Owl Eyes

Owl Eyes

He liked these days, when the rain would prevent her from going outside. He enjoyed her quiet company. Often, he would allow her to watch as he completed his day's work, glancing up at her occasionally as if asking for an answer that he knew she didn't have. Sometimes, he would sit and talk to her, and indulge her in her favorite treats as a reward for listening so nicely. On these special occasions such as today, however, he would just sit and stare, taking in her majestic beauty, and allow himself to be lost in thought, gazing into her deep, amber eyes.

Those eyes... he could see anything and everything that he had lived, loved, and lost in those eyes. He watched as the reflection of the light dancing in her eyes flickered like a spark for a moment. His thoughts flew at once to his two best friends, Ron and Hermione. A spark was exactly what there was between them. It had become obvious to him after spending over half of his summer at number 12 Grimmauld Place in their company. He only hoped they would notice it themselves soon; they were beginning to give him a headache with their constant rowing. He chuckled to himself as the memory of dinner tonight flooded his mind.

"Hurry up, Hermione!" Ron yelled up the staircase to the girls' dormitories. He turned to his other best friend. "I hate not being able to go up those stairs and drag her down here just like she does to us. Who says boys can't be trusted to go up there? It'd save us a whole lot of trouble if we could just walk in there and drag her down with us instead of standing here yelling our lungs out." He paused to take in a deep breath and then, "HER-MI-O-NEEEE!!!!!! COME ON!!!"

"You could try being a bit nicer, Ron, and she might come down. Besides, you know Hermione, she's probably just finishing up some 'light reading' before dinner."

Ron let out a frustrated groan as he continued to watch the staircase anxiously for some sign of his other best friend. Finally, after what obviously had seemed like an hour to Ron, but in reality was only about ten minutes, the source of Ron's annoyance made her appearance at the top of the stairs.

She smiled at Harry, and purposely avoided Ron's impatient gaze as she made her way down the staircase. "Hello Harry, how nice of you to wait for me," she said in an almost lofty tone.

Ron gaped at her open-mouthed. Harry gave him a sympathetic look as Hermione steered him away toward the portrait hole saying, "Come on now, Harry, we don't want to be late for dinner," and made no effort at all to wait for Ron to come out of his shock-induced stupor. No sooner than Harry and Hermione had reached the portrait hole, however, the sound of Ron's large feet could be heard following quickly behind them, and the third party caught up with the pair as they made their way into the Great Hall. Not one of them spoke as they took their seats at the Gryffindor table and began to fill their plates, though the way Ron stabbed at his roast beef prodded Harry to mentally brace himself for the explosion he knew was coming.

It was just as he was digging into his treacle tart that it happened. Harry looked up and saw that both Ron and Hermione's hands were grasping the last Cauldron Cake. Hermione cleared her throat loudly and said, "Ronald, I do believe that I was the first to take this cake, so if you'd kindly let go, I would greatly appreciate it."

"What are you on about? I put my hand on it first!" Ron snapped.

"No, you most certainly did not! Besides, you've had three already! You don't need to make a bigger pig of yourself!"

"And you don't need to act like a prissy know-it-all all the time, but I don't see you making any changes!"

"I might be a prissy know-it-all, Ronald Weasley, but at least I don't make a fool of myself screaming up the staircase so the whole girls' dormitory can hear me whining!"

Ron's ears were flaming red now, the telltale Weasley sign of anger or embarrassment. Harry could tell that he was ready for a fight, and was going to use any means to win against his frizzy-haired opponent. The rain pounding outside the windows was an audible reminder of how restless he and Ron had been the whole day, anxious to get outside although the Quidditch pitch was thoroughly soaked. Consequently, Ron had an excess of pent up energy that Harry knew would only make this row even worse. Harry's thoughts were interrupted as Ron finally found his voice again.

"Well, I wouldn't have been yelling if you hadn't decided to take your sweet time! What the bloody hell were you doing up there anyway?" Ron retorted.

"I was writing a letter, and if-" She was cut off.

"Writing a letter? To who?"

"That's beside the point, Ronald, and none of your business. As I was saying, if you were-" She was cut off again.

"HA! No need to tell me. I know who you were writing to... you were writing to Vicky again, weren't you?"

"So what if I was writing to him? That's not the point. And for heaven's sake, Ronald, do not call him Vicky!"

"So you blew off Harry and me to write to that slime ball? I guess I see where your loyalties lie."

He had touched a nerve. Hermione drew herself up to her full height, grabbed her schoolbag, said, "I'll see you later, Harry," and left the Great Hall with her head held high.

Ron sat down next to Harry again, looking thoroughly annoyed. He glanced around and asked to his listening dorm mates, "What does she see in him?"

"I dunno, mate, I just don't know," responded Dean.

"Oi, Ron!" yelled Seamus from a few seats down. "Want a Cauldron Cake?"

Ron's already lanky body seemed to deflate as he caught sight of the now refilled basket of Cakes, and he shook his head, and promptly let his face fall onto the table in silent defeat.

Harry laughed out loud at the memory of Ron's slumped and defeated form. His two best friends certainly had an odd way of showing affection for each other. It had taken him the whole night to coax Hermione out of the library so that she could go to her dormitory and sleep, only convincing her to come in the end by assuring her countless times that Ron was already asleep. He smiled as he turned his attention back to his feathery companion. She hooted happily at the sight of her master's cheerful face, a reminder to Harry of how rare it was nowadays for him to allow himself to be happy. All too soon his face fell as he began to recall the events that were the source of his seemingly constant state of depression.

He turned his head towards the rain streaked window, away from her soul-searching eyes. The intensity of her gaze made it too hard to look her in the eye as the events of last year circled through his mind. Gazing out of the rain-streaked window did nothing to lift his spirits, however, because he realized that the light in the room contrasting to the darkness outside made the window not a view to the outside world, but merely a mirror of the room he was in, and a pair of amber eyes were staring back at him from the blackness of the reflection. He sighed and let his memory take him back, back to when it had all began.

He remembered the dreams. The constant, frustrating images of locked corridors ending in locked doors that plagued his every waking thought, his every restless night's sleep. Of course he had never let on to anybody just how much the dreams had bothered him. In fact, now he would do anything to grab a Time Turner, travel back to last year, and do what he should've done with the dreams all along-- push them into the back of his mind and ignore them. Ignorance is truly bliss, he thought, and laughed bitterly at the thought.

If someone had only told him that pursuing the meaning of the dreams would have resulted in Voldemort's deadly trickery. That he might be led into a trap behind that locked door that would result in the death of the only man who ever had a chance of filling the hole in his heart that his parents' death had caused. Sirius... he felt the hot tears pool up in his eyes and tried, but failed to will them away. He didn't deserve to cry when he had led his godfather to his own fatal battle.

And his friends... he had led his friends into such danger. He remembered the look on Ron's face as the brain's long, venomous tentacles had seized his arms and chest, his pleading for Harry to help him when the tentacles had begun to constrict so tight that he could not breathe. Ron would carry those scars for the rest of his life. Hermione was not spared either. He remembered watching in horror as Dolohov pointed his wand at her heart and silently uttered a curse so forceful that it blew her across the room. For one terrifying moment, he had thought she was dead. Now, back to her usual busy routine and thoroughly happy she could resume her studies, Harry was reminded all too often - when she stopped to catch her breath or clutched at her barely healed ribs - how he had nearly lost her. He had nearly lost them both, and he blamed himself for it.

Though he blamed himself, he knew in his heart who was truly responsible for every tragedy the last sixteen years of his life had brought him. Every death, injury, prejudice, and evil could be traced to him-- the Lord of all things cold, dark and sinister, Lord Voldemort. Cold fury surged through his veins at the very thought of him. His parents' deaths had not been the only casualties of Voldemort's reign of terror. Whole families had been killed and society was divided, having to choose between good and evil, death and survival. It was he, Harry, who had put an end to that reign, without even lifting a finger. And again, as Voldemort rose to power for a second time, it fell to Harry to destroy him. The fate of the wizarding world was in his hands. It was his cruel destiny to kill or be killed. His heart dropped as the one thing he knew for certain sunk heavily into his mind-- none of this would have happened if he had not been the Boy Who Lived.

He was brought out of his mournful trance by a soft, low hoot, and he reluctantly brought his focus back to the other pair of eyes in the reflection. It was as if she knew what he had been thinking and was trying to provide some comfort. She nipped at his finger and he turned around to face her. She really was quite beautiful; the crisp snow-white of her feathers was dotted here and there with bits of black or gray. He let his hand travel the length of her powerful wing as he gazed again upon her striking face. He took in the graceful curve of her beak, the smooth outline of her round face and, at last, he let his gaze lock onto her deep, amber eyes. He thought then that if something so beautiful, so unadulterated and pure could exist in this increasingly darkening world, then perhaps there was still hope. Perhaps destiny would favor him, and good would prevail in this everlasting battle with the Dark Lord's regime. He had to hold on to hope. After all, the war had only just begun.

He saw the look in her eyes and knew that she echoed his thoughts. Somehow, she understood. He blinked and, all of a sudden, he was aware that sunlight was creeping into the room. Taking this as his cue to return to the world he had left so briefly, he rose and strode to the window. A rustling of feathers behind him told him that he was not the only one that was ready to begin the day and, soon enough, he heard her take flight. And Harry watched from the Owlrey window as Hedwig's elegant form flew off into the gathering dawn.