Getting ready for the evening left Pansy in unfamiliar territory, and she despised every second of it.
Choosing an outfit had never been a challenge. Neither had applying makeup, styling her hair, selecting jewellery, or perfecting her overall appearance. These were things she could do while half asleep. These were the skills she had been raised on. Armaments. Armour. A language she spoke fluently.
But tonight felt different.
Tonight was not a gala or a charity auction. It was not a tedious social evening with stiff smiles and even stiffer champagne. It was the official dinner before her impending marriage, arranged by the Ministry without her consent. And that alone should have been enough to sour her mood.
Except it was Neville.
Quiet, steady Neville, who had walked into her life like a soft storm, changing the air without even touching her.
She hated how the thought of him made her pulse skip.
She hated how she cared.
She hated how unprepared she felt.
Her fingers brushed the endless line of gowns hanging in her wardrobe. Silk. Velvet. Satin. Jewel tones and soft neutrals. She could choose any one of them and know she looked perfect. But tonight was not about perfection.
Tonight was about making an impression she did not want to admit she cared about.
After far too much internal debate, she settled on a deep emerald gown. Elegant. Clean lines. Not overly revealing. Far from forgettable. It would do.
She sat at her vanity, brushing a light flush onto her cheekbones before adding just enough liner to sharpen her gaze. Her lashes darkened and lifted. Her lips she painted in a bold, commanding red. A colour that reminded her who she was. A colour that steadied her.
But as she caught her reflection, lingering on the faint tremble in her fingers and the quick beat of her pulse at her throat, she wondered whether she could still make herself believe it.
She drew in a slow breath.
She would not be undone by a dinner. And certainly not by the man waiting to escort her to it.
By six o'clock, Neville stood in front of Pansy's door, clutching a large, ribbon-wrapped box like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. He had paced back and forth across the entryway so many times that he had worn a faint line into the rug.
Why was he so nervous?
This dinner was a formality. A step in a process he had no real control over.
And yet the thought of seeing her tonight sent a tight, twisting feeling through his stomach. He straightened his posture, smoothed a hand over his jacket, and knocked.
The seconds stretched into something unbearable.
Was he overdressed? Should he have gone for something simpler? Was the gift inside the box too much? Not enough?
He lifted his hand to knock again, but the door swung open before he could touch it.
Neville inhaled too sharply and forgot how to exhale.
Pansy stood framed in the soft chandelier glow, the emerald gown moulded to her in a way that made his thoughts scatter and fall apart. Her hair was glossy and perfectly set. Her makeup sharp in all the ways that suited her. And her eyes met his with a softness he had never seen from her.
For the first time, Neville did not see the sharp-tongued girl who sneered at him across Potions. He saw a woman and she was breathtaking.
Pansy, meanwhile, felt her breath catch in her chest.
She had always thought of Neville as unremarkable, someone who faded into the background with quiet efficiency. But the man standing in front of her now, in a perfectly fitted dark suit that framed his broad shoulders and long legs, was impossible to ignore.
There was a stillness in him tonight.
A grounded confidence she had never noticed before.
He looked strong, composed, infuriatingly handsome.
Her gaze dropped to his hands. To the box he held.
Large, carefully wrapped, tied with a deep green ribbon that matched her dress with suspicious accuracy. Her brows lifted before she managed to school her expression back into something almost indifferent.
"Good evening, Miss Parkinson," Neville said, his voice carrying a playful warmth that caught her off guard. There was a steadiness in him tonight, a confidence that softened the usual edges of his shyness. It was subtle, but it changed everything about the way he stood in front of her.
Pansy arched a delicate brow, a slow smirk curling at the edge of her lips. "Good evening, husband," she replied, the title still new on her tongue, strange but not nearly as unpleasant as she once believed it would be. Something about the way he looked at her made the word feel less like a sentence and more like a possibility she did not want to name.
Neville stepped closer without hesitation. His presence felt warm, almost soothing, rooting her in place. He tilted his head just slightly before brushing his lips against hers. The kiss was gentle but sure, unhurried, a quiet promise rather than a demand. She felt the breath catch in her throat before she could stop herself.
"I brought you something very special," he murmured against her lips. His breath was warm, and his eyes held a glint that made something low in her stomach tighten with curiosity.
Pansy let her gaze fall once more to the box. "Oh? You certainly know how to intrigue a girl," she said, stepping aside so he could enter. Her voice betrayed a lighter note she had not intended, an eagerness she had no interest in confessing.
Neville followed her through the grand foyer, his eyes drifting briefly over the polished floors and gilded frames before finally settling on her again. She moved with the kind of elegance she was known for, practiced and composed, yet tonight there was something gentler in her movements. A softness she did not seem aware of.
They entered the dining room, where candlelight flickered across gold accents and cast warm, shifting shadows across the walls. The scent of lavender mingled with the faint aroma of freshly baked bread. Someone had taken great care to make the room feel inviting, intimate even.
But Neville's attention was drawn to the center of the table.
A cake. Beautiful and intricate. Sugared flowers arranged with delicate precision.
Not the work of house-elves. He could tell immediately.
This was Pansy.
Beneath her sharp remarks and biting wit, beneath her meticulously guarded exterior, she had carved out time to create something soft. Something lovely. He felt something shift inside him at the sight of it. Something small but undeniable.
"This looks amazing," he said, unable to hide the admiration in his voice as he took in the details she clearly hoped no one would notice too closely. A playful spark lit his eyes. "But first, I really need to give you this special present."
With a grin that sent a small rush of warmth to her chest, he set the large box gently on the floor. He took his time with it, dragging out the moment with a deliberate patience that bordered on teasing. Pansy crossed her arms, lifting one perfectly shaped brow with a mix of impatience and curiosity.
"Neville," she warned lightly, though the faint smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her.
He only grinned wider.
"Neville," she drawled, narrowing her eyes, "if this is something ridiculous, I swear—"
"Darling," he said, his voice softening into something almost reverent. "I want you to meet Lady Lemongrass."
He lifted the lid with theatrical flourish, and a tiny pug wriggled into view. Her velvety ears flopped as she attempted to climb over the edge, her little paws scrambling, her squished face bright with curiosity and determination.
Pansy blinked. Her mind emptied. For once, her tongue failed her.
"She is my dog," Neville said gently. His tone carried a quiet affection that wrapped around the room. "She is family. And since we are starting something new together, I thought you should meet her early on."
Pansy stared.
At the pug.
At Neville.
Back at the pug.
A real smile tugged at her lips, soft and almost shy.
"Oh my gosh," she whispered as she crouched beside the box. "She is so adorable. Look at her little face."
Her fingers brushed the pup's fur, and Lady made a delighted little wiggle, leaning into the touch with wholehearted trust. Pansy's composure dissolved instantly. She scooped the tiny dog into her arms, cradling her as though she had been waiting her whole life for this moment.
Neville watched her with a look that could only be described as fondness, warm and dangerously tender.
"Thank you so much, Nevie," she murmured, still staring at the tiny creature wiggling against her chest.
Then, because she was herself, she added with a faint smirk, "She is… quite unique-looking, isn't she?"
Neville chuckled, shaking his head. "Parky, when we were kids, you used to tease me all the time. Called me plenty of things, ugly included."
She looked up sharply. Something in her expression shifted. A hint of guilt. A memory she had avoided for years resurfacing in her eyes.
"I know, Nev," she said quietly. "I remember."
Silence unfolded between them, thick with the weight of old words they never addressed. Childhood cruelty that had once been a shield. The way time had reshaped them into people who barely resembled the children they once were.
"You are not ugly anymore," she said at last. Her voice steadied, softened. "You have grown into yourself. You are quite handsome now."
It was honest. It held a strange blend of nostalgia and regret, but she hid the deeper notes beneath a gentle smile.
"And yes," she added, lifting Lady slightly, "I teased you back then. But let's not forget that I was the 'pug-faced girl,' remember? So this little introduction?" She nodded at the pug. "It feels a tiny bit pointed."
Neville's expression grew serious, though not unkind. She tensed, waiting for some sharp retort.
Instead, he moved closer, his voice low and steady.
"Pansy," he said, "she is my dog. I am not giving her up. I am not giving up my life or the parts of myself that matter."
Then he smiled, softer now, his gaze drifting from her face to the small dog tucked securely in her arms.
"But considering you are practically kissing her right now, I think the two of you are going to be best friends soon enough."
Pansy shot him a glare, but Lady nudged against her chin with a tiny snort, completely ruining the effect. Pansy let out a reluctant laugh.
"Fine, fine," she sighed dramatically. "Of course we will be best friends. I mean, look at her. How could I resist her?"
She glanced up at him, eyes bright with mischief. "I am not easy to get along with, but I can make an exception for Lady."
The pup settled happily in her arms, already content, already attached, as if she had found her rightful place.
"Looks like she has chosen you," Neville teased.
Pansy rolled her eyes with half-hearted annoyance, though her hands tightened around the tiny dog in a way that gave her away completely.
Neville gestured toward the table, smirking. "Come on. Dinner is waiting, Miss Sassy."
She let out a soft, theatrical sigh and followed him, Lady Lemongrass perched like royalty in her arms. As she stepped into the candlelit warmth of the dining room, something quiet settled in her chest.
She was actually looking forward to this evening.
Unfortunately for Neville, Pansy took to her new role as a dog mother with unhinged enthusiasm.
By the time they finally sat down to dinner, Lady had undergone a transformation so dramatic it bordered on theatrical.
The once modest, wriggly pug now sat beside Pansy dressed in a frilly hot pink outfit, complete with a pearl necklace that caught the candlelight in soft glimmers.
Perched on a velvet pillow that she clearly believed she deserved, Lady held her tiny head high, radiating the confidence of someone who had already accepted her royal status.
Neville tried to focus on his steak. He really did. But his attention kept drifting back to the pug, who was now accepting dainty bites of chicken from a silver fork as if this had always been her destiny.
He set down his knife and raised an eyebrow.
"Parky," he said, a laugh tugging at the edge of his mouth, "you know you do not have to treat the dog like royalty, right?"
Pansy gasped. A hand flew to her heart. Lady Lemongrass was scooped into her arms so fast the pearls clicked.
"How dare you," she breathed, eyes wide in scandalous offense. "Look at her. She is helpless without me, Neville. A delicate flower. A defenseless angel who requires constant attention."
She stroked Lady's velvety head with the devotion of a saint. The pug immediately leaned in, basking in her worship.
Neville leaned back, shaking his head. "She is a dog, not the heir to the throne."
Pansy shot him a pointed look, lips curving into a triumphant smile.
"Says you. Lady is now a vital part of this household, and I refuse to hear you question her status."
To prove her point, she pressed a solemn kiss to the pug's forehead. Lady blinked in blissful approval.
Neville sighed. "You are impossible."
"And you adore it," she replied without missing a beat, tossing him a wink that sent a small, unwelcome rush of heat up his neck.
Lady snorted, her pearls catching the light, as if agreeing with her new mother's declaration.
Neville studied the pair of them with a slowly growing smile. "You need friends, Parky."
Pansy stiffened instantly. "I have friends."
"Girl friends," he clarified, completely unbothered by the frost now creeping into her posture. "You should visit Luna."
Pansy let out a loud scoff. "Luna? She is always floating around like some ethereal woodland creature. And her endless positivity? Exhausting. Completely exhausting."
Neville chuckled. "Alright. What about Ginny?"
Pansy froze, then recoiled as if he had insulted her ancestry. "Absolutely not. I do not associate with her kind."
He blinked. "Her kind? Pansy, she is a pureblood."
"She is a redhead, Neville. A redhead. And she hexes people. I refuse."
Neville stared at her for a long moment, then laughed into his wine. "That might be the most ridiculous thing you have said all day."
Pansy waved him off with a dramatic flick of her hand. "Ridiculous or not, I stand by it."
"Then what about Hermione?"
Pansy groaned as if the soul had just left her body. "We will get there. She and Malfoy have some sort of unspoken death pact going on, and I am not interested in whatever twisted spiritual crisis they are currently navigating. I value my sanity."
Neville only smiled, fully used to her theatrics. "So you will visit Luna."
"Why on earth would I do that?" Pansy asked, utterly horrified. "We are complete opposites. She collects crystals and talks to the moon. I collect diamonds and yell at my staff."
"You are more alike than you think," he said with a warm grin.
Before she could argue, he gave his lap a light, confident pat. "Sit, princess."
Her breath caught. Her spine straightened. Pride and desire clashed in her eyes. She tried to muster resistance, but the look he gave her was patient and steady, with just enough authority to pull her straight toward him.
Slowly, gracefully, she moved.
Every step was deliberate, shaped by tension and something deeper she refused to examine too closely.
She lowered herself onto his lap. His hands found her waist with a quiet certainty, guiding her into place. Her breath hitched. The atmosphere thickened, soft as velvet and sharp as a drawn blade.
"Promise me you will visit Luna," Neville whispered, his voice almost tender, yet firm in its expectation.
Pansy lifted her gaze to his. Her usual defiance flickered, but something else rose in its place. Vulnerability. Curiosity. A desire to meet him halfway, even if only once.
She swallowed, her voice softening against her will. "I will visit Luna."
Neville smiled, slow and warm, as if he had expected nothing less from her.
Lady Lemongrass gave a triumphant snort, her pearls shimmering triumphantly, as though she approved of the new peace treaty.
~~~~~~
Pansy woke to the warm spill of sunlight drifting across her bed, the soft glow settling over her blankets like a gentle invitation to start the day. Her lashes fluttered open, and the first thing she saw was Lady curled against her side, snoring in tiny puffs that shook her entire little body.
With a sigh heavy enough to belong on a theatre stage, Pansy sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in glossy waves, but even that small comfort did little to soothe the dread settling beneath her ribs.
Today she was attempting something outrageous.
Today she was trying friendship.
Real, genuine friendship.
Merlin help her indeed.
She dressed as though preparing for battle. Her outfit was striking, elegant, precise in a way that demanded respect, yet carried enough softness to suggest she was, in fact, trying. She inspected herself from every angle, lifted her chin, and gathered what remained of her composure.
Then, with a flick of her wand, she Apparated.
The instant she landed at the gates of Nott Manor, her breath caught in a startled gasp.
She stared around her in wide-eyed disbelief.
The air shimmered with movement. Tiny magical creatures zipped through the garden, their wings catching the morning light in bursts of soft color. Fairies drifted lazily between blossoms, leaving faint trails of sparkle behind them. Even the flowers seemed to lean toward her with unnatural cheer.
It felt less like a wizarding estate and more like a child's enchanted storybook brought violently to life.
Pansy pressed a hand over her heart and gasped dramatically.
"Merlin's beard, what fresh hell is this?"
She swayed on her feet for emphasis, one hand rising to her brow in a display of pure tragic heroine energy. The ridiculous sweetness of the scene made her feel faint. She had prepared herself for Luna's oddities, but this was something far more sinister.
Friendship with Luna Lovegood.
This was how she died. She was certain of it.
With a deep breath, she steadied herself and began walking toward the towering front doors. Each step felt like a march into enemy territory. The manor, regal and imposing, stood in sharp contrast to the whimsical chaos of the grounds. It loomed above her, silent and unreadable, as though waiting to see whether she would turn tail and flee.
But Pansy did not flee.
She planted her feet, lifted her chin, and allowed herself a moment of theatrical hesitation. Just enough to savor the drama.
Then she rapped her knuckles against the door.
The sound echoed through the stillness, bold and decisive, slicing through the quiet garden and announcing her arrival like a queen entering a foreign court.
A hush settled over the space. Even the fairies paused, their wings hanging in mid-air.
Pansy could feel the anticipation pressing against her skin, the strange, living tension curling around her limbs, urging her forward and holding her back in equal measure.
She was standing at the threshold of a world too bright, too soft, too whimsical to make any sense. A world where people touched crystals for comfort and kept jars of moonlight on their windowsills.
It was too much. Far too much.
But she had survived war. She had survived politics.
She could survive friendship. Even if it was with Luna Lovegood.
And if this glittering kingdom of sweetness and absurdity dared to challenge her, she would simply add it to the long list of things she had already conquered.
With her spine straight and her pulse steadying, Pansy waited for the door to open.
She was ready.
Or at least, she would pretend she was.
When Theo finally swung open the door, his expression was a curious mix of irritation and disbelief, as if Pansy's presence on his doorstep personally offended his sense of reality.
"What are you doing here, Parkinson?" he asked, raising a single brow with slow, suspicious precision.
Pansy rolled her eyes and lifted her chin, the motion elegant and sharp, perfected long before she ever learned her first spell.
"I am here to make friends, Theodore." She sighed with theatrical exhaustion, one hand resting lightly against her temple. "Apparently that is what I have been lacking in my life."
Theo stared at her for a long moment, entirely unimpressed.
"Leave my wife alone," he drawled. "She is too sensitive for you."
Pansy's mouth dropped open in outrage, the beginnings of a sharp retort forming on her tongue, but a soft voice floated from deeper inside the manor.
"Who is it, my Sun?"
Pansy blinked and craned her neck, startled by the gentle melody of Luna's voice.
Theo's smirk was immediate and smug. "It is a spoiled brat."
Pansy gasped, one hand flying to her chest.
"Draco is here?" she exclaimed, layering her voice with enough offended delicacy to rival any tragic heroine.
Luna's voice drifted back with quiet amusement. "No, it is the other one."
And then she appeared.
Luna moved toward the doorway as though carried by a breeze, her steps light, her smile warm enough to melt frost. Her presence softened the air around her, and Pansy felt herself blink in surprise at how easily Luna seemed to brighten the world without even trying.
"Oh, hello, Pansy," Luna said, her voice calm and sincere.
That simple greeting cracked something in Pansy's chest. For a fleeting second, she felt her walls sway.
She recovered instantly.
With syrupy sweetness, she turned to Theo and flashed him a glower that could have cut stone.
"What is this I hear about a 'spoiled brat,' Theodore?"
Theo shrugged, entirely unbothered. "Are you not?"
Her eyes narrowed into razor-sharp slits. One hand snapped dramatically to her hip as she leaned forward, posture perfectly angled to deliver an insult with style.
"Oh, why do you not just fuck off, Theodore?" she snapped, though the lilt in her voice gave away the playfulness beneath it.
Luna giggled, the sound light and musical. It stirred something surprising in Pansy, something she could not place at first.
Encouraged, Pansy turned to Luna with a grave expression. "Luna, darling, we simply must address your husband's behavior. He is far too cheeky for his own good."
Luna laughed again, genuine and warm, and it filled the space between them like sunlight through glass. Pansy's breath caught. She had not expected laughter. She had certainly not expected it to feel so good.
Luna stepped closer, her smile widening. "I have no doubt you will manage beautifully, Pansy. Theo can be a handful, but I think you are more than equipped to handle him."
Pansy tossed her hair with a smug flourish. "Oh, do not worry. I have my ways of dealing with unruly men."
Theo rolled his eyes, though the slight curve at his lips betrayed him. "You think you can handle me, Parkinson?"
Pansy's eyes sparkled with mischief. She leaned toward Luna with a conspiratorial whisper. "Let us just say I have a few tricks up my sleeve."
The words carried a teasing challenge, warm yet edged with her usual boldness. Theo snorted, Luna laughed softly, and Pansy felt something unfamiliar settle low in her chest. Something that felt suspiciously like belonging.
They stood together at the threshold, the strange trio of sharp elegance, soft dreaminess, and cool detachment blending in a way none of them had expected.
The air hummed with an easy, growing camaraderie, as if the universe had quietly decided to give Pansy a reprieve from her perpetual defensiveness.
She let out a slow breath, taking in the moment.
Maybe this was not a social trial after all.
Maybe friendship, real friendship, was something she could learn.
Maybe she wanted to.
Luna reached out and lightly touched her arm. "Come in, Pansy. I have tea with honey and a cake shaped like a moon."
Pansy stepped over the threshold, dramatic as ever, but her smile was real.
"Fine," she said. "Impress me."
And as Luna led her into the soft glow of the manor, and Theo shook his head with exasperated fondness, Pansy felt something warm and steady take root in her chest.
It turned out that being friendly was a Herculean task for Pansy. Every polite word felt as though it were being yanked out of her soul with pliers.
For Luna, however, kindness was effortless. As natural as breathing. As steady and inevitable as the tide.
Pansy could not understand it. She was convinced Luna Lovegood was either blessed by ancient cosmic forces or deeply unwell.
Leaning in, she narrowed her eyes and studied Luna with deep suspicion, as though attempting to identify the source of her unnatural sunshine.
"Luna, have you ever done any drugs? Be honest with me."
Luna blinked, her soft smile never wavering.
"I have experimented with a few things," she answered calmly.
Pansy nearly choked on her tea. She coughed, sputtered, wide-eyed, teacup rattling in her hand.
Before she could recover, Luna tilted her head with curious innocence. "Why do you ask? Are you offering?"
Pansy's hand flew to her chest in scandalized disbelief. "Merlin's beard, no. I mean, I wish I had something to offer, but that is not the point."
She threw her hands in the air with all the flair of a woman accustomed to commanding a ballroom.
"The point is, why are you always so infuriatingly cheerful? It is unnatural."
Luna considered this as though pondering a riddle whispered by stars. "It is simply who I am," she said thoughtfully. "Life is full of strange and wonderful things. I try to appreciate the joy."
Pansy stared at her, dumbfounded.
"Joy?" she repeated, incredulous. "Is that what you call this relentless, consuming cloud of rainbows you float around in? You must have a hidden stash of optimism somewhere. I demand to know where you keep it."
Luna giggled, light as air. "Perhaps I do. Or perhaps I just choose to see beauty in everything."
Pansy huffed loudly. "You are positively maddening, you know that?"
Yet even as she complained, there was a warmth blooming inside her chest, subtle and unfamiliar. Luna's presence was soothing in a strange way. Odd. Comforting. Too honest to be disliked.
Pansy sighed dramatically, one hand pressed to her forehead in a show of great suffering. "There must be more to it," she groaned. "No one is that happy without magical assistance. I refuse to believe it."
Luna sipped her tea serenely. Then she spoke with the same calm tone one might use to comment on the weather.
"Maybe you should try shagging Neville."
Pansy froze.
Her soul left her body.
She blinked once. Then again. Her brain could not comprehend the sound it had just heard.
"I beg your pardon?"
Luna remained unbothered. "You seem very tense. Affection can help with that."
Pansy's horror was immediate. "I am not tense," she snapped.
But the dramatic flare in her voice suggested otherwise.
Then her expression shifted. Mischief flickered in her eyes. "But wait," she said slowly, "did you actually manage to take the lover boy's virginity?"
Luna blinked at the ceiling as if searching for memories among the dust motes. "He offered it very willingly."
Pansy's jaw dropped. She slapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, sweet Circe. He was absolutely obsessed with you. You have no idea."
Luna's smile grew, soft and knowing. "Was he? I suppose he still is."
Pansy gasped. Her hands flew to her cheeks in sheer delight. "Stop. I need every detail. Spill everything. Now."
Luna laughed, the sound warm and light. It washed over Pansy, tugging at something deep and unarmored within her.
And just like that, something shifted.
Two forces collided.
One whimsical.
One cataclysmic.
Two entirely different worlds touching at the edges.
A friendship was born.
Fueled by Luna's quiet wisdom, Pansy's theatrical flair, and their shared amusement over Theo's tragic crush, the two women fell into an unexpected rhythm. A whimsical storm meeting an unstoppable hurricane, forging something rare and bright between them.
Something Pansy had not known she needed until this very moment.
~~~~~~
She felt as though her execution day had finally arrived.
It was not that she disliked Neville. In fact, his quiet charm was beginning to grow on her, creeping into her life like a stubborn but strangely endearing weed. Yet the sheer horror of the moment before her was impossible to ignore.
Here she stood, draped in a last-minute wedding gown that had been shipped from Italy in a frenzy.
Italy.
The thought alone made her want to collapse onto the nearest chaise lounge and weep for the tragedy of it all.
The gown was beautiful, of course. Delicate lace. Intricate beading. Silk that caught the light in soft waves. It was exquisite by any standard.
But it was not the dress.
Not the dream she had clung to since childhood, twirling in her mother's oversized heels, pretending she was the ethereal bride in some grand romantic fantasy. Not the gown she had imagined while flipping through old photographs of Parkinson weddings.
Anything other than that vision felt like a betrayal.
She stared at her reflection, smoothing the skirt over her hips with a sigh so theatrical she could have filled a theatre.
"Honestly," she muttered, narrowing her eyes at the mirror. "What a tragedy. My mother would simply faint."
She could picture it perfectly. Her mother, hand pressed to her chest, face contorted in scandal, the weight of this Italian disaster sending her straight to the floor. Smelling salts required.
"This is a catastrophe of epic proportions."
And yet… beneath all the outrage and the humiliation and the urge to fling herself into a velvet sofa, a small whisper rose in her mind.
Perhaps it was not the dress at all.
Perhaps it was the man waiting for her.
The thought sent a soft ripple through her chest, warm and unfamiliar. It did not calm her completely, but it was enough to keep her from spiraling into full melodrama.
A gentle knock sounded at the door.
Pansy drew a steadying breath and opened it.
Neville stood there, staring openly, his expression brighter than she expected. The look on his face made her heart stutter in a way she refused to examine too closely.
"You look incredible, Parky."
She rolled her eyes, even as a small flutter stirred beneath her ribs. "Do not flatter me. It is not the gown I wanted."
He stepped forward, his gaze soft but steady. "Sorry to remind you, but I am your husband now. I thought we were having a lovely moment."
Pansy's eyes widened. "Not you. The dress. Look at it."
Neville blinked, following her gesture, taking in the gown with thoughtful attention. "It is beautiful, darling."
"You are only saying that."
"I am not," he said gently, taking her hand. His thumb brushed over her fingers, warm and steady. "You look gorgeous with or without the dress. Though I will not lie, I do prefer you without it."
Her breath caught. Heat rose in her cheeks. Her usual sharp reply dissolved into something soft and unsteady.
"Oh… well… thank you," she whispered.
Neville smiled and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Anytime, Mrs. Longbottom."
The words landed gently, settling something fragile inside her.
Suddenly the dress did not feel quite so tragic.
The Ministry of Magic's Grand Hall stretched before her in all its imposing formality. A cavernous space filled with rustling robes, hushed conversation, and the unmistakable weight of bureaucracy.
Standing at the front, she felt every pair of eyes on her.
Her Italian gown shimmered beneath the bright sconces, elegant and flawless, but still unfamiliar. Still not hers. The thought stung more than she expected, carving a sharp line through her chest.
This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. Instead, it felt more like sentencing.
And yet…
She looked at Neville.
He stood beside her with quiet dignity, the formal robes settling across his shoulders with a confidence she had not seen before. He was still the boy she once dismissed, but tonight he felt steadier. Warmer. Grounded in a way that made her breath catch.
The officiant cleared her throat, crisp and cold.
"We are gathered here today under the authority of the Ministry of Magic to unite these individuals in marriage, for the preservation of our kind."
The words fell flat against the polished marble. No romance. No poetry. Just procedure.
Her hands curled slightly at her sides.
"Neville Longbottom, do you consent to take Pansy Parkinson as your lawfully wedded wife?"
Neville turned to her.
His eyes held no doubt. Only certainty.
"I do."
The firmness of his voice struck her like a spark. Warm. Steady. Unyielding.
"Pansy Parkinson, do you consent to take Neville Longbottom as your lawfully wedded husband?"
She hesitated. Just a fraction of a second.
But when she met his gaze, something inside her loosened.
"I do," she said quietly.
Her voice was steady, even though her heart thundered.
The officiant nodded briskly. "By the power vested in me by the Ministry of Magic, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
The words echoed oddly in her ears. No sweet vows. No sentimental declarations. Just a legal formality.
She drew in a breath. Sharp. Unsteady.
Then she felt his hand slide into hers.
Startled, she looked up.
Neville leaned in.
And kissed her.
It was soft at first, hesitant, almost searching. Then it deepened into something fuller, something certain. A promise. A beginning. A quiet defiance of every cold law that had forced them into this moment.
Her breath caught. Her hand found his lapel, gripping it with instinctive urgency.
For a brief moment, the entire hall melted away.
When they finally pulled apart, the silence was thick, broken only by the officiant clearing her throat.
"Um. Yes. You may sign the documents now."
But Pansy barely heard her.
Because everything had changed.
Something unspoken, something warm and startling, settled between them.
And for the first time since the decree arrived, she felt the ground shift beneath her feet in a way that did not scare her at all.
~~~~~~
As soon as they stepped into Parkinson Manor, a quiet ripple of old magic moved through the air. The walls shifted almost imperceptibly, as though the house itself had taken notice of the new presence crossing its threshold.
Pansy paused in the foyer, her eyes narrowing. She felt it immediately. The Manor was awake. Observing. Curious.
Neville, meanwhile, noticed something entirely different. His belongings had been arranged throughout the house as if they had always been meant to be there. His books were stacked neatly on polished shelves. His clothes hung in the wardrobe beside hers. His herbology tools had been placed with surprising care inside a small greenhouse tucked in the east wing.
"It is like the house knew I was coming," he murmured, wide-eyed.
Pansy gave a light, amused shrug. "The elves have been busy." Her tone was casual, but something in her chest tightened at the sight of his life threaded so naturally into hers. "You are settled in now, whether you like it or not."
He turned to her, smiling slowly. "Seems like I am here to stay."
She raised one elegant brow, her sass returning like a well-fitted coat. "That was never in question, Nevie. This is your home now too."
The words floated between them. Your home.
Neville stepped closer. His hand brushed lightly against hers. A fleeting touch. A brief spark. Enough to send a small, unwelcome thrill up her spine.
"We will make it work, will we not?" His voice was soft, steady, almost tentative.
Pansy met his gaze with a smirk, though her heart was not nearly as composed. "We do not have much of a choice, do we?"
Neville laughed quietly. Something warm flickered in his eyes, something that made her pulse stutter.
Somewhere deep within the Manor, the magic settled as though the house itself was watching, waiting to see what they would become.
That night, Neville could not sleep.
Everything about Parkinson Manor felt too grand, too quiet, too polished. His bedroom was twice the size of his childhood home. The ceiling stretched high above him, and the silence pressed around him like a weight.
After tossing and turning for far too long, he finally gave up. Pulling on a sweater, he wandered the corridors in search of tea or maybe just a sense of normalcy.
When he reached the kitchen, he froze.
Pansy was already there.
She sat at the marble island in a silken emerald robe that shimmered softly under candlelight. A biscuit in one hand. A raised brow that suggested she had expected him eventually.
"Could not sleep either?" she asked, her voice dripping with mock superiority, though he heard the hint of relief beneath it.
Neville sighed as he approached the kettle. "This place is overwhelming," he admitted. "Feels like living in a museum."
Pansy huffed dramatically, swirling the milk in her glass. "Tell me about it. I have lived here my entire life and still get lost."
He laughed, the sound easing something inside them both.
"Mind if I join you?"
She gestured with regal flair. "Be my guest. Misery loves company."
He set the kettle to boil. She pushed the plate of biscuits toward him.
"They are still warm," she said. "The elves must have just made them."
Neville took a bite and nearly groaned. "These are incredible."
Pansy smirked, watching him over the rim of her glass. The silence between them shifted, no longer prickly or strained. Something comfortable began to form in its place.
After a moment, her voice softened. "I think we are in the same boat."
He met her gaze. "Yes. I think we are."
She toyed with the edge of her robe. Her fingers betrayed a nervousness her expression did not show.
"Are we sinking?" she asked, drawing on her usual dramatic flair to soften the quiet vulnerability beneath the words.
Neville considered her question, sipping his tea. "Just adrift," he replied. "But maybe we can find our way together."
Pansy's lips curved into a real smile. Small. Surprised. Tender. "I suppose there are worse people to be lost at sea with."
"I could say the same."
The Manor felt less intimidating with each breath. Less grand and imposing. More like a place with room for both of them.
They stayed there for hours, talking about nothing and everything. Hogwarts memories. Their absurd situation. Her mother's impossible expectations. His disastrous attempts at ballroom dancing.
By the time the first pale light of dawn slipped through the high windows, the distance between them had shrunk into something warm and familiar.
As they walked back through the quiet corridors, side by side, the house seemed to relax around them, the magic settling with a sense of cautious approval.
At her door, she paused.
For a moment, all her theatrics fell away. "Thank you for the company," she said softly.
Neville smiled. "Anytime, Parky. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Neville."
He returned to his room and slipped beneath the covers. For the first time since arriving, he felt something like peace settle over him.
Parkinson Manor was still enormous and unfamiliar. But with her laughter echoing faintly in his mind, he no longer felt quite so lost.