When Rubeus Hagrid picked up a snowy owl for Harry Potter, as a birthday gift, he couldn't have known the full implications. There was no reason for him to suspect that he would be drastically changing anyone's life, let alone two. It was utterly inconceivable, anyone would agree, that he could imagine the joy and sorrow stemmed from that selection. The fact, however, was that Eeylops didn't stock snowy owls, and they never had.

Harry had wondered once or twice why his was the only snowy owl at Hogwarts, why he never saw another flitting about the Owlery. It had not occurred to him to wonder why his was the only owl that did not seem to flit, why his was the one that was neatest, least fussy. Why his seemed to understand him best when he talked to her. It had not occurred to him to wonder why his snowy Hedwig was so much more affectionate than anyone else's owl.

He had been new to the wizarding world then, lost in a flurry of change that knocked his feet from under him. He had no idea how an owl was meant to act, or if there was a proper way for an owl to act at all. Until very soon prior, he hadn't known anything of magic. And this was why she waited. She wanted him to be ready; she wanted him to feel safe. She had chosen him, from behind those windows, had placed herself in the commotion and gently coerced the gamekeeper to look her way. She had manipulated the situation so carefully that she was utterly unwilling to let it crumble on shock alone.

So she waited, patiently. He was good to her, though he didn't know. He didn't know that when she went to hunt she also changed. He was certainly unaware of how painful it was for her that period in their first summer when they were locked away – how badly she longed to go out and stretch not only her wings, but her legs. She could only hoot miserably, rattling the cage that she knew was not intended to confine her.

There was kindness in the boy, in Harry. She could see that clearly. He was a bit younger than her, a bit more naïve, but there was something so beautiful in his innocence. She didn't need to try to protect him: it was instinct, and it came to her as naturally as flying. Though she waited those first two summers, those three school years, she was not unhappy. He treated her as an animal, of course, because that was what he knew. But he had always spoken to her as a person, as a being of thought and intellect, which was a courtesy she had never before been given from a wizard or witch. He did this without knowing, without reason to suspect she could even understand his words. So she tried to help him, as best as she could, as often as she could, as faithfully as she could.

She had chosen him, it was true. But it was a whim, really. A new and flushed-cheeked face, one naïve enough to care for her and weak enough to be abandoned at the first sign of misfortune. She had done it before, several times, looking for shelter and some semblance of love and finding spite and misuse. It had never guilted her to leave those places; she merely considered them stops on her never-ending journey toward some kind of home. At first, she had been pleased with her choice. Then she became enamored not just with her situation, but with her boy. Her Harry. And it was sometime in their first year that she decided she would tell this one, about what she was.

He was much too young, though. Too preoccupied, too mistrusting. Too concerned that his whole exploration into magic had been a dream. She could never have known how important he was to be, how tormented. She told herself once or twice that she had chosen him on purpose, but she knew really it was only a stroke of luck that stuck them together. She no longer remembered a world in which she didn't want to choose him, wasn't searching for him, didn't always want to come home.

She had had many names over time, most demeaning and thoughtless. The original, the first, was long forgotten, lost to the wind she had left so far at her back. But his was special. She had flipped through his book, where he found it, when he was asleep. It was the name of a witch – a name of an idol. It was a name for a soul, not a name for a thing. Over time, she perked more readily to its sound. Over time, she warmed when she heard him say it. Over time, even in her own thoughts she called herself Hedwig.

It was in their third summer that she finally decided to do it. She wasn't locked up this time, and it had been relatively quiet. He had the information he needed now, he knew about Animagi from his godfather. More importantly, he needed her now, when he was reeling. He needed a friend.

It was time to tell her boy.