From a marriage that had begun as a mere obligation to a love that had slowly and steadily rooted itself into every corner of her life, she sometimes struggled to understand how they had arrived here.
The thought often caught her off guard in quiet moments, like now, when his fingers traced idle patterns along her wrist while they rested together on the garden bench. The simple, easy affection still amazed her.
He was not demanding. He never pushed. He simply loved her in a way that felt steady and patient, as though he had always known she just needed time to grow comfortable in her own softness.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes as the last flicker of sunlight disappeared behind the treetops. A breeze drifted through the garden, carrying the faint scent of lavender and warm earth. Neville shifted just slightly, just enough to pull her closer, his arm circling her with a familiarity that still made her chest ache in the sweetest way.
"You are thinking again," he murmured, his voice soft against her temple. "I can hear the wheels turning."
She snorted a quiet laugh, though she did not lift her head. "I was thinking about how this whole thing started," she admitted. "And how much I hated you for not panicking as much as I was."
He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through her. "I did panic. I just hid it better."
She tilted her head to look at him, narrowing her eyes. "Liar."
"Completely terrified," he corrected with a grin. "But I knew we would be all right. You were the only one who didn't see it."
His confidence, even now, even in jest, made something warm unfurl in her stomach. She raised his hand and pressed a light kiss to his knuckles, surprising both of them. She almost never initiated affection, but lately it had begun to feel natural, like breathing.
Neville's breath hitched, subtle and quiet, but she felt it.
She let her lips linger for a moment before lowering their joined hands. "I should have trusted you sooner," she said quietly.
"You trusted me in your own way," he replied. "You always have."
She huffed, though fondly. "You make me sound like some tortured heroine from a romance novel."
He pretended to think. "Well. You do have a flair for the dramatic."
She jabbed him lightly with her elbow while he burst into laughter, catching her hand before she could pull away. His fingers slid between hers with a gentle certainty that still made her heart stutter.
They stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped in the soft glow of dusk, until she spoke again, her voice calmer now, almost contemplative.
"Do you ever wonder how we ended up like this?" she asked.
"All the time," he answered. "But I am grateful every day that we did."
Her throat tightened, a familiar wave of emotion rising as she looked at him. The sincerity in his voice, the way he never hesitated to speak from the heart, still felt unreal to her.
So many people had loved her for the version she performed, the polished façade she had perfected over years of survival. But Neville loved her for who she was when the curtains were drawn and the show was over.
She leaned in, resting her forehead against his, letting her breath mingle with his own. "You make it too easy to love you," she whispered.
His answering smile was soft and full of something deep. "You make it worth every second."
The simple truth of it settled inside her like a steady flame. She realized then that the fear she had clung to for so long was starting to loosen its hold. She was learning to love without bracing for the fall. Learning that she could trust him not to let her shatter.
Later that night, when they returned inside and prepared for bed, she caught him placing another note on her pillow. He had done it every night without fail, always when he thought she would not notice. This time, she caught him red-handed.
She crossed her arms, watching him with an arched brow. "You really cannot help yourself, can you?"
He flushed a little, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe I like spoiling you."
She reached for the note before he could snatch it away. The message was simple. Four words.
Thank you for trying.
Her breath caught. She sat on the edge of the bed, the paper trembling slightly in her hand. When she looked up, he was watching her with that same open tenderness she still struggled to understand.
She stood, walked straight into his arms, and wrapped herself around him with quiet urgency.
"Nevie," she whispered into his shoulder. "I love you."
He held her tighter, his nose brushing her hair. "I love you too."
Their world, once uncertain and fractured, now felt steady. Not perfect. Not without effort. But real. And for the first time in her life, that was enough.
They fell asleep curled together, their breaths falling into the same rhythm, their hearts steady and sure.
~~~~~~
She sat curled up on the couch beside him, the firelight casting a warm glow around the room. She was playing absentmindedly with the edge of her robe when a thought occurred to her, a thought she hadn't quite dared to voice until now.
"Darling?" she began softly, her voice a little more tentative than usual.
He turned his head to look at her, his expression as open and kind as ever. "Yes, love?"
She hesitated, her fingers nervously twisting a loose thread on the blanket draped over her lap. The question that had been swirling in her mind for weeks hovered on the tip of her tongue, and she bit her lower lip, trying to find the right words.
It wasn't that she didn't know how to ask him—it was the weight of the question itself that made her pause. Their life together had settled into a comfortable rhythm, a quiet, shared understanding that grew with every passing day. But this...this felt different.
Finally, unable to hold it in any longer, she took a deep breath and blurted out, "So... would you like to have a real wedding?"
The words lingered in the air between them, soft yet heavy with meaning. For a heartbeat, maybe two, he didn't respond. His brow furrowed slightly as the surprise registered in his eyes.
They had been married for some time now, their life shaped by the Ministry's decree, by the ceremony that had bound them together in the most formal, impersonal way.
The forced marriage had been a whirlwind, dictated by law, a bureaucratic necessity more than a celebration of love. It was something they had endured, something they had accepted as part of their new reality.
But a real wedding? A wedding that was theirs and theirs alone? That was something else entirely.
She held her breath, watching him closely, unsure of how he'd react. Maybe he was content with the life they had now, with the quiet routines and the unspoken promises they'd built together. Maybe this was enough for him. Maybe...
But then, as if the question had unlocked something in him, his expression softened, and a slow, tender smile spread across his face. It was the kind of smile that always made her feel like the world had just gotten a little bit brighter, like the weight of all her worries had been lifted, even if just for a moment.
He leaned forward, gently brushing a stray strand of hair away from her cheek, his touch as familiar as it was comforting.
"Of course I would, Parky," he said softly, his voice warm and full of affection. "I'd love that more than anything."
The relief hit her all at once, washing over her like a wave that she hadn't even realized she'd been holding back. Her chest felt lighter, and her eyes sparkled with a new kind of excitement, one she hadn't allowed herself to feel until now.
A real wedding. A wedding where she could walk down the aisle, where their friends and family could celebrate with them, not out of obligation but out of joy. A wedding where she could look him in the eye and vow to love him not because she had to, but because she chose to.
"Well, then," she said, her voice taking on a familiar sharpness, though it was tinged with excitement now. "We'll need to start planning immediately. There's so much to do, and if we're going to do this properly, we're going to need time. Venues, dresses, flowers, invitations—"
He chuckled, cutting her off with a playful kiss on the nose. "Slow down, love," he said, amusement dancing in his eyes. "We've got all the time in the world."
But she was already in planning mode, her mind whirling with possibilities. "No, we don't," she countered, her hands gesturing animatedly. "Do you have any idea how long it takes to book a decent venue? And don't even get me started on caterers. If we don't start now, we'll be stuck with Aunt Mildred's dusty backyard and a potluck dinner. Absolutely not happening."
He laughed again, that deep, rich sound that always seemed to ground her, to pull her out of her own head and remind her of what truly mattered. "Alright, alright," he conceded, still grinning. "But let's start with the most important part first."
She raised an eyebrow, momentarily thrown off track. "Which is...?"
"Us," he said simply, his hand finding hers and giving it a gentle squeeze. "This wedding isn't about the venue, or the dress, or the flowers. It's about us. It's about making a promise to each other, a real promise. So as long as I'm standing at the end of that aisle, waiting for you, and as long as you're walking toward me, nothing else matters."
Her heart swelled at his words, and for a moment, she was speechless. It was so like him to cut through all the noise, all the details that she so often got caught up in, and remind her of the heart of the matter. This wedding wasn't about the grand gestures or the perfect setting. It was about them, about the love they'd found in the most unlikely of circumstances, about the life they'd built together, despite everything.
She smiled, her eyes softening as she looked at him. "You're right," she said quietly, squeezing his hand back. "It's about us. And I want it to be perfect. For us."
"And it will be," he promised, his voice steady and sure. "Because it'll be ours."
They sat there in comfortable silence for a while, the weight of their decision settling over them in the best possible way. She felt a warmth spread through her, a sense of anticipation that bubbled just beneath the surface. This was really happening. They were going to have a real wedding. Not because they had to, but because they wanted to. Because they loved each other.
"So," he said after a while, a mischievous glint in his eye, "any ideas for a theme? I was thinking maybe 'Herbology Chic'?"
Pansy groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically. "If you think I'm walking down the aisle surrounded by potted mandrakes, you've lost your mind."
He laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. No plants. How about something a little more... elegant? A moonlit garden, perhaps? With fairy lights and... I don't know, some kind of fancy magical creature involved?"
She considered it for a moment, her mind already spinning with ideas. "Hmm, a moonlit garden could work," she mused. "With silver accents, maybe? And enchanted candles that float above the tables..."
"Now you're talking," he said, his smile widening. "See? We're already halfway there."
"Halfway?" she scoffed. "Darling, we haven't even started."
"Well," he said, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur. "We've got plenty of time to figure it out. And in the meantime... we can practice."
"Practice?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
His grin was positively wicked. "Practicing being madly in love. It's going to be the easiest part of the whole thing."
She couldn't help but laugh, a soft, genuine sound that felt like the release of all the tension she'd been holding onto. "Oh, I think we've got that down," she replied, her voice light but filled with meaning.
And as they sat there, hands entwined, their future spread out before them like an open book, she knew that whatever came next, whether it was planning the wedding of their dreams or simply continuing to build the life they'd already started together, they were ready.
He chuckled softly, loving how quickly she switched into action mode. "Yes, my love, let's do that." He paused for a moment, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Would you like to inform our friends first?"
She tapped her fingers against her knee, her mind already racing through the logistics. "Hmm, let's start with Draco."
He raised an eyebrow, looking slightly surprised. "Draco? Not Luna? I thought she was your bestie."
She smirked, a playful glint in her eyes. "Of course Luna's my bestie. But Draco is pragmatic, and he'll be able to handle all the logistical details that I can't be bothered with. Besides, he and Hermione can help us keep things... elegant." She paused, thinking it over. "And Granger will love organizing this kind of thing. She'll make sure nothing goes wrong."
He couldn't help but laugh at the thought. Her sharp, no-nonsense attitude paired with Hermione's meticulous planning was a recipe for an unforgettable event. "Alright, we'll start with Draco and Hermione, then."
She nodded, clearly satisfied with the plan, but there was a softness in her expression that hadn't been there before. "We'll tell Luna after. She'll understand," she added, her voice a little quieter. "Besides, she'll probably want to weave moonbeams into my hair or something."
He smiled at the thought of Luna's whimsical touches. "That sounds about right."
For a few moments, they sat in comfortable silence, the warmth of the fire wrapping around them like a blanket. She leaned her head against his shoulder, her fingers tracing small patterns on his arm.
"I want it to be special," she said after a while, her voice almost a whisper. "Not like the ceremony we had at the Ministry. Something real. Something that feels like us."
His heart swelled at her words. He reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "It will be, Parky. I promise. We'll make it exactly how we want."
She lifted her head, meeting his gaze with an intensity that always took his breath away. "Good," she said firmly. "Because I won't settle for anything less than perfect."
He grinned, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "I wouldn't expect anything else."
The next few days flew by in a whirlwind of discussions, decisions, and excitement. She was in her element, throwing herself into every detail of their upcoming wedding. She made lists, checked them twice, and ensured every decision aligned with her vision of the perfect day. He was happy to let her take the lead, chiming in only when needed.
~~~~~~
The Parkinson estate was as grand and ostentatious as ever, its towering columns and sprawling grounds practically dripping with old money. They ascended the marble steps, their earlier playful bickering momentarily set aside as the heavy oak doors swung open to reveal Neville Longbottom himself.
"Hermione!" he greeted her with his signature, golden-retriever enthusiasm, pulling her into a warm embrace. The sheer affection radiating off of him momentarily stunned Draco, who could only arch a brow at the exchange.
Neville pulled back, his grin unwavering as he turned to Draco. "Malfoy."
Draco tilted his head slightly, a flicker of amusement in his gaze. "Longbottom," he returned, his tone dry but not unkind, clasping Neville's hand in a firm shake. "A pleasure, I'm sure."
"Come in, come in," he ushered them inside, the grand foyer giving way to an opulently decorated sitting room. "Pansy's just finishing up dinner—she'll be delighted to see you both."
"Delighted?" Draco muttered under his breath. "Strong word."
Hermione shot him a warning glance before stepping into the dining room—where, right on cue, she swept in like a high-society specter, brandishing a steaming platter like a weapon.
"Oh, look at this," she drawled, setting down the dish with an unnecessary flourish. "Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. Finally descending from Mount Perfection to grace us with their presence."
Her sharp gaze swept over Hermione, a calculating glint in her ice-blue eyes. "And my, my. Granger, you look... different. Finally decided to embrace some femininity, have we?"
Hermione didn't so much as blink. "Good evening, Pansy," she said smoothly, brushing an invisible speck of dust from her sleeve. "And thank you. I quite like the dress myself."
Draco smirked, thoroughly enjoying the exchange.
She barely spared him a glance. "Draco, darling, you look as smug as ever. I assume that means married life is treating you well?"
Before Draco could deliver a delightfully sarcastic reply, Hermione pounced. "Speaking of marriage," she interjected, her tone light, but laced with genuine curiosity, "how's the newlywed life treating you two?"
At that, they exchanged a loaded glance—one of those married couple moments where entire conversations happened without a single word.
"Amazing," they both blurted in unison.
Hermione arched a brow, amused at Pansy's uncharacteristic blush creeping up her throat. "Well, that's unexpected," she mused. "Didn't peg you for the domestic type, Parkinson."
She smirked, reaching for her wine glass. "Neither did I, but here we are. Who knew a Ministry-enforced marriage could turn out so well?"
Neville chuckled, cheeks pink with something bordering on embarrassment—but not quite regret. "It's been an adjustment," he admitted, giving Pansy's hand a casual squeeze. "But we've made it work."
A loud snuffle interrupted them, drawing Hermione's attention downward—where, nestled at Pansy's feet, sat a doggy, outrageously spoiled pug, donning a ridiculously pink collar. A tiny silver tag dangled from it, proudly proclaiming the creature as "Lady Lemongrass."
"We're expecting our first furbaby," she announced, completely deadpan, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Draco choked on his wine.
Hermione blinked, glancing between the glorified loaf of a dog and the deadly serious expressions on their faces.
"...I—excuse me?"
"Lady Lemongrass," he repeated solemnly, as if announcing the name of a royal heir. "She's... a bit of a handful."
Pansy beamed, reaching down to scratch behind the pug's tiny, suspiciously smug-looking ears. "Marriage is full of surprises, Granger," she said airily. "Even Ministry-arranged ones can come with adorable perks."
Hermione stared at them, then at the dog, then at them again.
"...You two got married and your first act as a couple was acquiring a designer pug?"
"Obviously," she said, tossing her hair.
He sighed but didn't disagree.
A slow, bewildered smile spread across Hermione's face.
A Ministry-mandated marriage leading to an aristocratic pug adoption?
Honestly, at this point, why was she even surprised?
Pansy arched a perfectly sculpted brow at their exchange. "Well, well," she drawled, her lips twitching with amusement. "Looks like love is in the air, even outside Ministry-enforced matrimony. Go on, lovebirds, tell us—how's wedded bliss treating you?"
Draco cleared his throat, suddenly uncharacteristically sheepish. The ever-composed Malfoy hesitating? Embarrassing. He stole a glance at Hermione, his gaze softer than usual, tinged with something dangerously close to sincerity.
"Better than I ever imagined," he admitted, voice low but steady.
Hermione, caught off guard by the unexpected honesty, felt warmth creep up her neck. A flutter, unwelcome but undeniable, stirred in her chest. "It's been… an adjustment," she conceded, meeting his eyes in a brief but telling exchange. "But," she continued, this time with more certainty, "I think we're finding our way, together."
Her sharp gaze flickered between them, her lips curving into a smirk. "Finding your way, huh? That sounds dangerously sentimental. Should we be expecting a renewal of vows announcement?"
Draco scoffed. "Don't be absurd, Pans. We haven't even consummated the bloody thing properly."
Neville choked on his drink.
Hermione, scandalized, kicked Draco under the table. "Merlin's sake, Draco."
He smirked, utterly unapologetic. "What? Just keeping the conversation lively."
Pansy, clearly entertained, leaned in. "Speaking of monumental announcements…" she began, exchanging a conspiratorial glance with him.
The Gryffindor-turned-herbology-extraordinaire grinned sheepishly. "We've decided we want a real wedding," he revealed. "Not the Ministry's version of one."
Draco quirked a brow. "Congratulations. And by 'real,' you mean?"
She exhaled dramatically, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Grand, but intimate."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "That sounds contradictory."
Neville beamed. "Only 435 guests!"
Draco and Hermione exchanged a knowing glance. Pureblood logic.
"And," she added, her gaze zeroing in on them with practiced precision, "we'd like you both to participate."
Draco's suspicion kicked in immediately. "Define 'participate,'" he said, wary.
He leaned forward, his grin widening. "Well, Malfoy… we've decided to do things a bit unconventionally. And who better to help us than a Malfoy and a Granger?"
Hermione, already sensing chaos, sighed. "If this involves a dueling ring, I'm out."
She smirked. "You think I'd let you off that easy, Granger?"
He patted his wife's hand. "Relax, love. They'll only be helping plan the madness, not participate in it."
Draco groaned. "Fantastic. So, glorified wedding planners? Just what I've always aspired to be."
Hermione, despite herself, found the idea… oddly endearing. "Well, Pansy," she said, giving her a knowing smile, "if you really want me to plan this, you should be prepared for at least one Muggle wedding tradition."
Her eyes narrowed. "If you say a garter toss, I'm leaving."
Hermione grinned. "Oh, I was thinking something even worse. A choreographed dance."
He loved the idea. She looked betrayed. Draco just sipped his wine, watching the chaos unfold with smug amusement.
~~~~~~
As soon as Hermione and Neville were engrossed in conversation in the grand living room, Pansy shot Draco a look—sharp, knowing, and impossible to ignore. Without a word, he smoothly excused himself and followed her, weaving through the opulent corridors of Parkinson Manor until they reached the bay windows. The dim glow of the setting sun cast elongated shadows across the room, stretching between them like the ghosts of their past.
Pansy stood with her arms crossed, her expression calm but carrying an edge. Calculated. Watchful. "Everything's fine with the business?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Draco leaned against the windowsill, slipping effortlessly into his usual composure. The flicker of something unreadable passed through his grey eyes, but his words were smooth as ever. Too smooth. "You know it is, Parkinson. Everything's running as expected."
Her gaze swept over him, unimpressed. She knew him too well. Knew what he was truly running. On paper, Draco Malfoy was the polished, respectable heir, the reformed businessman, the perfect blend of aristocratic charm and newfound social grace.
But beneath that mask? The Sacred 28 was no longer a relic of pureblood ideals, it was Draco's empire now, a network that operated in shadows, filled with killers, smugglers, and the highly illegal distribution of enchanted elixirs that could alter reality itself. Powerful. Discreet. Untouchable. And yet, here he was, playing the doting husband like it was the only role he'd ever known.
She arched a perfectly sculpted brow, her voice laced with an almost mocking amusement. "Keeping your business to yourself, I see?"
"Obviously." Draco's response was immediate, clipped, borderline dangerous. His eyes flashed, though his stance remained relaxed. "Why? Are you in trouble?"
She scoffed, shaking her head. "You should know better than that. I can handle myself."
Draco narrowed his eyes slightly. His protective instincts sharpened, coiling beneath the surface like a viper waiting to strike. He didn't like this. "Then why ask?"
She uncrossed her arms, stepping closer. Just close enough to be clear, but not close enough to invite softness. "Just making sure you've got your house in order, that's all. I'm not prying into your affairs."
Draco studied her for a long moment, searching for any signs of doubt or hesitation. She was good at masking things. Almost as good as he was. But something about the way she was standing, the subtle weight in her voice, made him question if this was really just a casual inquiry.
"I always do, Parkinson," he murmured, his tone softer now, almost amused. "But you'd do well to keep your secrets, and I'll keep mine." Then, after a beat, he added, too casually, "Unless, of course, you're in over your head."
She let out a quiet, breathy chuckle. "Not yet, Malfoy. But thanks for the concern."
A pause stretched between them, thick with unspoken understanding. She knew the dangers of Draco's world—had lived beside it long enough to see its worst parts. But she didn't want any part of it anymore. Not with him. Not with Neville.
"Are you in love, then?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. His tone had shifted, quieter now, almost... sincere. His gaze flickered briefly toward the living room, where Neville stood, laughing at something Hermione had said.
She hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. But when she spoke, her voice was steady. Certain. "More than ever."
Draco gave an approving nod. "Then definitely keep the family business a secret."
Her smirk softened into something almost fond. Almost. "You don't have to tell me that. I don't want him anywhere near what you do."
His lips twitched, a ghost of admiration flashing in his expression. "Good. Keep it that way. The less he knows, the better. For both your sakes."
For a moment, she let her gaze drift back toward Neville, watching him with something unguarded in her eyes. Then she turned back to Draco, her voice dropping into a quiet warning.
"Just remember, Malfoy," she murmured, all sharp edges again, "if you ever drag me into one of your messes, I'll bury you myself."
Draco let out a low chuckle, the sound dark and amused. "Wouldn't dream of it, Pans."
And just like that, the moment passed. The carefully laid masks slipped back into place. Draco straightened his robes, his expression smoothing back into its usual cool confidence. She adjusted an earring, flicking her hair over her shoulder like she hadn't just threatened to end him.
Together, they stepped back into the world of civility, slipping seamlessly into the roles they played best—Pansy, the devoted socialite, and Draco, the charming aristocrat with nothing to hide.
Only they knew better.
°°°°°°
When it was time to leave, they walked them to the door. "Thank you for coming," she said, hugging Hermione tightly. "And for agreeing to help with the wedding."
"Of course," Hermione replied, smiling. "I'm looking forward to it."
Draco shook Neville's she once more. "Goodnight, Longbottom. We'll see you soon."
"Goodnight, Malfoy," he responded, a genuine warmth in his voice. "Take care, both of you."
As Draco and Hermione walked back to their car, hand in hand, Hermione leaned her head on Draco's shoulder. "Tonight was nice," she said softly.
Draco nodded, squeezing her hand. "Yes, it was. And I think it's just the beginning."
~~~~~~
Pansy burst through Luna's fireplace with all the grace of a hurricane, trailing ash and bits of soot that fluttered onto the pastel rug like defeated confetti. Her eyes were wild, her cheeks flushed, and she barely managed to brush off her robes before barking an order that echoed through the sunlit living room.
"Sit down!"
She pointed toward the nearest armchair with the authority of someone storming a castle.
Luna, who had been peacefully arranging her collection of rocks that looked suspiciously like sleeping birds, blinked in mild surprise. She did not sit. She simply raised her teacup in a polite little salute.
"Pans, you are in my house," she reminded her with soft amusement, gesturing vaguely at the floating charms and softly glowing lanterns drifting around them.
"Whatever, details," Pansy snapped, waving her hand as though trivial concepts like ownership and manners were beneath her. "I have something important to tell you."
Luna set her tea down with care, her expression serene, though a spark of curiosity flickered in her pale eyes. She waited, folding her hands neatly in her lap, the picture of patience. Pansy, meanwhile, paced back and forth like a caged predator trying to decide whether to attack or faint.
"Well," Luna prompted, her tone so airy it bordered on musical, "are you going to spit it out, or should I start reading tea leaves?"
Pansy whirled around, stopping so abruptly her heels screeched against the floor. With hands lifted theatrically toward the ceiling, she declared, "We are having a wedding! A real one this time. With flowers and guests and probably speeches that make me want to hex people. And you"—she jabbed a finger toward Luna—"are my maid of honor. Non-negotiable."
Luna blinked once. Twice. Then smiled with that gentle, dreamlike warmth that always made Pansy question whether Luna was in the same plane of existence as the rest of them.
"You are quite forceful," Luna observed. "We should work on that. But yes, I would be very happy to stand with you."
Pansy froze. Work on that? Now? In this moment of life-altering importance? She stared in disbelief.
"Work on it?" she exclaimed. "Luna, this is not the time for introspection. I am getting married. To Neville. In front of people. In a dress!"
She gestured down the length of her body as if Luna might have forgotten what a dress was.
Luna only smiled wider. "Yes, and you will look lovely."
"That is not the point!" Pansy practically wailed. She collapsed onto the couch, throwing herself into the cushions with enough force to send one of Luna's floating crystals drifting away in alarm. "If I let go of control, this wedding will turn into a wholesome countryside luncheon. You know what Neville is like. He will try to put sunflowers everywhere. Sunflowers, Luna."
Luna sipped her tea again. Completely calm. "Sunflowers are beautiful. They represent happiness."
"That is my problem! Everything represents happiness to you. Meanwhile, I am attempting to construct a once-in-a-lifetime event that will haunt me forever if even one napkin is out of place."
Luna leaned forward just slightly, her smile soft but mischievous. "Would it not be nice to enjoy this instead of spiraling into flames? Imagine yourself on your wedding day, relaxed and glowing rather than screaming orders at terrified vendors."
Pansy groaned into her hands. "I hate that you are always right."
Luna shrugged lightly. "I am rarely right. But with you, I usually have a good feeling."
For a moment, Pansy allowed the quiet to settle, her pulse finally easing enough to let rational thought slip back into her brain. Luna was steady in a way Pansy had never been, a kind of gentle, luminous force that could calm a hurricane with a single sentence.
She let out a breath that sounded less frantic, more thoughtful. "Fine. I will attempt to be less forceful."
Luna lit up, clapping her hands together as if Pansy had just solved world peace. "Wonderful. Now, let us talk about the color scheme. I was thinking periwinkle and moonstone."
Pansy shot her a look that could curdle milk. "No."
Luna's smile widened. "See? You are already practicing."
Pansy groaned again, but she was grinning now, her laugh bubbling up despite herself. This was why Luna was her maid of honor. This was why Luna was her best friend. Nothing ever felt quite as overwhelming when Luna was nearby, wrapped in soft robes and impossible calm, offering wisdom that somehow always hit the right place in Pansy's heart.
"Alright," Pansy sighed, flicking soot out of her hair. "Let us begin planning the most spectacular wedding the world has ever seen."
Luna nodded serenely. "Shall we start with cake flavors?"
Pansy pressed a hand over her heart. "Thank Merlin, something important."
Luna laughed softly, and Pansy felt the last of her panic melt away.
She had a maid of honor.
She had a wedding to plan.
~~~~~~
Her next target was Blaise, who was in the middle of a strategy meeting with Theo when she stormed into the office. The door slammed against the wall, bouncing once before settling, and both men froze like they had been caught doing something illegal. Which, to be fair, they probably were.
Pansy cast one sweeping glance around the room and wrinkled her nose in open disgust.
"Merlin, this place looks like someone died in here," she announced, her voice slicing through the thick air. "Are either of you aware that windows exist? Or that curtains can be replaced? Or that mess is not a personality trait?"
Theo set his quill down with the exhausted patience of a man who had already reached his limit today. "What do you want, Parkinson?" he asked tightly.
Blaise leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, watching her with lazy interest. "Yes, Pansy. To what do we owe the pleasure of your delightful commentary?"
"I am here on official business," she declared, marching straight toward them. "You two will be attending my real wedding. And you will both dress like functioning adults."
Theo blinked. Blaise raised an eyebrow. Silence hung heavy for a beat.
She forged on with the authority of a dictator. "No excuses, Blaise. I want robes that say 'handsome criminal,' not 'I got dressed in the dark.' And Theo, if there is one speck of lint on you, I will hex you until you regret being born."
Theo sputtered. "What is wrong with my robes?"
"Where would you like me to begin?" she shot back.
Blaise tilted his head. "Your real wedding?" His tone suggested he half expected her to say she was joking.
"Yes, Zabini. A real wedding," she repeated with growing frustration. "Flowers. Vows. People crying over how gorgeous I am. And absolutely none of whatever this," she flicked her wrist at the tactical map, "is meant to be."
The two men exchanged a long-suffering glance. These were dangerous men. Men with reputations. Men feared across continents. And yet, faced with Pansy Parkinson, they looked like bewildered schoolboys who had just been scolded for tracking mud into a pristine living room.
She ignored their confusion completely. "I expect you to be on time. I expect you to be clean. And I expect effort. I will not stand at my own wedding and pretend not to know you."
Before either could reply, she leaned forward and jabbed a finger at the map Theo had been carefully drawing. "This strategy is absolute trash. You are coming in from the wrong angle. You will die. Fix it."
Theo's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." She flicked her hand again. "Start over."
Theo sat there speechless, staring at his ruined plan.
"And get a decorator," she added, eyeing the dreary office with fresh contempt. "This room is a cry for help."
She gave them a pointed look, lifted her chin, and vanished with a soft pop, leaving behind a faint shimmer of perfume and a trail of soot on the antique rug.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Theo slowly leaned back, staring at the doorway like it might explain what had just happened. "She has issues," he muttered under his breath.
Blaise pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Many," he agreed, amusement flickering in his eyes. "But the delivery is impressive."
Theo scowled and glanced down at the map she had criticized. "She does not know what she is talking about."
Blaise leaned in, studying the angles. "Actually," he said slowly, "she might be right."
Theo glared at him with the look of a man betrayed by the universe itself. "Do not encourage her."
Blaise shrugged, folding his hands behind his head. "We just got steamrolled by a wedding planner. And honestly? I am a little afraid."
Theo stared at the door again, resigned. "She is worse than the Ministry."
~~~~~~
Lady moved through Parkinson Manor with the regal sway of a monarch surveying her kingdom. Her little paws clicked on the polished floors with confidence, her crooked tail wiggling behind her like a flag of authority. Pansy adored every lopsided inch of her, calling her "aesthetic in a non-traditional sense" with the kind of pride most people reserved for prized race horses.
The pregnancy had unlocked a new level of chaos within her.
It began with the healer's declaration that Lady was carrying twins. Pansy had gone pale, then bright red, then had to sit down because the moment deserved nothing less than a dramatic faint. Healer Harlington had barely finished explaining pug gestation before she insisted on a full diagnostic scan and a list of approved pregnancy teas.
Neville, who had been sitting calmly with a book in hand, watched her fly into the sitting room like a banshee holding a scroll of potion recipes.
"Do you have any idea how important this is?" she demanded, breathless with urgency.
He lowered his Herbology book and smiled gently. "Parky, she is a dog. She will not need birthing robes or lavender water."
She gasped, hand flying to her chest in horror. "How dare you. She is carrying the future of pug society. You know nothing about responsibility."
That was how the months of preparation began.
Pansy called specialists. She created charts. She drafted birth plans. She transformed the drawing room into a pug birthing suite, complete with enchanted warm lighting, soft pillows, and a set of miniature bassinets imported from France. Neville said nothing, but his eyebrows told a story.
As the due date neared, her anxiety heightened to astronomical levels. She refused to leave the Manor. Everywhere she went, Lady toddled behind her like a tiny shadow who had no idea she was about to be worshipped as a saint.
One morning, while Pansy sorted through a basket of tiny knitted booties, Lady waddled toward her bed and let out a dramatic grunt.
Pansy froze.
"NEVILLE!" she shrieked, shooting to her feet. "IT IS TIME. GET THE MIDWIVES. GET THE SUPPLIES. GET ANYTHING THAT DOES NOT INVOLVE YOU PANICKING."
Neville arrived in a rush with his wand drawn. "Pansy, what on earth—"
"She is going into labor!" She pointed at Lady, who lay on her bed with serene indifference. "This is a royal event. Do not ruin this for me."
Neville steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. "You need to breathe. She is a dog. This is nature."
"This is Lady Lemongrass," she said in a scandalized whisper. "Nature does not apply to her."
Hours later, the Manor filled with the soft cries of two wrinkly, squirming puppies.
Pansy wept. Actual tears. She held the first puppy with trembling hands, her expression softening into something rare and unguarded.
"Look, Neville," she whispered. "They are perfect."
He crouched beside her. "They are certainly something."
"Magnificent," she corrected, clutching the second puppy to her chest. "Lady has created masterpieces."
The next weeks became a blur of excessive maternal devotion.
She cooed at them constantly. She commissioned portraits. She ordered monogrammed blankets. At one point, she announced that she would be hosting a formal naming ceremony. Neville did not argue. He had learned long ago that resistance was futile.
On the evening of the ceremony, Luna arrived first. She stepped into the drawing room with a soft hum, taking in the collection of pug thrones, floating fairy lights, and two sleeping puppies wearing miniature crowns.
"Pansy," Luna said with genuine delight, "this is remarkable."
Pansy held a puppy proudly. Her silk robe shimmered, embroidered with tiny pugs prancing near the hem. "Just wait until you see their collars. They are enchanted. Pure gold."
Theo and Blaise arrived next.
Theo stared at the puppies on their velvet cushions. "You named them what?"
Pansy lifted her chin. "Sir Wrinkles of House Pug and Duchess Snuffles of Barkington. They deserve dignity."
Blaise pressed a hand to his mouth. "Parkinson, you have completely lost it."
She smirked, unfazed. "Lost what?"
No one answered. They simply watched as she introduced the puppies with ceremonial flair, as though she were announcing heirs to a throne.
Later, when the guests departed and the chaos faded, she found herself standing with Neville near the pug bassinets. Lady slept peacefully beside her newborns, curled protectively around them.
Pansy leaned into him, her voice soft with a warmth she rarely displayed. "We make quite the family, do we not?"
Neville wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her gently closer. "Yes. We really do."
She smiled, her eyes drifting to their little pug kingdom, and the Manor felt warmer than it ever had before.
~~~~~~
Their first night together as dog parents were a symphony of passion. His hands explored her body, tracing the contours of her curves. He nibbled on her earlobe, his tongue flicking against her skin. She moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair. "You taste divine," he murmured, his lips trailing down her neck.
In the bedroom, she undressed slowly, her eyes never leaving his. He watched her, his breath hitching as she revealed her naked body. He reached out, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing against her nipples. She gasped, her back arching. "You're a tease," she breathed, her hands going to his belt.
He smiled, his hands moving to her ass, squeezing gently. "And you love it," he replied, his cock straining against his pants. She chuckled, her fingers deftly unbuttoning his shirt.
Their kiss was a clash of lips and tongues, a heated battle of desire. His hands roamed her body, his touch leaving a trail of fire. He knelt before her, his mouth capturing one of her nipples. She moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair. "Fuck," she gasped, her hips thrusting against his face.
His hands slid down her body, his fingers finding her pussy. He rubbed her clit, his fingers slipping inside her. Her whimpered, her body trembling. "You're so wet," he murmured, his fingers moving in and out of her.
She grabbed his wrist, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Enough teasing," she said, her voice a husky command. He smiled, standing up and leading her to the bathroom. He turned on the shower, the steam filling the room. She stepped in, her body glistening under the water. He joined her, his cock hard and ready.
He pressed her against the cold tile, his mouth capturing hers. She moaned, her legs wrapping around his waist. He slid his cock inside her, her warmth enveloping him. He thrust into her, his hips slamming against hers. Her moans filled the room, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "Harder," she gasped, her body shaking with each thrust.
He obliged, his hips pounding into her. The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room, their moans a symphony of pleasure. Her orgasm hit her suddenly, her body convulsing. "Fuck," she screamed, her cunt squirting with each pulse.
He pulled out of her, his cock glistening with her juices. He turned her around, his hands on her hips. She braced herself against the wall, her ass pushed out. His cock found her ass, his tip pressing against her tight hole. He pushed in slowly, giving her time to adjust. She moaned, her fingers gripping the tile.
He thrust into her, his cock stretching her bum. She moaned, her body trembling. "Nevie," she gasped, "You feel so good." He grunted, his hips moving faster. He reached around, his fingers finding her clit. She moaned, her body shaking with each thrust.
Their bodies slapped together, the sound of their fucking filling the room. His cock in her bum felt incredible, the sensation of being filled sending waves of pleasure through her body. Her moans turned into screams, her body convulsing as another orgasm hit her.
He groaned, his cock throbbing. He pulled out of her, his cock spurting cum onto her back. She turned around, her eyes filled with desire. "I want to taste you," she said, her voice a husky command.
Cock still hard, she dropped to her knees, her mouth capturing his cock. She sucked him, her tongue swirling around his shaft. He groaned, his hands tangling in her hair. "Parky," he gasped, his cock throbbing in her mouth.
She took him deep, her throat constricting around his cock. His hips thrust forward, his cock sliding in and out of her mouth. She moaned, her fingers gripping his ass. His orgasm hit him suddenly, his cock spurting cum into her mouth. She swallowed, her eyes locked on his.
They collapsed onto the bathroom floor, their bodies entwined. He kissed her, his tongue exploring her mouth. "You're incredible," he murmured, his fingers tracing her body. She smiled, her fingers playing with his hair. "We're just getting started," she replied, her eyes filled with promise.