Maqdala, 13 April 1868 The shelling stopped at four in the afternoon, and after that the only sounds were the fires and the donkeys. Kidane had been in the church since noon. He had not prayed, exactly. He had moved things. Medhane Alem had four doors and three of them
Hermione did agree, in the end. Not easily, not without tears and arguments and long nights of negotiation. But she was Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, and she understood better than most that love was not a finite resource.
They woke in the manor, the morning light streaming through cracks in the curtains, illuminating dust motes and the evidence of their night—discarded clothes, melted candles, the dried marks of their pleasure on the velvet chaise.
The manor was quiet—Hermione had the children for the weekend, the house-elves were given leave, and the wards were locked tight against any intrusion. Three days, just for them. No missions, no Ministry, no distractions.
The hunt led them to a temple hidden deep in the Scottish isles—ancient magic, older than Hogwarts, older than the Ministry. The Cabal had been there, left traces of their dark rituals, but they were gone now, fled to another location.
The weeks that followed were complicated. Ron healed, returned to work, slipped away to be with Harry and Draco whenever he could. They stole moments—a night here, a weekend there. The cottage became their sanctuary, the place where Ron could be fully himself, fully theirs.
They had been hunting for three weeks, following leads across the Scottish Highlands, sleeping in tents and safe houses, the tension building between them with every passing day.
They woke tangled together—limbs intertwined, skin warm against skin. Ron was the first to stir, his eyes fluttering open to find Harry watching him, green eyes soft in the morning light.
The walk back to the cottage was silent, charged. The wards recognized them, letting them pass. Inside, the fire had burned low, casting the room in amber shadows.
The Ministry of Magic had changed since the war. The atrium no longer bore the scars of battle, the shattered fountain rebuilt, the dark banners of the Death Eater regime replaced with golden light streaming through enchanted windows. But Harry Potter could still feel the ghosts sometimes--echoes of fear