For QLFC S6R4
Prompt: Write from a pet's perspective about mistreatment or abandonment (of pets or people).
Optional prompts: (phrase) under the stairs, (plot point) receiving a pet as a gift, (restriction) no names
September 9, 1959
From your hiding spot under the stairs, you watch the new pet owl arrive. Her feathers are a warm brown, flecked with grey and white, and have clearly been carefully groomed. You watch her perch proudly in her cage, her chest puffed out in pride. You have no doubts that she expects to be the pride of the family—of the little boy she had been purchased for.
For weeks, you had listened to the child whining about receiving a new pet owl and how it's so unfair how all of my friends have owls and I'm stuck with just an ugly cat.
Finally, he had gotten his wish. For his birthday this year, he would get just what he wanted, just as he always did.
...
Hello, the bird calls from her perch.
Hello, you say. She seems to be waiting for a response, but you simply sit there while she tries to continue the conversation.
What's your name, the owl asks, blinking slowly at you.
I don't have one, you say simply. What is yours?
I don't have one yet, but once my master gives me my name, I'll tell you, she says. You don't have the heart to tell her that it's unlikely she'll receive one, because to name someone, you must care about them first.
I've never seen a tailless cat before, the owl continues, staring down at you from her perch. You look funny.
She's young and she means no offence, but you're not interested in talking anymore. You spring onto your feet and stalk out of the living room and into the hallway, ignoring her questioning remarks. The memories still pull at you from the depths of your mind, and try as you might, you can't shake them off.
You had been like her once. You thought the world of your master, thought it was your life's goal to please him and make him laugh. And oh, did he have a wonderful laugh. His entire face would light up and, framed by long blond hair and cool grey eyes, he looked like an angel. When he was especially pleased, he would rub your back and sneak you treats when his parents weren't looking.
And then… he got bored. What a fearsome thing, boredom in humans. When he became bored, a cruel and a twisted version of himself came to light.
Your mother had said that humans were to be cherished, and that you would be loved in turn.
That dream had been crushed a long time ago.
…
Officially, your home is the bed in the living room. Your true home is the little nook under the stairs. It's the only place in the house where the little boy can't reach you. It's high enough and small enough and it's just right for you. Your safe haven.
Over the years you've dragged some bedding and toys into the small space so it's perfectly habitable. You come out for food and for sunlight, but you avoid the times when he's likely to come out.
You've learned better over the years.
Your master isn't cruel all the time. Sometimes his face will soften and he'll play with you and pet you again like always, but that only makes it worse when he snaps. You wish he had never shown you affection in the first place. Maybe then you wouldn't have had to suffer through the heartbreak.
…
A loud screech pierces through the air and you're jolted awake from the pleasant nap you were taking. You leap down from your nook after the little boy's footsteps have passed you and scamper only the living room.
Only one creature in the house could've make that noise.
Don't look at me, the owl cries, hiding her face behind her wings. Don't you dare look at me!
Her beautiful brown wings are patchy in places, angry red marks indicating where feathers used to be. Fresh blood is trailing down her wings, dripping unceasingly on the hardwood floor. Just how many feathers had he pulled out?
Go away, she shrieks when she sees you. Goawaygoawaygoaway!
She's clearly in pain and ashamed and angry as well. You turn and slink back out of the room, allowing her some space.
You had known it was coming—it was only a matter of time before your master's true face came to light—but she hadn't known and for that you mourn for her.
You don't return to your nook, but lay waiting in the hallway near the kitchen instead. Eventually, a small white figure emerges from a hole in the wall. Your paw shoots out and pins it to the ground, the mouse letting out a terrified shriek as you unsheath your claws. Mice are notorious gossips, which you're planning on using to your advantage.
What happened to that owl, you growl under your breath.
The mouse seems to be too scared to squeak out more than a few words, so you loosen the pressure a little. I'm going to let you go now, you say, but if you even think about escaping you'll be mincemeat faster than you can say 'food'.
You step off the mouse and wait for it to catch its breath.
The little boy wasn't happy with her, the mouse squeaks. She didn't deliver his mail fast enough, so he started plucking out her feathers one by one.
You release the mouse as thanks for its information, and it scampers off to safety.
Later, when dinner is being served for the humans, you creep by the open doorway, taking care to avoid forming any shadows against the bright light of the dining room.
"Your precious owl was bleeding today," his mother, a stocky lady with bright yellow hair murmurs.
"She arrived here like that," your master says. "One of my friends must've thought it was funny, doing something so mean."
She tuts at that. "Well, as long as she can still fly I suppose. But you should tell your friend to apologize. The owl is your property after all."
"I will, Mother," he says, cherubic and innocent.
…
The perfect opportunity arrives a week later when the entire family is out of the house for some pureblood gathering or whatnot. You pad into the living room and catch the attention of the moody owl. You remember her as she was on her first day, and your chest hurts for her.
The owl doesn't come out immediately, but you're in no rush. You settle on the carpet next to the window and bask in the afternoon sun. After a few minutes, you hear the flutter of wings before she settles beside you.
What happened to your tail, she asks, when you look up at her.
You heave a deep sigh, and tell your story.
It had been a humid sunny afternoon, sometime in the summer. You were half-awake, half-napping on his lap as he combed his fingers through your fur. Hold still, he had whispered into your ears. Your ears perked up in interest, wondering if maybe you would get a treat or a present, and those were the last thoughts you had before a sharp pain erupted from your back and warm liquid started running down your legs. Blood. Your blood. And you twisted around to see him holding it in one hand, a pair of scissors in the other.
You had howled and screamed and scratched whoever came close, but even through your pain, even as you were receiving medical aid, you could hear him sobbing to his parents that you had gotten your tail caught in a mouse trap.
What lies! You could hardly believe it.
His parents had sent out a house elf to check the perimeter, and when nothing was found they executed the poor house elf right on the spot. And all the while, the boy's tears had dried up, as if they had never been there in the first place.
You finish your story and nudge the owl in the chest with your head. She coos back soothingly.
Listen, child, you say. You need to get out of here. This isn't a place for owls like you. You're young still, and you have your entire life ahead of you.
She looks tempted. Good.
But what about you, she asks. Come with me.
You shake your head.
I'm too old, you say. Leave me. I know all his tricks and I know how to avoid him. I'm fine here.
The young owl still seems unsure, so you make a point of turning your back on her and shutting your eyes. After a few long minutes, you hear the fluttering of wings as she takes off out the open window, far too high for you.
Your life has been long and arduous. But if you could save another animal from your fate, then it's been worth it.
…
The front door slams open, usually loud in the empty house. The family must've have returned from their trip.
You're just settling down again when two hands reach out into your nook under the stairs and drag you out into the daylight. You yowl and squirm and scratch but the little boy doesn't let go. You've never seen him like this, his face scrunched up in fury.
"You thought that I didn't know about your little hiding place, didn't you?" he says. "Where did my owl go? What did you do?"
Each question he emphasizes with a harsh shake. You're terrified, but helpless in the face of his anger.
"I should've gotten rid of you ages ago," he shouts, cheeks red. His hands wrap around your neck and he starts squeezing. Your air supply cuts out.
This might be it for you, you think absently.
Then, through a haze, you hear a mighty screech and the pressure is gone. You twist and land on all four feet, barely catching your breath before you feel powerful claws circle around your midsection and lift you into the air. Within moments, you're out the front door and away from the house and everything that it stood for.
It feels like hours later, or perhaps less, when you finally land. Your legs feel weak so you collapse down onto your side and try to process the events of the day.
Are you okay, the owl twitters, her head tilted in question.
I'll be fine, you gasp. Stumbling to your feet, you take in your surroundings. There's shelter—a small abandoned barn—immediately to your left. The rest is just prairieland and wild grass.
We could live here together! I checked earlier and there's plenty of mice and other game here as well, so we should be fine for food, the owl says nervously. What do you think?
You stare at the sky, wider and more blue than anything you've seen from the window of that dusty house. Heaving out a sigh, you let go of all the fear, the sadness, the frustration that had built up in you over the years. You had never realized what a burden it had been.
You've never felt more peaceful in your entire life.
I think this is perfect.