Here is a bar. At it is a girl, late teens - ? - dressed in wide bands of black silk tied ragged edge to ragged edge in a neat pattern. There's a small owl on her shoulder and a stack of napkins at her elbow and she's nursing a cup of something steaming and spicy.
He opens the door, startles slightly when it is not his office, and bangs his head against the low* ceiling.
"Dammit! That is rude!"
Still rubbing his head, he sulks his way over to the bar. At least Milliways' ceiling has higher clearance than that stupid high-rise.
*For certain values of the word.
"Hullo," says the girl. "What's rude? Stealing your doors?"
He sits at the bar and looks warily at a nearby (blank) napkin. "...Coffee. Please."
"Should it hang a little sign up on any stolen door?"
He sips cautiously at the coffee. It appears to pass muster, and so he sips less cautiously.
"I was sort of freaked out, but I don't think it's so much scary, especially if you've been before, which it seems you may have done."
"I found it very scary! I don't know about wherever you're from, but in my world, we're supposed to be the only world. And anything claiming to be a different world is actually a tentacle monster that wants to eat your face. It's kind of a thing. But when I ran away the first time I asked some much smarter wizards about it, and they said it was fine, so here we are. Not fleeing and/or gibbering in terror."
"Well, it's customary where I'm home to think we're the only world too, but you have to admit the decor here lacks tentacles."
"The cuttlefish tell elegant lies," Harry says gravely. "The barstools? Tentacles. The countertop? A cunningly disguised beak. My coffee? ...Something. Another tentacle, probably. Maybe just an impossible geometry."
"Well, I'm glad you are no longer afraid of the bar. She's been very nice." Pat pat.
He takes a sip. "Would it be rude if I ask your name? You look human, at least, so it's probably not verboten, and I can't just keep thinking of you as Owlgirl."
"I'm a witch, technically, but that doesn't mean I can't tell you my name, I'm Isabella. Yours?"
"Harry." He nods. "Wizard. Nice to meet you. Does the fluffy one have a name too?" he asks, looking admiringly birdwards.
"Pathalan," says the owl. "We weren't sure if we should introduce me, since you're a zombie and all over there."
He clears his throat. "Not a pet. You are a person. Very sorry, I retract my fluffiness comment."
"He's not a person, he's my daemon," says Isabella. "We're jointly a person. You know, when Bar told me that entire people were multiversally unusual I tried to think of a good way to explain it and I didn't get very far."
"...It sounds extremely magically weird. I could probably use the Sight to get a decent read on that arrangement, but I don't know if I trust the very nice magic bar enough to permanently etch her into my brain."
"Daemons aren't particularly a magic thing to my understanding. Everybody has them at home, witches' ones are always birds when we settle but that's the only difference."
"The Sight isn't just for magic, is the thing, it's sort of - seeing things as they truly are. It tends to focus in on magic a bit, but it'll give general insight into things pretty well too. And if your, uh, jointly-a-person thing, has anything to do with how your soul works, then that's magicky enough that the Sight would probably catch it."
"It's probably most accurate to say that Path is my soul," Isabella says.
This seems very distressing to Harry.
"Well, and you keep yours, what, tucked away in your head or something, that seems like a really paranoid thing to do to me," Isabella remarks. "I can barely tell you have one, maybe you don't, how should I know?"
"But- that'd be like having one of your organs in your pocket. It's, that's supposed to be part of you, if my liver grew a pair of wings and flapped around hooting at people I'd be very concerned! What if someone stepped on it! I don't have a spare liver! I especially don't have a spare soul!"
"I mean, I can see some practical advantages to having your soul internal," Isabella agrees. "It'd also be a lot safer to just stay home all the time, eat delivery pizza. Won't get sunburned or hit by a car that way, for sure." She pets her owl. "I appreciate safety as much as anybody but it's not the sole point to life and I can't help but feel sorry for your poor cramped soul which doesn't know what it's like to fly."
"Well, now I'm sad." He pats a vague area of his chest consolingly.
"I almost want a soulbird now. You make it sound really nice."