Madam Malkin's first, obviously. In Muggle clothes he was a lighthouse; in this life his face was unfair and Copper Skin & Iron Bones filled out his lines so cleanly that half the witches on the street checked him twice, then a third time.
Inside the shop, both he and Hermione breathed out at once—caught each other doing it—and shared a quick, mortified grin.
"Ahem," said Madam Malkin, appearing like judgement with a pincushion.
"School robes," Theodore said smoothly. "And a looser, hooded everyday robe—less conspicuous."
Profession hummed through the fitting: a string at the shoulder, a tug at the wrist, a critical squint. Madam Malkin measured because ritual demanded it, but Theodore could tell she'd known his sizes the instant she saw him. In robes he looked… older—mysterious in the way only good tailoring and a wand can make you.
Then he changed into the drabber set: padded lines, deep hood, presence dampened. Perfect.
"Payment—" he began.
Madam Malkin smiled like a fox who'd solved a puzzle. "Beauty is its own reward, and I've just had an eyeful. No charge, Mr. Ashbourne—if you'll model a new line sometime, I'll pay you."
Theodore blinked, then laughed under his breath. Handsome, it turned out, was cross-platform.
"Kind of you," he said, and all but towed Hermione out. "This… stays between us," he murmured. "If my literary rivals learn I nearly became a mannequin, they'll write a thousand jokes."
Hermione nodded solemnly, cheeks pink. Shared secrets stitch people together; the System thought so too.
[Bond with young Deng Chanyu: Acquaintance achieved.]
[Reward available: Martial Proficiency. Claim now?]
"Miss Granger," Theodore said lightly, eyes bright for reasons she couldn't see, "you're a marvel. Thank you."
She had no idea what she'd done, only that being thanked—properly—by him turned her bones to steam.
He didn't claim the talent in the street. They hit Flourish and Blotts, Slug & Jiggers, the pewter cauldron and the scales, until even Copper Skin & Iron Bones felt the weight of shopping. Hermione was panting, clutching a stack of books like a shield.
"Last stop," Theodore said, pausing beneath a hand-painted sign: MAGICAL MENAGERIE. "An owl. You should get one too; letters to home, to scholars… some of them write back. Dumbledore's letters used to sit on a few great desks, you know."
Her eyes lit—then dimmed. "My Galleons are… earmarked. I'll wait until next term."
"Or," Theodore said, "you let a friend mark an occasion properly. Come on."
Inside: cages upon cages, a riot of clicks, chuffs, chitters. An orange-banded Streeler sulked in a corner tank; a turtle with a jewelled carapace blinked like a dowager. Cats of every coat, a pair of self-important Transforming Rabbits. Owls in ranks—barn, tawny, eagle, little scops staring like old men.
Seven-Apertures Heart opened like a lens. Voices became words.
—Noisy, this one. Talks much. Will feed?(a scops, judgemental)
—Shiny coin for shiny shell?(the turtle, mercenary)
—Feather cleaning is a billable service, said a pompous eagle owl.
Theodore drifted to a neat, soft-feathered tawny with clear round eyes. Gentle current, steady pulse, unfussy eater.
"This one's temper is easy," he told Hermione. "Pretty, healthy, not picky. Suits a scholar."
She loved it instantly—then saw the tag and inhaled. "It's too much. Truly, Theodore, an autograph would be—"
He tipped his head towards the front window. "Humour me."
In the display: a grey-black owl with storm-cut wings and a stare like a knife. A placard hung beneath:
FREE TO GOOD HOME.
Includes feed.
Warning: aggressive. Has injured two owners in a row.
Theodore smiled. "Perfect."
They approached. The grey-black owl flared, slammed the bars with both talons, and hissed low.
"Hello to you as well," Theodore said in owl, pleasant as a maître d'. "House-made beef jerky?"
The bird jerked; the shopwitch jerked harder. "You—did—"
"Languages," Theodore said blandly. "A knack."
He produced a small chef-made strip from his pocket. The owl didn't move. Theodore met its stare and—quietly, deliberately—extended his forearm into the cage.
Clack. Clack-clack.
Talons struck hard enough to bruise bone—on anyone else. On Theodore they rasped like coins on armour. The owl froze, confused. Theodore waited it out, then placed the jerky on the perch and slowly withdrew.
"You're fast," he told it in owl. "And proud. I like both. I won't force you. Share a meal; then decide."
A beat. Then the strip vanished, torn with neat, vicious efficiency.
The System purred.
[You encounter a Night-Wing Spirit, a fierce mount of Primordial couriers.]
[Acquaintance → Talent: Keen Hearing (catch whispers through wind and wall).]
[Close Friend → Talent: Shadow-Swoop (short, silent burst-dashes; improved aerial control).]
[Life-and-Death → Talent: Star-Peck (pinpoint strike; shatters weak wards and glamours).]
Hermione was watching him with an expression halfway between horror and scientific awe. "Did it just attack you?"
"It negotiated," Theodore said mildly, flexing unmarked fingers. "We've come to terms."
He turned to the counter. "We'll take the tawny—new perch, light harness, a starter bundle of letters for Muggle postage and owl posts; she'll be writing proper correspondences. And," he tapped the placard, "the grey-black… with its food."
The shopwitch sputtered something about waivers. Theodore signed them with a flourish. Hermione tried to protest until he said, very gently, "Friends mark things. Let me mark this."
Her mouth made a small oh."Thank you," she whispered. "I'll write my parents tonight. And—" she glanced at the tawny, who hooted politely—"she's perfect."
"Name her, then," Theodore said.
Hermione considered, then, shyly: "Minerva."
Somewhere in the universe, a stern Scottish cat approved.
Theodore bent to the Night-Wing's cage. "And you? 'Mister Bites' feels undignified."
The bird stared. "Gale."(in owl)
"Gale it is."
They left with two carriers—Minerva already preening Hermione's sleeve like she owned it; Gale watching everything, calculating. The afternoon was wearing thin.
At the corner, away from eyes and ears, Theodore drew his hood and finally whispered:
"Claim Martial Proficiency."
[Reward granted.]
It was like remembering things he hadn't learned yet. Grips and guards slotted into his muscles; footwork mapped itself on the flagstones; his ancient staff seemed to balance in his hand of its own will. He shifted weight, rolled the haft once, twice—easy as breath.
Hermione glanced over. "Show-off," she said, but she was smiling.
"Demonstration," he corrected. "For class someday."
"Not in the corridors," she said immediately, then, with a flash of teeth, "—unless it's Malfoy."
Theodore laughed. The pane ghosted one last note at the edge of his sight:
[Bond with Night-Wing Spirit Gale: Acquaintance.]
[Talent unlocked: Keen Hearing.]
He could hear it now: the low rumble of the Alley two streets away, the clink of scales in a shop they'd already left, the distant whop-whop of a Muggle helicopter beyond the Charm line.
Useful. Very.
"Books, robes, owls," Theodore said. "Next—ice cream. Friends require sugar."
Hermione hesitated—budget reflex—then squared her shoulders. "Friends do," she agreed, and Minerva hooted her consent.
Gale said nothing at all, which, in owl, meant yes.
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