A Tale of Rivals
By Elk99
A/N: I have a few chapters ready to post so here is another one. This is a bit more fluff but I think there is some good character development and worldbuilding going on.
The kiss on the crown of his head still lingered.
Edmund hadn't moved from the armchair. His Charms essay remained untouched in his lap, ink drying on the first half-sentence he'd managed to write. The lake light filtered dimly through the green-tinged windows, flickering shadows across the common room floor. He was still reeling—quietly, inwardly—from Gemma's departure, from the feeling of being seen and shaped all at once.
He wasn't ready for company.
Naturally, that's when Daphne walked in.
Hair half-pulled back, cloak already over her uniform, Daphne looked crisp, poised, and—as always—with a faint air of judgment that vanished the moment she spotted him.
"Oh. You're awake," she said lightly, walking over. "I figured you'd still be recovering from your stargazing expedition."
"I am awake," Edmund replied, voice dry. "And very nearly productive, if it weren't for the early morning procession of women offering unsolicited insight."
Daphne smirked. "Gemma, I presume?"
He didn't answer. Didn't have to.
She sat in the seat across from him, crossing her ankles neatly. "I caught only a bit of your presentation in Ancient Studies—Kate looked ready to duel Professor Shafiq if she didn't get an 'Outstanding' on the spot."
Edmund gave a tired chuckle. "She nearly did. I'm fairly certain she re-enchanted one of the classroom doors in protest when he didn't praise the primary source analysis."
"I would've paid to see that," Daphne murmured. "You were good, though. Controlled. Confident. Not too self-important."
"High praise from you," Edmund said. "You've called me self-important at least twice a week since we were twelve."
"Because you usually are," she replied, eyes glinting. But then her tone softened. "But not lately. You've been... different."
Edmund looked away. "Everyone keeps saying that."
"Then maybe it's true."
The door opened again—Tracey Davis stepped into the common room, tying her hair back with a ribbon that was decidedly not school-issued. She paused mid-stride when she saw them.
Her eyes flicked between Edmund and Daphne.
Her brow arched.
Daphne didn't move. Edmund met Tracey's look for exactly half a second before glancing down at his essay again. The brush of tension barely settled before another voice joined them.
"Good morning," Helen Runcorn announced, bright and breezy, as she entered with a book in one hand and a rolled-up Daily Prophet in the other. "Has anyone else seen what the Ministry did to the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee budget?"
Edmund raised an eyebrow. "Good morning to you too, Helen."
She dropped into the chair beside him, already halfway unrolling the newspaper. "My dad's absolutely livid. Says the cuts are going to cripple the whole department."
"I thought your father specialized in memory modification?" Daphne asked.
"He does," Helen said. "But they're expected to cover three times the fieldwork now—without the budget for it. Honestly, they may as well put the whole Obliviator team in a broom closet with a broken Sneakoscope and call it a day."
"Sounds about right for the current administration," Edmund muttered.
Helen leaned toward him conspiratorially. "Dad says if one more Muggle walks into Diagon Alley by accident, it'll be the Minister herself in court."
"Excellent. Then she can explain what a Portkey is under oath."
They were all still chuckling when Blaise arrived—looking immaculate, as always, with not a hair out of place and the faintest hint of cologne that he definitely didn't admit to wearing.
"You lot are louder than the lake kelpies," he said, tugging on his cloak. "Are we going to breakfast or am I meant to starve before Honeydukes?"
"Breakfast," Edmund said, rising from his chair. "I need tea. And toast. And possibly a stun spell to deal with Tracey's expression."
"Be grateful it's not a hex," Tracey muttered, brushing past him as she fell in with the group.
They made their way upstairs, filing into the Great Hall just as the Saturday morning rush began. Edmund's eyes scanned the Gryffindor table—and found her. Sally Anne. Laughing at something Parvati had said, cup of pumpkin juice in hand, smile wide and real.
He hesitated for a second.
Then, quietly, he slipped away from his group and made his way toward her.
She noticed him the moment he stepped near—her smile softened.
"Good morning," he said.
"Morning," she replied, biting her lip to contain the grin already forming. "Sleep well?"
"Not particularly," Edmund said. "But I still seem to be functioning. How's that for a miracle?"
She laughed softly. "You okay?"
He nodded once. "Better now."
Their fingers brushed—quick, discreet, but real.
"I'll see you at the Three Broomsticks?" she asked.
"Wouldn't miss it."
He turned and walked back toward the Slytherin table—where Daphne was watching him, lips pressed into a line that wasn't quite a frown.
"Smile, Greengrass," he said softly enough that only she could hear him. I've missed spending time with you."
"Poor Edmund Fawley," Daphne chortled as she raised an eyebrow. "Between Kate Whitehall, Sally Anne Perks, Gemma Farley, and the Slytherin Quidditch Team.. how ought I to compare?"
"This morning is all about you guys," Edmund said to her, speaking only to her even though Blaise, Tracey, and Helen could hear and tell that they were included. "Let's have a great time in Hogsmeade."
Daphne smirked and bit into her toast, seemingly done—but Edmund could tell she wasn't. Not really.
"Just don't forget who knew you before you got mysterious," she said, voice light, fork poised like a quill. "I liked you better when your biggest secret was hiding Sugar Quills under your mattress."
He snorted. "That was Sullivan's fault. He used to bribe me with them."
"Oh, I'm sure." She turned slightly, gaze flicking toward the Gryffindor table, then back. "You remember us, right? Your adoring public?"
A pause.
"Or should we start clapping to get your attention?"
Edmund opened his mouth—half-defensive, half-affectionate—but Blaise beat him to it.
"Oh, please do," he said lazily, spreading marmalade over a croissant. "I'd love a round of applause with my eggs. Maybe Tracey can conduct."
Tracey, sipping her tea, raised an eyebrow. "I would—but the last time I clapped for a boy at breakfast, someone hexed my chair to scream every time I sat down."
"Ah, Hogwarts courtship rituals," Blaise said with a wistful sigh. "So nuanced. So barbaric."
Helen laughed behind her pumpkin juice. "At least Edmund doesn't need a megaphone. The whole castle already knows."
Tracey shot Edmund a look—less sharp this time, more speculative. "You're lucky we like her."
"I know," Edmund said simply.
And then: "I'm lucky I like you lot, too."
That earned a half-smile from Tracey and a very quiet, very fast glance from Daphne.
Blaise noticed both. Of course he did.
He chewed thoughtfully, then said under his breath, "Romance and ruin, all before breakfast."
"Bit early for prophecy," Edmund muttered.
"Is it?" Blaise said, eyes still on Daphne's untouched jam knife.
Daphne chuckled softly. "Come on – let's get changed and get out of here. I want to be first out of the Castle this morning."
The five of them went back to the Common Room, passing Theo, Adrian, and Harlan on their way to Breakfast. The three fourth years were going to the Hog's Head today. They had invited Edmund and Blaise but the two had deferred in order to spend some time with Daphne, Tracey, and Helen.
Edmund took off his Slytherin robes and tie in favor of a black button up and grey sweater. He decided to don his black and red House of Fawley cloak this weekend. He rarely wore it, favoring the more subtle gray traveling cloak with his Family's emblem on the sleeves. He rushed back to the Common room, and was glad to note neither Daphne, Tracey, nor Helen had finished yet. Blaise stood there waiting for him.
"It's a good thing to prioritize the girls for a bit." Blaise said to him as Edmund joined him near the already roaring hearth."
Blaise was dressed in a plain black traveling cloak, but his dress seemed somewhat more casual then it usually was.
"I keep forgetting to ask," Edmund said softly. "But how are things with you and Padma?"
"We're alright," Blaise shrugged. "I'm just nowhere near serious about her as you seem to be about Sally Anne. She's nice and all, don't get me wrong. But she wants to spend some time with her friends."
"That seems to be a theme this weekend," Edmund chuckled. He stopped short when Daphne walked back in.
Daphne walked back into the common room, fastening the last clasp of her cloak as she stepped down the stairs. She'd changed out of her uniform into a high-collared dark green jumper that matched her eyes, worn over a pleated wool skirt in midnight blue. Her cloak—black with faint silver embroidery at the hem—swept lightly behind her as she moved, trimmed in Slytherin green and clasped at the neck with a delicate silver serpent pin.
Her boots were polished, laced neatly, and clearly designed for actual walking in Hogsmeade—not just for show. A pair of silver star-shaped earrings winked beneath her pulled-back hair.
She looked composed. Effortless. Like she hadn't agonized over the outfit at all.
Edmund struggled for words for but a moment.
"Lady Greengrass," he bowed.
Daphne's lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. She regarded him with the cool, unbothered air she'd perfected over years of being told she was "mature for her age." But her eyes gave her away—there was a flicker of warmth, of smug satisfaction, of got you, and Edmund knew it.
She gave a shallow curtsy in return, graceful and just theatrical enough to mock him lovingly.
"Lord Fawley," she said, voice feather-light, but laced with amusement. "You're going to make Tracey hex you if you keep practicing your court manners in public."
Then, glancing down at his cloak with an arched brow, she added, "Though I see we're both playing dress-up this morning."
It was teasing, yes—but not cruel. Familiar. Comfortable. And for a split second, she hesitated—just a breath—before brushing an imaginary bit of lint from his shoulder.
"Better," she murmured.
And just like that, she turned away—calling over her shoulder, "Tracey, Helen, hurry up—we're going to miss the best scones if we let the Hufflepuffs beat us there."
Edmund didn't move for a second.
He just blinked. And smiled.
Blaise was still by the hearth, watching the exchange unfold with the kind of patient, long-suffering look usually reserved for chessmasters and older brothers.
When Daphne turned her back and swept toward the girls' staircase, he let out a low, theatrical sigh—loud enough for Edmund to hear, but not enough to earn a glare from Daphne.
"She brushed lint off your cloak," he said flatly, folding his arms. "You're doomed."
Edmund gave him a sideways glance. "It was imaginary lint."
"Exactly," Blaise said. "She invented it. That's affection and psychological warfare."
"I think she was just—"
"Don't," Blaise cut in, lifting a finger. "Don't pretend you don't know exactly what that was. She might've curtsied, Edmund. You're one flirt away from being cursed into a toad."
Edmund gave a resigned little snort, rubbing the back of his neck. "Why is this all so… complicated?"
"Because you're thirteen," Blaise replied, straightening his cloak. "And because you keep dating Gryffindors when you clearly have a Slytherin situation waiting to detonate."
"Thank you, Zabini. Your wisdom continues to inspire."
"Wait until I start charging for it," Blaise said, already heading toward the stairwell. "Come on. If we're late, Helen will lecture us about scone equity again."
Edmund followed, but not without glancing once more down the corridor Daphne had vanished through—expression thoughtful, and just the faintest bit doomed.
It was not long before the five of them had assembled in the common room and made their way up towards the Entrance Hall. Electing to walk down towards the gate where Filch and Professor MicGonagall would be waiting. Filch was unnecessarily pokey today with whatever instrument he had to check students for contraband. Why they'd be bringing anything out of Hogwarts as opposed to in Edmund had no idea. He decided not to say anything.
By the time they all got through the gate, their steps quickened to descend upon the Wizarding Village. While they would never tell anyone, they were going to get the best scones in Britain – from Madam Puddifoots.
Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop stood near the end of one of Hogsmeade's side streets, just far enough from the main thoroughfare to be spared the gaggles of fourth years and fifth-year couples gawking at windows. Its pastel-painted facade and tiny golden bell over the door were deceptive camouflage. By ten o'clock, the lace doilies and enchanted heart garlands would activate.
But for the time being, it was calm and free from the obnoxious couples that would soon frequent it.
While most Hogwarts students associate Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop with gaudy hearts and Valentine's overkill, Daphne discovered, after a conversation with an older cousin, that the place actually serves the best cream scones in Hogsmeade. Proper clotted cream. Raspberry preserves. Lightly toasted. The trick was to get there before ten o'clock – before the lace and cherubs were activated. The others had been skeptical at first. Blaise had lingered outside in visible horror. Edmund had flatly refused until Tracey had rolled her eyes and called him a coward. Helen had marched in with a journal and declared the décor "ethnographically fascinating."
That was three months ago, and Edmund and Blaise only spared quick glances to make sure they weren't noticed slipping inside.
The hearth was warm, the lace curtains were drawn wide, and a platter of scones was already waiting beneath a gently steaming stasis charm on the sideboard. They slipped into their usual corner table—far enough from the fireplace to avoid being seen through the window, but close enough to steal the heat. The older witch who manned the counter and pretended to not know their names nonetheless brought over the platter of scones just as she did each time they came. Edmund pulled out eight sickles to cover the table. He had the faint idea that the older witch up-charged them, but he didn't really mind.
Tracey raised an eyebrow as he set the coins down. "You paid last time."
"I did," Edmund agreed, settling into his seat with an exaggerated sigh of nobility. "And yet here I am again, doing my part to support small business."
"Your part," Helen said, reaching for a scone, "is clearly the role of the group's aristocratic benefactor."
"Let him pay," Daphne said, inspecting the preserves. "He's been insufferably smug all morning. We may as well wring something useful out of it."
Blaise raised his teacup. "To tradition."
They all clinked cups—or in Tracey's case, a knife full of clotted cream—and dug in. The scones were warm and perfectly crisp on the outside, soft on the inside, with just enough sweetness to make a proper breakfast feel like a minor celebration.
"I'm just saying," Helen continued between bites, "if we're going to keep rotating who pays, Edmund can take my next turn too."
"I second that motion," said Blaise. "It's not like the Fawley vaults are going to miss it."
Edmund gave a long-suffering sigh and reached for the jam. "Why do I always get blamed for being wealthy and generous?"
"Because you're wealthy and generous," Tracey said, mouth full.
"And smug," Daphne added sweetly, pouring herself tea.
Edmund shook his head, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth gave him away.
Over scones and tea, the group breezed through the latest house gossip. They gushed over further reports that the Malfoy family had been fined again and were losing a court battle to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Apparently after Amos Diggory had fined them, Lucius Malfoy had appealed and been denied. Tracey revealed that Octavian Keating had been caught snogging Siobhan Fawcett behind the greenhouses—while still dating Anna Yaxley, whose revenge hex in Arithmancy had reduced his notes to ash. And just as Blaise began recovering from the scandal, Helen casually added that the Cannons had actually won a match, throwing the table into disbelieving chaos.
It was with high spirits that they left Madam Puddifoots and split up with the promise of Lunch at the Three Broomsticks. Blaise immediately separated off to go to Zonkos. Tracey and Helen went on to Madam Snelling's, which purportedly sold hair products. Edmund, well-supplied with Dungbombs and Stink Pellets already, and Daphne—who reportedly owl-ordered any beauty accessories she needed "because Snelling's lighting was offensive"—decided to go to Honeydukes.
The bell above Honeydukes chimed softly as Edmund held the door open for Daphne, letting her step into the warm, sweet-smelling air. The scent of melted sugar and enchanted cinnamon pulled around them like a comfort charm. The shop was still quiet—early enough that the real crush of students hadn't yet descended.
Shelves were already glittering with rows of treacle fudge, crystalized pineapple, and color-shifting sweets enchanted to sing if left untouched too long. A levitating crate of Fizzing Whizzbees bobbed gently above the center display.
Daphne moved with practiced ease toward the back wall, where the finer sweets were kept—citrus-spiced chocolate thins, salted caramels dusted in powdered violet, and her favorite: crystallized rose petals in a delicate glass tin.
Edmund followed, hands tucked neatly behind his back, gaze scanning the familiar rows. "They've restocked the mint skulls," he observed mildly.
"Thank Merlin," Daphne said dryly. "What a tragedy that would've been."
There was an easy quiet between them as they browsed—one that, lately, had come to feel rarer. Daphne was still holding the tin of rose petals, but hadn't opened it. Edmund noticed.
After a moment, he said, "Do you ever think about that Halloween?"
Her fingers paused at the edge of the tin. "Which one?"
He gave a small smile, not looking at her. "The one where you didn't hex Corner, but I did."
Daphne turned. "You didn't hex him."
"No," he said. "I potion-cursed him and had him dragged into a forgotten classroom under magically enforced secrecy."
"Right." Her mouth quirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Much more civilized."
Edmund picked up a small jar of charmed candied ginger—something Meredith used to keep around when he was younger, to settle nerves. He turned it in his hands. "I think about it more than I should."
She was quiet for a long time before responding, "So do I."
He finally looked at her.
"I wasn't afraid that night," she said, voice soft. "Not after you got there. I just hated how small he made me feel."
"You've never been small," Edmund said.
Daphne blinked. Something in her posture shifted—less guarded. She stepped closer, but not quite into touching distance.
"I never thanked the others," she murmured.
"We didn't do it for thanks."
"I know."
He plucked the rose petal tin gently from her hand and added it to his basket. "But I at the very least will accept tribute in the form of confectionery."
That got the smallest smile out of her.
They stood there a moment longer, framed by shelves and warm candlelight, wrapped in the smell of sugar and something much older than friendship.
"We should meet the others soon," Daphne said.
Edmund nodded. "We'll pay and take the long way to the Three Broomsticks."
She looked at him sidelong. "The long way?"
"Just in case Madam Puddifoot's decides to punish us for betrayal."
Daphne rolled her eyes, but she followed him to the counter.
Edmund noticed his best friend smiling faintly as they stepped outside – and he was grateful they could remain friends after everything that happened. He still had not told Daphne about being attacked by Greyback. He knew he would tell her eventually, and he knew he'd tell her first, before any of his friends, including Sally Anne. Daphne was his closest friend and had stepped into the void that had swallowed Susan and Wayne after he was sorted into Slytherin. Just like Sally Anne, he could smell Daphne coming. He worked hard to control himself, but he also knew how relaxed he felt when the scent of plum wafted to his senses. Deep, soft, and faintly sweet—not floral like Sally Anne, but darker, rounder. It lingered on Daphne's scarves, in the folds of her jumpers, in the cold air between them. It was comfort without softness. Familiar, but never obvious.
They made it to the Three Broomsticks ahead of Blaise, Tracey, and Helen, so they snagged a booth after a bit of looking. Edmund sat facing the door to wave over the others when they arrived.
"So are you seeing, Sally Anne after this," Daphne asked him directly.
Taken aback by her directness, Edmund merely nodded at first.
"Yes. We agreed to spend time with our friends first," he said after another moment.
Daphne gave a small nod, her fingers tracing the edge of the table's butter-worn wood.
"That's good," she said, not quite looking at him. "You two seem... settled."
Edmund tilted his head. "Do we?"
She shrugged. "You're less twitchy. And she stopped glaring at me in the corridors, so I assume things are going well."
That earned the faintest laugh from him. "I'm not sure she was ever glaring. Not properly."
"She was," Daphne said simply, then sipped her butterbeer as though it were fact, not opinion. It remained unspoken that Daphne had probably glared right back.
A silence passed—not strained, but thoughtful.
"I like her," Daphne added, almost as an afterthought. "She's kind to you."
Edmund turned to look at her fully. "That matters to you?"
Daphne didn't answer right away. She folded her hands in her lap and studied the condensation on her glass.
"It does," she said finally. "Because you're… important. And you don't always let people be kind."
He blinked. "I let you be."
She met his eyes. "Yes. But I earned it."
And for a moment—just a moment—he didn't know whether she meant that as a tease or a truth. Maybe both.
Just then, the door to the pub swung open, and the cold rush of air was followed by Blaise's unmistakable silhouette, Tracey's scarf trailing behind her like a banner of disdain, and Helen waving dramatically like they hadn't seen each other in years.
Daphne didn't look away as she stood. "Saved by the cavalry."
Edmund stood too, brushing invisible lint from his own cloak this time.
"Don't tell Blaise I'm happy to see him," he murmured. "He'll charge me for the sentiment."
"I won't," Daphne said, brushing past him with a faint smirk. "But I'll make a note."
"Make a note of what," Blaise asked, sidling into the seat next to Edmund as Tracey and Helen joined Daphne on her bench.
"Nothing you need to know, Zabini," Daphne said smoothly, unwrapping her scarf with studied grace. "Just a little internal accounting."
"Sounds ominous," Blaise said, eyeing her. "Are we keeping ledgers now?"
"Only the important things," Helen said, sliding a napkin into her lap. "Like who pays for scones, who tells the best stories, and who forgets to write back during the holidays."
Tracey raised a hand. "That last one is Edmund."
"Oi—" Edmund started, but Blaise clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"It's true," he said cheerfully. "He vanished for two weeks over Christmas and came back acting like he'd fought a basilisk in the Alps."
"I had a Quidditch injury," Edmund deadpanned.
"You do play Quidditch," Tracey said, "but you're a Beater, not a war hero."
"Clearly you've never seen Matthews aim," Edmund replied dryly
That earned a round of snorts. Even Daphne bit her lip to hide a laugh.
"Honestly," Helen said, flagging down Madam Rosmerta. "We should just assume that whenever he disappears, it's due to some deeply aristocratic reason he'll never confess until his memoirs."
"Oh, he's definitely got memoirs," Tracey said. "Volumes."
"'The Collected Broodings of Edmund Fawley,'" Blaise recited dramatically, "With Annotations by Blaise Zabini: A Suffering Companion."
"And marginalia by Daphne Greengrass," Helen added.
"With footnotes by Meredith Graves," Daphne said, raising a brow. "Mostly consisting of the words 'dear Merlin.'"
Edmund leaned back in his seat, letting the noise and laughter wash over him. He smiled—real and quiet—as Rosmerta brought over butterbeers.
This, he thought, was the real tradition.
Not the Three Broomsticks, not the scones, not even the walk from school.
Just them. This.
And if he glanced Daphne's way a bit longer than usual—well. No one said the internal ledger couldn't have a few secrets of its own.