Chapter Text
Ah, December. What a wonderful month. It brings with it many joys, carrying along the crisp chill of winter that wraps the world in a silvery embrace, while snowflakes float lazily from the heavens, transforming the mundane into a glittering wonderland. In December, the air is filled with the scent of roasted chestnuts, spiced cider, and that faint smokiness of chimneys that families gather around. Among the magical communities of Europe, December holds a special reverence for Yule, a celebration of the sun's rebirth and the return of longer days.
Yule isn’t merely about the celestial—it’s deeply rooted in tradition and familial bonds. Traditions which wizards and witches across the whole continent gather to celebrate and honour the ancient rites: burning the Yule log, decorating their homes with enchanted evergreen wreaths, and feasting on dishes. A time for family to get together and share lov—
“WHAT?!”
But that won’t be our story, not for this chilly December.
Across the British Isles, in two grand homes nestled in very different corners of the gigantic island, one in England and one in Wales, two sets of parents found themselves on the receiving end of furious lectures from their eldest children; about who they were now betrothed to.
In one house, Harry Potter was pacing in front of his bewildered parents, his hands waving wildly as he tried to process the bombshell they’d just dropped on him.
“What do you mean I’m engaged ?!” he shouted, his voice echoing through his father’s spacious office.
James Potter leaned back into the sofa, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in a manner that suggested he was ready to apparate far, far away. Lily, on the other hand, looked as though she were trying to soothe Harry with her gaze alone—a futile effort considering her son’s current state of outrage.
“Harry, it’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be,” James tried, though his tone was anything but confident.
“Not as bad?” Harry barked, spinning on his heel to face his parents. “You’ve just casually told me that I’m betrothed —not just hypothetically but literally, actually promised to someone I’ve hardly spoken to! This isn’t the bloody mediaeval age!”
Meanwhile, in another equally grand home, Daphne Greengrass was no less furious. Her parents, Cyrus and Isobel Greengrass, sat across from her in the drawing room, looking as though they’d rather be anywhere else.
“Let me get this straight,” Daphne said, her tone sharp as she paced the room, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor. Her voice rose with every word. “You’re telling me that our great-great-whatever-grandfather —in all his infinite wisdom—thought the best way to repay the Potters for saving our family during the witch trials was to offer up one of us for marriage ?”
“Well, yes,” Cyrus replied hesitantly, tugging at his collar. “I mean, the Potters did save us. Without their warning, our family might not even exist. Those wretched Muggles would’ve slaughtered us. If you think about, it was actually a good transaction—”
“’A good transaction’? A GOOD TRANSACTION?! You call a daughter ‘a good transaction’?! This isn’t a business deal! This is my life ! My future!”
“Daphne, please calm down,” Isobel tried, though her voice lacked conviction.
“Oh, I’m perfectly calm, mother,” she shot back, her tone icy. “I’m so calm that I’m thinking of sending a thank-you note to dear old Great-Great-Grandfather for being such a visionary . I mean, why stop at marriage? Why not promise our first-borns too? Or maybe our souls while he was at it?!”
Back in the Potter household, James finally mustered the courage to speak. Rising from his seat, he held up a hand to stop Harry mid-rant.
“Look, Harry, you have to understand—it was a different time back then. In fact, it was the mediaeval age where money and possessions weren't as important as alliances and loyalty. Both of our families were already rich—what more could we want? Since the Potters saved the Greengrasses, they wanted to repay us in a similar way. That’s why the contract activates when there’s only one male heir in the Potter line who hasn’t secured an engagement by the time they’re of age. So that the Potters don’t die out the same way the Greegasses almost did.”
Harry frowned, his anger momentarily replaced by confusion. “Why didn’t it activate for you? Not only were you the only male heir, but you’re an only child too.”
As the question hung in the air, Harry’s thoughts drifted. Growing up, he’d often imagined what it would be like to have brothers—someone to play and roughhouse with. But now, faced with the weight of this marriage contract, he found himself wishing for brothers even more desperately, if only to escape this ridiculous contract. Still, he loved his three younger sisters fiercely and wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world; even for his freedom as a bachelor.
“Because by the time I was born,” James explained, deadpan, “the closest eligible Greengrass was not only married but 30 years older than me. And the rest of their generation? All boys.”
It was then that James and Lily exchanged a glance, a look so heavy with regret and sadness that Harry felt his stomach drop. That unspoken confirmation sent fear coursing through him.
“I mean, there must be something we can do,” Harry insisted, his voice rising in panic. “Dad, come on—you can’t expect me to marry someone I don’t even know!”
Lily, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, finally spoke, her voice trembling with emotion. “Honey, I know this is hard. Believe me, we’ve been trying to find a way out of this ever since we found out about it last year. Every single day, us and the Greengrasses—we’ve searched for loopholes, counter-charms, anything that might nullify the contract. But it’s ironclad, Harry. If there were anything we could’ve done, we’d have done it by now. I’m so sorry.”
Harry’s shoulders slumped, his earlier fury giving way to helplessness. His posture mirrored that of Daphne Greengrass, who had just collapsed into an armchair at her own home after hearing a near-identical explanation.
She stared at her parents, her voice trembling with frustration. “You’ve known about this for a year and didn’t tell me?”
Cyrus shifted uncomfortably under his daughter’s glare. “Well, you had your N.E.W.T.s, Daphne. We didn’t want to add more stress on top of that. And like we said, we didn’t want you to worry about an issue we could have solved. We’ve been trying everything— and anything—to get you out of this. We know how unfair this is, sweetie, and trust me, we’re just as unhappy about it as you are. But there’s nothing left to be done—the contract… it’s quite ironclad.”
Daphne’s jaw clenched as she processed her father’s words. “How could you only find out about this after it had activated? Didn’t the goblins warn you about its existence?”
Cyrus’s expression darkened into a scowl. “That was the first question I asked them,” he admitted bitterly. “And apparently, it wasn’t their ‘responsibility.’ According to them, the knowledge of the contract should’ve been passed down through the generations. But it was forgotten—because every Potter boy before now managed to secure a bride before coming of age. If we’d known about it earlier, James and I would have nullified this contract instantly.”
Daphne’s voice dropped to a whisper as she asked, “What happens if I don’t marry him?”
Cyrus hesitated, glancing at Isobel, who nodded with a resigned expression. “Well…” he began, his voice heavy, “if you refuse, you’ll lose your magic.”
Daphne froze, her blood running cold. “ Lose my magic ?” she repeated, her voice barely audible.
“Yes,” Isobel confirmed softly. “The contract was designed to be binding. It’s not just about a promise—it’s a magical pact. Breaking it comes with a price, one that’s too great to risk.”
Daphne slumped further into her chair, her earlier anger giving way to a sense of despair. The same despair Harry felt as he stood in his father’s office, his parents’ regretful silence telling him all he needed to know.
After several days of sulking around, wallowing in frustration, and cursing his ancestors under his breath, Harry Potter finally decided he needed to talk to someone about the mess that was now his life. He had spent the past few days re-reading that cursed marriage contract until the words swam before his eyes, each time hoping he’d find some hidden loophole his parents could have previously missed. Spoiler: there wasn’t one.
It was clear to Harry that he couldn’t bring this up with his parents again. His dad’s resigned shrugs and his mum’s watery, apologetic looks weren’t helping. So, with no other options, Harry found himself trudging through Hogsmeade to his Uncle Peter’s café, a cosy little place tucked away on a side street.
Peter Pettigrew wasn’t the obvious choice for most people when it came to seeking advice. But out of all of Harry’s uncles, Peter was probably the least intimidating, which was exactly what Harry needed right now. Uncle Remus would listen patiently, but he’d eventually offer a string of practical solutions, and Harry didn’t want that. He didn’t need solutions. He needed someone to hear him, someone who wouldn’t try to fix things but would just sit with him in the unfairness of it all. Uncle Peter, with his soft demeanour and unassuming presence, was perfect for that.
When Harry arrived, the café was empty. The cosy warmth of the place instantly helped take the edge off his irritation. It was after hours, and Peter was cleaning up, his wand flicking gently as chairs stacked themselves and tables wiped clean.
“Harry!” Peter greeted him with a smile, motioning for him to take a seat.
Without any preamble, Harry launched into it, recounting everything: the contract, how his parents had broken the news, the feelings of anger and helplessness that had been gnawing at him ever since. The fear of maybe losing his magic. He vented it all, holding nothing back, and Peter listened intently, never once interrupting. That was the thing about Uncle Peter—he had this rare ability to make Harry feel truly seen and heard.
When Harry finally finished, he slumped back in his chair, spent. Peter gave him a soft, pitying look—one that might have enraged him coming from anyone else—but from Peter, it felt oddly comforting. A moment later, Peter placed a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of him.
It wasn’t just any hot chocolate. This was Uncle Peter’s hot chocolate, a decadent masterpiece that no place else could rival. Whatever Peter did to make it so rich and creamy was a mystery, but Harry savoured every sip.
“So, Dad really didn’t tell you about any of this?”
Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Not a word. Probably went to Sirius instead—James usually talks to him about these sorts of things. Honestly, I’m glad he didn’t. I’m rubbish at keeping secrets.”
Yes, you did read that right.
Harry chuckled despite himself, recalling a vivid memory from last year. For his 17th birthday, his parents had planned a surprise party and left Peter to ‘distract’ Harry while they set up. Peter, completely oblivious to the plan, had accidentally let slip about the surprise halfway through their day together.
“I’m just so angry,” Harry admitted, his voice raw. “How is this fair? How can someone decide for me who I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life with?”
“You should be angry,” Peter said earnestly. “It’s not fair. Nobody should have the right to take away your choice like that.”
There was a brief silence before Peter’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Is there a clause about divorce? Could you, you know, end it after the wedding?”
Harry shook his head miserably. “I’ve already asked Dad about that. Apparently, we can’t divorce unless…” He hesitated, swallowing hard, “...unless we’ve had a child. The contract doesn’t release us otherwise.” He shuddered at the thought, the weight of the situation pressing down on him once again.
Peter let out a long, low whistle. “That is a rough one, Prongslet.”
They sat in silence for a moment before Peter straightened and asked, “Have you talked to her yet?”
Harry blinked at him in surprise. “What?”
“The girl,” Peter clarified. “Daphne Greengrass, isn’t it? Have you talked to her? I mean, I can’t imagine she’s thrilled about this either.”
Harry stared into his mug, his ears burning. “No. No, I haven’t talked to her.”
Peter regarded Harry with a thoughtful expression before speaking again, his voice gentle. “Maybe you should talk to her then?” he nudged gently. “She’s probably the only person who truly understands what you’re going through right now, seeing as she’s in the same position.”
Harry sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. Stupidly, he hadn’t thought about that before. The idea of Daphne Greengrass being as trapped and frustrated as he was had simply never crossed his mind. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted reluctantly.
Peter nodded encouragingly. “Well, if you like, you could meet here after hours to talk. I’ll make myself scarce, leave you two alone. Just... talk it all out.”
Harry looked up, gratitude softening the tension in his face. “Thanks, Uncle Peter. I’ll think about it.”
At that moment, Aunt Marlene appeared from behind Uncle Peter, her warm presence immediately filling the room. “Hey, boys,” she greeted with a sly smile. “How’s your top-secret, super-serious conversation going?”
Peter returned her smile. “Well, I can’t speak for Harry, but it’s going just fine for me.”
Harry grinned. “Hey, Aunt Marlene. Sorry for not including you in the drama.”
“Oh, don’t apologise, love,” she said breezily, rolling her eyes. “Although a certain thirteen-year-old seems to have a problem with it. I caught Keane trying to eavesdrop—twice.”
Peter and Harry chuckled, both picturing Keane’s antics.
“Are the kids asleep now?” Peter asked.
“Almost,” Marlene replied, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Penny’s refusing to go to bed until the ‘best storyteller’ tells her a tale.” She shot her husband a pointed look yet her eyes twinkled with affection.
Peter laughed, shaking his head. “Tell her I’ll be up in a few minutes. Harry and I are just finishing up here.”
“Will do,” Marlene said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. As she straightened and turned towards the stairs leading to their flat above the café, she called back to Harry, “And tell your mum I said hello!”
“Will do, Aunt Marlene!” Harry replied, watching her retreat with a fond smile.
Once she’d gone, Peter turned his attention back to Harry, his tone a touch more serious now. “Look, Harry, I know this situation is far from ideal. It’s unfair, and I don’t blame you for feeling angry about it. But forgive me if I sound overly optimistic—it might not be the worst thing in the world. Maybe you and Daphne will find that you get on well. Maybe this whole arrangement could be a chance for something... unexpected.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, sceptical. “Unexpected like what?”
Peter leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady. “At the very least, you could try to be friends. People often think marriage is all about love and romance, and while that’s certainly part of it, the most important foundation is friendship. You’re supposed to marry your best friend.”
Harry let out a bark of laughter, the first genuine one he’d had in days. “If you’re supposed to marry your best friend, I won’t exist. My dad and Uncle Sirius would’ve tied the knot years ago.”
Peter laughed too, shaking his head. “Fair point, Harry. But you know what I mean.”
Harry’s laughter faded, leaving behind a small, wistful smile. “Yeah, I suppose I do.”
Peter resumed his tidying behind the counter, his wand flicking effortlessly to clear stray crumbs and stack dishes. “So,” he began after a moment, “this girl—she’s in your year, isn’t she? Do you know much about her?”
Harry frowned slightly, thinking. “Not really. She was quiet, and mostly kept to herself and her friends. Polite to people she didn’t know well, but she wasn’t exactly outgoing. Honestly, I don’t know much about her beyond that.”
Peter hummed thoughtfully. “Well, you’ll have to start somewhere. What’s she doing now, do you know?”
Harry nodded. “Yeah, I heard she’s working at the Department of Mysteries. She’s an Unspeakable.”
Peter’s eyebrows shot up as he released a low whistle. “An Unspeakable at her age? Impressive.” He paused, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Is she pretty?”
The question caught Harry off guard, and he felt his cheeks grow warm. His mind betrayed him, conjuring a memory of Daphne at the Great Hall, her smile lighting up her face as she laughed at something one of her friends had said. The thought lingered longer than he wanted, and he felt a familiar heat creeping up his neck.
“Yeah,” he muttered, looking down at his nearly empty mug. “Yeah, she is.”
Peter’s chuckle was soft but carried a knowing tone. “Well,” he said with a small smile, “at least there’s that.”
Harry rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. For the first time since this whole ordeal began, he felt the weight on his shoulders ease, if only slightly.
Daphne sat on the plush settee in her aunt’s living room, her wine glass gripped tightly in her hand as she ranted. Her voice was a mix of frustration and disbelief. “Of all the sexist, archaic, evil things to do—honestly, Aunt Melanie, what century are we living in?!”
Across from her, Aunt Melanie sipped her own glass of wine, her expression neutral. “Yes, men are evil,” she said lightly, though the twinkle in her eye betrayed her amusement. Truthfully, she wanted to point out that things had been different in their ancestors’ time, but she wisely held her tongue. The last thing she wanted was redirecting her niece’s fiery frustration onto herself. “But you know what?”
Daphne turned to her, her brows furrowed. “What?”
“They’re all dead!” Aunt Melanie said cheerfully, raising her glass as if to toast their dearly departed ancestors.
Daphne groaned, flopping back into the cushions. “Ugh! That doesn’t make this any better!”
Melanie put down her glass and leaned forward, placing a hand on Daphne’s arm. Her tone softened, her teasing replaced by genuine concern. “I know, darling. This situation is horrid, and you have every right to be angry. But you’re clever and resilient. You can still turn things around. Maybe this boy will be good for you.”
Daphne turned her head, her eyes narrowing. “This isn’t a romance novel, Aunt Melanie. We’re not going to magically fall in love and live happily ever after.”
Melanie gave a knowing smile, raising her hands in mock surrender. “Fair point, darling. But four years is a long time to get to know someone. By then, he won’t be a stranger to you anymore. That’s not nothing.”
“I’d rather get to know him without being forced into a bloody marriage contract,” Daphne shot back.
Melanie sighed, leaning back into her chair. “No, we don’t always get what we want, do we? But let me ask you this—do you know anything terrible about him? Is he a pompous pure-blood brat? Some entitled little lordling?”
Daphne frowned, swirling her wine. “No. No, he’s nothing like that,” she admitted reluctantly. “If anything, he’s the opposite. He’s training at the Auror Academy.”
Melanie’s eyebrows shot up. “An Auror, is he? Well, then there’s always the chance you’ll become a widow.”
“Aunt Melanie!” Daphne snapped, glaring at her aunt.
But Melanie only shrugged, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “I earned the right to make that joke.”
Daphne’s expression softened as her thoughts turned to her late Uncle Tobias. He had been her father’s older brother, a man who had turned down the Greengrass Lordship to pursue a career as an Auror. Tobias had dedicated his life to protecting others, a decision that ultimately cost him his life three years ago. His loss still weighed heavily on the family, leaving Melanie a widow and her cousins without a father.
Melanie’s voice pulled her niece from her thoughts. “What else do you know about him, then? Anything that stands out?”
“Well,” Daphne began slowly, “he was in Gryffindor. Played Seeker for their Quidditch team.”
“Ah,” Melanie said, her voice laced with dry amusement. “So he’s a pompous show-off, then?”
“No,” Daphne said quickly, shaking her head.
“Is he handsome?” Melanie asked, her tone teasing.
Daphne glared at her, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Aunt Melanie, not everything is about looks.”
Melanie raised her hands again in mock surrender. “All right, all right, I get it. But what about his character? His personality? Is he responsible?”
Daphne hesitated, her mind drifting to her memories of Harry. She thought of the times during their Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons when he would move around the classroom, helping his peers after mastering a spell himself. Once, he had even helped her closest friend, Tracey, with a tricky charm.
Unconsciously, she recalled seeing him in their final year at Hogwarts, carrying his younger sister on his back through the corridors. He had looked... nice that day. The memory brought an unwelcome warmth to her cheeks, and she quickly shoved the thought aside.
Melanie was watching her niece closely, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “When are you planning to talk to him?” she asked gently.
Daphne exhaled, looking down at her wine glass. “Soon,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I’ll talk to him soon.”
But, it was not, in fact, soon . Days turned into weeks, and still, neither Harry nor Daphne made much effort to contact the other.
Daphne initially told herself she’d reach out eventually, but the longer she delayed, the easier it became to forget entirely. Her work as an Unspeakable consumed her focus, offering a convenient excuse to put the matter aside. Harry, on the other hand, wrestled with his thoughts daily. Every night, he’d sit down to write a letter, only to crumple it up in frustration, unsure of what to say. Each attempt felt awkward and forced, and the idea of reaching out grew increasingly daunting.
Finally, a few days away from Yule, deciding to embrace his Gryffindor courage, Harry wrote a simple, straightforward letter. Before he could second-guess himself, he sent it off. To his relief, Daphne responded quickly, agreeing to meet him. True to his word, Uncle Peter arranged for the meeting at his café. He led them to a quiet, empty corner, set down two steaming mugs of hot chocolate with a plate of biscuits, and left them alone with a reassuring smile.
“Hi,” Harry started awkwardly, stirring his drink unnecessarily.
“Hi,” Daphne replied, just as stiffly. She took a cautious sip of her hot chocolate, the silence stretching uncomfortably between them.
“How are you?” Harry asked after a beat, glancing at her nervously.
“I’m fine. You?” Daphne answered, setting her mug down.
“Fine, I guess,” Harry replied. He hesitated for a moment before adding, “Bit of a strange situation we’ve found ourselves in, huh?”
“That’s one way to put it,” Daphne said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re annoyed about it, aren’t you?”
Harry gave a wry smile. “I was. Still am, I suppose, but... I’m rubbish at staying angry. It burns hot for a while, but then it just fizzles out no matter how much I try to hold on to it.”
Daphne chuckled, shaking her head. “Yeah, I’m the opposite. When I’m angry, it stays . Like a stubborn stain that won’t wash out.”
Harry tried to make a joke to lighten the mood. “Well, I suppose as your future husband, I’ll have to be careful not to trigger that, won’t I?” The words left his mouth before he realised how bad it sounded. He winced immediately, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
Daphne raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching as if debating whether to laugh or not. She took pity on him, letting the awkward moment pass without comment.
They lapsed into a brief silence, broken only by the quiet clink of mugs against the table. Harry racked his brain for a safer topic and finally landed on the upcoming holidays. “So, Yule’s coming up soon. How does your family celebrate?”
Daphne’s expression softened, and she seemed pleased by the change in subject. “Yule is... traditional in my family. The Greengrasses have always celebrated it the old-fashioned way. We try to bring as many family members together as possible, though we never manage to get everyone under one roof. There’s always some cousin who’s too busy or they already agreed to celebrate it with their other side of the family.”
“That sounds really nice, though,” Harry said, leaning forward slightly. “What do you do?”
“Well,” she began, a nostalgic smile tugging at her lips, “we start with the sunrise. My father leads a small ceremony outside—usually freezing, by the way—and we light a sacred fire to mark the solstice. My mother spends the entire week beforehand making sure everything is just perfect for it. Then we decorate the house with greenery—mistletoe, holly, ivy—and enchanted candles. We even make our own wreaths.”
Harry’s eyes widened. “You make your own wreaths? That sounds... complicated.”
“It is,” Daphne admitted with a soft laugh. “Astoria’s great at it, though. Me? Not so much. Mine always end up looking like a bird’s nest. I can never follow the patterns.”
He chuckled. “At least you try. What else?”
“In the evening, there’s a formal dinner with close family and any friends we can convince to join. My father always makes a long-winded speech—he calls it honouring tradition; we call it boring. Then we exchange gifts and spend the rest of the night by the fire. It’s very... comforting, I suppose. Predictable and orderly.”
“Orderly,” Harry repeated with a grin. “That’s definitely not the word I’d use for my family’s celebrations.”
“Oh?” Daphne asked, intrigued. “What are they like?”
“Well, we actually celebrate for two days,” Harry said. “The first day is absolute chaos. That’s when my uncles— my dad’s closest friends— get together. My Uncle Sirius and his family, Uncle Peter and his, and then there’s Uncle Remus and Uncle Sev. They don’t have kids, but they’re still in the thick of it. Everyone comes to ours, and it’s loud, messy, and full of laughs.”
“That sounds... lively,” Daphne said, a faint smile playing on her lips.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Harry said with a chuckle. “Every year, my dad, Sirius, Remus and Peter plan some big prank. It’s this Marauders-only tradition, and no matter how hard my mum, Aunt Marlene, Aunt Amy, and Uncle Sev try to stop it, they always pull it off. I tried to get in on it once, but they said it was sacred territory—no outsiders allowed.”
Daphne snorted. “Sacred pranks. That’s certainly a unique Yule tradition.”
“It’s all in good fun,” Harry said, grinning as the memory surfaced. “I remember three years ago, they bewitched all the presents to float just out of reach whenever someone tried to grab theirs. My youngest sister, Hyacinth, spent fifteen minutes chasing a package around the sitting room before she burst into tears. Mum was livid, of course, and Uncle Sirius spent the rest of the evening covered in enchanted glitter as punishment. He was still picking it out of his hair days later.”
Daphne let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Sounds like absolute madness.”
“Yeah, but it’s our madness,” Harry said with a fond smile. “Then, on the actual day of Yule, it’s quieter. Just me, my parents, my sisters, and my grandparents—my mum’s parents, actually. They’re Muggles, so we also celebrate Christmas with them. It’s simpler, more personal. We sit by the tree, exchange gifts, and just... enjoy being together. “
“That sounds lovely,” Daphne said softly, her tone sincere. A part of her was fascinated on how Muggles celebrated Yule. “Chaotic one day, calm the next. A bit of everything.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, smiling at the thought. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
After a brief, uncomfortable silence, Harry cleared his throat. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal—for either of us. But maybe... maybe we can at least be friends? We don’t have to pretend this is some great romance or anything. We can just get to know each other.”
Daphne considered his words, tapping her fingers against her mug. “Friends, huh? I suppose that’s the least we can do, given the circumstances.”
“Exactly,” Harry offered her a small, hopeful smile. “We’re stuck with this for the foreseeable future, so... might as well make the best of it.”
Daphne looked at him for a moment, her expression softening. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled back. “All right, Potter. Let’s give this friendship thing a shot.”
They sat there, sharing a small, tentative smile across the table. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.