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Charlie Weasley hated dress robes; he had done so ever since he was five, when his mother had forced him to wear his first pair while attending a distant aunt's wedding. His dislike had grown into hatred over time, as he had to attend formal events that required formal attire. He found them uncomfortable to wear; they chafed at his neck, pinched his shoulders, and made him feel like a student again. He preferred casual comfort over formal wear and often did everything possible to avoid situations that required him to dress otherwise. Tonight, however, comfort was irrelevant. Charlie was here with a purpose and would succeed with his mission to woo the love of his life, even with his mixed feelings of dread, longing, and a heart he had long refused to open.
He tugged at his collar, muttering curses under his breath as he pushed open the great oak doors of Hogwarts. The familiar magic greeted him like an old friend. The castle smelled of burning waxed candles and old magic, the scent built up from centuries of spells being cast here.
Ten years. Ten years had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts. It was the tenth anniversary of the Final Battle. Ten years had gone by since the end of the war, since that night when Voldemort had been defeated for the final time by a seventeen-year-old Harry Potter. They had experienced ten years of rebuilding, healing, and remembering those who had been lost during not just the Final Battle but also the many years of the war.
The Great Hall looked the same, yet entirely different. The banners hung solemnly, the ceiling twinkled with stars instead of fireworks, and the portraits of fallen witches and wizards observed the living with a quiet vigilance. Magic hummed faintly in the walls, a reminder of the power and loss that coexisted in the very bones of the castle.
Charlie’s gaze at once fell on the Weasley cluster by the entrance. His parents were doting upon their grandchildren, his mother handing out cookies she had baked for the occasion while his father handed out Muggle sweets.
Bill and Fleur, elegant as ever, stood slightly apart from the chaos of children and cousins as his older brother doted on his heavily pregnant wife. Fleur was expecting their third child, a little boy to go with Charlie’s nieces, nine-year-old Victoire and seven-year-old Dominique. Bill’s face was still scarred from Greyback’s attack all these years after the war, but the harshness of the marks seemed softened by his wife’s presence.
Percy was dressed sharply, with Ministry-perfect demeanour, as he held onto his fiancée Audrey's hand. In contrast to their stuffy brother, Fred and George cracked jokes that bounced over the noise like mischievous sparks, their wife, Angelina, giggling at their antics as she held their newborn daughter, Roxanne, in the crook of her arm.
Ron, surprisingly, looked like the man who had survived more than his fair share of chaos. Beside him, his wife Pansy Weasley, formerly Parkinson, held baby Hector, who was six months old, while Violet, four, tugged at Ron’s robes, chattering incessantly. Nobody had expected the relationship to last, but surprisingly, the former Slytherin and his youngest brother got along amazingly.
Ginny, pregnant with her second child, was talking to her husband Harry Potter as the bespectacled wizard held a sleeping three-year-old James, a besotted look upon his face as he spoke in hushed tones to his wife.
Charlie’s chest tightened as he absorbed the scene. Time had marched on, and the people around him had settled into lives he could not claim, or so he thought.
He had come here with a purpose to find himself a wife, a family. He cast his eyes around the room searching for the witch he wanted. His gaze swept the hall once, twice, and then on his third sweep of the room, he saw her, Hermione. His breath caught as his eyes swept her body reverently.
She was radiant, standing near the high table in pale silver robes that shimmered like moonlight on glass. Hermione’s dark curls were swept up elegantly with a few soft strands framing her face, and her expression was composed, commanding, and elegant. She looked every inch the brilliant, untouchable witch he had admired from afar for a decade. But what stole his breath, made it catch painfully in his chest, was the curve of her belly beneath the robes. Round. Perfect. Glorious. She was pregnant.
Charlie’s thoughts stumbled back to the letter tucked between dragon reports in Romania. I’m pregnant. It’s yours. I thought you should know.
He had read it a dozen times, heart hammering between awe, fear, and a spike of anger. How could she have waited so long to tell him? Hermione had carried his child for months since the 25th of December and hadn’t told him until the 25th of April. She had been keeping the condition a secret from him for most of her pregnancy, for 121 days. He hadn’t learnt of her pregnancy until she was approaching the end of her fourth month, and now, a week later, she was in her fifth month of pregnancy. Charlie was upset that he had missed so many experiences, like scans and first kicks. Part of him felt anger, too, at Hermione for keeping secrets.
Yet seeing Hermione now, he could not summon anger. Not truly. Not when she glowed with a radiance that eclipsed even the flickering candlelight of the hall. She was more beautiful than he had ever imagined. She had always been elegant, powerful, and utterly untouchable, but there was an almost ethereal glow to her now; she was carrying life, and she looked magnificent. Since the war, she had led, fought, and survived, always impeccable, always brilliant. Now she carried his child, and she looked divine doing so. Minister of Magic Hermione Granger, the youngest Minister ever to serve, looked phenomenal.
He shifted his gaze, and for a long moment, memories flashed like firelight in his mind.
He remembered the chaos of the Battle of Hogwarts, the fear and adrenaline, the night he had flown dragons that breathed magical fire at dark forces while Hermione had fought on the front lines, face streaked with dirt and determination. He then remembered sneaking a glance at her when she was helping injured students after the battle, heart aching with admiration and something more, something he never dared name.
Then came the years after the war. Hermione was gorgeous and the world knew it; she was never short of suitors wanting her attention. She had dated Ron briefly after the war, followed by Victor, Oliver, Cormac, a Russian diplomat, and Philip the Muggle. Many times, over the years, she had sworn off men, enjoying periods of independence that had left her radiant yet distant. Charlie had watched silently, a ghost at the edges of her life, nursing his longing wordlessly but never daring to step forward.
This had remained the status quo for a long time until last Christmas, when a few too many glasses of wine and a crackling fire had undone him. It had led to one beautifully perfect night that had started with a kiss and a confession that he thought she was beautiful. This had naturally led to an evening of the best sex he had ever experienced, and he had hoped that it would lead to something much more.
Unfortunately, this had not become the case, and Hermione had been gone when he had awoken the following morning. So, he had port-keyed back to Romania, hours later, nursing a broken heart and feeling rejected by the one woman he could see himself leaving his dragons for and settling down with. Neither of them had known of the life that was now growing inside her.
“Charlie!” Molly’s voice cut through his reverie. His mother, warm and fierce, pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t just stand there, go on!” She fussed over his robes with the meticulous care only Molly Weasley could summon. “Tonight is for remembering, yes, but also for family.”
Charlie swallowed hard. In this moment, family meant far more than siblings and cousins. Family meant Hermione and the life they were about to build together, whether she knew it yet or not.
His eyes found her again. She was laughing politely at something Kingsley said, hand resting protectively on her belly. Kingsley had been the Minister of Magic before her, serving the country for the first five years after the war. He was enjoying his retirement. The last Charlie had heard, the former Minister had become a beekeeper and was dating Andromeda Tonks. His reputable source was his best friend, Nymphadora, who was currently holding baby Hope, his goddaughter, against her chest as Remus and Teddy stood beside her. Charlie smiled at the family, waving at his friend, glad they’d all survived the war a decade ago. It had very nearly ended differently, as both parents had sustained near-fatal injuries during the final battle.
His gaze shifted back to Hermione as she laughed at something Kingsley said, and Charlie’s grip tightened on his goblet. That child, his child, was hers to protect, but it would be his too. He should be there for every moment, every movement and every kick. He should be supporting her as she experienced pregnancy symptoms, such as holding her hair when she vomited or rubbing her swollen feet. Yet instead of being by her side, here he was, frozen like a coward, pretending composure as he watched the woman he adored from the other side of the Great Hall.
“Charlie?” Bill’s voice nudged him back into the present.
“I’m… fine,” Charlie muttered, but the lie sat heavy in his chest.
Bill gave him a sharp look. “Right, little brother and dragons are cuddly pets, apparently.”
Charlie ignored him and lifted the goblet he held in a shaky toast to himself, savouring the warmth of the wine as it slid down his throat. Yes. He would need more than one glass tonight. He would need some liquid courage if he were to make Hermione see that they could be happy together and that their baby did not have to grow up between two homes.
The hall began to fill fully, voices swelling, laughter mingling with magic in the air. Hermione stayed the centre of attention, joyful and vivid, oblivious to the storm brewing inside Charlie’s chest. He watched her move, sophisticated and powerful, and it was all he could do not to stumble across the hall and seize her hand.
Charlie Weasley had waited ten years for this moment; he had experienced a decade of longing, years spent in silence as he watched other men date the woman he had loved. This was a love that he could deny no longer, as Hermione’s body now carried proof of their connection; the undeniable fruit of their love was growing in her womb. He needed Hermione to realise that they could be happy together.
Charlie lifted his goblet once more, whispering under his breath, “I love you. I always have.” For the first time in a decade, he felt the fire of destiny stirring in his veins. Hermione Granger and he would be going home together tonight and every night moving forward; he would make sure of it.
Dinner at Hogwarts had always been an event. Tonight, however, the feast carried a weight that pressed down on Charlie’s chest with every heartbeat.
The long tables gleamed, polished to a reflective perfection. Goblets of wine and clear water caught the flickering candlelight, and the air smelled faintly of roasted pheasant, potatoes, and warm bread. The enchanted ceiling above mirrored the night sky, stars twinkling softly, a serene contrast to the tempest growing inside him.
Charlie slid into his seat between Bill and Percy, though the chair seemed far too small for his broad frame. A plate of roast pheasant sat before him, untouched, while the wine in his goblet beckoned like a siren. He lifted it, savouring the soothing burn as it slid down his throat, but it barely touched the knot that had formed deep within his stomach.
He tried to focus on the chatter around him. Bill was teasing George about some past disaster involving fireworks while Percy was listing new Ministry regulations, but Charlie’s attention kept drifting. Inevitably, inexorably, it drifted to the high table where his witch sat between Harry and Ron, the Golden Trio who had saved the world together.
Hermione sat there, radiant, poised, the very image of grace. She laughed at something Harry said, curls brushing her collarbone, robes shimmering as she moved. She was mesmerising, every inch the brilliantly accomplished woman she had always been. Pregnancy did not change this.
Charlie’s fingers tightened around his goblet, knuckles white. His chest ached with a mixture of awe, longing, and a burning, simmering anger. Why did she wait so long to tell me?
The hall was alive with whispered conversations. He caught fragments as he scanned the crowd, subtle speculations about Hermione’s condition:
“Do you know who the father is?” A woman questioned, tittering drunkenly to her friend. “I heard she’s five months along, that was around the time of the international summit in Geneva, maybe she rekindled things with that Russian diplomat?” someone suggested. “I don’t think it’s anyone we know,” a recent Hogwarts graduate commented quietly.
Charlie’s jaw clenched. It’s me. It’s mine. These strangers had no idea. They didn’t know the truth, and Hermione wasn’t correcting them. She was letting them speculate all while smiling serenely, her hand present as it rubbed soothing circles on the swell of her stomach. She had the power to stop the gossip, to tell the public who had fathered her child, but she wasn’t. She hadn’t claimed him publicly. He worried that their night together meant nothing to her. It would break him if he declared his love to her only for her to turn around and tell him that they should simply remain friends. He wanted to be with her forever; his heart wouldn’t be able to handle a rejection. These thoughts burned like dragon fire inside his veins.
He lifted another goblet, ignoring Bill’s sharp glance. “Steady,” Bill muttered. “This isn’t the night to get legless.”
Charlie waved him off. “I’m fine.”
No. I’m not fine. I’m desperate.
Across the hall, Fred leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Oi, Charlie. You’ve been staring at Hermione like you’ve got a broomstick up your—”
“George,” Molly snapped from down the table, eyes pinning him like a hawk.
“I’m Fred, mum, he’s missing an ear, remember, and I have a dashing purple cane,” Fred commented, pointing at his twin.
“Oh, sorry, love, I know that”, she replied, rising to hug him. Fred had also almost died during the final battle. He endured a lengthy six-month stay within St Mungo’s, eventually returning home with a permanent limp that even magic was unable to fix.
Charlie muttered something about dragons and ignored the antics happening at his table. His gaze returned to Hermione. She was engaging with old comrades, her laugh soft yet commanding, her fingers brushing her belly unconsciously. That small gesture was so natural and protective, it made his chest ache. He wanted to be at her side, protecting both of them.
That’s my child she’s protecting. My child and I’ve done nothing to deserve it, yet I’ve loved her for ten years.
He remembered their night together last Christmas. It had been warm and intimate, carnal and passionate. They had finally given in to a shared moment of weakness, temptation and desire. One night, it had changed everything, changed his life. He’d known then that his infatuation was love, knew that he wanted to be with her forever. Yet seeing her now, he realised how much more he wanted, not just her, not just the child, but her entire life intertwined with his.
He drank again, letting the strong elven wine blur the edges of his restraint.
Dinner passed in a slow blur. Courses came and went, soups, pheasant and potatoes, stews, Yorkshire puddings, rich desserts and cheeses. Charlie barely noticed the food changing, hardly eating a thing as he continued to watch her, his clutched goblet magically refilling every time it neared empty. He noticed the way Hermione’s smile reached her eyes, the way she corrected someone gently yet firmly, the subtle way her hands rested on her belly. Every small gesture hit him like a thunderclap.
He had more wine. If in doubt, it was essential to always drink more wine. It helped to soothe an aching soul.
He could feel it now, the need to act, to speak, to claim what was his. His heart thundered, a wild drum he could no longer ignore. Ten years of silence, ten years of watching, ten years of unspoken longing. He couldn’t wait another moment.
Hermione rose after dessert, summoned by Professor McGonagall to give a speech of remembrance. She moved with grace, her robes catching the candlelight, her face radiant and composed. The hall hushed, and Charlie felt the tension coil tighter in his chest.
She spoke with poise and authority, her words weaving through sacrifice and hope, before reminding them that it was the responsibility of the living to honour the fallen. The crowd listened, rapt, and Charlie found himself utterly captivated. She wasn’t just intelligent or beautiful. She was luminous, a beacon of the future, and she carried his child.
A spark of irrational anger flared. How dare she be so perfect, so brilliant, so untouchable? How dare she be glowing while I sit here like a fool?
Bill placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Charlie, enough,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t have more wine,” he said quietly into his ear, trying to take away his drink.
Charlie shook him off, determination overriding sobriety. His heart pounded with a fierce urgency. I can’t hold it in anymore. Hermione needs to know how I feel,” he thought.
He could see the glances from the hall as old classmates, Ministry officials, and professors, wondered, whispered and speculated about the identity of who’d knocked up the minister. Charlie had had enough of watching from the shadows; he wanted to claim his family as his own.
He rose unsteadily, his chair scraping against the stone floor, the sound drawing the attention of the room as hundreds of eyes turned towards him, wanting to know who dared make such a commotion as their leader spoke about today’s memorial. Charlie swallowed hard, ignoring the burn in his throat from the wine. He paid no heed to his nerves or to all the people surrounding them. His eyes were fixated upon Hermione, who’d taken notice of his attention, her own eyes wide with a nervous apprehension.
“I… I want to make a toast,” he said, looking around the room, voice hoarse but ringing across the hall. Silence fell, broken only by the low hum of anticipation.
Charlie swallowed, throat dry despite the wine. His gaze locked on Hermione’s, where she sat radiant as ever at the high table, silver robes shimmering, her hand resting protectively over the swell of her abdomen. The sight stole his breath, and the dam of ten years of restraint began to break.
He could feel every heartbeat, every breath, the weight of ten years filled with a secret devotion pressing down on him. Charlie’s gaze met Hermione’s once more, the woman who would hopefully be unambiguously his.
The scrape of Charlie’s chair echoed across the Great Hall. Hundreds of eyes turned toward him, curiosity sharpening into surprise as he staggered slightly on unsteady legs. Hermione could feel the heat of the hall, the candlelight, the expectant gazes looking between both her and him, and she heard the whispers that rippled through the gathered crowd like wind over water.
He raised his goblet, tilting it with trembling hands. “I… I want to make a toast,” he said, voice hoarse but resonant, carrying over the low murmur of students, professors, and Ministry officials. Silence fell, expectant, tense.
“To the ones we lost,” he began shakily, raising the goblet higher. “To the brave, the fallen, the ones who gave everything…”
Polite murmurs swept the hall as goblets lifted in tentative agreement. Hermione clapped delicately with the rest of the hall, hoping that was the end of Charlie’s speech. Charlie Weasley had the power to break her, and she hoped he wasn’t about to do so in a room filled with so many people.
Charlie’s heart thundered in his chest, and the words that had been locked away for a decade surged forward like wildfire.
“And to the ones still here,” he continued, voice growing louder, shaking with desperation, “to the ones who live, who fought, and who carry the world forward after all the chaos… especially…” His gaze fixed on Hermione, and the hall went still. “Especially to her.”
Gasps. Whispers. A fork clattered to the floor. Hermione froze, her water goblet halfway to her lips, her eyes wide and cheeks flushing pink.
Charlie took a staggering step forward, his hands trembling. “It’s me, I’m the man who impregnated the Minister. That’s my baby she’s carrying. Mine. You hear me, you can all stop gossiping, guessing and whispering. We made love on Christmas Day, and she is carrying my love child,” he declared passionately, sounding slightly unhinged.
“Fuck me,” Ron muttered, looking embarrassed on his behalf.
“I intend to love, your parents have the kids tonight,” Pansy murmured, her voice carrying in the silence of the grand room. The hall had fallen silent at Charlie’s speech, the kind of silence that pressed in from all sides. He figured he might as well lay his heart upon the table and give Hermione the power to destroy it in whichever way she saw fit.
“I’ve loved Hermione Granger since the war ended!” he bellowed, voice cracking. “I’ve watched her fight, lead and shine brighter than anyone else. I never dared to say a word of my attraction to her because she deserved better than a dragon-keeper. She should be married to royalty; she’s a queen in my eyes,” he told the room at large.
“I feel like a fool, but Hermione, I can’t keep it in anymore! I love you,” he intoned passionately as he looked into her warm, watering chocolate-coloured eyes.
He staggered closer, pointing a finger at her, almost spilling his wine. “I want her. I want her love, her heart, her everything! I want to marry her and raise this baby with her. I’d give her ten more if she’ll have them, I want to grow old with her and to be the man she deserves,” he confessed, moving closer to his witch.
“The night we spent together might have meant nothing to you, but to me it meant the world. Whatever you decide, I will respect your decision, but I had to let you know that I love you, that my heart is yours and has only, will only ever burn for you. You're it for me, Hermione,” he professed.
The hall erupted in chaos. Students and Ministry officials whispered furiously. Professors stiffened in shock. Bill hid his face in his hands, and George laughed nervously, while Fred grinned excitedly. His mother Molly’s hand flew to her mouth, the Weasley matriarch crying as she watched the scene, riveted, not wanting to miss a moment of their developing love story. Ron’s jaw tightened as he gripped the edge of the table; his wife looked as though she was mentally penning an article for the papers tomorrow. Women were swooning at his declaration of love while men were glaring at him, wondering how on earth they’d ever top such a display.
Charlie ignored them all. His focus was singular: Hermione. She looked stunning, radiant beyond measure, and every word that tumbled from his lips carried the weight of ten years of unspoken longing.
“I’m not apologising for loving you!” he shouted, his voice raw and breath wine scented. He was trembling with emotion; “Hermione, I’m not apologising for this baby! I won’t apologise for wanting all of you, for being in love with you, now and forever!” As he intoned his final words, he fell onto one knee before her, holding out the platinum and diamond ring that he’d been carrying in his pocket for months.
Hermione’s eyes glimmered with tears, her hands trembling as she pressed them to her lips. For a long moment, she said nothing, and Charlie feared he had gone too far. The chaos, the embarrassment, the scandal this would undoubtedly cause, what if she hated him?
Then, softly, almost to herself, she murmured, “Charlie…”
“I’m here,” he said, his voice dropping, raw with vulnerability. “I’ve always been here. I’ll never leave. Give me a chance, Hermione, marry me, please,” he asked, his voice a whisper.
The entire hall seemed to hold its breath. Even McGonagall, perched at the high table, pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly deciding whether to intervene or let the confession and proposal play out.
Hermione rose slowly, silver robes flowing, eyes stormy, hands trembling. “We… we are not doing this here,” she said, voice sharp but wavering.
Charlie stumbled toward her. “Hermione, I… I had to tell them! I had to tell everyone! That you’re mine! That you're carrying our child, that I want to be with you for all eternity!”
Her face softened, the fury melting into something more vulnerable, something that made his heart ache. “Charlie… It’s not about them. It’s about us. You can’t drag our lives into the hall like a spectacle!”
“I know,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “But Hermione, I couldn’t hold it in. I can’t hold it in. Not anymore. It has been ten bloody years, a decade of loving you and watching you from the shadows. I am done pretending it didn’t hurt every time you dated somebody else. I’m done pretending that I can be happy just because you're happy. I can’t be happy if I’m not with you. I’m yours, Hermione. I’ve always been yours,” he avowed.
For a long moment, silence stretched between them. The murmurs of the hall faded, irrelevant. All that mattered was her, the life inside her and the love in his soul that had been waiting a decade to bloom, like a flower reaching towards the sun for the first time. She was his sun, and without her, he’d wilt, he was sure of it.
Hermione’s lips trembled. Her voice, barely above a whisper, broke the spell. “Charlie, you mean it. You’re serious?” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and hope.
“I do,” he whispered wholeheartedly. He rose to his feet, stepping closer to her. Hermione stood too, stepping around the table. She walked slowly towards him as he continued to speak, “I mean every word. You and this baby are my world. I’m never letting you go, not if you decide to keep me in your life,” he promised. Hermione stood before him, now only a small step separating them from each other’s orbits. Her chest heaved. She was crying. She swallowed hard, then pressed a trembling hand to his chest.
Hermione’s lips curved into a small, uncertain smile. “I’ve spent so long trying to protect myself. Trying not to let anyone in. But you, Charlie Weasley, are impossible not to notice. I’ve fancied you for a long time, not a decade, but long enough to panic and flee after our night together. A rejection the following morning would have broken me.”
Charlie’s heart nearly stopped. “So it’s not too late,” he asked hopefully, his face openly displaying his vulnerability.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s never too late,” Hermione said as she lifted a hand to brush a loose curl from his face, her fingers lingering against his cheek. “I love you and I am not afraid anymore. Not of you. Not of a relationship. I want everything you’ve promised, but perhaps not ten more babies, I’m terrified of giving birth to this one,” she confessed, taking hold of his hand, she placed it upon the shimmering silver fabric on her abdomen. Charlie’s eyes welled with tears as he felt the gentle kicks of their child for the first time.
Charlie’s heart threatened to burst. “Then we do this together. Every step. I won’t let you face any of this alone, Hermione, not the baby’s birth, not the future, not anything. You and I are in this together, always,” He promised.
“Then yes, Mr Weasley, I will marry you,” she told him, holding her left hand out expectantly. Charlie hurried to place the engagement ring upon her finger, relieved that he’d gotten her measurements right. Hermione was still crying, but a beaming smile illuminated her face.
For a long moment, words weren’t enough. Only the tension of years, the unspoken love, the longing that had simmered through a decade, filled the space between them.
Slowly, as if drawn by some invisible gravity, Charlie leaned forward. Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed, her breath catching in anticipation. His hand cupped the back of her head gently, fingers threading through soft curls, as her lips parted slightly against his. Their first kiss was tentative, testing, tasting, but quickly deepened into something fierce and tender all at once. It was a culmination of ten years of longing, the promise of a shared future, the unspoken vow of love, protection, and devotion.
For the first time in ten years, Charlie Weasley felt a fire surge in his chest, a feeling that he had thought he’d lost forever. This fire flared in his soul as Hermione Granger rose onto her tiptoes, her delicate lips joining his in a searing kiss, neither of them caring about the audience that stood before them. No doubt the entire scene would be in the papers tomorrow, but in this moment, all that mattered was that Hermione Granger was choosing him.
As he kissed her, he kept one hand tangled in her curls while Charlie’s other hand slid down to rest over her belly, feeling the subtle movements of the child they had created together. A shiver of wonder and joy ran through him, the feeling mingling with the warmth of their closeness.
When they finally parted, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, hearts racing in perfect sync, Charlie whispered, “Hermione…”
“Yes?” she murmured, her chocolate-coloured eyes sparkling and her lips still slightly parted as she panted from their kiss.
“You’re mine. All of you, I want everything, every bit of you, now and forever, he reiterated.
Hermione smiled, radiant and glowing, a new kind of peace shining in her eyes. “I am, and you are mine, Charlie. I love you and I am ready to spend forever at your side,” she grinned. “However, I think you might need to put in a transfer to the Welsh reserve. It’s one thing for the Minister to marry a Dragon Keeper, but I can’t run the British ministry from Romania,” she worried.
Charlie’s grin was unstoppable, fierce, and tender all at once. “For you love, I’d give up my dragon’s if you asked me to,” he proclaimed before he kissed her again, longer this time, deeper, a slow dance of lips and heartbeats that sealed a decade of longing, pain, and hope into one perfect moment.
All around the Great Hall, the Wizarding World cheered, clapped, and wolf whistled, happy for the Minister and her Dragon Keeper.
The sun rose over the rolling hills of Wales, spilling its golden morning light over the Welsh Dragon Reserve and their cottage that was nestled at the edge of the lush emerald valley. Smoke curled up into the sky, emitting lazily from the chimneys, and somewhere in the distance, a Welsh Green dragon let out a deep, resonant roar. Charlie wiped sweat from his brow. He then dried his hands on his shirt, which was streaked with ash from his time feeding the hatchlings that morning.
He’d come to realise in recent years that Dragons, both big and small, were demanding, unpredictable, and magnificent, rather like his wife. Charlie wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Daddy!” a small voice called.
He looked up to see his firstborn, Ella, who was now five, barrelling across the yard with a mischievous grin while her younger brother Finley, three, toddled after her, wobbling but determined to keep pace with his sister.
“Slow down!” Charlie laughed, bending low to scoop Finn into one arm while catching Ella with the other. She giggled, arms wrapping around his neck, while Finn yelped in delight.
Behind him, the barn door of their cottage opened, and Hermione stepped out. No robes tonight, just practical travelling clothes for a morning at the reserve. Her curls caught the sunlight, and the curve of her belly announced that she was five months pregnant with their third child. She was radiant, glowing with a combination of morning light and the life they had created together.
“Good morning,” she said, voice melodic even over the chaos of their children.
Charlie kissed her temple, inhaling her familiar vanilla scent, which was both warm and comforting. “Good morning, Minister.”
Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. “Don’t start with that. I’m not in the office today.”
“You’ll always be the Minister,” he teased. “Just as I’ll always be the idiot who made a grand gesture of love and stole your heart,” he grinned before placing a loving kiss on her lips.
Hermione laughed softly, the sound carrying across the yard like music.
“That you did, and now look at us,” she said, resting a hand on her rounded stomach. “We have two children with a third on the way. We are happily married. I spend half my life managing the wizarding world while you manage dragons. It’s perfect chaos,” she laughed.
Charlie grinned, eyes twinkling as he watched over their little family. “Perfect life. Not exactly how I imagined it, but I wouldn’t change a thing,” he whispered.
Ella squealed, wriggling in his arms. “Daddy, I want to see the dragons!”
“Patience,” Charlie laughed, as he settled the children down near the edge of the field. The dragons lounged majestically, wings spread, their emerald scales shimmering in the sunlight. A few of the smaller dragons tilted their heads curiously at the children, sniffing the air with intelligent caution.
Hermione watched the scene, her eyes soft and full of love. “You know,” she said, stepping closer, “I never imagined our life like this either. I always wanted to be the Minister but never imagined I’d have my very own dragon keeper; three children and a life filled with chaos and magic everywhere.”
Charlie lifted her hand, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “I never imagined it either. But somehow, it’s perfect even if it did start in a roundabout way,” he chuckled.
Hermione smiled, leaning into him. “A decade of stubborn longing, a drunken shag and the most romantic drunken proposal ever,” she laughed.
“In Vino Veritas,” he whispered against her ear, earning a shiver from his wife.
“In wine there is truth, indeed, you certainly proved that to be true on the tenth-year memorial of the Final Battle,” she chuckled.
“It was by far the best memorial; the ones that came before were too stuffy and sad. At least my proposal was memorable; few engagements have made it into the history books, but ours did,” he said as he stood behind her, his hands holding her stomach as they watched their children play with the dragons.
Their children laughed nearby as a young dragon sniffed Ella’s curls. Finn toddled after it, squealing in delight, while Ella ran ahead, waving at the creatures with fearless joy. Charlie and Hermione exchanged a glance, their hands finding each other’s.
“You know,” Charlie said, his voice soft, “I love seeing them like this. They are both so curious and full of life just like their beautiful mother,” he told her as he placed a gentle kiss on the side of her head.
Hermione twisted in his arms, rising her own arms to wrap around his neck as she pressed her forehead to his, smiling. “They have your love of adventure,” she declared. “They are also fierce, protective, and a little wild just like their father,” she smiled.
Charlie grinned, brushing a loose curl from her face. “We built this together. All of it. Every messy, magical, chaotic bit.”
“It’s only just begun, there are so many moments left to live,” Hermione added, her fingers threading in his hair at the nape of his neck.
Charlie kissed her lips, his movements slow, tender, and full of promise. It was nothing like the desperate kisses of the past, but the steady, unshakable devotion of a man who had waited a decade to claim his love and had finally succeeded.
The sun climbed higher over the hills, dragons stretched lazily, and the children laughed and ran in the morning light.
Life was perfect. Not because it was easy, not because it had been simple, but because it had been earned, through longing, patience, courage, and yes, even a very happy accident.
Charlie held Hermione’s hand tightly as he watched their little family, his heart full, as he listened to their children's laughter echoing across the valley.
“Here’s to us,” he whispered, “to our chaos, our dragons, our children, and everything still to come.”
Hermione smiled, eyes sparkling. “To us.”
As they kissed again, slow and steady, the dragons roared in the distance, a sound of triumph and freedom. Their life had begun, ten years late, but in the most perfect way imaginable, and neither of them would change a moment of it for anything.
The End
Shawnjoell Sun 24 Aug 2025 10:42PM UTC
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