If he closed his eyes, he saw that day. If he reached back and imagined the smell of dirt and the flapping of wings, he remembered how it all began.
A battle waged high above him. He tilted his head and watched the far-away clumps of black and gray and brown blend together and then rent apart. War cries echoed down, forming caws and hoots and near-melodic calls. The birds were possessed by madness. Or hunger. Or both. One target pulled all their attention. A tiny, tan-colored owl swooped and dove from her hunters, turning acrobatic tricks unheard of within the normal avian population.
The owl scented the trouble the second she disturbed the flock. The atmosphere felt wrong. It troubled her to see ravens in the same tree as hawks. And when they flew, they flew as one. One mind. One mission. The owl knew she had to flee, but her instincts were overridden by a more urgent mission. She had to deliver a letter, had to find the boy.
The stink of magic hovered all over her. She was a wizard's owl, a human's plaything, a slave. Hate mingled with hunger, and then the chase began. They taunted her and clawed at the oddly shaped strip of wood in her beak. They called out in challenge and in disgust.
Her muffled hooting of apology failed to placate their curiosity. The hunt began in earnest then. They threatened with sharp beaks and even sharper talons. And she fled. She was swift and knew magic. All post owls knew a slight bit of magic. It helped locate their recipients, and always told them where they needed to be.
She needed to be on the ground, near the boy with the round face and the curious stare. She baited her pursuers and forced their paths to cross over one another. Fury caused the flock to lash out at each other. Feathers ripped away from flesh, and blood trickled from nipped-at wounds. The owl couldn't understand why the birds went mad. The hunger ought to have passed once they realized they could not catch her.
Perhaps magic went bad and spoiled sometimes, creeping into the crannies of living brains and twisting them to insanity.
Perhaps someone was trying to keep her from delivering the letter.
The boy.
She had to reach the boy.
The sky tore open and feathers fell out. They danced down and clung to the boy's shirt, his hair, his robes. They were warm and wet and brushed against his face. They were pink and coated thick with blood. He knew blood, knew how easily it seeped through injured skin. Blood was unmistakable. The earthy smell of it lingered in his nostrils. Blood held life's scent. And everything he knew, everything he loved in this world, grew up from the ground and held that scent.
With a triumphant hoot, the owl dipped below the flock and swooped towards the boy.
He stared and stared, chubby hands outstretched to grab the envelope dropped from the owl's beak. "Th-thank you," the boy said and grinned a friendly grin despite the streaks of red dabbed crazily across his cheeks. No one had ever owled the boy anything before. All his correspondences went through his grandmother first, and his grandmother always knew what to do. But this was special, addressed only to him, and he knew exactly what the envelope held.
A Hogwarts letter. The grin spread wider, relief washing over him and chasing a large amount of worry away. He was worthy enough and magic enough. He wasn't a squib at all! He thanked the owl again. It seemed the only polite thing to do.
The post owl puffed out her chest and settled on the boy's shoulder, a certain amount of pride welling within her. It was done. Over. She could go back now. She was free.
The tumble hurt her less than expected, the thump onto the grass a mere shock of pressure and nothing more. The ground demanded to suck the last breath out of her lungs, and she obliged.
The boy dropped down to his knees, his gaze set solely on the owl. It was still. Alarmingly still. Animals never stood completely still. They breathed. They twitched their muscles. They didn't bend to the wind's whim. Only plants stood still, and even then, they moved. The boy was just much too slow and much too human to notice. He barely noticed the owl's gashes and missing feathers until he got close.
This was his fault. If the owl didn't have to deliver the letter--his letter--then it wouldn't be laying dead on the grass with only a little boy to mourn it. He was used to things being his fault. No one mentioned it out loud to him, but he knew what happened to his parents was his fault as well.
The flapping of wings and the cries of birds grew louder, angrier, insaner. He knew he needed to leave before the flock went after their prey.
But he couldn't leave it behind. Not when the owl gave so much to bring him to Hogwarts. Not when he was to blame for its death. The owl felt light and limp as his arms cradled it. He held it close, hunched over it, not caring if the blood spread crimson onto his clothes. "Go away!" He called uselessly up at the circling cloud of far-off dots in the sky. They didn't understand human-talk and thought the boy had issued a challenge.
He ran, fearful that he might be caught in a swirl of feathers and beaks and claws. The owl pressed fiercely against his chest, more blood soaking into his robes. Across the meadow, down the pathways lined with hedgerows and flowers, up the stairs, and into the house. All the while pursued by the furious shrieks of birds.
"What in Merlin's name have you got yourself into now?" Gran's voice cut deeper than the insane noises issuing from the sky. "And is that blood on your robes? Did you fall and hurt yourself again?"
He shook his head. "Hog-Hogwarts letter, Gran." He reached into his pocket and produced the envelope. "I ought to go, right? But...I..." His eyes dropped down to the small bundle wrapped in his arms. "The owl. I-I'm sorry..."
"Hmph. I imagine I'm not the one you should be apologizing to for that, if it truly is your fault," Gran said, drying her wrinkled hands on the nearest dishtowel and then rubbed the towel all across the boy's face to clear off the worst of the mess. "Let's have a look at it. No, not that! The letter, Neville. I'm not about to touch that other thing."
After withdrawing the owl, he handed the envelope to her, the red staining his hands transferring onto the parchment. Gran took the letter by one corner and studied it as best she could without actually touching the maroon fingerprints. "Yes, I believe you'll have to attend Hogwarts. Thank heavens you're not a squib. Perhaps with a little learning in your head, you might make a proper wizard yet."
The boy still cuddled the owl, though he was unsure why. "What do I do with...?"
"How am I supposed to know?" Gran's attention focused on the letter. "Well, I see the curriculum hasn't really changed since your father attended. Some things of his we can reuse, but the rest need to be bought. We'll need to do a bit of shopping."
The boy's eyes widened, his jaw dropping in excitement. "Diagon Alley? We're going to Diagon Alley? C-could I get a wand too?"
"Algie, take him outside and get rid of that thing he's carrying. I'll see if I can dig out Frank's old schoolthings. You won't need a new wand, Neville. Your father's will suffice."
The boy involuntarily flinched when Gran mentioned the outside, but one look out the window assured him that the dotted cloud had gone. "Yes, Gran." He tried not to sound too disappointed as his uncle led him out to the back of the garden.
"Your gran might not act it, but Augusta's really proud of you, Neville," Algie said. "We all are. Think I'll have to get you a pet. You know, to celebrate this occasion."
"You will? Gran's said I shouldn't get a pet cos I'd forget to take care of it."
Algie's head shook, and a slight smile appeared on his face. "Neville, you ought to follow your own mind rather than your Gran's. Take today, fr'instance. You cared about that owl. You protected it from harm, or at least tried to. Shows you've got heart enough to tend to another living thing."
"Plants are alive too, Uncle."
"Well, thinking things, then, and I don't want to hear any argument about that. I already get enough of it from your aunt." Algie cleared out a hole in the ground with his wand, and the boy very tenderly placed the owl within the space. "Want to say a few words, lad?"
The boy shook his head, staring blankly at the blood saturating the sleeves of his robes. If he looked at the hole, he'd only imagine the flock of mad flapping things chasing after him, nipping at him with beaks and tearing into him with claws. His fault. I'm sorry. He said it over and over in his head. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
"Suppose I shouldn't buy you an owl then. How'd you like a toad instead?"
The boy thought a toad seemed a very good idea.