Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of Joanne K. Rowling. Any characters, settings, places from the Harry Potter books and movies used in this work are the property of Joanne K. Rowling, and Warner Brothers. Original characters belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the private enjoyment of readers at FanFictionNet, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

oooOooo

A Joke?

The owl crashed against the window with a painful smack, sliding down the glass in slow motion, splayed and flat, almost like a special effect in a movie.

For a moment Peter Morgan stared at the clump of feathers on the balcony in shock. Then he put two and two together – that equals four – and rolled his eyes. You should think that Anna would finally stop with that non-sense, now that the last book was published, read, dissected and read again. But no, the twin-sister of his best friend and therefore by default his friend, too, would simply not stop with her wizarding jokes.

He slid back the door and bent down to fling the cheap feathered toy back down into her face with disgust and a few well-chosen hexes. He'd never admit that to anyone, but the one and only thing in the "Harry Potter" books that he really liked were the spells. He liked the sound of them, and he often found himself repeating them in his mind.

Just an inch above the tawny feathers, he hesitated. Blinked. Sank to his knees. He'd never seen a live owl close up. There was one in the local zoo, but it kept to the shadows away from the wire netting. This one was small, round, and fluffy. He didn't know what to do. He knew from his budgies that birds generally did not take well to having their feathers stroked. Was it even still alive? Very carefully he reached out with his index-finger. The feathers of the bird's breast were soft as downs. Suddenly the owl moved. It appeared to shake its head as if it was dizzy. And it probably was, having collided with the glass of the balcony door like that.

"You're alive!" He sighed with relief. "Why ever did you fly against the balcony door?" He bit his lip when he realised that he'd been speaking aloud. It wouldn't do for Anna to hear him, not after having teased her about her habit of talking to animals for years.

The owl blinked at him, very slowly, almost as if it had understood him. Then it ruffled its feathers, shook its wings, and was all at once back on its feet. With a curious little hop it moved to one side, where it continued to sit in a daze, listing a little to the left, almost as if it had one too many drinks.

The owl had been lying on a letter.

Now it was Peter's turn to blink slowly. He did it a couple of times. But the owl remained where it was, and the letter – a pretty big letter, compared to the size of the owl – remained where it was, too. The letter lay on the split tile right in front of the balcony door, obscuring most of the crack. It was made of thick yellowish paper or parchment. At least it had the splodges and swirls he recognized from parchment designs of gift wraps and gift cards. It bore the scratch of what looked like an owl's claws gripping a letter too hard at the point of colliding with a hard surface. And a wax seal.

The wax was dark red and shiny and the images impressed in the wax looked strangely familiar: there was a big bird, a lion rampant, a bristling badger and a dragon. Or rather, not a dragon, but a wyrm – one of those snake-like dragons with wings. In the middle between the animals was a letter. A big, striking F.

"What the EFF is that?" Peter asked nobody in particular. The owl closed its eyes and swayed in the other direction, obviously still quite nauseated.

Gingerly, he reached out and turned the letter over. When he saw the address, he dropped the missive as if he'd burned his fingers.

ooo

"To
Mr Peter Morgan
The Den
White Friars Road 4
Chester, Cheshire
United Kingdom"

ooo

For a moment he just stared at the letter. Then he inhaled deeply. Of course. He had been right, after all. Only one of his friends would know that he called his room "The Den". He stood up and went out on the balcony. "Anna? Anna, you little twerp, you're so gonna pay for this. And where did you get that owl anyway?" He looked down, fully expecting to find his friend's twin collapsed in silent laughter on the lawn down below. But she wasn't there. Actually, there seemed to be no one out there at all. "Anna? Come on, show yourself, game over."

Silence. The drowsy silence of a summer afternoon in Chester. On the road in front of the house a car passed by, somewhere in the distance he heard the voices of two women, chatting and laughing. But nearby? Nothing. No giggles, no snorts, no suppressed laughter. For some reason his throat felt suddenly tight and his mouth was dry. He turned around again.

The owl was still there, eyes closed, head now curled under its wing. But it still couldn't sit straight.

And the letter was still there, too. He swallowed and picked it up.

Just. A. Joke. It's just a joke, and Anna will pay for this. Henry and I will never let her live THIS down. But his fingers were cold when he broke the seal and unfolded the ... he drew a deep breath. Parchment. It was too heavy for paper, and the texture was all wrong.

The letterhead bore the same coat of arms as the wax seal.

Below the image, he read:

ooo

FOGCOURTS ACADEMY
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Advanced Studies in MAGIC

Headmaster: ALBUS P. W. P. HUMBLELORE
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Mag. Extr., Int. Confed. of Witches and Wizards, etc. etc.)

Dear Mr. Morgan,

We are pleased to notify you that you have been selected to attend the Fogcourts Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed in this letter a list with all the necessary books and equipment for your first term at the school. In case you have difficulties obtaining any of these items, please see the mail order catalogue or the online shop www. allyourwizardingneeds .com
An appointment for our counsellor for students of mundane origins to meet with your parents has already been arranged.
Term begins on September 1. We expect your arrival at Stirling station no later than 3 pm. Your return owl should be sent no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress

ooo

"I'll be damned," muttered Peter Morgan and sank down on his knees in front of the balcony door once more. The owl, which now resembled nothing so much as a feathered ball, did not stir a single feather.

oooOooo

A/N: Welcome to The Plot Bunny That Would Not Go Away.

I have several warnings:

1 - I have no idea what this is going to be, except maybe a creative companion for the HP read-along I'm currently engaged in.

2 - This has not been beta-read and it will not be beta-read. I love concrit, but I'm not trying for perfect writing with this (those efforts are currently dedicated wholly to my o-fic). I'm just trying to get rid of that plot bunny, so humour me here.

Having said all that, I hope you enjoyed this and I'm afraid there's more to come.

Cheers,

JunoMagic

P.S.: I apologize for not updating certain other stories. Please believe me, they are NOT abandoned. I'm just slow because of a very busy offline life.

For everything else, please see my "Krimskrams, Chota Mota, Odds and Ends" forum.