"Welcome!" A witch wearing a sturdy gingham apron bustled out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on a rag.
Her gaze lingered briefly on Harold's Muggle suit before shifting to Maurice. "Getting ready for Hogwarts, dear? You've come to the right place. We have a wonderful selection of owls suitable for first-years."
The shop was a cacophony of soft hoots, rustling feathers, and the clicking of beaks.
The air smelled of sawdust and old straw.
"Yes," Maurice said, his eyes already wandering past the witch to the wall of cages. "I'd like to have a look around myself, if you don't mind."
"Of course. Just give a shout if you need anything." The witch nodded knowingly and retreated behind the counter, giving the boy space.
"I'll wait by the door," Harold muttered, loosening his tie slightly. "Feathers make me sneeze. And they look at you funny."
Maurice nodded and drifted deeper into the shop, walking slowly between the rows of perches. If he was choosing a courier, utility was key. He needed something robust.
The owls seemed to understand they were on display. As he passed, heads swivelled 180 degrees, and round, amber eyes tracked his movements with unnerving curiosity.
The shop was fairly busy. Several other children Maurice's age were browsing, likely fellow Hogwarts conscripts.
"Oh! I am so sorry!"
A girl with bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth, who had been analyzing the owls with the intensity of a librarian inspecting a rare book, backed right into Maurice.
"It's fine," Maurice replied mechanically. He didn't look at her; his attention was fixed on a magnificent bird in a high cage.
It was a Snowy Owl.
Compared to its neighbours, it was larger, sleeker, and possessed a regal intelligence.
Suitable, Maurice thought. Efficient.
"Er... hello?" The girl, clearly unaccustomed to being ignored, tried again. "Are you a first-year at Hogwarts too? I've read all the course books already, of course. I was just wondering which breed you think is the most aerodynamic?"
Maurice finally turned his head. He looked at the girl, then back at the owl, then back at the girl.
"Yes," he said simply. He turned back to the Snowy Owl, effectively ending the conversation.
The girl stood there for a moment, mouth slightly open. Realizing no further social interaction was forthcoming, she huffed, pursed her lips in disappointment, and marched off to a different aisle to interrogate a Tawny Owl.
The shop assistant, noticing Maurice's lingering gaze, materialized at his elbow.
"Good eye," she smiled. "That Snowy is in peak condition. Very popular breed these days."
"I'll take this..." Maurice started, but his voice trailed off.
Something behind the Snowy Owl caught his attention. A cage tucked away in the shadows.
Inside sat a Great Grey Owl, though "Great" seemed a generous description. It was pitch black—a rare mutation—but its feathers were matted and dull. Its eyes were cloudy, lacking the predatory gleam of the others. It radiated a profound sense of exhaustion.
The witch followed his gaze and her smile faltered. She sighed.
"Ah. That's the Great Grey. Though, I admit, finding one that black is incredibly rare."
"Is it sick?" Maurice asked.
"Well... perhaps," she equivocated, lowering her voice. "To be honest, it doesn't have long left. Why don't you look at the Barn Owls? Much friendlier."
"I knew it."
Maurice inhaled deeply. Beneath the smell of sawdust, he detected the unmistakable, sweet rot of death clinging to the bird. It wasn't just sick; it was marked.
"How much?" Maurice asked.
The witch blinked, looking genuinely baffled.
"You... you actually want to buy him?"
"How. Much."
"Look, young man, I'll be level with you," she whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. "This poor creature was cursed by a wizard who didn't appreciate his mail being late. It has a magical wasting sickness. Two days. That's all it has. We're just keeping it here to let it pass comfortably."
"That's fine," Maurice said, his expression unchanged. "My uncle is very good with sick animals. He might have a remedy."
In reality, the bird's mortality was irrelevant.
Actually, death was preferred. It saved Maurice the trouble of killing it later. A undead minion was far more obedient than a live bird, and it didn't need feeding.
The witch looked torn between ethical business practices and the desire to clear out inventory. She straightened up.
"Well, if you insist... I can't offer a discount, I'm afraid. Store policy on livestock, living or otherwise. Ten Galleons. That includes the cage and a bag of treats."
Maurice reached through the bars. The black owl lifted its head weakly and feebly nipped at his finger, a final, defiant gesture.
"Deal," Maurice said.
"Ten Galleons it is."
The witch shook her head, seemingly amazed by the boy's stubbornness. She fetched a polished brass cage and gently transferred the dying bird.
The owl shuddered as it settled onto the new perch, tucked its head under a ragged wing, and went still.
"Good luck," the witch said, handing him the cage with a look of pity. "You're going to need it."
When Maurice exited the shop, bird in hand, he found Harold chatting animatedly with a couple who looked aggressively normal.
"Ah, Maurice! There you are," Harold beamed, looking relieved to see a familiar face. "These are the Grangers. Lovely people. Dentists! Their daughter is starting Hogwarts as well."
Mr. and Mrs. Granger smiled politely. Maurice assumed they had approached Harold because, in a street full of people wearing bathrobes and pointy hats, a man in a grey suit looked like a safe harbor.
"Hello," Maurice said, employing his best well-behaved-nephew tone.
Mr. Granger's eyes drifted to the cage in Maurice's hand. He frowned slightly.
"I say, that's quite a... unique bird you have there," Mr. Granger commented, trying to be polite about the heap of black feathers that looked like a used chimney sweep's brush.
"Yes, quite unique," Maurice agreed pleasantly. "Though it only has about forty-eight hours to live."
The polite smile froze on Mr. Granger's face.
"I... beg your pardon?"
"It's dying," Maurice clarified.
"Oh dear!" Mrs. Granger gasped. "Then... why on earth did you buy it?"
Maurice looked at the bird, then back at the horrified couple.
"I was feeling peckish," he said deadpan. "I'm planning to make a rotisserie."
The silence that followed was absolute. Mr. Granger opened his mouth, closed it, and then looked at Harold for help.
"Right! Look at the time!" Maurice suddenly grabbed Harold's arm. "Traffic will be murder. Lovely to meet you. Goodbye, Mr. Granger."
"Er... yes. Goodbye?"
Maurice dragged his uncle away before the Grangers could process whether the child was a sociopath or just very British.
Mr. Granger stood there for a moment, blinking. He looked back at the shop sign.
Eeylops Owl Emporium.
"Definitely a pet shop," he muttered to his wife. "Not a butcher. Strange people, these wizards."
...
"Why are we walking so fast?" Harold panted, struggling to keep up with his nephew's brisk pace as they wove through the crowd.
"Talking to strangers is dangerous," Maurice said without looking back. "Especially dentists."
Harold paused, then nodded resignedly. "Fair point. You're the wizard; you know the rules."
He glanced down at the cage swinging in Maurice's grip. "So, is that the one? He looks a bit... flat."
"He's almost dead," Maurice said casually. "I wasn't joking back there. He really does have a two-day expiration date."
Harold stopped dead in the middle of the street. "Wait. You weren't joking about the rotisserie part either?"
Maurice stopped and looked at his uncle with genuine disappointment. "Harold, please. I have standards."
"Then why buy a lemon?" Harold gestured frantically at the bird. "Ten Galleons for a dead parrot sketch?"
"Death is a minor inconvenience," Maurice explained, resuming his walk. "Once he expires, I can fix him."
Harold's face lost several shades of colour.
"Fix him? You mean... like, cure him?"
"Not exactly." Maurice's voice was calm, clinical. "Have you ever seen Night of the Living Dead?"
The question hung in the air. Harold's mind immediately conjured images of shambling corpses and grey flesh. He looked at the bird, then at his small, neatly dressed nephew.
"You aren't," Harold whispered, his voice trembling. "You aren't going to make a... a zombie owl?"
Maurice didn't answer directly. He just lifted the cage and peered at the sleeping bundle of feathers.
"Don't worry," Maurice said softly. "It will be much more elegant than a movie monster. Clean. Efficient. Loyal."
Harold swallowed hard, unable to find a response. He looked at the boy he had known for years and felt a sudden, profound chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
'Wizards', he thought miserably. 'Absolutely terrifying.'
He took a moment to reflect on his past interactions with Maurice. He was fairly certain he had never denied the boy dessert or grounded him unfairly.
'Good', Harold told himself. 'Keep it that way.'