Love is for the Birds
Asides from being a very fine postal owl and the most faithful companion Harry ever had, I am, which most wizards tend to forget, an animal with feelings. I feel mad sometimes - like when I have to spend the summer locked up in a cage while Harry tells me to be quiet. I feel hungry, most of the time. I even feel sad, when Harry seems really down and depressed. When that happens I always try to bring him back a dead mouse or something as a token of affection; I don't know why, though, it doesn't seem to cheer him up as much as it should.
But that's straying from our main subject here. People who think animals are just sitting there or acting out of instinct are pretty thick; just look at Crookshanks. He's smarter than his mistress, that Granger girl. Oh, I can hear you protest already. Don't get me wrong here, Hermione's a real smart cookie, but she's really clueless when it comes to certain things.
It's the summer after fourth year, and Harry and Hermione have been sending each other letters every week. Hermione's very sweet and polite, and I guess she likes me enough, although her parents still aren't used to having owls fly in their living room in the middle of the afternoon. Well, anyway, the first thing she asks me after I give her the letter is: "Say Hedwig. You wouldn't happen to have seen Pigwidgeon on the way over, would you?"
If owls could snort, I certainly would have. Could she have been more obvious? Then she stares out the window, and sighs, and mutters something like: "Well, I'm not writing to him until he writes." That just about kills me. But even if I tried to make her get a clue, does anybody take owls' opinions seriously? Not likely. It's always: "Oh Hedwig, it's almost as if you understand.", then: "What am I talking about? You're just an owl!"
Well, just-an-owl figured out for herself that the same thing has been going on the other side. Ron Wealsey, Harry's other best friend, is happy to see bring over Harry's letters, but then that reminds him that Harry was the only one he's actually getting letters from, and then he mutters something like: "I bet she's too busy writing to Vicky to write to me. ha! like I care."
Please. Somebody should make a duh-brick fall on these people's heads. Too bad that's not covered in my contract, because sometimes I get violent urges to knock sense into humans' heads. Yeah, yeah, even Muggles. What, do you think it makes much sense writing stories pairing Hermione and Severus Snape? How about turning Harry into an owl Animagi and getting him to hook up with yours truly while you're at it?
Getting back to the wonderful story of my life, I don't mind going to the Burrow, though, and I even take a few days off when I'm over there, unless Ron's reply is really urgent, but most of the time it's just some ranting on Hermione, and Bulgarian Quidditch players, and Hermione. I keep Errol company ; since he retired, nobody pays much attention to him, and Pigwidgeon just buzzes around all day. It's a mad-owlery, that place.
When I'm really lucky, though, I get to see Hermes. He doesn't get to come to Hogwarts often, but we see each other over the summer, at least enough to keep us both satisfied. I won't bore you with the details of our story. or maybe some other time. But we're thinking, once Harry finishes Hogwarts, to find a nice nest and settle in.
I know I may be young to be planning my future with him, but honestly, he's the sweetest owl anyone could think of. One time, he was waiting for me with a beautiful bouquet of dead squirrel tails. Then we took a nice moonlit flight over the forest and cozzied up in a spider-infested niche in an old abandoned chapel. An evening of pure bliss, really, and privacy we don't often get when we're at the Burrow.
Why, just the other day, we were in the kitchen, sitting on the owl perch, minding our own business, when Ron's little sister, Ginny, came in. She gave us a murderous look and sat at the kitchen table, looking completely depressed. "Bloody owls. it isn't bad enough that everybody's pairing up. I bet even the garden gnomes are at it."
Usually, Ginny's not in such a fowl mood. She's the only one who seems to take care of Errol in this house, and it looks as though she enjoys his company more than her brothers'. Whenever I come around, though, she looks at me wistfully, then shakes her head sadly, and walks way to go lock herself in her room.
I know where she's getting at. That girl has been mad about Harry since her second year. Unbeknownst to anybody, she would sometimes go up to the owlery, and she would come and pet me, telling me she wished owls could talk so I could tell her about Harry, her hero, her true love.
If owls could cry, well. She looked so sad, yet so hopeful. I keep wondering what in tarnation Harry's waiting for to come around. I guess he'd need a little duh-brick too.
Then again, when dealing with a fifteen-year old boy, some things seem to be more effective.
Around the end of July, Ron had me and Pigwidgeon deliver Harry's gift, along with an invitation to the Burrow. Then I had the extreme privilege to deliver to Headmaster Dumbledore Harry's request to leave the Dursleys', and I even had the honor to see the great Fawkes, which is looked upon with the uttermost respect by all the birds in Hogwarts. He shines with kindness and warmth, just like his master, who of course sent back a written reply, although he's fluent in Owlish.
A couple of days later, Harry was all packed up and we travelled by Floo, which I positively hate; my cage rattles like crazy and I start coughing up furballs, because I always forget I shouldn't eat rodents before travelling.
We arrived at the Burrow in one piece, though. To my surprise, Hermione was there, too. Pigwidgeon said Ron had finally given in and had written to invite her over, and that Hermione had squealed excitedly when she had seen him come through her window, and had started dancing around the room. Now, of course, she was acting aloof and rolling her eyes every time Ron opened his mouth. If owls could talk, maybe humans would pay more attention to us when we're around.
Harry was amused by his two friend's attitude, of course, but I can assure you the look on his face when a certain someone came to greet him was pretty funny too. No need for sharp eyesight to see that Ginny, now fourteen, had undergone quite a few changes in quite a short amount of time.
They're all the same, really. Until it hits them straight in the face, they just keep telling themselves that love is for the birds. Oh sure, leave some for us. But don't forget to find your own, or watch your head. You never know what's going to come from above.
Asides from being a very fine postal owl and the most faithful companion Harry ever had, I am, which most wizards tend to forget, an animal with feelings. I feel mad sometimes - like when I have to spend the summer locked up in a cage while Harry tells me to be quiet. I feel hungry, most of the time. I even feel sad, when Harry seems really down and depressed. When that happens I always try to bring him back a dead mouse or something as a token of affection; I don't know why, though, it doesn't seem to cheer him up as much as it should.
But that's straying from our main subject here. People who think animals are just sitting there or acting out of instinct are pretty thick; just look at Crookshanks. He's smarter than his mistress, that Granger girl. Oh, I can hear you protest already. Don't get me wrong here, Hermione's a real smart cookie, but she's really clueless when it comes to certain things.
It's the summer after fourth year, and Harry and Hermione have been sending each other letters every week. Hermione's very sweet and polite, and I guess she likes me enough, although her parents still aren't used to having owls fly in their living room in the middle of the afternoon. Well, anyway, the first thing she asks me after I give her the letter is: "Say Hedwig. You wouldn't happen to have seen Pigwidgeon on the way over, would you?"
If owls could snort, I certainly would have. Could she have been more obvious? Then she stares out the window, and sighs, and mutters something like: "Well, I'm not writing to him until he writes." That just about kills me. But even if I tried to make her get a clue, does anybody take owls' opinions seriously? Not likely. It's always: "Oh Hedwig, it's almost as if you understand.", then: "What am I talking about? You're just an owl!"
Well, just-an-owl figured out for herself that the same thing has been going on the other side. Ron Wealsey, Harry's other best friend, is happy to see bring over Harry's letters, but then that reminds him that Harry was the only one he's actually getting letters from, and then he mutters something like: "I bet she's too busy writing to Vicky to write to me. ha! like I care."
Please. Somebody should make a duh-brick fall on these people's heads. Too bad that's not covered in my contract, because sometimes I get violent urges to knock sense into humans' heads. Yeah, yeah, even Muggles. What, do you think it makes much sense writing stories pairing Hermione and Severus Snape? How about turning Harry into an owl Animagi and getting him to hook up with yours truly while you're at it?
Getting back to the wonderful story of my life, I don't mind going to the Burrow, though, and I even take a few days off when I'm over there, unless Ron's reply is really urgent, but most of the time it's just some ranting on Hermione, and Bulgarian Quidditch players, and Hermione. I keep Errol company ; since he retired, nobody pays much attention to him, and Pigwidgeon just buzzes around all day. It's a mad-owlery, that place.
When I'm really lucky, though, I get to see Hermes. He doesn't get to come to Hogwarts often, but we see each other over the summer, at least enough to keep us both satisfied. I won't bore you with the details of our story. or maybe some other time. But we're thinking, once Harry finishes Hogwarts, to find a nice nest and settle in.
I know I may be young to be planning my future with him, but honestly, he's the sweetest owl anyone could think of. One time, he was waiting for me with a beautiful bouquet of dead squirrel tails. Then we took a nice moonlit flight over the forest and cozzied up in a spider-infested niche in an old abandoned chapel. An evening of pure bliss, really, and privacy we don't often get when we're at the Burrow.
Why, just the other day, we were in the kitchen, sitting on the owl perch, minding our own business, when Ron's little sister, Ginny, came in. She gave us a murderous look and sat at the kitchen table, looking completely depressed. "Bloody owls. it isn't bad enough that everybody's pairing up. I bet even the garden gnomes are at it."
Usually, Ginny's not in such a fowl mood. She's the only one who seems to take care of Errol in this house, and it looks as though she enjoys his company more than her brothers'. Whenever I come around, though, she looks at me wistfully, then shakes her head sadly, and walks way to go lock herself in her room.
I know where she's getting at. That girl has been mad about Harry since her second year. Unbeknownst to anybody, she would sometimes go up to the owlery, and she would come and pet me, telling me she wished owls could talk so I could tell her about Harry, her hero, her true love.
If owls could cry, well. She looked so sad, yet so hopeful. I keep wondering what in tarnation Harry's waiting for to come around. I guess he'd need a little duh-brick too.
Then again, when dealing with a fifteen-year old boy, some things seem to be more effective.
Around the end of July, Ron had me and Pigwidgeon deliver Harry's gift, along with an invitation to the Burrow. Then I had the extreme privilege to deliver to Headmaster Dumbledore Harry's request to leave the Dursleys', and I even had the honor to see the great Fawkes, which is looked upon with the uttermost respect by all the birds in Hogwarts. He shines with kindness and warmth, just like his master, who of course sent back a written reply, although he's fluent in Owlish.
A couple of days later, Harry was all packed up and we travelled by Floo, which I positively hate; my cage rattles like crazy and I start coughing up furballs, because I always forget I shouldn't eat rodents before travelling.
We arrived at the Burrow in one piece, though. To my surprise, Hermione was there, too. Pigwidgeon said Ron had finally given in and had written to invite her over, and that Hermione had squealed excitedly when she had seen him come through her window, and had started dancing around the room. Now, of course, she was acting aloof and rolling her eyes every time Ron opened his mouth. If owls could talk, maybe humans would pay more attention to us when we're around.
Harry was amused by his two friend's attitude, of course, but I can assure you the look on his face when a certain someone came to greet him was pretty funny too. No need for sharp eyesight to see that Ginny, now fourteen, had undergone quite a few changes in quite a short amount of time.
They're all the same, really. Until it hits them straight in the face, they just keep telling themselves that love is for the birds. Oh sure, leave some for us. But don't forget to find your own, or watch your head. You never know what's going to come from above.