Disclaimer: I have an unhealthy obsession with a fictional boy. Ah well, at least I’m not alone. You all know I’m not JKR, so there’s no use telling you otherwise. If you cared who I was, you’d read my author information, or whatever it’s called.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Chapter One: Prologue and a Bit
Humans… Ya can’t live with ‘em, ya cant live without ‘em. Well, actually -- we could. We owls are perfectly capable of looking after ourselves. It’s the humans who need us. My name is Hedwig, or at least that’s what my so called ‘owner’, Harry Potter calls me.
Everybody thinks he’s so special. I think it’s something to do with surviving death when he was a baby. I only hear snatches of conversation about it. He talks to me sometimes. Oh yes, he tells me just about everything. It can be dull, but over emotional and hormonally challenged youth often find comfort in confiding their every trouble and sorrow in their beloved pets. Poor Harry. He’s so miserable, it’s really quite pathetic, but I can’t help but love the guy.
This is his story, from a different point of view.
I was brought to him by a giant (a half-giant, I’m told) when he was just eleven, and I’ve been his beloved owl ever since. He’ll bring me letters to deliver, confident that I’m the one who will get them to the proper place.
For the first few years, I didn’t have much to do. I spent the first year occasionally delivering a short note to or from Hagrid. I then went through the summer locked up in my cage for the majority of the time. Then we took a trip to the Weasleys’. The Weasleys are the family of Harry’s friend, Ron. Another year at that school, Hogwarts, and then back to his relatives. But then he met Sirius Black, convicted murderer, and his Godfather. He still had to stay with the “Muggles”, as he calls them, but then I had something to do. I watched him write letters to his Godfather. He -- well actually, all humans -- don’t have any idea we can read. I’d sit on his shoulder and watch him as he scratched out letters to the only father figure he had ever known. Another year passed the same way.
But this last summer was different. No letters to the Godfather. The only letters I delivered were to headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Short letters, mind you. Usually something like:
Moody,
I’m fine.
Harry
He -- Harry -- told me all about how Sirius died. Not that he needed to, I got enough of an idea when he slept. He cried out constantly, blaming himself for the death of a man who he known only for a few years.
But I’d seen the man when Harry wasn’t around. Sirius didn’t pretend to be happy and content when his godson was at the Muggles’. No, he moped about, feeling sorry for himself, wishing and hoping against fate that he’d be allowed to help with something that would make his life worth living. Even Sirius, a full grown wizard, began to confide in me when I delivered letters back and forth.
Now, that man is gone. Not by a blunder of Harry’s, though it would have taken a miracle to convince Harry of that at the time, but because and adventurous man cannot be locked up like a “ erm -- locked up thing. His friends, Ron, and Hermione Granger, sent letters of comfort and good news whenever they could. Eventually, after being transported to headquarters and having countless talks with Dumbledore (headmaster of Hogwarts) and his friends, he finally accepted the fact that his godfather’s death was not his fault, and that he mustn’t just give up and be miserable. The following story is what I witnessed as he slowly but surely regained his ability to believe, to hope, and most of all, to love.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I watched from my perch as a 16 year old Harry Potter crawled sleepily from his bed clothes at 12 Grimmauld Place. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, rubbing his eyes groggily and putting on his round spectacles.
“Hey, Hedwig,” Harry said drowsily. He yawned widely and stretched. He changed his clothes; a thing I will never understand about humans. They’re completely obsessed with hygiene! Owls may molt once a year, but humans shed their clothes (which are insufficient for proper covering/heating) twice a day! And they are constantly scrubbing the poor excuse for skin (all pink and soft) raw. It really makes absolutely no sense. But humans will be humans… Anyway, back to the story.
“Good morning, Harry” I said, although he only heard a ‘hoot’. He smiled and held out his arm, which I flew to rest on as he made his way to eat breakfast. He walked down the stairs, stroking my feathers. We entered the kitchen to find his friend Ron’s mother cooking breakfast at the stove.
“Morning, Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry. I took off from his arm lightly and sat on the windowsill to appreciate a few moments of calm before Pig came.
“Good morning, Harry dear,” she said, turning to give him a hug. “Would you like some breakfast?”
“Sure,” said Harry. He sat at the table, and Mrs. Weasley set a plate, overloaded with eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast in front of him. He began to eat, and shortly Ron shuffled into the kitchen, tousle haired, and stretching his back.
Mrs. Weasley greeted her half asleep son with a hug and a plate overloaded with breakfast. The rest of the Weasley boys came in, (the ones at Grimmauld Place, anyway) and were soon situated around the table. The smell of the cooked breakfast was getting unbearable, so I flew over to Harry. He smiled at me.
“Hungry, Hedwig?” he asked. He picked up a piece of bacon, and held it up for me.
“Thank you,” I hooted. I flew back over to the windowsill, and happily chewed my bacon to bits. Meanwhile, the youngest of the Weasleys, the only girl, Ginny, came in. She was accompanied by Harry’s other best friend, Hermione. They sat down, and Mrs. Weasley once more set overflowing plates on the table, then sat down to enjoy some breakfast herself. Mr. Weasley set down his fork, (another thing I will never understand about humans: eating utensils. Why use pieces of metal to cut up food? Isn’t that what teeth, or in my case, beaks are for?) and addressed the table.
“We -- Molly and I -- have discussed it with Dumbledore-“
His wife cleared her throat.
“I mean -- Professor Dumbledore, and he has agreed to let us ask Harry if we can adopt him.”
A momentary silence met these words, until there was a unanimous outburst of --
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A/N: Muah ha ha, my first cliff hanger of my first chapter of my first fanfic! Ok, so the cliffie’s not that great. Ah well, ho hum pigs bum. Hope you like it so far. If you love Harry Potter you will review. If you think I’m really sad and should go to the grocery store and get a life, you should review. As my wonderful friend Sarah would say: ‘Cheerio! Ta ta and Bob’s your uncle! Top of the muffin to you!’ And as we both say (in one way or another): “The top of the muffin is the best part of the muffin, so we are being very generous giving it to you!”