It wouldn’t be the first time that Harry had found feathers scattered around the floor of his bedroom. It came with the territory of owning an owl. So he brushed it off at first.
‘A little early for moulting season,’ he commented, running his fingers across the side of Hedwig’s face, which was looking a tad bit scraggly. She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, and gave a pleased coo, the noise vibrating through her body.
And then she nipped at his fingers.
‘Ouch!’ he exclaimed, quickly withdrawing his hand. He looked down, seeing a small bead of blood rushing to the surface. He stuck his finger in his mouth, sucking at the wound. ‘What was that for?’ he said, the words coming out slightly muffled.
Hedwig just stared at him, tilting her head, round eyes staring at him innocently.
‘Are you hungry? Is that it?’ he said, turning to rummage through one of the drawers in his dresser. ‘That doesn’t mean you can take a bite out of me, though.’
He pulled out a bag of treats: Mary’s Mouselet Bites. They were on the pricier side, but they were Hedwig’s favourite snack, and he never could deny her anything. Only the best for his girl, after all.
He poured a couple into his hand, before bringing it to her face in offering. She looked down, nibbling at one in disinterest, before looking back up at him. ‘No? Not hungry?’ He set the rest down on the platform beneath her perch (a twisting willow branch that grew from the wall). ‘What’s wrong, girl?’ he asked, bending slightly so he could look her in the eyes.
She didn’t answer, of course, but Harry wished that she could. Instead, she merely blinked at him.
A stray feather fell from her chest, descending to the ground lazily.
The next morning, a couple of the treats were gone, but many still lay uneaten on the platform. Hedwig remained perched on the branch above it, head slightly tucked in her chest, her eyes closed and slanted upwards.
She looked quite happy.
Harry stared at her for a few moments, a smile unconsciously forming on his lips as he watched her chest expand and compress. He wanted to bury his face in her fluffy chest, but that would wake her up, so instead he slid out of bed and got ready for the day.
Hours later, when he returned to his room, Hedwig remained in the same spot. It looked like she had hardly moved at all.
He quietly approached her, holding his breath, and then his hand struck out, index finger poking her in the chest. Immediately she puffed up, making a startled screech and levelling him with an accusing glare.
Harry grinned cheekily. ‘What are you, a cat? You can’t sleep the entire day away.’ He lightly scratched her wing in apology. ‘Besides, it’s time to eat.’
He pulled out a petrified mouse, dangling it before her. He circled it around her face, watching in amusement as her eyes remained fixated on it, her head turning nearly all the way around. And then he tossed it slightly in the air.
Hedwig caught it with her beak. Unlike the smooth motions she normally did, she seemed to fumble with it for a moment, before swallowing the mouse hole.
‘Not quite awake yet?’ he laughed.
Harry cleaned up the small scattering of feathers that littered the ground. ‘You’re looking a little bald there, Hedwig,’ he said, brushing against the top of her head. The texture was slightly rough, not at all like the usual soft fluff.
She blinked one eye, and then blinked the other.
He gave her a little pinch, snatching away his hand quickly before she could retaliate. ‘Sorry, sorry, couldn’t help it. You don’t normally look so scruffy.’
She hooted at him.
‘Though it’s a bit strange that your darker feathers haven’t come in yet,’ he muttered, staring contemplating at the patches of exposed skin.
His hand was slightly stained red. Harry frowned and lifted Hedwig’s wing. Underneath, the feathers had become red too. His eyes widened, and he exclaimed, ‘Fuck!’
Hedwig had a broken blood feather.
‘Why didn’t you screech at me to let me know?’ His heart beat rapidly, and he could feel it pound from beneath his skin against the side of his throat. ‘You normally kick up a fuss.’
He immediately pulled her off her perch, wrapping her up in his sheets.
He pulled out all the things from his drawers, carelessly tossing them onto the floor until he pulled out a black box. Opening it, he took out a pair of tweezers, gauze, and a special cream he bought from the Magical Menagerie.
Plopping down onto the floor with Hedwig in his arms, he slid the fabric down, revealing the damaged feather. Grabbing the tweezers, he quickly pulled it out. Blood began to gush out, and Hedwig let out a hissing screech.
‘Shh, I’m sorry girl,’ he said, before rubbing some of the cream on the exposed wound, and then pressing gauze against it. Hedwig squirmed in his grip. ‘I know you hate this, but you'll feel much better later.’
He reached behind him, dragging the black box closer, and pulled out a blood replenishing potion for pets. It was slightly pink in colour, an indication that the potion had been modified to be less potent. Tilting her head, he poured a few drops into her beak.
He continued to sit there, Hedwig in his lap, one hand soothingly caressing her, the other hand firmly pressed against the wound. Eventually she seemed to calm, and so did Harry.
Her blood feathers continued to break.
Her feathers continued to fall, but they weren’t growing back properly.
Something was very wrong.
Hedwig was fully bald on the head now, as well as on her right wing, and she hardly moved from her perch, her thin—too thin—form like a statue.
‘Old age,’ the magizoologist had said softly when Harry brought Hedwig in, kindly looking him in the eye. ‘I’m afraid it’s something that we have yet to cure.’
And then, as she handed Hedwig back to him, she had added, ‘But think of it this way: very rarely do birds live to see it. She has had a good life. You have given her a good life. I want you to remember that.’ Harry had not responded, instead quickly leaving out the door, hand clenching her cage so tightly that his fingers became numb, his joints locked in place.
A good life…
Objectively, it was something to be proud of, he knew, and yet it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He didn’t…he didn’t want to watch this; he didn’t want to look at her, mourning her while she still lived. He felt angry: at the magizoologist, at himself, at the world.
And at Hedwig.
(Why are you leaving me? Why why why—).
He had never felt so powerless.
He had felt powerless before, of course, on many occasions, but it had never felt quite like this: a crushing weight on his chest, constant, making it hard to breathe. It had never felt like the very air was a poison.
He didn’t want to let go. He wasn’t ready.
(He would never be ready).
Hedwig was not moving.
Harry leapt out of bed, sweeping her out of her cage. He pressed his ear against her delicate form, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding when he heard that tiny heart beating and faint, little breaths.
Her eyes slowly opened, looking at him. He set her gently on his bed, caressing her, and then took in deep breaths.
He tightly squeezed his hands, nails digging into flesh. It was not enough to puncture, however, so he squeezed even harder, ignoring the pain signalling to his brain, until he felt a wet sensation coat his fingertips.
He briskly walked out of the room, leaving a smear of blood on the door, and then slammed his fists against the wall. A shuddering breath left him, and he tugged at his hair. He stood there for a moment, unmoving, unseeing.
The weight on his chest felt heavier.
And then he turned around, returning to his room and joining Hedwig on his bed as if nothing happened. She gave a little trill, shifting her head slightly so that it leaned against his collarbone.
Harry blinked his eyes open, feeling as if he had not slept at all, and turned his head. That slow, insidious dread that had penetrated his bones and caused him to gasp awake in the odd hours of the night, afraid and yet unsure why, had come to a head.
Hedwig was not moving.
Hedwig was not breathing.
Her heart…was still.
Harry rolled onto his side, pulling Hedwig closer and clutching her to his chest. He did not cry, or shout, or do much of anything. All he did was stare at the smear of his own blood—dry and now a murky brown— on the white of the door, fingers gently running through her feathers, which fell out with hardly any resistance.
The room was terribly quiet.
And yet, he couldn’t help but think that it still was too loud.
He blinked a couple times, before dragging her even closer, so close that it would have been painful, and buried his face into what remained of her plumage. It tickled at his nose.
She was still warm, but nowhere near that brightly burning furnace he was so familiar with.
It…had not been long, since it happened.
He rubbed a stray clump of feathers in between his fingers, before gathering the rest of the feathers that lay on his bed. He clutched them tightly in his hand, a mixture of white and black and blood.
‘You were my first friend, did you know?’ he whispered. ‘So why…’
Strange. He wondered why his voice sounded so hoarse.