Daphne Greengrass had always found solace in her family's greenhouse. While other pureblood families obsessed over their ancestral tapestries and dusty libraries, the Greengrasses took pride in their botanical legacy. Their greenhouse stretched the length of three Quidditch pitches, housing specimens from every corner of the magical world.
It was here, among the whispering leaves and shifting shadows, that Harry Potter first truly noticed her.
He hadn't meant to stumble into the greenhouse during his visit to the Ministry-mandated inter-house unity project. The war had ended six months ago, and the Ministry's latest attempt at healing involved pairing students in their last year from different houses for summer research projects. Harry had been assigned to work with Daphne on developing improvements to healing potions.
What he expected was the ice queen of Slytherin – the aloof, perfectly composed witch who barely spoke three words in class. What he found instead was a girl in muddy dragonhide boots, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows, carefully pruning a temperamental Singing Snapdragon.
"You're early, Potter," she said without turning around, her fingers deftly avoiding the plant's attempts to harmonize with her. "And you're letting in a draft."
Harry quickly shut the door behind him. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—" He paused, watching as she hummed softly to the plant, which gradually settled into a gentle swaying motion. "How did you know it was me?"
A slight smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Your footsteps. You walk like you're always ready to sprint into action. Most purebloods glide – it's drilled into us from childhood. You stomp around like a Gryffindor."
"I do not stomp," Harry protested, though he found himself suddenly very conscious of his feet.
"Of course not," Daphne agreed with mock seriousness. "You merely... enthusiastically embrace the ground with each step."
Harry couldn't help but laugh. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
"Indeed." She finally turned to face him, and Harry was struck by how different she looked outside of Hogwarts. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in a practical braid, a smudge of dirt decorated one cheek, and her eyes – a striking shade of amber – held an warmth he'd never noticed before. "Welcome to my domain, Potter. Try not to kill anything."
"Your confidence in me is overwhelming."
"Well, you did manage to keep a Mimbulus mimbletonia alive for several years, so perhaps there's hope." She gestured for him to follow her deeper into the greenhouse. "Though I should warn you – most of my plants are significantly more temperamental than Longbottom's pet cactus."
As they walked, Harry noticed that the plants seemed to react to Daphne's presence. Vines reached out to brush against her robes, flowers turned to follow her movement, and even the more dangerous specimens appeared to settle in her presence.
"They know you," he observed.
"Plants are more intelligent than most people give them credit for," she replied, pausing to stroke a quivering leaf. "They remember kindness, and they hold grudges. Rather like people in that way."
Harry thought about the way she'd stayed neutral during the war, neither joining Voldemort nor openly opposing him. At the time, many had criticized the Greengrasses for their stance. Now, seeing the careful way she tended to her plants, he wondered if there wasn't more strength in nurturing life than in taking it.
"Is that why you want to improve healing potions?" he asked. "Because you understand how to nurture things?"
Daphne's hands stilled on the plant. "Partially," she admitted. "But mostly because I'm tired of watching things die." She turned to face him fully. "We all lost too much in the war, Potter. Even those of us who tried to stay out of it."
"Harry," he corrected gently. "If we're going to be working together all summer, you might as well use my first name."
"Harry," she tested the name, and he found he liked the way it sounded in her precise pronunciation. "Then I suppose you should call me Daphne. Though if you use any ridiculous nicknames, I'll feed you to the Venomous Tentacula."
"Noted," Harry grinned. "No 'Daph' then?"
"Only if you wish to experience the joys of being plant fertilizer."
Their banter continued as Daphne showed him around the greenhouse, explaining their project. They would be working with a variety of healing plants, attempting to create more effective combinations for common medical potions. The work would be delicate, demanding, and potentially dangerous.
"This isn't going to be like Potions class," she warned him. "One mistake won't just melt a cauldron – it could have serious consequences."
"I'm better at Potions than I used to be," Harry defended himself. "Once I didn't have Snape breathing down my neck..."
"Yes, I noticed your improvement after you started using that mysterious textbook." Her tone was knowing, and Harry felt his cheeks heat up. "Don't worry, I'm not judging. Though I do hope you'll rely more on actual skill than borrowed shortcuts this time."
"The Half-Blood Prince's notes taught me more about Potions theory than six years of classes," Harry pointed out. "Sometimes shortcuts are just more efficient paths to understanding."
Daphne considered this, absently tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Perhaps," she conceded. "But there's value in understanding the traditional methods before you start experimenting with alternatives. It's like these plants – you need to know their natural properties before you can successfully combine them into something new."
As she spoke, she led him to a workbench surrounded by various plants in different stages of growth. The surface was meticulously organized, with labeled containers, precise measuring tools, and carefully maintained notes.
"This will be our primary workspace," she explained. "I've already started some preliminary research on the interactions between Dittany and Wiggentree bark when combined with various catalysts."
Harry examined her notes, impressed by the detailed observations and methodical approach. "This is brilliant," he said honestly. "You've already identified three potential new combinations."
A faint blush colored her cheeks at the praise. "Yes, well, this is something of a passion project. The standard healing potions are effective, but they could be so much better. More targeted, fewer side effects, faster acting..."
Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Harry found himself drawn into her explanations of various properties and potential improvements. She spoke about plants the way Hermione talked about books – with deep knowledge and genuine excitement.
As the weeks passed, they fell into a comfortable routine. Mornings were spent tending to the plants they were studying, afternoons devoted to careful experimentation, and evenings filled with analysis and discussion of their findings. To Harry's surprise, he found himself looking forward to their time together.
Daphne was nothing like the cold, distant figure he'd known at Hogwarts. Oh, she could still cut with her words when she chose to, but her sharp wit was tempered by a dry humor that never failed to make him laugh. She was passionate about her work, fiercely intelligent, and possessed a quiet kind of courage that showed itself in small ways – like the time she stepped between Harry and an agitated Venomous Tentacula without hesitation.
"Your saving people thing is contagious," she'd complained afterward, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. "I used to be quite sensible before you came along."
"Throwing yourself in front of dangerous plants is sensible?" Harry teased.
"More sensible than your usual method of charging headlong into danger and hoping for the best."
"Hey, that method has worked out pretty well so far."
"You died, Potter."
"Only temporarily!"
Their laughter echoed through the greenhouse, causing several nearby plants to perk up in interest. Harry found himself watching Daphne more and more in these moments – the way her nose crinkled when she smiled, how her hands moved gracefully even when doing the most mundane tasks, the subtle changes in her expression that he was learning to read.
One particularly warm afternoon, they were working with a temperamental batch of Singing Snapdragons, trying to modify their properties to create a more effective throat-healing potion. The plants were being especially difficult, refusing to harmonize properly.
"They're just like you," Daphne muttered, trying to coax one particularly stubborn specimen into cooperation. "Absolutely refusing to follow the proper procedures."
"I follow procedures!" Harry protested. When she raised an eyebrow, he amended, "Sometimes. When they make sense."
"Ah yes, how could I forget your sophisticated decision-making process of 'jump first, think later'?"
"It's more like 'assess the situation quickly and act decisively,'" Harry corrected with dignity.
"Is that what you call it?" Daphne's voice was dry as desert sand. "And here I thought it was just Gryffindor recklessness with a dash of heroic chaos."
"You know," Harry said thoughtfully, "for someone who claims to disapprove of my methods, you seem to have spent a lot of time analyzing them."
The faintest hint of pink touched Daphne's cheeks. "Know thy enemy, Potter."
"Oh, so I'm your enemy now?"
"You're my project partner who seems determined to give me grey hairs before I'm twenty."
"I think you'd look distinguished with grey hair," Harry said without thinking, then immediately felt his face heat up.
Daphne's hands stilled on the plant she was tending. "Distinguished?" she repeated, and there was something in her voice he couldn't quite read. "That's... not typically how most boys try to compliment a girl, Potter."
"Well, I'm not most boys," Harry said, trying to recover some dignity. "And you're certainly not most girls."
"No," she agreed softly. "I suppose neither of us is particularly typical." She was quiet for a moment, then added, "Though if you're trying to flirt, you might want to stick to more traditional compliments. Distinguished grey hair is perhaps a bit too forward-thinking."
Harry's heart did a peculiar flip in his chest. "Was I? Trying to flirt, I mean?"
Daphne finally looked up at him, her amber eyes holding a mixture of amusement and something else – something warmer. "Were you?"
It was a perfect opening for Harry to laugh it off, to steer them back to safer ground. Instead, he found himself saying, "Maybe I was. Would that be okay?"
The Singing Snapdragon between them chose that moment to burst into what sounded suspiciously like a love ballad. Daphne quickly silenced it with a gentle touch, but her cheeks were definitely pink now.
"I suppose," she said carefully, "that would depend on your intentions, Potter."
"Harry," he corrected automatically. "And my intentions..." He paused, gathering his courage. "My intentions are to get to know you better. The real you, not the ice queen everyone thinks they know. Because I think... I think you're rather extraordinary."
Daphne was quiet for so long that Harry began to worry he'd completely misread the situation. But then she said, very softly, "That was a much better compliment than the grey hair one."
Relief and joy bubbled up in Harry's chest. "I'm learning."
"Yes," she agreed, and this time her smile was unreserved. "You are."
From that day forward, their work was interspersed with more personal conversations. Harry learned about Daphne's childhood dreams of becoming a magical botanist, her close relationship with her younger sister Astoria, and her secret love of Muggle mystery novels. In turn, he shared stories about his life that he'd never told anyone else – not the grand adventures everyone knew about, but the small moments that had shaped him.
They worked well together, their different approaches complementing each other perfectly. Where Daphne was methodical and precise, Harry brought intuition and creativity. Their healing potion project progressed rapidly, producing results that exceeded even their optimistic expectations.
But it was the quiet moments that Harry treasured most – watching Daphne coax a reluctant plant into blooming, seeing her face light up when an experiment succeeded, hearing her laugh at his terrible attempts at botanical puns.
One evening, as they were finishing up their work for the day, Daphne asked, "Do you know about the language of flowers, Harry?"
"Er, not really," he admitted. "Is it like a secret code?"
"In a way." She moved through the greenhouse, selecting specific blooms with careful precision. "In Victorian times, people used flowers to convey messages they couldn't speak aloud. Each flower had a meaning."
She handed him a small purple flower. "Heliotrope – eternal love and devotion." A white bloom followed. "Gardenia – secret love." Finally, a deep red rose. "This one I think you know."
Harry looked at the small bouquet in his hands, his heart racing. "Daphne..."
"I'm not very good at saying certain things," she said quietly. "Words don't come easily to me, not for this. But plants... plants I understand."
Harry set the flowers carefully aside and stepped closer to her. "I think I'm starting to understand them too," he said softly. "And you."
When he kissed her, she tasted like sunshine and green things growing. Around them, the Singing Snapdragons burst into joyful chorus, and for once, Daphne didn't silence them.
The kiss was brief – gentle, almost tentative – but it changed everything and nothing at all. When they pulled apart, Daphne's cheeks were flushed, but her eyes were clear and steady.
"Well," she said softly, "I suppose that answers my question about your intentions."
Harry couldn't help but smile. "Was I clear enough, or should I try again?"
"Careful, Potter," she warned, though her lips twitched. "One might think you're getting cocky."
"Never," he assured her, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Just... happy."
The moment was broken by a particularly enthusiastic Singing Snapdragon launching into what sounded suspiciously like a wedding march. Daphne groaned and finally silenced the overexcited plant with a gentle touch.
"They're worse than gossips," Daphne muttered, but her eyes were bright with amusement. "Though I suppose there are worse things than being serenaded by overenthusiastic flora."
"Like being fed to the Venomous Tentacula?" Harry suggested innocently.
"Don't tempt me, Potter." But she reached for his hand anyway, her fingers intertwining with his. "This... complicates things."
"Does it have to?"
Daphne gave him a look that clearly questioned his intelligence. "We still have a project to complete. One that requires focus, precision, and absolutely no distractions from scar-headed Gryffindors with questionable self-preservation instincts."
"I can be professional," Harry protested. When she raised an eyebrow, he amended, "Mostly professional. Sometimes."
"Merlin help me," she sighed, but her thumb was stroking small circles on his palm. "We need rules."
"Of course we do."
"I'm serious, Harry. This project is important. We can't let... whatever this is interfere."
"Whatever this is?" He tugged her closer, enjoying the way her breath caught slightly. "Very scientific terminology there, Ms. Greengrass."
"Shut up," she muttered, a rare blush coloring her cheeks. "You know what I mean."
"I do," he agreed more seriously. "And you're right – the project comes first. But..." He lifted their joined hands. "This matters too."
Daphne was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Work hours are for work," she declared. "No... distractions."
"And after work hours?"
A small smile played at her lips. "We can negotiate terms."
The following weeks proved challenging for their newfound resolution. Especially when Daphne would get that intense look of concentration while working on calculations, or when Harry's hands would brush against hers while tending the plants.
"That's the third time you've measured that ingredient," Daphne pointed out one afternoon.
"Maybe I just want to be thorough."
"Maybe you're distracted by something?"
"Someone," Harry corrected without thinking. "And you're one to talk – you've been staring at the same page of notes for ten minutes."
"I have not!" But her cheeks were pink. "I'm... analyzing the data."
"Of course you are."
Their bickering continued, but it had taken on a new dimension – softer around the edges, warm with shared understanding. Even their disagreements felt different.
"You can't just add another ingredient because you have a 'good feeling' about it!" Daphne exclaimed during one particularly heated discussion.
"Why not? Some of the best discoveries happen by accident!"
"Some of the worst explosions too!" She ran a frustrated hand through her hair, dislodging several strands from her usually neat braid. "There are procedures, Potter. Methods. Ways to test things safely."
"But that could take weeks," Harry argued. "I really think if we just—"
"No." Her voice was firm. "I'm not letting you risk yourself because you're too impatient to do proper testing."
Harry opened his mouth to argue further, then caught the expression in her eyes. Behind the frustration was genuine concern.
"Okay," he said quietly. "We'll do it your way."
She blinked, clearly having expected more resistance. "Really?"
"Really." He stepped closer, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You're the expert here. And... maybe I could stand to be a little more careful sometimes."
"Did that physically pain you to admit?"
"Terribly. I might need one of our healing potions to recover."
But they both knew something important had shifted – a small acknowledgment that they could learn from each other, adapt for each other, without losing who they were.
The end of summer approached too quickly. Their project was succeeding beyond expectations, but neither wanted to discuss what would come next. Until one evening, as they were cleaning up their workstation...
"I'm not taking the Auror position," Harry said suddenly.
Daphne's hands stilled on the vials she was organizing. "Oh?"
"Yeah. I... I think I want to do something different. Something that creates instead of fights."
"The Chosen One choosing his own path?" Her tone was light, but her eyes were understanding. "How revolutionary."
"Terribly scandalous," he agreed. "Almost as scandalous as the ice queen of Slytherin dating a reckless Gryffindor."
"Dating, are we?" She turned to face him fully. "I don't recall that being officially established."
"Would you like me to establish it officially? Perhaps with another flower message? I'm sure the Snapdragons would be happy to provide musical accompaniment."
"Don't you dare," but she was fighting a smile. "Besides, your flower knowledge is still atrocious. Last week you tried to tell me dandelions meant 'eternal devotion.'"
"They're persistent little things! It seemed logical."
"They're weeds, Potter."
"Resilient flowers," he corrected, pulling her closer. "Just like a certain Slytherin I know."
"Comparing me to weeds now? Your romantic overtures need serious work."
"Good thing we have time for me to practice."
Years later, their friends would ask how they made it work – the Chosen One and the ice queen, the Gryffindor and the Slytherin. They never had a perfect answer. Sometimes they still argued about proper experimental procedures. Sometimes Harry still rushed into things without thinking, and Daphne still retreated behind walls when things got too intense.
But in the greenhouse where it all began, now expanded to accommodate their joint research projects, they had built something real and lasting. Not perfect, but perfectly theirs.
"You're thinking too loud," Daphne murmured one evening, not looking up from her notes.
"Just appreciating the view," Harry replied from his spot by the workbench.
"Liar. You've got that 'deep thoughts' furrow between your eyes."
"Have I mentioned how disturbing it is that you can see me without looking at me?"
"Several times." Now she did look up, her amber eyes warm with amusement and understanding. "Want to talk about it?"
"Just thinking about us. How we got here."
"Ah." She set down her quill. "Having regrets about not becoming an Auror?"
"Never." He moved to stand behind her chair, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "Though I do sometimes miss your ice queen persona. Very intimidating. Very sexy."
She elbowed him gently. "I can still be intimidating when necessary."
"Trust me, love, I'm well aware. You made three interns cry last week."
"They were mishandling the Venomous Tentacula!"
"My point exactly." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Never change."
"Wasn't planning to." She leaned back against him, her voice softening. "Though you seem to bring out my more... amenable side."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"Shut up, Potter."
Some things, after all, never changed. And neither of them would want them to.