jackson hill prep - jb & ag

{one}

Ariana

I watched for the owl with my Hogwarts letter to appear on my 11th birthday, but he never did. So when an owl taps at my bedroom window near midnight five years too late, I am more confused than elated. I had never seen an owl before except in the movies. The street lamp casts a yellow pallor on this one, but still its feathers shine just shy of iridescent. Varying shades of brown and gold weave throughout its wings and cover its back. It pecks again at my window pane with its amber beak.

I close my purple laptop now that the initial shock has passed and dart a glance toward my bedroom door. Would my stepfather hear it? I grit my teeth. If he did, there'd be hell to pay. Waking him is like waking a bear. My desk chair squeaks when I unfold my bare feet from under myself and stand. I wince at that sound, too.

The owl no longer faces me, but gives me a full view of its gorgeous feathers. I'm not a little girl anymore. I don't get a fanciful notion that this bird is somehow magical or carrying a letter from Disney World...or wherever Hogwarts is supposed to be. Those sorts of dreams were buried with my father—the one who had read those books to me when I was young. So as a realist, I do the practical thing. I shoo the bird and wave at it to make it go away.

Its shiny yellow eyes focus on me, and the ridges on its forehead meet in the middle. It gives me a piercing, indignant look, turns its head and leaps from the sill. Talons scratch against the wood before the owl dips down and starts upward. The rooftop of the four-story brownstone across the street becomes its perch. Out of the reach of the streetlamps, its dark silhouette barely makes a mark against the washed-out sky.

Regret tightens my throat. Why did I chase it away? A deep, throaty cough in the bedroom next to mine serves as a reminder. I tense, but no other noises come from my stepdad's bedroom. It's my mom's bedroom, too, but she's working the night shift at the diner...again.

My hasty decision has cost me the moment to examine an extraordinary thing. I could at least have spent some time inspecting those marvelous feathers. Suddenly the room feels stifling. Warm air presses on me from all sides—inescapable. I step up to the window, pull the latch, and push it open.

The October night air kisses my cheeks, licking the sweat beaded on my nose. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. In the distance a car alarm blares a steady rhythm, and a siren wails even farther away, but nearby, indistinct conversations make it past panes of glass and through the cracks of the apartment buildings to the street. Even though it's late, people are up, living life, or maybe even watching Doctor Who re-runs on Netflix, like I was.

The quick whistle between the feathers of the owl draws my attention. Its broad form returns to the light of the streetlamp, and the golden hues I'd admired just a moment before become muted from this distance, more natural than I'd first realized. Surprisingly, the bird dips toward the street. A tall young man with dark, disheveled hair pushes off from a wall and steps into a pool of light. I've never seen him before. His eyes are on the owl as well. The bird dives toward him. When the guy reaches an arm out in a welcoming gesture, I'm stunned to find the owl landing upon his shoulder. The pair moves in and out of the pools of light under each street lamp.

And just when I thought I no longer believed in magic.

I blink hard and shake my head, but the image of the young man with an owl on his shoulder doesn't go away. They remain, walking in and out of the shadows.

"Unbelievable," I whisper and pull back from the window, suddenly chilled.

I slide the window shut and shake my head. As an afterthought, I pick up my cell and kick myself for not taking a picture. But then the flash would have drawn attention to me, right? I wouldn't want that if the guy below was something sinister...like what? A wizard?