Pansy woke to the soft glow of dawn slipping through the gaps in her velvet curtains, thin golden stripes cutting across the dark walls of her bedroom. For a moment, wrapped in warm silk sheets, she allowed herself the luxury of pretending it was just another morning. Just another day where her future was still her own.
Then the truth slammed back into her chest.
She groaned and rolled onto her side, stretching long and slow, toes brushing cool linen. Marriage. The word itself made her jaw tighten. Marriage to Neville bloody Longbottom. The Ministry had taken her life, shaken it like a snow globe, and now expected her to smile while the pieces resettled.
A Parkinson does not sulk.
Her grandmother's voice slithered through her mind, firm and cold. Fine. She would not sulk. She would endure, and she would do so with flawless posture, controlled fury, and enough poise to scorch anyone foolish enough to stare too long.
She threw the covers aside, the air prickling against her skin. Her feet found the floor and she padded over to her dressing table with practiced grace. Her wand rested beside her perfumes. She flicked it lazily toward the curtains. They swept open with crisp obedience, flooding the room with pale morning light and revealing every polished surface, every emerald and mahogany detail she had curated with care.
She reached for her brush, then froze.
A single envelope sat on top of her correspondence. Thick parchment. Pristine. Sealed with the Longbottom crest.
Her frown arrived before her thoughts did. What fresh irritation awaited her now? She took the letter between two fingers, broke the seal with a sharp flick of her nail, and unfolded the parchment.
She skimmed the contents once. Then again, slower.
Dear Pansy,
I would like to invite you to dinner tomorrow evening at the Malfoy penthouse, where we can have a casual meal and discuss how everyone feels about our impending match.
In attendance will be:
Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy
Ginny Weasley and Blaise Zabini
Luna Lovegood and Theodore Nott
I hope that you can find the time to join us.
Your soon-to-be husband,
Neville
Pansy stared at the letter, the polite handwriting growing more offensive by the second. Casual meal. She mouthed the words with disbelief. Casual. As if anyone at that table had ever experienced a casual moment in their lives.
Her eyes dropped to the list of names. Gryffindor royalty. Gryffindor adoptive spouses. And the one Slytherin boy she had once nearly married off to a girl who collected moonlight in jars.
This was not a dinner. This was a trap.
Her grip tightened until the parchment crinkled. She tossed the letter across her desk and watched it skid to a stop among her meticulously organized papers. Her pulse thrummed. Not with fear. With irritation so sharp she could taste it.
The audacity. Neville Longbottom arranging a dinner with Hermione Granger and her golden husband, Ginny Weasley and her polished menace, Luna Lovegood and her charmingly dangerous shadow. All under Draco Malfoy's penthouse roof.
This was not diplomacy.
It was an ambush crafted by people who thought they knew how to handle her.
Her laugh broke out, low and humorless.
Absolutely fucking not.
She exhaled sharply, pressing her fingertips to her temples. This was damage control. A carefully orchestrated attempt to make everyone feel better about something they had no control over, as if gathering around a dinner table and playing nice would somehow erase the absurdity of this entire situation.
She could already picture it—the awkward silences, the forced smiles, the tension thick enough to slice with a cursed blade. Golden girl would undoubtedly try to find some rational, insufferably noble way to frame this as an opportunity for growth. Red, with her sharp eyes and quick tongue, would be watching, assessing, no doubt waiting for Pansy to snap. Loony would probably say something bizarrely insightful that would somehow, annoyingly, make sense.
Pansy clenched her jaw, willing herself to stay calm, but the frustration gnawed at her, hot and relentless.
The only shred of solace was that Blaise would be there. At least she wouldn't be entirely outnumbered by Gryffindors and their perfect, happily-ever-after nonsense. But even that was a cold comfort.
Because at the end of the night, she would still walk away as the future Mrs. Longbottom.
A slow, bitter smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she stared at the letter, resisting the urge to set it on fire.
Casual dinner, indeed.
She sank back onto her bed, her fingers drumming lightly against the silk sheets as she stared at the ornate ceiling above her. The patterns swirled and curled in gilded flourishes, usually a comfort, usually a reminder of her own carefully constructed world. Today they only pressed down on her, heavy and intrusive, as her mind churned through the mess she had been handed.
She did not want to go. She did not want to sit at a perfectly set table with people she barely tolerated, while they sipped wine and dissected her life as though it were a piece of legislation. She did not want polite conversation. She did not want measured sympathy. She did not want an audience for her unraveling.
And yet she did not dismiss the idea.
Something small and stubborn inside her kept it from being an easy refusal. Maybe it was the fact that Draco and Hermione were hosting. A pairing that should have collapsed under the weight of its own contradictions, yet somehow did not. They had carved their own strange harmony out of chaos, and while Pansy would rather curse herself than admit it, she respected them for that.
Or maybe it was the guest list. Each couple an oddity in their own way. People who had stumbled into unexpected futures and found a way to stand inside them without falling apart. Theo and Luna. Blaise and Ginny. Draco and Hermione. None of their lives had followed straight paths.
Or maybe it was simply Neville.
Because he had asked.
The simplicity of it annoyed her. His honesty annoyed her even more. It stirred something unfamiliar in her ribcage, something that felt suspiciously like obligation.
She pressed her fingertips to her temples, forcing out a slow breath. She could not hide from this forever. The decree was real. The marriage was real. And whether she clawed through it kicking and screaming or not, this was now her life.
Better to meet the storm directly than pretend the sky was clear.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. The cool floor stung her feet as she crossed to her desk. The Longbottom letter lay exactly where she had tossed it hours earlier, neat and proper, untouched yet still somehow irritating.
She stared at it as though the ink might shift under her gaze. It did not. It remained relentlessly polite, relentlessly calm, relentlessly Neville.
With a low sigh, she pulled out fresh parchment and dipped her quill. She paused for the briefest moment, then wrote.
Longbottom,
Pick me up at seven.
Your not-so-eager soon-to-be wife,
Pansy
She sat back and looked at it. Short. Clean. Honest enough without groveling. Sharp enough without cruelty. Exactly the balance she wanted.
She folded it with careful precision and sealed it with a flick of her wand. The wax hardened instantly. Another gesture sent her owl swooping down from its perch, wings brushing the air in a soft rush. She watched as it took the letter in its beak and soared out the window, disappearing into the brightening morning sky.
She remained standing there, arms crossed, staring at the horizon as though expecting some sudden burst of clarity now that the letter was gone.
Nothing arrived.
Instead, her chest filled with a tangled knot of emotions. Irritation. Weariness. Resignation. And tucked far, far beneath that, something else. Something she could not easily name. A curious little spark that flickered before she could snuff it out.
How did Neville imagine this evening would unfold?
And how was she supposed to step into a room full of these couples without losing her mind?
A quiet, bitter laugh slipped from her.
~~~~~~
Ms Parkinson spent the entire day insisting to herself that the dinner meant nothing. She repeated it in her head like a spell. A mild inconvenience. A bureaucratic box to tick. A night of tolerating Neville Longbottom with polite conversation and controlled expressions. Nothing more. Just another obligation in the long parade of obligations the Ministry had forced on her.
But the lie sat wrong in her chest. She felt it each time her thoughts drifted back to him.
She was looking forward to it.
Because of Neville.
Admitting that truth made something hot coil under her ribs. Attraction had not been part of the plan. She had never expected to look at Neville Longbottom with anything other than detached assessment. Yet here she was, brushing powder onto her cheekbones and wondering whether he would notice.
As the hours crept toward seven, she prepared herself with precise, controlled movements. A dark dress that hugged her figure with quiet authority. Jewellery chosen for balance rather than ostentation. Makeup applied with the same steady hand she used when mixing potions that could kill a fully grown man.
None of it should have mattered as much as it did.
And yet every glance in the mirror stirred a restless flicker beneath her skin. She was not only dressing for herself this time.
At 6:45, a knock broke through her thoughts.
She froze. Then inhaled slowly, centering herself. She would take her time, but she would not leave him waiting nearly twenty minutes again. Eight minutes felt suitably dignified.
With one last breath, she yanked open the door.
Neville stood there.
His cheeks held a flush that suggested he had jogged at least part of the way. Nervous energy clung to him, radiating off him in warm waves. His expression hovered between hopeful and panicked.
But what truly caught her attention were the flowers.
A massive bouquet, overflowing with pansies and soft trailing blooms. It was almost theatrical. Sweet in a way that should have made her scoff. But instead her lips curled into a smile, slow and unguarded, surprising even her.
Neville looked startled by her reaction, shifting awkwardly as if bracing for humiliation.
"I, uh… thought you might like them," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. His voice carried a hitch, bravado slipping.
She reached out, fingers brushing the petals. Then she lifted her eyes and met his.
"Thank you," she said, the words soft and genuine, slipping out before she could temper them.
His breath caught. His eyes widened. For a moment, he simply stared, as if something in her face had knocked the air from his lungs.
"You look stunning," he said quietly.
She tilted her head, smirk forming with familiar ease. "Just tonight?"
His entire body stiffened. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, chasing a sentence he could not seem to catch.
"No. I mean, of course not just tonight. You always look…" He swallowed hard, a flush rising from his collar. "Breathtaking. I mean… fuck."
The laugh that broke from her felt bright and real. "Merlin, Longbottom, if I had known how easy you were to fluster, I would have started years ago."
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face, a picture of mortified charm.
Pansy softened, just a fraction. "Thank you for the flowers," she said, setting them gently on a table. She reached for her coat, the gesture smooth. "Let me grab this and we can Apparate."
He nodded, though his gaze followed the movement of her hands, her shoulders, the sweep of fabric as she slipped into the coat. There was something reverent in the way he watched her, something warm and unguarded that pushed heat up her neck.
For the first time all day, she felt the faintest flutter of anticipation.
For a brief moment, the air between them shifted, something unspoken but charged settling in the space they shared. It made Pansy feel strangely self-conscious, but not in a way she disliked. If anything, it was the opposite.
She turned back to him, finding him still waiting at the door, a shy, hesitant smile tugging at his lips.
"Ready?" he asked, voice softer this time, almost as if he was giving her the chance to say no.
She held his gaze, and for the first time since this entire ridiculous mess had begun, she felt something unexpected—not resignation, not frustration, but something dangerously close to hope.
"Ready," she said.
And as they stepped into the cool evening air, Neville's presence beside her was unexpectedly steadying.
As they prepared to disappear into the night, Pansy couldn't help but wonder if, just maybe, this dinner wasn't about surviving the evening.
With a swirl of green light and a soft pop, they vanished from the doorstep, heading toward the Malfoy penthouse and the unpredictable night that awaited them.
~~~~~~
The Malfoy penthouse was already humming with quiet activity when Neville and Pansy arrived. Soft golden light filled the space, spilling over polished marble floors and carefully arranged centrepieces. The atmosphere carried Draco's unmistakable touch. Everything elegant. Everything controlled. Everything placed with ruthless precision.
Pansy's eyes skimmed the room, taking stock, but quickly shifted toward the small seating area near the window where Theo and Luna sat.
If the dinner was in full swing, the two of them had clearly chosen not to notice.
Theo had always carried himself like a blade. Sharp. Guarded. Detached. But now he looked almost gentle, his posture loose, his attention fixed on Luna with a quiet devotion that softened the hard lines of his expression. A look that would have made school-aged Theo fling himself off the Astronomy Tower from the sheer vulnerability of it.
Luna, meanwhile, sat in a cloud of soft radiance, completely oblivious to the world around her. She wore a flowing cream dress that caught the light in delicate ripples, and her hair fell in silky waves down her back. Her beauty had always possessed a strange, unearthly quality, but tonight she looked ethereal in a way that could stop a man's heart. Not weird. Not whimsical. Just stunning.
Pansy slowed as she took her in.
Holy hell. Luna Lovegood was hot. A fuckable little manice.
No wonder Theo looked like someone had ripped the floor out from under him.
Pansy smirked to herself. She had been here just yesterday, listening to Draco flap about the dinner plans and pretend he was not panicking. She knew the truth. Both Draco and Theo had been in love with their so-called arranged partners long before the Ministry had stepped in. Pride and fear had only delayed the inevitable. Pansy found it hilarious.
Draco spotted them then, pushing off the marble column he had been leaning against. He approached with smooth confidence, his expression a perfect mix of welcome and mild amusement. His eyes passed over Pansy with appreciation before settling on Neville with something that might have been interest or the beginning of mockery. Hard to tell with Draco.
"Longbottom. Parkinson," Draco drawled, his tone dripping with charm so carefully measured it could have come from a potion recipe. "Glad you could make it. Luna and Theo arrived ages ago. Completely useless to the rest of us. They exist in their own bubble. The rest of us may as well be furniture."
He huffed a warm laugh under his breath.
Pansy arched an eyebrow at him, amused in spite of herself.
"How tragic for you," she replied, lips curving in a wry smile. "Where is everyone else?"
Draco exhaled, glancing toward the entrance with the air of a man longing for patience. "Zabini and Ginevra are on their way. They travel with chaos and it always makes them late. And Granger is coming after work."
At Hermione's name, his fingers twitched at his side, a subtle shift in posture that did not slip past Pansy.
Interesting.
She flicked her gaze toward Theo again, only to find him still fully absorbed in Luna, who was pointing at something on the table with the serene enthusiasm of someone explaining a miracle.
It seemed Pansy was not the only one whose match had turned her world inside out.
Neville murmured a polite greeting, though the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed his nerves. Pansy reached out and brushed her fingers lightly against his arm, giving him a small, confident smile. A reassurance. A quiet reminder that they were walking into this circus together.
Draco led them toward the dining area.
Theo lifted his hand slightly from where it rested over Luna's, tracing small patterns across her knuckles. Luna's other hand pressed lightly over his, unconsciously fitting into the rhythm of his touch.
When Luna finally noticed Pansy and Neville, she looked up with a soft, warm smile.
"Hello, Pansy. Neville," she said, her voice melodic and impossibly kind. "We were talking about the phases of the moon. They influence our emotions in surprising ways."
Pansy raised a skeptical brow, but there was no mockery in it. Only quiet amusement. "Is that so? Well, whatever the moon is doing tonight, it suits you both."
Luna beamed, and Theo allowed himself the smallest smile, his eyes softening as he glanced at her.
That alone nearly knocked Pansy off her feet. She had never seen him look at anyone like that.
"We are trying to make the best of things," Theo said quietly. The words were simple, but something deeper lived in them. Something that only old friends could hear.
Pansy heard it.
She held his gaze for a moment, offering him a silent nod that said everything neither of them wanted to say aloud.
Maybe they were all learning how to adapt. Maybe they were all being changed, bit by bit, by the people standing beside them.
And perhaps, she thought as she slid her hand more comfortably against Neville's arm, that was not the worst thing in the world.
The evening unfolded in a soft, unsteady blur of nervous laughter and overly polite greetings as the last of the guests made their entrances. First came Ginny and Blaise. Ginny walked in with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly how every eye would follow her. Her dress shimmered with each step, and her smile carried the same brightness she had always possessed, now sharpened into something regal.
Blaise strolled beside her, relaxed and impossibly smooth, his expression a perfect blend of amusement and mystery. His smirk never gave away whether he was entertained, unimpressed, or simply waiting for some poor soul to embarrass themselves. Knowing him, it was probably all three.
Then the door opened one final time, and Hermione Granger swept into the room.
Pansy inhaled sharply.
There was no other word for it.
Fuck. She looked incredible. No wonder Doco wanked off in the shower every time he met her.
Hermione moved with effortless ease, her dark curls cascading over her shoulders, her dress catching the light with each step. She had no idea what her presence did to Draco, who straightened so quickly he nearly knocked over a vase behind him. Pansy bit back a delighted laugh. She was absolutely going to enjoy watching him try so hard to pretend he was unaffected.
Once everyone gathered around the long, elegantly set table, the group's dynamics unfolded like a strange little tapestry, each thread revealing something unexpected.
Theo and Luna were hopeless. Fully, undeniably in love. Theo's eyes never strayed far from Luna, and Luna looked at him with that soft, unshakable trust that always made people underestimate her. They existed in their own quiet world, almost reverent in their tenderness, a stark contrast to the deeper tensions swirling through the rest of the room.
Across the table, Blaise leaned in closer to Ginny than he usually allowed himself. His smirk softened into something warm whenever she spoke, and Pansy noticed how his fingers tapped idly against the table whenever she laughed. Something was brewing there. Something intense. Something delicious.
And then there was Neville.
Sitting beside her, shoulders tense, posture careful, his eyes darting around like he was trying to learn the rules of a game no one had ever explained to him. Pansy felt an unexpected flicker of sympathy. He was far more out of his depth than she was, and she hated seeing him struggle. It pulled at something she didn't want to name.
The wine kept flowing. The conversations eased into looser warmth. By the time dessert arrived, Pansy had let herself drink just a bit more than she originally intended. It softened her edges, loosened her tongue, and wrapped her in a pleasant hum that made her far too bold for her own good.
Which explained why she was now talking to Neville about Fanged Geraniums.
"The Fanged Geranium can be quite dangerous if you are not careful," she murmured, swirling her wine with lazy precision. The deep red liquid swayed in slow waves. Her voice carried a warmth she rarely let anyone hear.
Neville blinked, unsure how they had ended up on the topic of carnivorous plants. "Right. I, uh… cannot say I have ever tried to harvest their seeds."
Pansy giggled, the sound soft and wicked. "One wrong move and those little fangs can leave a very nasty bite."
Neville tried to smile, but his attention snapped downward as he felt the light pressure of her hand resting on his thigh. His breath stalled.
"Pansy, I really do not think you should…" His voice trailed off, caught somewhere between concern and something far warmer.
She tilted her head toward him, eyes half-lidded, her smile slow and teasing. She knew exactly what she was doing and how close she was leaning. She felt his nerves spark the air between them.
"Oh, do not worry, Neville," she purred. Her fingertips traced the fabric of his trousers with deliberate care. "I have handled far worse than this."
He tensed in a way she very much enjoyed.
And Pansy, pleasantly tipsy, beautifully dressed, and entirely too amused, felt something warm bloom in her chest.
She liked making him flustered.
She liked the way he looked at her.
She liked this more than she should.
And that, she thought as she took another sip of wine, was dangerous.
~~~~~~
As they left the Malfoy penthouse, the cool night air did little to steady Neville's racing thoughts. Pansy was tipsy, playful, and entirely too enticing, her fingers constantly brushing against his, her laugh a low, warm hum that sent shivers down his spine.
"Nevie," she murmured, her words slightly slurred but filled with unmistakable warmth, "I had too much fun tonight."
He let out a soft chuckle, wrapping an arm around her to steady her swaying form. "Miss Sassy, let's get you home. You need to rest."
"Okay," she giggled, leaning against him without hesitation, her head resting against his shoulder as if it belonged there.
He couldn't deny how natural it felt, how she fit against him, how his body reacted to the warmth of hers, how the scent of her vanilla and jasmine perfume curled around him like something intoxicating.
The pull of Apparation was brief, and the moment her feet touched the marble floors of Parkinson Manor, Pansy turned toward him, her dark eyes glazed but alight with mischief.
The kiss was soft at first, a whisper of warmth against his lips, but it wasn't hesitant—it was intentional. Deliberate. A kiss that wasn't just an effect of too much wine but something real, something she had been holding back.
He stiffened for just a moment, caught off guard by the suddenness of it, but the sweetness of her lips, the way she molded against him so easily unraveled him instantly.
His hands found her waist, steadying her, but she had no interest in being steadied. She pressed closer, her body molding into his, her fingers tangling into his hair as she deepened the kiss, slow and teasing, testing the waters of something new.
Neville's restraint snapped like a thread.
His lips moved to her jaw, then her neck, trailing heated kisses along the soft skin of her throat, tasting the hint of wine and something unmistakably her.
She let out a soft moan, her head tilting back, granting him more access, and Neville took it as permission to keep going.
His hands roamed lower, fingers brushing over the curves of her body, until they found the dip of her waist, the swell of her breasts. When his thumb grazed over her hardened nipple through the fabric of her dress, she arched into his touch, a shiver rolling through her.
"Nevie," she whispered, her voice husky, filled with something deeper than intoxication.
He groaned in response, pulling her closer, his hands sliding down to the heat of her thighs, the silk of her dress pooling higher as he explored the soft skin beneath.
Her breathing hitched as his fingers brushed against the most sensitive part of her, teasing, exploring, learning exactly how to unravel her.
She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in lightly, her moans turning breathless, desperate.
"Don't stop," she gasped, rocking against his touch, craving more, more, more.
And Neville had no intention of stopping.
His touch grew more deliberate, more confident, drawing soft gasps from her as he worked her toward the edge. She was coming undone beneath him, her body arching, trembling, her breaths shallow and uneven as pleasure coiled tight within her.
Just as she was about to fall apart, Neville slid his fingers inside her, slow at first, letting her feel every inch, every movement before curling them just right.
She cried out, her pleasure spilling into the air like a prayer, a plea, a command all at once.
And Merlin, he could listen to that sound forever.
~~~~~~
Pansy woke the next morning with a strange mix of confusion and smug satisfaction curling through her body. Her muscles ached in places she was not accustomed to, a warm, pleasant soreness that dragged a slow flush up her neck. Her mind offered her fractured glimpses of the night before. His hands. His mouth. The way he had touched her like he had every right to. The way her breath had caught. The way she had let him.
She groaned and fell back against the pillows, throwing an arm over her eyes.
"Stupid man," she muttered, the words caught somewhere between indignation and the kind of embarrassment that made her want to hex the sun for daring to rise.
His scent lingered on her sheets. Warm spice. Soft musk. Something earthy and stupidly comforting. It mingled with the faint traces of wine and the heat still clinging to her skin. It made her stomach twist in a way she absolutely did not appreciate.
Before she could stop herself, she grabbed her wand from the bedside table. A sheet of parchment snapped into her hand. She did not even sit up. Fury and panic flowed straight through her quill as she scrawled her message.
I HOPE YOU DID NOT FUCK ME WHILE I WAS DRUNK. WHY IS YOUR CHEAP-ASS COLOGNE STILL IN MY ROOM. WHAT EXACTLY DID YOU DO LAST NIGHT. ANSWER ME IMMEDIATELY, LONGBOTTOM, OR I SWEAR ON MERLIN'S GRAVE—
She did not bother reading it back. She folded it sharply, sealed the Howler with a flare of red wax, and sent it off in a violent rush of wings before her brain had the chance to intervene.
The moment it left, she dropped her head into her hands and let out a sharp exhale.
The scent of him still clung to her skin. The sound of his voice still hummed faintly in the back of her mind. She could still feel where his hands had been. Her body remembered far too clearly for comfort.
Infuriating. Completely infuriating.
And worse than all of it?
Neville Longbottom, with his gentle strength and quiet confidence, with his stupid warm hands and his stupid soft stare, was starting to take up far too much space in her thoughts.
She was lying in her bed, smelling like him, aching because of him, thinking about him in ways she had absolutely no intention of admitting out loud.
Merlin help her.
She actually liked him.
~~~~~~
Unfortunately, the Howler found him in his office, its shrill, furious voice ricocheting off the walls like a curse.
He barely had time to brace himself before Pansy's outrage erupted in full force, echoing through the room in a tirade so loud and explicit it felt like a personal attack on his dignity, his sanity, and his eardrums all at once.
The only other person in the office froze mid-motion, eyes wide with a mixture of fascination and horror.
His face turned an alarming shade of red, his mortification deepening with every word that blasted through the air. The accusations. The fury. The absolute lack of discretion.
And then, with a dramatic, final burst of flames, the Howler incinerated itself, leaving behind only a stunned silence and the faint scent of burnt parchment.
His colleague cleared his throat, awkwardly adjusting his glasses. "So… uh. That sounded serious."
He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply through his nose before exhaling with slow, measured control. Seriously? That didn't even begin to cover it.
Without another word, he stood, straightened his robes, and promptly Disapparated.
She heard the crack of Apparition from the foyer.
Frowning, she descended the grand staircase, her steps quick, irritation curling in her chest as she rounded the corner, only to find Neville standing in the middle of her entrance hall, looking every bit like a man on a mission.
Her heart stuttered before she could stop it, but she masked the reaction with a sharp glare, crossing her arms in defensive defiance.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Neville stepped forward, his expression unwavering, his presence unexpectedly commanding. "Do not put me in an uncomfortable situation like that ever again, Parky."
Pansy blinked.
It wasn't just the words—it was the tone. The unshaken authority in his voice. The unmistakable edge of frustration beneath it.
And Parky? What the fuck?
She opened her mouth, but Neville didn't give her the chance to retort.
His voice was sharp, unwavering, edged with something dangerously close to anger.
"Do you honestly think I would stoop that low?" His words cut through the air like a blade, and for the first time in years, she felt truly caught off guard.
"Sending that Howler, accusing me of something so vile—you crossed a line. You've known me for years, Pansy. And yet you accused me of something I would never, ever do. It's insulting, not just to me, but to yourself, thinking I would take advantage of you like that."
He took a step closer, his jaw tight, eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch.
"I touched you last night, yes. I rubbed your tiny little clit until you came apart under my fingers. That. Is. It."
Pansy stared, momentarily stunned by the sheer heat in his voice, the rawness of his words.
Before she could even think to recover, Neville wasn't finished.
"You need to start taking responsibility for your actions." His voice was calmer now, but no less firm, no less resolute.
"If you're going to drink yourself into a state where you can't remember what happened, then don't wake up the next morning and throw accusations around like a spoiled child. And sending a Howler to my office? In front of my colleagues? That wasn't just embarrassing for me, Pansy. It was immature. Reckless."
The weight of his words hung between them, and for the first time in a long time, Pansy had no immediate comeback.
He exhaled, shaking his head, his frustration bleeding into something almost resigned.
"You need to grow up, Sassy. We both do. We're not kids anymore, and this needs to stop!"
And just like that, he stepped back, leaving her reeling in the wake of his words, her pulse thrumming with something she didn't quite know how to name.
For the first time in her life, a man had the audacity to put her in her place. The absolute nerve of him speaking to her like she was some unruly child, holding her accountable with that unshakable, steady confidence.
And yet, to her utter shock, she liked it.
She swallowed, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "Okay," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Neville's frown deepened, unimpressed. "Parky, 'okay' is not enough." His voice was firm but not unkind, his expectation clear.
She hesitated, her pride warring with the unfamiliar sensation of guilt. Apologies weren't in her repertoire—at least, not sincere ones. But the weight of what she had done, the realization of just how unfair she had been, settled uncomfortably in her chest.
She exhaled, her arms crossing as if to shield herself from the vulnerability of the moment.
"I would like to apologize for my behavior this morning," she said, the words feeling unnatural on her tongue, like a language she had never spoken before.
He studied her for a moment, his gaze searching, as if he could see right through her bravado. And then, just as she braced herself for some smug remark, he stepped closer, his expression softening.
His arms wrapped around her, warm and grounding, pulling her into an embrace that was neither demanding nor dismissive—just steady, just present.
And then, to her absolute fucking bewilderment, he pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to her forehead.
She froze, caught between melting into him and pushing him away just to regain some semblance of control.
His voice, low and soothing yet unmistakably firm, curled around her like velvet.
"Be a good girl for me and dress up nicely," he murmured, his lips still close enough that she could feel the ghost of his breath.
"I have a surprise for you this evening."
Her cheeks burned, not just from the remnants of morning humiliation, but from the strange, treacherous thrill curling in her stomach at his words.
She tilted her chin up, masking her intrigue with a half-hearted scowl, but the small, traitorous smile tugging at the corner of her lips betrayed her.
"Okay," she murmured again, softer this time.
A good girl?! What the fuck.
Heat pooled low in her stomach, and just like that, she was wet. Instantly.
Before she could fully process the way her body betrayed her, his voice dipped into something softer, something meant just for her.
"Come here and give me a kiss."
It wasn't a request.
He pulled her closer, his grip firm but unhurried, giving her the space to resist if she wanted to.
She didn't.
Without hesitation, she leaned in, closing the distance between them, her lips pressing against his in a kiss that was tender at first, almost hesitant, as if testing the weight of something new.
But the connection between them was undeniable.
The kiss lingered, stretching into something warmer, deeper, the kind of kiss that left an imprint long after it ended.
When they finally pulled apart, he smiled down at her, his hands still resting on her waist, grounding her.
"I'll see you after work, okay?" His voice was steady, as if he hadn't just flipped her entire world upside down.
Pansy, her lips still tingling, could only manage a soft, "Uh-huh."
Her brain felt like it had short-circuited, her usual sharp wit completely incapacitated by the sheer boldness of what had just happened.
By the way he had touched her without hesitation.
By the way he had kissed her like it was inevitable.
By the way she had wanted it to be.
A soft pop echoed through the room as Neville Disapparated back to work, leaving behind nothing but the ghost of his touch, the scent of his cologne, and the rapid pounding of her own heart.
She just stood there, utterly dumbfounded, her breath unsteady as her mind replayed the moment over and over again.
The kiss.
His warm embrace.
The way he had so effortlessly, confidently taken control of the situation—of her.
For the first time in her life, Pansy Parkinson was at a complete and utter loss for words.
Pansy stood in the middle of the foyer, staring at the empty space Neville had disappeared from, her fingertips brushing lightly over her lips as if they needed proof of what had just happened.
The kiss.
She replayed it again. Then again. And again, until her knees felt like they might give out.
Her breath escaped in a shaky rush. Her entire body felt too warm, too aware, thrumming with a kind of restless energy she had not felt in years. She pressed a hand against her stomach, trying to steady herself, but the gesture did nothing. The room felt different now. Brighter. Louder. Charged.
"A good girl."
"Dress up nicely."
"A surprise."
Her brain scrambled for footing, for dignity, for some semblance of control, but all she found was the echo of his voice, low and steady, curling around her spine like silk.
"Absolutely not," she whispered, though her cheekbones burned in a way that betrayed her. "I am not reacting like this. I refuse."
She turned sharply, pacing across the marble floor as if motion might save her from herself.
But no amount of pacing could erase the memory of how firmly he held her, how gently he kissed her, how easily he saw through her tantrums and hit straight at the truth she never wanted anyone to see.
She sank onto the bottom stair, pressing her palms to her thighs, trying to breathe through the chaos he had left behind.
Neville Longbottom had walked into her home and dismantled every carefully constructed boundary she had built to survive. With nothing more than honesty, frustration, and a kiss that felt like a promise she was not sure she deserved.
"Fuck," she whispered into the quiet hall. "I am in so much trouble."
Notes:
Well. That escalated. Again.
We began this chapter with Pansy contemplating murder via dinner invitation, then ended with her dripping wet over a forehead kiss and being called a good girl. Character development? Delusion? Yes.