Dumbledore left before finishing his cola. Anthony Apparated back to Diagon Alley. He traded the remaining drink to Tom for use of the Leaky Cauldron's fireplace and returned to the Burrow via the Floo Network.
The kitchen was empty. A radio beside the sink chattered on about the next day's forecast. The oven glowed, filling the room with the smell of cinnamon, butter, and apples. Apple pie tonight, then.
He went to the backyard. The waxed brooms were gone. Harry must be playing Quidditch with Ron and the twins again. Percy's owl, Hermes, soared in from the distance and slipped through an open window. It seemed to be carrying a very thick letter.
It must have just rained. The ground was wet, the air cool and damp. The chickens huddled in their coop. Water dripped from the straw. The path by the pond was a muddy mess, alive with a chorus of frogs.
The ginger cat emerged from the bushes. It shook itself, arched its back, and brushed past Anthony. He bent to stroke it. Its wet fur was cold, sliding through his fingers like water.
"Ah, there you are, Henry!" Mr. Weasley said. Anthony straightened up. Mr. Weasley was looking at him through the living room window. He was leaning on the arm of the sofa, one hand resting on what Anthony had thought was Mrs. Weasley's old, disused feather duster. His forehead gleamed with sweat.
"Good afternoon, Arthur," Anthony said. "What are you doing?"
"Errol's passed out," Mr. Weasley said. He gestured at the thing on the armrest. Anthony looked closer. It wasn't a feather duster. It was a drenched, bedraggled owl.
Anthony moved closer to the window. A pile of clutter sat on the windowsill. "What happened?"
"I'm not sure, but Errol's always been like this. I'm looking for the Reviving Potion," Mr. Weasley said. He picked up the owl with a pitying look. "He's old. Got caught in the rain, crashed into the window. I hope Elon settles his differences with Scabbers soon… Maybe Fred and George will lend me their owl."
He crouched by the wooden cabinet in the corner of the living room and started pulling things out, muttering to himself. Out came a bottle of Doxycide, some hair tonic for baldness, stale owl pellets and rat food, a faded wedding photo of him and Mrs. Weasley, a discoloured silk scarf, and a few feathers.
Anthony helped him rummage. They only found the Reviving Potion after Mrs. Weasley appeared in the kitchen with a large bag of potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, and zucchini. The tiny bottle, tucked under a stack of coupon magazines, held only a pathetic drop of liquid.
Mr. Weasley pried Errol's beak open and let the last few drops fall inside.
A few wisps of steam puffed out near Errol's head, one after another. The owl opened its eyes weakly, looked at Mr. Weasley, and closed them again.
"I should buy more of that potion," Mrs. Weasley said, her voice tight with worry. "I hope that's enough." She grabbed a nearby scarf and draped it over Errol like a blanket.
…
Errol didn't improve. By Monday, he was too weak to even drink water.
But Tuesday was the first of September. Everyone was busy packing.
Ron and Harry were hunting for their Herbology essays. Percy couldn't find his brass cauldron. Fred wanted to put a lid on Elon's food and water bowls. George tried to sneak away with Percy's History of Magic essay. Ginny struggled to fit all her books into her trunk and noticed her scarf was starting to unravel.
Mrs. Weasley ran from room to room, Summoning socks from every corner while simultaneously directing the knives chopping vegetables and the ladle stirring the soup on the stove.
Mr. Weasley had to leave for the Ministry early. They were still conducting raids on homes suspected of harbouring illegal Dark artifacts. On top of that, someone had been selling shrinking shoes to Muggles. The number of Muggle victims was still growing. The entire Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office was trying to find the culprit.
Anthony had nothing to pack. Mrs. Weasley had firmly refused his offer to help in the kitchen. She'd even pushed him onto the sofa and thrust a copy of the Daily Prophet into his hands.
…
The Ministry declared it was committed to safeguarding the magical community's health and safety. The newspaper urged everyone to pay attention to the newly enacted Muggle Protection Act, to understand the relevant laws, and to avoid inadvertently breaking them.
On another page, the Ministry boasted about its 'remarkable success' in cracking down on Dark wizards. This was followed by a long list of the Ministry's efforts to ensure a peaceful life for its citizens and their future plans.
Anthony scanned the pages. They still hadn't issued a wanted notice for Quirinus Quirrell. The good news was, they also made no mention of anything related to a Lich.
"I can take Errol to the owl shop," he offered, setting the paper down.
Mr. Weasley had planned to take the children to King's Cross tomorrow and then use his day off to go to Diagon Alley for a professional opinion.
"Oh, would that be too much trouble?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her face brightening.
Anthony smiled. "Not if you let me use your fireplace."
…
He pushed open the door to the owl emporium with Errol cradled in his hands. A shop assistant was trying to sell a slightly balding owl to a hesitant little boy.
Her eyes swept over Anthony, gave a polite nod and a professional smile, then returned to the boy. She said a few more words, pointing at the owl. Then she looked up again. Her gaze flicked past Anthony, settled on the grey, scarf-wrapped bundle in his hands, and froze.
The assistant blurted out, "Is that an owl?"
"Er, I think so," Anthony said uncertainly, glancing down. "You're the expert."
"One moment, sir," she said. She smiled at the boy again, then turned and called towards the back of the shop. "Old Owl! I think you need to come out and see this!"
At her call, the shop's healthy, alert owls fluttered up from their perches. They landed on the crossbeams hanging from the ceiling or on the high display counters.
A man with wild, bushy brown hair appeared soundlessly. He wore large, round spectacles. His yellow eyes, the moment he emerged, were locked on the owl in Anthony's hands.
He spread his arms and glided over to Anthony. Not a sound. His brown wizard's robes billowed behind him. Every owl in the shop watched him silently, their heads swivelling to track his movement.
The little boy was mesmerised. His mouth hung open, his small head turning to follow the man's path.
"Oh, poor thing. Poor thing," the man called Old Owl murmured. He bent low over Errol, his sharp nose almost touching the scarf.
Errol opened his eyes feebly. His beak parted, as if trying to hoot.
"I know, little one," the man said. He peered at Errol from behind his lenses. "Don't worry. You're in Old Owl's hands now."
He straightened up and looked at Anthony. "How long has he been like this?" His tone was sharp.
"Um… three days," Anthony said. "It rained on Saturday. He got wet and flew into a window. We gave him some Reviving Potion—"
Old Owl clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
"—and wrapped him in a scarf to keep him warm. On Sunday he seemed a bit better. I think he ate a little meatball—"
Old Owl fixed him with a look of pure condemnation. If looks could convict, Anthony felt he'd be headed back to Azkaban.
"Then today," Anthony finished, "we found him like this in the morning. Very weak. We knew something was definitely wrong, so we decided to bring him to a professional."
Old Owl stared at him for a moment. He repeated under his breath, "'Definitely wrong'… Poor thing." He slid silently over to a huge wooden cabinet in the corner. With a flick of his sleeve, the doors swung open with a BANG.
Inside, glass bottles of various sizes were arranged in neat rows. Some held feathers, others what looked like dried stalks, and still others liquids of different colours, their surfaces shimmering from the movement.
Old Owl extended a long, thin hand from his robe. He tapped his sharp fingernails against the bottles as he scanned the shelves. Click. Click. Click.
"Not this one… not this… ah. Yes. This is the one." He snatched a bottle out. He turned. Two owls flew to Anthony's side, lifted Errol into the air, and deposited him into Old Owl's waiting hands.
"Open up. There. Good. Drink."
Errol obediently let the man pour half a bottle of strange purple liquid down his throat. Then Old Owl grabbed something from a nearby drawer. The little boy's mouth snapped shut. He looked queasy. In Old Owl's hand were a few pink, hairless, blind baby mice.
"Eat," he told Errol. He stuffed the mice down the dazed owl's gullet, then poured in the rest of the potion.
There was a strange sizzling sound. A plume of foul-smelling black smoke erupted from Errol's half-open beak. When it cleared, Errol was flapping his wings, strong enough to stand on the man's hand.
Anthony finally let out a breath.
"Thank you so much," he said. "What do I owe you?"
Old Owl ignored him, his gaze fixed on Errol. Errol stood, turned in a wobbly circle, and then slumped back down.
"Are you his owner?" Old Owl asked suddenly.
"No. A friend of his owner's," Anthony said.
Old Owl picked up Errol and tossed him to Anthony like a Quaffle.
"Tell his owner: no more meatballs," Old Owl said. "They only make his eyesight worse. Feed him mice."
"Er… right," Anthony said, wondering how Ron would take that news.
The assistant had successfully sold the balding owl to the awestruck boy. She walked over to Anthony now with a smile. "That'll be eight Sickles and seven Knuts."
Anthony counted out the coins. Old Owl dragged a deckchair out from beside the shop window and lay down on it. A few owls fluttered down from the beams, trying to land near him. The man lifted the magazine covering his face and glared at them. They scattered.
Just as Anthony was about to leave, the shop door opened again.
The man who entered looked exhausted. He sighed, his movements heavy. He wore robes far too large for him, which dragged on the floor as he shuffled inside. He handed a bag of shopping to the assistant, took a ledger and a checklist, and began ticking items off.
The man called Old Owl sprang up from his deckchair. "You're fired, Lawton!" he cried, furious. "You're already fired!"
"I'm fired next month," Lawton said, his voice morose and lifeless. "But today is the thirty-first. Technically, I still need to work."
"You're fired! I said we don't accept employees disappearing during the busiest time!" Old Owl shrieked, waving his arms. He looked like a furious owl spreading its wings and clacking its beak.
"I'm sorry, but this month's wages… our contract…" Lawton said. He picked up a broom from the side and began sweeping the feathers on the floor into a pile.
Owls landed boldly on his arms, his shoulders, his head. Lawton just sighed wearily, seeming to shrink under their weight.
The assistant said, "Old Owl, Roland only asked for three days off. He wasn't scheduled to work the weekend. That was agreed from the start."
"Three days! The busiest three days!" Old Owl yelled. "I had to get up in the daytime! He's fired!"
"Alright, Roland. He's the boss," the assistant said helplessly. "I mean, you've always done well… you're a good sort… but Old Owl's in charge here. I hope I'll see you around."
"Oh, you never know," Lawton sighed.
Anthony had been studying Lawton since he walked in. He looked familiar. Anthony's eyes fell on the leather suitcase by the door, and he remembered. This was the man who'd been sitting in the ice cream parlour, sighing. Anthony had been talking to the Joneses and Mr. Weasley. This man had sat at a nearby table, sighing constantly. Anthony had glanced at him a few times.
Lawton swept the broom near Anthony's feet. Anthony gave a final nod to the three people in the shop and pushed the door open to leave. Through the glass window, he saw Lawton sweep up the few feathers Errol had shed.
Errol stood on Anthony's shoulder. He stretched one wing, then bent his head to preen his sparse feathers. He looked healthier than he had in years.
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