Chapter 21: The White Queen

She watched with imperial disdain as he prostrated before her—arms outstretched, face down, offerings displayed like some medieval supplicant. Her favourite foods, carefully arranged on silver platters, shimmered under the chamber’s soft candlelight.

She scoffed.

As if this would be enough.

He had left her. Abandoned her, trapped inside that... abomination. She still didn’t know what to call it. It had walls, and shelves, and temperature control, and a magically expanding interior—and yes, it had been stocked with all her favourite treats. Yes, she had technically agreed to travel inside it for safety...

But that was semantics. And it would not lessen her fury.

Her glare sharpened, golden eyes narrowed, wings twitching slightly as she shifted on her perch. He dared meet her gaze for a second, then wisely lowered his head again. Good. Let him grovel.

Why, she asked herself not for the first time, had she chosen him? So skinny, so fragile, so clearly in need of her guidance. She remembered the day the large hairy man had brought her to him, and how instantly she had known. This one was hers. He needed her.

And oh, what a trial he’d been.

Every year, danger. Every year, near-death. Trolls, serpents, murder plots, dragons, time travel, soul-sucking monsters. He gave her white feathers with worry. Not that she wasn’t already white—but that was beside the point.

She glared harder. Just in case he’d forgotten that she was still angry.

He was trying, the fool. Nudging a tray of bacon toward her with a hopeful look, as if her wrath could be appeased by pork and contrition.

And the worst part? It smelled incredible.

She debated. Could she nibble while staying angry? Surely. She was queen, empress, and sole sovereign of her domain. If she chose to eat while punishing her human, that was her right. No one could say otherwise.

But no. She must stand firm. He had done this before—run headfirst into danger, nearly died, and then tried to win her back with food and cuddles. And she, fool that she was, always forgave him because she loved the idiot.

That was the problem.

He took the world’s burdens as if they were his to carry alone, and he placed almost no value on his own life. That had always scared her more than any external threat. And she knew why. Those humans who raised him—they weren’t worthy of the word. Unfit even for vermin.

She had spent years trying to teach him that his life mattered. That he mattered. But clearly, her lessons hadn’t stuck.

And now… she’d been gone. Locked away while he was kidnapped—twice—nearly died, and had an alien parasite try to possess him. An alien. Inside her human.

Her body quivered in fury, feathers fluffing as she let out a low, warning hoot.

And he? The fool was still talking, explaining himself in that nervous voice of his, offering excuses wrapped in earnestness. And then he looked at her—those damned green eyes soft with guilt and affection, and she felt her resolve waver.

No. She would not give in. She turned her head sharply to the side. Let him stew in it.

The truth was… she wasn’t angry about being locked away. Not really. She was furious that he had been hurt, that she hadn’t been there to protect him, that he still—still—hadn’t learned to take care of himself.

She loved him.

And he had no right to die without her permission.

He owed her a long life filled with good food, warm perches, and—yes—grandbabies.

She was still ruminating when she realised the treacherous human was approaching. He had risen from the floor and was coming toward her with a smile on his face. A soft, crooked, utterly infuriating smile.

She spread her wings in warning.

Stay back, she said with her posture.

He didn’t listen.

Of course, he didn’t. He never did. That was the problem with brave idiots.

She flared her wings wider, fluffed her feathers, and made a sharp clicking sound with her beak. He just kept coming.

He knew she wouldn’t hurt him. And he used that knowledge against her. The scoundrel. The absolute nerve.

Then—before she could escape—he pulled her into a gentle, firm hug.

She resisted, wriggling with all the offended dignity of a queen caught in a net.

But... his arms were warm. Familiar. Safe.

She stilled.

Just for a second.

Fine, she told herself. I will forgive him. For now. But only because I will need backup.

She would speak to the bushy-feathered human when she arrived. Both of them would scold him properly. Maybe make him write essays.

Yes. That sounded fair.

After a token struggle, she stretched one wing and rested it across his back, accepting the embrace.

They remained like that for a long time, neither speaking.

Eventually, Harry whispered, “I’m sorry, Hedwig. You know how I am.”

She gave a quiet hoot and hopped onto his shoulder—her favourite perch—before swatting him on the head with her wing.

He laughed.

“I deserved that,” he said, chuckling. “You’re right, as always.”

She hooted once more, a sound that translated roughly to: “Yes. I am right. I am always right. And don’t you forget it.”

“Thank you, Hedwig,” he said softly. “Oh—I’ve got something for you.”

He reached into his robes and withdrew a small, delicately crafted necklace, fitted with shimmering silver runes.

“It’s enchanted,” he said, gently tying it around her neck. “Protection charms. Against curses. Projectiles. Anything nasty.”

Hedwig ruffled her feathers proudly but let out a sceptical hoot.

She was perfectly capable of defending herself, thank you very much.

“I know you are,” Harry replied with a smile. “But please wear it. For my peace of mind.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then hooted again—softer this time.

Fine. For him. But only because he asked nicely.

“You’re a strong, independent owl,” Harry said solemnly. “I’d be lost without you.”

She gave a low, pleased trill. He was learning.

“Come on,” he said, stepping toward the balcony. “I want to show you something.”

They stepped out into the cool night air, stars scattered above like silver fire. Hedwig nestled into the curve of his neck as Harry leaned on the railing.

Together, they looked out over the city below—a wounded world in the midst of rebirth.

And above it all, they watched the stars. Just as they had, so many years ago, in the towers of Hogwarts.

He fed her bacon, and she gently preened his hair.

And in that quiet moment, all was right in their world.

Please review
PREVIOUS INDEX NEXT