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.
