She waited until she was truly alone…
Only then did the house fall quiet enough to breathe.
Pansy had left in a flurry of perfume and sarcasm, her complaints about Neville still clinging to the air like smoke. Daphne didn't laugh this time… she didn't even smirk.
She stood. Her steps were slow, deliberate. No tremors… no drama. The stone floor was cold beneath her feet, grounding. The robe brushed the back of her knees, smooth like breath, weightless like denial.
She crossed the corridor toward the bathroom. Each step louder than it should've been. A whisper of silk. The crack of an ankle bone. Her pulse in her throat.
She lit the candles with a flick of her fingers, set the wand down with care. The light was cold, precise… exactly how she needed it.
She stared at her reflection, then closed her eyes… raised her wand.
Lumen Vitae…
The words slid off her tongue with ease. Not learned. Inherited. A spell passed through blood, from mother to daughter, generation after generation. Trusted only to silence. It wasn't taught like the others. No theory, no diagrams. Just the weight of a hand on her wrist. The press of a ring over a pulse point. That was how her mother had shown her ... not with words, but with silence. One gesture. One breath held. A spell that only the women of her family knew. That lived in the blood. That asked for stillness. For touch. For belief.
A thin line of gold burst from the tip of her wand, curved through the air, and touched the mirror. It didn't burst. It hovered. Like it was waiting for her to believe it.
Gold.
She didn't cry… didn't blink… just watched… let it settle.
Then she felt it. Not in her chest, but lower. Beneath her ribs. Deep. Quiet. Real. The kind of feeling that didn't come from thoughts or fear.
A tightening. Like a knot pulled too fast. Her stomach clenched. Not from pain. From knowing.
The glow faded slowly… but her pulse didn't.
She looked down at herself. Robe smooth. Untouched. But her hands were curled at her waist, gripping the fabric like she needed an anchor. Fingernails dug into silk. Her breath came shallow. Her mind stayed blank. She refused to give it a name.
She smiled. Small. Almost shy… then stopped. Not for her.
Something in her chest gave. It didn't make a sound. But her eyes burned. Her throat closed. And when the first tear fell, she didn't wipe it away.
It wasn't certainty she felt. Not really.
It was fear. Of becoming something she never had. Of carrying a life inside her body… and not knowing how to protect it. Of watching it vanish before it ever had a chance to exist. And knowing it would destroy her anyway.
She pressed a palm to her belly. The silk was warm. Her fingers, cold. There was nothing there. No bump. No shift. But still… her body knew.
"I see you," she whispered.
Then blinked once… then again… and this time, she didn't push it away.
--
One of the elves had prepared a light lunch, bland and warm, just a slice of toast with a boiled egg and a single pot of peppermint tea. No one had told them. No one ever needed to...
Elves always knew.
Daphne didn't eat at the table. She carried the tray herself, hands steady, mouth set, and disappeared into the west wing of the manor without a word. Her steps echoed in the corridor, soft against the rugs, but loud enough in her chest.
She settled in the library, letting the door click shut behind her. No fire, no music, no charms humming low through the walls... just silence, thick and cold.
The tea steamed beside her, untouched.
She curled up in the corner chaise, legs drawn beneath her robe, fingers wrapped tightly around the porcelain cup. Too tight. Her knuckles white. She didn't relax. Couldn't.
Above the fireplace, the Greengrass portrait wall watched.
At the center, her mother.
Dahlia Greengrass.
Still, regal, painted in emerald robes and silver cuffs, every detail captured with aching precision. Her expression hadn't changed in twenty years... blank, unreadable... indifferent.
Daphne looked up slowly, her eyes meeting the ghost of a woman she barely remembered. Something twisted low in her belly. Not grief... not quite hate... just absence.
She remembered one thing... a brush. Ivory-handled. Cold against her scalp. Her mother's hand tugging too hard. No lullaby. No words. Just silence... and hair pulled into a perfect braid.
Her throat felt dry.
"I'm not you," she said, voice barely audible, but firm. "And I won't be."
The portrait didn't react. It never did.
But Daphne sat taller.
She placed one hand over her stomach, the silk warm beneath her palm. Her other hand reached for the teacup, lifted it slowly... then set it down again.
She hadn't touched the food.
I'll love it differently. I'll try, at least...
A whisper of magic moved through the air, not a spell, just presence. The manor responding to her resolve. Dust shifted on the nearby shelves. A quill fell from a desk and rolled to a stop by her foot.
She didn't flinch.
She let the silence hold her... but not break her.
For the first time, she didn't feel like a daughter.
She felt like a mother.
--
The sky was streaked in lilac and grey when Oliver arrived. Mud clung to his boots, a faint scratch marked his cheek, and his hair looked like he'd flown through a windstorm rather than Apparated... which he probably had.
He didn't knock.
Just pushed open the door, kicked off his boots near the entrance, and ran a hand through his hair. It didn't help. He still looked like a storm.
Daphne stayed where she was. Leaning against the doorframe to the dining room, one arm folded under her chest, the other holding a glass of water she hadn't touched.
He reached her in three strides.
Didn't ask how her day had been.
Didn't say hello.
Just cupped her jaw with one hand, tilted her head up, and kissed her. Deep. Wet. Like he needed to taste her before anything else.
Her fingers curled against his shirt, damp from flying. His mouth moved against hers with no urgency... only heat. Familiar. Claimed.
Then he pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against hers.
"Give me five," he murmured, his voice rough, breath mingling with hers. "I need a shower before I do something stupid."
She raised a brow.
"You always say that."
He smirked, stepped back, and disappeared down the hall... leaving a trail of wet footprints and the scent of wind and sweat clinging to the air.
She stayed by the doorway long after he disappeared.
The glass was still in her hand. The water inside had gone lukewarm.
From a distance, water ran... then a low hum echoed through the corridor. Off-key. Annoyingly cheerful.
He was singing.
In the bloody shower.
Of course he was.
And not just any song... he was murdering the chorus of I Wanna Know What Love Is. Loud. Unapologetic. Painfully out of tune.
Daphne let out a breath. Almost a laugh. The sound startled her. She hadn't realised it was still there.
She leaned her head against the doorframe, eyes closed, lips twitching.
"Merlin help me," she muttered, "he's not even ashamed."
The singing stopped. Water still running.
She didn't move. Not until the silence returned.
By the time he stepped back into the dining room, his hair was damp, curling slightly at the nape. A towel hung from his shoulders. The same grey shirt, this time dry. He smelled clean, sharp — soap, steam, skin.
He didn't say anything.
Just dropped into the chair across from her and reached for a piece of bread.
"I'm starving, Daph," he muttered, already reaching for the bread. "You'd think flying half a league would burn off the anger, but no... just made it worse."
He tore the bread with his teeth, swallowed before speaking again.
"They replaced the Keeper, by the way. Idiot flew straight into the hoops during training. Broke his nose and blamed the weather."
Another bite.
"You should've seen McLaggen's face. Priceless."
He looked up briefly. She hadn't moved.
He didn't notice.
"Also, did you read the Prophet?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"Theo and Luna. Official. Another Ministry pairing announced like it's a bloody wedding, not a contract."
She pushed her plate aside, stood slowly, silent.
He noticed then. Eyes tracking her as she crossed the room.
She didn't speak.
Just came to him… sat on his lap like it was nothing new. Like she'd done it a thousand times.
One arm slid around his neck. The other took his hand.
She pressed it, palm flat, against her stomach.
"Maybe theirs will be like ours," she whispered, mouth near his ear.
His fingers twitched under hers. His eyes searched her face.
She didn't look away.
He stared at her belly… then back at her.
"Princess…" he breathed.
She nodded.
Her fingers closed over his.
"You feel that?" she whispered.
A beat.
"It's real. I'm pregnant."
A silence settled between them. Heavy. Raw.
Then she smiled. Small. Real. Like she couldn't quite stop it.
He reached up, cupped her cheek. Eyes shining.
He shook his head once, overwhelmed.
"You have no idea what this means to me."
He pressed his forehead to hers.
"Thank you."