Old Friend Solo Finished

The Owlery | February 2024

It was cold at the top of the West Tower this time of year. As a gust of winter wind rattled a nearby window, the seventh-year boy climbing the stairs shivered and tugged his well-worn Ravenclaw scarf tighter around his neck. His fur-lined robes, typically reserved for holiday outings to Hogsmeade or the occasional romp in the snow, had been pulled from his wardrobe especially for this trip. Normally, he didn't wear so many layers; it was a short walk to the Owlery from his common room, after all, where winter afternoons were spent in comfort, studying or playing card games by the warmth of the crackling fire. But today, he planned on sticking around a bit longer than it took to send a couple of letters — and he didn't have a coat of feathers to protect him from the chill.

You'll be fine, Adam, he told himself as he approached the door at the top of the stairs. You can go and get a cup of hot chocolate in the Great Hall when you're done. Remember: you're doing this for Edmund.

The last words echoed in Adam's thoughts as he stepped into the Owlery, where they were steadily replaced by the soft sounds of its avian inhabitants: rustling feathers and gentle hoots, chirps, and coos. He greeted the Hogwarts owls with a polite smile, but his gaze passed over them in search of one particular feathery fellow. A moment later, he spotted the bird in question peering at him from a perch high overhead. He'd know that round face and those big, wide eyes anywhere. That was his Eddy, alright.

He didn't call out for his pet right away. Instead, he mimed his usual routine: striding over to the low wooden table by one of the open windows, drawing an (imaginary) quill from within his robes, and putting the finishing touches on an outgoing letter. There were, in fact, no letters that Adam had to send this afternoon, as he'd dispatched one reply to his mother and another to his older brother just last week and hadn't heard back from them quite yet. But he hoped that Edmund — like a house cat — would realize he was being ignored and fly down to get the attention that he was too proud to admit he wanted. Adam started to whistle as he pretended to address an envelope, really playing up the bit. He tried in vain to keep a cheeky smile off his face.

A minute or two passed by uneventfully. Adam furrowed his brow; normally, Edmund wouldn't wait so long to show himself. Little bastard's really playing hard to get today, he thought, hastily beating back any train of thought that might suggest something else was going on. It was true that his owl took longer these days to get from Hogwarts to the Harringtoms' house in Nottingham and back. It was the wind, he reckoned. It had never been so windy outside in his third year. Or maybe it was the weather that was getting worse: climate change, the doomsday prophecy that Adam often heard about when he came in contact with the Muggle world. If temperatures and storm patterns really were changing, he'd bet Edmund had a special sense for it. He was probably slowing down on purpose to keep himself and Adam's communications safe.

These were not thoughts of denial or desperation. Still, Adam's attempts to shuffle them back into his subconscious weren't as effective as he'd have liked. He abandoned his pretense of finishing a letter and turned to squint up at the tawny owl on his perch. "Edmund!" he called, beckoning him to the windowsill. "Come here! What are you doing?" No answer. Edmund barely even moved his head, staring at the Ravenclaw boy with an unreadable expression. The silence between owner and owl was broken only by the sounds of the Owlery's other tenants. "C'mere, Eddy," Adam repeated after a moment, letting out a sharp, high-pitched whistle to punctuate his sentence. This, at least, seemed to ruffle Edmund's feathers (as well as a few of his neighbors') — he hopped forward on the perch and cautiously flapped his wings, as if testing them. "Edmund!" said the Ravenclaw boy one last time, encouraging him on. The owl beat his wings again and, finally, took to the air, gliding across the room to meet Adam at the window.

"Good boy," Adam said as his pet cocked its head at him. "Oh, right. Here, I think I have a treat for you..." The wizard plunged his hand into his pocket, screwing up his face in concentration as he rummaged around for a spare owl treat. He felt a rush of dismay as two fingers seemed to go right through the bottom; glancing down, he saw them jutting through a decently-sized hole. Ollivander's arse, he swore inwardly, wiggling his fingers as if to confirm that his eyes weren't deceiving him. These are nice robes, too. He supposed that it was nothing a simple mending charm couldn't fix, as soon as he got the time to sit down and cast it. But if there ever had been something for Edmund in that pocket, it was gone now.

Adam offered an apologetic, placating smile to his owl instead. "Uh, sorry. Must have left it in my other set of robes. But..." His thoughts were racing, trying to figure out some way to conjure a snack for Edmund by magical means. He'd been learning new spells at (what felt like) a breakneck rate since his fifth year. Why couldn't he remember a single useful incantation? Edmund liked to eat rodents: he might've made him a couple of rats, if he'd brought along some teapots to transfigure. On that one summer day in Scotland, he'd made do with sardines — but Adam could only turn fish to flowers, not the other way around. What else did owls eat? Frogs? Worms? Spiders?

As if he could read Adam's mind, Edmund chirped. Spiders. He could work with spiders, actually. He wasn't sure if it was a regular part of the bird's diet, or if it would count as an especially tasty treat, but it was better than an empty promise. "I hope you're hungry for bugs," he said distractedly, taking out his wand and doing his best to recall the Care of Magical Creatures lesson where he'd learned the proper spell. Edmund's inquisitive gaze followed the tip of Adam's wand as he held it aloft and began casting.

"Arachnos!" The incantation echoed off the Owlery's walls, accompanied by a flash of white light. On the table below the window, a small spider appeared where no spider had been before. It twitched its legs and then began to walk across the surface. Adam felt a swell of pride — as he still did whenever he cast a less common spell from his intensive curriculum — and glanced to Edmund to see if his owl was at all impressed. In fact, his bird was entirely focused on the product of the spell. His eyes had taken on an alert, predatory shine; they followed the spider along its path, waiting for the right moment to strike. Just as Edmund dove to snatch the spider into his beak, however, there was a barely audible pop! and the bug was gone.

What? Adam felt as confused as Edmund looked. It wasn't until he remembered the professor's demonstration of the Spider-Conjuration Spell that he knew what had happened. "Shoot," he said, talking to Edmund as if his pet could understand the rules of magic. "I think it only lasts for a few seconds." This realization did make Adam question whether Edmund would be able to eat — or even taste — the spiders before they vanished from his stomach. They certainly wouldn't have any nutritional value. Nevertheless, he thought the experience of hunting prey would be enriching enough for the owl that Adam could still call it a treat. "You're just going to have to move faster, mate. Ready? Ready, Edmund? Arachnos! Go!"

This time, spurred on by Adam's cheers, Edmund caught the spider barely two seconds after the light from the spell had vanished. The wizard laughed, congratulated his pet on his speed, accuracy, and lethal instinct, and cast the spell again. They repeated this routine until Adam's wrist started to get sore. Grinning with delight, he pocketed his wand and reached to stroke the back of Edmund's head. "Way to go, Eddy, you're a right killer!" he exclaimed. "Guess I shouldn't be afraid of you getting old after—"

Before he could finish talking, Edmund snapped at Adam's fingers. He jerked his hand back in surprise, giving the owl an incredulous look. What was that for? Maybe he was just playing around. Shaken, but trying to take the outburst in good fun, Adam chuckled and shook his head. "Merlin, you codger, you almost took my hand off." He moved to pet Edmund again — and again, he was snapped at. The look in the owl's eyes was unmistakable this time. He was like an old man who had already warned you to get off his lawn and wasn't keen on warning you again. Edmund did not want to be tested.

"Alright, fine," Adam mumbled as his spirits plummeted. His owl had never been so grumpy before — but he'd started noticing it more and more often this year. He'd been concerned for his pet, worrying that some disease or discomfort had caused his change in attitude. Then, one evening before dinner, he'd gone to the library and searched the shelves for a book on owl behavior. It was in a small section in the very back of a book on magical creatures and companions that he'd learned, for the first time since adopting Edmund at the Magical Menagerie, the most likely reason for his new crotchety disposition: the average lifespan of a tawny owl was only about four or five years.

So, of course, he started spending more time in the Owlery — even on days like this when it was bloody cold and Edmund was being a right prick — because his pet had just turned five in December and now every day could be their last day together. How could that idea be anything but overwhelming? How could it do anything but haunt him? He tried not to let it affect his conversations with friends or his day-to-day attitude, but he was worried to death that he was going to come home in the summer without Edmund alongside him. And so many — too many — people had left before Adam was ready to tell them goodbye. His dad. His brother. He didn't want to put Eddy on that list. He'd lose his mind.

The bird might have seen the frown on Adam's face; after a moment, he let out a short, quiet hoot and hopped a bit closer to where the wizard was leaning over the windowsill. Adam looked over at him with a forlorn expression and felt guilt well up inside him. He shouldn't have called Edmund a prick, even in his head. He'd been nothing but a good friend since the day he'd bought him. With a sullen half-smile, he tried to reassure Edmund (and himself) that he was alright. "Sorry. I should've left you alone. I just thought you might've wanted some company. It's freezing out, you know. I bet those feathers only do so much." He gave the owl another sidelong glance and laughed a little, despite himself, at the image of Edmund wrapped in a blanket and a scarf of his own. "I forgot you have your own friends up here, though. Bet these guys are loads more fun than I am." He gestured to the other owls on the opposite side of the room (who had, at this point, largely lost interest in him) and then glanced quickly towards the door to make sure no one had come in and heard him talking to a bird. He was starting to feel a little mad. But he just had a bit more to say.

"I... don't know what's going to happen to you, Eddy," he admitted, difficult as it was to accept that some things could not be learned. He was a Ravenclaw; he was supposed to know everything. (Or maybe he was supposed to know that he could never know everything.) "I don't even know what's going to happen to me after I leave this place. I love Mum, really, but the thought of moving back home is... disappointing, I guess. And I don't really want to be the one she relies on. I want to do things myself — do things for me." He allowed himself to voice some of those thoughts that he usually shoved deep down as he looked out over the Hogwarts grounds. "But at the same time, I don't want to end up alone. Right? And everyone I know, I know from here, and all of a sudden I'm not going to have 'here' anymore. I don't know how to do that."

He turned his eyes to Edmund and repeated himself. "I don't know how to do that."

Edmund blinked.

"I love you, Edmund," he said, letting out a deep sigh. "Even if you are getting old and mean. Guess everyone has to, at some point. Just — will you hold on until graduation, for me? I'm sure Mum and Dean would love to see you one more time."

Edmund blinked again. It occurred to Adam then that he might be taking this "average lifespan" business too seriously. Who was to say, in fact, that the book hadn't been totally wrong? He didn't know for sure how long Edmund had left. It could've been a few months. It could've been a few years. It could've been even longer. Maybe his owl was looking at him and thinking, for Merlin's sake, man, stop talking to me like I'm on my deathbed.

Once again, Adam found that he was laughing despite himself as he tried to imagine the sound of Edmund's human voice. He outstretched a very tentative hand towards Edmund's head, waiting to receive distinct permission this time before he put two fingers on the back of the owl's neck and stroked the feathers there with love. He sniffled — damn open window, he thought, because there was no way that he was going to cry — and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Alright, that's enough. I'm going to go get something warm to drink. I'll see you soon, okay?" Edmund didn't answer; after all, owls couldn't talk. But Adam took his silence to mean goodbye and left him on the windowsill. He crossed the room, opened the door to the tower, and let it close gently behind him, then began the long descent to the Great Hall for a cup of cocoa.

In the Owlery, Edmund returned to his perch. He settled in among the other owls, content with his meal of magic spiders (although his stomach felt suspiciously empty), closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

end of solo