Three

Art kindly provided by Ferporcel

One Friday, as he prepared to leave for the Village, he heard a knock on his door for the first time since he had arrived, so many years before. He froze for a second, until an explosion of joyous twittering erupted through the dusty windows.

And she was.

*****

It wasn’t that simple, of course. For Hermione to leave England permanently would mean giving up her position with the Ministry. She had informed Harry of her decision before departing, and he had passed the word through channels.

Apparently, when the Department of Mysteries heard about Hermione’s decision, all hell broke loose. The Village was a protected area… a place where no wizarding magic was to be performed. Technically, she should never have been able to find it; indeed, they figured, only her Muggle blood and the fact that she had left her wand behind had allowed her to do so. Harry forbore to mention that he, too, had found the place—perhaps Lily’s blood or his own connection to Hermione had allowed him to do so. He didn’t want them to strengthen wards that might cause Hermione or Snape to be expelled from the place which had become their home.

The truth was, because wizarding magic was ineffective in the region, those wards had weakened greatly. As long as no one attempted to use a wand, the Unspeakables would never know that wizarding folk could, in fact, visit at will.

As for Hermione, she moved back into the house at the heart of the Village. She met Severus at the road every Friday and every Tuesday, as well. When the weather grew too bad for her bicycle, she walked or drove. One night, during a snowstorm, she drove him home and stayed.

The Villagers smiled at one another when it was reported that her car was parked alongside the road. They knew she was safe and warm with him and he with her. The birds settled comfortably on the trees that surrounded the small house, singing light through the dingy windows.

*****

Year turned into year and they lived together in harmony with each other, the Village, and the land. Hermione's children and friends visited regularly; eventually her grandchildren came to spend each summer with them.

If the spans of their lives were longer than those of others, the Villagers did not comment. Such things had occurred before and would occur again. What was notable was that each seemed to love the other more every day, never taking anything for granted. It was a kind of magic, the Villagers agreed, that The Foreigner had brought to The Englishman and which he returned to her a thousand fold.

When her youngest granddaughter married young Antonio's middle son, the Village rejoiced. The local wine flowed, and the Villagers and the Visitors danced together in the square.

Life went on. The fields were planted, tended, harvested, left fallow, and planted anew. Tourists traveled to Assisi, driving along the main road to the Saint's city. Often they would look at the countryside and smile. "Pretty," they'd say. "Perhaps we should stop here, sometime."

But they did not, and progress continued to roll past the small road that led to the Village.

And The Englishman and The Foreigner lived out their days in happiness and peace.

***********

Author’s Note: Many thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. It occupies a special place in my heart, and I appreciate knowing that it has touched you, too.

Thanks, also, to Somigliana and ferporcel, who have encouraged me every step of the way… I wouldn’t be writing at all without Somigliana’s early assistance and I appreciate her willingness to drop everything to look at this short chapter when I was panicking about it. And Fer saw an early draft of this story and nagged me relentlessly until I expanded, posted, updated, and completed it. My deepest gratitude goes to them and to the others whose encouragement enabled me to write this tale.