The bitter taste hit her tongue before the tea even reached her throat. Too strong. Too hot. Daphne pushed the porcelain cup away and pressed her palm to her forehead.
The nausea came in waves.
She'd woken up with a knot in her stomach, the kind that pulsed under her ribs and refused to settle. It wasn't flu. It wasn't food. She hadn't eaten properly in days.
Still barefoot, she crossed the cold stone floor of the Greengrass Manor kitchen and opened a window. The breeze helped. Not enough. Her temples throbbed with a dull ache that reminded her of hangovers, except she hadn't touched Firewhisky in weeks.
A quiet pop echoed through the hall.
Pansy.
Of course.
"Darling," came the voice, long before the woman appeared, "I swear, if I have to look at Longbottom's stupid face for one more hour, I'm going to snap and feed him to one of his own plants."
Daphne didn't turn around. "You said that last week."
"And yet somehow I didn't do it. Growth, maybe..." Her heels clicked closer, then paused. "Merlin, you look like absolute death."
"Lovely to see you too."
Pansy peeled off her sunglasses, narrowed her eyes and made a slow, exaggerated scan of Daphne from head to toe. "Are you ill, or is this just how marriage looks on you?"
"I feel fine."
"You look like you spent the night dry-heaving into a potted plant..." Pansy moved to the kitchen island and perched herself on the edge like she owned the place. "Honestly, if I ever start looking like that, hex me. Immediately."
Daphne rolled her eyes, walked to the cupboard and pulled out another teacup. Her fingers trembled slightly. She ignored it.
"Anyway," Pansy drawled, tossing her hair over one shoulder, "do you want to hear something horrifying?"
"No."
"Too bad. You know that thing Neville does with his mouth? The tongue thing?"
Daphne blinked. "Absolutely not."
"He does this slow circle, counterclockwise, the bastard, like he's mapping out constellations. Then he just… waits. Like a bloody saint. I swear to Circe, I almost cried. Then I hexed him because I panicked. It's not normal."
"And his hands," Pansy went on, already smirking. "Big and warm and rough. Like he could crush me if he wanted, but doesn't. They don't hesitate. They ask. And I let them. I let him."
She leaned forward conspiratorially. "He said he wanted to taste what I'd done to him. Who says that? And I let him. I let him, Daphne. And then I…"
"It's disgusting," Pansy muttered, eyes flicking away like she hated herself for liking it. "He makes me feel… safe. And that terrifies me."
Daphne's stomach flipped. Her throat tightened, chest locked. Heat surged behind her eyes and she didn't know why… until the bile hit the back of her tongue.
She ran.
Daphne barely made it to the sink before she vomited.
Her hands gripped the edge of the marble, knees bending as her body convulsed once, then again.
The acid clawed its way up before she could stop it. It burned her throat, her nose, even her eyes. Her palms slipped slightly on the stone, damp with sweat or spit… she didn't know which. Her chest heaved, and for a second, she thought she might never stop.
She didn't even hear Pansy move, just felt her step closer, a cold presence at her back.
"Well," Pansy said, blinking slowly. "That's one way to shut me up."
Then, lower. "You're not okay."
One of the Manor's elves appeared by the door with a soft crack, eyes wide and ears twitching. "Miss Greengrass… do you—?"
Daphne raised one trembling hand, flicked her fingers once.
The elf bowed instantly and vanished without a word.
She rinsed her mouth at the tap and stayed hunched over, arms braced, jaw clenched.
Pansy didn't touch her. Just crossed her arms and stared. "That wasn't just bad tea."
"I'm fine," Daphne croaked, voice low.
"You're pale. Clammy. Nauseous. And you look like you're about to pass out."
"It's nothing."
Pansy's eyes narrowed. "When did it start?"
"This week."
"You've been throwing up every day?"
"Not every day."
"Your tits look bigger."
Daphne glared at her.
Pansy smirked. "You're pregnant."
Daphne snorted. "I take the potion."
Pansy tilted her head. "Every night?"
"Of course."
A silence.
Daphne didn't meet her eyes.
Then it hit her.
She saw it now… the silver vial, untouched, glinting in the moonlight on her nightstand. Her back still damp with sweat. Her thighs still sore from his grip. Her heartbeat slowing too fast. She'd been too tired. Too raw. Too bare. The silver vial had waited, silent and accusing. She'd meant to take it. She didn't.
Her breath caught.
She didn't say a word.
But she didn't need to.
Pansy's voice dropped, quieter this time. "You forgot it."
Daphne straightened slowly, back to the sink, knuckles white.
"It was just once," she said, almost to herself.
"It only takes once."
--
Flashback
She told herself it was just a dress. But the moment she saw it… that shade of blue… she knew it wasn't.
Second-skin fabric, tight at the waist, sleeves clinging to her arms, the back cut low enough to expose the start of her spine. It moved like water, but felt like control. And the colour… exactly the same sapphire as the ring.
The one he'd given her on the terrace, when he said, "In honour of the eyes that haunt me day and night."
She hadn't worn it for him. Not intentionally. But when she caught her reflection, something in her chest pulled tight. The dress looked too much like the ring. Too much like him.
She was fastening one of the earrings when Oliver stepped into the bedroom.
He didn't speak.
His eyes dragged over her like a slow spell, heat, tension, weight. He walked toward her, steady, controlled, no softness in his pace.
She didn't turn. Just watched him through the mirror as he stopped behind her.
His fingers moved under the hem of her dress.
She didn't stop him.
They slid upward, knuckles grazing her thighs, her breath catching at the first brush of his touch. His hands were warm, heavy, possessive.
When he reached the thin lace between her legs, he hooked one finger inside…
And pulled.
Her underwear caught at her knees before sliding to her ankles. The air hit her too cold, too raw. She stepped out of them slowly… his eyes never left the mirror.
His voice was a breath against her skin.
"Princess, I want to feel all night that you're ready to be fucked by me."
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her body answered for her.
By the time they arrived at the Potters', Daphne couldn't focus. She was wet and restless, her body coiled too tight, every brush of silk against her skin a reminder that she wasn't wearing anything underneath.
Oliver didn't help.
He stood too close, his hand hovered at the small of her back. And once… just once… he leaned in and whispered, "Still dripping?", right as they greeted Ginny at the door.
Dinner blurred… but everything touched her skin too sharply.
The dining room at the Potters' was lit with floating candles and spelled wine that refilled itself too fast. Ginny had gone overboard on charm-infused appetisers… everything tasted like summer and regret.
Pansy and Neville were bickering across the table, louder than usual. She was in black lace with emerald heels and a necklace that had no right being that low. He was flushed and refusing to look at her directly.
"I don't care what your textbook says," Pansy said, twirling her fork, "the charm dissipates after climax. If you'd ever had one, you'd know."
Neville's hand clenched around his glass. "That's not how protective enchantments work."
"Then explain why I woke up stuck to the sheets."
A beat of silence. Then Ginny snorted wine up her nose.
Harry just sighed.
Across from them, Draco lifted his glass without a word. Hermione was already pushing her chair back.
"We'll be in the garden," she said.
They were gone for thirty-two minutes. Daphne counted.
When they returned, Hermione's curls looked like she'd been caught in a windstorm, and Draco's shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his lips swollen, colour high on his cheeks, his expression… feral. Like a jarvey after swallowing a niffler.
No one commented.
Everyone noticed.
Daphne didn't laugh. Couldn't.
She hated how aware she was of everything… his voice, his hands, the way her body kept betraying her.
Oliver sat beside her, quiet, drinking slowly, but his hand kept brushing the curve of her lower back. Each time, her breath faltered.
She wasn't hearing the conversations anymore.
The laughter, the forks scraping plates, the clink of glasses… it all blurred together. Her body was hot and tense, her skin too tight. Everything outside of Oliver felt distant. Unimportant.
She was too aware of her own body… the silk between her legs, the heat in her thighs, the ache low in her belly that hadn't left since he pulled her knickers down hours ago.
She drank to quiet it. It didn't work.
Across the table, Pansy reached for the butter dish and brushed Neville's hand. Neither moved away.
Daphne noticed that too.
She pressed her knees together.
Oliver leaned in. "You're quiet tonight," he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate straight through her spine, "Not bored, are you?"
She didn't look at him. "Not bored. Just... trying not to embarrass myself."
His fingers slipped beneath the tablecloth, grazed the inside of her knee. Then higher.
Too high.
She stiffened, breath caught mid-sip.
He didn't stop.
His fingers slid between her legs. Slow. Confident. Two strokes — enough to coat his fingertips.
He pulled back, brought his hand to his mouth, and sucked the taste from his fingers like he'd waited all day.
"So fucking tasty," he muttered, low and hungry.
Her glass nearly slipped from her hand.
When they finally returned to Greengrass Manor by Floo, Daphne barely had time to dust off the soot before Oliver lifted her by the waist like she weighed nothing.
She yelped. "Merlin, you're a bloody troll… You're like a prehistoric Crup in rut."
He laughed.
Low and dark. Unapologetic.
He carried her through the corridor like a man who didn't care about walls, portraits or propriety.
In the bedroom, he didn't put her down.
He threw her.
She landed on the mattress with a gasp, the hem of the dress caught under her thighs.
Oliver reached for the fabric, tugged hard… it tore at the seam, the rip loud in the quiet room.
She didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
He undressed with his wand, one flick, clothes gone, his body bare and ready. He didn't give her time to think.
He dropped to his knees between her legs, pushed her thighs apart, and looked at her like she was dinner and destruction.
Then his mouth was on her.
Hot. Wet. Devouring.
"Princess," he muttered against her skin, "you're already so fucking wet."
She barely had time to whimper. Her thighs trembled, her hands tangled in the sheets, but he didn't slow down.
She felt his tongue. His mouth. His grip on her hips like iron.
And then it stopped.
He dragged her closer by the hips, flipped her onto her stomach with a growl in his throat, all muscle and impulse. Her chest hit the mattress, hands splayed, legs still shaking when he pushed her knees apart.
"No talking tonight," his voice was rough, strained.
She tried to push back, but he held her still.
He didn't tease.
He slid inside her in one deep, punishing thrust.
And she shattered… mouth open, eyes closed, fingers curled into the mattress.
She remembered the vial. Still full. Still untouched. Sitting in the dark beside the bed, glowing faintly blue. She'd reached for it with shaky fingers… then his arm wrapped around her waist, his breath hit the back of her neck, and everything went quiet.
She never took it.
She meant to.
But her body was still shaking.
And his breath was still on her skin.
She forgot.
Until now.