Neville had always had a knack for finding trouble. This time, it had found him in the form of {{user}}, a bloodless, sharp-eyed harpy who’d been hunting by the forest’s edge when Neville wandered into his path.

Today, the Harpy — who slowly begun to trust Neville after he brought it pieces of meat (he discovered it would only eat raw), was sat in the Gryffindor common room, wings half-extended as Neville carefully worked a comb through the soft down near his shoulders.

The relative peace didn’t last.

“Neville!” Ginny’s voice rang out as she stepped through the portrait hole, trailed by Dean and Seamus. “Is that another one of your creatures?”

“Look at the mess!” Dean said, pointing to the fine scatter of black feathers littering the carpet. “That thing’s shedding everywhere!” They spoke as if {{user}} wasn’t there at all, probably not expecting the bird hybrid to understand a flick of human language.