The Nott manor looked like it remembered every vow it had ever hosted. Stone that had seen centuries. Wards that tasted faintly of iron on the tongue. Lamps floated high beneath the painted ceiling, their glow low and watchful, as if the light itself had been told to behave.
The air smelled of incense and something old, like magic that refused to fade.
Daphne arrived with Pansy. Apparition in the side garden, the scent of clipped hedges and damp earth clinging to their clothes. An elf at the threshold bowed and announced them to a room that already knew their names. Faces turned anyway, pure-blood, polished, pretending. A string quartet played from nowhere. Glasses filled themselves with a quiet fizz.
They had dressed like women with nothing left to hide. Daphne wore deep green silk, the colour of old banners, her shoulders bare, her hair pinned low with a single emerald clasp. Pansy, unapologetic as ever, wore darker velvet, green turned almost black beneath the chandeliers, her neckline daring enough to make half the room look twice. Together they looked like a memory of Slytherin that refused to die.
The ceremony had already gathered itself. Theo stood at the front, jaw set, gloves gone. Luna walked beside her father, older now, his hand trembling beneath hers. Her eyes were steady and far away all at once, carrying a peace that did not belong to the world around her.
Something in Daphne's chest pulled tight. She remembered her own walk down an aisle, and the fragile hope that had lived in her bones then.
Pansy leaned in. "Another masterpiece," she murmured, bored and sharp. "Smile, darling. They love a tragedy that wears lipstick."
Daphne didn't. She sat. The bench was hard. The flowers along the aisle opened and closed in time with the music, a charm so precise it felt cold.
Old magic hummed beneath the vows, quiet as a pulse.
The words came clean. No tremor. No mistake. Theo spoke his like coordinates. Luna's voice didn't break. Constellations shimmered across the ceiling, someone's charm, too pretty to mean anything. Rings slipped into place. The applause was polite, short, obedient.
Daphne looked down and realised her fingers had tightened around each other. She unclenched them slowly.
When she lifted her head, she found him.
Oliver.
Three rows back, turned slightly away from the crowd. Clean-shaven tonight, the black suit doing little to disguise the way he carried himself, broad, deliberate, still restless. His eyes were darker than the light allowed. He wasn't watching the altar. He was watching her.
Heat climbed beneath her collar. She didn't look away. The last time she'd been in a room like this, she'd felt something close to faith, that love might grow from duty. Foolish faith.
The room stood. Chairs scraped. People began to move.
Pansy rose, sighed like a curse, and linked her arm through Daphne's. Neville joined them a moment later, collar crooked, dressed better than she'd ever seen him, Pansy's doing, clearly.
"Longbottom," Pansy said under her breath, eyes on the crowd, "if you spill champagne on me, I'll tell your grandmother what you call me."
Neville flushed crimson. "I, I won't."
His hand brushed hers by accident, and lingered a heartbeat too long.
"You will," she said dryly, taking a glass from a tray, "but I might forgive you."
Daphne almost laughed. Almost. She didn't. She just watched the room shift and reform, watched Luna shaking hands, Theo smiling through his teeth, old men pretending to approve.
Then Oliver was near enough for the air to change.
He didn't touch her. He didn't crowd. He only stood close enough that the space between them began to hum.
"Daphne," he said. Not soft, not harsh. Just her name.
"Oliver."
Pansy's mouth curved. "I'll fetch another drink," she announced, then to Neville, "try not to be decent, it's never suited you." They drifted away with a kind of practiced grace, already gossiping two rooms over.
Daphne and Oliver were left with the polished floor and too many candles.
"Thank you for coming," he said.
"You didn't invite me."
"I did," he said after a moment. "Weeks ago. In my head."
Her lips wanted to move, but didn't. "You look better."
"I slept," he said quietly. "A little."
He looked toward the dance floor. Couples were moving. Theo's hand rested at Luna's back with perfect distance, perfect pressure. Her eyes were open but far away, as if watching something invisible.
"Arrangements," Daphne said. "They make beautiful pictures."
"They do," he replied. "The pictures never show how heavy they are to carry."
The music softened. Voices dipped. A charm scattered silver dust that hovered like a held breath.
Oliver set his glass down carefully. "Dance with me," he said. Then lower, "Princess."
The word hit straight through her ribs. She didn't answer. She just placed her fingers in his hand.
They stepped onto the floor. His palm rested against her waist, warm, solid. His other hand caught hers, firm but gentle, as though he was afraid she might vanish. Heat travelled through the thin silk, sharp and familiar. Her pulse stumbled, syncing to the slow count of his steps. He moved with quiet precision. She let him lead, it was easier than thinking about all the hollow spaces inside her.
"You look beautiful," he murmured, his voice low enough to vanish into the strings. "Blue will always be yours, I meant it when I said it, but tonight… green suits you too."
The words brushed through her like remembered touch, the night of the sapphire ring, his voice saying her eyes haunted him.
Blue for then. Green for now. She didn't answer, but the ache in her chest eased, soft, real.
They circled the floor once. The sound around them dimmed. Daphne breathed in soap, rain, wool. His mouth was set, but the line between his brows had eased. The rhythm between them was slow, measured, like a heartbeat trying not to give itself away. His thumb pressed once against her fingers, testing, asking.
She remembered his voice breaking in the locker room, the word he hadn't meant to say. She could almost hear it again now, beneath the music, beneath her ribs.
She didn't want forgiveness. She just wanted to stand here and not feel like ash.
"Everyone's staring," she said.
"Let them."
"Rita will write something vile."
"She always does."
They turned again. Luna's silver dress flashed, Theo's hand tightening briefly when the cameras caught light.
Across the room, Draco Malfoy stood with that posture of his, perfect, dangerous, bored. Beside him, Hermione's hand rested on his arm as though it belonged there. There was a stillness between them that didn't fit the ring on her finger. Draco said something small. Hermione said nothing. Her gaze flicked to Daphne's for a second, no pity, just recognition. Then gone.
Pansy reappeared, shadowed and smirking. "Well," she murmured, "some of us still know how to breathe." Neville bumped her shoulder. She didn't hex him. That meant she was almost happy.
Oliver's hand tightened at Daphne's waist, not pulling, grounding. She let herself step closer. The music dipped. Their bodies found the space where breath met breath. Her pulse climbed and didn't hurt.
He looked at her properly then, not through distance, not through guilt. His eyes were dark and unguarded and asking nothing.
Something in her opened, not pain this time, but recognition.
She thought of green flame, of rain, of the warmth left outside her door. She didn't say the word that rose to her tongue. The music held, then began to fade.
She stopped. So did he. Their hands stayed joined. The room moved around them. She could have stepped back. She didn't.
The space between heartbeats stretched thin, one breath, one decision.
She rose on her toes and kissed him.
It wasn't dramatic. No gasps, no crowd. Just a quiet press of mouth to mouth, slow, measured, the kind that tests the surface before it dares the depth. He didn't move for a second, as if afraid it might break. Then his breath caught, a sound she knew too well. Warmth rose between them, the same heat that once spilled down her throat in the dark.
His hand curved at her waist, not to own, to keep. The edge of his palm brushed her hip, and she remembered his hands, strong, patient, mapping her by touch instead of words. Her fingers caught the edge of his lapel.
Her body remembered first, the smell of his skin after practice, the line of muscle beneath her palms, the salt taste of his neck. His mouth still fit hers like it had refused to forget.
It wasn't passion, not yet. It was recognition, the body saying, I remember you. I still know how to want you.
The taste was salt, warmth, memory, not perfect, not clean, but real.
Her breath hitched, for the first time in months, the ache inside her turned almost sweet.
She broke it first. She had to. She stayed close enough to feel his breath against her cheek. Her heart stumbled. His did too. Neither spoke. Words would have ruined it.
When she looked up, his eyes were on hers. There were lines she could cross here. She crossed none. Only the corner of her mouth moved, barely.
"It's enough," she said. "For tonight."
He nodded. "All right."
She took his hand again, fingers lacing for a moment, then letting go. They stepped off the floor. The room went on performing celebration as if nothing had happened. Pansy's eyes glittered, smug. Neville stared at the ceiling. Draco exhaled smoke like a thought he wouldn't share. Hermione turned her ring once, as if testing its weight.
Daphne paused by a window. Rain blurred the garden beyond the glass. Her reflection stood beside his, and didn't look like a ghost. She touched her mouth with the back of her hand and felt the truth of what she'd done.
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't a promise. It wasn't everything they'd lost returned.
It was small, and it was true.
She turned to Oliver. "Stay near," she said quietly.
He didn't smile. He didn't need to. "I will."
They stood there a while longer, listening to music that pretended to feel. Outside, the hedges held the rain. Inside, the air held the after of a kiss.
Outside, the wards hummed once, as if the house itself had exhaled.
When she stepped forward, he matched her.
Not ahead.
Not behind.
Beside.