The Ministry Owl
Disclaimer: All characters are owned by J.K. Rowling and used without permission or intent to make a profit.
I fly in through the window, unaccompanied by the hordes of other owls that characterise the arrival of the post. This is not unusual, as the post will not arrive for another 20 minutes.
Heads shoot up at the sound of my wing beats, terror and relief on every face. Terror at the sight of the red-sealed, black envelope I carry, relief that I am alone, a profound, secret pleasure that only one letter comes today.
As I circle the Hall, each upturned face seems to plead with me. Pleads for me to keep moving: to go to the next person, to the next table. I cannot assuage every face, for I have my orders. I am charged to deliver this letter. I fly past Green and Blue, and swoop towards Yellow. Almost every face is watching me now. I fly over Yellow and on towards Red, looking for the recipient. I spot my target: two tousled redheads, a mop of brown and a thatch of black. I bear down on them. One grips a spoon white-knuckled; another wrings the edge of the tablecloth anxiously; a third's face unnaturally calm, a mask staring up at me; the fourth stares down at the table, obviously embarrassed.
I land on the table. Those around me draw back instinctively, as if to avoid the events signified by this envelope. I present my leg to the recipient of the letter and am ignored. This is not that unusual, as the recipient is still scrutinising of the tablecloth. I have to nip the finger of the black haired one before those fingers move to relieve me of my burden.
Hundreds of eyes are fixed on the envelope and the one holding it. The said envelope is lifted, and trembling fingers break the seal. The letter is drawn from its dark confines and slowly unfolded. Blank, uncomprehending eyes stare at the letter, unable to decipher its message. Those seated nearby appear to be holding their breath.
The dull, green orbs stare transfixed, as the blur slowly coalesces into individual words. The hand crushed the letter and the deadened eyes look up to catch the worried gazes of the other three.
"It's not…" blurts one of the redheads anxiously, to find the thatch of black hair shaking. An anguished sob escapes. Another's fingers reach for the letter, carefully uncrumpling and gently smoothing the thin sheet of paper. The four stand. One red head cocks in an unspoken question, which apparently receives consent. A red head and a brown head bracket the black, and leave the hall. The fourth walks up to the white beard seated at the Head table to lay the letter down. Turning, the redhead rushes out of the hall, to join the others.
Silence prevails as old, wizened fingers lift the letter. The sparkle in the blue eyes dims as they read the words:
Dear Mr Potter,
We are sorry to inform you of the death of Mr Remus Lupin. We wish to express our condolences…
~@~ ~@~ ~@~
Four sit before an open fire, silently grieving, while half a country away, a dog howls for the loss of his packmate as the full moon hangs tenaciously in the sky.
