They didn't tell anyone. They just lived.
Days slid quietly into weeks. The manor shifted with them. Doors stayed open, the air felt softer, the wards hummed lower, as if the house itself had learned a new kind of stillness.
Daphne liked walking barefoot. The cool stone under her feet calmed her. It reminded her she was here, breathing, alive.
Oliver hated it.
The first time he saw her crossing the hall with a book in hand and no shoes, he didn't say a word. He just picked her up.
"Oliver," she said, flatly. "Put me down."
"No."
"You're overreacting."
"You're barefoot."
"That isn't dangerous."
"Feels like it."
She almost smiled. He didn't. He carried her to the stairs and set her down as if she were made of something breakable, checking the soles of her feet with the back of his hand.
"Shoes," he said.
She stared at him. "You know I can cast about twenty charms that make me immune to frostbite."
"Shoes," he repeated.
She sighed, but went. Because the tension in his shoulders eased when she did, and she could live with that.
The next time, he didn't even argue. He just lifted her, and she let him. Her arm around his neck, his mouth brushing her temple — apology without words.
Morning sickness came and went. Her body changed quietly, without asking permission. He learned the rhythm of her tea, her moods, the foods she couldn't stand. The elves always knew what to prepare. The house seemed to know too.
At night, they learned each other all over again.
He was careful. Too careful.
His hands moved as if every touch had to be earned, every breath asked for. He hesitated too often, held her too gently.
"Enough," she whispered once, his thumb pausing at her hip.
He froze. "Did I hurt you?"
"I'm not made of glass," she said softly. "You won't break me."
He searched her face, caught between relief and disbelief.
"You sure?"
She nodded. "Yes."
Something in him broke open. He laughed quietly, the sound rough and warm.
"Your libido's stronger than my self-control lately."
"Then you'd better adjust," she murmured, and the look they shared was pure fire.
After that, the care didn't disappear — it changed. He trusted her body. Trusted her strength. They moved together like people who'd finally stopped pretending they had to hold back. Afterwards, she lay against him, tracing the lines of his collarbone. He brushed invisible words along her wrist. Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to.
A week later, Hermione arrived unannounced, arms full of books.
"I brought a few things," she said, out of breath. "Don't panic."
Daphne arched a brow. "You realise your 'few' is an entire library?"
Hermione's smile was small. "You don't have to read them all. Yet."
The titles were exactly what she expected: Muggle Prenatal Care, A Mediwizard's Companion to Magical Gestation, On Wards for Maternal Health. The last one made her laugh — a thin paperback called What To Expect When You'd Prefer Not To.
"I'm not panicking," Daphne said.
"Good," Hermione replied. "Then I'll panic for both of us."
They sat in the smaller sitting room, tea between them. Hermione took notes, asking gentle questions about nausea, cravings, wards. The manor responded to Daphne's mood — lights dimming, a faint hum in the walls whenever she grew tired. It made Hermione pause, fascinated.
When she left, Daphne stopped her at the door. "Do you think arranged marriages can work?"
Hermione hesitated. "I think… people can surprise us."
She smiled, not quite looking up. "Sometimes we surprise ourselves."
Daphne nodded. "That's enough."
They hugged awkwardly. It felt right.
By July, the days stretched long and heavy with heat. They went to the Potters' for dinner. Ginny cooked, Harry opened every window, laughter filled every corner. Hermione and Draco were there too — she, quiet as always; he, pretending he didn't care about anything, which made it obvious he did.
Oliver kept his hand at the small of Daphne's back all evening. Harry hugged them both twice. Ginny fussed and winked.
The night felt normal. It felt safe.
Halfway through dinner, Daphne felt a pull low in her belly. It wasn't pain, just pressure. She breathed through it, said nothing.
"You alright?" Oliver murmured.
"Fine," she said, forcing a smile. "Eat."
He didn't believe her. He refilled her glass anyway.
By dessert she was exhausted, laughing at something Teddy said and pretending the ache hadn't sharpened.
They left early. Ginny packed food they wouldn't eat. Hermione squeezed her hand. Draco just nodded.
The manor greeted them with dim light and quiet air. Daphne slipped off her shoes and shot Oliver a look that dared him to comment.
"I'm taking a bath," she said. "I smell like Weasleys' joy."
He laughed. "That doesn't wash off easily."
"Watch me."
He kissed her forehead. "I'll make tea."
The bathroom was cool and still. She ran the water hot, watching steam cloud the mirror. She undressed slowly, her movements unthinking, her reflection strange and familiar all at once. Her body had learned new shapes, softer, fuller. She didn't hate it. She stepped into the bath. The ache eased under the heat.
The world felt small.
Then something shifted. Just a weight at first. A pull.
Her hand went to her stomach.
The water moved.
She froze.
A thin line of red trailed through the bath.
She blinked. It didn't fade. Another line followed, darker.
For a moment, her mind refused to understand. It told her no. Not this. Not now.
But it was there.
Her skin went cold against the heat. The air caught in her throat. She gripped the edge of the tub, trying to breathe, trying to believe she was wrong. The pain came sharper, low and twisting.
"Oliver," she said.
The sound didn't reach the door. She tried again. Louder.
"Oliver!"
The ache clenched, brutal, alive. The water turned darker.
"OLIVER!"
Footsteps thundered down the hall. The wards flared, bright and panicked, before she could even form a spell.
He was there.