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Snow fell in slow, patient flakes over the towers of Hogwarts, muffling the castle until it felt as though the world had drawn a deep, steady breath and decided to rest. Most of the students had gone home for the holidays, and the corridors were hushed, their usual echoes replaced by the faint crackle of distant fires and the whisper of wind against the windows.
Harry sat curled in a wide stone window seat in Gryffindor Tower, a thick wool blanket pooled around his legs. Outside, the grounds lay untouched and silvered, the lake frozen into a smooth mirror that reflected the pale winter sky. Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of pine from the enchanted garlands that wound their way along the walls.
Hedwig perched beside him, feathers fluffed against the cold seeping through the glass. She leaned into his shoulder with complete trust, her snowy wing pressed firmly against his arm. Harry smiled softly and lifted a hand to stroke her head, slow and careful, just the way she liked. She responded with a quiet, contented click of her beak and tucked her face beneath his chin.
He rested his forehead lightly against her feathers, marveling—still—at how something so small could fill so much empty space inside him. Here, there were no Dursleys, no locked cupboards, no voices telling him he didn’t belong. There was only the steady warmth of the castle, the snow drifting endlessly outside, and Hedwig’s calm presence beside him.
The fire in the common room popped softly. Somewhere far below, Peeves cackled and then went silent again. Time seemed to stretch, unimportant and gentle.
Hedwig shifted, spreading one wing just enough to brush across Harry’s chest, as if wrapping him in her own version of a hug. Harry laughed quietly and closed his eyes, his fingers still buried in her feathers.
“Happy Christmas,” he whispered, she ruffled her feathers in response.
Hedwig seemed to hold the words, keeping them safe.