"CAW!"
The pale red-haired boy was disturbed from his sound slumber by what
appeared to be a fluffy white blur. Standing on his windowsill, the bird
grunted and nipped at its feathers, disturbing the two brown owls that were
caged in his room. A heavy package had hit the boy on his head, causing a
momentary blurriness of vision, but this soon stopped, and as he rubbed his
eyes, he was greeted by a most peculiar sight.
"HEDWIG! How on earth did Harry managed to release you from the Dursley
hellhole?"
The owl cawed again, and after affectionately nuzzling against Ron's
freckled skin, it was off like the seeker of the Chudley Cannons, zipping
through the pinkish orange glow of the sky at dawn, and Ron, mesmerized by
the sight, looked out upon the stunning bird, almost forgetting about
Harry's package until it occured to him that he was holding a brown wrapped
box.
There was a letter on top of the box in Harry's narrow handwriting, reading
"PLEASE OPEN ME."
Odd, thought Ron, why wouldn't I open a letter? Ron was intruiged, yet oddly suspicious. He nervously opened the letter, his worry growing that it would hold bad news about his best friend. Dear Ron,
This seventh year at Hogwarts should appear to be our worst yet. I thought I had him beat in fifth year, Ron, I really did, but lately a unicorn has been sitting outside my window at night, causing my scar to have a terrible tinge to it, and for some odd reason, I am reminded of Lucius Malfoy. To make matters worse, the nightmares about my parents have grown to enormous proportions, only this time, they are not just about the night of their death, but the dreams zigzag back and forth, and for some reason, the baby version of me is in mortal danger, and who arrives but a full-grown version of you, whisking me away. You probably think that this is all batty, I know I do, but was it Mad Eye Moody who said something about never ignoring ones' intuitions? The point of this letter is that I am trusting you, (because you are my best friend, Ron Weasley,) with a most crucial task. It is your VERY IMPORTANT DUTY to safeguard my new Lighting Flash broom for the following reasons: a) The Dursleys are slowly throwing away all of my wizarding goods...they have grown utterly imossible, I swear, at one point Vernon lit a match in my room and I had to use the Water Flush spell...the first random spell that popped into my head. Had I not been there, my things would have been ruined!
b) With the growing threat of Voldemort, I don't see how having extra magical things lying around my room would help me...it would be like a neon sign that said "HARRY POTTER, RIGHT HERE!" c) If I ever get into mortal peril, I have a feeling you would be the one who could help me d) You know you love this broom. This is an unusually long Harry letter, Ron, I just wanted to explain my reasoning before you start to think that your friend has gone insane and is being posessed by Voldemort, who demanded that he give up his broom. If I seem refreshingly optimistic, it's because worry at this point would only add fuel to the fire. This letter, of course, this will self destruct in when you read my signature. Goodbye! Harry Potter As the letter exploded in a small BOOM!, Ron was confused, worried, and ecstatic at the same time. He was confused because giving up a favorite broom seemed so unlike Harry, even with the methodical reasoning that would seem to explain everything. The worry was fueled by dreams and premonitions that pointed to one thing: Voldemort. More worry came as Ron pondered the fact that Harry seemed to count on HIM of all people to help him in mortal peril. Not Dumbledore. Not "Snuffles". HIM! Had Harry forgotten that he was only Ron Weasley, an average boy whose own presence was dimmed by the effervescent glow of his two best friends? Ron questioned Harry's sanity for trusting him with his life, and for having the dream where Ron could just whisk away and save him from what was the most deadly, evil wizard of all time. Ron wondered why Harry would treat this Voldemort issue as a joke, entrusting a dreamy, forgetful redhead...and it was then that Ron looked down at the golden, gleaming wood and realized that in his hand was a Lighting Flash, made by the creators of the original Nimbus 2000. Harry was no fool on this count, because Ron did love this broom. In fact, he was racing along on this faster-than-the-speed-of-lightning broom, crashing into things and causing a great ruckus when he heard the voice of a deep-throated tigress, bellowing from the kitchen, "RONALD WEASLEY! YOU WILL COME DOWNSTAIRS IMMEDIATELY!"
Ah, war. He looked at the clock. 6 AM. Just on time.
Odd, thought Ron, why wouldn't I open a letter? Ron was intruiged, yet oddly suspicious. He nervously opened the letter, his worry growing that it would hold bad news about his best friend. Dear Ron,
This seventh year at Hogwarts should appear to be our worst yet. I thought I had him beat in fifth year, Ron, I really did, but lately a unicorn has been sitting outside my window at night, causing my scar to have a terrible tinge to it, and for some odd reason, I am reminded of Lucius Malfoy. To make matters worse, the nightmares about my parents have grown to enormous proportions, only this time, they are not just about the night of their death, but the dreams zigzag back and forth, and for some reason, the baby version of me is in mortal danger, and who arrives but a full-grown version of you, whisking me away. You probably think that this is all batty, I know I do, but was it Mad Eye Moody who said something about never ignoring ones' intuitions? The point of this letter is that I am trusting you, (because you are my best friend, Ron Weasley,) with a most crucial task. It is your VERY IMPORTANT DUTY to safeguard my new Lighting Flash broom for the following reasons: a) The Dursleys are slowly throwing away all of my wizarding goods...they have grown utterly imossible, I swear, at one point Vernon lit a match in my room and I had to use the Water Flush spell...the first random spell that popped into my head. Had I not been there, my things would have been ruined!
b) With the growing threat of Voldemort, I don't see how having extra magical things lying around my room would help me...it would be like a neon sign that said "HARRY POTTER, RIGHT HERE!" c) If I ever get into mortal peril, I have a feeling you would be the one who could help me d) You know you love this broom. This is an unusually long Harry letter, Ron, I just wanted to explain my reasoning before you start to think that your friend has gone insane and is being posessed by Voldemort, who demanded that he give up his broom. If I seem refreshingly optimistic, it's because worry at this point would only add fuel to the fire. This letter, of course, this will self destruct in when you read my signature. Goodbye! Harry Potter As the letter exploded in a small BOOM!, Ron was confused, worried, and ecstatic at the same time. He was confused because giving up a favorite broom seemed so unlike Harry, even with the methodical reasoning that would seem to explain everything. The worry was fueled by dreams and premonitions that pointed to one thing: Voldemort. More worry came as Ron pondered the fact that Harry seemed to count on HIM of all people to help him in mortal peril. Not Dumbledore. Not "Snuffles". HIM! Had Harry forgotten that he was only Ron Weasley, an average boy whose own presence was dimmed by the effervescent glow of his two best friends? Ron questioned Harry's sanity for trusting him with his life, and for having the dream where Ron could just whisk away and save him from what was the most deadly, evil wizard of all time. Ron wondered why Harry would treat this Voldemort issue as a joke, entrusting a dreamy, forgetful redhead...and it was then that Ron looked down at the golden, gleaming wood and realized that in his hand was a Lighting Flash, made by the creators of the original Nimbus 2000. Harry was no fool on this count, because Ron did love this broom. In fact, he was racing along on this faster-than-the-speed-of-lightning broom, crashing into things and causing a great ruckus when he heard the voice of a deep-throated tigress, bellowing from the kitchen, "RONALD WEASLEY! YOU WILL COME DOWNSTAIRS IMMEDIATELY!"
Ah, war. He looked at the clock. 6 AM. Just on time.