Last night, under a swollen moon and the gentle hiss of a freight brake sighing like a ghost, I commenced a sacred rite. Inspired by an old beat-up copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix I found wedged behind a gas station toilet, I resolved: it was time I summoned my Patronus.
Now, the Ministry of Magic may have a whole department for conjuring silvery animals to fend off depression demons, but out here on the rails, our methods are… unorthodox. I made a circle of old tin can lids and tied together the last remnants of three different kinds of string cheese as an offering. Jasper the raccoon helped, though mostly by eating the string cheese.
I stood at the edge of a boxcar, wind howling, coat flapping like a scarecrow in a cyclone. I raised my arms to the night and hollered:
“EXPECTO POSSUM!”
Silence. Then a possum did appear, but it just hissed and ran off with my sock.
But I didn’t give up.
I built a trash fire and meditated. I recited every joyful memory I could summon: riding a hotshot from Portland to Denver with Blaze while singing sea shanties to the moon; finding a half-eaten chili dog that wasn’t cursed; the time I outwitted a ticket inspector by pretending to be a ghost.
Then I felt it. A shimmer in the shadows. The world got quiet, like it was listening.
Out of the dancing flames stepped a creature—not of fur or flesh, but of light and wild laughter. It was… a translucent, glowing hobo owl. Its eyes gleamed like bottle caps. Its feathers shimmered like cellophane wrappers in the sun. It hooted once and perched upon a busted harmonica.
My Patronus. The Vagabond Owl.
It didn’t chase away Dementors (we get more meth heads than soul-suckers out here), but it did warm the night with a soft sense of purpose. It reminded me why I wander, why I listen to the rails, and why I trust in magic, even the kind that smells like beans and bourbon.
So if you ever feel the cold creeping in—not from weather, but from weariness—remember: your joy has shape. It may be winged. It may be whiskered. It may smell faintly of garbage fire and peppermint Schnapps. But it’s yours.
From the shadows,
Hobo Harry, Seeker of Shiny Spirits
P.S. Blaze insists his Patronus is a flaming motorcycle with wings. Typical. Jasper’s? Probably a ghostly vending machine.
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