Hedwig's Last Thoughts; Or, the Owl's Tale

It’s cold. I’m flying faster and higher than I ever have before. A cacophony of shouts and engine roar and explosions and I can’t hear myself think.

And to top it all off they put me in the sidecar.

That’s right, the sidecar. I’m the only one here with wings and I’m relegated to the passenger’s seat.

When you are the sidekick of The Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived, The Super Special Kid, you have to put up with a lot.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the Boy with all my heart. I love his stupid glasses, his stammering way of talking when he gets nervous, his absent-mindedness. I love how his bravery always just skirts on the edge of stupidity but never (or rarely) crosses the line. Long story short, he’s a good human.

Even now, hurtling through the air pursued by Death Eaters tossing killing curses left and right like confetti, I trust him.

I don’t know if we’re going to get out of this alive. I don’t know what’s going to happen.

Suddenly we jerk left and downward in a hail of spellfire and a flash of emerald light: the killing curse. And not the anemic jade color of a fledgling Death Eater but the strong green beams of strong wizards; if that hits home, you’re toast.

I’m afraid. I focus on my Boy. He’s staring ahead into the clouds, and for once he doesn’t look hapless. He looks brave.

A new flash of green erupts, brighter than the others. I feel a sudden warmth, not painful but immensely powerful...

...It’s said that the killing curse causes death instantaneously. That isn’t quite true.

There is a moment. Just a tiny moment, smaller than the snap of a finger, that you are given to remember whatever it is you need to remember.

This is what I remembered: he looked brave.

Memory #1

He looked brave climbing into the flying car.

Now that I think about it, my Boy and I have never had that much luck flying together. One of us usually gets hurt, or, I dunno, reveals the existence of the Wizarding World to an entire segment of the London population.

Yeah, he looked brave. But that’s not what I was thinking about when I saw him hoist himself through the window and start to get into the car, you know, as if I didn’t exist.

So I had to speak up.

I mean, I didn’t want to. I understood that it was an errand whose execution depended on stealth. But he was going to leave me behind! With only that awful Muggle family for company!

I won’t lie, it hurt. Even if it was only a moment of absent-mindedness in the middle of a tricky maneuver.

If only for a moment, my Boy forgot about me. Cute old me.

I piped up, “Hey jerk! Over here!” but what I wanted to say was, “Has this last year meant nothing to you? Has all we’ve been through together in such a short time led to this: you leaving me behind when it counts?”

Even in the midst of my pain, I recognized something important at that moment: he was allowed to forget about me.

He had goals and responsibilities outside both of us, and from time to time they might be bigger than him, they might outpace him, they might bamboozle him into forgetting for a second about his snowy owl, old Hedwig.

Yes, he might forget about me for just an instant. He was allowed to. But I was not allowed to forget about him.

And I never did.

In that last emerald moment, I thought about my Boy climbing into a blue car, and leaving me behind.

Memory #2

He looked brave when he was giving me an earful while we were cooped up in that creepy old house.

He looked petulant, impatient, goofy, childish, and unpleasant. But also brave. I mean I could have pecked his eyes out or cut his fingers off with my talons if I had wanted to. But he gave me an earful nonetheless.

Oh, I guess I was being a little petulant too. But if you keep a post owl stashed away in a cage for weeks and weeks, what do you expect will happen?

(Actually, I want to skip the rest of this memory. It hurts too bad and I don’t like to think about us being mean to each other.)

Memory #3

He looked brave in the little red-headed girl’s drawing.

Momma Redhead had put it up on the wall of the sitting room of The Burrow along with some of the girl’s other drawings. All kinds of childish scrawls and scribblings, some of the old tottering house, some of her brothers and parents, one of Hogwarts (or at least of how she imagined it), and one—just one—of my Boy.

I remember laughing when I saw it. She had him on a broom (of course), in Griffendore attire, zooming through the air high above a Quiddich pitch.

His gaze was steeled, his arm outstretched for an off-screen snitch. The lightning scar prominent.

Errol saw me giggling. “What’s so funny?” he asked defensively.

“Nothing. It’s just…” I nodded at the drawing. “I’ve never seen Him looking so dashing.”

The old barn owl shook his head.

Oh Errol! He always used to call me crazy.

“The things you put up with,” he’d say, wobbling from the mantel to the windowsill at The Burrow when I was staying there during the Kid’s third year at school. “It’s dangerous being the Chosen Owl.” That was his pet name for me: the Chosen Owl.

I basically carried the ruddy old bird all the way from Surrey to The Burrow all by myself after he nearly died taking my Boy a present. If it hadn’t been such a noble errand I probably wouldn’t have done it. My kid doesn’t get too many presents, so I was grateful Errol made the effort. He's a good owl. Probably my only animal friend, now that I think about it. All the other owls used to ignore me, treated me like I was too cool for school. I guess when you're treated that way long enough, you start to play the role if only from spite.

This was our third year. My kid’s one chance at a normal school year. The one time that the Dark Lord didn’t try to kill him. Just proof that there’s a kind of human out there that seems to attract danger like a magnet.

And he went through all that trouble just for a hippogriff. Treated that hippogriff’s life with exactly the amount of seriousness as he treated the Dark Lord, or the Triwizard Tournament, or secret work for the Order.

I think that was when I knew what kind of person he was going to become. Anyone who cares about us animals as much as that is okay in my book.

Yeah, that was a hard year for him. Even though it was the year he met that long-haired dog-guy who loved him so much.

Though he was around only a short time, I’ve always said that the Dog-Man was the only other creature who loved my Boy as much as me. I didn’t think it was possible, but when I saw the way he looked at the Boy I recognized something with which, I guess, I identified. Call it questioning love. Not doubting love, mind you; a love that asks, “Who is this person? Why haven’t I encountered him before now? What can I learn about him? How can I help him?”

If there is one quality that the Boy has above the rest, it was that: everyone who met him wanted to help him.

Or hurt him. One of the two.

So sitting there in the Burrow, while Errol gave me the silent treatment for laughing at his Girl’s drawings, I thought to myself: maybe I am crazy. But this old ruddy bird just made a trek of a hundred miles to bring Harry a letter and nearly died in the process. Maybe when it comes to The Boy Who Lived, we’re all a little crazy.

In a whirl of green light zooming above the clouds, I thought of a little girl’s drawing.

Goodbye, My Friend

I’d do anything for that stupid kid. If there were one last thing I could do for him, I’d do it.

I try to send this thought to the gameskeeper through the rain and the shouts and the volley of spells. I’m no witch, but maybe, just maybe, this will work. Let me do this one last thing.

Somehow he’s heard me. I feel the sidecar detach, unlock, fall through the air, soaring down and back toward the Death Eaters. I know the power of a moment, and if I can slow them down by just one moment, my Boy will get away.

Here’s what I think as I feel the sidecar dip through the air, carrying me away from my best friend: all the times you ignored me, forgot about me, kept me cooped up, shot a hasty word my way, or threatened to have Pidgewidgeon send your letters instead of me: I forgive you. After all, it’s not easy being the Super Special Boy. Just like it wasn’t easy being his owl.

For putting me in the sidecar, that final and fatal transgression: of course I forgive you.

Seven short years. Six really. We got a lot done, you and I. I don’t know where I’m going now, or if we’ll see each other again. Maybe we won’t; maybe this was it. Who knows? Not me. I was never a witch. Just a snowy owl who could deliver a damn good letter and liked treats. An owl who, when it counted, followed through.

An owl who loved his Boy.

They say the killing curse causes death instantly. Thankfully, that’s not quite true.