As they Apparated into L'étoile Enchantée, Daphne's breath caught the moment her heels clicked against the polished marble floor. The restaurant was stunning—grand chandeliers cast a soft golden glow over elegant tables draped in crisp white linens. The quiet hum of conversation and the delicate clinking of silverware filled the air, mingling with the rich aroma of expertly prepared cuisine. But none of it compared to the realization of where they were.

Her head snapped toward Harry, eyes wide with disbelief. "Harry…" she breathed, turning in place to take in the beauty of the establishment. How in Merlin's name did he manage this? This wasn't just any fine dining restaurant—it was the restaurant, impossible to get into unless you were someone of immense importance. Even her family, with all their wealth and connections, had never dined here.

She turned back to Harry, only to find him already watching her, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. But it wasn't just a smirk of amusement—it was something more. It was soft. Expectant. Like he was hoping she liked this, hoping to make her feel special. And damn if that didn't make her heart stutter.

She barely thought before stepping closer and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I don't know how you pulled this off," she murmured, "but… thank you." Her voice was softer than she intended, but there was no hiding the sincerity in it.

Harry felt the warmth of her lips linger even as she pulled back, his mind briefly going blank. He hadn't expected that—not that he was complaining. His confidence soared at the way her gaze lingered on him, her expression unreadable but unmistakably pleased. Worth it, he thought. So worth it.

Still, he managed to keep his tone casual, teasing. "You act like I'm not Harry Potter." He gave a playful shrug. "I have my ways."

Daphne rolled her eyes, but the smile she gave him was dazzling.

A discreet cough interrupted them, and they turned to see a sharply dressed maître d' waiting patiently. "Mr. Potter, Miss Greengrass, if you'll follow me."

Harry gently took Daphne's hand, leading her through the restaurant to a private dining room at the back. The moment they stepped inside, Daphne was awestruck again. A breathtaking floor-to-ceiling window showcased the city skyline, the lights glittering against the night. The table was perfectly set, two tall candles flickering in the dimly lit space.

Daphne turned to Harry in shock. "You got us a private room?"

Harry merely grinned, pulling out her chair for her. "Of course."

Daphne sat, looking around again, still slightly stunned. She was not easily impressed, but Harry had completely outdone himself. And the way he was looking at her now, that same mixture of pride and nervous anticipation—like her opinion was all that mattered—made her feel warm in a way she wasn't ready to analyze.

What is he doing to me?

Before she could gather her thoughts, the door opened again, and the owner himself stepped inside. Jean-Luc Moreau, the renowned French wizarding chef, carried himself with an air of effortless refinement.

"Mr. Potter, Miss Greengrass," he greeted them with a nod, his accent smooth. "It's an honor to have you dine with us tonight."

Daphne glanced at Harry, noting the way his posture relaxed slightly, the easy familiarity in his response. "Thank you, Jean-Luc. I appreciate you making this happen."

The chef gave a small smile, his sharp eyes assessing them both. "For you Mr. Potter, always."

That made Daphne pause. For you, always? There was a story there, but before she could question it, Jean-Luc continued smoothly, introducing the evening's menu.

Daphne barely listened. She couldn't take her eyes off Harry.

Because tonight, she wasn't dining with just any man.

She was dining with her man.

And the thought thrilled her more than she expected.

The moment their wine glasses are filled, Harry lifts his in a quiet toast. His gaze meets Daphne's, steady and warm. "To tonight," he says simply.

Daphne clinks her glass against his, a soft smile playing at her lips. "To tonight."

The first sip is smooth, rich with a depth that lingers. The ambiance of L'étoile Enchantée is intoxicating—soft candlelight, the quiet hum of elegant conversation, and the faint notes of a live quartet playing in the background. It all feels surreal, as if they've stepped into a dream.

But then again, maybe that's just how she feels around Harry.

She sets her glass down and leans in slightly, eyes alight with curiosity. "I have to ask—how did you manage this?" She gestures vaguely around the restaurant. "L'étoile Enchantée is impossible to get into. I know people who have tried for months and never even got a response."

Harry chuckles, taking another sip of his wine before answering. "I may have had some help."

Daphne arches an elegant brow. "Harry."

He smirks, setting his glass down. "Alright, alright. Let's just say… my family had ties to this place. The Potters were among its early investors, though I only found that out recently." He shrugs. "Jean-Luc—Chef Moreau—was kind enough to arrange this for me."

"Jean-Luc," she repeats, catching the familiarity in his tone. "You call the head chef of the most exclusive restaurant in wizarding Britain by his first name?"

Harry chuckles, shaking his head. "I didn't at first. He insisted after I spent an hour in his office discussing wine pairings like I had any clue what I was doing."

Daphne laughs softly, tilting her head as she studies him. "You really went all out for this, didn't you?"

Harry meets her gaze, his expression turning sincere. "I did." He pauses before adding, "You deserve it."

The warmth in his voice, the way he says it so matter-of-factly, sends a pleasant shiver down Daphne's spine. She wasn't expecting that—not the words themselves, but the way they felt.

Before she can respond, the first course arrives—a delicate amuse-bouche, a bite-sized appetizer designed to awaken the palate. Tonight, it's a buttery puff pastry filled with truffle-infused cream and topped with a hint of caviar.

Daphne picks up her fork, but before taking a bite, she says softly, "Thank you, Harry. For all of this. For… tonight."

Harry holds her gaze for a moment before smiling. "It's only just begun."

As they take their first bites, savoring the exquisite flavors, a new energy settles between them—something unspoken yet deeply felt.

The second course arrived with seamless grace, set before them with the same careful attention to detail that had defined every part of the evening so far. A delicate arrangement of seared scallops with a drizzle of saffron-infused butter, accompanied by crisp greens and a side of charred asparagus. The aroma alone was enough to make Harry's stomach rumble, but at the moment, his attention was elsewhere.

Daphne.

She was studying him with that knowing smirk—the kind that made his pulse stutter. The candlelight flickered against the soft angles of her face, catching the silver sheen of her dress when she shifted in her chair. Her foot, he was almost certain, had just brushed against his under the table, whether accidentally or on purpose he wasn't sure.

He was still trying to regain his footing after the way she'd looked at him when they arrived, the way she'd kissed his cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was in dangerous territory, and he knew it.

But Merlin, he didn't want to leave.

Harry cleared his throat, picking up his glass of wine. Focus, Potter. "I still don't think I've thanked you properly," he said. "For everything. For making things… easier."

Daphne lifted a brow, swirling her wine. "Easier?"

He nodded, leaning slightly forward. "Yeah. It's been a long time since I've felt this… I don't know—" He hesitated, struggling to find the right word.

Daphne, sharp as ever, didn't let him fumble for long. "Happy?"

Harry blinked. The word settled over him, heavier than he expected. He hadn't really thought about it, but she wasn't wrong.

Daphne must have seen the realization cross his face because her smirk returned, playful and teasing. "Merlin, Potter, if I'd known all it took was a bit of honesty and good company to unravel the great Chosen One, I would've done it years ago."

Harry groaned, shaking his head with a laugh. "You realize that stopped being funny about ten years ago, right?"

Daphne took a slow sip of her wine, eyes twinkling over the rim. "Oh, I know. That's why I enjoy it."

Harry scoffed, slicing into his scallop. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," she said lightly, cutting into her own dish with elegant precision, "you seem rather enamored with me."

His fork hovered halfway to his mouth. He opened his mouth to respond, but found himself entirely distracted when Daphne, with an infuriating sense of ease, flicked her tongue over her bottom lip. It was quick, just a subconscious gesture after taking a sip of her wine, but Harry swore he felt it like a bloody spell.

She had to know what she was doing.

He shook his head and finally took his bite, savoring the perfect balance of flavors. "You're lucky the food's good, or I might have to rethink this whole thing."

Daphne feigned offense. "Potter, please. If I wanted to manipulate you, I'd be much more subtle about it."

Harry chuckled, but then she tilted her head, and something in her gaze softened. "Besides… I like this Harry. The real one. Not the one in the papers, not the one people whisper about. Just you."

That caught him off guard.

The humor in her voice was still there, but beneath it was something deeper, something he wasn't sure he knew how to handle. People had seen him before—on the battlefield, in the newspapers, on the frontlines of every major crisis in the past decade—but how many had truly seen him?

He swallowed, setting his glass down. "Well… that's a relief. Would've been awkward if you only wanted me for the fame."

Daphne rolled her eyes, but the way her fingers brushed absently over his hand sent a thrill through him. "Please. If I wanted a famous wizard, I would've gone after Lockhart."

Harry nearly choked on his wine. "That's disgusting."

"I know," she said, grinning. "See? I do have standards."

The conversation flowed effortlessly from there, a playful game of words wrapped in the kind of chemistry that made the air feel charged. Harry found himself hanging onto every shift of her expression, every glance, every fleeting touch.

By the time the main course arrived, the teasing edge of their conversation had softened, giving way to something quieter, weightier. The servers moved seamlessly, placing their plates in front of them—a perfectly cooked filet mignon for Harry, roasted duck for Daphne, both accompanied by elegant sides that neither of them paid much attention to. The food was exquisite, but the atmosphere had shifted.

Daphne had gone silent for a moment, running her fingers along the stem of her wine glass, deep in thought. Harry could see the change in her expression—the moment she decided to let her walls slip, to show him something real.

She took a slow breath. "You're not the only one who feels lost."

Harry stilled, watching her. He didn't interrupt, just gave her the space to continue.

Daphne didn't meet his gaze at first. "People always say the war is over, but I don't think it ever really is. It just… lingers." She set her utensils down gently, tracing the edge of her plate. "I see their faces, you know. The ones I fought. The ones I—" She stopped, exhaling through her nose. "I did what I had to do, but I still see them when I sleep."

Harry's chest tightened. He knew that feeling all too well.

Daphne lifted her gaze to him then, searching his face, as if trying to gauge whether she was saying too much. "I know I made the right choice," she murmured. "But sometimes I wonder… does it ever get easier?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached across the table, sliding his hand over hers, covering it with a steady warmth. Daphne sucked in a quiet breath at the touch but didn't pull away.

"No," he admitted. "It doesn't." He laced his fingers through hers, holding on as if to ground her. "But you learn to carry it differently."

Daphne looked down at their joined hands. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I hate that I feel guilty. I'd do it again if it meant protecting the people I love, but it still hurts."

Harry nodded, his thumb tracing over her knuckles. "I know."

And he did. He knew that pain, how it burrowed deep, how it whispered at night, how it tried to convince you that you didn't deserve happiness after everything you'd done.

They sat there for a long moment, the noise of the restaurant fading into the background.

Then Daphne squeezed his hand, her grip firm, determined. "But I want more than just surviving. I want to build something better. Be something better."

Harry swallowed, the lump in his throat tightening. Gods, he understood her. He felt it in every part of himself, the weight of what they had been through, the desperate search for something beyond the war, beyond the ghosts that haunted them.

He tightened his hold on her hand, his voice steady and sure. "We will." He exhaled, giving her a small, resolute smile. "Brick by brick, we'll build something better. Together."

Daphne stared at him then, and Harry swore it was the most intense look he'd ever been given. Like he was the most important thing in the world to her.

And maybe, just maybe… he didn't want to lose that look.

As the weight of their conversation settled between them, a shift began to take place. The warmth of Harry's hand in hers, the quiet promise he had made—it was enough to ease some of the tension in Daphne's shoulders. She exhaled slowly, glancing down at her plate, suddenly aware that they had barely touched their food.

Harry must have realized it too because he chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You know, for a five-course meal, we're not doing much eating."

Daphne smirked, grateful for the change in tone. "Maybe you should have taken me somewhere less interesting, then."

He raised an eyebrow. "Less interesting?"

She tilted her head playfully. "Yes. Somewhere that doesn't involve you holding my hand and looking at me like that."

Harry blinked. "Like what?"

Daphne hummed, pulling her hand away with an exaggerated sigh. "Like you're about to ruin me, Potter."

Harry nearly choked on his wine, coughing as she smirked at him. "Merlin, Daphne—"

She let out a soft laugh, finally picking up her fork again. "It's not my fault you're hopelessly enamored."

"I am not—" He stopped mid-sentence when she shot him a knowing look, amusement flickering in her eyes. He groaned, running a hand down his face. "Fine. Maybe a little."

Daphne merely hummed again, thoroughly enjoying herself as she finally took a bite of her meal.

A comfortable silence stretched between them as they ate, but Harry still had something lingering in his mind. He hesitated, debating how to ask, but in the end, he decided to just go for it.

"So…" He set his utensils down, looking at her carefully. "This whole courtship thing—what does it actually mean?"

Daphne glanced up, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I mean… what does it actually entail? Do I have to ask your father for permission? Is there some sort of contract involved? Is there a—" He gestured vaguely. "A wizarding equivalent of an engagement ring I don't know about?"

Daphne's eyes widened slightly, and to his surprise, she blushed. Just a light dusting of pink across her cheeks as she bit her lip. "You've… actually been thinking about this?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, of course. I mean, it's important to you, and I want to understand it."

Daphne's gaze softened, something warm settling in her chest. Gods, this man.

She took a sip of her wine, considering her words. "No, you don't need to ask my father. I'm an adult, and while my parents would be pleased if I entered a courtship, they don't control my choices."

Harry nodded, filing that information away. "And contracts?"

She shook her head. "That's an old practice. Some families still do it, but it's not necessary. A courtship is more of a formal promise—an intention to build something real, to take things seriously. It's… about devotion."

Harry watched her closely. "And what does it mean to you?"

Harry let Daphne's words settle, absorbing the quiet intensity behind them. She wasn't just explaining tradition—she was telling him exactly what he meant to her.

Daphne took a slow breath, steadying herself before she spoke again. "A courtship isn't just some old-fashioned ritual, Harry. It's a choice. A promise that what we're building isn't fleeting." Her fingers traced the stem of her wine glass, her eyes never leaving his. "For me, it means I don't hold back. That I give you all of me—because I want to, because you deserve that."

Harry's throat tightened. He wasn't sure how she always managed to make him feel seen in a way no one else ever had, but she did.

Daphne hesitated for just a moment, then softly admitted, "I've spent so much of my life keeping people at arm's length, thinking it was easier that way. But you…" She swallowed, a small, almost disbelieving smile forming on her lips. "You came crashing into my life, and now I can't imagine not having you in it."

Harry's chest ached in the best way possible. He didn't know what he had expected her to say, but this—this was everything.

He reached across the table, gently taking her hand in his. "You have me, Daphne." His voice was quiet, but resolute. "Just like you've been there for me, I'll always be there for you. Whatever happens, whatever we face… we do it together."

Daphne looked down at their joined hands, rubbing her thumb lightly over his skin, memorizing the warmth of his touch. Then, ever so slowly, she lifted her gaze back to his.

For the longest moment, they just existed in that space between words—caught in something deeper than attraction, heavier than longing.

And then, softly, the sound of music began to weave through the air.

Daphne blinked, the spell between them shifting just slightly as the faint melody of a waltz drifted into their private dining room. The soft, elegant notes carried a kind of magic all their own, filling the space with something that felt timeless.

She let out a small, breathy laugh. "Did you plan this?"

Harry shook his head, his lips twitching into a small smirk. "No. But I'm not complaining."

Daphne tilted her head, listening to the music, something unspoken passing through her eyes. It was beautiful—too beautiful to just sit and listen.

Harry read the thought as if she had spoken it aloud.

And then, with the same quiet confidence that had made her fall for him in the first place, he stood and extended his hand.

"Dance with me?"

Daphne stared at Harry's outstretched hand, her breath catching in her throat. The candlelight flickered in his eyes, but it was the warmth in his gaze—the way he looked at her—that made her heart stutter.

Slowly, she placed her hand in his, and the moment their fingers touched, it was like the world around them faded. The walls of their private dining room, the breathtaking view of the cityscape, even the elegant table set for two—none of it mattered. Only him.

Harry guided her to her feet with an ease that sent shivers down her spine. The air between them buzzed with anticipation, with something more. The soft waltz playing in the background was slow and steady, carrying an intimacy that wrapped around them like silk.

He pulled her in gently, one hand resting at her waist, the other still holding hers. Daphne's free hand found his shoulder, but she hardly noticed the placement—she was too focused on him. The warmth of his touch, the way his thumb absentmindedly brushed against her side, how close they suddenly were.

They began to move.

At first, it was tentative, almost careful, but then Harry shifted, leading her into the rhythm effortlessly. He moved with a quiet confidence, his steps precise, and it struck Daphne that he was a far better dancer than she had expected.

"Potter," she murmured, tilting her head slightly as a smirk curled at her lips. "You've been holding out on me."

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, his breath warm against her cheek. "You'd be surprised what the Boy Who Lived had to learn to survive Pure-blood society."

Daphne arched a brow, amusement flickering in her expression. "Survive? Are you telling me you fought off a Dark Lord but were intimidated by ballroom dancing?"

Harry grinned. "Terrified, actually. McGonagall made me practice for hours before the Yule Ball."

Daphne laughed, the sound soft and melodic, and Harry swore he'd do anything to hear it again.

The teasing faded into something quieter as they continued to move together, their bodies perfectly in sync. The world outside their little bubble didn't exist.

Daphne let herself sink into the moment, resting her head lightly against Harry's shoulder. She closed her eyes, feeling his heartbeat through his suit, steady and strong. For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn't thinking about the past, about the weight of responsibility, about the scars she still carried.

She was just here. With him.

Harry tightened his hold on her, just slightly, like he knew what she was feeling—like he felt it too.

And then, just as the song began to slow, he gently pulled back, just enough to meet her gaze.

There was something different in his eyes now—something deeper. His hand slid from her waist up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing against her skin like she was something precious.

"Daphne," he murmured, his voice softer than she had ever heard it.

Her breath hitched.

"I don't want this to be temporary," he continued, his emerald eyes searching hers. "I don't want to take this for granted or pretend like what we have isn't real."

Daphne swallowed, her heart pounding. "Harry…"

He smiled, just a little, like he already knew what she was about to say. "Will you enter an official courtship with me?"

Daphne's lips parted in a quiet gasp, her hands tightening on him ever so slightly.

She had been so careful with her heart for so long. But with Harry, there was no choice. He had already stolen it.

A slow, radiant smile spread across her face. "Yes," she whispered.

And that was all he needed.

Harry closed the distance between them, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that sent fire through her veins. It was slow, deep, and undeniably real.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, the entire world narrowed down to just the two of them.

No past. No future. Just this.

As Harry led Daphne back to their table, he didn't let go of her hand. He didn't want to. Something had shifted between them during that dance, something permanent, and he wasn't about to let the moment slip away.

When they reached their seats, instead of returning to his original place, Harry slid his chair closer to hers, their bodies naturally angling toward each other.

For a while, they just sat there, hands still intertwined, gazing out across the glittering city.

It was a breathtaking view—rooftops bathed in silver moonlight, streets weaving like veins through London, warm golden lights glowing in the distance. But Daphne barely noticed any of it.

Her focus was on the warmth of Harry's palm against hers. The subtle brush of his thumb over her knuckles. The quiet presence of him.

She turned slightly, stealing a glance at him, and found that he was already looking at her. A slow, almost lazy smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and Merlin help her, it did things to her heart.

Before she could say anything, the doors to their private room opened, and Chef Jean-Luc Moreau himself stepped inside.

The man carried himself with effortless confidence, his sharp gaze sweeping over the table before settling on them with quiet approval. "I trust the meal has been to your satisfaction?" Moreau asked, his deep, accented voice smooth as aged wine.

Harry nodded, his smile widening. "It's been perfect, Jean-Luc."

Moreau inclined his head in satisfaction. "Good, good. Then allow me to present the final course."

With a flick of his wand, the last silver tray on the table lifted, revealing two delicate ramekins of crème brûlée, the caramelized tops perfectly golden and crisp. Alongside them, two steaming cups of coffee rested on fine porcelain saucers, the rich aroma curling into the air.

Daphne inhaled deeply, already imagining the sweet, velvety bite of dessert.

Moreau, however, wasn't quite finished. He clasped his hands together and looked between the two of them, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "It has been a pleasure hosting you both tonight. And I do hope—" his gaze flickered briefly to Harry before returning to Daphne, "—that we will be seeing you here much more often."

The implication was clear.

Before she could respond, the chef gave them both a small, elegant bow and took his leave, the doors closing softly behind him.

Silence settled over the table once more, but this time, it was different. Comfortable. Warm.

Daphne turned to Harry, arching a brow. "You really pulled out all the stops tonight."

Harry smirked and picked up his spoon, cracking the caramelized top of his dessert. "For you, always."

Daphne huffed, rolling her eyes, but the fondness in her expression was unmistakable.

They ate slowly, savoring each bite, the rich custard melting on their tongues.

At one point, Harry reached across the table and swiped his thumb across the corner of Daphne's mouth, wiping away a stray bit of caramel. The touch was brief, fleeting, but it sent a shiver down her spine nonetheless.

Neither of them pulled away after that. Their hands found each other again, fingers lacing together naturally as they sipped their coffee, stealing quiet glances at one another.

There was no rush.

No urgency.

Just them.

And for the first time in a long, long while—Harry felt at peace.

Daphne looked at Harry, her smile soft, her heart still racing. She had come to dinner expecting an incredible night. She hadn't expected to leave with everything.

As the last remnants of dessert disappeared and their coffee cups sat half-full, the night began to slow into something softer. The warmth of the evening wrapped around them, and for a while, neither spoke. They simply sat together, hand in hand, gazing out over the city's glittering expanse.

Daphne felt it first—that subtle but inevitable shift in the air. The night had been perfect, almost unreal in how seamless it felt, yet nothing about it had been forced. Everything with Harry had been real. He had danced with her, held her, kissed her, and asked her into a courtship. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no fear of moving too fast, only certainty.

She turned to look at him, her fingers tracing small circles against the back of his hand. His green eyes caught hers instantly, as if he had been waiting for her to speak.

"Harry?"

His thumb brushed over her knuckles. "Yeah?"

Daphne bit her lip for half a second before she let herself feel—feel how much she trusted him, how much she wanted to be close to him. "Stay with me tonight?" Her voice was soft, but sure.

Something flickered across Harry's face, something warm and full of emotion. He didn't even hesitate. "Of course."

Her heart gave the smallest flutter. She hadn't realized how much she wanted that answer until she heard it.

They lingered for a little while longer, savoring the last moments of their enchanted evening. And then, reluctantly, they pulled themselves from their chairs, preparing to leave the magic of L'étoile Enchantée behind.

The quiet pop of Apparition filled Daphne's flat as they landed in her living room. The warmth of the night clung to them, but the atmosphere here was different—calmer, more intimate. There was no need for grand gestures anymore.

Harry, ever the noble Gryffindor, glanced around the living room and instinctively started to toe off his shoes near the couch. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "I'll just grab a blanket and—"

"Harry."

Her voice was quiet, but it stopped him instantly.

He turned to find Daphne standing in the doorway of her bedroom, barefoot, wrapped in the soft glow of the room's dim lighting. She had changed into an oversized, silky pajama top that skimmed just past her thighs, her hair loose and slightly mussed. But what truly caught him wasn't just the sight of her—it was the expression she wore.

A mixture of longing and hesitation, of wanting but not knowing if she was allowed to ask.

"Would you… stay with me?" she asked, voice softer than before. "Please?"

Harry's breath hitched.

He saw it now, the vulnerability beneath her composure. This wasn't about just sharing a bed—it was about trust, about wanting him there.

He didn't hesitate.

Crossing the room, he reached out, gently brushing his fingers along the inside of her wrist before wrapping her into a hug. "Yeah," he murmured. "Of course."

Daphne's shoulders eased, the tension melting away as she led him toward her room.

Once inside, there was no need for words. They climbed into bed together, and as soon as Harry settled, Daphne curled into him like she belonged there. He wrapped his arm around her, feeling the warmth of her against him, the soft scent of her hair filling his senses.

Daphne let out a quiet sigh, her fingers lightly tracing across his chest. "This is nice," she whispered sleepily.

Harry pressed a lingering kiss to the top of her head, holding her a little closer. "Yeah," he agreed. "It really is."

"Goodnight, Harry," she murmured, already half-asleep.

His lips pressed softly to her hair. "Goodnight, Daphne."

And for the first time in a long time, they both slept peacefully, tangled in each other, the world outside forgotten.