Of Mice and Men
*glee*
Ok, taking a break from the huge monster of a fic I'm committed to for a challenge, and produced some happy!fic instead.
Behold! ... Fluffy!Draco!
Right. One, two, three …
Three …
THREE …
…
Shitbuggerfuck.
Draco Malfoy looked at his elegant self in the mirror, and cooed.
The fluffy white bird in the mirror looked bewilderedly back at him, and ruffled its feathers agitatedly.
If Draco Malfoy had been different sort of bird, he would have been banging his poultry-sized nugget of a brain against the Rococo curves of his study table.
Calm down! Calm down and think through this. You are a wizard … a wizard, not an owl. Better than a wizard, a Malfoy …
Malfoys did not coo. Cooing was for the birds.. oh shut up.
Draco thought he could see the snowy owl in the mirror hyperventilating.
The mirror, insensitive soul-of-a-hag that it was, chirped cheerily.
‘Well, now! Look at you! Aren’t you a pretty little thing. Those wings! Those eyes!’
Draco narrowed his huge grey-rimmed eyes at the mirror beadily.
‘So - elegant! Oh, won’t your mother be pleased. Look at little Draco, performing his first successful Transformation! Oh dearie, aren’t you proud of yourself!’
Draco closed his eyes, and bemoaned the fact that the mirror had been in his family for generations, had seen him poop in his pants when he was five, and that nothing would persuade his mother that selling that goddamned thing off would be a boon to his delicate constitution.
In a fit of pique, though, he did attempt to peck at it with his new beak.
‘Oooh! Sweetheart! That tickles! Do it again!’ The mirror giggled.
Resolving to ignore the mirror and to burn it at the first opportunity, Draco whirled around unsteadily on his claw-like feet and tried to transform back, again.
Human hands … wizard hands …wizard feet … blonde hair …fuck it fuckety FUCK why wasn’t it working?!!
In sudden panic, Draco tried to wave his arms, and ended up causing little gusts with his upturned wings as he whirled around his bedroom, barely a feet off the floor.
Relishing the sudden, weightless sensation of being airborne, feeling the air whistle through his feathers, Draco tried to go a little higher - maybe this owl thing wasn’t such a bad thing after all - only to find that he was a little … stuck.
In vain, Draco flapped his wings, trying to aim for the ceiling, at least - and found himself twirling in pretty little circles, around the region of where a regular bloke’s groin would be.
In dismay, he beat his wings harder, but before he knew it, his fledging wings were tiring and he was drifting back towards the silvery plushness of his new Bokharan carpet.
Draco hung his head. Not only was he an owl, he was obviously a retarded one as well, who couldn’t manage to fly beyond table-height.
He eyed the table accusingly.
Perhaps it was time to get some help.
::
There were several avenues available to a Malfoy who had suddenly found himself in a difficult and compromising position, one open to no trifling amount of speculation, humiliation and hilarity.
One: his mother, whom Draco had never seen with a hair out of place in his whole life, and whose innate poise filtered down to each immaculate little fingertip.
His mother, who seemed to find her son and his antics - especially with that Potter boy - inordinately amusing, and who had a rather braying, donkey-like laugh for such a blonde-tipped goddess.
Two: his godfather, also his employer at The Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, who had gritted his teeth through most of Draco’s childhood peccadilloes, and - though Draco did not doubt his love - had a singularly disconcerting, snide way of showing it.
Such as mockery, reprimands and … well, mockery. Patronising mockery, at that - Draco imagined Severus’ face were he to be confronted with a retarded, fluffy little baby owl, and shuddered.
Three - no, actually, that was about it.
Malfoys usually didn’t find themselves in enough compromising positions to warrant a third contigent standby-type person.
Draco looked at his reflection again in the mirror (who had since fallen asleep - as it was old, and a little senile) and watched his doppelganger blink huge luminous eyes back at him beseechingly.
No, he would go to the source of the problem. His mother would doubtless try to make his feathery other self sit for an Animagus portrait - so in vogue, my dear, imagine what the Zabinis would say! - before absent-mindedly contacting Severus for a quick-fix potion for the problem. And Severus would probably take one scant look at him before spinning the vilest, gloopiest beetledung concoction he could get away with shoving down Draco’s beak.
No. He needed to transform back on his own. He needed a Parselmouth-type person. For owls.
He would go to the Owl Emporium.
::
Draco crept quietly around the Manor. Not trusting himself to fly … yet, he had been reduced to little crab-like skitters and hops along the long, loooong corridors.
Why the fuck was his house so big? From a vantage point of a foot off the ground, everything had gained a different perspective.
Draco tried not to think of the fact that house-elves could probably stomp on him now. He also tried not to think about how house-elves - with their huge bat-like ears and bulging eyes - would look like magnified by about four times.
Draco shuddered, and ruffled his feathers.
Half an hour later, after hopping about - three doors down, Draco reached his personal Flooing parlour.
Another half-hour later, nervously gripping a pinch of Floo powder between his beak, Draco hopped into the fireplace grate and concentrated on thinking Eeylops Owl Emporium, Eeylops Owl Emporium, before hooting as loudly as he could.
::
Harry Potter was having a rather sunless summer. In the hilly emotional landscape of his mind, it was all scudding grey clouds, portentous lightning storms and gusts of rain - not a beam of sunshine to be found anywhere.
For one, it was the first summer since the Dursleys he had spent all alone.
Ron and Hermione were on their extended honeymoon (which Hermione had proudly claimed she had been saving three years’ worth of holiday leave towards - regardless of the fact they had only been engaged two months), the Weasleys were off visiting Ginny and Charlie in Romania, and Hedwig had passed away early in the summer, in her sleep.
Harry had been assured that Hedwig’s death had been painless - she had apparently lived years in the wild before being given to Harry, and they had no sure way of knowing precisely how old she was. She had died a gentle death, surrounded by Harry’s oldest Gryffindor scarf and her favourite marmalade-covered bites of toast, of nothing more violent than old age.
Harry knew it was ridiculous to feel so despondent over the death of his owl, his first pet, his second friend.
He had put off finding another owl for as long as he could, but the new term was starting at Hogwarts, and as DADA professor he really did need his own owl - to keep in regular contact with Ron and Hermione and for sourcing various underground DADA supplies, if nothing else.
Harry hitched his old overcoat from its hook behind the door, spared a glance at the empty owl perch by his bedside, and left the flat for Diagon Alley.
::
Mr Codswallop was beside himself with joy and glee. GLEE!
Harry Potter was in his humble little shop! Looking for an owl, no less. Mr Codswallop blithely ignored the fact that his was currently the only owl emporium gracing Diagon Alley with its presence, and twinkled over his silver monocle as he nimbly stepped over a little pile of owl poop.
‘Oops! Mind your step there, Mr Potter! Owls - you know, they get quite fidgety when they’re nervous - it’s plop, plop, plop everywhere!’
Harry tried to edge a discreet few inches away from the rotund, excitable shopowner, who - with his soulful eyes, well-padded frame and spindly legs that seemed to disregard all notions of gravity - rather resembled a purple-robed bedecked, scruffy brown owl himself.
Absent-mindedly pushing his glasses further up his nose, Harry cast a look around the dim shophouse, disconcerted by finding his gaze met by dozens of identical owl-eyes, in varying shades of yellow and brown, in every direction he looked.
‘See, here! A lovely bird, fit for a dashing young man such as yourself, sir! Beautiful feathers, lovely plumage, a ferocious bird. Truly Ferocious!’ Mr Codswallop proudly gestured toward a regal-looking eagle owl in the centre of the shop, who, catching sight of Harry, turned around slowly and fixed him with a steely glare.
Harry gulped.
‘Mr Codswallop…’ The shopkeeper had dived off into a corner, presumably to unearth yet another snooty, holier-than-thou bird with an attitude problem. ‘Do you have any … more docile birds? Something … a little smaller, perhaps? A post-owl, maybe?’ Harry’s voice rose a little higher at the last question, as he caught sight of the enormous big bird currently perched atop Mr Codswallop’s shoulder, who looked about to eat his head.
Mr Codswallop twinkled alarmingly. ‘A little bird? Pshah! Eeylops Emporium can do better than a post-owl for Mr Potter! We can give you a beast - a true Beast to fit in with your own virile nature, eh?’
Harry cleared his throat. ‘I’d really be more comfortable with something a little - less beastly. Perhaps a smaller owl?’ Harry thought of Pigwidgeon. ‘Yes,’ he said, more firmly, ‘a smaller owl would be perfect.’
Just as Mr Codswallop’s face was falling into a little moue of dejection, there was a bang! from the direction of the fireplace and a flash of vituperative green flame.
Harry whirled around, his battle-instincts tingling apprehensively, only to behold … a tiny little white owl, covered in specks on grey soot, weaving dazedly before tripping over an upraised brick in the fireplace.
Harry’s mouth twitched unwillingly into a smile.
Flat on its back, the speck of a bird blinked owlishly back at Harry as his face loomed over the dissipating tendrils of smoke.
‘Ah! It must be a new delivery!’ Mr Codswallop bustled over excitedly.
Crouched down into the fireplace, Harry lifted a gentle hand toward the small owl, and tenderly stroked the soft, fluffy down at the top of its silvery head. For a moment, the boy and the owl looked at each other - the owl widening its huge, reflective grey eyes in something that looked suspiciously like horrified, delibitating dismay.
Harry clicked his tongue softly against his teeth, and watched as the little bird began to slowly relax into his touch. He hadn’t considered getting another snowy owl - it would have seemed too, just too … but this little Puffskein of an owl looked nothing like Hedwig, not really.
The little owl hooted grumpily as Harry’s stroking of its feathers slowed, and Harry smiled.
‘Hello, girl.’
Ok, taking a break from the huge monster of a fic I'm committed to for a challenge, and produced some happy!fic instead.
Behold! ... Fluffy!Draco!
Right. One, two, three …
Three …
THREE …
…
Shitbuggerfuck.
Draco Malfoy looked at his elegant self in the mirror, and cooed.
The fluffy white bird in the mirror looked bewilderedly back at him, and ruffled its feathers agitatedly.
If Draco Malfoy had been different sort of bird, he would have been banging his poultry-sized nugget of a brain against the Rococo curves of his study table.
Calm down! Calm down and think through this. You are a wizard … a wizard, not an owl. Better than a wizard, a Malfoy …
Malfoys did not coo. Cooing was for the birds.. oh shut up.
Draco thought he could see the snowy owl in the mirror hyperventilating.
The mirror, insensitive soul-of-a-hag that it was, chirped cheerily.
‘Well, now! Look at you! Aren’t you a pretty little thing. Those wings! Those eyes!’
Draco narrowed his huge grey-rimmed eyes at the mirror beadily.
‘So - elegant! Oh, won’t your mother be pleased. Look at little Draco, performing his first successful Transformation! Oh dearie, aren’t you proud of yourself!’
Draco closed his eyes, and bemoaned the fact that the mirror had been in his family for generations, had seen him poop in his pants when he was five, and that nothing would persuade his mother that selling that goddamned thing off would be a boon to his delicate constitution.
In a fit of pique, though, he did attempt to peck at it with his new beak.
‘Oooh! Sweetheart! That tickles! Do it again!’ The mirror giggled.
Resolving to ignore the mirror and to burn it at the first opportunity, Draco whirled around unsteadily on his claw-like feet and tried to transform back, again.
Human hands … wizard hands …wizard feet … blonde hair …fuck it fuckety FUCK why wasn’t it working?!!
In sudden panic, Draco tried to wave his arms, and ended up causing little gusts with his upturned wings as he whirled around his bedroom, barely a feet off the floor.
Relishing the sudden, weightless sensation of being airborne, feeling the air whistle through his feathers, Draco tried to go a little higher - maybe this owl thing wasn’t such a bad thing after all - only to find that he was a little … stuck.
In vain, Draco flapped his wings, trying to aim for the ceiling, at least - and found himself twirling in pretty little circles, around the region of where a regular bloke’s groin would be.
In dismay, he beat his wings harder, but before he knew it, his fledging wings were tiring and he was drifting back towards the silvery plushness of his new Bokharan carpet.
Draco hung his head. Not only was he an owl, he was obviously a retarded one as well, who couldn’t manage to fly beyond table-height.
He eyed the table accusingly.
Perhaps it was time to get some help.
::
There were several avenues available to a Malfoy who had suddenly found himself in a difficult and compromising position, one open to no trifling amount of speculation, humiliation and hilarity.
One: his mother, whom Draco had never seen with a hair out of place in his whole life, and whose innate poise filtered down to each immaculate little fingertip.
His mother, who seemed to find her son and his antics - especially with that Potter boy - inordinately amusing, and who had a rather braying, donkey-like laugh for such a blonde-tipped goddess.
Two: his godfather, also his employer at The Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, who had gritted his teeth through most of Draco’s childhood peccadilloes, and - though Draco did not doubt his love - had a singularly disconcerting, snide way of showing it.
Such as mockery, reprimands and … well, mockery. Patronising mockery, at that - Draco imagined Severus’ face were he to be confronted with a retarded, fluffy little baby owl, and shuddered.
Three - no, actually, that was about it.
Malfoys usually didn’t find themselves in enough compromising positions to warrant a third contigent standby-type person.
Draco looked at his reflection again in the mirror (who had since fallen asleep - as it was old, and a little senile) and watched his doppelganger blink huge luminous eyes back at him beseechingly.
No, he would go to the source of the problem. His mother would doubtless try to make his feathery other self sit for an Animagus portrait - so in vogue, my dear, imagine what the Zabinis would say! - before absent-mindedly contacting Severus for a quick-fix potion for the problem. And Severus would probably take one scant look at him before spinning the vilest, gloopiest beetledung concoction he could get away with shoving down Draco’s beak.
No. He needed to transform back on his own. He needed a Parselmouth-type person. For owls.
He would go to the Owl Emporium.
::
Draco crept quietly around the Manor. Not trusting himself to fly … yet, he had been reduced to little crab-like skitters and hops along the long, loooong corridors.
Why the fuck was his house so big? From a vantage point of a foot off the ground, everything had gained a different perspective.
Draco tried not to think of the fact that house-elves could probably stomp on him now. He also tried not to think about how house-elves - with their huge bat-like ears and bulging eyes - would look like magnified by about four times.
Draco shuddered, and ruffled his feathers.
Half an hour later, after hopping about - three doors down, Draco reached his personal Flooing parlour.
Another half-hour later, nervously gripping a pinch of Floo powder between his beak, Draco hopped into the fireplace grate and concentrated on thinking Eeylops Owl Emporium, Eeylops Owl Emporium, before hooting as loudly as he could.
::
Harry Potter was having a rather sunless summer. In the hilly emotional landscape of his mind, it was all scudding grey clouds, portentous lightning storms and gusts of rain - not a beam of sunshine to be found anywhere.
For one, it was the first summer since the Dursleys he had spent all alone.
Ron and Hermione were on their extended honeymoon (which Hermione had proudly claimed she had been saving three years’ worth of holiday leave towards - regardless of the fact they had only been engaged two months), the Weasleys were off visiting Ginny and Charlie in Romania, and Hedwig had passed away early in the summer, in her sleep.
Harry had been assured that Hedwig’s death had been painless - she had apparently lived years in the wild before being given to Harry, and they had no sure way of knowing precisely how old she was. She had died a gentle death, surrounded by Harry’s oldest Gryffindor scarf and her favourite marmalade-covered bites of toast, of nothing more violent than old age.
Harry knew it was ridiculous to feel so despondent over the death of his owl, his first pet, his second friend.
He had put off finding another owl for as long as he could, but the new term was starting at Hogwarts, and as DADA professor he really did need his own owl - to keep in regular contact with Ron and Hermione and for sourcing various underground DADA supplies, if nothing else.
Harry hitched his old overcoat from its hook behind the door, spared a glance at the empty owl perch by his bedside, and left the flat for Diagon Alley.
::
Mr Codswallop was beside himself with joy and glee. GLEE!
Harry Potter was in his humble little shop! Looking for an owl, no less. Mr Codswallop blithely ignored the fact that his was currently the only owl emporium gracing Diagon Alley with its presence, and twinkled over his silver monocle as he nimbly stepped over a little pile of owl poop.
‘Oops! Mind your step there, Mr Potter! Owls - you know, they get quite fidgety when they’re nervous - it’s plop, plop, plop everywhere!’
Harry tried to edge a discreet few inches away from the rotund, excitable shopowner, who - with his soulful eyes, well-padded frame and spindly legs that seemed to disregard all notions of gravity - rather resembled a purple-robed bedecked, scruffy brown owl himself.
Absent-mindedly pushing his glasses further up his nose, Harry cast a look around the dim shophouse, disconcerted by finding his gaze met by dozens of identical owl-eyes, in varying shades of yellow and brown, in every direction he looked.
‘See, here! A lovely bird, fit for a dashing young man such as yourself, sir! Beautiful feathers, lovely plumage, a ferocious bird. Truly Ferocious!’ Mr Codswallop proudly gestured toward a regal-looking eagle owl in the centre of the shop, who, catching sight of Harry, turned around slowly and fixed him with a steely glare.
Harry gulped.
‘Mr Codswallop…’ The shopkeeper had dived off into a corner, presumably to unearth yet another snooty, holier-than-thou bird with an attitude problem. ‘Do you have any … more docile birds? Something … a little smaller, perhaps? A post-owl, maybe?’ Harry’s voice rose a little higher at the last question, as he caught sight of the enormous big bird currently perched atop Mr Codswallop’s shoulder, who looked about to eat his head.
Mr Codswallop twinkled alarmingly. ‘A little bird? Pshah! Eeylops Emporium can do better than a post-owl for Mr Potter! We can give you a beast - a true Beast to fit in with your own virile nature, eh?’
Harry cleared his throat. ‘I’d really be more comfortable with something a little - less beastly. Perhaps a smaller owl?’ Harry thought of Pigwidgeon. ‘Yes,’ he said, more firmly, ‘a smaller owl would be perfect.’
Just as Mr Codswallop’s face was falling into a little moue of dejection, there was a bang! from the direction of the fireplace and a flash of vituperative green flame.
Harry whirled around, his battle-instincts tingling apprehensively, only to behold … a tiny little white owl, covered in specks on grey soot, weaving dazedly before tripping over an upraised brick in the fireplace.
Harry’s mouth twitched unwillingly into a smile.
Flat on its back, the speck of a bird blinked owlishly back at Harry as his face loomed over the dissipating tendrils of smoke.
‘Ah! It must be a new delivery!’ Mr Codswallop bustled over excitedly.
Crouched down into the fireplace, Harry lifted a gentle hand toward the small owl, and tenderly stroked the soft, fluffy down at the top of its silvery head. For a moment, the boy and the owl looked at each other - the owl widening its huge, reflective grey eyes in something that looked suspiciously like horrified, delibitating dismay.
Harry clicked his tongue softly against his teeth, and watched as the little bird began to slowly relax into his touch. He hadn’t considered getting another snowy owl - it would have seemed too, just too … but this little Puffskein of an owl looked nothing like Hedwig, not really.
The little owl hooted grumpily as Harry’s stroking of its feathers slowed, and Harry smiled.
‘Hello, girl.’