"Hello," the man greeted with a broad, toothy smile. "Welcome to my humble ice cream parlor, home of all your ice cream needs!" Then he paused, probably remembering something, before cryptically adding, "Within reason, of course."

"darn, and here i was hoping you could replace the icecaps with a more delicious alternative."

Fortescue's expression became one of exaggerated disappointment. "Such a shame that I cannot assist in such a noble endeavor. But though quantity on that scale is rather impossible, I can guarantee quality."

Indeed, it turned out that the he could. After choosing their ice creams—some kind of pink flavor for Sirius, plain vanilla for Sans, and even an adorably tiny scoop of mouse flavor for the owl—they claimed a table near the back of the parlor. Pigwidgeon (though still not actually named such) had been let out of his cage and, after eating up his treat in record time, decided to perch on the closest horizontal bar: in this case that happened to be Sans's forearm. It didn't go quite as planned. The owl's small talons grabbed nothing but thin air, given that the glamour of human skin wasn't as solid as it appeared.

"woah there, little bird-bro." Swiftly caught in a dim blue glow, the owl was kept from careening straight past Sans's arm and directly into his ice cream. "hope that didn't ruffle your feathers too badly."

Sirius glanced briefly up from his third attempt at writing out a letter, smiling at the owl's dumbstruck look. After collecting his wits, the owl began regarding Sans's forearm with great confusion and distrust; tentatively nosing at the immaterial flesh with his beak. Taking a delicious bite of his vanilla ice cream (purposefully ignoring the curious poking from the owl), Sans then used his spoon to gesture inquiringly at the two crumpled paper balls—them being the remains of the previous two letters—and the in-progress third try.

With a sigh and a ruefully annoyed-at-himself smile, the wizard flopped the quill down on top of his rough draft. "I thought I was more eloquent than this."

Sans ate another spoonful of sugary goodness before replying, "you do realize you're writing a trio of kids, right? 'eloquence' is not really much of a requirement."

"Well, I mean, yes, but…" Sirius sighed again, trying to find the words to express himself. "This is Harry. My godson. And his friends, who just earlier this week thought I was some murderous traitor."

"yeah but you're not, so…?"

"But—"

"yeah but you're not," Sans repeated sternly. "it's as simple as that. you're you and should just write what ya wanna say to them."

Picking up his quill again, Sirius stared at it for a long moment: as if doing so would somehow reveal to him what to write. "What I want to say?"

"duh. what else would you put in a letter?"

A moment passed in silence, save for the occasional clink of spoon against dish. Sirius twirled his quill, thinking. Then he smiled, discarded his third letter attempt, and started in on a new sheet of parchment.

"I think I can do that."

=X=X=X=

To Harry, Ron, and Hermione
This is hopefully my last attempt at writing this letter (though if you're reading this in the first place, my hope came true so I don't know why I mentioned that at all but I'm getting off topic). My friend—yes, Hermione, the one who led my escape from Hogwarts—has advised me to just put down what I want to say, so here it goes.
Harry. You are my precious godson, my best friend's son, and I love you. Re-reading that makes me feel like an embarrassing sappy ninny, but they might as well be the truest thing I have ever written.
Okay, cheesy reaffirmations of affections aside, you three don't need to worry about me. I have a safe place to stay, and it's closer than you probably suspect. I didn't flee the country, if you thought I would. No, I've holed up in an old house at a location that cannot be disclosed, but you can bet as soon as I clear out most of the nastiness you'll get an invite. Again, don't worry: the place is warded to Azkaban and back so nobody we don't want finding us will.
Also I got my wand back, which means I can use magical means to disguise myself and hide! No need to worry, like I said. Anyway, the story of getting it back is a bit too long to send off in this brief letter, so suffice to say my friend and I snatched it right from under the MoM's overly-large schnoz.
Speaking of my friend, I'm sure you all have questions. I won't be answering them, since that's his business, but know that I trust him with my life. He's cool, bit peculiar, but all the better for it. You'll meet him eventually.
This letter is getting on the long side for this tiny owl to deliver (the bugger shot me a glare for that, think he can read?), guess I better wrap things up.
Ron, this owl is yours now. While technically Scabbers was never a rat to begin with, I still feel responsible for taking your pet from you (even if I don't regret it at all and I doubt he was much of a pet to begin with). Treat him well, he's a good bird for all that he's only the size of a pixie.
Hermione, sorry that I don't have anything to give you in exchange for the help. We'll work that out later. Still, thanks: even I can tell you're the common sense of your trio.
And Harry, I actually do have a present for you! One broom doesn't really make up for all the holidays and celebrations I missed, does it? (Do thank Crookshanks for that, he was quite helpful.) Anyway, do owl me so I can take advantage and easily send something back. I just need to find it first, but it should help loads with keeping us in contact.
Stay safe.
—Sirius and rattles (hello, by the way)

=X=X=X=

The train was maybe half an hour from King's Cross Station when Harry became aware of an adorably small owl frantically clinging to the compartment's window by its beak, tiny talons too preoccupied holding a letter nearly as large as the owl itself. Once they managed to get it inside, the owl ended up on the floor between the three of them, apparently needing a long moment to recollect its wits.

"Who'd you reckon it's from?" Ron asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the folded parchment the owl was now sitting on.

Seemingly reminded of its delivery, the owl sort of… well, it tried to take off to carry the letter in Harry's direction, but instead the poor bird only managed a tired jump. It gave a small hoot, exhausted. Hermione picked it up and settled it on the chair between her and Crookshanks—the orange cat opened one eye from his nap to give the tiny owl a curious once-over, but in the end seemed alright with the arrangement—before passing the letter over to Harry.

The letter hadn't been sent in an envelope, which was pretty strange, but was instead just the parchment itself folded and held shut with a sticking charm. Harry popped it open, reading the last line to see who it was from.

"It's from Sirius!"

"Really?"

"Yeah!" Suddenly noticing that there was, in fact, a second name at the bottom written in tidy lowercase letters, Harry amended, "Oh, and somebody else apparently. Do you think…?"

Hermione made a gesture that suggested he should get on with it and just read the darn thing.

"Fine, fine."

The message wasn't too long, but that didn't stop it from raising far more questions than it answered, which kept with the theme set by that moonlit, time-travel-y night when everything had come to a head. Harry got the impression that it hadn't really been his godfather's intention, keeping the details tantalizingly mysterious, but more a side effect of keeping things brief.

Except the part about this 'Rattles' person, which he pretty obviously just wasn't going to clarify in a letter.

"Well." Hermione huffed, shaking her head with a sort of detached annoyance. "He certainly managed to tell us quite a bit while simultaneously being spectacularly vague."

Ron made a noise of agreement, mouth too full of candy to enunciate any words, before swallowing and leaning over to peer at the little owl. Feather's puffed up defensively, the owl hooted once in a distinct 'what're you looking at?' manner. After a brief stare-down, Ron declared, "Tiny little bugger."

In response to that, the owl simply puffed up further and hooted with greater determination.

"It—" She paused and, based on the letter, corrected herself. "He's a scops owl, Ron. They're all quite small, so they're usually only given local post."

The owl hooted again, this time in a sort of tired agreement, before suddenly going very still. Large orange eyes—most of the bird's face, really—zeroed in on Ron again, seeming to realize something. Then, apparently reinvigorated, the tiny owl zoomed into the air and directly at Ron; this boy, the owl had realized, was now his (or the other way around, but that's just semantics). Ron was understandably startled, jerking back and knocking his head on the back of his seat.

He winced, more in surprise than pain, and grumbled a quiet 'bloody hell'.

When a small weight settled on the top of his head and he heard Hermione laugh, he just sighed. The owl had clearly discovered his chosen perch, which is to say Ron had a rather unconventional feathery hat.

Ignoring the owl-based shenanigans, Harry seemed to be a bit stuck on the part that suggested Sirius had not only enlisted, but had actually received assistance from a cat to order his new broomstick. Even though he hadn't known his godfather for all that long by now, he still felt like that course of logic fit the man perfectly: disguise as a dog, get help from a cat, it was the obvious choice. And, of course, it worked.

Harry smiled, tucking the letter away for safekeeping, and turned his attention back to his best friends. Ron was apparently getting Crookshanks to check his new feathered companion for fraud—not wanting to repeat the Animagus fiasco—but was having trouble coaxing the owl off his head to do so. Perhaps he and Hermione should help their red-headed friend, but it was much more funny to sit back and watch him try and gently prod the stubborn bird onto his hand before deciding on a new approach: crouching and pointing the top of his head in the cat's direction.

The past week had been a series of unexpected twists, ending off their third year at Hogwarts in a rather strange way, even by his standards.

But it had ended well, Harry thought with another smile. Still a bit short on answers, but he could get those later.

Right now he just laughed with his friends and, with a not-really-criminal godfather he could threaten to sic on his uncle and the promise of getting to see his friends (and the Quidditch World Cup) before next term, found himself actually looking forward to the coming summer.

Author's Note:

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Undertale.

So, bit of an extra long chapter this month!
(Sadly this means next month's is a teeny bit shorter than usual, but oh well. Hope you don't hold that against me.)

…I can't really think of anything else to say about this chapter. Pigwidgeon has been introduced, some more of Sans's chea- er… tricks, and so on. The usual. Oh, though you did get to hear what the glamour looks like. Whatdya think?

Anyway, thanks again to everyone who leaves a review! As I've said before, I read them all and can't be happier that, well, you guys seem to like this. If you want, please leave a review with what you think of it all, ideas, or any mistakes you've noticed!

yesboss21: You write… interesting reviews, so thanks for the energetic commentary! And, to answer your question, I haven't posted anything about this fanfiction to either UT or HP fandom chat groups. I'll be honest, didn't even know that was a thing that could be done. Man, I wouldn't even know where to begin with chat forum stuffs. I just cast this story into the sea of fanfiction for any who might find it. And, you know, hopefully enjoy it.

See ya on the flipside, everyone!