Excerpt from the Private Journal of Daphne Greengrass
I was married to Harry Potter in a rushed ceremony officiated by a very nervous Ministry official and attended by two witnesses, three reporters, and one disgruntled peacock from the Greengrass gardens.
The ceremony was short, awkward, stiff, and extremely well-dressed. My gown was a custom blend of old Greengrass lace and Potter vault-funded silk. He wore a robe that looked like it belonged in a history book and only fidgeted mildly throughout the vows.
It was all part of the peace accords, naturally. A show of unity. A binding of bloodlines. The marriage of the Chosen One to a daughter of the Ancient Houses, symbolic healing between Light and Dark, as if signatures on parchment could mend centuries of quiet war and louder whispers.
I expected misery. Or at the very least, mild disdain.
Instead…
Harry Potter, cursed golden boy of the wizarding world that he is, gives me space. He does not hover. He supports my public appearances, chuckles appreciatively at the more savage quotes in my Witch Weekly column, and has learned to perfectly time his exits when I signal I'm done with a conversation at events.
He listens... Listens.
He's left me my name, my dignity, my cat. And in return, given me access to all the Potter elves, vaults, and wine cellar. The man is practically encouraging my independence.
Our domestic life is oddly... pleasant.
He doesn't touch my Darjeeling (he prefers the breakfast blend), and he always leaves the last chocolate biscuit in the tin. He creates a disaster in the kitchen every Sunday night as he tries to master dishes from my youth while the elves pull at their ears in dismay. His efforts are... passable. I smile, thank him, and eat the least burnt parts.
And the bedroom? Let's just say mother's warnings did not prepare me. His... enthusiasm has me wondering if we should amend our marriage contract to include additional nights.
It's not romantic. Not in the way of fairytales. There are no declarations of eternal devotion or longing glances across moonlit balconies.
But when he looks at me, he sees me. And I suspect that is the most dangerous part of all.
I am definitely cursed.
Still, I'm not naive enough to mistake civility for compatibility. Arranged marriages are breeding grounds for delusion if left unchecked. Comfort is a sedative, and Potter makes it dangerously easy to forget that this union was never meant to function, only to appear to. A few well-placed fractures should suffice. Just enough to remind us both that this is political theatre, not personal fulfillment.
o-o-o-o-o
Daphne sipped her tea with the kind of elegance that suggested she wasn't glaring at her new husband from across the breakfast table. Not at all. Certainly not while contemplating a hex that would make his hair grow into Ministry-approved topiary.
Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, The Man Who Won, The Inconvenient Spouse Who Wouldn't Go Away, sat across from her, utterly oblivious. He was wearing a soft, wrinkled t-shirt, his hair looked like it had fought a losing battle with a windstorm, and he was humming. Cheerfully. While buttering toast.
"I hate everything," Daphne muttered into her teacup.
"What's that?" he asked, looking up with a bright smile that made something inside her stomach do an extremely annoying flutter. Probably indigestion.
"I said I'm reading The Prophet," she lied smoothly. "Which, as usual, is complete drivel."
"Oh, anything about us?" he asked, far too innocently. "I think they were still running with that 'Opposites Attract' angle."
She held the paper up, blocking his face. "They're calling me the Ice Queen and you the Golden Retriever of Wizarding Politics."
He grinned. "That's generous. I would've said Border Collie."
"Don't flatter yourself. Collies have discipline."
He only laughed. The man had the audacity to laugh like they were some charming, bantering couple instead of two unwilling political chess pieces who'd been shoved into matrimony by the post-war reconciliation accords.
Daphne took a long sip of tea and tried not to think about how, if she had to be stuck in this ridiculous situation, at least her husband had the decency to be irritatingly competent.
No, she corrected herself. This wasn't her fault. This was the Wizengamot's. The Ministry's. Magical Britain had needed an image of unity. So naturally, Daphne's carefully preserved reputation, her quiet, controlled life, her aspirations of marrying someone non-heroic... all gone in an instant.
Because apparently that's what happens when you win a war and the world needs an example of "healing."
"Big day today," Harry said casually, taking another bite of toast. "Creature Protection proposal's up for preliminary hearing vote."
She arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "You're really going through with that nonsense?"
"It's not nonsense. It's long overdue. Werewolves, house-elves, goblins, even centaurs-"
"Yes, yes, equality for all. So progressive. So noble. So... Good." She said the word like it personally offended her.
Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You know, I bet if you spoke in favor of it, the traditionalists might actually listen."
She smiled sweetly. "Oh, darling. I am going to speak."
He blinked. "Really?"
"Oh, yes. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
He paused. Narrowed his eyes. "Daphne."
"What?"
"You're going to ruin it, aren't you?"
She folded her napkin delicately and stood from the table. "Now why would you say something like that?" she asked, brushing imaginary lint off her robes. "I'm married to a Potter now. Surely everything I do reflects on you."
She turned to leave the breakfast room, calling over her shoulder, "Try not to get too heartbroken when they start booing."
Harry just chuckled behind her. Chuckled. The man had a death wish.
Unless he smiled at her again like that. Then she'd have to get creative.
o-o-o-o-o
Daphne had always considered herself a woman of elegant sabotage. The sort who didn't throw tantrums, but rearranged entire social calendars to sink her enemies. The kind who could poison a gala's reputation with a single arched brow and a whispered word to the right witch.
She had plans, damn it.
Which was why, as she stepped into the grand chamber of the Wizengamot that morning, dressed in storm-grey robes that said respectable noble witch who tolerates muggleborns in theory but never invites them to dinner, she knew she would triumph.
The gallery was already buzzing. Owls flitted overhead. Quills scratched like beetles in heat. Magical recording devices hummed with anticipation. Harry, of course, was already in the middle of a charming conversation with a goblin representative. She made a mental note to undo that friendship immediately.
The Creatures Protection Initiative was up for vote, and the pureblood bloc was divided. All it would take was one well-timed speech from her, and the vote would split off against it. The measure would fail. Harry's idealistic nonsense would collapse in on itself. He'd sulk, of course. Maybe frown very seriously at his shoes.
She lived for those frowns.
"Madam Potter," a voice purred beside her.
Daphne turned to find Pansy Nott (née Parkinson), her fellow Slytherin and constant frenemy, smirking behind a fan enchanted to gently waft the scent of poisonous gossip.
"Lady Nott," Daphne said sweetly. "I heard you finally found someone willing to marry you, or did you just go with the best offer at the hag market?"
"Oh, you're in a mood today. Trouble in paradise?"
Daphne smiled with all her teeth. "No more than usual. Just looking forward to doing my public duty."
"Wife of a Gryffindor hero and still manages to look like she's plotting the downfall of democracy," Pansy said with admiration. "I aspire."
Daphne drifted to her assigned seat and waited for her cue. When the Speaker finally gestured for her to approach the floor, she rose gracefully and began her speech with the full poise of someone about to elegantly ruin her husband's agenda.
"Esteemed members of the Wizengamot," she said. "Today we're being asked to consider an expansive set of protections and rights for magical creatures. Now, I know there are many among us who have concerns…"
Heads nodded. There were murmurs of agreement.
"…concerns that change will come too fast, that we may lose control over traditions long held."
More nods. A few smug smiles. This was going perfectly. This was her moment to burn it all down. So why was there a strange tightness in her chest?
"And yet," she said, smoothly shifting tone, "are we not the stewards of our world's future? Shouldn't we lead with wisdom, not fear?"
Wait. What?
She felt her mouth continuing without her consent. Her carefully rehearsed sabotage was unraveling in real time, and she was pretty sure Harry's magic hadn't hexed her into saying this.
"As a member of an old pureblood family," she said, "I believe it's our duty to lead by example—to show that the strength of wizarding society lies not in exclusion, but in evolution."
What. Was. Happening.
By the time she finished, not only had she not torpedoed the vote, she'd accidentally become the poster witch for the entire movement. Even the goblins applauded.
Harry looked like someone had just told him there was a second war, but this time the Death Eaters were throwing thank you parties.
Daphne sat down. Slowly. Calmly. Her brain screaming like a howler.
"What," she muttered, "was that?"
Pansy leaned over, blinking at her. "Darling, you just became the belle of the bleeding-heart bloc. They're probably going to name a sanctuary after you."
She had spoken about empathy. Out loud. In public. In favor of Harry bloody Potter's pet project. Merlin help her.
Daphne turned, slowly, to where Harry was beaming at her like she'd just given him a dragon for Christmas.
"I hate you," she mouthed across the room.
He winked.
The worst part?
She felt good. Like she'd actually done something worthwhile. Like maybe, just maybe, this whole thing wasn't as cursed as she kept telling herself it was.
She'd fix that in the morning.
o-o-o-o-o
The next morning began the way many of Daphne's mornings did, with the deep and unshakable conviction that today would be the day she fixed her mistake.
Yesterday's speech still haunted her. She'd replayed it in her head all night, like a curse she couldn't lift. She hadn't just not sabotaged Harry's bill, she'd practically carried it over the finish line in a gilded carriage with tiny House-Elves tossing rose petals.
And the worst part? She was receiving thank-you letters. Grateful owls. One elf sent her a doily. A doily.
She needed a course correction, and fast.
Which was how Daphne found herself walking through Diagon Alley in her second-best cloak, her hair pinned just slightly too carelessly, just enough to say I don't need to impress you, but I always do, and her smile sharpened like a blade.
She had a lunch scheduled through Astoria Greengrass, her younger sister, who had somehow grown into a terrifyingly competent political strategist with the face of a porcelain doll and the moral compass of a charming tornado.
And at that lunch, she was going to do what needed to be done.
Namely, secure the support of Septimus Mulciber, a key vote in the neutral bloc and staunch traditionalist with the charisma of a wet blanket and the ethics of a cursed spoon. He hated Harry. Which made him perfect.
Astoria had arranged the meeting. "Just smile," her sister had said over breakfast. "Pretend to be dim. He likes dim women. Like most insecure men."
"How flattering," Daphne had deadpanned.
And now, here she was, half a glass of wine in, leaning gracefully across a crisp white tablecloth at La Sorcière Moderne, waiting for her moment to work.
"So you see," Daphne said, twirling her wine glass, "while my husband and I might appear united publicly, I think it's important the right people understand that I haven't lost sight of real wizarding values."
Mulciber nodded sagely, as if he'd ever possessed a value in his life that wasn't strictly tax-evadable.
"I must say," he drawled, "I was quite surprised by your speech yesterday. You were, ah, quite reasonable. Almost progressive."
Daphne smiled like a cobra. "A momentary lapse. I was ill. Possibly possessed."
His laughter was the sound of someone who found jokes dangerous but forgivable if they ended with women agreeing with him.
They were just settling into the next round of passive-aggressive political flirting when the bells over the café door jingled.
"Daphne?" came Harry's voice, cheerful and oblivious and insufferably pleasant.
She turned and forced a smile. "Darling. What an unexpected coincidence."
Harry gave her that lopsided grin that made reporters swoon and orphans name their owls after him. "Didn't know you'd be here. Oh, Septimus. Good to see you."
With all the subtlety of a peacock crashing a funeral, Harry took the only open chair at their table without waiting to be asked.
Mulciber stiffened like he'd been cursed. "I'm sure you have other places to be, Potter."
Harry opened his sandwich. "Plenty. But imagine my surprise seeing my brilliant wife in such...conservative company. I simply had to say hello."
Daphne gave him a look that could have petrified livestock.
Mulciber cleared his throat. "We were having a private discussion."
"About the bill, right?" Harry said, as if he were genuinely interested and not just setting fire to Mulciber's composure. "You know, Septimus, I actually meant to owl you. I think you'd be perfect for the advisory committee we're forming."
Mulciber paled. "Committee?"
"Oh yes," Harry beamed. "Outreach. Engagement. Forward-thinking leadership. Just your sort of thing."
"I hardly..."
"Of course, you'd need to be willing to lead. Courageous and flexible. Daphne thought you might be ready for that kind of change."
Daphne's smile froze. She imagined his eyebrows catching fire. Slowly. Repeatedly.
Mulciber made a sound that could only be described as aristocratic wheezing. "I… will consider it."
"Wonderful," Harry said, already standing. "Daphne, I'll see you tonight. Septimus, always a pleasure."
He left like a conquering hero. Or a smug cat that had just knocked over the entire contents of the table and blamed the wind.
Daphne stared at the empty air where he'd been, then turned back to Mulciber with a smile that was almost feral.
"Now," she said silkily, "where were we?"
But the mood had shifted. Septimus was already making excuses about a floo call he simply must take.
He fled so quickly he forgot his hat.
Astoria arrived to find Daphne glaring at her wine glass like she was calculating its aerodynamics as a projectile.
Astoria poured her tea. "So," she said delicately, "when are you admitting that you actually like him?"
Daphne looked at her dead in the eye. "The day I hex myself into a talking pumpkin."
"So... Thursday, then?"
o-o-o-o-o
The Ministry Ball was a grotesque affair, far too many people in enchanted robes pretending not to hate one another while sipping elf-pressed nectar and making veiled threats over hors d'oeuvres.
In other words- Daphne's kind of people.
She stood at the top of the grand staircase like a dark queen surveying her lesser subjects, hair pinned into a regal twist, robe tailored within a millimeter of scandal. She looked like a woman who'd eaten three lesser witches before breakfast.
And next to her stood Harry James Bloody Potter.
He'd actually scrubbed up nicely. Formal black robes, dragon-hide boots (subtly enchanted for comfort, because of course), and that eternally boyish smirk that made the press swoon and made Daphne want to strangle him with her pearl necklace.
The plan was simple. Deliver a few biting, scandalous jokes in public, insult his allies and enemies alike, pretend they hadn't communicated at all about the creature rights vote, and make the wizarding elite question Harry's stability and home life. Enough political awkwardness to cause him mild public relations whiplash.
Easy.
Except the minute they stepped into the ballroom, they were greeted by applause.
Actual, sustained applause.
"Oh Merlin," Daphne muttered. "We're being clapped at."
Harry leaned over, whispering, "Smile. If you resist, they'll only clap harder."
But they continued anyway. The applause grew louder as a floating scroll unrolled in the center of the ballroom, and golden letters spelled out:
Magical Britain's Power Couple of the Year: Harry and Daphne Potter
"What the hell?" Daphne hissed.
"I... don't know," Harry said. "I didn't do this."
She whirled to him. "Well I certainly didn't. Was it Hermione?"
"Possibly."
"Or your idiotic PR goblin?"
"Definitely possible."
A photographer shouted, "One kiss for the crowd, Mr. and Mrs. Potter!"
Daphne smiled tightly, then leaned toward Harry, lips brushing his cheek with surgical precision. "I will end you," she whispered.
"You always say that," he said, grinning stupidly.
The rest of the evening only spiraled from there.
Daphne made the first move, launching into a razor-sharp story about the time Harry accidentally insulted an entire goblin clan by mispronouncing "silver tax" as "seduction tax."
The crowd howled. Harry retaliated with a gleeful anecdote about how Daphne once hexed a rival socialite's shoes to squeak out her private diary entries at every step.
"Truly brilliant work," he added, beaming at her.
To Daphne's horror, the crowd lapped it up. They weren't seeing dysfunction. They were seeing banter. Chemistry. Love, Merlin help her.
They didn't look like political enemies or resentful spouses. They looked like the kind of couple who coordinated on House-Elf legislation while arguing over where to put the extra wand rack.
Desperate to derail it, she criticized Hermione Granger's theories on seasonal ley line shifts, and in return was drawn into a rousing academic debate, Hogwarts staff nodding at her insight.
In a last-ditch bid for scandal, she tore off the bottom of her gown.
The press erupted in admiration for her 'bold, kinetic silhouette.'
And then, as the crowd settled, the orchestra began a slow waltz.
One of the reporters nudged Harry. "Dance with your wife, Potter! Let's see what the power couple can do!"
Daphne opened her mouth to refuse, but Harry was already holding out his hand. "May I?"
"Absolutely not," she began, but her hand betrayed her and took his anyway.
The crowd murmured. The music swelled.
And Daphne danced.
She floated. Harry, to her surprise, was good. Graceful. Present. His hand pressed lightly at the small of her back. Not possessive, just... grounding. Like he wasn't leading, but reminding her he was paying attention.
"You're not a terrible dancer," she said cautiously.
"You're surprisingly easy to dance with when you're not trying to duel me mid-step," he said, voice warm and low.
They spun once, twice, and their eyes met.
Daphne felt a flicker, something unsettling and warm and terrifying. Her skin was warm, her pulse fast. His gaze didn't waver.
She hated that his attention wasn't performative. He saw her, and for one wild, stupid moment she wanted to be seen.
She stepped on his foot.
"Sorry," she said flatly.
"It's fine," he said, not letting go.
The music ended. The crowd applauded again. Flashbulbs popped.
Daphne fled.
She apparated home in a whisper of wind and satin, kicked off her heels like they'd personally betrayed her, and poured herself a glass of champagne.
Then drank another.
And another.
"It's the champagne," she muttered, to no one at all. "It's making me feel… fluttery. I do not flutter."
She went to bed still thinking about the way his hand had fit against her spine. Still hearing that stupid laugh of his when she made him grin without meaning to.
"This marriage is a curse," she whispered to the ceiling.
But her heart beat just a bit faster than it used to.
o-o-o-o-o
Daphne wasn't avoiding Harry.
She was simply... curating her exposure. Spending time in different wings of their massive home. At different hours. With Silencing Charms on the doors. And maybe she'd scheduled tea with Astoria for five days in a row. Entirely coincidental.
She wasn't avoiding him. She was strategically preserving her mental health.
After the ball, after that dance. Everything felt... skewed. Tilted. Like someone had knocked the axis off her entire bloody life.
Her stomach twisted every time she thought of his hand on her back, the way his eyes had lingered on her like she was something rare and complicated and maybe worth figuring out. No one was allowed to look at her like that.
Not even her husband.
Especially not her husband.
The breaking point came three days later, when Harry cornered her in the conservatory like a man with nothing left to lose and far to much left to say.
"You've been avoiding me," he said, arms folded, jaw set.
"Don't flatter yourself," she replied coolly, flipping a page of her book. "I have a life outside of you."
"Oh? And which part of your life has involved not speaking to me? Is it the hour you spent pretending to meditate in the pantry while I was cooking? Or was it the time you spent rearranging the books in the library by title rather than by author?"
Daphne slammed her book shut.
"Don't act like I owe you anything, Potter. You knew what this was. An arrangement. Convenient optics for the post-war rebuilding. I didn't sign up for..." She waved vaguely. "Whatever that was at the ball."
"That?" Harry's voice rose. "That was us, Daphne! For once, it was just you and me. I thought we were finally starting to act like a team."
"Right," she snapped. "And how convenient for you that the moment I start to play along, we get a shiny plaque and a wave of legislation that makes you look like a bloody saint!"
His brow furrowed. "Wait. Are you accusing me of... manipulating you?"
The words tasted bitter even as she said them. "What else would you call it?"
"I would call it hope," Harry said, voice rough. "I hoped maybe we were getting to know each other. That we could be more than two people stuck in a political marriage."
Her throat tightened. "Don't pretend you ever wanted this, Potter. Don't make me the villain for noticing when I'm being handled."
"I'm not handling you," he said, and this time there was no frustration in his voice, just quiet, aching honesty. "I like you. I enjoy being around you. I know this has been difficult for both of us but I thought we were building something. And yeah, maybe it didn't start out with love and roses, but it could've become real if we let it."
That stopped her cold.
He liked her?
And the worst part? It wasn't said like a confession or a declaration. It was said like a fact. As if it had already been true for a while, and he'd just assumed she might catch up eventually.
Her silence stretched too long.
Harry shook his head and took a step back.
"You know what? Forget it. I thought we were becoming something good. But if all you can see is a forced marriage and manipulation, then maybe that's all this will ever be to you."
He left, footsteps echoing like accusations.
Daphne stood there, arms crossed tightly over her chest, heart pounding. She didn't move for a long time.
She didn't cry. Of course not.
She just... brooded.
Which, for her, involved retreating to her favorite reading room and reorganizing every book by school of magic and reverse alphabetically while muttering to herself about emotionally dishonest men under her breath.
She didn't see him the next day.
Or the one after that.
The house was suddenly too quiet. His mug was still beside the sink. His sweater abandoned over the armchair in the den. She noticed everything now.
It was unsettling how empty it all felt.
By day four, she found herself sitting on the edge of the bed they occasionally shared and wondering what he was doing. Whether he'd laughed today. Whether he still hoped.
By day five, she missed him.
His presence. His banter. The way he listened, actually listened, to her, even when she was actively trying to ruin his career.
She missed feeling seen.
And she hated it.
Absolutely despised the thought that maybe she was the one sabotaging something good.
So naturally, she poured herself a firewhisky, stared into the glass, and muttered to the room. "Well. This is a mess."
No one argued. Not even herself.
For once, she had no one else to blame.
o-o-o-o-o
"You look like you've been dumped," Astoria said without even looking up from her nail polish.
"I have not been dumped," Daphne snapped.
Astoria glanced up, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. "So you're just sulking at my breakfast table for fun, then? Should I make you 'heartbreak pancakes'? Or maybe you need 'feel better cupcakes'?"
Daphne stared into her tea like it might provide an escape route. "I think I prefer the pancakes."
Astoria's nail polish dropped to the floor with a clatter. "Oh Merlin, are you in love with him?"
"I am absolutely not in love with Harry Potter," Daphne said forcefully.
Astoria leaned back, looking maddeningly pleased. "Right. So you're hiding in my kitchen, stabbing fruit and drinking tea like it's a calming draught... because you're not emotionally compromised."
"It was an argument," Daphne muttered.
"And now you're avoiding him. Again."
Daphne picked up her fork and jabbed it into a piece of melon like it owed her money. "He said he liked me. Not politically. Not performatively. He said it like he meant it. Like... it mattered to him."
Astoria's voice softened. "And that bothered you."
"It confused me."
"Because maybe, just maybe, you like him too?" Astoria asked, gently now, all her usual smugness replaced with something quieter.
Daphne froze. Just for a second. "I don't know what I feel," she muttered.
"Then maybe," Astoria said, "instead of running, you try something wild like... oh, I don't know. Talking to him. See what happens when you let the walls down for five minutes."
Daphne gave her a long, flat look. "You are insufferable."
"And you're in denial," Astoria said sweetly, then added, "Oh look, you've finished your heartbreak melon."
Daphne glared at her. "You promised me pancakes."
o-o-o-o-o
It was how Daphne found herself, three days later, standing outside Harry's study with her arms crossed and her pride in tatters.
"This is not because of Astoria." She muttered. "Or guilt. Or missing him. It's just that I've run out of things to do."
She knocked, entering before he had a chance to dismiss her.
Harry looked up from a desk covered with a mess of parchment and scrolls, brow furrowed. "Daphne?"
"I'm bored," she said. "And you're clearly incompetent at drafting legislation without turning it into a morality play. So here I am."
His eyes lit up, and that was very annoying.
"Creature Protection Bill?" he asked, voice tentative.
She sighed, walked in, and rolled up her sleeves. "Let's keep it from sounding like a bedtime story for house-elves, and it might have a chance to pass the final vote this time. Now, shall we?"
o-o-o-o-o
It took hours.
And tea.
And two arguments.
But somewhere in between editing his passive voice and rephrasing a clause about Goblin property rights, Daphne caught herself laughing at one of Harry's awful quill-related puns.
Worse, she laughed again when he grinned at her like she was made of moonlight and improbable miracles.
"I knew I missed having you around," he said quietly, somewhere in the calm between drafts.
She didn't answer.
So she buried her head back in the notes until he cleared his throat and said, "Want to come outside for a bit? I was going to have a bite in the gardens."
"I'm not really an outside eating person," she said.
But he just smiled. "Good. Because I'm not either. But I figured we could pretend."
It was just lunch. Outdoors. On a very stupidly pleasant day.
The sun was warm. The breeze was polite. The blanket was large enough to avoid awkward elbow moments, and Harry had made sure the elves packed her favorite finger sandwiches.
Daphne didn't smile.
Except she did. Often.
He made a joke about Parliament that wasn't even that funny, and she laughed so loudly a bird startled from a nearby branch.
She blamed the weather. The sun had clearly baked her sensibilities.
That was the only explanation for why she stayed longer than she intended. For why she forgot to hate the way he looked at her, like she was someone worth making space for.
And when he helped her up from the blanket and their hands brushed, she definitely did not hold her breath for half a second too long.
Not at all.
It was just… good weather.
That's all.
Stupidly, impossibly, traitorously good weather.
o-o-o-o-o
The headline arrived with her morning tea, and Daphne nearly spit said tea across the table.
POTTER REKINDLES OLD FLAME?
Exclusive photos show lunch with Ginny Weasley at Café Seraphine.
There, right on the front page of the Daily Prophet, was a perfectly framed shot of Harry, grinning, leaning in just slightly across the table, too damn handsome for his own good, with Ginny Weasley looking equally radiant and relaxed.
Daphne stared at it.
Then slowly, very calmly, folded the paper.
"Excellent," she said aloud to no one. "Finally."
She stood, summoned her coat, and began drafting the bones of a speech in her mind.
"I knew the noble Potter façade couldn't last. A little public betrayal, a touch of humiliation, grounds for separation, minimal fuss, maximum dignity." She was halfway down the hallway, robe flaring behind her like the cape of a well-dressed avenging angel. "And I'll even get the moral high ground. Merlin, that never happens."
Except…
Except it wasn't sitting right. The timing. The photo. The conveniently vague caption.
Hadn't he mentioned seeing Ginny to ask about Quidditch funding for underprivileged youth?
Daphne scowled. "No. That's exactly the kind of reasonable explanation that ruins a perfectly good dramatic exit."
She changed course. To the drawing room. Where the wireless was already whispering scandal.
"-a romantic meeting? We don't know," one host mused. "But Daphne Potter hasn't been seen publicly since the story broke this morning-"
"Well, she's a private witch," the other added with forced cheer.
"And yet the public will want answers."
Right on cue, the broadcast shifted with a jingle to a Ministry press conference.
The crowd noise faded. The murmuring stilled. A clear voice rose.
"Thank you for coming," Harry began, his voice steady but clearly still working through the nerves. "I know there's been some speculation in the Prophet this morning. I don't usually address rumors, but I think this one's getting a bit out of hand."
Daphne rolled her eyes. Not the most reassuring start, Potter, she thought, a little too loudly.
He gave a small shrug and a sheepish look at the cameras, as if realizing it wasn't coming across quite right. "Right. So, yes, I had lunch with Ginny Weasley yesterday. We're old friends, and we've been talking about Quidditch funding for a few initiatives. We've known each other for years. We briefly dated after the war, but that's ancient history."
Daphne scoffed quietly, feeling her annoyance tick up. Ancient history? That was your big qualifier, Potter?
The reporters shouted over each other, eager for more, but Harry held up a hand, cutting them off. He seemed to take a breath, then continued with more conviction.
"But what really matters," he said, the quiet strength in his voice making Daphne pause. She leaned forward slightly, expecting more, but then he ruined it.
"What matters is my wife."
Daphne's chest tightened, but the annoyed little voice in her head wasn't done. Nice one, Potter. "My wife." Way to make it sound like a generic headline.
But then Harry smiled, a little lopsided, as if he knew it wasn't the smoothest line. "Look, Daphne's the most brilliant person I know. She's the most infuriating, challenging person I know, too, but she's brilliant. She-"
Daphne huffed in frustration, shaking her head.
Harry seemed to realize he was veering off track again and quickly corrected, running a hand through his hair in that familiar, awkward way. "I'm getting off topic. What I mean is… I don't just love her because she's brilliant, even though she is. I love her because she makes me think, makes me better. She challenges me. She tells me when I'm wrong. And sometimes, yeah, it's irritating, but… it's also the best thing that ever happened to me."
Daphne could feel her heart skip, but then he went for the kill.
"And if anyone thinks a blurry photo is going to convince her that I've betrayed her? You don't know Daphne Greengrass. She's not the type to be swayed by some tabloid nonsense."
Daphne's fingers twitched. Right, that's a bit more like it, Potter.
But her irritation still simmered. She'd half-expected a perfect speech, a grand declaration, but instead, she got this clumsy, heartfelt mess that, for reasons she couldn't quite name, made her feel even more exposed.
She sat frozen, listening to Harry wrap up with some vague statement about staying out of the press, but all she could think about was the quiet honesty that had slipped through in his words.
Her knees buckled beneath her, and it wasn't just the surprise of his declaration. It was the fact that, despite all her annoyance, there was something undeniably real about the way he'd spoken.
She let out a breath. "Well, that's just great. Now I need to pick my dignity off the floor."
o-o-o-o-o
She didn't see him that day. Or the next.
Not that she was avoiding him.
She wasn't sure what she'd say if she was.
Part of her wanted to storm in, demand to know why he'd said all of that so… sincerely, like a Gryffindor with a death wish. Another part wanted to curl into a ball and think, which was unsettling. She didn't think when feelings were involved. She strategized, compartmentalized, buried.
Worse still, the public ate it up.
She'd received fan mail.
Astoria had sent a card that just said, "Checkmate."
Daphne glared at it now, tucked into the corner of her dressing table. She couldn't even bring herself to throw it out.
Because something about what he said had sounded... real. It was unpolished and unrefined, much like the man himself.
But it wasn't really for the press. Not for his image.
Just real.
And that, somehow, was the part that shook her. Not the headlines. Not the scandal.
No, it was the stupid, ridiculous honesty of it. The fact that her husband, of all people had managed to slip past her armor using nothing but earnest conviction and those wide, too-open eyes.
She hated it.
She feared it.
And maybe... she didn't entirely mind it.
o-o-o-o-o
Daphne Greengrass, eternal Slytherin, proud saboteur of dreams and egos, was not pining.
She wasn't avoiding Harry.
She was establishing boundaries, which was a perfectly reasonable and adult thing to do when one's husband made a heartfelt declaration in front of the entire wizarding world and meant it.
It was easier when she assumed he was doing it all for optics, for politics, for the Ministry's desperate need for a golden couple.
But then he had to go and be… earnest. And warm. And sincere.
Disgusting, really.
Which was why she now found herself dressing deliberately sharper, speaking frostier, and spending a suspicious amount of time not being in the same room as him. She left breakfast early. She returned from the Wizengamot late. She was practically allergic to the word picnic.
It was fine. Everything was fine.
Until the day of the Creature Protection Bill vote.
The bill, the one she'd helped refine, was wildly popular. A rare moment of bipartisan support, the kind that made headlines and got carved into magical history books. And worse, she had helped make it happen.
Unacceptable.
So Daphne walked into the chamber with a cool expression, a firm plan, and absolutely no internal turmoil whatsoever.
She stood when it was her turn, head held high, her voice steady.
"While I understand the enthusiasm for this proposal," she began, her tone edged with measured disdain, "I believe the bill overlooks the very real concern of magical resource strain. If we're granting additional housing rights and voting privileges to beings previously classified as beasts, shouldn't we also ensure they're equipped to participate responsibly? Does it not become the responsibility of wizarding Britain to ensure they are educated?"
The room murmured. The Light faction would hear empathy. The Dark faction would see cost.
Harry, seated two rows down, looked up, blinking. Daphne didn't look at him.
"Furthermore," She continued, all attention firmly on her and the issues not covered by Harry's Bill. "It should not be the sole responsibility of those who already pay taxes in wizarding Britain." The purebloods murmured agreement.
"I propose an amendment," she continued, sailing forward like a galleon with zero brakes. "Funding for education programs for magical creatures, overseen by a neutral board, to ensure integration is beneficial for all parties, and-" She allowed a razor thin smile. "for the newly recognized beings to be included in a taxation scheme designed to pay for it."
The bleeding hearts of the Light faction would never go for it, the Dark faction would never vote for a bill without it.
Perfect sabotage.
A beat of silence.
Then chaos.
People loved it.
Across the chamber, representatives began nodding. Quills scratched furiously. Someone shouted, "Brilliant!" and she could swear it was from the Light faction.
Even Longbottom applauded. Neville bloody Longbottom.
Daphne sat down very slowly.
The bill passed. With the amendment.
And just like that, her strategic attempt to derail it became the cherry on top.
She didn't look at Harry until the very end, when the chambers were clearing and he came to her side, quiet and infuriating.
He didn't gloat. Didn't smirk.
He just smiled that gentle, frustrating, warm smile, and said quietly, "See? You make everything better. Even when you try not to."
And then he walked away.
Leaving her frozen.
And for the first time in her carefully curated, always-in-control adult life...
She had absolutely no idea what to do next.
o-o-o-o-o
It began with a sniffle.
A dainty, dismissible thing, the kind Daphne would normally silence with a glamour and a curse at the nearest drafty corridor. But the sniffle turned into a tickle, which turned into a cough, which spiraled, much to her horror, into a fevered haze and a body that betrayed her by collapsing onto the fainting couch like something out of a Victorian tragedy.
The last coherent thought she had was 'At least it's the pretty couch.'
When she woke again, the world was blurry and glowing and warm.
Someone was tucking the blanket higher over her shoulders.
And not just anyone.
Harry Potter, Ministerial Golden Boy, thorn in her side, husband of political necessity, and currently, wearing a jumper with a crooked snitch on it and a look of genuine concern.
He was… sitting beside her.
He was reading to her.
Well. Reading aloud. To himself. About creature rights legislation. But still. The bar was low.
"Stop being adorable," she mumbled, half-conscious.
"Didn't realize I was trying," he muttered, then smoothed her hair back with careful fingers.
She blinked up at him through fever-glazed eyes. "You stayed."
"Of course I did."
And that was it.
She tumbled into sleep again, dreams twisting into something soft and golden and terribly dangerous.
In her dreams, he smiled just for her. In her dreams, he wasn't Harry Potter the symbol or Harry Potter the Ministry darling. He was just Harry, her husband, laughing at something she said, holding her hand at night, stealing kisses between council meetings and not caring if anyone saw.
In her dreams, she let herself want.
And when she woke...
She panicked.
By the time the fever broke and she was coherent enough to remember what she'd said and what she'd dreamed and how kind he'd been, she was already halfway out the door.
Avoidance came easier than vulnerability. It always had.
So she threw herself into meaningless errands. Left before breakfast. Returned after dinner. When she saw Harry in the hallway, she turned the other way so hard she pulled a muscle.
Astoria noticed.
Of course she noticed.
"Are you broken?" Astoria asked when she dropped by with tea and judgment. "You're acting like someone hexed your common sense."
Daphne, seated on the sofa with a book she hadn't turned the page of in twenty minutes, raised one brow. "Good afternoon to you, too."
Astoria sat, fluffed her hair, and said without ceremony, "You're in love with your husband, you lunatic."
Daphne sputtered.
"I am not!"
"You had fever dreams about him. You muttered his name like a lovesick school girl."
"I was ill!"
"You're in love."
"I'm in control."
Astoria snorted. "Sure. That's why you flinch when he smiles at you now. Because control looks exactly like emotional cowardice."
Daphne opened her mouth to retort.
Then closed it.
And then opened it again just to say, very softly, "He stayed."
Astoria's gaze softened. "Of course he did. He loves you too."
And that... that was the real problem.
Because if he really did… what on earth was she going to do about it?
o-o-o-o-o
Daphne Greengrass had one last card to play.
The Arcanum Gala, an exclusive event hosted by one of the last bastions of traditionalist pureblood society. It was practically an annual tribute to the phrase back in my day, and its guest list boasted the sort of people who still thought Muggle Studies was a conspiracy and house elves enjoyed servitude.
They despised Harry.
Perfect.
So when Daphne suggested they attend, under the guise of building "cross-faction unity" Harry had simply nodded. "If you think it's important."
The trust of that man. Infuriating.
She spent the entire week planning. She wore a gown cut to kill, walked into the ballroom like a warship, and made a point of greeting everyone Harry had ever mildly offended with a warm, disarming smile.
He, of course, looked absurdly handsome in navy robes and had the gall to offer her his arm like they were co-conspirators, not opponents in an ongoing psychological duel.
The crowd did not disappoint.
Polite sneers. Cool remarks. One guest sneezed and didn't bother hiding his wandless attempt to hex Harry's drink.
It was glorious.
And then Harry went and ruined everything.
Because when he took the stage for his short, innocuous toast, he abandoned the script.
"I know many of you weren't thrilled when I married Daphne Greengrass," he said, earning more than a few raised brows and one audible snort.
He smiled. "Frankly, I wasn't sure what to expect either."
A soft ripple of laughter.
"But I've learned something since then." He glanced at Daphne—smirked at her, really. "She challenges me in ways no one else ever has. She makes me defend my ideas. Makes me think about how they affect those who have been here longer than I have. If I've done any good these past months, it's because she didn't let me off easy."
Now people were listening.
"She's the kind of person who will fight you tooth and nail, right up until you realize she's dragged you somewhere better."
And the crowd applauded. Genuinely.
Daphne stood frozen, stunned as the walls of her scheme crumbled into applause. Harry raised his glass, smiled warmly, and somehow made himself beloved even here.
He descended the stage like a man who hadn't just casually obliterated her last attempt at sabotage.
"You're the most infuriating person I've ever met," she said sweetly as he reached her.
They slipped away ten minutes later, purely out of necessity, she told herself.
There was a small alcove behind a velvet curtain near the ballroom entrance. Hidden from view. Just enough space to pace, or maybe throw a man into a wall and kiss him senseless, which is what she did.
Their mouths met with all the fire of arguments not had and emotions not named. Her hands curled into his collar, his fingers anchored themselves at her waist like he'd been waiting for this longer than he'd admit.
When she pulled back, breathless, she whispered, "This means nothing."
Harry, maddeningly composed, touched her cheek and smiled.
"It never does."
And then he kissed her again.
And Daphne, terrifyingly, didn't stop him. She didn't even want to.
o-o-o-o-o
Excerpt from the Private Journal of Daphne Potter (née Greengrass)
Location: Potter Cottage, Sunday Morning, Overcast and Perfect
It's quiet.
Not magically silenced or bewitched-to-be-tranquil quiet. Just... a proper, cozy, Sunday morning sort of quiet. The kind that smells like rain might visit later, and toast already has.
Harry's gone to make breakfast. The elves have Sundays off now. His idea, naturally, after that creature rights bill passed. (He let me announce it to the press, the sap. I said I didn't care. He knew I did.)
He's in the kitchen now, likely burning the eggs again while humming some off-key muggle tune. I can hear pans clattering. He'll try to clean up before I see it and fail spectacularly. He always does.
The fire is low. The cat is asleep on his pillow instead of mine. The blanket around my shoulders still smells like his shampoo, because apparently domesticity is a slow, creeping condition you catch when you're not looking.
My life is cursed.
I'm respected. Influential. Wealthy. Adored by the press. I publish one fashion column a month and it drives trends for a year.
And I wake up every morning with the most annoyingly kind man in Britain.
But I'm still not in love. Absolutely not. No matter what my stupid heart thinks.
...he just yelled from the kitchen asking if I wanted blueberries or strawberries. He knows I always say blueberries, but he knows I like to be asked.
Merlin help me, I think I've caught forever.