Chapter Eleven: A Bat

What happened later that evening really doesn't have much of an impact on the greater picture, local politics and the fate of the world -or indeed really anything important. It's not even a very interesting part of the story. But since I've been asked for my take on things, it's got to be in here, even though the very fact that I'm telling it proves how not-a-big-deal it was.

After all, there was a lot of rough stuff going on in 1996. When Dumbledore asked me to make batteries and alter Muggle objects to run by magical means, I knew matters were bad. Dumbledore didn't look like his usual self, more weary than usual. The poor man had a hurt hand, too, and since I hadn't been reading the papers (I don't read the Prophet and Quidditch Weekly had gotten snaffled up by the twins for a couple of weeks,) I didn't realize it wasn't a common burn. Rather than say anything, though, I just resolved to send him some of Great-grandmother's burn cream when I got home.

And that I did. My stepmother makes it very well and keeps me more than supplied with the stuff. In fact, I get about a twenty-ounce jar a month of it, and Ian gets just as much sore-muscle cream. She likes looking after us in little ways, which is kind, and I do use a lot of the stuff, being prone to accidents and frequently around hot things. I stopped by Quality Quidditch Supplies to pick up a birthday present for Ian I had ordered and then the apothecary for a small, but vaguely elegant jar. Once home, I cleaned, dried and filled the little present-jar, then added a tag, on which I wrote: 'This is some burn cream my stepmother made. Hope it helps' and my signature, which, incidentally, is 'J.W. Tickes IV' with a little zip-back squiggle underneath. I'm used to writing it very fast, hence the initials, but since there are two living J.W.'s, I add the number so my signature can be undoubtedly discerned from my father's. (I'm the fourth female J.W. Dad is the tenth male.) That, and it kind of looks cool.

Since I was getting ready for a post office trip anyway, I unwrapped the shipping parcel Ian's present had come in and inspected it. I'm no authority, but the contents of the box certainly appeared to be Seeker's gloves, and they were the brand, style and size he liked. They also had little shamrocks embroidered on the strap ends and Ian's name (I.G. Tickes V, though the 'fifth' wasn't quite necessary since Uncle Gard doesn't play Quidditch professionally,) which was why they had needed to be specially ordered. I placed them back in the box; got some of the blue and white striped paper I use for shop parcels, and wrapped it. Then I added a few little charms, so the blue stripes were sparkly, and a bow, as well as a tag: 'Happy birthday, Ian! Love, Jessie.' I put some brown paper over that, in case the owl arrived while he was with the team, and then I wrapped the jar of burn cream in a little box and more brown paper.

Then I went to the post office and sent both parcels, each with a brown owl. I am fond of owls, but I never owned one. It's probably because I am also fond of cats and of toads and never quite picked a favorite. That, and people usually send their own to pick up watches. Of course, that does kind of work out well, because if I have to owl something, the post office isn't far, and then there's a record there that I did send it –something one can't do with a private owl. It prevents disputes.

Then it occurred to me that a private owl just for letters would be nice. I could also train it to hate chocolate and it could bring me a fix every so often from Honeyduke's.

So I went to Eeylop's and looked around at the owls there. It made me kind of sad, the way they all seemed to want to be taken home. I couldn't have picked one.

"Miss…?" a voice inquired. "Can I help you…Miss Tickes!" That was odd. It was Rebecca Feathersham, a Hufflepuff who was only a little older than me. She could've called me by first name, not 'Miss,' as I knew she knew it. But I supposed Eeylop's had different policies than other shops.

Incidentally, I was still dressed in my authentic Muggle clothing, which explained her jumping. Oh! And I found out who Pink Floyd is. It's a band from the Seventies. I thought it was a person who might want his shirt back, but I was wrong. Go figure.

"Allo there…just lookin' at owls…"

"So, you're finally thinking of buying one?"

"I d'know…looks like."

"Well, what do you want it for?"

I'm a shopkeeper, myself, so I know how helpful they are. My area is timepieces, and I bet I could match person to timepiece without fail …pretty well, if not perfectly. I knew almost nothing about owls, but if there's one thing I've learnt, being a shopkeeper, it's that if you just let the shopkeepers help you out, not only does it usually work out well, but you learn a lot about whatever it is you're shopping for. And Becky'd been at Eeylop's since her graduation, so…

"I need an owl to deliver letters and maybe a small package now and then, but it's just a correspondence owl. I use post ones for business stuff."

"Sounds good. It's for the record, right?" I nodded. "We do that, too, with shipments of medication and supplies and such. Any speed requirements?"

"Well…I'd like letters to arrive within the day or so, but I don't want to strain the poor owl. My family's mainly in Hogsmeade, but Ian tours…" Becky smiled.

"We have some nice midrange owls who can quite comfortably make a London to Scotland roundtrip twice a day and most of Europe at least once, but if your brother's going farther and you need to reach him quickly, an upper-midrange distance flyer might be a better investment."

"The farthest he's been is China."

"An upper-midrange could reach China with no trouble. It might take a day each way, unless you want something with particular speed."

"No, a day's alright…just comfortable owl speed sounds good."

"Owls can fly many different speeds. If you wanted an owl to make it to Scotland from London in…four hours without discomfort, a medium-speed flier should do nicely."

"That's perfect." Becky started checking a layout chart of the shop. I don't believe in those, but then, I've never needed one. Smaller premises, I guess.

"So we're looking at upper-midrange distance, low to medium weight capacity, medium speed flier." Becky raised an eyebrow at me. "You do realize you've just ordered an average post owl. Is there anything about it you'd like to be special or different?"

"Well…" I thought. "Do they come in any special colors?"

"Come with me." I knew that grin. I get it myself a lot.

A few minutes later, I was looking at the cages of a nearly orange owl with violet eyes, a pale gray one with a slightly blue tinge to her feathers (called a jay owl,) who seemed to be asleep, and a black one with red eyes. They were actually out of white owls. "It's because of Harry Potter. Noone used to want white ones –they're too flashy, but he adopted one, so everyone else wants one." Becky lowered her tone. "And a good job, too. White ones were getting bought up by post in little wayside spots and used for distances they couldn't handle. That Boy-Who-Lived is also the Boy-Who-Saved-A-Lot-of-Owls-From-Not-Very-Nice-Careers."

"I keep getting asked what sort of watch he wears. It's disturbing."

"Have you actually met him?" Becky's eyes lit up in an unseemly way.

"Yeah." She looked like I'd admitted to meeting Merlin with a 'yeah.' I began to feel a little on-edge.

"What's he like?"

"Just a sixth-year. He likes Quidditch, though, and Weasleys' jokes…oh, and he wears shirts with stripes when not in the school uniform, and a Weasley sweater in winter." I love to bore people who ask stupid questions. It amuses me.

"Jamesina, you're useless for gossip. Always were. Is he seeing anyone?"

"Not that I've heard." 'Though he does have eyes,' I thought.

"How about the one Weasley he's friends with? Ron?"

"I d'know…you were two classes above me, though! They're kids!"

"Yeah, but they're interesting kids. How about you? Are you seeing anyone?"

"Not that I've heard." 'But I have eyes, also, and a moron's in front of me…'

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Jamesina. If you're not seeing anyone…"

"What? I've been busy with the shop."

"Yes! Barely twenty and you've your own shop already! You're the most successful girl tradesman in Diagon."

Actually, that week I was still nineteen.

"Am not. I took over the family shop. The Redferns started theirs and they're weeks younger."

"Oh, those Knockturn pawnbrokers, nobody thinks of them. But your shop's respectable."

"And older than dirt," I observed bluntly. The way she was talking kind of bothered me.

"Did you hear about Stan Shunpike?" I was about to say no, I hadn't, when she chipped in: "Sent to Azkaban. They say he's a Dark wizard…"

"Stan?" I must've looked pretty confused. "Stan can't wind a watch, let alone work for You-Know-Who. I had to set a charm on his-"

"Oh, but he must be. It was in the Prophet, just yesterday!"

Okay. Now I was getting ticked.

By the way, that expression 'ticked off'? It did used to have a capital T in it, and yes, it is a wizarding English phrase, and yes, I think you do know to whose family it allegedly refers. I'm not certain it's true, but Uncle Gard seems inordinately proud of it, so it likely is. Of course, he also has an idea of where we got the word 'malcontent,' so his etymology isn't the soundest to be found…

Anyway.

"The Prophet?" I let out my finest Ginny Weasley snort and Becky's eyes widened. This made her look more like a fish than a ferret. "That old rag? I wouldn't line boxes with it. I do subscribe, though, the furnace does well with party line. It's Pravda with pictures."

"It's…what?"

"Pravda, the Russian government's newspaper before the fall of Communism. It's just like it. 'We say what we want you to know,' –y'know?" She was staring and I realized she might want to try denouncing me as some kind of traitor to crosswords that are too easy or something, so I added the Lavender Brown Special: "Everyone says so."

"Really?"

"Totally." Wow, I can speak Blonde. "My crowd only reads it to find out what the Ministry's newest line is. The real news is in…" I scrambled for a publication, anything, while Becky assumed I was making a dramatic pause. "The Quibbler."

It was all I could think of! I'd just seen Luna that day.

"Really?"

"Yes. It's …in code, of course, but a bright 'un like you'll have it in no time. Mustn't let the Ministry run our lives, eh what?"

"Oh, no." Becky's beady eyes shone. I began to feel very slightly guilty about messing with her tiny mind like that, but then I thought of how she talked about the Redferns and felt better, even pleased with myself. "I knew the real purebloods didn't read that old scrap." I could have hit her. "So…the owls…"

"I kind of like the gray one."

"The jay owl? She's a nice one."

"Don't they come with names?"

"No, not really."

"Okay. How much?"

"Oh..." Becky looked embarrassed, so I glanced at the tag. It was roughly what I made in a day, which, it seems, is what some employed shopkeepers make in, say, a month. I didn't know that, then, though. Fred and George told me afterward. I would've felt bad for Becky. She probably thought she had gotten my hopes up on an owl I couldn't afford. But it was actually pretty good, I thought, and the owl had just woken up. She had green eyes. I wanted her.

"I'll take her. And a big cage, and some owl food. What do they eat, again?"

I think the look on Becky's face more than made up for her arrogance toward me as a first-year. Things like that work out nicely sometimes.

I decided on the way home to name the owl 'Agnetha,' but then it occurred to me that I could only spell it if I actually had the ABBA record cover in front of me, so I changed my mind and asked her what she thought of 'Mrs. Miniver' as a name. She clicked her beak approvingly. It's really a good name. Mrs. Miniver was this sweet English lady whose son was in the RAF during the war and she had a rose named after her. It's a movie. I saw it on a Muggle Studies field trip once. Mrs. Miniver the owl was also dignified and had a sort of brave look to her, as well as green eyes, which are very nice, if unusual, in owls, and I just thought it suited her. So there it was.

I walked down Diagon Alley, ducking under shoppers with big packages carried over their heads, slipping between crowds and walls, and generally making good time. Along about Florean Fortescue's, I slowed down, as my nearer neighbors are generally the nicer ones. Sure enough, Florean stepped out to empty a bucket of water into the sewer grate (it's faster, and keeps the sewer grate tidy,) and greeted me:

"Hello, Jessie! Who's this?"

"Mrs. Miniver, I think."

"New owl?"

"Yep."

"I think she looks like a Mrs. Miniver. It's a good name. And she's a jay owl… I tell you what, wait here just a moment." Florean ducked in and came back with a cone full of the lovely diced walnuts he sprinkles on sundaes. "These are within ten minutes of being stale. Perfect for owls." He crouched and poured a little of the nuts into the dish inside her cage. Mrs. Miniver hooted and actually rubbed her beak against his fingers. "Wow, she's a sweetheart."

"I just picked her out today."

"And those eyes! Tell me, did you see any black owls, about her size?"

"Yes, actually, one with red eyes."

"A Poe owl. That sounds like just the thing. My little nephew learned how to write recently, and I thought an owl of his own…the trouble is, he's fond of black birds, and owls of that color are a trifle rare. I'll stop by Eeylop's and have a look."

"It seemed like a nice one to me. But what I know about owls you could fit on a second hand."

"Well, it's the black ones he can see the best. But he is seeing, even if just a little bit. He's writing with a kind of Muggle pen, makes a nice dark line…" Florean pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it to about newspaper size. "And his spelling is perfect. I bet my sister spells about a hundred words a day."

"Have the Healers said anything else about it?"

"Not yet, but they think a little while and a few more treatments will fix it up."

"Optimistic Healers are good news. They didn't think my brother would ever fly again, and look how wrong they were. They only show optimism when it's a sure thing."

"Think so?"

"Oh, yeah. And your nephew writes really well for a little kid. He's seven, right?"

"Yes…he'll be eight in a week."

"I'd get a look at the owl, then."

"Oh, and Jessie…" Florean handed me the cone of nuts and folded the letter up. "Thank you for the Braille watch. My sister didn't think Loren would get to tell time from a watch like other children…"

"Florean, it was nothing. I just hopped a hinge on the crystal and added Braille dots. It was fun for me. Does he like it?"

"It's his favorite possession. He wears it everywhere."

"Glad to hear that. Watches are good for kids."

"He's coming to visit in a few days, so my sister can set up for his birthday…but he doesn't know that part."

"Going to teach him the secret of a three-way banana split sundae?"

"Of course! Heaven forbid the art die with me!"

I like Florean. His younger sister's house burned down when his nephew Loren was a baby, and the smoke did something to his eyesight. But I wasn't exaggerating about the Healers and their reserve in matters of optimism. They like to give people a chance to come to terms with something horrible when they think it won't get better, which offended Uncle Gard terribly when Ian got hurt in a two-bludger flying accident when I was twelve. Ian hasn't so much as a mark, now, but for a while it was touch-and-go. Those Healers don't like to hand out hope. Mrs. Miniver seemed to like him, too. I gave her feathers a stroke through the cage and she made a pleased hooting noise.

"Look, Min." It seemed like a good abbreviation of her name to me. "That's Weasley's. Our gentlemen friends live there. And here's home."

"Hoot?"

"Yes, we make clocks here. That's the ticking noise."

"Whooo."

"Me. Well, I…I make the clocks." I was talking with an owl?

"Hoot."

"I assume you're happy with the arrangements, then?" Mrs. Miniver straightened and clicked her beak at me. She really did seem like a nice owl. I had never bought anything that important, and especially not so coolly –walk in, pick out, take home. And an owl is really more of a 'whom' than a 'what,' I think…or at least Mrs. Miniver seemed to be. "I tell you what. This is the owl perch. You can have your pick of the branches. And I can put your cage somewhere near a window if you like a breeze…but as long as you're like, cage-trained, you don't have to stay in it all the time. Are you cage-trained?"

"Hoot."

"Well, I guess you'll tell me soon enough." I opened her cage and Min stepped out of it, then fluttered up to a high branch of the owl perch. I got the nut cone and poured the rest into the knothole-shaped dish that was nearest her spot. "More nuts?" She hooted. "Do you like the owl perch? My great-great-grandfather found a tree like that and carved in the little food recesses and added that drawer for treats, then transfigured it into brass." Min rubbed her head against the polished brass bark and made a sort of chirring sound, which I took to be affirmative. "I hope you like it here."

"Hoot."

And that's how I got my owl. But I still hadn't gotten dinner. It was almost five, so I gave Min some owl food and told her I'd be back soon. She gave me a little headrub and hooted, which I took to be a good sign. After all, if I were an owl, I wouldn't have wanted to be purchased and brought home by the first clockmaking so-and-so who thought my plumage was attractive, without so much as a by-your-leave. But then, maybe Mrs. Miniver liked me too. I resolved to bring home some owl treats –and perhaps dinner would be stir-fry with nuts.

Grocery shopping only took me about an hour. When I got home, though, there was a note on my front door:

'Jessie,
'Don't worry about dinner. Fred and George are at Mum's, so I'm cooking.
-Charlie.'

I smiled and opened the door. Min hooted at me and I set down a bag to scratch her little owl ears. She seemed to like that. "You get to meet Charlie soon. He lives across the street." She clicked her beak and angled her head to touch my hand as I was drawing at away. "Oh, you like scritches? You're a nice owl, yes, you are...I'll just put away the groceries and then I'll get you an owl treat. That sound good?" I liked her already.

As I put the food away, I noticed it was getting unusually dark outside. It had been raining earlier, so I chalked it up to clouds and the approach of more autumnal weather. I got out a bag of walnuts, which I knew Min would like, and then it occurred to me that I should make some manner of dessert. I turned to get the mixing bowl and felt a weight suddenly on my shoulder. It felt like claws, even. "Min?"

"Hoot." She clicked her beak and I looked in the mirror. Sure enough, I had an owl on my shoulder. It looked very funny, especially considering Min's a medium-sized owl, about the size of a macaw or so. She angled her head at me.

"Oh, am I a pirate then?" I opened the walnuts and cracked one for her. "If you say so, Mrs. Miniver. But I have to make brownies now, so no feathers in the mix."

By the time I had the brownies in the oven, I was as used to Min as I was to my pliers with the green handles. We suited each other well. As I started tidying up the shop, she flew back over to the perch, but when I sat down at the front worktable she set herself right back on my shoulder. If I sat up straighter, it worked very well, and my back didn't ache the way it had when I crouched down to the nose over a piece of gearwork. I just had to tilt the table differently. At one point I took off my glasses to clean them and Min flew over to the other table and brought a dinner napkin for me to polish the lenses with. She is a clever owl.

"Do you want to send a note for me, Mrs. Miniver?" I asked. I picked up the scratch-paper tablet and wrote:
'Dear Charlie,
'I'm making brownies. Fancy some ice cream with? And I bought an owl. Her name is Mrs. Miniver. See you soon.
-Jessie'

"He lives across the street, has red hair…can you find him, Min?" She clicked her beak as if to say 'Of course I can, idiot,' accepted the note, and flew out the door the moment I opened it for her. I closed it up again, but didn't lock it. Then I set back to work.

I was just tapping my foot to the record player when I heard a 'ding' that wasn't from a clock. I looked, and discovered that one of the twins had left a Bludger-bat under my worktable. That was a little odd, but it didn't bother me much.

I was working on the watch for Harry Potter again. It was nearly done, but not quite perfect. Becky's mindless prattle had reminded me of him, and I felt kind of bad. I don't read the Prophet now because it's rubbish, but I hadn't read it for years beforehand. When you work in a shop and live in town, people discuss the news around you. That way, you get several opinions of it and understand it fairly well. The only thing I read in the Prophet is the crossword, and that's just when Granddad lights up the fireplace asking for help with it.

But from what the twins had been saying, the news had lately been divided into three topics: Harry Potter, You-Know-Who, and the Ministry. I didn't like the Ministry, and my feelings on You-Know-Who were well known to be in the negative. Harry was just a nice, likable kid, like the twins' brother Ron or Hermione Granger or Luna Lovegood. Being close to Gred and Forge, I felt rather protective of anyone they did. So I suppose my feelings on the whole mess were something in the line of 'they're messing with the twins' younger siblings here.'

That, and Harry's a Seeker. That equates him with Ian in my mind –and they do look a little alike, only Ian's lots taller and doesn't wear glasses. I met Hermione in my sixth year and she was an okay sort, even a friend. So the whole 'war on kids' idea was ruffling my feathers quite a bit. I was still a little on-edge from the whole Knockturn Alley business as well. People attacking shops –it's a scary prospect. My shop is my home. Stan Shunpike being arrested was bad enough. London was so divided, any second now we might have been looking at domestic warfare.

I'm half Irish. I know what 'civil conflict' means. And there isn't a damned thing civil about it. But I really wasn't that much involved, which made me feel a bit safer, though it was obvious from the way that idiot at Eeylop's was talking that 'neutral' wasn't going to last ten minutes if things kept up. But at least my shop was safe. I looked at the Sneakoscope above the door and frowned as it started to spin and ring.

And then the window crashed in. Glass went everywhere. I ducked behind the worktable and clutched the tiny watch around my neck from Great-grandmother. As I peeked over the edge, I saw a pair of hulking figures in black robes with polished metal masks shoving my door open. Behind them came another. As his hood slipped back, I caught a flash of brilliant white-blond hair combed back behind the mask.

My foot twitched involuntarily as I gasped from sheer anger. That little git! I heard the 'ding' sound of the Bludger-bat beneath the table and immediately grabbed it with my right hand. A moment later I stood up and slashed through the air with it. The sizzle of a hex burned my other arm as the metal connected with more metal. The mask crumpled.

I felt another hex, then hard resistance to the bat. I wrenched it free and kept on swinging, though my glasses had been knocked off. Then I heard a voice, and saw a red blur.

And then I saw a flash and I don't remember much after that.