The kitchen of Greengrass Manor smelled like burnt garlic and stubborn pride.
A few pots stirred themselves half-heartedly on the stove, the enchantments flickering as if they'd grown tired of obeying. One of the knives hovered in mid-air before dropping with a dull clink, another casualty of Oliver's cooking.
Daphne stood by the counter, arms crossed, watching him stir a pot of something he dared to call spaghetti Bolognese. There was a tomato stain on his shirt, a frown between his brows, and that unmistakable look of determination, like cooking was some kind of Quidditch final.
"This looks like a hate crime," she said, arching a brow.
Oliver grinned. "I followed the recipe. Sort of."
"From what, a cursed scroll?"
He shrugged. "Wood family tradition. My mum dictated it to a self-writing Howler after too many Firewhiskies. It exploded mid-recipe."
"Charming. Maybe next time she can send a Howler to supervise your seasoning."
He lifted a wooden spoon like a wand. "Oi, show some respect. This is a generational disgrace."
She sighed and sat at the long kitchen table, poking the steaming plate as if testing a potion she didn't trust.
The candles above the table hummed softly, their light shifting with the mood of the room, dimmer when her sarcasm sharpened, brighter when his laughter broke through.
The noodles were limp. The sauce watery. She tried it anyway.
"Merlin," she said after swallowing, "this is genuinely awful."
He threw his head back laughing. "That's the spirit, wife. Mutual disappointment from day one."
"We should let an elf cook next time."
"And give up this masterpiece? Never."
He leaned over and wiped a streak of sauce from her mouth with his thumb. "You've got a bit of crime-scene evidence right here."
She swatted his hand away. "Touch me with those garlic fingers again and I'll hex them off."
He grinned, and for a second she almost smiled back. Then the laugh slipped out, small, surprised, real.
It startled her. The sound felt foreign in her throat, sharp and warm at once, like something long-frozen finally cracking open.
He froze, spoon halfway to his mouth, studying her. "Was that a laugh? From the Ice Queen herself?"
She tossed a napkin at him. "Don't get used to it."
They ate, argued about who ruined the garlic bread more, and threatened minor acts of violence involving kitchen utensils. When the plates were left behind and the manor fell quiet, Oliver found her in the sitting room, robe around her shoulders, a book forgotten on her lap. Her hair was loose, her face bare. She looked softer, somehow.
The fire cast slow gold across her skin, the curve of her collarbone catching the light where the robe slipped. The air smelled of lavender and parchment. Something about it made his chest tighten.
He lingered in the doorway, just watching her, the Daphne Greengrass no one else saw. Bare feet, sleepy eyes, unguarded.
"Can I sit?" he asked.
She nodded, shifting to make room. He didn't sit right away. His hand slipped into his pocket, fingers tightening around something small. Then he pulled out a velvet box, edges worn from being handled too much.
He looked at it, then at her. "I know this is sudden," he said quietly. "But I've been thinking about us. About what this is."
Her body stilled.
"I know we're not in love," he continued, "not yet. But if we keep doing what we're doing, fighting, laughing, driving each other mad, we might actually make it work. And I want that."
The words hung between them. She didn't breathe.
He opened the box. A sapphire glimmered inside, deep blue, cut like a drop of midnight. It didn't sparkle; it pulsed, as if it knew exactly where it belonged.
"In honour of your eyes," he said. "Eyes that haunt me. Day and night."
She stared at the ring, then at him. "It's beautiful."
"I meant it to be. I wanted you to have something that wasn't born out of duty or war. Just you."
He didn't look smug. Just honest. And that honesty hurt more than anything.
Her fingers trembled before she could hide it. "I wasn't expecting this."
"Good," he said. "I didn't want you to."
A tear escaped before she could stop it. He hesitated, hand hovering near her face. "Daphne?"
"I'm fine," she said quickly, wiping it away. "It's just… no one's ever given me something because they saw me. Not the name. Me."
He exhaled, slow and rough. Then he moved closer until their knees touched. He took her hand and slid the ring onto her finger.
It fit perfectly.
The silver was cool against her skin, his thumb warm over it, grounding her. She turned her hand, watching the stone catch the firelight like bottled night.
"I'll do everything to make this work," she whispered.
He met her eyes. "So will I."
He brushed his thumb along her knuckles and leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. No kiss. Just breath and quiet.
Letting herself be held felt like surrender… and, strangely, she didn't mind losing.
They stayed like that, close, silent.
Somewhere above them, the old wards of the manor pulsed once, a shimmer across the air, as if the house itself approved. The fire settled lower, burning steady and blue.
Daphne let her head fall against his shoulder. For the first time, she felt safe.
And somewhere in that quiet, something unspoken settled between them.
Not love.
Not yet.
But it felt a lot like hope.