Hogwarts had long since fallen into stillness, the corridors hushed, the castle breathing in the steady rhythm of night.

In Albus's chambers, the fire burned low, casting a warm, flickering glow across the room. The scent of old parchment and lemon tea lingered in the air, mingling with something softer—her.

Minerva sat curled in the armchair by the fire, her Transfiguration journal forgotten in her lap. She had intended to work. She tried to focus. But it was difficult when Albus sat across from her, his robe draped loosely over his shoulders, spectacles perched at the tip of his nose as he scrawled notes in the margins of a book.

And it was impossible when Fawkes, ever watchful, trilled softly from his perch—something between amusement and knowing.

Minerva huffed. "Do you mind?"

Fawkes fluffed his feathers and stared.

Albus chuckled, peering at her over his spectacles. "I believe that was a yes."

Minerva narrowed her eyes at both of them—the blasted phoenix and the infuriating man she had fallen for. "I swear, sometimes I wonder if he's your familiar or mine."

Albus merely smiled. "Perhaps he belongs to us both."

Something warm flickered in her chest.

Ours.

The thought was dangerous.

The thought was everything.

Fawkes trilled again, hopping from his perch and gliding across the room—straight to Minerva.

With an indignant squawk, he landed on the armrest of her chair, staring at her expectantly.

Minerva rolled her eyes. "Oh, fine."

She reached up, stroking his feathers, and Fawkes crooned in satisfaction, preening under her touch.

Albus watched, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"You do realize," he murmured, voice quiet, "he's claimed you now."

Minerva arched a brow. "Claimed me?"

"Oh, yes." Albus leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. "You may never rid yourself of him."

Minerva smirked. "I could say the same for you."

Albus's gaze softened.

Something shifted between them—something tender, unspoken, certain.

For all the years of restraint, of distance carefully maintained, this—this—was effortless.

She had spent decades believing she had no right to ask.

But she no longer needed to.

Because when Albus reached for her hand, fingers threading through hers, she already knew the answer.

Fawkes trilled once more, a quiet witness to the moment.

And for the first time in a long time, they were not two people merely enduring.

They were home.

Together.