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The first time Harry Potter truly noticed Daphne Greengrass, it wasn't in some dramatic moment during the war, or in a chance encounter in Diagon Alley. It was on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday afternoon in the Ministry of Magic's cafeteria, three years after the Battle of Hogwarts, when she accidentally spilled her tea all over his case files and proceeded to not apologize.
"Well," she said instead, looking at the spreading brown stain across his meticulous paperwork, "I suppose that's what you get for taking up an entire four-person table during lunch rush."
Harry, who had been prepared to wave off an apology with his usual politeness, found himself staring at her in disbelief. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me, Potter." She pulled out a chair and sat down across from him, placing her now-empty cup on the table with deliberate care. "Some of us actually eat lunch with other people instead of barricading ourselves behind towers of paperwork."
"I'm working on an important case," he said, trying to salvage what he could of the tea-soaked parchment. "And I don't see anyone lining up to sit with you, Greengrass."
"That's because my lunch companion is running late." She reached into her bag and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in brown paper. "Though I suppose you'll do in the meantime."
Harry put down the dripping papers and really looked at her for the first time since Hogwarts. Daphne Greengrass had always been on the periphery of his awareness - a quiet Slytherin who'd neither joined Malfoy's gang nor actively opposed them. She'd stayed at Hogwarts during the final battle but hadn't fought for either side. Now, she sat across from him in perfectly tailored navy robes, her dark blonde hair pulled back in a simple knot, looking for all the world like she belonged there.
"I don't recall inviting you to join me," he said, but there was more curiosity than annoyance in his tone.
"And I don't recall you having exclusive rights to Ministry furniture." She unwrapped her sandwich - something that looked homemade rather than from the cafeteria - and took a delicate bite. "Besides, you look like you could use the company. You're starting to develop that haunted Auror look that Moody had."
"I do not look like Moody."
"No, you're right. Your nose is still intact, for one thing." She glanced at his case files. "Though if you keep working through lunch every day, you might start growing a magical eye out of sheer paranoia."
Despite himself, Harry felt his lips twitch. "Has anyone ever told you you're rather presumptuous?"
"Frequently. Usually right before they realize I'm right about whatever I'm being presumptuous about." She took another bite of her sandwich, chewed thoughtfully, and then added, "For instance, I'm right about you needing a proper lunch break. When's the last time you ate something that wasn't a quick bite between witness interviews?"
Harry opened his mouth to protest, then closed it as he realized he couldn't actually remember. "That's not... I mean, I've been busy."
"Mhmm." She reached into her bag again and pulled out another wrapped sandwich, placing it in front of him. "Here. Roast beef and horseradish. I always pack extra because Tracy - that's who I'm supposed to be meeting - frequently forgets to eat when she's caught up in her research."
"I can't take your friend's lunch."
"You can and you will, because Tracy just sent me a memo saying she's stuck in the Department of Mysteries for another three hours trying to figure out why a batch of Time-Turners started running backward." She pushed the sandwich closer to him. "Besides, you look like you're about to pass out face-first into those tea-stained files, and I really don't want to have to explain to the Prophet why the Chosen One was found unconscious in the Ministry cafeteria."
Harry found himself unwrapping the sandwich before he'd made a conscious decision to do so. "You're very bossy, you know that?"
"I prefer the term 'efficiently concerned.'" She smiled then, a real smile that transformed her usually composed features into something unexpectedly warm. "Eat your sandwich, Potter. Then you can tell me about this case that's so important it's worth sacrificing your digestive system for."
"It's classified," he said automatically, then took a bite of the sandwich and had to stifle a surprised sound of appreciation. It was perfect - the bread fresh, the horseradish sharp enough to clear his sinuses but not overwhelm the meat.
"Everything's classified with you Aurors." She rolled her eyes. "Fine, then you can tell me why you're still wearing those awful glasses when there are at least three perfectly good vision correction spells available now."
"I like my glasses."
"You like looking like you're still fourteen and about to face a dragon?"
"That was when I was fifteen, actually," he corrected, then immediately regretted it when her eyes lit up with interest.
"Oh? Do tell. The Prophet's coverage of the Tournament was abysmal, and I've always wondered what actually happened."
And somehow, before Harry quite knew how it happened, he found himself telling Daphne Greengrass about the Hungarian Horntail while eating the best sandwich he'd had in months. She proved to be an excellent audience, asking sharp questions and making observations that made him see the whole experience in a new light.
"So you really just went with your first instinct and decided to outfly a dragon?" she asked, shaking her head. "How very Gryffindor of you."
"It worked, didn't it?"
"That's not the point. The point is that there were probably dozen other solutions that didn't involve risking being burned to a crisp hundreds of feet in the air."
"Like what?"
"Well..." She paused, considering. "You could have transfigured something into a dog or a sheep - dragons are naturally more interested in four-legged prey. Or used a switching spell to exchange the golden egg with a rock of similar size. Or even just cast a simple disillusionment charm on yourself and walked up to take it while the dragon was distracted by something else."
Harry stared at her. "Where were you when I was planning this?"
"Probably in the library, studying for actual classes instead of plotting death-defying stunts." But she was smiling again, that same surprisingly warm smile that made her look entirely different from the cool, composed Slytherin he remembered from school.
When Tracy Davis finally showed up, apologizing profusely about the Time-Turner incident and covered in what looked like golden sand, Harry was surprised to realize he'd spent nearly an hour talking to Daphne Greengrass. Even more surprising was the realization that he'd enjoyed it.
"Same time tomorrow?" Daphne asked as she gathered her things, and Harry found himself nodding before he'd really thought it through.
"I'll bring my own sandwich," he said. "Since I apparently ate your friend's lunch."
"Don't be ridiculous, Potter. I told you, I always pack extra." She stood, straightening her robes with practiced efficiency. "Besides, you clearly can't be trusted to feed yourself properly. I'm doing the wizarding world a service by ensuring their hero doesn't collapse from malnutrition."
"I'm not-" he started to protest, but she was already walking away, calling over her shoulder:
"Tomorrow, Potter. And try not to spill any more tea on your top-secret files before then."
It wasn't until she was gone that Harry realized she'd never actually apologized for spilling the tea in the first place. Somehow, that made him like her even more.
The second time Harry truly noticed Daphne Greengrass was exactly twenty-four hours later, when she showed up at his table (he'd deliberately chosen a smaller one this time) with two perfectly wrapped sandwiches and a determined glint in her eye.
"Right," she said, sitting down without preamble. "Today you're going to tell me why you've been avoiding the Ministry's annual Halloween Gala for the past three years."
"I haven't been avoiding it," he protested. "I've been busy."
"For three years straight? On exactly the same date?" She unwrapped his sandwich and placed it in front of him with the air of someone setting up chess pieces. "Try again, Potter."
And somehow, between bites of what turned out to be an excellent chicken and avocado sandwich, Harry found himself explaining things he hadn't told anyone - not Ron, not Hermione, not even Ginny when they were still dating. About how he hated the way people looked at him at these events, like he was some sort of exhibit in a museum. About how the forced cheerfulness of Ministry functions made him feel like he was back at the Dursleys, pretending everything was fine when it wasn't. About how he sometimes still woke up in cold sweats, reaching for his wand and expecting to find himself back in that forest, waiting to die.
Daphne listened without interrupting, her blue eyes sharp and thoughtful. When he finally ran out of words, she simply said, "Okay, we'll skip the gala. There's a new Italian restaurant in Diagon Alley that I've been wanting to try. You can buy me dinner instead."
Harry blinked at her. "Are you asking me out?"
"Obviously." She took a precise bite of her own sandwich. "Unless you'd prefer to spend another Halloween hiding in your flat with only your guilt complex for company?"
"I don't have a guilt complex."
"Potter, your guilt complex has a guilt complex." But she said it almost fondly. "So? Italian food, Halloween night? I promise not to make you wear dress robes or talk to any Ministry officials."
And Harry, to his own surprise, found himself saying yes.
The third time Harry truly noticed Daphne Greengrass was when she showed up at his door on Halloween night wearing Muggle clothes - a simple black dress and boots - and carrying a bottle of wine.
"You're early," he said, still trying to tame his hair into something presentable.
"And you're apparently still fighting a losing battle with your hair." She stepped past him into his flat, looking around with undisguised curiosity. "Interesting. I expected more Gryffindor red."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"Oh, I'm not disappointed." She turned to face him, and there was something soft in her expression that made his breath catch. "I'm finding that you rarely match my expectations, Harry Potter. It's rather refreshing."
It was the first time she'd used his first name, and something about the way she said it made it sound entirely new.
The restaurant was busy but not crowded, tucked away in a corner of Diagon Alley that Harry had never properly explored. They were seated in a quiet booth, and Daphne ordered for both of them with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
"My mother would be horrified," she said, after their first course arrived. "Dating a half-blood on Halloween? She'd probably faint dead away."
"Is that what we're doing?" Harry asked. "Dating?"
"Well, I'm certainly not sharing my grandmother's secret sandwich recipes with you just for fun." She took a sip of her wine, watching him over the rim of her glass. "Unless you have objections?"
"No," he said quickly, perhaps too quickly based on her amused smile. "No objections. I just... wasn't sure you'd want to be seen with me. Given everything."
"Given what? The fact that you saved the wizarding world? Or the fact that you're possibly the only person I've met who's worse at small talk than I am?"
"Both? Either?" He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. "I'm not exactly the easiest person to be around, Daphne."
"Good thing I'm not looking for easy." She reached across the table and caught his hand, stilling its nervous movement. "I like complicated. I like that you care too much about everything. I like that you're still trying to save everyone, even though it's obviously exhausting you. I even like your ridiculous hair."
"It's not ridiculous," he protested automatically, but he was smiling, and his hand had turned over to hold hers properly.
"It absolutely is. It looks like you've been struck by lightning. Repeatedly." But she was smiling too, and her thumb was tracing patterns on his palm that made it hard to concentrate on arguing.
They talked through dinner, about everything and nothing - her work in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, his latest cases, their memories of Hogwarts from very different perspectives. She told him about growing up in a pureblood family that valued appearances above all else, about learning to be perfect and proper and polite until she thought she'd scream from it. He told her about the cupboard under the stairs, about learning to be invisible, about how sometimes he still felt like that small boy who didn't believe in magic.
"Well," she said, when they'd finished the last of the wine and were lingering over dessert, "I think we've successfully avoided both Ministry officials and dress robes."
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For... all of this."
"Don't thank me yet, Potter. I have plans for you."
"Oh?"
"Mhmm. Long-term plans. Involving more sandwiches, fewer skipped meals, and possibly teaching you how to properly tie a tie."
"My ties are fine!"
"Your ties are tragic, and we both know it." She stood, holding out her hand to him. "Come on. Walk me home?"
They walked through Diagon Alley, which was festive with floating jack-o'-lanterns and magical decorations, but Harry barely noticed them. He was too busy watching Daphne, who seemed to glow in the warm light of the street lamps, whose hand fit perfectly in his, who had somehow managed to make him forget what day it was entirely.
At her door, she turned to face him, still holding his hand. "I had a theory about you, you know."
"Oh?" He stepped closer, drawn by something in her expression.
"Mm. I thought that under all that Chosen One nonsense, you were probably just as lost and complicated as the rest of us." She reached up with her free hand and touched his cheek gently. "I'm glad I was right."
"You usually are," he murmured, and then he was kissing her, or she was kissing him, and it didn't really matter which because everything else fell away - the street, the holiday, the weight of their respective pasts. There was just this: her lips soft against his, her hand still holding his, her smile when they finally pulled apart.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked, echoing their first lunch together, and Harry laughed.
"You're never going to let me eat alone again, are you?"
"Never," she agreed, and kissed him once more before disappearing inside.
Harry stood there for a moment, touching his lips and smiling like an idiot. Then he turned and walked home through the Halloween night, thinking that sometimes the best things in life happened not in dramatic moments or grand gestures, but in spilled tea and shared sandwiches and the simple act of being seen for exactly who you are.
The fourth time Harry truly noticed Daphne Greengrass was the next morning, when she showed up at his office with tea (carefully spelled not to spill) and that same determined glint in her eye. But that's another story entirely.
The years that followed were filled with moments like these - small, perfect instances where they continued to surprise each other. Daphne learned that Harry couldn't cook to save his life but made excellent tea. Harry discovered that Daphne had a secret passion for Muggle mystery novels and could quote entire passages from Agatha Christie. They fought about silly things (his inability to fold laundry properly, her insistence on alphabetizing their bookshelf by author's middle name) and serious ones (his tendency to take unnecessary risks at work, her family's ongoing disapproval).
They moved in together after a year, into a flat that was neither too grand nor too modest, with large windows and space for both his collection of Defense Against the Dark Arts books and her carefully tended magical herbs. They learned each other's habits and quirks - how he liked to fly at dawn when the world was still quiet, how she couldn't sleep without reading at least one chapter of whatever book she was currently devouring, how they both preferred orange juice with breakfast but never remembered to buy it.
And if sometimes Harry still woke up reaching for his wand, well, now there was someone there to hold him until the shadows passed. If sometimes Daphne felt the weight of her family's expectations pressing down on her, there was someone to remind her that she was more than the sum of their assumptions.
They weren't perfect - far from it. But they were perfectly imperfect together, and somehow that made all the difference.
Their first major fight came not over his dangerous job or her family's prejudices, but over a cat. Specifically, a rather ugly, battle-scarred orange cat that Harry brought home one rainy Tuesday evening.
"Absolutely not," Daphne said, staring at the creature that was currently leaving muddy pawprints on their freshly cleaned floors. "We agreed no pets until we'd properly settled in."
"We've been living together for eight months," Harry pointed out, running a hand through his rain-dampened hair. "That's pretty settled."
"That's not the point and you know it." She crossed her arms, trying to ignore the way the cat was now looking at her with its one good eye. "You can't just bring home strays without discussing it first."
"He was sitting outside the Ministry in the rain! What was I supposed to do, leave him there?"
"Yes! Or take him to a shelter, or find someone else to take him, or literally anything other than bringing him to our flat without asking me!"
The cat chose that moment to shake itself vigorously, spraying water and mud across their walls. Daphne made a sound of pure frustration and stormed into their bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
She was still fuming an hour later when Harry knocked softly. "Daph? Can I come in?"
"It's your bedroom too," she muttered, not looking up from the book she wasn't really reading.
He sat down beside her on the bed, careful to maintain some distance. "I'm sorry. You're right - I should have talked to you first. I just... he reminded me of Crookshanks, and I couldn't just leave him there."
Daphne finally looked at him, taking in his worried expression and genuinely remorseful eyes. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"So I've been told." He reached for her hand tentatively. "I'll find him another home tomorrow."
She sighed, already knowing she was going to regret what she was about to say. "No, you won't."
"What?"
"The cat can stay." She squeezed his hand. "But we're setting some ground rules. And you're cleaning up all those pawprints yourself. Without magic."
His face lit up with that boyish grin she could never quite resist. "Really?"
"Really. But next time you want to add to our household, we discuss it first. Deal?"
"Deal." He leaned in to kiss her, then pulled back suddenly. "Oh, I should probably mention... I may have already named him."
"Of course you have." She raised an eyebrow. "Do I want to know?"
"Sir Pawdington."
"...I'm revoking your naming privileges. Permanently."
The cat - eventually renamed Augustus by Daphne - became a fixture in their lives, as cats tend to do. He had a particular fondness for sleeping on Harry's case files and leaving fur all over Daphne's perfectly pressed robes, but he also had an uncanny ability to sense when either of them was having a bad day. On those occasions, he would curl up beside them, purring loudly until things felt a little more manageable.
It was Augustus who first alerted Harry that something was wrong. He came home one evening to find the cat sitting outside their bedroom door, meowing insistently. Inside, he found Daphne curled up on their bed, clutching a letter and trying very hard not to cry.
"My sister's getting married," she said before he could ask. "And I'm not invited."
Harry sat beside her, pulling her into his arms. "I'm sorry."
"It's not... I mean, I expected it. After everything." She pressed her face into his shoulder. "But she's my little sister, Harry. We used to tell each other everything. And now I'm not even allowed to see her get married because I chose you over their stupid pureblood ideals."
"Do you regret it?" he asked quietly, and she pulled back to look at him properly.
"Never," she said fiercely. "Not for a single second. I just... I wish they could understand. I wish they could see that love isn't about blood status or family names or any of that nonsense. It's about... it's about bringing home stray cats and making terrible sandwiches and knowing exactly how someone likes their tea."
Harry smiled softly. "My sandwiches aren't that terrible."
"They really are, love." But she was almost smiling now too. "Remember when you tried to make me lunch and somehow managed to burn the bread? You weren't even using magic!"
"That was one time!"
"One time too many." She looked down at the letter again, her smile fading. "I just miss her sometimes. Astoria. We used to play at planning our weddings when we were little. She always wanted a huge celebration with hundreds of guests. I wanted something smaller, more intimate."
Harry was quiet for a moment, then asked carefully, "What about now? What kind of wedding would you want now?"
Daphne went very still in his arms. "Harry Potter, are you proposing to me while I'm crying over my sister's wedding invitation that I didn't receive?"
"No! I mean, not exactly. I'm just... asking. Hypothetically."
She turned to face him fully. "Hypothetically?"
"Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair nervously. "I mean, hypothetically, if I were to propose - which I'm not, not right now, because you're upset and that would be taking advantage, and also because I don't have the ring with me since it's still being sized at the jeweler's and- oh bloody hell."
Daphne started laughing - real, genuine laughter that made her eyes crinkle at the corners in the way he loved. "You absolute disaster of a man. You've been planning to propose?"
"For weeks," he admitted sheepishly. "I had this whole thing planned with dinner at that Italian restaurant where we had our first date, and fairy lights, and I wasn't going to mess it up by blurting it out while you're crying about your sister, but-"
She kissed him, effectively cutting off his rambling. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright with tears again, but for an entirely different reason. "Yes."
"I haven't actually asked yet!"
"Don't care. Yes anyway." She kissed him again, then added, "And I want a small wedding. Just our closest friends. No Ministry officials, no press, no fancy robes."
"No dress robes at all?"
"Well, maybe one set. You do clean up rather nicely when you try." She smiled against his lips. "But I have one condition."
"Anything."
"You're not allowed to name any of our future children. I've seen how you name pets - I'm not risking it."
Harry laughed, pulling her closer. "Deal. Though I still think Sir Pawdington was a perfectly good name."
"It really wasn't." She settled against him, and Augustus chose that moment to jump onto the bed and curl up between them, purring loudly. "But I suppose I love you anyway."
"How generous of you."
"Isn't it just?"
They stayed like that for a while, planning their future in whispers and gentle touches, while outside their window, London continued its endless dance of light and shadow. The letter from Astoria lay forgotten on the floor, and if there were still tears in Daphne's eyes, well, they were happy ones now.
The next day, Harry picked up the ring - a delicate sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds, nothing too ostentatious but beautiful in its simplicity. He still insisted on doing the whole planned proposal, complete with dinner and fairy lights, and Daphne pretended to be surprised when he got down on one knee. She said yes again, of course, and they both pretended not to notice that he was crying a little when he slipped the ring onto her finger.
News of their engagement spread quickly through the Ministry, despite their best efforts to keep it quiet. The Prophet ran a front-page story speculating about everything from the date to the guest list to whether their children would be in Gryffindor or Slytherin. Daphne's parents sent a tersely worded letter expressing their "grave disappointment" in her choices. Harry's fans sent hundreds of owls with opinions about everything from wedding colors to honeymoon destinations.
They ignored it all and planned exactly the wedding they wanted.
It was held in late September, in the garden of a small cottage they'd recently purchased in the countryside. There were only thirty guests - their closest friends, the Weasleys (who had practically adopted Daphne after meeting her, much to her surprise), and a few chosen colleagues. Hermione officiated, Ron was best man, and Tracy Davis stood as Daphne's maid of honor. Augustus the cat watched the proceedings from a sunny windowsill, wearing a tiny bow tie that Harry had insisted on despite Daphne's protests.
They wrote their own vows - Harry's endearingly awkward but heartfelt, Daphne's elegant but punctuated with her characteristic dry humor. When they kissed, sparkles of magical light danced around them, courtesy of George Weasley's latest invention (tested extensively beforehand to ensure it wouldn't turn anyone's hair blue or make them speak in limericks).
The reception was simple but perfect - good food, better wine, and excellent company. They danced under the stars to Celestina Warbeck (a concession to Molly Weasley) and Muggle music (a concession to Harry's growing appreciation for it). When the Prophet's photographers tried to crash the party, they found themselves repeatedly redirected to a field three miles away, courtesy of some clever spellwork by Bill Weasley.
Later that night, after their guests had gone home and they were alone in their new cottage, Daphne turned to Harry and said, "I have something for you."
"Besides yourself, you mean?" he teased, but his expression softened when she pulled out a carefully wrapped package.
"I know we said no wedding gifts to each other, but..." She handed it to him, suddenly looking nervous. "Open it."
Inside was a photo album, but not just any photo album. On each page were pictures he'd never seen before - himself and Daphne at that first lunch in the Ministry cafeteria (taken secretly by Tracy), their first date at the Italian restaurant (courtesy of the owner, who'd become a friend), moments throughout their relationship captured by friends and family without them noticing.
"How did you...?"
"I had help," she admitted. "Lots of it. Turns out quite a few people have been rooting for us from the beginning." She turned to the last page, which was blank except for a single sentence written in her elegant hand: 'Chapter One: Complete. Ready to start Chapter Two?'
Harry looked at her, this wonderful, complicated woman who had spilled tea on his files and changed his life, and felt his heart might burst. "With you? Always."
And so began the next chapter of their story, written not in grand gestures or dramatic moments, but in the quiet spaces between heartbeats, in shared smiles and private jokes, in the simple, extraordinary act of choosing each other every single day.