give her love » james potter

5

In the whole world, there isn't an Owl going through more of a midlife crisis than Twiggy.

She sits on my window sill, fidgeting, opening her beak, trying to find some worth in her existence. For the last seven years, she's been used to delivering and receiving letter multiple times a week, probably the busiest owl at Hogwarts, but now she hasn't gotten a single one in the last few weeks.

Her grey fur reflects the sunlight making her seem almost too pretty for this world, too good, too nice. I think if there's a thing as model owls, Twiggy could be a superstar, but I'm pretty sure that doesn't exist so we'll just have to live with her being a normal pretty owl.

"It's not you," I tell her, stroking her back. "Your so great and it's really just me. But if you want, I guess you could like to fly somewhere. Can owls do that? If you can understand me and want to do it, uh, peck my hand."

I hold out my hand in front of her, and she just gives me an are you ok? look.

"No, not at all."

I sit at the Hufflepuff table, waiting.

I'm not sure what, but I can feel something is going to happen. I know something is going to happen, it's like my third-year Divination senses are coming back at me. It's an overwhelming sort of feeling.

Carefully sipping my coffee, I look around the hall. Trying to find something, trying to catch something unordinary, unusual, unbelievable. My eyes catch a Slytherin pouring some vial into their friends drink, a Ravenclaw, I think it's Kiko Chang, has this bright pink hair, and then I stop at Lily Evans.

My 20/20 vision seems to come in a little handy because I can read the title and the name of the newspaper. It's a muggle one, it's the muggle one Dad used to always read, in the morning with a cup of this Indian chai his coworker would give him. God knows why she has it, or how she even got it but it's something.

Then I see it.

FAMILY MURDERED IN HOLLISTAND AND STILL NO LEADS

Hollistand. Murder. No leads.

It's all too familiar and it swallows me up. It's an ocean of feelings and that newspaper is like a rock dragging me deeper and deeper down. My chest feels heavy and I can't swallow the lump in my throat or blink away the stinging in my tears.

On the cover is the picture of us from our vacation to Italy this summer, I wonder how they got it. Did they go into our house? Did they ask a relative? There are too many questions and I have a feeling that I might not ever get an answer.

Lily's eyes suddenly snap up and find mine. Her vibrant green eyes grow wide and she looks pale and as if she's going to say something, but then the paper in her hand is snatched.

The marauders are loud and huddle together to read it, they're voices suddenly stop and grow very still.

I look everywhere except at the Gryffindor table. My cup. The ceiling. Rachel.

But I still feel it. I can feel their eyes on me, the way they must be trying to peer into me, trying to find a crack so they can venture into my mind, my soul. Figure out why no one knows about this yet, why I haven't done or said anything yet.

I hear a little whisper, it travels through the table, it slithers and slithers until it's right beside me.

"Lina," Rachel says, her voice quiet and careful. "Why didn't you tell me that your family has, well, uhm, passed away. I thought we were best friends."

It makes something in me snap. "They died, Rachel. They were murdered. You can't try and make that sound pretty and nice by saying they passed away," my voice is rough to my ears, and I know she doesn't deserve it but I can't stop. A part of me doesn't want to stop. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want to. This isn't something like me telling you about how I got a blowout. Don't take it personally." 

"Ange--"

I get up.

My legs move quicker than my mind can decide on some reasonable decision. I walk out of the hall, I know people must be watching, I know people must realize that somethings wrong. That I'm not okay, but, but maybe I can do that now.

I have the pity card.

For the last seven years, I've managed to create something--someone, who is perfect. Someone who has the best possible life imaginable, and know it's all been washed away leaving only the pity card.