48. FLEDGING (G) BY IAMSHADOW
Title: Fledging
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,285 + afterword
Rating: G
Warnings: Melancholy.
Summary: Harry decides to take an important step.
A/N: Happy Belated Birthday weetziecat
You asked for something happy, with someone overcoming a stress.
Okay, this one fits into Teapot 'verse, but after the current arc. It'll fit in very likely before the end of the series I'm writing, or very shortly after. But I won't know what chapter number it will be until I get to it, so for now it's getting filed under cookies.
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
I stand in the middle of Diagon Alley, frozen, as if in fear, my hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically.
“You don’t have to do this now, y’know,” Ron says, gently.
I shake myself a little. “I do, Ron. It’s not fair on you. Or Pig.”
“Pig’s fine. That potion Mum made fixed him up a treat.”
“He shouldn’t have to be carrying mail for both of us. He wouldn’t have collapsed in the first place, if he hadn’t tried to carry that parcel all on his own. He should have waited for the clerk at Flourish and Blotts to put a Lightening or a Shrinking Charm on it, but he didn’t. He just took off, wanting to prove how strong he was.”
Ron snorts. “Well, that’s his own bloody fault. Stupid bird.”
Ron sounds casually scornful, but I had seen his distress during Pig’s recuperation. Coming so close to losing his owl had frightened him horribly.
I shake my head. “It could have killed him, Ron, and it would have been my fault. I should have bought my own owl months ago. I’m just being stupid.”
Still, I stand outside the doorway to Eeylops’ Owl Emporium, unable to bring myself to enter. Ron places a hand on my shoulder, and that is enough. Taking a deep breath, I move forward, and find myself inside.
I catch my breath as my eyes adjust. The shop is full of shadows, and much larger than it appears from the outside. Owls of every size sit on perches and in cages from floor to ceiling and along all four walls, ranging from tiny Pygmy Owls, smaller than my hand, to massive, hawk-like owls that are surely capable of carrying off a small child.
“How do I choose?” I gape.
“How did you choose last time?” Ron asks, looking a bit overwhelmed himself.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “Hedwig just sort of… stood out.”
Given the gloom of the shop (dimly lit for the owls’ comfort), it wasn’t surprising that I’d headed straight for the Snowy Owl on my first excursion into Diagon Alley. Her white plumage had been like a beacon.
The shopkeeper bustles over, all deference and barely-contained excitement. “Mr Potter! What an honour! Right this way, sir, right this way!”
I am immediately subjected to the man’s cheerful patter. He seems to be out to impress. Knowing my last owl was a beautiful specimen, and a foreign species, too, he seems to think I require something equally showy for my new purchase. He is just extolling the merits of a rather savage and haughty-looking Eagle Owl when a bird catches my eye.
“What about that one?” I ask, interrupting the steady flow of information for the first time in at least ten minutes.
The shopkeeper blinks. “A Barn Owl. If you’re interested in Barn Owls, sir, we have, newly in, Tyto novaehollandiae, an Australian Masked Owl. Very unique in this country.”
“What about that one, though?” I insist, taking a step closer to the bird, which ruffles its feathers and peers at me curiously, with liquid dark eyes.
“That’s Tyto alba, a Common Barn Owl. We have dozens. Very reliable breed, if nondescript.”
I cautiously stretch out a hand, and it nibbles gently at my fingers before tilting its head in a clear entreaty for me to scratch its neck. When I do so, its eyes sink half-shut in clear pleasure.
“I like this one,” I say, my lips curving up into a smile.
“We have both male and female Barn Owls of all ages, if you have a preference, sir,” the shopkeeper offers. “Some of our Barn Owls have been specially trained to -”
“This one,” I clarify.
“That is a female owl, then. She is young, but has had the basic training that all our birds receive.”
She doesn’t look a thing like Hedwig, despite her light colouring. Her heart shaped face, her delicately patterned wings, and her obviously affectionate nature appeal to me. A quick glance at Ron (who smiles encouragingly), and I find that saying the words is nowhere near as difficult as I’d dreaded.
“I’ll take her.”
If the shopkeeper is disappointed that his most famous customer has not chosen an exotic and highly expensive breed, he does his best to hide it, and bustles about organising papers of sale, a cage of the correct dimensions, a perch and a large, complementary bag of Owl Treats.
***
“You found a name for her yet?” Ron asks, later that evening, as we lie side by side on the bed.
Though it is getting dark, the owl is sitting on her perch placidly, making no move to fly out the open window in front of her to hunt. She probably isn’t hungry, given the amount of Owl Treats Ron and I fed her earlier, on the flimsy excuse of ‘getting her settled in’.
I shake my head. For the sake of tradition, I am flicking through a rather battered copy of A History of Magic. I gave up on the section on the Goblin Wars after deciding that goblins did indeed have rather ugly and unwieldy names, all entirely unsuitable. The chapter on giant conflicts proved equally useless, and I began opening the book to random pages in the hope of getting lucky.
In a chapter on the persecution of wizardkind by Muggles, I suddenly strike gold.
“Um, Ron?”
“Yeah?”
“How do you say this name?”
Ron leans over to peer at the word I am pointing at. “Cay-oym-hee?” he sounds out, experimentally. “ No bloody idea, mate. Why?”
I shrug. “She was a pretty incredible person.” I clear my throat. “Um, Ki-um-he, er... Koy... whatever... also known as the Gentle Witch of Maigh Eo, practised as a Healer in Ireland in the sixteenth century. She treated any who came to her, magical or Muggle, and refused to stop practicing her art publically even when witch trials became rampant in the area. When she told a local crofter that his child’s sickness was beyond her power to cure, he turned the village against her, and she had to flee for her life. However, by using Memory Charms, Polyjuice and other disguising techniques, she continued to help the Muggles she had chosen to watch over until the end of her days.”
Ron blinks. “Er yeah. Great.” He looks deadly bored. “Why don’t you just call her something simple?”
“All right, I just like how it looks,” I confess, stroking the page.
“Seamus’d know,” Ron says, his face lighting up a little. “And you could owl him to ask, now. He’s in London at the moment, so that’s not too far.”
“Hey, owl? Girl?” The owl turns on her perch at my call. “Want to deliver a letter for me?”
She clicks her beak, spreads her wings and glides over land lightly to the bed. I Accio a pencil and a piece of parchment and scribble a short note.
Seamus, this is Caoimhe, my new owl. How do you say ‘Caoimhe’, exactly? I’ve only seen it written. Say hi to Ginny for me.
Harry
Caoimhe watches me intently as I tell her the recipient and the address, then flies out the window soundlessly, the breeze from her wings brushing me like a caress.
Experimentally, I reach for a memory of Hedwig, and to my surprise, there’s no guilt there, just gentle melancholy and love. I sigh, and drop the heavy book on floor, then turn and cuddle up to Ron, who’s still engrossed in his Quidditch magazine.
“You all right, then?” he asks.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I am,” I answer, a warmth blossoming inside me as I think of my new owl winging her way through the twilit sky.
***
Author's Afterword
I love the look of Gaelic names and words in text, but it never fails to amuse me at how different they often sound when spoken. According to wikipedia, 'Caiomhe' is pronounced KEE-va or KWEE-va, though there are slight differences in inflection depending on the region of Ireland in which the word is used. It's from the same root as the much more popular 'Kevin'.
I very often choose names of OCs deliberately for their meaning. This was no exception. 'Caiomhe' means 'gentle', 'beautiful' or 'precious'. I wanted the name to be a direct reflection of the bird's attributes, but also, for it to be a sharp contrast to Harry's first owl. 'Hedwig', from Old German, is derived from the words 'hadu' meaning battle, and 'wig' meaning fight. In these post-War years, I felt a fairly standard breed of owl with a peaceful name was appropriate to Harry's life, whereas Hedwig, who accompanied Harry throughout his formative, strife-torn years, was an oddity and a curiousity in Britain, and had a ferocious name that reflected the struggles.
<- 47. Meditation c@r 49. Admission ->
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,285 + afterword
Rating: G
Warnings: Melancholy.
Summary: Harry decides to take an important step.
A/N: Happy Belated Birthday weetziecat
You asked for something happy, with someone overcoming a stress.
Okay, this one fits into Teapot 'verse, but after the current arc. It'll fit in very likely before the end of the series I'm writing, or very shortly after. But I won't know what chapter number it will be until I get to it, so for now it's getting filed under cookies.
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
I stand in the middle of Diagon Alley, frozen, as if in fear, my hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically.
“You don’t have to do this now, y’know,” Ron says, gently.
I shake myself a little. “I do, Ron. It’s not fair on you. Or Pig.”
“Pig’s fine. That potion Mum made fixed him up a treat.”
“He shouldn’t have to be carrying mail for both of us. He wouldn’t have collapsed in the first place, if he hadn’t tried to carry that parcel all on his own. He should have waited for the clerk at Flourish and Blotts to put a Lightening or a Shrinking Charm on it, but he didn’t. He just took off, wanting to prove how strong he was.”
Ron snorts. “Well, that’s his own bloody fault. Stupid bird.”
Ron sounds casually scornful, but I had seen his distress during Pig’s recuperation. Coming so close to losing his owl had frightened him horribly.
I shake my head. “It could have killed him, Ron, and it would have been my fault. I should have bought my own owl months ago. I’m just being stupid.”
Still, I stand outside the doorway to Eeylops’ Owl Emporium, unable to bring myself to enter. Ron places a hand on my shoulder, and that is enough. Taking a deep breath, I move forward, and find myself inside.
I catch my breath as my eyes adjust. The shop is full of shadows, and much larger than it appears from the outside. Owls of every size sit on perches and in cages from floor to ceiling and along all four walls, ranging from tiny Pygmy Owls, smaller than my hand, to massive, hawk-like owls that are surely capable of carrying off a small child.
“How do I choose?” I gape.
“How did you choose last time?” Ron asks, looking a bit overwhelmed himself.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “Hedwig just sort of… stood out.”
Given the gloom of the shop (dimly lit for the owls’ comfort), it wasn’t surprising that I’d headed straight for the Snowy Owl on my first excursion into Diagon Alley. Her white plumage had been like a beacon.
The shopkeeper bustles over, all deference and barely-contained excitement. “Mr Potter! What an honour! Right this way, sir, right this way!”
I am immediately subjected to the man’s cheerful patter. He seems to be out to impress. Knowing my last owl was a beautiful specimen, and a foreign species, too, he seems to think I require something equally showy for my new purchase. He is just extolling the merits of a rather savage and haughty-looking Eagle Owl when a bird catches my eye.
“What about that one?” I ask, interrupting the steady flow of information for the first time in at least ten minutes.
The shopkeeper blinks. “A Barn Owl. If you’re interested in Barn Owls, sir, we have, newly in, Tyto novaehollandiae, an Australian Masked Owl. Very unique in this country.”
“What about that one, though?” I insist, taking a step closer to the bird, which ruffles its feathers and peers at me curiously, with liquid dark eyes.
“That’s Tyto alba, a Common Barn Owl. We have dozens. Very reliable breed, if nondescript.”
I cautiously stretch out a hand, and it nibbles gently at my fingers before tilting its head in a clear entreaty for me to scratch its neck. When I do so, its eyes sink half-shut in clear pleasure.
“I like this one,” I say, my lips curving up into a smile.
“We have both male and female Barn Owls of all ages, if you have a preference, sir,” the shopkeeper offers. “Some of our Barn Owls have been specially trained to -”
“This one,” I clarify.
“That is a female owl, then. She is young, but has had the basic training that all our birds receive.”
She doesn’t look a thing like Hedwig, despite her light colouring. Her heart shaped face, her delicately patterned wings, and her obviously affectionate nature appeal to me. A quick glance at Ron (who smiles encouragingly), and I find that saying the words is nowhere near as difficult as I’d dreaded.
“I’ll take her.”
If the shopkeeper is disappointed that his most famous customer has not chosen an exotic and highly expensive breed, he does his best to hide it, and bustles about organising papers of sale, a cage of the correct dimensions, a perch and a large, complementary bag of Owl Treats.
***
“You found a name for her yet?” Ron asks, later that evening, as we lie side by side on the bed.
Though it is getting dark, the owl is sitting on her perch placidly, making no move to fly out the open window in front of her to hunt. She probably isn’t hungry, given the amount of Owl Treats Ron and I fed her earlier, on the flimsy excuse of ‘getting her settled in’.
I shake my head. For the sake of tradition, I am flicking through a rather battered copy of A History of Magic. I gave up on the section on the Goblin Wars after deciding that goblins did indeed have rather ugly and unwieldy names, all entirely unsuitable. The chapter on giant conflicts proved equally useless, and I began opening the book to random pages in the hope of getting lucky.
In a chapter on the persecution of wizardkind by Muggles, I suddenly strike gold.
“Um, Ron?”
“Yeah?”
“How do you say this name?”
Ron leans over to peer at the word I am pointing at. “Cay-oym-hee?” he sounds out, experimentally. “ No bloody idea, mate. Why?”
I shrug. “She was a pretty incredible person.” I clear my throat. “Um, Ki-um-he, er... Koy... whatever... also known as the Gentle Witch of Maigh Eo, practised as a Healer in Ireland in the sixteenth century. She treated any who came to her, magical or Muggle, and refused to stop practicing her art publically even when witch trials became rampant in the area. When she told a local crofter that his child’s sickness was beyond her power to cure, he turned the village against her, and she had to flee for her life. However, by using Memory Charms, Polyjuice and other disguising techniques, she continued to help the Muggles she had chosen to watch over until the end of her days.”
Ron blinks. “Er yeah. Great.” He looks deadly bored. “Why don’t you just call her something simple?”
“All right, I just like how it looks,” I confess, stroking the page.
“Seamus’d know,” Ron says, his face lighting up a little. “And you could owl him to ask, now. He’s in London at the moment, so that’s not too far.”
“Hey, owl? Girl?” The owl turns on her perch at my call. “Want to deliver a letter for me?”
She clicks her beak, spreads her wings and glides over land lightly to the bed. I Accio a pencil and a piece of parchment and scribble a short note.
Seamus, this is Caoimhe, my new owl. How do you say ‘Caoimhe’, exactly? I’ve only seen it written. Say hi to Ginny for me.
Harry
Caoimhe watches me intently as I tell her the recipient and the address, then flies out the window soundlessly, the breeze from her wings brushing me like a caress.
Experimentally, I reach for a memory of Hedwig, and to my surprise, there’s no guilt there, just gentle melancholy and love. I sigh, and drop the heavy book on floor, then turn and cuddle up to Ron, who’s still engrossed in his Quidditch magazine.
“You all right, then?” he asks.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I am,” I answer, a warmth blossoming inside me as I think of my new owl winging her way through the twilit sky.
***
Author's Afterword
I love the look of Gaelic names and words in text, but it never fails to amuse me at how different they often sound when spoken. According to wikipedia, 'Caiomhe' is pronounced KEE-va or KWEE-va, though there are slight differences in inflection depending on the region of Ireland in which the word is used. It's from the same root as the much more popular 'Kevin'.
I very often choose names of OCs deliberately for their meaning. This was no exception. 'Caiomhe' means 'gentle', 'beautiful' or 'precious'. I wanted the name to be a direct reflection of the bird's attributes, but also, for it to be a sharp contrast to Harry's first owl. 'Hedwig', from Old German, is derived from the words 'hadu' meaning battle, and 'wig' meaning fight. In these post-War years, I felt a fairly standard breed of owl with a peaceful name was appropriate to Harry's life, whereas Hedwig, who accompanied Harry throughout his formative, strife-torn years, was an oddity and a curiousity in Britain, and had a ferocious name that reflected the struggles.
<- 47. Meditation c@r 49. Admission ->