Chapter Text
It was better to be an owl, Harry thought, as he watched Hogsmeade pass underneath him, wings stretching wide, wind catching. He could go anywhere and nobody recognised him. There were no strangers to thank him—no friends to stare at him and ask what was wrong when everything was wrong, but he couldn’t say that or they’d worry. As an owl, he couldn’t say anything, and that suited him just fine.
He looked up and saw Hogwarts castle, collapsing his wings to dive lower, making a loop around, coasting over the surface of the Black Lake and letting the wind take him up to the highest point of the astronomy tower. He perched there and looked down, ruffling his feathers, watching students as they crossed the courtyard on their way to classes. After preening himself, and hunting a few mice that lingered on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, he went to the owlry at sunset.
The other owls stayed away from him. They’d evacuate whatever perch Harry chose for the night. If they had any thoughts at all, Harry was sure they knew there was something off about him—that he wasn’t like they were, and part of him wished his animagus had taken the shape of a less intelligent species. If he were a dog, for example, he was sure that he could find a pack to accept him. Then, at least, he wouldn’t be lonely in both human and animal form.
Once the nocturnal owls cleared out, the other diurnal owls slept on the other side of the owlry from him each night, and were gone when woke up in the morning. Not one of them had ever shared their food, or preened his feathers, or done anything that the other owl friends would do. He ruffled his feathers to interrupt his thought, letting his instincts clear his mind, the edge of hunger in his stomach telling him to hunt.
He decided to go further, toward the woods in Hogsmeade village, finding the spot where he knew mice dwelled behind a restaurant, where food scraps would be thrown. He perched on top of the roof, watching, waiting, his mind blank aside from when he’d catch a bit of movement and zero in, searching for a mouse or squirrel he could snatch up. Entirely still, he waited, hardly blinking. When a juicy-looking mouse scurried toward the building, Harry swooped, grabbed it with his talons and flew into the woods.
He’d found a nice patch of earth to enjoy his meal, near some flowers. There was a footpath nearby, and Harry watched people pass by from the brush as he let his meal digest a bit before flying. He was watching a little girl as she ran toward her parent, stretching up for their hand, just old enough to walk. The parent picked her up, out of Harry’s eye-line, and only then did Harry hear the soft patter of paws from behind him. He turned just in time to see the face of the fox as it lunged to attack him, its pointy teeth ripping into his chest, clamping his wing, lifting him from the ground as Harry’s other wing outstretched, trying to get away.
The fox clamped its jaw harder, and Harry let out several loud shrieks that he’d never heard himself make before. The fox rammed him into the ground, smushing Harry’s head into the dirt, and Harry heard a loud snap just before a wave of pain rocketed through him, his shrieks growing louder. From under the brush, he saw a pair of shoes running toward him, his spirits lifting as he realised someone had heard—someone was coming to help—and then everything went dark.