The letter came with the morning owl, folded with bureaucratic precision and sealed with the Ministry's red wax. Daphne stared at it for a long moment, the corner of the parchment tucked between her fingers, still warm from the bird's talons.
She already knew what it said.
Her eyes scanned the words anyway, each line as heavy and cold as lead:
The marriage between Miss Daphne A. Greengrass and Mr. Oliver S. Wood is scheduled for the 20th of May, to be officiated under Article 47-B of the Magical Bloodline Preservation Act. Attendance is mandatory.
Mandatory.
Daphne's jaw clenched. She folded the letter with clinical detachment, placed it on the polished table, and stood still for several seconds, staring at her own reflection in the gold-rimmed mirror above the mantle. Her eyes were cold. Controlled. Unbothered.
Still, something beneath the surface cracked, not enough to show, just enough to sting.
But her pulse betrayed her, drumming hard beneath the skin like a secret trying to claw its way out.
--
Later that afternoon, Daphne sat in the sunlit conservatory of the manor, a delicate cup of chamomile tea warming her hands. She wore soft slate-grey lounge trousers and a matching cropped sweater that hugged her curves , elegant even in comfort. Her hair was loosely tied back, a few strands falling forward with every movement.
Pansy Parkinson was there too, perched casually on the edge of a velvet settee, a sly smirk playing on her lips.
"Arranged marriages always look better on paper," Pansy said, voice low, with that familiar cynical edge. She flicked her dark hair over her shoulder, eyes gleaming as they met Daphne's.
Daphne took a slow sip of her tea before responding, her gaze distant yet sharp.
"I imagine yours with Longbottom is... educational."
Pansy laughed, a dry, humorless sound.
"Let's just say we're excellent at maintaining appearances. But behind closed doors? That's a battlefield. The kind you don't get to walk away from."
Daphne arched a brow.
"Romantic."
"It's a war of attrition," Pansy said, leaning forward slightly. "You win some, you lose some. The trick is to never let them see you bleed."
Daphne set down her teacup with surgical precision.
"So long as they're the ones bleeding first."
They exchanged a look heavy with unspoken truths , sisters in arms against their fates.
Before Daphne could say more, the wards of the manor buzzed sharply , the low, thrumming sound that only triggered when someone known to the house crossed the perimeter.
A few moments passed. Then, footsteps echoed down the hall , slow, deliberate, not quite familiar, but enough to make her spine straighten.
Both women looked up as Oliver Wood strode into the drawing room, his presence electric and unyielding.
Of course he'd already been keyed in. Even with her father living abroad, he'd wasted no time modifying the wards to let the bloody Wood through. Typical.
His eyes flicked briefly to Pansy, and a half-smile tugged at his lips.
"Parkinson."
Pansy returned the nod, cool and unbothered.
"Wood."
A silent understanding passed between them, mutual tolerance, nothing more. Pansy stood, smoothing her skirt.
"I'll leave you two to it, then. Break a leg, Daphne."
"Thanks, Pansy."
With that, she turned on her heel and left the room gracefully, her departure as swift and deliberate as her presence. The silence that followed was thick, expectant , and entirely too intimate.
The air shifted, heavier now, threaded with the memory of every time she'd sworn she wouldn't let him in again.
"Miss me already?" Oliver asked, stepping into the room like the place had invited him personally.
Daphne blinked.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
He held up a familiar parchment.
"Thought I'd drop by and celebrate the big day. Or... y'know, the official announcement of it."
"I received mine," she said coolly.
His eyes swept over her , the soft cling of fabric, the way her bare feet curled slightly against the rug. His mouth twitched.
"Do you always greet your fiancé barefoot and looking like sin, or is this just my lucky day?"
Daphne turned on her heel. She headed toward the corridor, not looking back.
"You're lucky I haven't hexed you for showing up without warning."
He followed, unbothered.
"Wasn't in the mood for owls or formalities."
Daphne stopped walking and turned to face him, arms folded tightly across her chest.
"You're never in the mood for anything remotely civilized."
He didn't stop walking , just stepped in closer, stealing the space between them with quiet intent.
"Guilty," he said, gaze dropping to her mouth. "But I was in the mood for you."
That's when she froze, halfway through the corridor, her heart pounding louder than her voice. He stopped too, the distance between them charged, electric , as if the very air waited for their next move.
The world seemed to narrow to the space between them, the faint hum of wards, the sound of his breath, the pulse she couldn't quiet.
"I didn't ask you to come," she said tightly.
"I didn't wait for permission."
Daphne's hands clenched at her sides. She hated how warm her skin suddenly felt.
"I assume you didn't just come here to smirk and breathe loudly."
"Actually…" , he tilted his head, voice dropping into that infuriating drawl , "that's exactly why I came."
They didn't make it upstairs.
Somewhere between biting words and sharp glances, Daphne backed into the nearest wall. His mouth crashed into hers with brutal heat, their anger turning into fire. Her hands pulled at his shirt, dragging it over his head and flinging it somewhere behind them. He made quick work of his belt and jeans, kicking off his Converse without breaking contact. She felt the brush of denim against her thighs as his jeans fell, followed by the faint thud of his trainers hitting the floor.
His fingers slipped under the hem of her cropped sweater and peeled it up her body, baring skin inch by inch. Her bra followed , unclasped with an ease that made her inhale sharply , and everything joined the growing pile of clothes around them. She didn't stop him. Couldn't. It felt inevitable.
His hands moved lower, parting her thighs with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, like he'd memorized her in a single night, and worse, like he knew she hadn't forgotten either.
His lips brushed hers, warm and insistent, as the faint scent of leather and firelight filled her senses. Daphne gasped when he lifted her effortlessly, her back pressing against the wall as his lips kissed a path down her chest.
"You just got the bloody wedding date," she snapped, breathless. "And you're already playing husband?"
"You didn't make me wait last time," he murmured against her skin. "Why start now?"
His mouth was relentless , soft where it needed to be, punishing where she craved more. His hands slid along her waist, grounding her, possessive, reminding her she was already bare , already his. The realization made her gasp, her back arching slightly in response.
Somewhere in the movement, her hands found his again , not to help, but to anchor herself against the spiral unraveling inside her.
"Don't look at me like that," she said, voice tight.
"Like what?" he asked, rising to full height again, his eyes locking with hers.
"Like you think you've won."
He chuckled darkly.
"Princess, this isn't a game I'm trying to win."
Then his mouth was on her, and all her protests dissolved.
Tongue hot and wicked. Fingers working in tandem. Her hands gripped the edge of the marble-topped console for balance, head falling back as her hips bucked into him without consent from her brain.
She didn't moan. She never moaned.
Except now, she couldn't stop. The sound that tore from her lips was raw, helpless, obscene.
They stumbled deeper into the corridor, then veered into the nearest room , the sitting room, knocking over a lamp on the way in.
She didn't remember moving. Just falling. Into him. Into this.
Oliver kissed her fiercely, carrying her to the nearest chaise and pulling her down onto his lap.
"Merlin, you're a mess," he whispered, brushing damp hair from her face.
"Don't flatter yourself," she muttered, biting his shoulder.
"You taste like you've been dying for this."
She glared.
"You talk too much."
"Then shut me up."
She did, with a kiss that turned into a snarl, her fingers curling into his hair as she lowered herself onto him. He shouldn't feel this good. Not again. Not when she'd spent every moment since pretending it meant nothing.
The stretch burned, but the pleasure burned hotter. He shouldn't have this effect on her. Not when she'd built so many walls to keep everyone out , and now he was inside, tearing through every last one.
His hands gripped her hips, grounding her as she moved. He met every roll with a thrust that made her bite back curses.
"Fucking hell," he growled. "You feel like magic."
She was panting now, eyes squeezed shut. He could see it all , the cracks in the ice queen façade. The way she wanted to stay cold. Composed. But here? Now? She was undone.
"You like that?" he rasped, voice low and taunting.
Daphne's reply was a strangled moan, her hips grinding harder, reckless.
"Thought so," he muttered, dragging his mouth along her jaw. "Look at you. Falling apart for the man beneath you."
Her breath hitched.
"You going to break for me, Ice Queen? Or do I have to fuck the pride out of you too?"
Her climax hit like a curse, fierce and consuming. She shattered with a sharp cry, nails digging crescents into his shoulders. He followed with a groan torn from his throat , ragged, primal , like he was breaking with her, piece by piece.
Daphne disentangled herself a moment later. Her eyes swept the room until they landed on a throw draped over the arm of a nearby armchair. She wrapped it around her shoulders with mechanical grace, clutching the fabric tighter , as if that alone could hold together what had just unraveled inside her. She didn't look at him. She couldn't. Not yet. Not while her skin still burned from the truth of it.
"You've had your fun. You can go now."
The world seemed to narrow to the space between them, the faint hum of wards, the sound of his breath, the pulse she couldn't quiet.
Oliver was still sprawled across the chaise, completely naked and annoyingly at ease. He stretched, arms behind his head.
"Go? Why rush? Make me some tea first."
She turned sharply, eyes narrowing.
"I don't make tea."
He smirked.
"No? Ask your elf then."
She froze.
"Excuse me?"
"Come on, Daphne," he said, sitting up on the edge of the chaise with lazy satisfaction. "You're a textbook pureblood snob. It's kind of cute, actually."
"I'm not!"
"You totally are. I'm shocked you didn't bathe in rosewater after I touched you."
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her cheeks were flushed, not from the sex this time , but from frustration. Oliver noticed.
He stepped closer, brushing his fingers against her cheek with exaggerated softness.
"You hate this, don't you?"
"Hate what?"
"That you can't predict me. That I don't bend to your rules. That I make you feel things."
She shoved his hand away.
"Don't flatter yourself."
But her fingers trembled. And that tremor said everything.
Oliver leaned down, voice low.
"We're getting married soon, princess. Better get used to days like this."
Her eyes snapped to his, ice-cold and unblinking.
"Don't call me that."
He tilted his head, amused.
"What? Princess?"
She took a step closer, wand still in hand.
"Yes. That. I'm not yours to dress up in pet names like a prize you've already won."
Oliver's smirk didn't falter, but his eyes flicked to her grip on the wand, noting the tension.
"Duly noted."
She rolled her eyes.
"Get out of my house."
He grinned.
"Say please."
She squared her shoulders.
She wanted to hurt him, or maybe just to stop feeling this exposed.
"I'll say Stupefy."
He laughed as he walked off toward the corridor, still naked and without a shred of shame. A moment later, a crack split the air , the sound of Disapparition , leaving Daphne standing alone, arms crossed over her chest, staring at the empty space where he'd been.
She didn't know if she was furious, aroused, or afraid. But she knew one thing , Oliver Wood had just made her feel too much. Again.
And that terrified her more than any curse could.