The Ministry chamber felt too small for what was happening.

The golden sigil under your feet pulsed like the heartbeat of some slumbering god, illuminating the dark mahogany panels and dancing across the polished ink of ancient parchments. Hermione had long since dropped her quill, backing away as the two figures emerged, her sharp intellect faltering beneath the sheer, suffocating gravity of the moment.

They were not men standing before you. They were living legends, forces of will, ambition, and ancient love shaped into flesh.

Salazar’s eyes were the first to find you fully, locking with yours like a serpent recognizing a mate it thought long devoured by time. His tall form moved toward you like a shadow sliding across moonlight, robes whispering against the stone. Before words could form on your lips, his hand was already cupping the curve of your cheek, fingers brushing the soft strands of hair that had escaped your braid.

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, slow, reverent, like a prayer mouthed against cathedral walls.

“You are mine,” he breathed, softly, dangerously. “You always were.”

Behind you, warmth—heat. Godric.

Godric’s calloused, battle-roughened hands were already settling on your waist, his fingers splayed wide as if anchoring himself to reality by the touch of your softness beneath the silk of your robes. He buried his face against the crook of your neck, his golden hair brushing your cheek as his nose dragged up against the sensitive skin behind your ear.

“I crossed fields of fire for you,” he whispered, voice hoarse with grief and possessive love. “Now I will tear down kingdoms to keep you.”

Your breath caught. Salazar’s green gaze flickered, stormy with restrained violence—not toward you, never toward you, but at the universe itself for daring to separate you from him for even a heartbeat of existence. His other hand moved to your waist as well, fingers curling lightly over Godric’s. The two ancient titans stood over you now, touching, claiming, not fighting—but possessing.

The scent of old magic clung to Salazar like ink and stormwind; Godric smelled of steel and smoke and wild mountain air. It was dizzying—being between them again, the quiet strategist and the roaring warrior, both undone by the very sight of you.

Salazar’s mouth dipped closer to your temple, breath chilling and electric as he whispered, “Never again will you be beyond my reach.”

Godric’s grip tightened infinitesimally on your hips, possessive, protective. His lips traced over your jaw, warm and reverent. “Tell them,” he murmured, his voice breaking, “Tell them you are ours. Tell the world.”

The ancient tension between them trembled beneath the surface—but now it was no longer battle that would break them. It was you. You were the flame they circled, the reason kingdoms burned, the reason gods grew jealous.