Here is my oneshot entry for the M&MWP Competition with the pairing Daphne/Lee. Credit goes to Mew & Mor, of course, and JKR for Harry Potter.

I've actually kind of fallen in love with this pairing, so I hope this came out alright. Also, thanks to Mew for allowing me to have this a little over the word limit. It's about 3,300 words, just ignore what ffn says, as line breaks also count as words and stuff. :3

part i: composure

i am gonna breathe slow

count from one to ten with my eyes closed

'cause ladies take it in and get composure

ladies never lose composure

– breathe slow, alesha dixon

The sharp sound of her high heels echoes against the cold, polished floor. If there were one word to describe her appearance, it would be precise. Not a hair is out of place, not a bit of lipstick is smudged or missing from one small area of her lips. Each eyelash stands out. She has an air of precision and perfection, so as that from one look at Daphne Greengrass, you would not guess that she was broken. Perhaps broken is not the best way to describe her, for when something is broken, there are cracks. Yet there are no cracks in her appearance, her composure or anything, to be perfectly honest. Anyone looking at her would see her as absolutely flawless, and yet, to everybody who knows, she is not.

The office of the Daily Prophet is the last place she wants to be, and, yet, she is there, striding through the hallways like her pain means nothing, absolutely nothing. After all, she still has to work, doesn't she?

Journalism was not her parents' first choice for her career, yet Daphne always maintains that they have absolutely no choice in the matter. She's posh, yes, and journalism doesn't mean she has to be common, not at all. No, she's a high profile Journalist, thank you very much, not a scrawny kid, just out of Hogwarts, trying to find money to pay for their next take-away.

She's not surprised to find a blonde woman in a lime green dress waiting for her when she arrives and so she successfully manages to keep the scowl off her face. Composure, Daphne, she reminds herself, always composure.

"Miss Skeeter," Daphne addresses her calmly.

"Greengrass," Rita Skeeter replies, holding her Quick Quotes Quill calmly, stopping it from writing an undoubtedly nasty report. "You're reporting on a Quidditch match today,"

Composure, Daphne, she reminds herself, always composure. "Excuse me; I haven't been to a Quidditch match for almost ten years now. I thought I'd moved past that."

Daphne spots the slightest sign of a smirk upon Rita's face, and does her best not to scowl back at her. "Well, Miss Greengrass," she takes her time on the Miss, as if scolding her for not yet being married. Daphne resists the urge to yell at her for being a hypocrite.

"I wouldn't have thought that someone who has taken advantage of our sick leave system for over a week now would be getting fussy about what they're reporting on."

Composure, Daphne, she thinks, biting back a witty remark, knowing that she's close to getting fired. It's not fair, she thinks, gritting her teeth. One week of absence and then she's close to losing her job. Daphne smiles a sickly sweet smile—she knows that Rita Skeeter can tell she faked sick for a week.

"Where is the match?" she asks, pretending like everything is okay.

"I knew you'd come around, Miss Greengrass," Rita replies, smiling a smile that is anything but sincere, with a smirk almost coming to the surface.

Daphne resists the urge to say 'fuck you'.

.

She arrives at the match, and she could kill someone. Quidditch has never been her favourite thing, to put it lightly, and she isn't looking forwards to observing the match and writing a report on it. She's even angrier at the fact that the report will most likely be cut, seeing as the current Editor of the Daily Prophet is also not too keen on Quidditch.

Observing the crowd, she takes a seat beside a dark-skinned man, sporting dreadlocks. She holds back a noise of disgust—everybody knows that dreadlocks are dirty, and Daphne has the highest respect for self-hygiene. He's staring at the Commentator's box with something that looks suspiciously like pain and, although Daphne is disapproving of his appearance, she can't help but wonder why he looks so sad. She's a Slytherin, so she wonders why she's so drawn to this man, with pain in his eyes. Compassion is something she has no idea about, or at least, she didn't. Daphne wonders if things have changed. She concludes that they probably have.

The board scrawls across the names of the two Quidditch teams, reminding Daphne of who is actually playing. It's the Wimbourne Wasps versus the Appleby Arrows and even Daphne knows that they have a long-standing rivalry with each other. She sits back in her seat, allowing herself to acknowledge that the game could be interesting.

The voice of the Commentator fills the pitch and Daphne can see the man next to her stiffening in his seat, a scowl spreading across his face. From the lines on his face, it looks as if he's laughed a lot and yet, in that moment, it doesn't seem as if he's ever laughed at all. Perhaps the lines are from crying, and yet, somehow, Daphne can't imagine the scowling man ever shedding a single tear. Somehow, he doesn't look like scowling is a familiar thing to him.

She wonders if she could possibly talk to him. Perhaps it might be handy for her report, to have a spectator's point of view. She knows that she's kidding herself, saying that she wants to talk to him for the report. She's always been inquisitive, trying to solve every mystery, or perhaps it's just that she can't bear to see another person with so much pain in their eyes. Perhaps it's just that she loves a story. She concludes that it's probably the latter.

Composure, Daphne, she reminds herself. So, for a while, she forgets about the mysterious man sitting next to her, and allows herself to watch the match.

.

The Appleby Arrows win by a margin of one hundred points, which was a lucky escape, with their Seeker catching the snitch just seconds before the opposing team got there first. Half of the crowd rises, cheering, as soon as the snitch is caught, and it is only Daphne and the mysterious man on her side of the pitch that do not move. Perhaps the mysterious man supports the Wimbourne Wasps, but Daphne isn't so sure. He seems more fixed on the Commentator, scowling every time he speaks. Daphne wonders if he knows the man.

She wishes that she had the courage to talk to him, to speak up, perhaps ask him what the matter is, but she's never been brave, not in the slightest. He looks so sad and she's worried for him, which is strange, because she's never really worried about someone she doesn't know before.

She's never exactly been heartless, no; she's not what all Slytherins are made out to be, thank you very much. It's more that she is selective about who she cares about—she doesn't care about any old idiot. They have to matter. There has to be something there and, yeah, she hardly knows the guy, but there's something in his eyes that makes her want to know more.

"Hello?" she says, as she plucks up the courage to speak to him, tapping him on the shoulder.

He turns around and Daphne tries not to stare. There's something so wonderful about this man. It's not attraction, per se, she just feels... drawn to him. Like she can't pull away, no matter how hard she tries. Suddenly, the dreadlocks don't seem to matter—it's only him, and those eyes that she's trying to read. She's intrigued, but she's Daphne; she has composure and so she keeps a neutral expression on her face, waiting for a reply.

"Yeah?" the man replies, looking as if he really isn't up to talking to anyone.

"I'm Daphne Greengrass, from the Daily Prophet," she begins, "Reporting on this match, I was hoping to get some spectator's exclusives."

She leaves out the part where she specifies that she doesn't really want to talk to people who are watching the match. She only wants to talk to him.

He sighs. "Sure. Although, you'd be much better off with someone who isn't blatantly biased towards the commentator."

Daphne leans forward, so close to the man that she can see every detail in his face. "Now that sounds like a story," she whispers.

"Oh, it is," the man replies. "I'm Lee, by the way."

"Oh." Daphne replies, slightly beginning to recognise him from Hogwarts, "So you are."

She pauses for a moment, and then continues. "Coffee?" she asks.

"Like a date?" Lee replies jokingly.

"Like an interview," Daphne says dryly.

Lee sighs. "Of course. Like an interview."

.

She takes him to a small Wizarding Coffee shop, owned by the two Patil sisters, and she takes him to a table close to the door. She's not entirely sure what she's doing, but, then again, she hasn't been at all sure of what she's doing since she lost Blaise.

She chokes—she hasn't thought that name for a while. At least, not in the front of her mind. She can't escape from that name—there's a section of her brain permanently reminding her of Blaise, playing everything over and over again and Daphne can't escape.

Snapping back to the present, she notes Lee staring at her expectantly, and she draws out her notebook and her quill. She writes her own articles, choosing not to resort to magical methods. She doesn't know how anyone can claim to be a journalist and have a magical quill write an article for them.

She thinks of asking him what his story is, but she can't think of a line that is any more cliché than that, and she tries to avoid clichés. Thing is, she hates repeats.

"Why were you glaring at the Commentator's box throughout the entire game?" she asks.

Lee looks up from his coffee, "Was it really that obvious?"

"If looks could kill, you'd be in Azkaban," Daphne replies, smirking.

"He took my job," Lee tells her. "I got fired. Maybe it was my fault, it was just…"

"Just what?" Daphne asks, probing for information.

"Is this all going in the Prophet?"

"Salazar, no!" Daphne exclaims.

Lee sighs, his hands tightly clamped around his mug. "Are you really talking to me for the Prophet, or is there something more?"

"I collect stories, Lee. Not just for my job," Daphne begins. "That's why I'm a journalist. Stories fascinate me. Not fiction, but real life stories. I can't understand why people need fiction when the world is so vast."

"Perhaps that's the very thing they're trying to escape from," Lee notes, and Daphne frowns. It suddenly occurs to her just how crazy it is, sitting with a man who's almost a stranger, talking about herself as though they've known each other for years.

"This wasn't a good idea," Daphne says, drawing back her chair. Composure, Daphne, she reminds herself. She stops for a moment, before walking out of the coffee shop, leaving Lee behind.

She suddenly realises something. The voice that speaks of composure isn't just a random voice. It's the voice of her arch-enemy—Blaise's new wife. Pansy Parkinson.

.

Daphne tip toes into Blaise's house, hoping to surprise him. She hasn't seen him for a few days—he's been away on another business trip. Daphne hates it when he leaves, but she doesn't show it at all. A bottle of champagne is held firmly as she waltzes in, hoping he can find a few spare glasses somewhere.

"Blaise?" she calls out.

She hears a flurry of whispered voices and her hand tightens around the bottle of champagne. Walking towards Blaise's bedroom door, her breath catches in her throat and she feels as if her heart stops for a moment to allow the rest of her body to catch up. She glances down at her engagement ring, before telling herself that's it's probably nothing. He'll have the Wizarding Wireless Network on or something. She leans in closer to determine the voices before she goes in.

"..Blaise, she's here, I have to get out."

"Climb through the window!"

A pause. "I can't! I'll break my heels."

"Get out!"

"Can't we just tell her? She didn't really think she could keep you, did she?"

A sigh. "Pansy, we can't."

The bottle of champagne drops from Daphne's hand; the crash evident to both of the people in the bedroom. Daphne doesn't even notice the golden liquid leaking all over her shoes. She just stands by the door in shock.

Pansy Parkinson, her supposed best friend. Her supposed best friend is sleeping with her fiancé.

The door creaks open and Blaise's familiar face shows through a crack.

"Get some trousers on," Daphne sneers at him, pretending that her heart hasn't broken into a million tiny pieces.

He disappears for a moment and Daphne does not drop her composure. She slipped for a moment when she dropped the champagne, but she can't make a mistake now. Daphne Greengrass never fucks up, and today is no exception—the fact that she's just caught her fiancé cheating on her makes no difference.

Pansy comes out from behind the door, a tight-lipped smile on her face. Daphne glares at her.

"You whore," Daphne hisses.

Pansy laughs. "You wasted a good bottle of champagne there, Daph,"

"Don't call me that," Daphne replies, the venom in her voice seeming almost deadly.

"Where's your composure, Daph?" Pansy asks, smirking. "Wasn't that what it was with you? Composure, Daphne," she pauses, "always composure."

Daphne flashes back to the present, tears streaming down her cheeks. She wishes she could forget that night, but she can't. She was in love with Blaise—or so she thought—and it still stung. No, it more than stung. It ripped at her heart, but there was nothing she could do.

It's strange, but the first thought that springs to her mind after she recovers herself is one person that she'd sworn not to talk about again.

Lee.

.

"You know, Daphne, I don't think you can actually read that letter until you open it," Theodore Nott remarks, as he brings Daphne her morning coffee, catching her glaring at a letter as though she's trying to set it on fire.

She glares at him, before taking a sip of the coffee, and almost instantly handing it back to him. "Too much milk," she replies haughtily and sits back down, beginning work on an important report.

Theodore walks off, muttering under his breath something about a lack of respect, and Daphne smirks. He joined the Daily Prophet hoping to be a high profile reporter and, instead, got landed with coffee making duty. He's never been able to get Daphne's coffee right first try and he insists to everyone that Daphne changes her tastes every day, just to give him more work to do.

Daphne finally opens the offending letter, and sighs as she reads it. She's not sure how she knew that it was from Lee before she opened it. Perhaps it was his handwriting, so eloquently putting across his personality in better ways than words. Or maybe it was the feel of the envelope as she picked it up, and the voice that so clearly said it was Lee in the back of her mind.

Daphne,

I don't understand. Did I do something wrong?

Hey, I never got to finish my story. Do you really think there's anyone else who'd listen?

I'm sure you've got a story too. I've never heard of a story collector who didn't have one of their own.

- Lee

She screws the paper into a ball and draws her wand. "Incendio", she whispers bitterly, reducing the letter to flames.

Theodore brings back her coffee, and she takes a sip. It tastes off, but somehow she's not in the mood to get him to sort it out.

"You can go now," she murmurs, sipping away at her coffee and pretending like the letter never even arrived.

part two: trying

Now I know that I'm not

All that you got

I guess that I

I just thought maybe we could find new ways to fall apart

– we are young, fun

In a coffee shop near a familiar Quidditch stadium where the Appleby Arrows and Wimbourne Wasps once played, Daphne finds Lee. She slides into a seat beside him and he looks up.

"Daphne," he acknowledges her. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry," she blurts out. "I'm sorry that I walked out on you that day."

He takes her hand and Daphne looks at him strangely, taken aback. She relaxes soon and, for a few moments, they are silent, taking in the smell and sense of the coffee shop.

"I was thinking about you just now," Lee admits.

"Oh?" Daphne replies, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Lee says, "I was wondering whether I'd ever see you again."

"Speak of the devil," Daphne murmurs.

"And the devil appears," Lee finishes and they share a laugh. "I didn't know the devil wore heels."

"There's a lot that you don't know," Daphne says.

"And you know everything?" Lee challenges her.

Daphne smiles. "No. Who does?"

They lapse into silence for a moment, Lee sipping at his coffee. A waitress comes over and Daphne waves her away.

"I'm not staying long," she tells her.

"You're not?" Lee questions when the waitress leaves.

Composure, Daphne, Pansy's voice plays in her head, always composure. "No."

"I wish you'd stay," Lee says and then even he looks taken aback.

"I wish for a lot of things," Daphne replies. "Do you think I get them all?"

She rises from the table and Lee looks at her sadly. "I said I wasn't staying long," she tells him, almost reprimanding him for looking at her that way.

Lee's eyes follow her all the way to the exit. Daphne resists the urge to look back, even though she can feel that his eyes are following her.

Composure, Daphne. Always composure.

.

Sometimes things just don't work out. People lie. People run away. People break their own hearts over and over again over things that they could have prevented, if they had the courage. Sometimes the Daphnes of this world run away from the Lees that could save them, pretending that they're not falling apart with every single breath they take.

People don't always understand that there can't always be a happy ending. Life is not just boy meets girl; they fall in love. It's full of twists and turns—not all of them good.

Not every story gets a happy ending.

Sometimes everything seems as if it will be happy, and then everything breaks. Sometimes, there is nothing even there to be broken, and perhaps that is even more heartbreaking.

But sometimes, stories do get a happy ending. The Daphnes of this world stop outside a coffee shop. They just pause for a moment, waiting, wishing. They wonder if they should go back inside and then, sometimes, they do. Sometimes they go back into the coffee shop and they see their Lee. They don't even sit back down, but look at them with a single look that expresses volumes.

Sometimes, the Lees don't follow them—perhaps some of them do not think they can put up with their Daphne, but sometimes they do. Sometimes they follow their Daphne out of the coffee shop.

And this Lee did. They loiter for a moment, the silence expressing so much that cannot be pinned down to words, and everything feels right.

So they kiss; this almost couple, this crazy, crazy boy, with the oh-so-broken girl and yet none of it matters. There are hardly any thoughts going through their heads, but the few thoughts are only of sheer perfection.

"Do you think we could try?" Daphne whispers when she finally pulls away.

Lee smiles. "I thought we already were."

"Yeah," Daphne smiles, finally breaking away from her mask. "I think we are."

Composure, Daphne, always composure Pansy's voice whispers. Wouldn't want your feelings showing through, would you?

Shut up, Daphne thinks and Pansy's voice fades. It doesn't come back.

"Canary cream?" Lee asks Daphne, holding one up jokingly.

She playfully shoves him away, before pulling him back in for a kiss. Take that, Pansy, she thinks.

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