The last place Daphne expected to find herself was the back hallway of a Quidditch stadium.
It smelled of grass and sweat and something unmistakably male. The walls shook faintly with the roar of brooms and the shouts from the pitch. Somewhere, a whistle cut through a curse. Typical.
A shimmer of wards hung in the air, the kind that kept stray Bludgers from turning spectators into headlines.
Her heels clicked against the concrete, sharp and steady, as she followed the signs toward the National Team's training wing. Her father had arranged the visit, of course, good optics for the soon-to-be Mrs Wood. She almost laughed at the phrase.
It had been years since she'd stepped anywhere that wasn't marble-polished or perfumed with rosewater. The noise, the warmth, the sheer lack of ceremony... it all felt like another world. One where control meant nothing. One where chaos breathed.
She hated chaos, almost as much as what it did to her.
The door to the weight room creaked open... and there he was.
Oliver Wood. Black training shirt soaked through, muscles flexed around a barbell mid-rep. Hair damp, eyes focused, breath held tight between his teeth. For a second, Daphne simply stood there, pulse unsteady.
He looked powerful. Effortlessly masculine. And impossibly smug.
He caught her reflection in the mirror, a quick curl of his mouth before lowering the weights with a solid clang.
"Well, well," he said. "Didn't think I'd ever see you willingly in a place where people actually work."
She moved a step forward, chin lifted. "I had ten minutes to spare. Thought I'd see what you do with your talent."
He wiped his hands on a towel, slung it over his shoulder.
"Trying to get used to the smell of sweat before the honeymoon?"
"You assume we'll make it to the honeymoon."
"Oh, darling," he murmured, "the Ministry insists."
She crossed her arms, silk brushing softly as she moved.
"That's what I came to talk about."
He blinked. "If you're about to ask me to elope, I'm flattered, but..."
"Stop," her tone sliced through the air, "this isn't a joke."
"That's what makes it funny."
She closed the distance between them. Her eyes stayed cold.
"I don't need you. I don't want you. But the Ministry's made its choice, and I'd rather not be trapped in a bed with a stranger because of a legal clause."
Clause 4 flickered through her mind, the ridiculous requirement about consummation. Bureaucracy disguised as morality.
Oliver tilted his head. "So...?"
"So maybe we deal with it before the wedding."
He stared. "Are you suggesting we...?"
"Yes. One night. No expectations. No pressure. No... complications."
Silence stretched.
Then his laugh broke it, low, full, infuriating.
"You really are something else. You want to get the sex over with before the vows, just so it's not awkward on the wedding night?"
"I want control," she said evenly, "you should understand that."
Her voice didn't waver, but a part of her recoiled at the truth in it.
He studied her, eyes dark and steady, then stepped closer, close enough for her heartbeat to trip.
"You know this will happen anyway," he said, "we could wait, do it under white sheets with enchanted candles and Ministry seals on the headboard..."
His mouth brushed the air beside her ear.
"Or we do it our way."
She swallowed and stepped back. "I'll pick the place."
"Of course you will." He didn't move, but his voice followed her as she turned.
"You're not doing this just for control."
She froze mid-stride.
"I know your type," he said, "you don't give up power unless you already have a plan to take it back. So tell me..."
She looked over her shoulder, expression calm, voice quiet. "Tell you what?"
He took a slow step forward.
"Is this really about avoiding pressure? Or are you just curious what it would be like?"
Her laugh cut through the space, low, sharp.
"Trust me. I've imagined it. It didn't impress."
"That sounds suspiciously like you have thought about it."
Heat uncoiled low in her spine. She hated how alive her skin felt under the robe.
"I imagine a lot of things. Doesn't mean I want them."
"Really? Because the way you watched me lift that barbell said otherwise."
She closed the distance again, deliberate, until they were face to face. Her eyes flicked to his mouth for a fraction of a second, then back up, steady and defiant.
"You're not nearly as charming as you think."
"And you're not nearly as unaffected."
Their gazes locked.
"I grew up surrounded by people who tried to rattle me. You don't scare me, Oliver."
"I'm not trying to scare you, princess," his voice dropped, almost gentle, "I just want to ruin you a little."
The words landed between them, not painful, but dizzying. Her chest tightened, her breath hitched.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she whispered. "To see me undone."
"I think you want to be undone. You just don't trust anyone to do it right."
---
Flashback – Hogwarts, Seventh Year
She'd caught him once, sneaking in after hours through a Quidditch-gear passage no student should've known. Drenched, shirt clinging to him, dragging his broom like a boy who didn't know when to stop.
She hadn't spoken. Just crossed her arms and watched him.
"You'll lose house points."
He'd raised a brow. "You gonna turn me in, Greengrass?"
A pause. Then, "You're not worth the paperwork."
But her eyes had lingered a little too long on the water sliding down his neck, and his grin told her he'd noticed.
She left first. She always did.
That night she dreamt of callused hands and crooked smiles, and woke hating herself for it.
---
Back in the training room, Daphne folded her arms again.
"Fine. You want honesty? Here it is, I don't want to go into my wedding night wondering if you'll fumble with my robes like a drunk seventh-year."
He chuckled. "So this is charity work now?"
"It's efficiency."
"You're all about efficiency, huh?"
"You'd be surprised how many problems disappear once people stop pretending sex is sacred."
There it was, that flicker in his eyes. Not offence. Not shock. Something darker.
Interest. Hunger.
"You're stone-cold."
"I'm practical."
"You're scared."
"No. You are."
He stepped closer.
"Scared of what?"
"That after one night, I won't want to do it again."
She hadn't meant to say it, not out loud, not with that much truth. But it was there, naked and final.
The air thickened. A single heartbeat stretched long.
He reached up, brushed a strand of hair from her shoulder. His fingers lingered, testing her silence.
"Challenge accepted."
They didn't need parchment or spells, the agreement was already sealed, in their stare, in the pulse between them.
"I'll owl you," she said, turning away.
"Don't bother. I'll come to you."
Above the pitch, a broom streaked past the skylight, leaving a faint trail of gold sparks, punctuation on his promise.
She stopped at the door, looked back once.
"You really think you can handle me?"
Oliver's smile was slow, certain.
"No. But I plan to enjoy every second of trying."
And Merlin help her, part of her, deep and furious, hoped he meant it.
Because if he did, he could break something she hadn't even admitted was still whole.