"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
Oliver Wood didn't say it out loud, not while the Ministry official handed him the envelope with a bland smile and a speech about "unity" and "healing post-war fractures." He just nodded, took the parchment, and walked out like the obedient soldier he was supposed to be.
The moment he reached the empty corridor, he tore it open.
Assigned Partner: Daphne Alexandra Greengrass.
He blinked once. Twice.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he said again, louder this time.
It felt like taking a Bludger to the head. Not that he'd ever admit how many times that had happened. Out of every witch they could've chosen, daughters of old families, quiet half-bloods who wouldn't cause a scandal, they had picked her.
Daphne bloody Greengrass.
At Hogwarts she'd been all ice and precision, gliding through the corridors in emerald and silver, voice calm, expression unreadable. A phantom wrapped in silk. Untouchable. Unbothered.
And now she was supposed to be his wife?
He let his head fall back against the wall and groaned.
Behind him, someone snorted. "You alright, mate? You look like you've seen a Dementor."
Oliver turned. Cormac McLaggen was strolling by, eyebrows raised.
"Ministry match-up," Oliver said, waving the letter.
"Oh. Got someone rough?" Cormac smirked. "Please tell me she's got a temper."
"Greengrass."
"Which one?"
"The cold one."
Cormac whistled. "Good luck melting that."
---
Wiltshire
The morning fog shimmered faintly, the old wards around the Greengrass estate humming like quiet sentinels beneath the frost.
Daphne held the same parchment in her hand, though she already knew what it said. Her father had told her over breakfast, tone clipped as ever.
Oliver Wood.
The Gryffindor Quidditch captain. Loud. Overconfident. Always laughing, always shouting, always patting someone on the back. More than once she'd imagined casting a Silencing Charm on him and throwing him into the lake.
She broke the wax seal just to be sure.
Assigned Partner: Oliver S. Wood.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she exhaled slowly through her nose, exactly as Madame Rosier had taught her in etiquette lessons.
Behind her, footsteps padded across the carpet.
"What's wrong with your face?" Astoria dropped onto the sofa with the grace of a Niffler in a jewelry shop.
"Nothing's wrong," Daphne said.
"Liar, your eyebrow's doing that twitchy thing."
"I'm getting married."
Astoria sat bolt upright. "Wait, what?"
"The Ministry sent the assignments."
Astoria snatched the envelope, read it, and nearly choked laughing. "Oliver Wood? The Gryffindor? The Quidditch gorilla?"
"He's the national team coach now."
"Oh, brilliant. You can talk about broomsticks and sweaty uniforms over dinner."
"Astoria."
"What? I'm just saying, imagine the wedding night. He probably thinks foreplay is doing push-ups over your head."
"I am not discussing this with you."
"You should. You'll need emotional support. Maybe a helmet."
Daphne didn't answer. Silence was safer. But somewhere under the frost there was a flicker of heat, not dread, not curiosity exactly, just something she didn't want to name.
---
Three days later she stepped into the Ministry with her chin high and her spine straight as a wand.
The torches along the corridor burned with steady blue fire, charmed never to smoke, their light too clean to feel human.
The hallway to the Department of Magical Integration was empty except for the echo of her heels on marble and the whisper of her emerald robes. A pair of interns looked up as she passed, maybe recognizing her, maybe just sensing danger.
She never smiled in public.
The waiting room was sterile, white walls, levitating quills, the faint hum of spells recording everything. The Ministry called it order. She called it surveillance.
She chose the chair furthest from the door, crossed her legs, folded her hands in her lap.
Five minutes. Seven.
Then the door flew open.
Oliver Wood.
Late, of course.
All wind and motion and heat. Jacket half-open, grey henley stretched across his chest, hair damp as if he'd flown straight from practice. His boots hit the floor hard. He spotted her, and grinned.
"Merlin. You're real. I half-thought the Ministry was taking the piss."
"You're late," she said.
"Fashionably."
"You look like you dressed in a broom closet."
"I did. Double training session. Real life. You should try it."
Her eyes travelled from his boots to his face. "You reek of sweat and mediocrity."
"And you smell like expensive boredom."
Their gazes locked, steel and fire. Neither blinked.
"I'll take that as a compliment," she said.
"You should. Boring's better than unbearable."
The Ministry liaison appeared then, nervous and apologetic.
"Ah, Miss Greengrass, Mr. Wood, thank you for coming."
Daphne rose, graceful as always. Oliver followed, all loose confidence. They were led into a small round room, parchment floating overhead.
"We're here to review the official bonding process," the man stammered. "You've both been selected for the Post-War Unification Marriages. Your compatibility percentage is… statistically viable."
"Viable," Oliver repeated. "How romantic."
The liaison flushed. "Your wedding date has been set. And, per Ministry regulation, the marriage must be consummated by the wedding night to be binding."
Daphne didn't react. Oliver lifted a brow.
"Didn't realize there'd be performance pressure."
"There's also a clause on cohabitation for six months and…"
"Skip to the end," Daphne cut in. "We understand."
"Of course. You'll receive the rest by owl this week. If you require mediation or counseling…"
"We won't," they said together.
He nodded, relieved, and hurried out.
Silence settled again, sharp enough to feel.
Oliver leaned back, arms crossed. "You know, I always thought I'd marry someone with a sense of humour."
"And I thought I'd never marry at all."
"You really hate this, don't you?"
"I don't hate the marriage. I hate the lack of choice."
"Welcome to the club."
She stood. He did too, close enough to block her path but not enough to start a fight.
"I suppose I'll be seeing you," she said.
"You suppose right."
At the door she paused, her tone calm, cutting.
"Try not to embarrass yourself before the wedding. It'd be a shame if my groom turned up with a broken nose."
"Why? Planning to hex me at the altar?"
One raised eyebrow. No answer. Then she was gone.
He let out a low whistle. "This is going to be bloody fun."
As he turned to leave, he flexed his fingers, an old habit from the pitch. Much later, Daphne would catch herself doing the same.
The runes carved into the lift's frame pulsed once as the doors closed, a charm confirming her identity before letting her descend.
Inside, her reflection in the gold panel was flawless, skin pale, posture perfect, but her chest felt tight. Her pulse fluttered high in her throat.
Oliver Wood.
Of all the wizards in the world, they had given her him.
Loud. Unrefined. Dangerous in a way that wasn't obvious, not darkness, but life. The kind that stripped away control.
It wasn't the marriage that frightened her,
it was the part of herself that didn't hate the idea.
For one awful moment she'd felt heat when he smiled, the kind that burned through discipline and pride.
She closed her eyes, hating herself for it, for the way he filled a room, for the way she noticed.
He was too alive,
and she'd spent years learning not to be.