The messages started innocently enough.
They didn't send owls. That would've been too formal. Too traceable. Instead, they used charmed mirrors, like old-fashioned walkie-talkies ... only more private, more dangerous.
Oliver's voice had come through one late evening, low and amused: "You left a scratch on my shoulder. Should I get it framed?"
Daphne's reply came a moment later, dry as ever: "You're lucky I didn't hex you."
A pause. Then his chuckle echoed softly through the glass. "You call that luck? I'm hoping for a matching one on the other side tonight."
It became a rhythm. A shared secret. A hunger that neither of them could name but couldn't seem to silence either.
Messages would flicker across the mirror when Oliver was heading to practice or Daphne was lounging in her bathrobe, flipping through books she never quite finished ... teasing words scrawled with a fingertip and echoed aloud through their reflections. A shared glance in polished glass. A smirk in place of a signature. They kept meeting. At her place. At his. In quiet corners and borrowed Muggle rooms charmed to the teeth, sometimes using enchanted coins to signal a change of plans or floating notes that disintegrated on contact. A whisper of a spell, a glance in a mirror, and they'd find one another like magnets drawn through silk. And always, always, it ended in sex ... rough, raw, sometimes teasing, sometimes desperate.
But somewhere along the way, something shifted.
He brought coffee one morning, unprompted. She didn't thank him, but she drank it all.
They argued about a match result, and instead of storming out, she ended up curled beside him on the sofa, her legs tangled with his, laughing into his chest.
He kissed her jaw. She let him.
It wasn't always soft.
Sometimes she still pushed him against walls, demanding control. Sometimes he pinned her wrists and made her beg with her eyes before she'd ever open her mouth. But other times, like the night after a late dinner at her family estate, it was different.
"Don't start with your smug face," she warned, shoving him back onto her bed.
"I haven't even said anything."
"You were thinking it."
He grinned. "Guilty."
She straddled him, blue silk dress hiked up her thighs, her hands braced on his chest.
"If you're going to smirk, you might as well make yourself useful."
"Commanding tonight, aren't we?"
But his hands obeyed her. Gripping her hips. Guiding her down onto him. Her breath caught ... not from the stretch, but from the way he looked at her. Like she was something holy. Something untouchable that he got to touch.
Later, when they lay side by side, sweat cooling on their skin, she didn't pull away when he slid his fingers between hers. It should've felt strange ... intimate in a way that didn't fit what they were. But instead of stiffening or cracking a joke, Daphne let their hands rest there, tangled. A quiet tether. His thumb brushed over her knuckle, slow and absent, and she found herself wondering when she had stopped fearing closeness. When the simple act of holding hands had stopped being a weakness. **She hated how easy it was. How his skin felt like safety she hadn't asked for. How it was starting to feel like home. Maybe it was still a weakness. But tonight, she didn't care.
---
One night, after a particularly intense round that left her trembling and too breathless to speak, he lay beside her, arm draped across her stomach.
The fire in Daphne's bedroom cast golden shadows across the silk sheets, painting their bare skin in shifting hues of amber and bronze. Outside, the April rain tapped rhythmically against the tall windows of Greengrass Manor ... a soft, persistent sound, like fingertips drumming on glass. A faint chill lingered in the air despite the fire, making the warmth of the sheets and the heat of their bodies feel even more intimate. Inside, their bodies lay tangled ... limbs lazy, skin flushed, breath slowing, hearts beating in quiet synchrony. It was becoming a pattern neither of them seemed willing to break.
Oliver's fingers traced the bare curve of her spine, callused pads softening as they glided over the smooth expanse. Daphne lay on her stomach, head turned toward him, hair a dark halo over the pillows. Her eyes were open but unfocused, lost in thought.
"You always this quiet after sex?" he murmured, voice low, teasing ... but there was something careful underneath, something unsure.
She didn't smile, didn't flinch. Just blinked slowly, as if surfacing from a memory. "Not usually."
A pause stretched between them.
Oliver turned onto his side, propping himself on his elbow. "You were thinking about something."
"Everyone thinks," she replied.
"You looked haunted."
Daphne swallowed. "Hogwarts."
That made him still.
She didn't elaborate right away. Instead, she reached for her wand and flicked it toward the window. The curtains drew shut with a snap. She wasn't sure why she did it. Maybe to shut out the world. Maybe to hold onto this one moment, fragile and dangerous as it was.
"I never really enjoyed school," she finally said. "Not like others did. People saw it as home. I saw it as a battlefield."
He was silent.
Daphne rolled onto her side, her eyes finding his in the dim light. "The Slytherin common room was always cold. Cold walls. Cold glances. Even colder expectations. And then… the war."
Oliver's throat worked. He knew where this was going. He'd fought. She hadn't. At least not in the same way.
"People think because my family wasn't marked, we were untouched," she said, her voice low and calm, but brittle. "But the Greengrass name was enough. You know how it was ... guilt by blood. People looked at me like I was something to be watched. Contained. Controlled."
Oliver reached out, fingers brushing her knuckles. "I remember."
"I hated it," she whispered. "The whispers. The glances. The people who assumed I was evil just because I didn't cry loud enough at the right funerals." "They never said it to my face. But they didn't have to."
"That's not fair."
"Nothing was," she said simply. "You were a hero. I was… tolerated."
Oliver didn't correct her, because in many ways, she was right.
"I used to watch you fly," she murmured, surprising even herself. "At school."
He blinked. "You did?"
She nodded, cheeks flushed, eyes still distant. "You flew like you didn't care who was watching. Like the war would never touch you. I envied that."
Oliver chuckled softly. "That's probably because I was too dumb to feel the weight of it."
"You weren't dumb," she said quickly ... too quickly.
Their eyes locked again.
"Was I part of your Hogwarts fairy tale?" he asked with a slow grin.
She actually smiled, but it was small, tight. "No. You were a complication."
He laughed, dropping back onto the pillows. "Typical. I was flying around dreaming about being famous, and you were planning your perfect pureblood wedding."
Daphne's expression changed ... the smile faltering into something more fragile.
"I did dream of a wedding. I had a whole notebook full of ideas when I was thirteen. Lace veils. Ice sculptures. Enchanted flowers that floated midair." Her voice softened, barely above a whisper. "I used to spend hours drawing layouts, sketching dresses, planning every detail like it would somehow guarantee happiness."
She paused, a shadow flickering in her eyes. "I kept it under my bed. It smelled like ink and roses. I don't know what happened to it. One day it was gone." Like the rest of her, she thought, but didn't say.
He watched her for a long moment, then reached for her hand.
"Why don't we do it?"
She frowned. "Do what?"
"The ridiculous, over-the-top wedding. Ice sculptures. Floating flowers. I'll wear a bloody bowtie if you want."
Daphne scoffed. "Don't be stupid."
"I'm serious," he said, squeezing her hand. "We're being forced into this thing, yeah. But maybe we can take at least one piece of it for ourselves."
She wanted to laugh. To insult him. To say it was all ridiculous. But the part of her that used to dream ... the girl with ink-stained fingers and rose-scented pages ... was louder tonight.
"You want a fairytale, princess?" he murmured, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. "Then I'll give you one."
For the first time, she didn't deflect. She just whispered, "Okay." And this time, she kissed him first.
---
Two days later, Hermione Granger appeared at Greengrass Manor with a thick planner, three rolls of enchanted parchment, and an eyebrow already arched.
"You said I could help. I'm helping."
Daphne raised a brow. "This seems excessive."
"You haven't seen my spreadsheets yet."
Oliver groaned from the corner. "Merlin save us."
The house elves brought tea. Hermione asked about colors. Daphne didn't want to care ... but she found herself choosing deep green and silver over black and gold.
Hermione made notes. Oliver stole biscuits. Daphne almost smiled. It was surreal ... this domesticity, this illusion of normalcy in a world that had so long felt jagged and fractured. She hadn't thought herself the kind of woman who planned weddings with friends over tea. And yet, here she was, surrounded by parchment and biscuits and banter. For a moment, it felt like she'd stepped into someone else's life. A quieter one. A softer one. And she wasn't sure she hated it.
Then the fireplace flared green. A sudden gust of warmth blew through the room, and with it, the familiar weight of someone who never entered quietly. Daphne didn't turn ... she already knew who it was. Draco Malfoy stepped out in pressed robes and an expression of habitual disdain.
"Granger, you left your bag at my place again."
Hermione flushed. "I didn't ask you to bring it."
"No. But you'd accuse me of theft next week if I didn't."
Daphne watched them. The quiet tension. The near-smiles. The way Hermione's fingers twitched like she wanted to hex him and kiss him at the same time. She also noticed the way Draco stood slightly too close, how his hand brushed against Hermione's sleeve under the pretense of adjusting the strap of her bag. The way his eyes lingered a heartbeat too long on her mouth before looking away. Hermione's hand hovered near her wand for half a second ... not to hex him. Just to feel grounded. It wasn't overt ... nothing about them was ... but it pulsed beneath the surface like a charm waiting to detonate. There was history there, messy and unfinished, threaded between sarcasm and silence.
Some ghosts don't fade. They learn to walk quietly. Daphne knew that better than most. She still felt them ... echoes of voices in the hallways, the scent of ash in rooms long restored, her mother's perfume lingering in forgotten corners. Not all ghosts were dead. Some lived on in guilt, in memory, in the quiet moments between sarcasm and silence.
Draco's gaze shifted. "Planning the big day, are we?"
Oliver muttered, "Big disaster, more like."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's going to be beautiful."
Draco smirked. "If you say so. I imagine you'll be just as terrifying on our wedding day."
Hermione choked. "Excuse me?"
He turned to Daphne and added with a smirk, "Did she not tell you? We're engaged. Has been a delight."
Daphne raised a brow. "No wonder you look tired."
Oliver laughed, spilling tea down his shirt.
Hermione threw a biscuit at Draco. He caught it. Ate it. And winked. She muttered something under her breath ... probably a curse, though her cheeks were flushed enough to betray other possibilities. As she turned away to gather her notes, Draco leaned in just enough to murmur something only she could hear. Her shoulders stiffened, then relaxed almost imperceptibly. Daphne caught it all ... the way Hermione didn't move when his hand brushed the small of her back as he passed, the way she tilted her head toward him even while pretending to ignore him. It wasn't just tension. It was history. Familiar. Frustrating. And far from finished.
Somewhere, beneath the firelight and sarcasm, the future stirred. Not perfect. But theirs.