Owl Occurrences by ChoicesWeMake

When Harry gets back to the dorms, there are two shadowed figures waiting for him on his bed. His brain is so scattered, he draws himself up tiredly at first, thinking of Malfoy and his goons, laying in wait, waiting for a fight. But a whispered, “lumos”, and then Blaise’s face is illumined behind the dim glow of his wand, just enough light to see each other by, not enough to wake the other boys.

“Hey, Harry,” Blaise hails, with an easy little wave of his non-wand-holding hand and a smile far too warm and perky for this time of - well, morning.

Nott acknowledge him too, tone unreadable.

“Potter.”

Harry should probably be angry, probably feel betrayed. The memory of Blaise blurting out Harry’s secret to their severe Head of House, the way Nott straightened, spun, how he walked away down that hallway without looking back. Harry thinks he should, but he just can’t summon the energy.

“Hello,” he says cooly.

But then Blaise leans forward, concern flashing in his warm eyes, and says, “how’s Hedwig, mate?” and Harry feels something snap.

The other boy told Snape, Snape is practically his nemesis, everybody in the House knows that, and Blaise did it anyway. He can’t do that, and then look at Harry all friendly that way and call him that. He doesn’t get to.

“You’re not my mates,” he flares.

Not sniffs, folding his arms across his chest. “First I’ve heard of it,” he says.

“Alright.” Blaise says finally, all easy and gentle. “Fine, we’re not mates. Take it easy. Now how’s Hedwig?”

Harry crumbles a little, and he doesn’t throw himself at Blaise, but he wants to, more than anything.

“I thought -“ he gasps a little, trying to get the words out. “I thought she was going to die and I - Snape has - her wing - she bit him and - but she’s. She’s alright. She’s alright.”

“Of course she is,” Blaise says firmly. He has Harry by both shoulders, and Harry feels like that’s all that’s keeping him upright. “Shhh, don’t want an audience for this, Harry, let’s not wake anyone else. Only got a couple more hours ‘till breakfast. You can tell us all about it-“

“And you will tell us about it-“ Nott says,

“-in the morning.” Blaise stresses, eyeing Nott.

“Just one thing - Potter,“ Nott says suddenly, stepping so close to Harry that Blaise has to back up to make room for him. “Professor Snape, he helped you?”

“Hedwig’s in his office now,” Harry admits.

There’s a sort of satisfied gleam in the other boy’s eyes as he leans back that Harry is almost too tired to wonder about.

Harry doesn’t quite remember how he ends up in bed, but he does know that it’s Blaise who fluffs the pillow right before Harry puts his head down on it, and that when Harry just curls around his knees on his bare sheets, it’s Theodore Nott that wordlessly draws the blanket up over Harry’s shoulders.

Harry wakes up.

He wakes up, and is overcome with the creeping feeling of something off, body almost vibrating with the sense of wrong wrong wrong. The last time he bolted up feeling this apprehensive, he had woken up an hour late on a Sunday morning at the Dursleys - nope, no, not there, he thinks blindly, fingers strangling his soft velvet duvet as proof.

He’s exhausted - he feels like his eyes closed for mere seconds before they’ve opened again, and they’re stinging in protest, blaring against even the low light of the dorm. But there’s no way Harry is going back to sleep.

He heaves a sigh, creeps from his bed, hauls himself up into the body-sized window seat, and lets himself wake up slowly. His mind is groggy, protesting one long minute and the next - his eyes widen through crusty-layered corners. Hedwig. She’s not there, not in the tower, she’s sick, she’s - she’s with Snape. In fact, Harry’s last remembrance is Hedwig, Hedwig and Snape, the box he settled her in, Snape about to slather salve on Hedwig’s bruised wing before Harry stepped forward (“I can do it. Sir,” being gentle, so gentle, fingers so light brushing over her).

Immediately, Harry feels a rush of guilt. Hedwig is sick, and he left her alone. She sick, and alone, in an unfamiliar place, with a person she doesn’t trust (does Harry? He can’t - doesn’t - has to). He didn’t want to leave her, remembers hesitating, but.

It wasn’t like Harry could take her back to the dorms; heaven forbid Malfoy or one of the others try to use her to get to him. Harry shudders. Malfoy isn’t so much like Dudley, but he probably wouldn’t mind tormenting an innocent animal to get to Harry, either, or having one of his goons do it. With the amount of smalltime spite Harry’s still dealing with, and he is - dealing with it - it’s not enough to make Harry do anything about it really, but it’s enough to express their sentiment, and it’s not a sentiment he wants to put Hedwig in danger of experiencing.

He was still reluctant, though, he remembers that, remembers almost asking Snape if he could just - just stay with her. Just for a while, until she got used to things. He could curl up, be quiet, wouldn’t make a sound, he’s good at that when he wants to be, wouldn’t need a blanket or anything….but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Snape was doing more than he’d expected already; he couldn’t reasonably be asked to do more, he’d undoubtedly reject the idea in the most sound and violent way possible. Harry’s done enough, revealed enough, dragged Snape into this bother already. Just because Harry cares about something - cares very, very much - doesn’t mean anyone else should.

He recalls quiet, the calming tinkle of potions bottles from the other room, laying his head down next to Hedwig's box, one thumb still stroking her good wring as she blinked at him with her knowing eyes.

And then, stumbling back to the dorm. Blaise - Theodore - “you’re not my mates”. Harry sucks his breath in so sharply his ribs ache and thinks about what it would be like to lose the only friends he’s ever made.

He thinks about it all through breakfast, too - sitting by himself. Between that and Hedwig swimming around in his mind, he’s finds he’s got very little appetite, but he chokes down a crumpet and some pumpkin juice anyway. It’s still early, so there’s hardly anyone around in the Great Hall yet, a couple of sleep-tousled Gryffindors and a small group of upper-year Ravenclaws that seem to be performing some kind of experiment over their food; they hardly notice when he stuffs a few pieces of crispy bacon into a napkin that he tucks into his bag, and then wanders back out of the Hall.

He spends most of the morning going everywhere he knows Blaise and Theodore normally aren’t, all the lonely tucked in corners and hidden spots that a place like Hogwarts hides so well. It reminds him of wandering around the Dursley’s neighborhood, kind of peaceful by himself, if a little lonely, a little wary.

The hours tick by slowly until he hears some boys passing his spot and realizes everyone’s rushing for their first class of the day.

He’s hurrying around a corner, about to join the general throng of frantic students, when he hurls hard past a taller body, clipping them on the side and sending himself stumbling, grasping at the wall to catch his balance. He regains himself quickly, though, and turns, an apology falling from his lips,

“Sorry, wasn’t looking where I w’s-“ and then Harry’s teeth click shut as he tries to school his expression into something beside, oh, drat.

It’s an older Gryffindor, one who’s at least a fifth year, and Harry knows very little about him except that he’s not good news, and he’s with the full fifty percent of Hogwarts students that seem to hold some kind of grudge against Harry. He remembers the boy’s thick, sandy curls, eyes like he’s scrapping for a fight, the tiny scar by his left eye. Coote, that’s his name. Ritchie Coot. And tripping over Harry Potter in the corridor is obviously the most exciting thing that’s happened in Ritchie Coote’s day.

Harry’s barely swallowed his apprehension before his bones are jarred against the stone wall behind him, rough hands squeezing the lapels of his Slytherin robes.

“You were sayin’, firstie?” Coote growls.

“My mistake,” Harrys says. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“We’ll see about that,” the Gryffindor growls.

“Not in the mood, Gryff,” Harry huffs.

“No?” The other boy sneers, hands tightening against Harry’s collar. “Then you should stay outta my way, you slimy little pipsqueak!”

Harry has absolutely zero objections to that but right now he’s little more concerned about breathing.

“Little-easier, to- do-if yer no’-holding me agains-a, wall!” He gasps.

Coote decides that’s an invitation to haul Harry up harder, instead of letting him down, and Harry’s just starting to worry that he might be late to his first class - which is Transfiguration with McGonagall, and not one he wants to be late to, when a cheerful voice breaks the stalemate.

“Here I thought you’d been avoiding me, and now I find you’re just up to your usual trouble!” Says a cheerful voice.

It startles the older Gryffindor just enough that he loosens his grip, and Harry wiggles downward, trying to wrench away.

“Blaise?”

“H’lo, Harry.” Blaise gives Harry an easy little grin, greets him exactly as if they just happened to bump into each other on a pleasant walk.

“Well, what a happy reunion.” Coote does drop Harry, now, and backs a way a few steps, facing the the two of them.

“It’s good to see you, too, Coote. I’d love to chat, but I think Harry and I have places to be. Right, Potter?”

Harry purposely doesn’t look Blaise’s way as he nods agreeably.

“I think if we’re much later, Professor McGonagall might turn us into cats or something,” he says.

The Gryffindor’s glare sours, but he glances away as if suddenly anxious about being late to his own class, and apparently decides it isn’t worth it.

“Whatever,” he growls. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

And then Blaise and Harry are left alone.

Harry feels Blaise’s hand rest lightly, briefly on his shoulder, before it pulls away, and the other boy says finally,

“We really had better get to class.”

Right. Right - no time now, not to deal with this, these confusing swirls that Harry’s feeling, because Blaise just rescued him. Well. Not that Harry had needed it, but still. They’re supposed to be fighting. Blaise is supposed to be - well, not doing that. He’s supposed to stiff and seething and smirking and like everyone else now.

But Harry is pretty used to Blaise being confusing by now, so he just follows him silently as they dart into the crowd, which is quickly thinning out as people find their places. By the time Harry and Blaise walk into the Transfiguration classroom, nearly everyone is there. McGonagall isn’t yet, though, so they’re not late, and Harry breathes a little easier.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Professor McGonagall - he does, it’s just, she’s just…one of those adults. Everything about her is sharp and cool and precise, and Harry always feels clumsy under her shrewd gaze. She’s not overly fond of Slytherins, but she doesn’t treat them badly either, and that’s more than Harry gets from other people, so he’s tried to do alright by her class. And of course, she doesn’t hold for fooling around any more than Snape does.

“Here, Potter,” and Harry looks over to see Blaise motioning him to the seat next to him. It feels a little like the first day all over again, except this time, Harry is hesitating.

Blaise can’t possibly want to sit next to him. Not after what Harry said to him last night. Not since Harry’s still trying to decide whether they’ve made up or not.

Harry’s feels a shove against his side, and he moves away, expecting it to be another Gryffindor moving into the classroom, but the body follows him.

“Thought we had a deal, Potter.” Is all Theodore Nott says, and it takes Harry a moment to remember that they've been waiting to hear the whole story about last night.

“Yes, well, I don’t remember being part of that agreement,” Harry grumbles, but he finally slips into the seat next to Blaise, and Nott slides smoothly down one over from him.

“Look, Harry,” Blaise says. “You might not want to be our mate, but - “ he breaks off reluctantly, leaving the unspoken words hanging. But we’re still yours.

Harry tries not to look as taken back as he feels.

He was ready for a fight, for words dull and dark and crushing, but how is he supposed to handle this?

Actually, he doesn’t have to, because at that moment Professor McGongall sweeps into the room, claps her hands to bring them to attention, and says, “That’s enough, students, we’re about to begin!”

By the time class is over, Harry is walking away with Blaise and Nott on either side, realizing what he really knew all along: this place is still a little bit a stranger to him, and his enemies are dangerous in a different way here than they are at Number Four Privet Drive.

He can’t afford to not have friends.

Potions is after Transfiguration, which Harry is both dreading and looking forward to, because he might be able to ask Snape about Hedwig. He lets Nott and Blaise walk him to class, although he doesn’t really talk to them, and the class seems to drag on agonizingly long.

Snape seems to be himself - Harry wasn’t really expecting otherwise; but he’s determined to be at his best today. He wedges himself in at the cauldron between Nott and Blaise, and tries to focus.

While Snape rattles off a short spiel about the potion they’re going to make - something called Wiggenweld, Harry gathers ingredients that are written on the chalkboard. It’s just one class. If he can be good enough this once, can grit his teeth and get through it, do the potion well, dodge any disastrous confrontations with his Professor, maybe Snape will let him see Hedwig tonight. She does need her rest, but Harry wouldn’t bother her, he could just be there. So she wasn’t alone. Being sick and alone is one of the most miserable things out there, and Harry would know, he thought bitterly.

Besides, not making Snape angry, while it’s never been high on Harry’s priority list - he’s going to do all he can to keep Hedwig safe, and while he certainly doesn’t expect the Professor to abuse her, if he swept out of class as fuming at Harry as he normally was, the temptation of having Harry’s owl right there in his own office…

Well. Harry just doesn’t want to take any chances, is all, which means it’s his best behavior from now on. In fact, he can almost hear his aunt’s voice in his ear, horrible and screechy, like she does when they’re having guests over sometimes. “I want you on your best behavior, boy! Not a word from you!” He snickers a little at himself, and all the sudden a very different voice is in his ear.

“Something funny, Mr. Potter?”

Harry vanishes the smirk from his face and tries to look solemn.

“Absolutely not, sir.”

“And what are you doing just now?” Snape peers at him suspiciously.

“I’m-uh, the salamander blood - the fourth time, it should be turning…”

Curses, curses! Color, potion - should be -

Blaise nudges him under the table, barely breathes the word, “pink”.

“Pink. It should be turning pink, and then red, then add the lion fish spines.”

“How many?” Snape says sharply.

“Five. And then, five more?”

“Is that a question or an answer?”

Harry looks away, shoves that temper down, down - “An answer.”

“An answer-?”

“An answer, Professor.”

Snape hums, looks at him shrilly before wheeling away, cloak swirling, on to criticize some Gryffindor who hasn’t made it past step 6 yet.

“Odd,” is Blaise’s low comment.

“What?” Harry questions, matching his whisper.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll find something to really bite into you for a little later,” Blaise says, smirking a little.

“Thanks for the reassurance.”

Flobberworm mucus, where is his -

It’s not quite the shimmering turquoise it’s supposed to be when it’s done, but at least it’s blue, which is more than a lot of others managed, even though it’s been on of the easier potions they’ve done so far. He’s just about to breath a sigh of relief, when he hears a shuffle from Snape’s desk, and a “Potter! See me after class!”, and Harry’s heart sinks.

“What’d you do this time?” Sniggers Goyle, and actually Harry has no bloody idea. He was doing good, he was!

He bottles some of the Wiggenweld potion and waits to be the last to bring it up.

“You can go,” he whispers to Blaise and Theodore, who are standing by the classroom door, waiting.

“We’ll meet you in the hall,” Blaise says firmly, and then they’re gone.

Harry takes a breath, forces his head up, and clutches the potion in his hands. It’s fine. It’s good. It’s better than half the others in class.

“I hope you know this attempt at a Wiggenweld potion was a barely acceptable performance, and I’d expect better from a true Slytherin.”

That’s all it takes, and Harry can feel the heat rise recklessly in his cheeks. If he can wait long enough to ask about her -

“Sorry.” Harry grinds out. “I was - a little tired. Professor.”

“And whose fault is that?” Snape says silkily. “Speaking of which, Mr. Potter, I’m delighted that you brought that up -“

Ah, drat.

“I have a detention slip here for you to take to Mr. Filch this very night.”

Harry bites his lip, dismayed. He’d already forgotten about that, he did get one last night, didn’t he? Well, he’s not sorry. Hedwig’s got her wing wrapped now, she’s warm and safe - he’s really not sorry at all.

Ugh, but Filch.

Harry takes the slip, and tries to slip out quietly before Snape can remember anything else from last night that he really ought to punish Harry for.

“And Potter?” Snape stops him in his tracks again.

“Professor?”

“Your dratted bird sneaks away and devours one more of my ruffed grouse hearts and I’m putting a lid on that box she’s in…”

Harry isn't sure whether to be terrified or indignant, but then decides he doesn't need to be either, and when he turns away again, it's to hide the beginning of a growing, hesitant little grin.