Harry's First Owl

HARRY’S FIRST OWL.

James and Peter had been in Bryant & Williamson’s far, far longer than either of them had had any cause to originally suspect. By the time they emerged, the top hat wearing doorman bowing them out of Diagon Alley’s most prestigious department store, Harry’s buggy rendered dangerously top-heavy by the vast shopping bags dangling from the handles, darkness had already fallen.

It was a frosty, winter’s evening, and the sky above wizarding London was a clear, midnight blue. The weak sun had long since sunk beneath the horizon, and the stars had come out to play. In the air above the hurrying, scurrying shoppers, tiny, glittering magical lights fluttered, winking in all the colours of the rainbow. The snow was crunchy underneath their feet as they headed over to Eeylops Owl Emporium.

"Only just opened," said Peter, as they walked. "Meant to be the best damn breeder in the country."

"We shall see," said James, as he pushed the door open. "Do you want to take Harry back to the girls?"

Peter looked from James to the bundle of blankets in the buggy. The bundle of blankets appeared to be asleep … two pink, stubby fingers were manifesting themselves through a fold in the cloth.

"He won’t notice," Peter said. "Trust me … the little bugger is absolutely dead to the world."

"It’s the principle of the thing," James sighed. "I don’t want him seeing what we’re getting him for Christmas."

Peter looked worried. "That’s all well and good," he said. "But do you really think a five month old baby is actually going to need an owl, Prongs?"

"Up yours, Wormy. It’s a family tradition," James scowled. "First Christmas – first owl. Now, Lily and Sirius said they’d meet us at the Royal Oak for dinner. Run along and see if they’ve got us a decent table."

Peter scoffed. "On Christmas Eve! And I’ll tame a hippogriff before we can get a table at the Oak on Christmas Eve!"

"We owled ahead to make a reservation," said James. "Last year they put us by the gents. This year I want to be next to that roaring fire of theirs. Now, be off with you."

Peter shook his head, and muttering under his breath, took the handles of Harry’s buggy.

James watched them go, and then stepped inside the shop. It was dark and dusty, and full of the flickering of wings and soft, insistent hooting. Bright eyes shone at him out of the murk.

"Good evening …"

James nearly jumped through the ceiling. The shopkeeper, a diminutive man with a beard that kept threatening to get tangled up in his oversized feet (James recognised him immediately as a Hobbit) was looking anxiously up at him.

"You’d be Mr Eeylops?" James said.

"The very same! What can I do for you, young sir?"

"Well," James said. "I was … sort of looking for an owl. A Christmas present for my son."

Mr Eeylops gestured vigorously around. "Then you have come to the right place," he said, excitedly. "Now … you either are or you are not looking for an owl. One cannot be sort of looking for an owl, young sir. One either wants one, or one does not, and by the very fact that you are in an Owl Emporium – to whit, a retail outlet established with the explicit purpose of vending owls to those who are in bona fide need of such creatures – to whit, owls – yes, sir, by the verification of these facts laid down before us, I would hazard a guess that you do want an owl."

"Um … yes."

Mr Eeylops beamed at him, removed his reading glasses, and slipped them into the pocket of his waistcoat.

"Excellent," he said. "Indeed, excellent. Did you have a species in mind, young sir?"

"Well," James said. "It’s sort of … it is … a family tradition, you see. It sort of needs to be snowy."

"Not a native breed," Mr Eeylops said. "Interesting. Well, snowy owls are especially hard to come by these days. However, I might have just the bird for you. Follow me, if you please."

Mr Eeylops lead James deeper into the shop. What little light was being cast from the candle on the counter soon flickered and faded away. On both sides of the narrow shop were cages, stacked four or five high, of owls. As they walked, floorboards creaking under their footsteps, Mr Eeylops kept repeating, "Snowy owls … snowy owls … knew I had some somewhere last time I looked," over and over, like a mantra.

Finally, when it seemed they could go no further – they must, James reasoned, have been walking a good four or five minutes – Mr Eeylops brought them up short before an impressive looking cupboard.

"I knew I put them somewhere safe," he said, unlatching the door. "Snowy owls are particularly valuable creatures. One doesn’t want to have them on display, or anything. It might attract the wrong sort of people."

"What do you mean by that?" James asked.

Mr Eeylops paused, and spun around. "Why, sir, I had assumed you knew. The snowy owl is the breed most favoured by …" he lowered his voice to a whisper "… why … by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

James gave a start.

"Do not worry, sir. I used to be an expert reader of the personalities of men. You have nothing to fear." He threw the last bolt open. "For now," he added.

The cupboard door swung slowly open, revealing five or six large, silver cages, each of which held a pure white owl.

"Voila. The jackpot," Mr Eeylops clapped his hands together in delight, and instantly there was a ruffling of feathers. One or two of the owls opened beady eyes to stare at this new intrusion.

"They’re beautiful," James said.

"Aren’t they just? Now … you are going to want the most healthy specimen," Mr Eeylops cast a critical eye over the birds. "Not her … not her … see the markings on her feathers, she is a good owl but not … I suspect, for general purposes. This fellow here I have been treating for a mild case of sticky beak … he will recover, but I don’t want to sell him until he has. Did sir have a preference for a boy or a girl?"

"I hadn’t given that any thought," James said.

"No?" Mr Eeylops sounded surprised. "In that case, sir. I think this one might suit you well. She is still young … with proper care there should be at least twenty to thirty years in her … you have kept owls before?"

James nodded.

"Good. I do like to know my birds are going to a good home," Mr Eeylops said. He produced his wand. "Accio!"

The cage flew down from the top shelf, and into James’ hands. The owl regarded him suspiciously, and cocked her head to one side.

"Does she have a name?" James asked.

"Oh, I don’t name my birds," Mr Eeylops said. "That is the province of a customer. It is my belief that magical owls, such as these, take on the personality that their owners bestow upon them via the medium of the name."

"I’ll get Lily to name her," James said to himself.

Five minutes later, with the paperwork complete, signed and dated, James left the shop to a cheery cry of, "Merry Christmas!"

It was a short walk to the Royal Oak, tramping through the deep snow outside, brushing past hordes of anxious last-minute shoppers, catching a well remembered tune spilling forth from a shop doorway. He passed by Quirrell & Sons where five or six enchanted harps were giving an impromptu recital to a small crowd. A hat was going round, as well as a large bowl of mulled wine. Two witches dressed as Father Christmas were rattling metal buckets outside Gringotts, collecting for the Save the Dragons Christmas Appeal. James dropped them a couple of bronze Knuts as he strode by. Another crowd was besieging Madam Malkin’s Robes for all Occasions. A large sign outside proclaimed ‘Invisibility Cloaks Just In – Ideal Christmas Gifts’.

He walked up the steps to the front door of the Royal Oak, widely considered one of the finest wizarding hostelries anywhere. He pushed open the door, and immediately, spilling out came delicious smells, light, warmth, the noise of chatter and lively music played upon a fiddle,

As he had arranged, he found Peter, Lily and Sirius clustered round a table by the fireplace, clutching great tankards of mulled mead. James set the cage, which was covered by a red cloth, down on the floor next to them.

"We ordered for you," Sirius said. "They’re very busy tonight and the waiters were quite insistent."

Lily was rocking Harry’s buggy back and forth.

"What am I having?" James asked.

Sirius sniggered. "Venison."

Lily poured him a tankard of mead from the communal jug. The rich, honeyed beverage steamed gently. James’ glasses were also steaming gently, so he removed them, and wiped the condensation away on the hem of his robes.

"I see you got the owl," Lily remarked.

James nodded. "Yes. Cheap, too. He only wanted ten Galleons for it …"

Sirius spluttered into his mead. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen ten Galleons all in one place …"

"You would if you didn’t keep blowing all your money on that damn motorbike," said Peter.

"Ten Galleons is cheap," Lily confirmed. "For an owl, at any rate. May I take a look?"

"I suppose so," James said. "What are we going to name her?"

Lily heaved the cage, which was quite heavy, onto the tabletop, and removed the red cloth cover. The owl inside hooted and flapped her wings.

"My … she’s beautiful," said Lily. "Look at those feathers …"

"They’re so … smooth," Peter said.

"She’s absolutely divine," Lily said. "She’s almost too good for our Harry … that white is so vivid … I know it reminds me of something, but I can’t for the life of me think what it might be."

"Driven snow?" Sirius suggested.

"Sherbet?" Peter said.

"I remember!" Lily exclaimed, triumphantly. "It reminds me of James’ Great-Aunt’s hair! You remember, she came to our wedding and ate all the canapés …"

"Oh, that Great-Aunt," James said.

"Her hair was absolutely incredible," Lily went on. "I don’t believe I’ve ever seen hair so white. What was her name again?"

"You mean Great-Aunt Hedwig?"

Lily nodded. "I think that settles it," she said. "This owl will be called Hedwig, in honour of James’ batty Great-Aunt."

THE END.