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He doesn’t notice the great, big owl circling him until he’s made his third lap around the Great Lake. It’s cold out, his cheeks are flushed and wind-chapped, but he’s warm. It is a mixture of frustration and anxiety powering him, forcing one leg in front of another.
Harry stops walking because of curiosity.
The owl doesn’t bother hanging around, just swoops in, stares at him until he outstretches his hands, dropping its bouquet onto him before vigorously flapping away.
He’s not completely surprised—it is Valentine’s after all—but he’d thought he’d received everything during breakfast at the Great Hall. There was a mountain of chocolates and scribbled love notes waiting for him in the dorms.
A brow quirked, he considers the bouquet. It’s an unusual arrangement consisting of deep purples and bright oranges, springs of berries interspersed, but in a way, it’s quite nice. He has to resist the urge of bringing the bouquet up to his nose and taking a nice, deep breath, but allows himself a quick whiff. He’d long learned his lesson with consuming—or letting anyone else consume—anything he was gifted, but this was just a bouquet, one given to him quietly, out of sight.
It was sweet. Most people only gave him gifts for the attention, the publicity they’d receive.
Around the carefully clipped stems is a green ribbon, a small note-card attached. He spares some mind to flick it open.
You will get what you deserve, is written in neat, looping font. It’s vaguely familiar; maybe one of his year-mates had decided to give pranking him a go?
Harry lets out a little laugh, though there’s a touch of self-reproach to it.
Really, he thinks, What an odd thing to write.
The lilies are a nice touch.
Hermione waves him down as he enters the castle. She’d offered to join his laps earlier, but he’d refused, needing some time to himself.
“Harry,” she starts, clearly excited, “I think-”
She stops in her tracks, hands faltering in the air, eyes latching onto the bouquet in his hands.
“Drop it,” she says, voice low and serious.
Confused, Harry does as told. Another lesson he’d long learned: listen to Hermione.
“Who gave this to you?”
Harry shrugs, “Not a clue.”
Her frown deepens, warping her face.
“Why?” He asks, as she points her wand at the bouquet, vanishing it.
“Monkshood, fire lilies, and holly berries?”
For a moment she appears to consider scolding him, trailing off as she makes intense, unwavering eye contact, before her brows tilt upwards together, a sigh befitting a tired old wizard escaping her lips, “Really Harry, I’m surprised you didn’t notice. Someone was, at the very least, trying to send you a message.”
Her lips purse as she pauses again, likely looking him over for any harm done, “A rather mean one, at that.”
Harry pales, stomach lurching. He hadn’t noticed, he’d been too caught up in himself, too caught up to realize—
Voldemort’s handwriting hadn’t changed at all.