The morning light sliced through the curtains, soft and golden, but nothing about the way he touched her was gentle.
Daphne lay on her side, half-covered by a sheet she hadn't bothered pulling up completely. Her skin prickled where his breath met her shoulder. Too warm, too close, too easy to remember last night.
Oliver moved behind her like he owned the space. One hand slid across her hip, lazy, heavy, claiming. The other rested just below her ribs, feeling the subtle rise and fall of her breath.
"You snore like a troll," she said, still facing the wall.
His mouth curved against her neck. "Didn't stop you from climbing on top of me last night."
"You were already hard."
"You were already wet."
She rolled her eyes, but didn't push him away.
He pressed his nose to the crook of her neck, dragging in a long breath. "You smell like sin."
"You smell like sweat and desperation."
He chuckled, "Still didn't stop you."
His hand moved lower, fingertips grazing the inside of her thigh.
"Oliver."
Her voice was warning. Cold. Except for the way her legs shifted, just enough to let him in.
"I like when you say my name like that," he whispered, voice low and wrecked, "like you hate how much you need me."
She didn't answer.
He kissed her shoulder, then her spine. Slower now, focused. Mouth open, breath hot, tongue dragging over her skin with maddening precision.
She turned her face into the pillow, jaw tight.
"I should go make tea."
"You should shut up," he said, grinning against her skin. "That mouth's better start moaning, princess."
She huffed a laugh, breath catching as his mouth moved lower.
"Charming."
"I try," he murmured, and then he didn't speak at all.
He moved down, strong hands gripping her thighs, spreading her slowly. She kept her legs stiff, resistant… until his mouth touched her.
Then she melted.
It started with a long, deliberate lick. Then another. And another. Not frantic, not polite. Just... hungry. He groaned into her like it physically hurt to go slow.
She gripped the sheets, breathing shallow.
"S… Salaz…"
Her jaw locked. She bit it back.
Too late.
"Salazar," she gasped, breathless, wrecked, furious with herself.
Oliver didn't lift his head. He just laughed into her, tongue still flicking.
"Fuck, princess," he muttered, "don't think about Slytherin men when I'm eating you."
She made a choked, furious sound… and came anyway. Violent. Shaking. Her fingers clawed the sheets, hips twitching as the orgasm tore through her, wild and uncontained.
But he didn't stop.
He kept going.
Licking her through it. Making it last. Making her curse and twitch and push at his head…
He only stopped when she twisted her hips, breathless and raw.
He came up slow, face drenched, jaw slick, chest rising.
She glared at him, flushed and furious. "You have issues."
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then licked the corner like he hadn't finished. His face was wet, his jaw rough with stubble, eyes still locked on her like she was the only thing he could taste.
"Married life suits you, Mrs. Wood," he said, still catching his breath like the taste of her had ruined him in the best possible way.
Daphne didn't argue.
Instead, she turned to face him, naked, skin flushed, eyes half-lidded with lazy satisfaction. Calm. Dangerous. Completely in control.
He looked at her like he didn't know whether to worship her or let her ruin him all over again.
Oliver let out a low laugh, gaze trailing over her face, her mouth, the marks he'd left on her thighs.
"You look like a Veela after a storm," he said, voice rough with heat. "Wrecked. Glowing. Like you could set fire to the whole fucking room and walk away untouched."
She blinked once. Then smirked.
"That's the best you've got?"
"Best I've got," he muttered, pulling her closer by the waist. "And I stand by it. You're magic. And lethal."
She didn't blink. Just watched him like she was deciding what he deserved.
The air between them pulsed. Her gaze dropped.
He held still… quiet, waiting, hard.
Then her fingers slid down his stomach. Slow. Intentional. Until she wrapped around his cock with a grip that made his breath catch.
Her voice was calm. Precise.
"Now let's take care of you… Mr. Wood."
And then she straddled him.
One motion. No hesitation. All fire.
--
They didn't talk about what happened that morning...
They didn't need to...
They just carried it. Like everything else.
Because later that week, when he came home from training with mud on his boots and blood crusted along one knuckle, she was waiting by the kitchen window with a cup of tea in hand. Her eyes moved from his fingers to his mouth, then back to the tea. No questions.
He dropped his gear by the door. Walked straight to her.
She didn't speak...
Just reached for his hand, turned it over slowly in hers. Her thumb grazed the dried blood on his knuckles. Then, without ceremony, she brought it to her lips and pressed a kiss to the bruised skin...
Low. Intimate. Almost clinical.
"Oh, darling," she murmured, not looking up. Not needing to...
And for a moment, he couldn't breathe.
He didn't even make it a step closer...
He just grabbed her waist, kissed her hard, open-mouthed, like something in him snapped.
She tasted it... salt, sweat, and something heavier.
When he pulled back, her lipstick was smudged, but she didn't wipe it. Just raised the teacup to her lips like nothing had happened...
As she walked away, she let her fingers drag lightly over his hip... not affectionate, not gentle. Possessive.
Two nights later, she sat on the edge of the bathtub, legs crossed, silk robe slipping off one shoulder. Watching him shave like he was some kind of puzzle.
The blade slipped. Blood surfaced immediately on his jaw.
She didn't move.
"Really?" she said, sipping from the teacup she'd conjured minutes before. "You survive Bludgers and Ministry decrees but nearly bleed out from basic grooming?"
He growled low under his breath. "It's nothing."
She stood, stepped into his space, and flicked her wand without ceremony. The cut vanished, magic humming softly in the quiet room...
Her fingers brushed his jaw... cool, deliberate... like testing the magic with her own skin.
She leaned in, eyes on his jaw...
"Let me guess... distracted by your own reflection?"
He turned toward her, jaw tight. She was too close...
Too calm...
Too smug.
She raised an eyebrow. "Try not to kill yourself with a razor. I'm not ready to collect the inheritance."
Then she turned away, slow, robe shifting against bare skin.
But she didn't leave.
At his next match, she appeared in the stands without warning.
Black coat. Black gloves. A slash of dark red on her lips. Hair pinned. Face unreadable. She didn't cheer. Didn't move. Just stood with her arms folded, watching him like she was measuring his worth with every pass, every drill, every outburst...
But her gaze held. Steady. Unblinking. She didn't come for the game. She came for him.
But he saw her.
From across the field, through the crowd, through the wind and noise, he saw her. And something in him shifted. Quiet, but permanent.
After the match, Potter clapped him on the shoulder, still breathless from commentating.
"Good game, mate," he said, then smirked. "Married life suits you."
Oliver didn't answer right away.
He just looked up at the stands... at her. Still in black. Still watching...
Still there.
"I know."
The press noticed too. Of course they did.
It took less than a week for Rita Skeeter to publish a full column in the Daily Prophet titled:
"Mrs. Wood at the Quidditch Pitch: Chills, Silk, and Strategy."
She wrote...
"It seems Daphne Greengrass-Wood never misses a game... though she's not there for the sport. Sources confirm she remains silent throughout, dressed in black, lips painted like blood and eyes fixed not on the pitch, but on her husband. Observing. Calculating. One might say... coaching the coach?"
They printed a photo. Not of Oliver. Of her...
Standing in the top row of the stands, arms crossed, face unreadable, a windcharm catching her hair mid-movement.
Oliver tossed the paper on the counter.
"She's always subtle."
Daphne raised her teacup, completely calm...
"At least she didn't say I was pregnant with twins this time."
She smirked... small, dangerous... but her fingers drummed once against the porcelain, a tic he only ever saw when she was pleased.
Some nights he found her in the library, curled on the green velvet chaise with a book and her bare legs folded beneath her. She didn't look up, just tilted the page... but the rhythm of her breath gave her away...
And once, when he passed too close, she caught his wrist and didn't let go. Didn't say anything either. Just kept reading.
Other times, she came to his training field just before dark, saying nothing. Just watching. Once, she brought a thermos of coffee...
He drank it. She leaned against the fence like she belonged there.
He kissed her with his hands still dirty, and she kissed back like it didn't matter...
Maybe it didn't.
In the quiet moments, they didn't touch... but they didn't drift apart either.
She drank her tea next to him in the mornings. He left her favourite books near the bed without saying it. Sometimes she let her fingers brush his wrist when passing behind him. Sometimes he reached for her hand and didn't pretend it was accidental...
And sometimes, just before falling asleep, she shifted closer in the dark... not enough to touch. Just enough to feel him.
Whatever it was between them, it wasn't simple...
But it was real...
And growing...
Even when neither of them dared to name it.
The week he had to travel to Wales for an away game, they didn't exchange a single mirror call...
But he found notes. Hidden in his gear, tucked into the seams of his boots, folded inside his travel cloak. Always unsigned. Always in her sharp handwriting...
You'd better win. I didn't marry a loser.
Try not to punch anyone. Except maybe Flint.
Don't die. I just started tolerating you.
I hate this bed without you.
Pansy, of course, didn't stop.
The first owl came the same night.
Daph... he fucked me like I was the last witch alive and he'd been hit with a Lust Hex. I still can't find my wand.
Then, two days later...
Daphne. He's ignoring me. Again. I swear if this continues, I'm putting a modified Herbafigura Charm on him and turning him into a fucking decorative plant.
She read them with her tea, lips twitching at the corners...
Then picked up her quill and scribbled back...
Try not to hex him unless absolutely necessary. Or unless he starts quoting poetry. Then go for it. Aim for the groin.
When Oliver returned late Friday night, still wearing his coaching robes and smelling like wind and hexed turf, his shoulders dusted with faint green ash from the Floo, she was waiting in the entrance hall.
She didn't say hello...
She didn't ask about the match.
She just walked up to him, gripped the front of his shirt, and jumped... legs around his waist, arms locked behind his neck.
"I missed your ugly face," she murmured against his throat...
Then, softer, almost like a secret...
"It was too quiet."
Her lips brushed his jaw... just once, just enough... and stayed near his skin.
He didn't say anything back...
He just buried his face in her neck and held her like he wasn't ready to let go.
—
The next morning, he found her in the study. Barefoot, hair messy, reading through parchment stacks she didn't bother to hide when he entered.
At first, he thought they were wedding invoices.
But then he saw the letterhead...
An orphanage in Kent. A list of names. Contributions. Healing grants.
He frowned. Picked one up...
"What's this?"
She didn't look up...
"Funding request. Third one this month."
He flipped the page. Another application. Another surname he didn't recognise...
"These are... war orphans?"
"Mostly." She turned a page calmly. "Some are just kids no one wanted."
He blinked...
"And you... you pay for them?"
"I manage the trust," she said simply, sipping from a teacup he hadn't noticed. "It was my mother's vault. I redirected it."
His brow furrowed deeper...
"But this... there's no signature. No seal. No trace it's you."
She finally looked at him. Eyes cool. Voice flat...
"Because it's anonymous."
He stared.
"Why?"
A beat. Then she said it...
"Because no one would want a Greengrass doing this."
She didn't blink...
"During the war, I was a coward. I watched from velvet sofas while others fought. This... is the only thing that makes it less vile."
He crossed the room without thinking, hand reaching up, brushing her cheek.
She didn't move. Didn't lean in. But didn't pull away either.
"Princess," he said quietly. "Now you're a Wood."
She closed her eyes, slow and silent... like it hurt less that way...