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Chapter Text

The sharp tap of her heels against the cobblestones echoed in the near-silent streets. Spring was on its way, but the nights were still too chilly for people to linger outside. Most of the shops had closed, but the pubs and restaurants still open bustled with activity.

The higher the heel, the higher the confidence her aunt always said. Obviously only if you could actually walk in them.

Which accounted for the countless hours she spent walking up and down her family manor’s stairs since she was seven in increasingly higher heels. While other little girls were allowed to play, to practice their magic, hell, to read a book, Pansy Parkinson practiced walking in high heels until she could strut in five inch heels, even as her feet bled.

That wasn’t the half of her training, of course. Hours were poured into learning the differences between hosting a luncheon and an afternoon tea. A formal dinner party versus a ball. How to plan a menu, map a seating chart. How to properly discipline house elves. Memorizing pureblood lineages until her eyes bled.

Metaphorically, of course. Above all else, she needed to be pretty.

Lucky, her aunt told her. Over and over again. She was a Parkinson girl, but she was a lucky one.

Because she’d been born in the same year as a Malfoy heir. And had a chance of becoming a Malfoy wife.

So she poured her entire life into becoming everything Draco Malfoy wanted or needed.

And now the idiot had fucked up her entire life.

Perhaps in another life—one where she wasn’t a Parkinson girl—perhaps she could be happy for one of her best friends. Perhaps him falling in love with someone would be a cause for celebration, to open up one of the rare bottles of wine in her family cellars.

At least from what was left after yearly ministry raids, anyway.

But the fact remained.

She was a Parkinson girl.

And Draco Malfoy owed her.

He knew it.

She knew it.

Six weeks away from her twenty-fourth birthday, she was cashing in on every one.

It was only when she considered Granger that she felt that prick of something that someone else might call guilt. But if ever there was a feminist, fight-for-the-downtrodden, sacrifice-yourself-for-the-greater-good Gryffindor who took things to the extreme, it was Hermione Granger.

Attributes she was going to exploit to their furthest, once she finished reminding Draco of each and every thing she’d done for him over the years and forced him to agree.

Which was why she’d asked him to meet her first. Half an hour until she had him promise that if Hermione agreed to her proposed arrangement, he would too.

Hence the five inch heels.

Stepping into the crowded pub, it was easy to find the shock of white blonde hair at the bar. Longer than he’d worn it in school, and with significantly less styling.

Granger to blame, of course.

However, tonight it looked like he was the one who’d been dragging his hands through his hair.

Perching on the stool next to him, she signaled to Liam, the owner and current bartender. Grabbing Draco’s drink, she sipped from it while waiting for her own to arrive.

It took all her pureblood training not to spit it out.

Firewhiskey, but bottom shelf.

“Merlin, that’s cheap.”

Draco grinned.

A full, wide smile, lighting up his entire expression in the purest form of joy.

A look she might have been familiar with in another life.

Not this one, full of dark wizards and blood purist fathers willing to sacrifice any and all for their own selfish ambition.

No, that look she hadn’t seen her friend, her once-upon-a-time future intended, ever make.

Not before Hermione Granger.

Post-war Hermione Granger, of course. The confident, Order of Merlin First Class, Golden Girl of the Golden Trio who had actually learned how to use hair potions to tame her riotous mane of curls.

The Hermione Granger who had spoken at Draco’s trial. Who had definitively sworn that Draco Malfoy knew exactly who she was, exactly who Harry and Ron were the night at Malfoy Manor. That he could have turned them all over to the Dark Lord, ended the war that night. Instead, he’d lied. Protected them. Saved them and—in doing so—saved the entire Wizarding World.

It was a stretch, perhaps. As much as Harry’s testimony at Narcissa’s trial that her lie that he was dead allowed him the chance to kill the Dark Lord for real this time.

Pansy had instantly seen that action for exactly what it was.

Slytherin self-preservation, pure and simple. A mother’s love, perhaps. The pureblood belief that was engrained in every pureblood girl of the Sacred Twenty Eight since birth—protect your pureblooded heir at all costs—more likely.

A sentiment the half-blooded Dark Lord would have never known, could have never understood, and was his ultimate downfall.

No matter Narcissa or Draco’s motivations, when a member of the Golden Trio requests leniency, it was granted. Especially when there was literal gold to grease palms.

It was how Lucius Malfoy, actual Death Eater, was able to convince the Wizengamot that he had turned sides in the last minutes of the battle. His punishment was a snapped wand and house arrest for the remainder of his life instead of rotting away in Azkaban with the rest of his brethren.

Her hand drifted to feel her wand, feeling the smooth willow beneath her fingertips. A life without a wand was hardly a life for a witch or wizard, but lording over a manor, half a dozen house elves at your beck and call and more galleons than you could spend in a lifetime certainly made it bearable.

Draco got a year of house arrest and orders to spend a year working for the ministry as soon as his education was completed. He spent his year of house arrest earning his NEWTS, then packed his bags the minute he was allowed to leave. A year in Brazil, followed by two in Egypt. He returned a Potions Master with a self-invented cure for cursed scars.

Upon his arrival back in England, he did nothing until he was able to secure a meeting with Hermione. Until he could give it to her in person, apologize, and offer her the chance to remove the vile word his aunt had carved into her skin in his own home.

Both of them thought that was the end of it.

Then Draco’s ministry assignment had come in.

A year in House-Elf relocation, working under their busiest employee.

Someone at the DMLE had a sense of humor. She could see the poetic justice in it—make the formerly blood supremacist old-money pureblood wizard spend a year doing unpaid grunt work for the muggleborn witch who defeated the Dark Lord and wanted to free all house elves.

After the first eight—possibly nine, neither had been particularly forthcoming on the particulars—months, it stopped being a punishment for both of them.

Now that stupid smile on Draco’s face was here to stay.

Until she opened her mouth tonight.

That uneasy prick in her gut—clearly not guilt but more likely food poisoning from a vindictive house elf who’d finally taken Granger’s rants about slavery seriously—returned.

“Draco, in all the years we’ve known each other—”

Liam set the glass of expensive Bordeaux she ordered every time in front of them. Draco slid it the rest of the way towards her. She froze as he pulled his hand away, drink forgotten.

“Where is your ring?”

On the fourth finger of his right hand was a thick white tan-line.

Since the day he turned seventeen, she had never seen that finger bare. Ever.

And she would know.

It was her salvation, after all.

He grinned down at his hand, a look of disbelief and wonder on his face. The same one he got whenever Granger referred to him, Potter, and the Weasel as “one of her boys.”

Disgusting, really.

“Gone.”

Panic gripped her heart in a vise. “What do you mean gone?”

“I destroyed it.”

Her body flashed hot then cold.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

He couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

“I told them I’m done,” he said. “That I reject everything they are and what they stand for and that it ends with me.” Again, the laugh of disbelief and relief. "I destroyed the Black Family ring as well." His grin was almost manic as he shook his head. “Two Sacred Twenty-Eight families. No longer pureblooded. Because of me.”

She swallowed, tasting bile. As he went on about the look on his father’s face, the vindictive joy at finally getting back at the man who took so much from him, she tuned him out.

She had contingency plans, of course. It wasn’t going to be pleasant, but Theo would help her. Perhaps he didn’t owe her as much as Draco, but he was her friend.

He wouldn’t let this happen to her.

Draco turned to her, expression earnest. “Pans, I have never felt that way before.”

“What way?”

He closed his eyes, as if savoring it for a long moment. “Free.”

He looked it. Every inch was of a man no longer shackled to generations—centuries—of expectations and law and archaic practices.

The jealousy hit her. Sharp and cold and cruel. She took a long drink before she let her tongue loose to bring him down.

“I think it hit me, finally,” he said. “None of that matters anymore. I’ve known it was bullshit for a while but that ring, that manor, they were all tied up in that legacy. And leaving them behind, Pans…”

It was freedom. She saw it on his face.

“I flooed straight to Theo’s,” he said. “You know he’s been struggling with all that, almost more than me. He’s been saying his only regret was that he never got to disinherit before his father died. Never got to punish him for what he put him through. When I told him what I did, he saw it too. Destroyed his ring on the spot.”

“What?!”

“Theodore Nott, great grandson of the man who defined the Sacred Twenty-Eight, who created the rings in the first place, destroyed his.” He laughed again. “Can you believe it?”

Her stomach churned.

No.

Merlin, why had she waited? Why hadn’t she demanded her due the moment Draco returned from Egypt?

There’d been no third cousin from Bulgaria yet. But still.

She was a Parkinson girl.

She knew better.

And now the last of her hopes was in pieces somewhere on the Malfoy Manor floor. In Blaise Zanini’s living room, since Theo had cheerfully burnt his own manor to the ground four months ago.

“Draco.”

The joy in his eyes seemed to multiply as he spun in his stool.

She turned with much less enthusiasm.

Hermione, with red rimmed eyes, blinked once at her. “Oh, Pansy,” she said. “You’re early.”

For no reason, apparently.

Draco started to get up, but froze when Hermione flinched back, holding up her hand. “Draco, I’ve been thinking.” She looked down at her disgusting, scuffed up Ministry-approved flats that Pansy would curse into oblivion one of these days. “We can’t…I can’t keep putting you through this.”

Draco settled back into his stool.

“They’re your parents,” she said. “We know they’ll never accept me and I’m not going to force you to choose so I think we should take some time apart.”

Merlin. Did she really have to be here for this?

If only Draco hadn’t blown apart that stupid ring, everything would have been perfect.

Instead, as her carefully laid plans crumbled to pieces at her feet, any hope of a future blown to bits, she had to watch her oldest friend grinning like an idiot as his girlfriend attempted to dump him.

Hermione apparently had enough with the shit-eating grin as well. “I’m trying to break up with you, why do you keep looking at me like that?”

All that was missing was the foot stomping but Pansy knew her well enough to know that wasn't far off.

Draco held up his right hand.

Hermione blinked. “They…they took it from you?”

He slid down from his stool. “I blew it up.”

She stared at him. “It’s…it’s your family legacy, your…”

“Yes, and if anything deserves to be blown up it’s my family legacy,” he said. “I disinherited.”

Instead of looking relieved, happy, or whatever the standard emotion was for a woman to feel when her boyfriend chose her over the entire world, Hermione looked terrified. “Draco, you can’t do that,” she said. “Not for me, I—”

“It wasn’t for you,” he said. “It was for me. I’m not that man anymore and I want nothing to do with that life. I want an honest future, starting fresh, just you and me building a family, a new legacy we can be proud—”

Whatever impassioned speech he’d been working on was cut off as Hermione flung herself into his arms.

Lovely.

Their inability to keep their hands off one another had now spread to public.

She took a large gulp of wine as Draco tried to suck the face off of his girlfriend in the middle of a crowded pub.

When they finally surfaced for air, it wasn’t for further declarations of love or promises of the future but for her idiot friend to say, “And we’re going to be poor now—so poor—so you’re going to have to start stealing the good liquor from Blaise and Theo because Pansy’s right that swill is shit and—”

What was romantic about that enough to have Hermione go back to devouring his face in public she had no idea, but apparently it somehow worked for her friend.

Pushing aside her Bordeaux, she downed what was left of Draco’s cheap firewhiskey.

He was right, it was shit.

But some things were easier to swallow than others.

Apparently being part of the Golden Trio meant when you dumped your boyfriend, the two other members showed up five minutes later to watch over you while you cried or drank yourself into oblivion or whatever it was Gryffindors did after they made a depressing decision because it was “the right thing to do.”

It was the usual suspicion and threats of hexing on Potter and Weasel’s parts until Hermione managed to explain what Draco had done. Next thing she knew, Weasel was slapping Draco on the back, calling him a blood traitor—apparently a compliment these days—and Potter did something with a charmed galleon and somehow she ended up in the largest booth in the bar now packed with Gryffindors, sandwiched between Loony Lovegood and one of the Patil twins.

Catching a gag-inducing look between her and Weasel, it was Padma.

Two Ravenclaw buffers did not make a snake more comfortable in a den of lions.

Draco didn’t seem as affected, though she caught more than one look of long-suffering enduring pass over his face. All it took was a hand squeeze or kiss on the cheek from Hermione and he melted into a puddle of contented goo.

Disgusting, really.

Theo was never going to forgive Granger for celebrating this without him.

To be fair, if Theo was half as happy as Draco was about blowing up his ring, he and Blaise were probably doing a celebration of their own.

She twirled the last dredges of her wine around in the glass. She’d lost count of how many she’d had so far. It was the only way to endure a crowd of Gryffindors on a good day, which today was certainly not.

Still, she wasn’t far enough gone not to register another voice coming up to the table.

Though Granger’s banshee shriek of joy certainly sobered her up by at least a drink or two.

“Sorry I’m late, you should have seen the mess the second years made of mandrake repotting.”

Draco drawled something about earmuffs and the entire table burst into laughter.

Switching Granger to a one armed hug, the new arrival reached the other hand out to Draco to shake.

As it passed in front of her face, the ring on his hand sobered her up faster than any potion Draco could ever invent.

A gem encrusted family crest, surrounded by twenty eight tiny diamonds.

The fact that she didn’t immediately know the crest placed its owner as a blood traitor, but if he had the ring, it didn’t matter.

The fragments of what he’d said on his arrival came back to her.

Mandrakes.

Second years.

Her eyes trailed up his arm as a heady mix of hope and dread coiled in her gut.

Hope, because it meant one last chance.

Dread, because…

Neville. Fucking. Longbottom.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

A week.

Pansy gave herself exactly one week to gather as much information as she could. It was as easy as stopping by Granger’s with her favorite wine and bringing up wedding details. The more she talked florals and seating charts and wizarding wedding traditions, the larger Granger's sips became.

Then a comment or two about wedding attendants, which Granger immediately turned into reminiscing about the good old days at school rather than pluck up the courage to tell her that Weaselette was going to be her maid of honor over Pansy.

Honestly. For an Order of Merlin First Class witch responsible for defeating the Dark Lord, she could be quite the coward.

But it was how she knew Neville Longbottom was single. In one of the “off-again” stages of his relationship with Hannah Abbott, the irritating little Hufflepuff that’d been in their year.

It was how she knew Neville hardly drank, but always spent his Thursday evenings at the Three Broomsticks. Something to do with Gryffindor and Slytherin third years having double herbology together on Thursday afternoons.

She supposed if there was ever a reason to drink, that would be it.

It was Longbottom, who couldn’t read subtly if it followed him around flashing like one of those POTTER STINKS badges Draco made fourth year, so she needed to be obvious. Yet, it wouldn’t help her if he dropped dead of a heart attack either so she needed to find the right mix of conservative and provocative.

The design was rather inspired, if she did say so herself. A high neckline, skimming just beneath her collarbones and exposing the tops of her shoulders in a teasing hint. It snugly clung to her curves before dropping into the full skirt she kept short. Almost too short for the breezy spring night in Hogsmeade, but with her five inch heels, her legs went on for miles.

Years spent strutting up and down manor stairs in five inch heels did wonders for one’s muscle tone.

The Three Broomsticks was busy for a Thursday night, but there were a number of open stools at the bar. Including two next to the blond figure in rumpled, poorly fitting robes that had a streak of…something on the back.

She surpassed a shudder.

She had endured worse.

Would endure worse, if tonight didn’t go her way.

She timed her entrance perfectly, reaching the bar just as Longbottom lifted his glass for a drink. Pretending her heel gave out, she twisted as she fell, landing exactly in his lap.

With surprising dexterity, Longbottom managed to save his drink from spilling a drop.

Damn it.

On to Plan B.

Feigning an embarrassed laugh, she used his shoulders to steady herself, bringing herself even closer.

“Oh, Longbottom,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive me, new shoes.”

Despite her gesture, he didn’t glance down the length of her legs like she’d intended. He merely gripped her by the waist, set her back on her feet, and let go as soon as he could.

“No worries.” His full attention went back to whatever text was spread out in front of him.

“Let me buy you a drink, make up for it.” She caught the bartender’s eye and signaled for two of whatever he was having.

“Just the one, Hank,” Longbottom said. He glanced at her. “I already have one, and like I said, don’t worry about it.”

He went back to his reading.

Sweet Salazar. She knew he was oblivious but this…how was she supposed to work with this?

The bartender handed her a glass and she took a tentative sip. Firewhiskey, actually a good vintage. She made a pleased sound. “I appreciate a man who enjoys a decent firewhiskey.”

His head twitched just enough to let her know he heard her but he otherwise didn’t turn from his book.

She inhaled through the frustration. Dropping her voice, she leaned forward. “Tell me, what’s so fascinating over there?”

He paused for a long moment, then finally turned to face her. “The latest edition of Magical Plants of Eastern Argentina.”

Finally, now they were getting somewhere. She flashed him a coy smile. “And what makes this edition special?”

His eyebrows knit and his lips quirked. “I don’t remember you ever having a particularly strong interest in herbology, Pansy.”

Settling into her stool, she crossed her legs and sipped her drink. “In school, no,” she said. “But spend enough time with Hermione Granger and you develop an appreciation for information of any and all subject matter.”

The slight quirk to his lips turned into a full smirk.

There was something…different about him tonight. Maybe she’d just spent too long thinking of him as the chubby little boy with a toad carrying around a rememberall.

Sure, he could still stand to lose a stone and his wardrobe was as remedial as a squib in seventh year defense against the dark arts but underneath that…

When the fuck had Neville Longbottom gotten handsome?

This she could work with.

Looking up at him through her eyelashes, she gave him a small smile. “Have you ever been?”

His eyebrows rose in question.

She nodded to the book. “Argentina.”

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit,” she said. “Of course, having a guide who understands the local flora and fauna…” she let her voice trail off suggestively.

There was almost something patronizing in his smirk. “Even a fat little crybaby?”

She blinked.

“First year, Gryffindor and Slytherin first flying lesson,” he said. “I fell and broke my arm.” He sat back in his stool. “You were singing a much different tune third year when Draco got scratched by Buckbeak, interestingly enough.”

If ever there was a crybaby with no pain tolerance, it was Draco Malfoy. If Granger were here, she’d be the first to agree. But if fawning over Draco for all of third year made him see how much he needed her, she would have tried to get Flitwick fired for giving Draco a papercut.

She shot Longbottom what she hoped was something between a coy and apologetic smile. “Do we really need to rehash each and every thing we said to each other during school days? Surely we’re past that.”

“I have a full day of teaching tomorrow and several rare specimens to maintain so, no, there isn’t time to go over each and every comment you made to bully me or my friends.”

Did he have to be so pathetic about this? If Hermione Granger could forgive Draco Malfoy, surely Neville Longbottom could get over the one or two mean comments she’d made.

Per day.

For seven years straight.

She took a sip of her drink that ended up much closer to a large swallow.

“Listen, Pansy, you were pretty drunk last week so maybe you thought you were being subtle but I saw the way you looked at my ring.”

It took everything in her to continue to hold his gaze and not look down at his hand. “And what way was that?”

“Like you’d just realized that there was at least one member left of the Sacred Twenty Eight who wasn’t in Azkaban, gay, or recently engaged to Hermione Granger.”

Her four sips of firewhiskey threatened to come back up.

“But I’ll tell you right now, whatever Sacred Twenty Eight pureblood supremacy bullshit this is about, I have no interest in it, and no interest in dating you.”

She downed the rest of her firewhiskey and laughed. It sounded hoarse and broken, but hopefully Longbottom couldn’t tell. “Oh, you flatter yourself, Longbottom,” she said. “I was just stopping in for a drink and trying to make up for tripping onto you. If you took anything from that…” She laughed again.

His patronizing smirk didn’t shift in the slightest.

Thank Merlin no one was close enough to witness this.

Neville Longbottom.

Rejecting her.

If Cousin Ivan wasn’t the death of her, this would do it.

“I’ll let you get back to your little pamphlet on Peru before you get too delusional.” She rose with a smirk. “Good luck with those rare specimens.” Despite the mocking of her tone, the parting blow fell flat.

Longbottom had the upper hand here, and he knew it.

She was so sick to her stomach the apparation back home nearly made her vomit. She took a long, painful moment to steady herself.

That was it.

It was over.

Her last chance just chased her out of the Three Broomsticks in shame.

She gripped the back of one of the chairs so tight her knuckles turned white. The dark, oppressive parlor loomed around her, an echo to her despair.

It needed to be redone. The entire manor needed to be redone. Honestly, there were days she thought Theo had the right of it, burning his ancestral home to the ground.

Only the entertaining areas of Parkinson House still had the rare and expensive furniture, tapestries, rugs, and art one would expect from a Sacred Twenty Eight family manor. Outside those rooms, the truth of the Parkinson family fortunes was revealed.

No tapestries to ward off the chill. Threadbare rugs. Moth-eaten bed curtains. Empty walls.

Keeping up appearances was expensive. Goblins loved to gossip so there was a certain amount of gold their accounts could never dip beneath.

Pounds of galleons their family would never touch, despite the desperate need for them.

Leaving her alone in a cold, dark, haunted mausoleum of a manor. Empty and devoid of color or life.

“Pretty dress.”

She whirled around, wand at the ready.

Not as empty as she would like.

Cousin Ivan was in the corner of the room by the small bar cart, crystal tumbler in hand. Her skin crawled as his gaze slowly flicked over her with a leering grin. “You vill vear dat vhen Petro arrives for you.”

She straightened. “I am not marrying your friend.”

His grin spread. “Oh? You have found someone else, then?” he asked. “Who fits the requirements?”

Her body flashed hot then cold.

Ivan laughed, the sound cold and cruel. “Petro will enjoy you, I think.”

Petro would enjoy nothing if he were dead.

It was an empty thought and she knew it.

“He comes next veek.”

Her heart thundered in her chest. “My birthday isn’t until the end of May.” She had time. She still had time.

“I know vhen your birthday is,” he said. “It vill make for a lovely vedding day. Then, Petro takes you and I…I keep all of this.”

She was the last Parkinson. Everything, from the manor to the last knut in Gringotts belonged to her. Even Ivan—her closest pureblooded male relative—was only allowed a set monthly allowance as her guardian.

The moment she married, everything transferred to her husband.

Ivan had made no secret of the fact that his recently widowed friend—having just lost his fourth wife—had made a deal. Pansy and half her gold for Petro, Ivan kept the rest.

Petro would take her to Bulgaria, where she’d spent the next six years…

Well, she tried not to think about that part.

Six years at most, considering none of his other wives had survived past the age of thirty. She was under no delusions wife number five would be any different.

“Petro, he vill like your fire.” Laughing again, Ivan left, carrying the crystal tumbler with him.

She waited until she couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore, long lost to his half of the manor.

With a shriek of rage, she grabbed the crystal decanter and hurled it at the fireplace. It struck the stones, exploding in a shower of liquor that sent the flames soaring.

In a matter of seconds, it had burnt out, the flames as quiet as they had been when she first arrived.

Falling to her knees, the first pricks of tears came to her eyes.

Fuck Neville Longbottom.

Fuck Draco Malfoy.

Fuck her father.

Fuck every pureblooded wizard who’d ever decided they knew best for the women in their lives and stripped any autonomy over their own life.

She’d had one last chance, and his patronizing smirk had just chased her out of the Three Broomsticks in what would forever be the most humiliating moment of her life.

Chapter Text

She shouldn’t be there.

She thought it every year.

Had skipped the first four anniversaries for that reason. Then Granger-Draco happened and for the second year in a row she found herself at Hogwarts on May 2nd.

She knew exactly what people thought when they saw her.

The witch who would have turned Potter over to the Dark Lord.

Of course, none of those people had ever been at a dinner party where the entertainment was watching the Dark Lord feed a muggle woman to his snake.

She hated that snake.

Hated the man who’d finally killed said snake, too.

Not quite as much, perhaps, but she’d sworn not to think about him.

He was there, of course. She’d caught a glimpse of a horrible jumper that clashed terribly with his robes near the dais erected for the memorial.

She’d waited with dread for him to give a speech or say some words like he usually did, but this year he was noticeably absent. Even the Golden Trio spoke little, the focus instead on the families of those who lost their lives.

Once the official portion was over, she stood staring at the glossy black memorial that had replaced one of the damaged walls of the castle. Every named carved into the wall was a life lost fighting against the Dark Lord. Her eyes landed on the familiar ones first.

Lavender Brown.

Colin Creevey.

Remus Lupin.

Fred Weasley.

A long list of Gryffindors peppered with Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.

There was only one Slytherin on the wall. One Harry Potter himself had insisted be included.

Severus Snape.

“I keep waiting for it to get easier.”

Stomach clenching, she turned. Despite the same messy shock of black hair and glasses, Harry Potter was different from the boy she’d known.

Like he’d finally grown into himself.

Still uncomfortable with the fame, if Granger was to be believed, but he finally carried it well.

“Six years.” His voice was almost wistful. “Everyone who was a first year during the battle graduates this year. Next year, there won’t be a soul here that was present at the battle aside from the professors.”

She really didn’t want to talk about Hogwarts Professors. She cleared her throat. “Not all of us here were present for that battle.” Not the important bits, anyway.

“But he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!”

It should fill her with guilt. Especially today. Especially knowing Potter’s victory.

But she would do it again in a heartbeat.

If he knew the truth, perhaps even Potter would agree with what she’d said and done.

He gave her a soft smile. “You were a child.”

The fucking nerve of him to stand there and patronize her for her age like she’d been some cowardly first year.

She remembered where she was and who she was with just in time. Clearing her throat, she straightened. “So were you.” Two months younger than her, if they were picking hairs.

He looked back at the wall. “There was never a choice for me.”

The Chosen One.

Chosen by fate, by prophesy, by…whatever it was.

Not of his own free will.

Forced into a destiny he had no part in selecting.

And perhaps, because of his parents, because of his Gryffindor spirit, it would have been what he’d chosen anyway, but at least then it would have been his choice.

In that moment, she felt her rage at his condescension fizzle out. For the first time, she felt something like kinship with the Chosen Scarhead Who Lived And Died And Lived Again.

“You, Draco, Theo…you saw things the rest of us didn’t,” he said. “I think too many forget that.”

She clutched her hands together to keep them from trembling. “Theo and I escaped the worst of it.”

Draco had the Dark Lord living in his home. Watched one of his professors be swallowed whole by Nagini on his dining room table.

She suppressed a shudder, remembering the clammy feel of Nagini slithering by her ankle.

I would like to present my daughter, my lord.

She shook off the memory. “Theo was never marked and I was just a teenage witch.”

Worth nothing more than her breeding potential.

Not that much had changed.

Potter glanced across the courtyard to where Hermione was holding hands with Draco as she talked with Professor McGonagall. It looked like Hermione was forcing him to stay by her side instead of disappearing like she knew he wanted.

Potter gave them a rueful grin. “That’s…probably the most unexpected piece of all of this.”

If pureblooded witches snorted, she would have just then.

“But it also is what gives me the most hope,” he said. “Reminds me that we really did defeat him, in more ways than one.”

If it wasn’t destroying her life, perhaps she could have enjoyed the poetic justice in the son and nephew of some of the Dark Lord’s closest supporters falling in love and marrying the muggleborn witch who helped defeat him.

She swallowed, her throat thick. “Thank you, Potter,” she said. “For…for what you did.” It didn’t cover it. What their world owed him.

He turned back to her and she shifted under the weight of his gaze. A grin tugged at his lips. “It’s kind of fun,” he said. “Having a full day where you have to be nice to me.”

“Probably why I don’t talk much at these things.”

He laughed.

Heads whipped towards them, snapping to see who would dare laugh on such an occasion, but seeing it was the Boy Who Lived And Died And Lived Again, it was allowed.

His gaze trailed across the courtyard and landed on the clump of ginger haired people. “I should check on Gin.”

Fred Weasley.

She nodded once.

Potter clapped her on the shoulder. “Glad you’re here, Parkinson.”

She offered him a brief smile before he slipped away.

Potter’s blessing or not, she couldn’t stay in the courtyard under the weight of the stares any longer.

The grounds had hardly changed from what she remembered. It was sacrilege, on that day of all days, but she could almost forget what happened there. Go back to the happier memories, when she felt like she was the queen of Slytherin and had the adoration of the man who would one day be her king.

“Vhy did you sneak off?”

Her blood chilled at the Bulgarian accent. Before she could reach her wand, rough hands grabbed her, shoving her back against the stone wall.

Petro smiled down at her, his yellow, crooked teeth directly in her line of sight. “You haff been avoiding me.”

His breath still reeked of the pickled fish he and Ivan ate for breakfast every morning. He gripped her so tightly she knew she’d have bruises in the morning, crowding her so there was no chance to attempt to knee him and drop him to give her time to escape.

Since his arrival a week ago, there had been leers, lewd looks, hands grabbing her arse if she wasn’t quick or strategic enough in how she fled the room.

But nothing like this.

It was clear his patience was at an end.

He couldn’t force himself on her, not yet, but it was clear he wasn’t leaving without something. She tried to fight off his grasp enough to get her hand on her wand. “Don’t touch me!”

Her struggling only seemed to excite him more. “You vill be mine to touch before long,” he leered. “Vot is a little taste now?”

His hand slid up her arm, across her chest to roughly palm her breast. He ground into her with a deep moan.

“Stop!” Her fingers slipped over the willow wood of her wand. “Let me go!”

There was a loud bang and he flew backwards, ripping the top of her dress as he did. She grabbed for it at the same time she finally reached her wand, aiming it at Petro while glancing to see her savior.

Neville. Fucking. Longbottom.

He didn’t spare a glance at her, he just advanced on Petro, wand at the ready. “Pansy, get an auror.”

Petro laughed. “They vill not arrest me,” he said. “You saw nothing but a lover’s quarrel between me and my betrothed.”

Longbottom froze. His head whipped to her but she couldn’t meet his eyes. Longbottom turned back to Petro. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I make you.”

Petro made a show of adjusting himself. “Ve vill talk of this at home.” He looked Longbottom over before dismissing him. “You know vat vill happen if he touches you.” He strode off without another look back.

Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t even use her wand to repair her dress. Longbottom did it with a gentle swipe.

It was a shitty repair job, visible seam and everything, but she was going to burn the dress the moment she got home anyway.

Home.

Where Ivan and Petro would be waiting for her.

She dug in her bag for a cigarette. So much for finally quitting. Not that it mattered anymore. She hadn’t even brought it to her lips before it flew out of her hands to Longbottom’s waiting one.

“No smoking on Hogwarts grounds.”

“Yes, Professor Longbottom,” she mocked.

His glare only intensified.

Merlin, why did he have to be here? Be the one to watch that happen?

“Who the fuck was that?”

Fake. Pretend. Laugh. She’d done it before, she could do it again. “Nothing that concerns you, Longbottom.”

“Who. The. Fuck. Was. That.”

“Friend of my guardian’s,” she snapped.

“You’re twenty three,” he snapped. “Why the fuck do you have a guardian?”

She pulled out another cigarette, desperate for something to calm her down. “Does Professor McGonagall know you swear this much?”

The cigarette flew out of her hands with another swipe of his wand.

“Tell me what the fuck is going on, Pansy.”

She smirked up at him. “I don’t remember you being this bossy in school,” she said. “Tell me, when did Neville Longbottom grow such a big pair—”

He spun on his heel. “Hermione can deal with this.”

A different type of panic seized her. “No!” She lunged, just managing to grab the edge of his hideous jumper.

Longbottom’s eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. He turned to face her fully. “What’s going on, Pansy?”

Hands shaking, she reached for another cigarette. It, too, flew from her hands with a swish of his wand.

“For fuck’s sake, Longbottom, let me have a damn cigarette!”

“Who was that?”

Fuck it. “The man my guardian chose for me to marry,” she spat. “Minor Bulgarian nobility, I’m told. Pureblooded, obviously.”

His glare turned to one of horror. Disgust.

Now at her.

“Are you serious?” he demanded. “You pick today of all days to rub in the fact that your pureblooded beliefs run so deep that you’d marry someone like that?!”

Of course. Of course he would think that about her.

Six years, and she would never escape who she’d been at seventeen.

A laugh bordering on hysteria burst from her mouth. “My best friend is muggleborn.”

Somehow, in the face of everything, losing Granger hurt the most. The rest of it, terrible as it was, wasn’t entirely unexpected. But never being there to fix Granger’s wardrobe, meddle in her and Draco’s relationship, or hear the swot give her yet another lecture ever again…

“Of course I don’t give a fuck about blood status anymore.” How could she, after what she’d seen? What she’d lived?

Maybe if she’d been a Selwyn or a Rosier or a Greengrass, maybe then she would have been able to believe the lies. Believe that what they had, what they were was something worth protecting. Cherishing.

But no one knew better the cost of preserving blood status than a Parkinson girl.

If she could burn it all to the ground, she would.

Eyes burning, she sagged against the castle wall, looking up at the sky so if he saw any moisture there he would think it was from the brightness of the sun.

“Hermione Granger is your best friend?”

Did she really deserve the disbelief in his tone? “Yes,” she spat to the sky. “And, yes, I am aware I am not her best friend. I probably don’t even rank in the top five. I’m sure even you are above me, but…”

She swallowed. Did it matter, in the end? If Petro was going to drag her off to Bulgaria she’d never see them again. Any of them.

“Then tell me why you’d marry him.”

“Because I’m a Parkinson.”

“You just said blood status didn’t matter to you—”

He’d seen enough. Might as well hear the rest of it.

“Once we turn seventeen, Parkinson women have seven years to find a husband,” she said, still staring at the sky. “Otherwise, our closest pureblooded male relative gets to choose for us.”

And since the rest of them were dead or in Azkaban, that honor went to her third cousin however-many-times-removed from Bulgaria.

“Of course, there’s criteria a potential husband needs to meet. I can only go against my guardian if I find a man who meets a very specific set of characteristics.”

Despite the number of times she mocked him for being thick, Longbottom cut to the chase quick. He glanced down at his right hand, then back at her. “Sacred Twenty Eight.”

“Not that alone,” she said. “To prevent the risk of intermarrying with blood traitors, he has to either be in possession of his family’s Sacred Twenty Eight crest ring, or have the blessing of the man in his family who does.”

He crossed his arms. “Longbottoms are blood traitors.”

“Yes, but you have the ring.” She looked back up at the clouds rolling by. Blissfully idyllic in a way that felt wrong today, for so many reasons. “I assume that clause was added after the Weasleys and Prewetts objected the establishment of the Sacred Twenty Eight and rejected their rings.”

“So if you don’t find someone from the Sacred Twenty Eight with a ring by your birthday—”

“—three weeks from now—”

“—you have to marry the man that just attacked you?”

“He’s in the market for a fifth wife,” she said to the clouds. “The first four never lived past thirty.”

He gaped at her, enraged. “That’s not legal,” he said. “You’re of age, no one can make you—”

“I made a blood oath on my seventeenth birthday.”

She stared at the bright sky, watching the clouds drift by, so she didn’t have to remember that day. The feel of Nagini slithering around her legs as she stood before the Dark Lord, presented by her father.

“What kind of blood oath?”

She gripped her wand in her hand. “Binding my magic to my compliance.”

There were her choices.

Marriage to Petro and death by age thirty or life as a squib.

The thought of losing her magic, the bright spark in her core intrinsic to every part of her being, was so abhorrent she knew her only choice was marriage to Petro. And she’d spend the next six years trying to figure out a way to survive, to break free, until the day he killed her.

“So it was my ring.”

She assumed that question was rhetorical.

Longbottom started pacing. “Who’s left?” he muttered. “It goes Abbott—”

She was already exhausted. “Half-bloods now, their ring splintered when they gave up their status.”

He paused for a moment. “Next is…”

“Avery,” she said. “Azkaban.” Not that he’d be any better than Petro.

“Bulstrode—”

“Half-bloods.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Carrow—” he cringed, “—then…”

“Crouch, all dead.” Like hell was she going to stand here and go through all twenty-eight. Not when she’d already been doing it herself for weeks on end. “Let me save you some time. There are only nine families left of the Sacred Twenty Eight that are not either extinct, about to become so, or have their last remaining members locked up in Azkaban.”

“Okay, nine is—”

“Three of those, the Abbotts, Bulstrodes, and Shacklebolts are all now half bloods,” she said. “The Weasleys never accepted their ring. Draco and Theo destroyed their rings in a fit of Gryffindor-inspired passion the day Draco disinherited and he and Hermione got engaged.”

He stared at her. “Did they know?”

Apparently he thought as little of them as he did her if he had to ask. “I was bucking up the courage to tell them,” she said. “Happened too late, obviously.”

“That’s why you don’t want Hermione to know.”

“Five points to Gryffindor,” she mocked.

He ignored her. “So that leaves…”

“Fawley.”

“Sullivan and Eustace are both single.”

“Yes, but even if the Fawley’s still have their ring, it’s likely Grimm who has it and considering my father not only led the raid that killed his parents but personally cast the killing curse on Grimm’s mother, it’s safe to say he won’t be blessing any union between our two families.”

She could see his brain whirling, trying to decide who was left. “Ernie Macmillan.”

He brightened. “I know I’ve seen him with the ring!”

Everyone had seen Ernie Macmillan with his ring. “He’s gay.”

He blinked.

Merlin, he was obtuse if that came as a surprise to him. “And, more importantly, a Hufflepuff.”

He shot her an incredulous look. “You’d rather marry a gay man over a Hufflepuff?”

Sounded like a fine arrangement to her. “Hufflepuff loyalty,” she said with no small measure of disgust. “They’ll never forgive me for who I used to be loyal to so even if we could convince my family solicitor he wasn’t actually gay, there’s no way he’d ever agree to this.”

“Leaving only…” His voice trailed off.

Neville. Fucking. Longbottom.

She wasn’t reliving that humiliation again. Even now, he went through the entire Sacred Twenty Eight to find someone else besides him to marry her. Adjusting her dress as best she could, she pushed herself off the wall, finally trusting her legs to hold her again. “Not to worry, Longbottom,” she said. “I’m nothing if not a survivor.”

Thank Merlin she’d worn her three inch heels today. The dowdy things were practically sensible but the sixth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts wasn’t a time or place for Pansy Parkinson to stand out.

“Why didn’t you tell me that two weeks ago?”

She froze, then spun, rounding on him. “Would you have liked that, Longbottom?” she sneered. “Pansy Parkinson on her knees, begging for your help?”

The slight flaring of his nostrils was his only reaction.

She might be desperate, but she still had her pride.

He studied her. “You weren’t the first, you know.”

She tapped her wand against her thigh, impatience getting to her.

“After Hermione and Draco got together, he went from being shunned by wizarding society to first name basis with the Minister of Magic,” he said. “All sorts of pureblooded families associated with Death Eaters starting sending their daughters after any and all single pureblood members of the Order or Dumbledore’s Army.”

That had the Selwyn girls written all over it. “And how many did you take up on those offers?”

He smirked. “Being used for social status isn’t really my thing.” He dug a hand through his hair, looking almost forlorn for a moment. “I always thought Hannah and I would eventually work things out. I just…”

Wonderful. Just what she wanted, to hear another man wax poetic about his girlfriend. “Well, congratulations on being right about me too,” she said. “Something to laugh about at your next Dumbledore’s Army reunion party.”

Merlin, she needed away from him. Now.

She hadn’t made it six steps before his voice stopped her.

“What would it take?”

Pride clashed with hope, churning her stomach.

Longbottom walked to face her. “To free you from the blood oath?”

“I already told you—”

“Aside from having to marry me before your birthday.”

She wouldn’t let him get her hopes up. Not now. “You made yourself very clear that you wanted nothing to do with me or this pureblooded bullshit.”

He frowned. “When I thought you wanted to use me to climb back to the top of wizarding society, before I knew how much you needed help.”

The day she needed a Longbottom for a place in society was a pathetic day indeed. She sneered. “Save your pity for someone else, Longbottom—”

His eyebrows shot up. “Oh? Is there another woman about to be sold off in marriage to some minor Bulgarian noble who enjoys forcing himself on women and gets rid of his wives once they turn thirty?”

Well, when he put it that way…

“Details, Pansy.”

She knew better than to give him a single one. Not when she was so close.

“How long would we have to stay married? Or would you go back to your guardian again?”

She swallowed. That, she could answer. It was the entire line of reasoning she’d been planning on taking with Draco. “Thirteen months,” she said. “If I don’t fall pregnant during that time, you can invoke the succession clause.”

“Since you obviously won’t be, what’s that?”

The rejection stung more than she wanted to admit. “I’m not exactly eager to fuck you either, Longbottom.”

He ignored her. “What’s the succession clause?”

“Declares me barren and unfit for another pureblood match,” she said. “Disinherits me from your family and mine with one diagnostic spell from a healer’s wand.”

He blinked. “And you’d be okay with that?”

With freedom? With no longer being a Parkinson girl? She cleared her throat to clear the emotion choking her. “Yes.”

Suspicion was still holding him back. “That’s…easy.”

If that was it, it would be. Still, she had to give him something. “My guardian can sue for breech of contract and take me back at any point during the first year if he suspects any falsity on our parts.”

“So we’d have to live together, pretend to be in love around our friends, that sort of thing.”

She swallowed. “Yes.” Draco and Hermione fell in love. The two of them couldn’t be more unbelievable than that, could they?

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The agony of this moment. Her life in Neville Fucking Longbottom’s hands.

“I have conditions,” he said finally.

Her heart leapt to her throat. She forced herself to remain calm. A negotiation was a negotiation. “How much?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Gold,” she said. “We had far less than what we pretended to have before the war, and the ministry has taken at least half of what remained, but I’m sure we can negotiate a price.”

“I don’t want your gold, Pansy.”

She arched an eyebrow. Everyone wanted gold. What else did he want from her? She reached for another cigarette to distract her trembling hands.

It flew from her hand. “First, no more smoking.”

She smirked up at him. “How many ways are you going to try to save me, Longbottom?”

“I can’t stand the smell and smoke could kill one of my plants,” he said. “Second, we will live at my place in Hogsmeade.”

“I need to be in London—”

“Then floo or apparate,” he said. “We live in Hogsmeade.”

At the end of the day, she supposed that wasn’t the end of the world. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” he said. “No one else.”

There was a new undercurrent to the conversation. As if they’d drifted beyond basic negotiations to something…more.

He towered over her, a new intensity to his gaze. “No boyfriends, no liaisons, no secret meet ups,” he said. “Fake marriage or not, you will be faithful to me. Understood?”

A hundred bratty responses ran through her head. Instead, she did the least Pansy thing she’d done in her entire life and bit her tongue and nodded.

“Good.”

Something deep within her nearly purred at the praise. She shoved it back down deep where it came from. Not here. Not now. Certainly not with Neville Fucking Longbottom. No matter how disturbingly handsome he’d somehow gotten in the past six years.

She grappled for the upper hand. “I get to fix your wardrobe.”

He frowned. “Absolutely not.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m trying to start a fashion line, my husband can’t walk around like…” She waved her hand in his general direction.

There. This was safe territory. Reminding Longbottom what a mess he was.

He cocked his head. “You’re trying to start a fashion line?”

Was that genuine interest in his gaze? Or disbelief that she would work at something in her life?

“Yes.” Just because she could, she pushed. “Modern designs for the modern witch,” she said. “Inspired in part by muggle fashion.”

It had started as a joke, Hermione bringing her muggle fashion magazines. But the foreign designs…spoke to her. Little ways to change wizarding fashion that had remained stagnant for far too long.

He blinked. “That’s…impressive.”

“I know, but your clothing choices are not,” she said. “Every one of those eyesore jumpers need to be burnt.”

His face hardened. “They were my father’s.”

She swallowed, her gaze dropping.

He sighed. “You can buy me new robes for social events but just don’t destroy or alter anything I already own, okay?”

She glanced up.

He looked somewhat annoyed, like he hadn’t wanted to agree to what he’d just offered, but he did it anyway.

How much of this was he already starting to regret?

“One last thing,” Longbottom said with a slight smirk. She braced herself. “You’re not going back to that manor.”

If she was a lesser witch, she would have sobbed in relief. Yet… “I can’t move in with you until we’re married.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “It’s time you met my Gran.”

Chapter Text

There were few things left in this world that could still scare Pansy Parkinson.

Snakes were one.

Augusta Longbottom was—apparently—another.

She’d heard from Draco what Dawlish looked like after the Dark Lord sent him to kidnap the elderly woman in an effort to compel Longbottom into compliance Seventh Year. After being the favorite punching bag of both the Order and Death Eaters, he wasn’t exactly in peak form, but he’d spent the remainder of the war and a few months afterwards in St. Mungo’s after dueling her. August survived months on the run, only to show up at the Battle of Hogwarts and take out a number of high ranking Death Eaters.

The same witch stared at Pansy with a suspicious glint over tea service in the parlor of the modest country house the Longbottom Family called home.

It looked like the place hadn’t been redecorated since the establishment of the Sacred Twenty Eight in the 30’s. All the furnishings were red and gold and mahogany, as if the Gryffindor lion had vomited over the entire room. Available surfaces were cluttered with photos and the sort of bric-a-brac old ladies liked to collect.

It was a bit disarming, seeing Augusta without her vulture hat or red handbag. Mad as Draco had been about the disrespect at the time, she’d rather enjoyed seeing Neville’s boggart Snape dressed in his grandmother’s hat and handbag Third Year.

Augusta had taken Neville’ explanation in stride. They told her the story they’d settled on, that they had been dating in secret for the past four months. An argument on when to tell their friends turned into a marriage proposal and once they decided they wanted to get married they knew they didn’t want to wait.

Everyone was going to think she was pregnant. Not even Neville knew the true extent of that impossibility but it didn’t matter. Their wedding was in one week and their appointment with her family solicitor the hour after.

Augusta stared at her across the tea service with narrowed eyes. “Neville, be a dear boy and fetch the old blue album from the attic,” she ordered without a single glance his way.

Her fiancé was all to quick to abandon her to the older witch’s stern gaze. So much for Gryffindor chivalry.

Augusta set her tea cup down. Perching both hands on her cane, she leveled a steely gaze at her. “My Frank was the same year as Theodore Tonks,” she said. “Thick as thieves, those two.”

She’d always assumed Frank and Alice were the same year as James and Lily Potter. Their boys were born a day apart, and both became orphans or near orphans within a week of each other.

But Frank and Alice had both been established aurors, three years of training and several years of experience by the end of the war. James and Lily were fresh out of school.

“When that disinheritance business got nasty with Andromeda, Ted said something Frank never forgot,” she said. “It might have been ugly, but at least it was possible.”

She knew what Augusta was going to say before she said it.

“At least she wasn’t a Parkinson.”

It was impossible to say if that was the extent of what the old witch knew or not. She held her gaze. “I am glad to see the blood purity traditions my family held in such esteem finally ended.”

Augusta’s eyes narrowed. “Before or after you were going to hand over one of your classmates to the Dark Lord for slaughter?”

She hated her father. Hated Ivan. Every man who’d put her in this position of having to bow and simper and take insult after insult.

As if they actually thought she was idiotic enough to believe that the Hogwarts professors and three quarters of the school was suddenly going to hand over their golden prince.

The wedding wouldn’t happen without Augusta’s approval, but neither was she going to sit here and take the older woman’s scorn.

Rather than confess the truth no one would believe, she went with Potter’s excuse. “I am not the child I was that day.” The words tasted like ash in her mouth but if they got Augusta’s approval it would be worth it.

“My grandson very much is the man he was that year, standing up against the Carrows, protecting actual children from torture, helping those who needed to escape to flee the castle.”

The most noble thing she did that year was feign incompetence when ordered to perform the cruciatus. Her worth was in her lineage and her breeding potential, not her ability to torture eleven year olds.

“He took up his wand to protect Hogwarts at Potter’s request,” she said. “Even when we believed Harry Potter was dead, he defied the Dark Lord. Pulled the Sword of Gryffindor out of the hat and killed that vile snake.”

Augusta had no idea half how vile that snake was.

“What are you looking for me to say?” she demanded. “That Neville is a hero? I’m a coward? I don’t deserve to marry him?”

“Anyone with half a brain knows those things to be true.”

This is why she fucking hated Gryffindors.

“Like his parents before him, my grandson isn’t just a hero,” she said. “He would also sacrifice himself to save someone. Even someone unworthy of his devotion.”

She ground her teeth at the insult. Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself. “I am not taking advantage of your grandson.”

Augusta scoffed.

Despite his Gryffindor sensibilities, she hadn’t. She’d been prepared to walk away, to marry Petro, to set him free. He was the one who’d offered to marry her. It was only thirteen months, after all.

“Neville knows exactly who and what I am.” And exactly what he’d signed up for.

Mostly.

“A Slytherin.” She said it like an insult.

Pansy straightened. “Yes.”

“Every Longbottom has been a Gryffindor,” Augusta said. “Confident, daring, brave.”

Foolhardy, reckless, and brash as well, not that any of them would admit it.

“We have a legacy of which we are righteously proud.”

What had Draco said to Hermione in the bar? “I envy your family for that,” she said. “That is what I want with Neville. A family I can be proud to say I belong to.”

Her words felt more sincere than she’d have thought. As if some part of her admitted she did want to belong somewhere. To something worthy of pride.

Despite her epiphany, Augusta didn’t look convinced. “My Frank’s Alice was his other half in every way,” she said. “Stood by his side, even to the end.”

Leaving their infant son an orphan in all but name. “Is this your way of asking if I would die at Neville’s side?”

“Telling you I already know the answer.”

As if martyrdom was the ultimate height to which any person should aspire. Perhaps the people left behind, like Neville, would have something different to say about it. “And is that how you’re going to judge me? Determine my worth?”

Her gaze sharpened. “It is not my opinion of your worth that matters.”

Just the man who was marrying her out of pity. The self-sacrificing war hero who was her only chance at freedom.

She looked down, feeling more out of place than ever on the red velvet couch. “I know that I don’t deserve him.” If she was truly honest about what she deserved, it was probably Petro. But her self-preservation streak ran much too strong to fall victim to the martyrdom complex so highly prized by Gryffindors. “But I…I am going to try to be the type of woman who does.”

For the next thirteen months, anyway. She owed him at least that much. Plus, that was the sort of nonsense people said about the person they loved, right? She’d heard Draco moan something like it at least a dozen times.

Whatever Augusta was going to say was cut off by Neville’s arrival. “Gran, I couldn’t find it anywhere.”

“The red album?”

“You said blue.”

“Nonsense, dear, your aunt has the blue one.” She sighed. “I suppose we can forget about it for now.”

He shot his grandmother a look that he didn’t believe her before he sat back down on the couch, close enough their thighs pressed together. “What did you two talk about while I was gone?”

His elbow bumped hers so he reached his arm behind her to rest along the back of the couch. It was such a casual, effortless gesture it caught her completely off guard. This close, without her heels, it put in stark relief exactly how much taller than her he was.

It made her feel dainty and sheltered. Protected.

Her gaze flicked up and she met his bright blue eyes. They were bright with humor as a hint of a smirk teased his lips. Half of her wanted to smack it off his face while the other—

Fuck. She needed to stop thinking about Neville Fucking Longbottom’s lips.

She looked away, glancing down at her lap before she remembered not to show weakness and lifted her gaze to meet Augusta’s.

The older witch was studying her, head cocked ever so slightly to the side and her eyes narrowed. “We were discussing wedding plans, of course.” She turned to her grandson. “It’ll take place here, in the back gardens.”

Pansy nearly sagged with relief. They had her approval. Well, she clearly didn’t but at least Augusta wasn’t going to prevent the wedding. That was all that mattered in the end.

Neville frowned. “We’re doing a ministry wedding, Gran, no fuss—”

She thumped her cane. “No grandson of mine will be bonded by a ministry official in an office,” she snapped. “It will be here, in the gardens, by Algernon.”

He groaned but it seemed at least partly good-natured. “Not Great Uncle Algie.”

“If he was good enough for your parents, he’ll be good enough for you.” Augusta shot a pointed look at Pansy. “Isn’t that right?”

She understood what she was ordering. If Pansy wanted to marry Neville, they had to do it Augusta’s way. That was far from what she’d feared, and yet… “Isn’t he the one who dropped you out of a second story window?”

Augusta looked pleased at her knowing that anecdote. “Third story,” she said with pride. “Enid’s lemon meringue is truly delightful.”

Neville appeared to be fighting a smirk. “It is good.”

There was something not quite right in the heads of every Gryffindor. “Not enough to drop a child out of a third story window.”

“Neville was fine,” Augusta said. “Bounced into the garden and straight down the road, not a scratch on him.”

Neville was grinning now. “He did buy me Trevor,” he said. “And my minbulus mimbletonia.”

Because that made up for risking a child’s life for a spot of pudding.

Both Longbottoms watched her, waiting for her response.

Fucking Gryffindors. If a relative of hers had defenestrated her, they wouldn’t be able to show their face in Britain let alone at her wedding but if that’s what Neville wanted… “Alright then.”

Neville looked pleasantly surprised at her agreement.

Pansy Parkinson getting married in a conference room at the Ministry of Magic didn’t exactly scream legitimate wedding. “I’d still like it to be small,” she said. “Your family, of course, and just our closest friends.”

The corner of Neville’s mouth rose in a half smirk.

“I’d like Hermione and Draco as well as Theo and Blaise to come,” she said. “I assume you’ll want Potter and the Weas—” She cleared her throat, sparing a glance at Augusta. “Harry and Ron.”

His smirk spread. “Ginny and Padma too then.”

Because the one person she’d always wanted at her wedding was Ginny Weasley. Between her and Petro, however, she was the lesser of two evils so she nodded.

“Dean and Seamus are out of the country, so are Luna and Rolf,” he said. “They’d be the only others I’d like so that works.”

“I have a few—”

Neville cut off Augusta. “No, Gran,” he said. “Just family and our closest friends.”

She frowned. “Minerva will be quite disappointed.”

Hogwarts’s Headmistress was more likely to have a heart attack seeing her and Longbottom marry than enjoy the party.

“She’ll forgive us.” Neville turned back to her. “You’re certain about all the changes to our plan?”

She could ask him the same. She had no idea what Augusta did or didn’t know or suspect and yet the woman was charging full speed ahead to turn their wedding into a copy of his parents’s. Unless her goal to make Pansy uncomfortable by all the sentimentality and confess her nefarious intentions for Neville and call the whole thing off, in which case she seriously needed to rethink her methods for dealing with a Slytherin.

“I am if you are,” she told Neville.

He grinned. “Yeah, sounds better to me, actually.”

For his real wedding, sure, which this wasn’t. But it was Neville’s life. He could do what he wanted. “Will you do the flowers?”

Something in his face softened. “Of course.”

“No pansies though.” Stupid bloody flowers.

Something between surprise and confusion crossed his face. His eyes flicked to his gran for a moment before he nodded once. “I remember.”

His delivery left something to be desired but playing off that he knew how much she hated her stupid namesake was a nice touch for their charade. She turned to Augusta. “Then garden wedding it is.”

She tapped her cane again. “Excellent.” She rose with a grace and ease that proved the cane was just for show. “Come along, mustn’t be late.”

She glanced at Neville and back at Augusta. “To where?”

“It’s Sunday afternoon,” Augusta said as if that answered it as she marched towards the floo.

“St. Mungo’s,” Neville said quietly. “You can meet mum and dad.”

Pansy hated hospitals. At least the occupants of the Janus Thickey Ward for Permanent Spell Damage were actually insane, but she found the distinction didn’t make that much of a difference in the end.

A small partition had been put up to allow them privacy around a small table set for tea that no one touched. Frank and Alice Longbottom looked nothing like the few photos she’d caught a glimpse of in Augusta’s sitting room.

Both were pale and gaunt from years of sitting inside the ward. Alice’s hair was completely white. It hung limply to her shoulders, greasy and matted as if it was rarely washed and even when it was, she was put straight to bed before it had a chance to properly dry.

If it was her mother, she’d have demanded to speak to the healer about it right away, but she doubted either Longbottom would appreciate her interference.

Too much was riding on their goodwill at the moment so she kept her mouth shut.

Augusta and Neville introduced her to the vacant-eyed people at the table in a facsimile of proper etiquette, despite that none of them needed one. She knew their names and faces and they would never learn or care about hers. Neville greeted his mother with a kiss on the cheek. Alice didn’t even blink.

Then they proceeded to have the most uncomfortable one-sided conversation Pansy had ever witnessed. As if the two could hear everything they were saying and just chose not to respond.

“Neville’s getting married this weekend,” Augusta said. “In the back gardens. Algeron is performing the bonding just like he did for you two.”

“Pansy put me in charge of flowers,” Neville told his parents. “I might look back through old albums, see what you did for yours.” He glanced back at her. “Of course, still make it special for Pansy.”

She managed a faint smile. As long as she was the only pansy present, he could do whatever he wanted.

“She’s a Slytherin,” Augusta said. “Never would have thought I’d see the day.”

“House barriers are breaking down,” Neville said. “I’ve told you about my friend Hermione. She was my year, a fellow Gryffindor. She just got engaged to a Slytherin.”

“No rushed wedding for them,” Augusta said. “Your son is going to start a slew of rumors.”

“Pansy isn’t pregnant, Gran.”

“Yes, and I daresay the five of us are the only ones who are actually going to believe that for the next several months.”

Neville glanced over at her with a smirk.

“Neville’s been busy with a new breed of fern,” Augusta said. “Tell your mother what it can do.”

And so went the next half hour. Talking to the two shells of humans as if they could actually hear and understand. It wasn’t until Frank started getting fidgety that they both stopped their chatter and Augusta rose for the healer.

Being back in bed seemed to calm Frank down, even though he didn’t fall asleep. Just stared up at the ceiling, eyes vacant and wide.

Alice was much more docile, but as Neville and Augusta spoke with Frank’s healer, Pansy stopped Alice’s.

“Her hair…”

The healer sighed. “She hates having it washed,” she said. “Only time we get a reaction from her. Some trauma never leaves the body, even after the mind has gone.”

“I see.”

“Nothing but a quick scourgify once a week.”

She frowned. “Scourgify isn’t suitable for hair.”

The healer didn’t appear to be listening. “Of course not, dear,” she said. “You’re very kind, caring for your mother in law.”

That battle lost, she watched as Alice pulled something from her nightstand and handed it to Neville.

“Thanks, mum,” he said, pocketing a small piece of something she could have sworn was a candy wrapper.

Without a change in her expression, Alice went back to her bed and laid down next to Frank.

Gryffindor bravery, and this is where they ended up. A permanent floor in St. Mungo’s, barely able to recognize their own son, nothing left to give him but empty candy wrappers.

Chapter Text

“Blink once if you’ve been imperio’d.”

She grinned at Theo over the tops of her cards. “I couldn’t, that’s sort of the point.”

Theo rocked back in his chair. It balanced precariously on one leg, obviously stabilized by magic in one way or another. “Oh, Chosen One?” he called.

Behind them, Potter’s shoulders stiffened but he didn’t turn around.

Overall, her friends had taken the news of her and Longbottom’s upcoming nuptials rather well, all things considered.

Theo had been rendered speechless when she and Longbottom dropped by Monday evening with hand-calligraphed invitations to the garden wedding at his family home on Saturday. Blaise’s gobsmacked expression and the rare crack in his flawless composure, however, had been the true highlight of the experience so far.

Draco and Hermione had taken the news with a suspicious sort of acceptance the moment Pansy pointed out the hypocrisy of the two of them of all people not believing love could be found in the most unexpected of places.

Neville’s set, however, was another story.

Weasel hadn’t said a word when they’d dropped by his flat, though Padma pretended to be happy for them. Potter had gotten the same squinty-eyed look of suspicion he’d used on Draco all of sixth year. Weaselette was another manner entirely, immediately questioning him about Hannah. Even after Longbottom pointed out they’d broken up six months ago, it took Potter to get her to cease demanding answers so they could leave.

Pansy knew better than to believe that any part of Harry Potter suddenly accepted her, of all people, marrying one of his best friends.

Sure enough, Neville owled her on Tuesday evening to inform her that the four of them broke into his home and attempted to stage an intervention.

Despite his reassurances that he'd handled it and they’d left convinced the upcoming wedding was real, Pansy never left things to chance.

She also never fought her own battles if she could help it, so she dropped by the ministry on Wednesday. After five terse minutes in the ministry cafeteria of Pansy barely saying a word, Granger demanded to know if she was dying and Pansy finally brought up the intervention the lesser two-thirds of the Golden Trio and their partners tried to stage. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why Hermione was left out of that gathering.

A touch of holding back tears as she asked Hermione how long it took for her friends to accept Draco brought on Hermione Granger’s full righteous indignation.

There was a reason she was put in Gryffindor over Ravenclaw.

“You were the one to reintroduce Neville and I, you know,” she’d told her. “I know what Potter and Weasel and the rest of them think when they see me, but I thought they’d at least trust Neville.”

Hermione excused herself from tea that moment. According to Pansy’s sources at the ministry, she, Potter, and Weasel had been in a silenced conference room for nearly an hour before the other two came out looking like dogs with their tails between their legs.

Unfortunately, however, that wasn’t quite enough for the Golden Girl. Between her and Draco and Neville and Pansy, Granger decided it was time to merge their two groups. She’d used some sort of traditional muggle pre-wedding celebration as an excuse to get them all together. It had something to do with farm or woodland creatures but the details on how that was related were vague.

Theo took any excuse he could find to throw a party, but he might have bitten off more than he could chew by inviting a pack of Gryffindors, including two aurors, into his home.

Said aurors were conversing by the food with Weaselette and Padma. Hermione and Neville had decided to attempt holding their own in a card game against a bunch of Slytherins.

Sad, really. They should have just handed over their purses to save them all some time.

“I have a very important question for an auror,” Theo called in a sing-song voice.

“I’m also an auror,” Weasel said around a mouthful of food.

Theo looked him up and down and cringed.

“What?” Weasel asked.

Potter sighed and turned around. “Yes, Nott?”

“The imperius curse,” he said. “There are signs, right?”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the back of the wingback chair. “Just an individual acting in a manner inconsistent with their usual personality.” He glanced between Pansy and Longbottom with the slightest smirk. “Not sure who you’re implying it applies to, though.”

Weasel gave Draco the side eye. “I can think of someone.”

Hermione rounded on her two friends. “I warned you two—”

Draco cut her off with a grin. “Yes, neither you or Potter would know anything about using that curse firsthand, would you?”

Potter made a show of selecting a nut from a bowl. He chewed it before shrugging. “Wasn’t illegal any of the times I cast it.”

“There’s the upstanding moral fiber our world has come to expect from Harry Potter,” Draco drawled.

Potter smirked.

On the outside, little seemed to change between how Draco, Potter, and Weasel interacted. However, the layer of animosity was gone and now it almost seemed…playful.

Which was disturbing enough all on its own.

Theo won the hand and passed her his cards before collecting his winnings. “Your deal, Parks.” He paused and glanced at her. “What are we supposed to call you now? Longs? Bottom?” His eyes danced with mirth and she nearly hexed him.

“You’re taking his last name?”

Her gaze flicked over to where Padma was struggling to control her smirk. Weaselette didn’t bother to show the same restraint as she sniggered silently next to her.

Pansy shuffled and then flicked her wand to deal the next hand. “Yes,” she admitted.

Next to her, Neville was as smug as a kneazle who’d caught a diricawl.

With traditional pureblood contracts, there was no way for her to keep her maiden name in any form.

At least she’d still have her magic and her autonomy. As far as trade-offs went, it was worth it.

Barely.

“Have you considered hyphenating?” Hermione asked. “I think I’m going to go with Granger-Malfoy.”

Draco’s nose scrunched but he didn’t outwardly say anything against it. She wondered how difficult it was for him to suppress his possessiveness and not fight her on that.

Potter patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay, mate,” he said. “I wouldn’t read too much into it.”

He jerked his shoulder to dislodge Potter’s hand. “Piss off.”

“You lot are no better than neanderthals,” Hermione said. “Honestly.”

“There’s just something about having a woman love you so much that she wants to take your name and fully and officially join your family in every way,” Potter said with a smirk.

Neville beamed at Pansy. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Gag her.

A muscle in Draco’s jaw twitched. “There’s also something to be said for respecting the woman you love’s autonomy and independence and being secure in your relationship to not, as Hermione said, be a neanderthal about it all.”

What a load of sanctimonious hypocrisy. Weaselette looked about to call him on it, but Pansy needed to wipe the irritatingly smug smirk off Longbottom’s face. “Yes, yes, you can all take out your wands and measure them later.” She leaned towards Theo. “I’ll tell you a secret, though.”

He propped his chin on his hand with an eager look.

“Me marrying Longbottom has nothing to do with curses.”

“Oh?”

Neville lifted his glass for a sip and she almost laughed at the perfect timing. “He gives amazing head.”

As she predicted, Neville choked on his drink and nearly spit it out over the table.

Theo’s eyes danced with delight.

“Merlin, Pansy,” Neville said, still coughing, his face bright red.

She tossed a galleon onto the pile in the middle of the table, smirking brightly at his mortification. Now this was starting to become a party.

“How would you know, though?” Theo asked. “We all know how little you have to compare him to.” He threw a pointed look across the table at Draco.

Weaselette started laughing. “Bit of a late bloomer, Ferret?”

“Gave up after the first try fifth year,” Pansy said, enjoying the growing irritation on his face and Granger’s frustration. “Even with dozens of chances sixth year to reciprocate even one—”

Hermione transferred her glare to her. “Sixth year is off limits, Pans.”

Granger was so fun to rile up, and nothing raised her protective instincts higher than Draco Malfoy.

Once, even the mention of sixth year sent Draco deep into the depths of his occlumency. Thanks to years of appointments with mind healers and something sappy like Hermione’s love and forgiveness, he was finally starting to forgive himself.

The look he sent her now was one of exhausted exacerbation, not horror or guilt. She beamed at his progress.

Padma glanced at Hermione. “Does the fact they used to…date come up often?”

Hermione sighed. “Every few months,” she said. “Pansy gets extra feisty whenever she drinks and likes to make everyone else uncomfortable.”

Only when she drank? She was starting to lose her touch.

“Our Friday night tradition.” Theo beamed at Padma. “You’re welcome to join us anytime.” He shot Potter and Weasel a fake apologetic pout. “Sorry, Longbottom maxed me out on my Gryffindor allowances, though.”

Neither of them looked particularly put out by that fact.

Theo turned to the Weaselette. “Of course, I do make exceptions for particularly famous or talented individuals, so win the Harpies the Cup this year and you can come too.”

Ignoring the implied insult to her husband and brother, she tapped her chin with a thoughtful expression. “On the one hand, I’d have to spend more time with the Ferret but on the other hand, more time to make fun of the Ferret so…”

“Why is everyone taking the piss at me?” Draco demanded. “Shouldn’t we be doing that to Longbottom?”

“That would be like kicking a three legged puppy,” Theo said.

Pansy almost spit out her drink as she half-laughed, half-coughed at his words.

“Plus, you make it easy, and it’s one of the few activities everyone in this group enjoys,” Theo said. “Hermione said crass behavior and teasing people about their exes are customary parts of these events. I’m just trying to uphold the noble muggle tradition of cock days.”

Potter choked on his drink.

“What did you just call this?” Hermione sputtered.

Theo smirked. “Cock day, right?”

She dropped her head into her hands. “Theo!” she groaned.

Draco’s shoulders shook in silent laughter.

“It’s a hen-do and stag night,” Potter said.

Weasel turned to him. “Wait, they’re all called that?” he asked. “I thought Dean came up with that after your patronus.”

He started laughing. “No,” he said. “Is that why you joked about yours being a terrier night?”

Hermione sniggered. “I thought you were being clever.”

He rolled his eyes. “Made sense to me.”

“So that makes tonight lemur night?” Ginny asked.

Draco’s eyebrows arched as he glanced at Neville. “Your patronus is a lemur?”

“Yep,” he said.

The corner of his mouth rose in a smirk. “The creatures with the giant eyes who constantly look terrified?”

“The black and white ruffed lemur is known as the gardener of the forest because it is the world’s largest pollinator,” Hermione said. “They are essential to germination and survival of trees in the rainforest of Madagascar. It’s very fitting.”

Pansy almost snorted. Of course his patronus would be something that ridiculous.

“Just like Draco’s will be when he has his ferret night,” Weasel said with a smirk.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “For the last time, his patronus is not a ferret.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Weasel said. “And since no one has…”

Hermione had taught Draco how to cast the charm when he was her intern at the ministry, although what that had to do with house elf rights neither of them could explain. It took a few months but he was now apparently capable of a fully corporeal patronus.

One he had never let anyone except Hermione see.

“Well, lovely as each of those options sound, I still say cock day sounds like the most fun.” Theo glanced up at Potter. “Wouldn’t you agree?” He winked.

“Not personally, no,” he deadpanned.

He made a point to slowly check him out. “Let me know if you ever change your mind.” A moment later he flinched and grabbed his leg. “Ow!”

Blaise settled back into his seat with an innocent expression.

Theo flashed him a bright smirk. “Oh, don’t be jealous, you’ll be there too,” he said. “Someone has to show Potter the ropes.”

The man turned bright red as his wife cackled next to him. “Can we talk about literally anything else?”

Oh, this was delightful. Embarrassing Longbottom, Draco, and Hermione, and now making Harry Potter blush.

It almost tempted her to ask Theo to lift the Gryffindor restrictions for their usual Friday nights, but they were best in small doses.

“I have a question,” Padma said with a small smirk. “If you all talk about Draco’s exes, do Hermione’s—”

“No!” Draco and Potter snapped at the same time.

Weaselette rounded on her sister-in-law. “Why ?” she demanded. “Why was that necessary?”

She just laughed.

Theo beamed. “Oh? You’re talking about the relationship-that-can-never-be-named?”

“Ginny and Neville dated too!” Hermione half-yelled.

Pansy hadn’t known that tidbit but all she could do was laugh at Hermione’s desperation to talk about anything other than the disaster that was her relationship with Ron Weasley.

Granted, if she’d ever made the same mistake, she wouldn’t want it ever mentioned again either.

Oh, Merlin. That was going to be her in thirteen months but with Longbottom. Only involving marriage instead of just dating. Damn it. What was that thing Hermione said some muggles believed in? Karma? Perhaps she should stop teasing her so much. But if the damage was already done…

“What?” Theo demanded. “How is this the first I’m hearing about this?” He turned to Weaselette. “Care to validate Pansy’s assessment?”

Weasel gagged.

“We went to the Yule Ball together,” Weaselette said. “Nothing else happened.”

“No, nothing is what happened between Ron and I at the Yule Ball,” Padma said. “At least Neville danced with you instead of spending the entire night staring at Hermione Granger.”

At least Weasel had done one thing right by choosing the fun Patil twin. Pansy was starting to like her more and more as the night went on.

“That had nothing to do with—” Ron broke off. “She was there with the enemy, Padma.”

“Ron, you had a Victor Krum action figure,” Weaselette said.

“Why does everyone always bring that up?” He rolled his eyes. “We’ve gone years without this coming up again and after one night of hanging out with a bunch of Slytherins…”

Padma just laughed harder.

Theo gave Pansy a knowing smirk. “You know, Padma,” he said, “as far as obsessions with Hermione Granger go, it could have been much, much worse.”

“Theodore Nott, I will hex you,” Hermione snapped.

“Why?” he asked. “I’m not the one who mistakenly called out your name in the heat of the moment with someone else.”

It took them a moment, but Weaselette and Padma caught on at the exact same time in huge gasps. It was hard to tell who was blushing harder, Draco or Hermione. Potter and Weasel were staring at Draco like they were seeing him for the first time.

Pansy cleared her throat and held up two fingers. “Twice.”

Padma looked horrified. “And you stayed with him?”

She sighed. “Best of a bad lot, I’m afraid.” Plus, knowing the true extent of Draco’s obsession with muggleborn Hermione Granger was excellent leverage to have against him just in case he ever decided to leave her. “I just pretended not to hear.”

“Could have continued pretending the rest of our lives just fine,” Draco muttered.

“Awh,” Weaselette said with a teasing pout. “Unrequited love is so romantic, though, Ferret.”

“You would certainly think so,” he said. “Exactly how many of Potter’s roommates did you date before he finally noticed you? I shudder to think of what you would have done once it was just your brother left.”

She only smirked. “I don’t think a Malfoy is in a position to make jokes about incest.”

“We never married first cousins,” Draco said.

“Draco, becoming a blood traitor has made you so uncouth,” Theo said. “One doesn’t bring such things up in polite company.”

“Bit sensitive about that, Nott?” Weaselette asked.

“Didn’t you write Potter a love poem your first year?” Theo asked. “With one of those dwarves Lockhart dressed up as cupids?”

Hermione started laughing. “How’d you start it off? ‘Eyes as green as a freshly pickled toad?’”

“Oh, you want to talk about embarrassing things that happened that year, Granger?” Weaselette demanded. “How about when you—”

Hermione’s eyes widened with horror. “Okay, no, I’m sorry, please don’t.”

Weaselette’s eyes narrowed as her mouth quirked in a half smirk. “Tell me you’ve told Draco.”

The man in question sniggered. “Oh, I know,” he said. “It’s Theo who doesn’t.”

He gasped. “I don’t know what?”

Weaslette put her arms around her husband and brother. “These three were convinced that Draco was the heir to Slytherin so they concocted the brilliant plan to brew polyjuice potion in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom and disguise themselves as Slytherins so they could get him to confess.”

Theo’s mouth dropped open. “You brewed polyjuice as a second year?!”

“But she accidentally used a cat hair and turned herself into a half cat for the next month.”

Theo practically howled with laughter.

Hermione folded, tossing her cards onto the table and burying her head in her arms. Shame. For what was probably the first time ever it looked like she actually might have had a winning hand.

Everyone else, even Draco, was laughing at her as well.

Draco patted her on the back. “Brewing a potion that advanced as a second year is quite impressive.”

She shrugged off his hand. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Oh, I wish you’d told me this years ago,” Theo said, wiping off his cheeks. “And to think I thought the most shocking revelation of the evening was that Longbottom is good in the sack.”

Weaselette and Padma traded smirks.

Theo noticed right away and rounded on Weaselette. “I thought you said nothing happened at the Yule Ball?”

Padma grinned. “We’ve just had drinks with Hannah Abbott before.”

Theo watched them, game entirely forgotten. “Longbottom’s ex?”

Weaselette grinned. “Bit of a chatty drunk.”

“Slightly prone to exaggeration at times,” Padma said.

“Not if what Pansy said was true…” Weaselette said suggestively.

Pansy glanced over at Longbottom.

He was fighting it, but there was something smug about his expression. He tossed down his cards—a winning hand—in front of her. As he gathered up the pile of coins, he shot her a smirk. “Your deal.”

Theo started complaining loudly about losing to a Gryffindor.

Pansy had far different things running through her mind.

Neville floo’d with her back to his grandmother’s house. Aside from the unpleasant trip back to her family’s ancestral home to gather her belongings—during the day when she knew Ivan and Petro were out drinking and with Granger to help—she’d spent the entire week there.

It had been quieter than she expected. Peaceful in a way her home wasn’t.

Augusta was busy organizing things for the wedding, and Pansy spent her time working on her dress. Even if it was small and fake, it was her wedding day and if she was going to be the center of attention, she was going to look spectacular.

Neville ruffled his hair, working out all of the cinders. “Well, that was an…experience.”

“Every Friday night,” she said.

“Can’t wait,” he drawled.

She smirked.

Something in his expression softened as he stared down at her.

Tension stretched between them, like a pull of unfamiliar magic, heightening her senses. Or just her awareness of him.

He towered over her, almost a full head taller. She had to tilt her head back to continue to meet his eyes. They were unreadable in the faint light from the dying fireplace, but she found she couldn’t look away.

The smell of damp earth clung to him, discernible underneath the sharp bite of the firewhiskey he’d had that night. Warmth and comfort layered with spice. Intoxicating in its own unexpected way.

He leaned forward ever so slightly. “Why don’t you like pansies?”

His question was like a cold bucket of water, breaking whatever spell he was weaving. “It’s just so cliche, you know?”

He slid his hands into his pockets, watching her.

She sighed. “You’re the herbologist,” she said. “What’s great about a flower that has no scent and dies every year?”

“Pansies are actually perennials.”

“Then why are they pulled up and replanted each year?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Easier maintenance, I suppose,” he said. “They’re really easy to plant but don’t bloom well consecutive years without a lot of effort.”

What girl wouldn’t want to be associated with a scent-less, useless flower used primarily as filler that was easier to rip up and replace than nurture?

She smirked. “Does anything about me scream easy maintenance?”

“Pretty much the exact opposite.”

Perhaps that was the problem. Easier to just rip her out and replace her. Especially for something that was just there to be pretty.

“You strike me as more of a rosa centifolia, actually.”

“Did you add those to my bouquet?”

He smirked. “Their thorns can cut through dragonhide and I assume you don’t want blood over your wedding dress so, no.”

Cute, Longbottom.

His smirk spread. “Sweet dreams, Pansy,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Longbottom relatives were…interesting. Even from two stories up, she could tell they were as raucous as one would expect from a crowd of Gryffindors, despite their ages.

Draco, Theo, and Blaise seemed to share her trepidation as they hovered on the edges of the patio but the Gryffindor guests and even Padma blended in with the Longbottoms. Weaselette appeared to be suffering under the attentions of an elderly Longbottom with an ear horn who kept yelling at her to speak directly into it.

She watched Potter intervene before Weaselette hit him with one of her bat boogey hexes.

Neville stood in the center of it all, wearing poorly fitting dress robes and smiling and laughing in ways she hadn’t seen before.

Her own wedding, and she could not have felt more out of place.

What didn’t belong was Neville’s hideous outfit. She’d been so busy with her dress she’d forgotten to do something about his clothing.

Another project for another day.

At least he’d come through on the flowers. The garden surrounding the grey stone patio was rich and lush, a result of years of careful cultivation. Bright blossoms bloomed everywhere, filling the space with color and life.

He’d crafted elaborate arrangements for the buffet and smaller versions to hang off each of the chairs as well as a large, elegant flower arch where they would stand for the ceremony. It was all done in a mix of pink, green, and white flowers with various greenery.

It was beautiful, in a quaint, homey sort of way.

Seeing it now, and the bright happy faces below her, she wondered if a ministry wedding might have been better.

There were at least two unhappy faces. Cousin Ivan was there, though she steadfastly refused to have him give her away. She hadn't asked what had happened to Petro. Didn’t particularly care either way.

Between Neville and Augusta—and from the looks of it, Potter as well—there was at least one eye on him at all times.

Lawrence, her father’s solicitor, was there too.

She’d seen and known true evil, but to her, he was the worst of them all. A bland, emotionless man who would do whatever his clients asked, no matter the questionable morality, so long as gold was exchanged.

Greedy men with no scruples were the ones who allowed megalomaniacs like the Dark Lord to obtain power and keep it.

“I came to see if you need any help.”

She turned from the window and smiled at Hermione.

“Not that you would let me anywhere near your hair or makeup,” she added with a rueful grin.

“Granger, I would love to get you near my makeup.”

She laughed once. “You look beautiful, Pansy.”

She'd kept her hair and makeup simple, adding a light curl to her black bob and sweeping one side off her face with a jeweled flower comb from her family vaults. The true brilliance of her look was her dress.

The satin sweetheart neckline gown was covered in a single layer of sheer silk chiffon. It covered her exposed back as well as the top of her chest and shoulders. A half dozen layers added fullness and a light, airy touch to her skirt. She used the same sheer fabric for her billowing sleeves that ended in cuffs right at her wrists.

The bodice was covered in floral embroidery, light pink azaleas mixed with soft green dahlias and a spring of white delphinium flowers here and there on a bed of green fern. The embroidery trailed down her sleeves and on several offshoots into the chiffon of the skirt, the longest just hitting her knees.

Augusta had interrupted her wandering the garden earlier in the week looking for inspiration for the embroidery and she’d somehow admitted what she was doing. For a minute it seemed like they were actually getting along when Augusta suggested using the wedding flowers.

“Neville mentioned he chose his favorites,” she said. “So that’ll be…” She trailed off. “Oh, forgive me, dear. You must find this so patronizing. Of course you know what Neville’s favorite flowers are. Don’t mind me.” She’d strode away with a smug smirk that immediately reminded Pansy of her grandson.

Fucking Longbottoms.

So then she’d had to owl Neville to ask him what his favorite flowers were and what he was using in her bouquet. Unfortunately, his list of names left something to be desired as she had no idea what any of them looked like. It led to further unnecessary back and forth until he’d sent her a mini bouquet of what he was planning and a few extra sprigs of delphinium which he’d decided not to put in the bouquet but apparently she still needed to recognize because growing white ones was rather rare and difficult and he was quite proud of himself.

The full version of the bouquet was even more spectacular. Clusters of pink azaleas and light green dahlias blossomed together on a bed of darker green fern, spotted with white orchids. A row of them cascaded over the side like a waterfall to trail over her arm when she held it.

It was absolutely stunning, the perfect match to her dress and perfect look for a garden wedding.

Everything about the day was perfect, except for the tiny detail of the two of them not actually liking one another.

And the other thing.

“Hermione…” She swallowed.

She cocked her head. “What is it?”

“If there’s something…something I haven’t told Neville…”

They didn’t call her the brightest witch of the age for nothing. “Should you tell him now or after the wedding, do you mean?”

She nodded.

“I couldn’t say, not without knowing what it is.”

She would never—could never—tell her friend.

Luckily Hermione didn’t press. “I don’t think you can have a solid relationship without honesty,” she said. “Is it a reason for him not to marry you?”

“No.” Not if it was a real marriage. With their sham…she didn’t know what would make him cry off.

Which was why she hadn’t said a word. And why, this close, she wouldn’t.

“Then enjoy the morning, and tell him right away after the estate meeting,” she said. “Better he hears from you as soon as possible, before anyone else.”

That was the problem, of course.

“He’s never…been mad at me.”

Hermione snorted. “Pansy, you bullied him mercilessly for seven years, and now he’s marrying you,” she said. “He’s obviously forgiving.”

He hadn’t forgiven her so much as agreed to save her from years of abuse and eventual murder but that was splitting hairs. She gave her friend a small smile. “Must be a Gryffindor trait?”

She beamed. “Only the best of us.” She held out her arm. “Ready?”

Hermione walked her downstairs, then slipped away to her seat next to Draco.

A minute later, the ceremony began and Pansy started down the aisle.

As beautiful as the gardens looked from the window, they were breathtaking on the scene. It was as if she stepped into a veritable forest of lightly fragrant flowers. The flower arch Neville had made drew everyone’s eye towards where he stood waiting for her. It was right over the stone path that led further into the gardens, looking like the entrance to a fairy glen.

Neville looked about as she imagined he did when Hermione put him in the infamous full body bind first year. Standing as stiff as a board, his jaw hung open just enough to be obvious.

It put just a hint of a strut in her step as she walked towards him.

Standing just behind Neville’s shoulder, Great Uncle Algie leaned forward to whisper something to him.

Neville’s mouth snapped shut but he grinned as she finally reached them. There was a rueful disbelief it, one she hoped everyone else would interpret as shock and awe that she’d agreed to marry him and not the moment he realized they were actually about to get married for real and called the whole thing off.

Instead, his hand reached for hers and he squeezed it once. The gesture was so sweet and steadying, it sent a pang through her chest. Even though he wasn’t Draco or Theo, for the first time since she was seventeen, a part of her felt like she might actually be safe.

Great Uncle Algie was a tall, willowy wizard surprisingly spry for his age. He beamed at Pansy with such a bright, happy expression she forgot to glare at him on principle. With a twinkle in his eye, he led them through the bonding ceremony.

They’d chosen the simplest one possible, even though Algie threw in a few extra adjectives and more than one mention of “everlasting love.”

Before she knew it, the final band of gold light sunk into their intertwined forearms and the ceremony was complete.

She was married.

To Neville Longbottom.

He beamed at her, blue eyes shining in the bright summer sun. There was something soft, hopeful in his expression as he studied her.

She missed whatever Uncle Algie said, caught in Neville’s gaze. The crowd laughed as he gave her a rueful grin and stepped flush against her.

Right.

The kiss.

Slowly, as if she was something precious, something to be treasured, he cupped her face in either hand. Tilting his head down, his lips found hers.

She would never forget the day she stepped into Ollivander’s as an eleven year old. The way it felt when she held her wand the first time.

The warmth that spread through her entire body, magic coming alive. The willow wood wand with phoenix core practically singing in her hands.

Kissing Neville Longbottom was all that and more.

Her body flushed with warmth, sparks of a different kind of magic shocking every place they touched.

He pulled away just as she was starting to sink into it.

She blinked, the garden and everyone watching the two of them coming back in a rush.

Neville smirked and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “If everything you said last night didn’t make you blush neither should a simple kiss.” He pressed another on to her cheek and laughed at her glare. “Come on.”

He led her back to the house and into the conservatory for what was supposed to be a few minutes of privacy to enjoy their newly wedded bliss as Augusta barked orders to set up for the buffet luncheon she’d planned.

“You look beautiful.”

She turned from watching the backyard to find Neville smiling at her.

He nodded to her dress. “Did you make it yourself?”

“I was the only worthwhile designer who could get me in on such short notice.”

He grinned. Stepping forward, he trailed a finger down the embroidery on the sleeve of her dress. “Is this why you asked what my favorite flowers were?”

“That and your grandmother made a point to shame me for my ignorance.”

His grin widened. “Do you know what they mean?”

“The flowers?”

He nodded.

“I didn’t even know what they all were four days ago.”

“Pink azaleas represent femininity and beauty, green dahlias are for fresh starts, and delphinium flowers are a symbol of protection and to communicate cheer.”

That seemed pointed. “So you think I’m pretty and you want a fresh start where you protect me and keep me happy?” she drawled.

He smirked. “You have to admit, it fits.”

She batted her eyelashes. “Because you think I’m pretty?”

“I just told you I thought you look beautiful.”

From the open, easy look on his face he meant it.

“And I’m not a monster, of course I want to protect you from that,” he jerked his head towards the patio where Ivan and Lawrence were lurking. “But we have to live together for the next thirteen months, so I think starting fresh and doing what we can to try to keep the other person happy will make it all a lot easier. Maybe we can even become friends.”

There was the doe-eyed, unsuspecting, earnest, naive Longbottom she remembered from school.

Instead of triumph at being right, she felt dread and a tendril of something a better person might have called guilt. She cleared her throat. “Listen, Neville, about the meeting with the solicitor—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I think we’ve done really well so far. I mean all this helped.” He nodded his head out towards the gardens.

“Right.” If she was going to take Hermione’s advice, this was her last possible chance. “There’s—”

“You two better not be snogging back here.” Theo marched into the conservatory, holding a hand over his eyes. “Your gran sent me to fetch you but I can’t witness that image more than once today.”

Neville rolled his eyes and took Pansy’s hand to lead her back into the gardens.

That counted as trying to tell him, right?

Rather than drop her hand, Neville interlaced their fingers together and held tight. The gooey-eyed looks from several of his great-aunts was the only reason she decided to allow it. When Enid came by trying to force the infamous meringue on her she declined, informing her that she would rather hold onto Neville.

The Longbottoms found this absolutely delightful which, considering they had all been deranged enough to sit around eating said meringue while a child was dangerously hung from a window, she should have expected.

“So really no honeymoon for you two?” one of the great aunts pouted.

“Year end exams are almost here, and then Pansy’s hoping to open a shop in Diagon this summer,” he said. “We’ll take one next summer instead.”

Her gaze darted up to him. From the practiced ease with which he spoke, he’d been planning this line out already.

“Oh! Where will you go?”

She should have know from his shit-eating grin she wasn’t going to appreciate his next words.

“Argentina,” he said. “It’s been Pansy’s dream to go since forever so this way we can make sure to get as much time there as possible.”

Draco shot her a look of incredulity. To be fair, he’d know her his entire life and never once heard her mention a desire to travel to Argentina. The number of times she’d dropped hints about honeymooning in Greece was a bit mortifying so there was little way he forgot that. But it wasn’t like the Longbottoms owned their own private villa there so surely a change in honeymoon was understandable with a change in groom.

When Lawrence started clearing his throat an hour after the end of the ceremony, Neville began extracting them from the crowd of well-wishers. A promise to the Slytherin crew to see them on Friday, another to the Gryffindors for drinks sometime soon, and far too many embraces from elderly witches and wizards she’d never met before that day before they floo’d away for the estate business.

Theo hadn’t been able to help himself from calling out, “So that’s what they’re calling it these days!”

Rather than being mortified at his behavior, Neville’s relatives erupted into their own cheers and laughter.

Apparently even a crowd of elderly Gryffindors wasn’t beyond Theo’s ability to charm.

The sharp contrast between the warm, cheerful home they just left and the cold floo parlor of her family estate was like a slap in the face. Neville’s hand tightened on hers, directing her around one of the new piles of broken glass.

Clearly Ivan and Petro hadn’t taken the news of her upcoming nuptials particularly well.

In her father’s office—a room she would have been happy never to have to set one foot in again—Lawrence began reading the terms of her marriage. Mostly standard legal jargon, detailing the transfer of the estate and all its holdings to Neville, everything to be expected of a pureblood union.

Then came the rest of it.

“Mr. Longbottom, I will require your family crest ring and your wand.”

With a long, warning look at Ivan, Neville handed both over.

Lawrence weighed his wand, then passed it back right away, before running a series of diagnostics on the ring. “You are the sole male heir of your family line, correct?”

“Well…”

“Capable of procreation,” he clarified.

Merlin, she hoped so. That put rather horrid mental images of Uncle Algie in mind.

Neville cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“The ring was passed down to you from your father, and his father before him?”

“My Great Uncle had possession of the ring from the date of my father’s incapacitation until I came of age,” Neville said.

A lie if she’d ever heard one. Augusta probably never let the damn thing out of her sight once in those fifteen years.

He began reciting Neville’s lineage, luckily stopping at the date the Sacred Twenty Eight was established. She’d sat through enough pureblood lineages to hate whoever was naming children in the Middle Ages.

“The groom is acceptable to the estates standards,” Lawrence finally announced.

She could have wept. Thank Merlin.

Ivan growled in frustration.

There was nothing he could do. Not now.

“Ms. Parkinson—”

“That’s Mrs. Longbottom, actually,” Neville said, his voice cool.

Sweet Salazar. Even if it was just for thirteen months there was no way she was going to go by that.

“Your marriage has yet to be recognized by the estate,” Lawrence said, his voice bored. He stood up from his chair and walked to hers. “Ms. Parkinson, please submit yourself for evaluation.”

She didn’t move an inch. “I would like to request it be done in private.”

“Your guardian and groom are required to witness.”

Of course they were. Dreading every step, she rose.

“What’s going on?” Neville said. “What examination?”

Lawrence began sketching runes in the air around her. “Confirming her status, nothing more.”

Neville looked ready to jump out of his chair and stop him.

“It’s fine.” No point in drawing this out and making it worse. “I’ve done it before.”

Every year on her birthday, ever since her periods first started. Usually with just her father and his solicitor present. Her seventeenth birthday not included.

I would like to present my daughter, my lord.

Such a pretty little witch.

From the finest pureblooded stock, my lord. Not so much as a half blood in our family tree.

A prized breeder. That’s what she was to them.

Hot waves of humiliation rolled through her as the familiar runes sank into her skin.

Moments later, a gold ball rose from between her hips.

Lawrence broke the spell and the runes and light faded.

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t—

“Virginity is intact.”

There was a thump as Neville dropped back into his chair.

She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at anything other than where the hem of her wedding gown skimmed the floor.

She’d once thought being rejected by him at the Three Broomsticks was the most humiliating moment of her life.

This was so much worse.

“The marriage is valid and recognized by the estate,” Lawrence said. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom.”

Relief crested over her in a wave, so swift and sharp her knees nearly buckled.

Merlin.

This is what her life had come to. All-encompassing relief at being married to Neville Fucking Longbottom.

Said husband was noticeably silent. She didn’t chance a glance up to read his expression.

“The rite will need to be completed within one year of the wedding or the marriage will be rendered invalid.”

“Rite?” Neville asked, his voice clipped.

Fucking hell. Another one? Was this ever going to end?

There was a rustling of papers. “The Parkinson Family ritual is provided to you, but you of course may use your family’s preferred spells.”

Maybe it was simpler than it sounded. If other family spells could be used, it couldn’t be that bad. Right?

There was the glow of bright blue protection runes. “The wards of the estate have shifted to you, Mr. Longbottom,” he said. “A representative from Gringotts will contact you about their procedures to transfer the Parkinson vaults to your estate.”

It was hard to say who was more furious at the moment, Neville or Ivan.

“Since there is no surviving male heir of the Parkinson line, you may now take possession of the Parkinson Family Ring until a male heir from your union comes of age.”

He slid a black velvet box towards Neville who made no move to touch it.

Lawrence began packing up his belongings. “I will be back in a year to verify the rite has been completed,” he said. “Please note that if the marriage is declared invalid for any reason, you will be required to pay back anything you took from the estate, plus fourteen percent interest.”

The room was silent as a grave.

“Do not hesitate to contact me in the meantime for any manner related to the Parkinson estate, Mr. Longbottom.”

As soon as the green from the floo faded, Ivan turned to Neville. “You vill pay me the bride price I have set.”

“You get nothing,” he snapped. “After what you tried to do to her, you’re lucky I don’t have you thrown in Azkaban.”

Ivan gripped his wand.

Neville didn’t so much as blink. “Your belongings are packed for you and waiting at the gate,” he said. “Get off my property.”

“You cannot tell me vot to do—”

“You can leave of your own free will this minute or by my force the next,” he spat. “Your choice.”

It was mildly disturbing how much someone in such hideous robes could turn her on.

“Dis is not over!” Ivan slammed the door behind him.

She felt the moment he disapparated from the property. Her gaze flicked up.

Neville glared at her, furious in a way she’d never seen before.

So much for green dahlias.

“I know,” she said with a little pout, “it’s a disappointing amount of gold, to be sure. In my defense we—”

His rage only burned brighter. “This isn’t about the fucking gold and you know it, Pansy!”

She flopped into her chair sideways, letting her legs dangle over the armrest. “The house?” She sighed. “It is an eyesore. Needs to be stripped to the bones and completely redone. Probably easier to just sell but there’s not much of a market for homes of former Death—”

He pounded his fist on the table. “Pansy!”

She arched an eyebrow. “Yes, dear?”

He looked furious enough to spit flames. “You lied to me.”

“No I didn’t.”

“When I asked you for details, all you said was that we’d have to be married for thirteen months and pretend to be in love,” he spat. “You didn’t think to mention it also involved me having to take your virginity?!”

He didn’t have to sound so repulsed by the thought. “Let’s be clear,” she said. “Virgin by only the most technical definition—”

“That’s not the part I’m concerned about!”

“If it’s that repugnant to you, I can find someone else to do it.” It had been her initial plan until he’d made that condition about not cheating on him. “I’ll even find some muggle so it’s impossible for anyone—”

He fisted the papers. “The rite he was talking about wasn’t just sex, it’s fucking blood magic!”

Her family’s favorite. “Literally, from the sounds of it.”

He looked ready to lunge across the table for her. And not in the fun way. “This is not a joke, Pansy!”

She sighed. “What do you want me to do?” she asked. “Take polyjuice potion so you can get through it?”

He reared back. “That is somehow the most disturbing thing you’ve said yet.”

He was the one so eager to get out of fucking her.

“This type of magic has been illegal for centuries,” he said. “It would magically bind you to me in irrevocable ways.”

“Mmm,” she said. “Kinky.”

His nostrils flared.

She sighed. “I swear to never use it against you or ask anything from you as soon as we divorce,” she said. “And as for the legality, my family’s been doing it since the Middle Ages and no one has ever gotten caught or punished and I’m not exactly going to report it.”

The fact that Longbottom now knew her family’s darkest secrets was bad enough.

“And even if it somehow gets out, I doubt anyone is going to send Neville Longbottom, Order of Merlin First Class and hero of the Battle of Hogwarts to Azkaban for saving a witch from a blood oath her father forced her into when she was seventeen.”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “He said he’d be back to verify the rite is completed,” he said. “What happens if it’s not?”

Her stomach churned. “Ivan can declare you impotent and take me back.” And sell her off to Petro or another man who wouldn’t hesitate to force her into the rite or whatever else he wanted from her.

Leaving her right back where she started.

“Fucking, Merlin,” he muttered.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, hating how small her voice sounded.

He let out a long breath. “I’ll take you to my place in Hogsmeade,” he said. “Then I need to think about this. Alone.”

Chapter Text

Neville’s cottage was…quaint. A single story with an open floor plan. To the right as you entered was a small kitchen and dining area that had room for a square table and four chairs. The other half of the room was filled with cozy living room furniture.

In lieu of an actual wall, however, almost the entire southern side of the living room was glass. Floor to ceiling backless shelves of varying heights stood in front of the windows, teeming with plants. Various others filled every spare surface of the room. Even the windowsill above the kitchen sink was lined with what looked like herbs.

“I don’t have the patience to teach you what can or cannot kill you so just don’t touch anything in the house,” Neville snapped as she studied the space.

So much for newly wedded bliss. “What, just stand in the center of the room and wait for you?”

He obviously wasn’t in the mood for her sarcasm. “Don’t touch anything that’s alive.”

Oh, that was too easy. “I can’t touch myself?” she asked suggestively.

His nostrils flared.

She dipped her fingertips beneath the neckline of her gown, skimming her collarbone. “It’s just, you haven’t said when you’ll be back and when I get bored—”

“Do. Not. Touch. My. Plants.”

She gazed up at him through her eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”

His nostrils flared again, then he disapparated on the spot with a loud crack.

Any pretense of confidence or nonchalance disappeared with Longbottom. She was left, alone, in a house half transfigured into a greenhouse, with no idea what her future held.

Desperate for a distraction, she did what she did best.

She snooped.

It was too early to tell if Neville was always this tidy or if he picked up on her account, but the place was clean and neat. There was nothing of note in the kitchen beyond basic foodstuffs except for two decent bottles of wine and one of a semi-expensive firewhiskey.

The sole bookshelf that actually had books on it—and a number of what she could only assume were shade-loving plants—was filled with herbology texts. Neville hadn’t said anything about touching his books but she left Magical Plants of Eastern Argentina alone for the time being, despite wanting to set the damned thing on fire.

The bathroom turned up surprisingly little dirt on Longbottom. Just simple hygiene products, no hair loss tonics or skin products revealing an embarrassing secret.

The guest room contained nothing but a bed with a nondescript pastel green duvet, an empty closet, and empty chest of drawers. Aside from more plants—which covered the top of the dresser, both bedside tables, and windowsills—there was little else in the room.

She hoped Longbottom wasn’t gauche enough to put one of the murdering plants in his guest room but she kept her word and kept her hands off each of them just in case.

His bedroom was much more interesting. The bed linens were an unfortunate tacky red and gold but at least there wasn’t a giant lion printed on anything.

Where there weren’t plants, there were framed photographs. One looked like the original Order of the Phoenix. Some she recognized, others she could only guess. Remus Lupin. Sirius Black. Alastor Moody. Dumbledore himself. James and Lily Potter were easy to spot, looking disturbingly similar to Harry and Weaselette.

Yet somehow she was the one who’d been ordered into ministry-mandated mind healing.

Another couple looked familiar but it wasn’t until she saw the framed photo of just them—smiling and laughing on what appeared to be their wedding day—that she realized who they were.

Frank and Alice Longbottom.

Unlike Potter who was the spitting image of his father, Neville had a fair amount of both his parents in him, leaving him looking like both of them and neither all at the same time.

In every picture, save his wedding one, Frank Longbottom was wearing one of his tacky jumpers. Alice was put together in each one. Hair long and styled, clothes sharp and tasteful, if currently out of style.

It made her limp and unkept appearance now all the more heartbreaking.

There were almost a dozen pictures of the two of them. The wedding one, clearly in Augusta’s back gardens, with the two of them underneath a flower arch nearly identical to the one Pansy had just married their son under. A large family shot, including younger versions of all of the Longbottoms she’d met that morning. One of Frank twirling Alice as they both danced and laughed, her stomach swollen in the late stages of pregnancy.

Another with Alice cradling a tiny bundle as Frank held her. Every few moments, a little hand would reach up from the bundle and they both beamed.

Neville.

The two of them beaming at a chubby baby Neville as he smiled and cooed at them. Neville’s first Christmas. His first steps. His first birthday.

The final one couldn’t have been taken much before the first fall of the Dark Lord. Toddler Neville giggling so hard he fell over as his mother laughed.

She carefully set the frames back exactly as she’d found them.

There were plenty of recent photos as well. One of him with Harry, Ron, Seamus, and Dean from school when they couldn’t have been more than first or second years. Another of the same group at a Quidditch match sometime after the war. Neville, Weaselette, and Loony in formal dress robes at the ministry, or what passed for dress robes for him and Loony. A crowded photo taken in the Room of Requirement with Dumbledore’s Army.

She rubbed the top of her head, to this day wondering which one of them had hexed her with antlers. Perhaps Longbottom knew.

Seeing the smiling faces of Lavender Brown and Colin Creevey, she doubted he would tell her even if he did.

She of all people should have known better, but back then, it all seemed like just a game. The Inquisitorial Squad against Potter’s secret group of rebels.

She might not regret much from her life, but the stupid ass Inquisitorial Squad was definitely one of them.

Swallowing, she put the fame back and turned to continue her search.

The closet and bureau were neatly organized with far too many tacky jumpers and hideous robes. She shuddered when she realized the robes he’d worn to their wedding were the least offensive of the lot. It was going to take more work than she thought to make Longbottom presentable.

Up in the highest reaches of his closet was an unmarked box. Waving it down with her wand, she opened it up to see what Longbottom was hiding.

A seemingly endless supply of Droobles Blowing Gum wrappers stared back up at her. Each one representing a visit with a mother who didn’t even know her own son’s name.

She replaced the lid gently and returned the box to the shelf.

The bedside table to the left of the bed was empty. Nothing on top or inside of it.

On top of the opposite bedside table proudly perched a greenish grey cactus-looking plant covered in boils.

The infamous mimbulus mimbletonia.

Under her watchful glare, it squirmed in its pot.

“There will be none of that,” she said sternly. “If we are going to live together, we are going to get along which means if you leave me alone, I will leave you alone.”

After one last shudder, the plant settled.

“Excellent choice.”

She pulled at the top nightstand drawer but it refused to open.

Interesting.

She pointed her wand. “Alohomora!” The nightstand didn’t budge.

Even more interesting.

“What are you hiding, Longbottom?” she muttered.

She tried increasingly stronger unlocking charms until the damned cactus was writhing so much she was certain she was about to be covered in stinksap for her trouble.

“Alright, settle down, I’ll leave it for now.”

Perhaps Granger would have some better unlocking spells. She appreciated a challenge and was Gryffindor enough that the thought of needing to figure it out before the stinksap bomb went off would probably excite her.

Resolving to come back later, she turned her back on the irritated pile of lumpy boils in a show of dominance and walked back into the living room.

Everything she’d packed up from her manor was sitting by the door, shrunk down to fit in four stacked boxes.

A smart witch would sit on the couch and wait for Neville to come home. Be ready to apologize, perhaps even make him dinner or at least prepare tea or something.

Pansy Parkinson had never been called a smart witch.

Instead, she began the arduous process of moving her belongings in to the home of the man who might or might not still be her husband by the end of the day.

When Neville finally returned from wherever he’d fled, it was nearly dark. He froze as soon as he saw her in his living room.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

It was impossible to determine anything from his tone.

Once she’d unpacked all of her belongings, she’d brought out her sketch pad and fabric samples and set to work on her fall line. It was the one thing she knew she could throw herself into and forget about everything else.

The coffee table was covered in a mix of both wizarding and muggle fashion magazines and her stacks of fabric samples. Three easels held up her current favorite sketches. Her mannequins were still in their box as she wasn’t quite ready for the first mockups but once she choose all her fabrics, she could start.

Natural light was best for fabric selection, but she was on a roll and wasn’t ready to stop. She’d double check all of her work once the light was better.

At least the giant windows would be beneficial for her work.

“I didn’t touch a singe plant, like I promised.”

She and Mimby had come to an understanding as she’d unpacked. The territorial pile of bulbous boils left her alone if she left the nightstand alone.

An agreement she would tolerate for how.

Neville sighed. “I’m going to change, then we can talk.”

She swapped out two fabric samples, liking the way they coordinated much better.

Neville walked into his bedroom. He stormed out just as quickly moments later. “What did you do? I told you not to touch my clothes!”

She continued eyeing her easels. “Plants.”

“What?”

Oh, this was too much fun. “You told me not to touch your plants,” she said. “I didn’t.”

Pissing off Mimby trying to break into his secret nightstand didn’t count because she never technically touched her. There hadn’t been a stinksap explosion either so obviously the temperamental cactus hadn’t been too offended.

His face hardened. “I also told you not to touch my clothes the day I agreed to this!”

She adopted a look of faux innocence. “No you didn’t.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Pansy, you have tried my patience far enough today—”

With a swish of her wand, she tried an accent color on the board, then immediately removed it. “You said I wasn’t allowed to destroy or alter them,” she said. “Not that I wasn’t allowed to move them to a different part of the house.”

He blinked.

She waved her wand, adding a length of ribbon to one of the boards and beamed. Perfect. “I believe it’s standard practice for two people living together to keep their everyday clothes in their room and move occasion clothes or overflow to another room.” She glanced up at him. “You weren’t here so I did what I thought was best but I can fix things tomorrow.”

He inhaled slowly.

“I’m much too tired tonight.” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead with a dramatic pout. “Big day and all.”

He drug a hand down his face with a look of absolute exhaustion. “Just show me where my things are.”

“Of course.”

Walking into the bedroom, she flicked half the drawers on the dresser open as she counted off. “Pants, shirts, jumpers, trousers.” She waved her wand at the closet. “Robes.” She led him into the guest room and started flicking open the drawers in that bureau. “Jumpers, jumpers, jumpers, jumpers, jumpers, and this last one…oh, yes. More jumpers.”

He shot her a look.

She shut them with a flick and turned to the closet. “Dress robes.” She turned back to him. “Satisfactory?”

He sat down on the edge of the guest bed, rubbing his head. “If this is going to work, Pansy—”

“Is it?” she asked quietly.

He glanced up.

“Going to work?”

His face hardened. “Not if you don’t start being honest with me.”

“I never lied—”

He cut her off. “You didn’t exactly tell me the whole truth either, did you?”

She shifted to lean against the dresser. “Would you have agreed to it if I had?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is to me.”

The rare moment of honesty drifted between them.

Since she was already at her lowest, she might as well continue. “It’s just once,” she said. “You’d only have to do it one time.”

Fucking Merlin. Was this her life now? Having to beg Neville Longbottom to fuck her even once? What was so offensive to him? The fact that she was a virgin—which, if she didn’t care about finally losing it, why should he—or the fact that it was her?

He was a single, apparently skilled in the bedroom, young, male Gryffindor who already got off on saving people. How was this not checking off all his boxes?

“It’s not about the sex,” he said. “If that’s all it was, it would be…” He cleared his throat, cheeks flushing as he looked anywhere but at here. “Fine.”

Oh, would it? “With flattery like that it’s no wonder you have so many witches throwing themselves at you.”

He rubbed his temple. “Pansy, have you even looked at the rite?”

Did he honestly think she’d ever have been allowed to see it? “Oh, I tend to avoid unpleasant things.”

He let out a sharp puff of air. “It’s vile,” he said. “I’m not going to do that to another person.”

There was the upstanding Gryffindor morality she hated so much. What hypocrisy. He would force her to chose between life as a squib or marriage to someone as repulsive as Petro—who probably felt the more vile the rite the better—rather than do something he thought would compromise himself.

Neville sighed. “Not unless I have to.”

Her head snapped up.

“This—us getting married—bought us time,” he said. “A year. We can use it to figure out a way to get you out of the blood oath or a way around the rite.”

Hope warred with wariness in her gut. “And if we don’t?”

“We will find something,” he said. “I can ask—”

“No,” she said. “No one can know.”

She wouldn’t be able to stand the pity from her friends. Not to mention the fact that Draco had barely stopped drowning himself in guilt. It would take him all of twelve seconds to put together the night she’d asked to meet with him and then hadn't actually brought anything up after he’d told her he destroyed his ring.

This was hers to carry. Not his.

Granger couldn’t keep a thing from Draco. A moment of righteous indignation and she would spill just about anyone’s secrets. One disparaging comment in Hermione’s vicinity about Pansy or her marriage from Weaselette and the whole DA would know her story by the end of the hour.

As horrible as pity from her friends would be, the judgement and mockery from Neville’s would be unbearable.

“Pansy—” Neville began.

“I said no.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

“And if we don’t find a way around the rite or blood oath?” She held his gaze, desperation churning her stomach as she waited for his response.

“Then I’ll perform the rite.”

Her knees buckled and she swallowed, gripping the dresser. Still, she had to be certain. “You will?”

“I promise.”

Chapter Text

Pansy and Neville fell into a quiet truce.

Neither of them brought up the blood oath or the rite. It wasn’t like there was any way for her to do research on either so she left it up to him and focused on her work.

Between end of year exams for Neville and all the work she had with finishing her fall line and negotiations for a storefront in Diagon Alley, they both stayed busy enough to avoid each other without seeming like they were avoiding each other.

Neville slept in the guest room and took all of his meals at the castle. It wasn’t until the Friday after they’d gotten married that she even saw him in the morning.

She nearly dropped her teacup on the ground when he emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam with only a towel around his waist.

Holy.

Fucking.

Merlin.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Forgot my robes.”

It took her several moments to compose herself. When she was finally able to stand, she walked into the bedroom to confirm what she’d just seen and was treated to the image of Neville hunched over the dresser, one hand on his towel, digging through a drawer for a pair of pants.

Neville. Fucking. Longbottom. Was. Fit.

Solid muscles rippled across his back. His sides were nothing but clean lines leading to a well-defined waist.

But his shoulders…

Broad and strong and roped with thickly corded muscles.

Watching them shift and flex with every small movement was…an experience.

He stood and arched an eyebrow. “Do you need something?”

Just to sit on those shoulders with his face between her legs to find out for herself whether or not Hannah Abbott liked to exaggerate.

“Why have you been hiding this—” She gestured to his—regrettably—half naked body. “—underneath those?” She pointed to the hideous collection of robes hanging in his closet.

He looked confused for a moment.

“How long have you been able to bounce a knut off your pectorals, Longbottom?”

His lips lifted in a hint of a smug smirk. He dropped the few items he’d grabbed onto the edge of the bed and walked over to the closet, the towel sliding down an inch or two. “Just because it took me a few years longer than most to lose my baby fat doesn’t mean I never did.”

Sweet Merlin. He had dimples above his ass.

Whatever had happened to him was a hell of a lot more than losing baby fat.

He dug through the closet while she waited for the towel to slip a little more. “Herbology is a physically demanding discipline.”

Apparent-fucking-ly. “Professor Sprout’s physique would suggest otherwise.”

He turned back with one of his hideous robes that seemed even worse now that she knew what they were covering up. “I prefer more of a hands-on style than she does.”

Hands on where, exactly? Because if he wanted to…

His smug smirk interrupted that line of thinking.

Confidence suited him.

She hated it.

Back to the matter at hand. “Have you seriously never bought new robes since fifth year?”

He sighed. “It’s hard to find robes that fit my shoulders and I need space to move my arms freely.”

She bit back her moan. He had to bring up his shoulders again, didn’t he? “You’ve never heard of a tailor?”

“I don’t mind my robes.”

Putting robes like that on a body like his should be outlawed by the International Confederation of Wizards.

Well, there went her day. She conjured a measuring tape.

Neville swatted it away. “Pansy—”

“You promised, I get to dress you for social occasions.”

He frowned. “We don’t have—”

She put the tape back to work. It whipped around him, taking all the measurements she needed. “Slytherin drinks and cards tonight.”

“That’s not an occasion—”

She frowned. “What, you thought it just meant Christmas?”

“Maybe an odd wedding here or there,” he mumbled.

“Social occasions, not special events.” Honestly. “Although, since you eat at the staff table every day, technically—”

“I pick what I wear to work,” he growled. His fierce demeanor was immediately ruined by a sharp yelp. He jumped back, knuckles turning white where he gripped his towel. “Bloody hell, Pansy!”

She smiled serenely. “Inseam.”

“Warn a man next time,” he muttered, face beet red.

He was lucky she didn’t try to measure anything else down there. The measuring tape curled up and flew to her hand. “That’ll be all, thank you!”

With another indiscernible grumble, he grabbed his hideous clothes and stomped off to the bathroom, giving her another glorious look at his back dimples.

A loud crack a minute later told her he’d disapparated directly from the bathroom.

Well, then.

Smirking to herself, she walked into said bathroom. Shopping was going to take up most of her day, but first she was going to treat herself to a very long bath.

Pansy strode into the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, several bags of shopping in either hand. She could have sent them all back to the cottage but that would defeat the purpose of her visit.

Hermione’s bright smile turned to one of horror when she saw the bags in Pansy’s hands. “No, go away.”

She pouted. “Is that any way to greet your best friend?”

Hermione perked up and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, did Harry stop by too?”

“Piss off,” she said without heat.

She laughed. “Seriously, though, I am not trying on those clothes.”

She was making this far too easy. “Hermione, I spent all morning shopping, picking out a dozen new outfits, the least you could do is—”

Her face hardened. “Absolutely not.”

She sighed. “If you’re going to be difficult about it, fine.”

Her eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion.

To be fair, Pansy had never given up a fight that easily before. “You have to make it up to me by going to lunch.” The entire reason she’d stopped by in the first place.

She rolled her eyes. “No,” she said. “I have work and Draco packed me one.”

Of course he had. “But have you eaten it yet?”

A muscle in her jaw tightened.

“If you don’t want me to tell your devotedly overbearing fiancé that as of…” She made a show checking the clock on the wall, “…almost two o clock you hadn’t eaten lunch, you will go out with me.”

“It’s barely past one thirty.”

She smiled. “Preparing for your argument tonight?”

Hermione groaned. “Pansy I am this close to getting my centaur legislation passed—”

Acquiescence had never tasted so sweet. “I can’t wait to hear all about it over lunch.”

She sighed. “One hour.”

She set down the shopping and walked over to the desk. “Yes, yes, back for the bowtruckles by three.” She found the lunch Draco had sent, grabbed a scrap piece of parchment and a quill.

“Please,” Hermione said dryly. “Help yourself.”

Tildy, Thinking about you every day. Xoxo, Pansy

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hermione muttered.

“Grab the bags, will you?” She marched across the hall to Mathilda’s office and put the lunch and note on her desk.

It wasn’t until they were in the lifts that Hermione peeked into the bags. “Seriously, how much did you—are these wizard robes?”

She smirked as the lift opened to the atrium. “Come along, glumbumbles won’t save themselves and you have a time crunch.”

Hermione stopped next to the obnoxious bronze statue of herself, Scarhead, and Weasel that was officially the longest lasting fountain to grace the Ministry of Magic atrium since 1995. “Pansy, these are all wizard robes.”

She cocked her head. “Yes, I picked up some things for Neville.”

She continued peering into the bags. “I thought it was for me.”

“Hermione.” She walked over and put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I know it can be difficult for you to remember sometimes,” She threw a pointed glance at the larger-than-life bronze statue and earned a glare in reply, “but not everything is always about you.”

“You were the one who implied—”

“You were the one who assumed.” Smirking, she marched towards the row of floo’s. “We still have to drop those off at the cottage before we can eat and get you back to save the nifflers.”

Hermione huffed as she caught up, somehow still holding onto all of the bags. “One of these days you’re going to bring up a magical creature that does need saving—”

“And when you’re successful, you can personally thank me when you win your next Order of Merlin.”

Linking arms, she called out the address of Neville’s cottage and they swept away in green flames.

She finally took the shopping back from Hermione as they popped out in Neville’s living room. Hermione looked around the room slowly, eyes examining every item.

“You’ve been here before, right?”

Hermione nodded. “Looks the exact same it always has.” There was just a hint of suspicion in her voice.

“That’s because you haven’t seen the closets,” she said. “I’m going to put these down but before I forget, there’s a book I wanted to talk to you about. It’s in the top drawer of my nightstand in the bedroom, do you mind grabbing it?”

Her face immediately brightened. “Of course!”

It was almost too easy. “Mine’s the one with the minbulus mimbletonia on top.” She walked into the guest room just in case Hermione managed to set Mimby off. As if it was an afterthought, she called after her, “I might have forgotten to unward it but if so, just go ahead and break in, I don’t mind.”

A minute later Hermione Granger marched into the guest room with her hands on her hips. “Why did you just ask me to open up a nightstand with a blood lock on it?”

Damn it. “A blood lock?” She walked past Granger to glare at the nightstand.

Mimby was sitting on it, not a quill out of place.

Of course she liked Granger. Both were bloody overbearing swots.

What the fuck was Longbottom hiding in there?

“What is going on?” Granger demanded.

Right. Pansy sighed and leaned against the door. “Oh, it’s a little game we started a while back.”

She shot her a look of disbelief.

Pansy smirked. “You know, I get into Neville’s secret drawer, he gets into my secret drawer, if you know what I mean?”

“Ew,” Hermione said.

“Out of…academic curiosity, how would someone get past a blood lock—”

“No,” she said. “I am not getting involved in whatever this is.”

She pouted.

Her friend’s eyes narrowed. “Is that why you asked me to lunch today?”

She gasped. “Hermione Granger, I am offended.” It certainly wasn’t the only reason she wanted to see her friend, just a convenient time to try to figure out what her husband was hiding. “If you cared half as much about me as you did porlocks, I wouldn’t have to be the only one to extend lunch invitations.”

“We already have plans for tonight.”

“With four other people, this is just for us.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but followed after her for the short walk to the Three Broomsticks.

“Good evening, everyone.” Pansy strode into Blaise and Theo’s card room with a extra flounce to her step.

Conversation immediately died out. She slid into the chair next to an open-mouthed Theo, generously allowing Neville the seat between her and Hermione.

Each of her friends stared at Neville like she’d shown up with a hippogriff instead of her new husband. Even Blaise arched an eyebrow, his equivalent of Theo’s slack jaw.

Neville cleared his throat. “Pansy bought me some new clothes.”

That was putting it mildly. She couldn’t remember the last time she had that much fun picking out men’s clothing. Thanks to her lunch with Granger, which only went slightly over her allotted schedule, she’d only managed to tailor two of the outfits so far but the rest wouldn’t take her long.

Tonight, Neville was in grey robes and matching grey pants with a buttoned black Oxford underneath. Between the correct size in pants and tailored robes, he looked like a completely new man, well deserving of Theo’s open mouth, Blaise’s eyebrow, and Hermione’s flushed cheeks.

“Did she sacrifice a virgin too?” Theo demanded.

Neville choked on his own spit and coughed to clear his throat.

She pouted at Theo before Longbottom gave everything away. “Didn’t you pay attention to any of our rehabilitation classes, darling?” she asked. “Dark arts are bad. Plus, tailoring is much more effective and much less morally ambiguous.”

Hermione muttered something about needing to take Hannah Abbott more seriously.

Theo continued gaping at her husband. “That’s just tailoring?”

“If his previous wardrobe hadn’t been so abysmal the effects would be less noticeable.”

Neville rolled his eyes at her.

She let out a forlorn sigh. “He made me wait until after the wedding to do any updates to his wardrobe.”

Theo sat back with a knowing smile. “This finally explains everything,” he said. “The two of you, the rushed wedding…you really aren’t pregnant, are you?”

Neville snorted.

She kicked him in the shin underneath the table. “No. Is that why it’s taken so long for someone to give me a drink?”

Blaise slid one across the table to her and another to Neville.

Pansy scooped up the cards on the table and began reshuffling.

“Hey!” Hermione said. “I was actually wining that hand!”

“No you weren’t,” Theo said.

Grinning, Draco kissed her on top of her head as she pouted.

Pansy finished dealing and Theo started the game off.

“Never thought I’d say this but apparently Longbottom is a man of hidden mysteries,” Theo said. “First Pansy’s comment last week now this…” He waved his hand at his newly-revealed physique. “But finding out you tricked Pansy into marriage by preventing her from updating your wardrobe until she did…I’m impressed.”

“Tricking someone into marriage seems more of a Slytherin trait,” Neville said.

As were passive aggressive snarky comments. She smirked at him, wondering what other surprises Longbottom had in store.

Theo gave him a small grin. “Granger, do we possibly have another Gryffindor/Slytherin hat split in your friend group?”

“Hufflepuff, actually.” Neville examined his hand as if he hadn’t just made the room fall silent for the second time that night.

Sweet Merlin. It was worse than marrying a Gryffindor. She’d married a Gryffindor who’d almost been a Hufflepuff.

Hermione smiled. “I could see that,” she said. “You’ve always been a loyal friend.”

He gave her a friendly smile in return, as if being told he was practically a Hufflepuff was a compliment. “Thanks, Hermione.” He glanced at Pansy. “You going to play?”

Wordlessly, she made her next move as she tried to process that fun piece of information.

“Perils of a quick marriage,” Theo said. “You get trapped before you find out important bits of life altering information.”

Neville grunted. “Not sure that qualifies.”

More passive aggressive snark from Longbottom? Perhaps they were more similar than they thought.

“I had a theory for a while that every Gryffindor was a hat split,” Hermione said. “That you could only be sorted into Gryffindor by choosing Gryffindor.”

“That almost makes them harder to tolerate,” Blaise drawled.

Hermione chose to ignore him. She turned to Neville. “Honestly, I’m shocked you managed to hold Pansy off this long,” she said. “She forced me into shopping within a quarter of an hour after we first reconnected after school and has been steadily replacing my wardrobe ever since.”

Pansy’s gaze flicked up. “Name one item I’ve picked out or designed for you that you haven’t liked.”

Looking flustered from not paying attention to the game, Granger made a terrible move. “That’s not the point.”

“It’s exactly the point,” she said. “Fashion isn’t supposed to be uncomfortable, it’s supposed to make you feel bold and confident and like you’re presenting the best version of yourself to the world.”

“You can do that without nice clothes,” Hermione said.

“Absolutely,” she said. “Doesn’t mean that they don’t help.”

As proven by the man sitting next to her.

He tossed down a wining hand and she blinked.

“How is he already better than me?” Hermione demanded.

Neville grinned as he stacked his galleons. “Beginner’s luck.”

What a Gryffindor. She would have let the pot get higher before she played her hand.

Draco was silent, staring at Neville’s right hand.

Neville glanced down at his ring and then back up at Draco, a small smirk tugging his lips. “Did you forget?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. There was something tense in his gaze as he studied Neville.

Hermione glanced between them. “Forget what?”

Neville held up his right hand.

She blinked. “Longbottoms are Sacred Twenty-Eight?” she asked. “But you’re…”

He started shuffling the deck. “Proud blood-traitors, yes.”

“Why wear it?” Theo asked.

“We never used to,” he said. “Obviously wasn’t destroyed right away like the Weasley and Prewett rings so when blood purists started making the Sacred Twenty-Eight out to be the glorious height of purity, my grandfather started wearing his.”

That seemed the least obvious time for a blood-traitor Gryffindor to start flaunting their status.

“Probably partly to piss them all off,” he said with a smirk, “but mostly to show that just because you happened to be a pureblood family didn’t mean you believed you were better than anyone who wasn’t.”

He started dealing. “When my father came of age and Voldemort’s first rise was starting, he started wearing it for the same reasons,” he said. “So when I turned seventeen and my gran gave it to me, I did the same.”

No one but Hermione had touched their cards.

Neville grinned. “Worth it every time either of the Carrows got a look at it seventh year.”

From the number of injuries he’d received from either twin, she couldn’t imagine it actually was.

Draco had stopped paying attention to Longbottom. Instead, he was staring at her. “Pansy,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Were you in trouble? Are you in danger?”

Neville stiffened next to her.

Fucking hell. He’d cut to it quick. Instead of answering him, she leaned over Neville to Hermione. In her most serious tone, she asked, “Hermione, are you in trouble?”

Her eyes narrowed.

She rested her hand on Neville’s chest. “My husband knows Harry Potter, we can get you help if you need it.”

Hermione’s glare sharpened. “You made your point, Pansy, we get it.”

She turned to Draco who looked properly chastised. “Doesn’t feel too fucking good, does it?”

He cleared his throat. “Apologies, Pansy.” He nodded to Neville. “Longbottom.”

Neville nodded in return. He glanced at Pansy out of the corner of his eye, a hint of a smile on his face.

She picked up her hand and shuffled her cards into order. “Now, let’s see if my husband can cheat his way to another win before I do.”

“What do you mean cheat?” Hermione demanded. “Who’s cheating?”

Theo chuckled next to her. “Brightest witch of the age, my ass,” he muttered under his breath.

Chapter Text

“Madam Pince is starting to think I’ve—blood hell, Pansy, where is all this ribbon coming from?”

She sighed as Neville tripped over yet another box of supplies. “It’s going into the fall line, just watch where you step.”

It was his fault for insisting they live in his tiny cottage. And for not allowing her to remake the guest room into her own workspace. Surely he could transfigure something into a bed each night if he was that opposed to sleeping on the couch.

One day, she’d packed everything up and brought it to Parkinson Manor so she could spread out. After an hour of jumping at every little sound and getting absolutely nothing done, she’d given it up as a lost cause.

Though small, at least the cottage had incredible light. Which came from marrying a herbologist with an unhealthy plant obsession, but it was a nice benefit.

Her storefront was set to open at the beginning of August, just after Hogwarts letters went out. The bulk of her business was custom work, but ready-made items drew in clientele. A blend of both served more witches and allowed customers to see what she had to offer.

She had three weeks left before opening and furniture was coming the next week. Prepping the space would take all the time she had, so she needed to get all of the robes done before it arrived. Even with school on summer break, Neville was at the castle every day maintaining the greenhouses or researching or whatever it was Hogwarts professors did in their free time.

“Never seen so much bloody ribbon in my life,” Neville muttered. “Going to start exploding out of every drawer next.”

She smirked. Now there was an idea. “Are you still scared of her?”

“What?”

“Madam Pince,” she said. “She’s the only person on staff you don’t call by their first name aside from Hagrid.”

“No one calls him Rubeus,” he said. “And yes, anyone in their right mind is terrified of Madam Pince. Which makes me all the more concerned about her following me around and wondering why I’m doing so much research in the restricted section.”

She didn’t look up from supervising her charmed shears cutting out her pattern. “How many herbology books are in the restricted section?”

“More than you’d think, but I’ve already read or own most of them,” he said. “I’ve been trying to find any information on how to break a blood oath.”

Her heart stuttered. She glanced up, trying not to get her hopes up. “And?”

He sat on a kitchen chair, one of the few available spaces in the room, and rubbed his face. “Nothing.”

It wasn’t surprising, but she still felt the familiar crush of disappointment.

He drew in a deep breath. She already knew she was going to hate whatever he was about to say. “If I could ask Hermi—”

“No.”

He sighed. “Pansy, you said she’s your best friend—”

The familiar shame churned her stomach. “Who can’t keep a thing from Draco.”

“If you asked her not to tell him—”

“He’s far too clever not to figure it out.” He’d come close enough five weeks ago at card night.

Neville let out a sharp huff. “You obviously were going to tell him before he blew apart his family ring.”

The irritation in his voice grated on her nerves.

“Were you really going to ask him to complete the rite?” he demanded. “Knowing how he feels about Hermione?”

Was he always going to assume the worst about her? “I didn’t know about the rite.”

“What?”

Was there anything more humiliating than having to explain this all to him? “My family has more than one,” she said. “I thought the blood rite my father performed on me was a baby was it. Apparently it was just step one.”

Fucking bastard. She should have known better.

“I knew I had to be a virgin if I wanted to choose my own husband—provided he was Sacred Twenty Eight—and that I’d have to lose my virginity for the marriage to be considered valid.”

Or to invoke the succession clause.

“I thought anyone could do it and that would be it,” she said. “I didn’t know there was another rite.”

“What do you mean you didn’t know?” he demanded. “You took a blood oath without even knowing what you were agreeing to?”

The condescension in his tone made something inside her snap. “You think my father or the Dark Lord gave me a chance to ask questions when I was presented to him like a prized breeding bitch being put up for auction?” she spat.

Neville reared back.

“What do you think that room full of men—the Dark Lord’s closest supporters—would have done to me if I’d so much as hesitated?” she demanded. “That oath protected me that entire year, bought me time until I was married off.”

If she gave away her virginity, she lost any ability to select her husband—Sacred Twenty-Eight or not—and her father got to decide if he would disown her or sell her off despite becoming used goods.

If she was raped, she was allowed to disinherit and free herself from it all.

Incentive for her father or guardian to go to any lengths to protect her purity.

Because that’s what it always came down to for them.

Purity.

“If the Dark Lord won, my fate wouldn’t have been any different anyway.” Not with her father’s plans. “If he lost, I didn’t think there would be anyone left to enforce it.”

Shock gave way to condescension in his expression again. “Blood oaths enforce themselves—”

“I’m not Hermione Granger, but I’m not an idiot,” she snapped. “I vowed to uphold my family’s will so far as my father or guardian instructed, not to uphold the will myself.”

When Potter triumphed over the Dark Lord and her father died in the final battle, she had thought she was free. With her father dead, all she had to do was remain a virgin until she was twenty-five. If still unmarried at that age—too decrepit to be worthy of a pureblooded match—she’d be automatically disowned from the family.

Not the threat it seemed when it meant her magic would be safe and she could fuck or marry whoever the hell she wanted. Her life and her magic would be her own.

“If that fucking solicitor hadn’t found Ivan…”

But he had, and here they were.

If she hadn’t been worried that any interference on her part would have negated that clause, she would have been tempted to try to manipulate Petro—or anyone—into forcing her.

One time was better than being married to a man who could rape her whenever he wanted.

But she didn’t know how the magic worked and that sort of Slytherin pragmatism came too close to choosing to give it away and so she was left with nothing.

Nothing but the choice between a blood oath that would strip her of her magic or a marriage rite her husband refused to perform.

“Not all of us can pull swords out of hats whenever we need them, Longbottom.”

There was no response as she stared at the mess in their living room. With a wave of her wand, she halted all production and swept it into a box.

“There,” she said. “Wouldn’t want you to worry about tripping on ribbon again.”

Without another word, she turned and stormed from the house.

Despite the late hour, when she finally returned to the little cottage, all the lights were still on. Neville was sitting at the table, several prepared dishes untouched in front of him.

“I made dinner,” he said, removing the stasis charms from the table.

She dropped into her seat with a flippant grin. “Well, that finally answers the question of which sob story to tell whenever I get hungry.”

He frowned. “Pansy, you have to start taking this seriously—”

This again. “From what I understand, this dinner was supposed to be you apologizing for accusing me of not taking this seriously,” she said. “Don’t ruin it for yourself now, Longbottom.”

His face twisted with frustration. Irritation. Some sort of displeasure with her. “You’re not doing anything to find a way out of the blood oath—”

“Because there is no way out of a blood oath,” she snapped. “You’re the one rejecting the obvious solution here.”

Rejecting her.

“I’m not going to beg you to fuck me, Longbottom.”

His nostrils flared.

She turned back to her meal, blindly stabbing at whatever he’d made.

“I’m not giving up, Pansy.”

Right. Because of his morals.

Fucking Gryffindors.

There was only so much rejection a witch could take. She pushed back her plate. “I’m going to bed.”

“Pansy—”

“Goodnight, Longbottom.”

After their conversation, Neville went from avoiding her to trying to be nice. Making her cups of tea. Preparing meals. Buying her a not-inexpensive bottle of wine. Pulling out chairs and opening doors and all that sickening Gryffindor chivalry. Asking about her line, offering to help set up the storefront.

It was all so disgustingly Hufflepuff.

Whether it was out of pity or to assuage his guilt, she wanted nothing to do with it.

The tea he made ended up spilled on the guest bed where he slept each night. Breakfast was casually left just in the reach of a carnivorous plant, drawing its attention to the even more delicious plant the next pot over. The bottle of wine fell off the counter and shattered on the floor. Chairs and stoops tripped Longbottom as soon as she walked past after he tried to help her.

It was petty and childish and vindictive.

She loved every minute of it.

Watching his frustration grow, then his noble attempts to suppress it. Over and over all week long until he was about to burst.

When she finished her line on Friday morning, she decided to treat herself to a little celebration.

Neville came home for lunch just as she was sitting down enjoying a cup of tea.

“Let me change and then I can make us something for lunch.”

She gave him a smile. “Sounds lovely.”

He paused, glancing back at her with a hint of a grin. There was a new spark in his eye, a sense of relieved hope. That maybe, just maybe, his constant irritating attempts to smother her were starting to work.

A Slytherin would have seen it for the warning it was.

Longbottom might have lost the baby fat, but not an ounce of his naïveté.

He disappeared into the room with an almost-bounce to his steps.

Poor fool.

Moments later, she heard a soft pop and his startled yelp. The sound of fluttering ceased and was immediately followed by another pop and this time a growl of frustration.

It repeated two more times.

She pressed her lips together as she heard him stomp across the room and slam the closet doors open, followed by the loudest pop of all.

“Bloody hell, Pansy, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Neville stood in the door to the bedroom, panting and glaring.

There were still scraps of ribbon in his hair.

It took everything in her not to burst out laughing at the sight. “Oh, did my ribbon get in your way again?”

“I’m done trying to be nice,” he seethed, storming to the kitchen. “Make your own damn lunch.”

This. This was what she’d needed all week long. All month long. Since the day Ivan showed up. To get back a sense of power, a sense of control.

If it involved lightly tormenting someone, all the better.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Whatever will I do without your mediocre sandwiches each day?”

Practically snarling, he yanked open one of the kitchen cabinets.

His only warning was a soft pop, and then an explosion of colorful ribbon burst forth, showering him with bright satin strands.

The look of dumbfounded rage was what finally made her break. She burst into laughter, doubling over and nearly crying with mirth.

Neville swatted at the strands, trying to knock them off his hair.

The number of scraps left sent her into peals of laughter again.

“You are suck a fucking brat!” He slammed the door shut. “I can’t believe no one’s ever taken you over their knee and—” He froze.

All the laughter died as a new energy filled the room.

Neville flushed red and his nostrils flared.

Her head cocked to the side.

She’d seen him do that before. Knew it was one of his tells, but always assumed it was one of irritation.

Which was perhaps also true, but when she thought about what she’d said those times she saw it before…

Pansy Parkinson on her knees, begging you

Mmmm, kinky

Yes, sir

A slow smile spread across her face. It was always the ones you least expected, wasn’t it?

Setting her tea down, she rose and sauntered over to where he still stood.

“Would you like that?” she asked. “Taking a bratty little witch over your knee and…”

He remained perfectly still, but she caught it.

The nostril flare.

She laughed. “You would!” She smirked. “Who would believe it? Neville Longbottom, Order of Merlin First Class and hero of the Battle of Hogwarts, gets off by spanking women.”

Fast and smooth as a chimera, he moved, pinning her up against the kitchen wall without even touching her.

His hands bracketed her head, palms pressed flat against the wall. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bulged even beneath those terrible robes.

Her heart thundered inside her chest.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The slow smile that spread across his face was nothing short of predatory.

Her mouth went dry.

Pressing against the wall, she tried to get space but he was too close, breathing down on her, overwhelming her senses with his scent, the sharp gleam in his eye.

Leaning down, his lips almost brushed her ear. “Oh, Princess,” he breathed, his voice a low, smooth near-growl. “It makes me harder than you could ever possibly imagine.”

Without the wall behind her, her knees would have given out. She locked them, forcing herself to stay upright and not let the soft whimper in the back of her throat escape.

Holding her gaze, he moved one of his hands off the wall.

There was space now, to run or flee, but his stare pinned her in place.

Neville’s smirk spread. “The question, Princess, isn’t what the thought of you over my knee does to me.”

Ever so carefully, without touching any part of her leg, his hand reached down to where her robe hung against her thigh. Bunching it in his hand, she could feel the slow drag of the hem over her ankle, up her calf.

Her breath hitched.

“It’s what it does to you.”

Her robe rose with agonizing slowness.

“If I were to slip my hand between your thighs, what would I find?”

Fucking Merlin.

He hadn’t even touched her yet and she was already on the edge. A brush or two of his fingers and she’d tip right over.

“How wet does Pansy Parkinson get at the thought of Neville Longbottom spanking her arse red?”

He threw out their names, as if he knew the taunt, intending to humiliate, would only make her hotter.

Biting back her whimper, she pressed her lips shut, refusing to answer. Refusing to admit how badly her body craved his.

“Answer the question, Princess,” he said, his silky voice sharpening into a command.

She wouldn’t.

Couldn’t.

Her robe stopped its upward slide, just over her knees. “But, before you do, just know that if you lie to me, there will be consequences.”

That thought sent a hundred different images through her mind, each one more delicious than the last and she shuddered.

Fuck it.

She met him square in the eyes. “No.”

He arched an eyebrow, but his gaze sparked like that was the exact answer he had expected. “No you won’t answer the question?”

“No, you don’t make me wet.” She threw the lie out like the gauntlet it was.

His gaze darkened. “How disappointing.”

She was practically trembling beneath him, waiting with baited breath to see what he was going to do. Yank her robe up the rest of the way. Find out exactly how much she was lying. Bend her over the kitchen table for some of those consequences.

Instead of any of that, he pulled away so quickly she almost lost her balance. He adjusted the sleeves of his robe, looking entirely unaffected. “My mistake.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

“I’ve got some grafts to check on in greenhouse three,” he said. “I’ll be back in time to get ready for Theo’s tonight.”

Was he seriously just going to leave? With her trembling, panting, practically salivating with need?

The slightest hint of a smirk came to his expression. “Hope you can find some way to enjoy yourself while I’m gone.”

With a CRACK he disapparated, leaving her stunned, alone, and wanting.

Neville.

Fucking.

Longbottom.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Neville returned that evening as if nothing had happened over lunch. If it hadn’t been for the hint of smugness as he greeted her, she might have been able to continue to pretended it hadn’t.

Then he came out of the bedroom, dressed in one of the new sets of robes she’d picked out for him. Navy blue, crisp, perfectly fitted to his frame with a powder blue shirt underneath.

Fuck.

Why had she bought him new clothes? Somehow, Neville Longbottom had broken out of the little box she’d kept him in and…

Complicated things.

It didn’t help that it was the first time she hadn’t had to fight him on not wearing his old clothes, he’d picked them out all on his own. And the way they brought out the blue in his eyes…

She’d never before wanted to get on her knees so quickly for a man in her entire life.

Fuck. She was so fucking fucked.

He held out his palm. “Help with my cufflinks?”

Swallowing, she rose and walked over, pretending to be as unaffected as he was. Rather than holding his arms out, he bent his arm at the elbow and twisted it up so her hands were inches from his mouth. They were almost as close as they’d been that morning when he’d had her pressed up against the kitchen wall.

“Nice shoes,” he said.

Five inches. She needed every single one that night for both the physical and emotional boost. Neville was still taller than her, but he seemed to tower over her more than normal.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you.” She started working on the first one.

“Did you enjoy your afternoon?”

Never, ever had her own fingers left her so unsatisfied. Pretending it had nothing to do with the encounter with Neville probably hadn’t helped.

“Just took some time to relax.”

His throat made a low sound of approval. “Wish I could have joined you.”

Of course he did. She started working on the second link.

“Where did you do this relaxing?”

Her eyes flicked up, pausing in her task. Fine. He wanted to play, she could play. “Your bed.”

His nostrils flared.

She finished the cufflink. “Done.”

He smiled down at her. “Good girl.”

The praise slid down her back like warm honey and coiled in her core.

Fuck.

He was Neville Fucking Longbottom. He shouldn’t be able to affect her like this. Shouldn’t be able to make her feel that way with two little words.

And yet…if she let herself, she would do almost anything to hear him say those words to her again.

From the smug smile on his face, he knew it. “Want to come?”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“To Theo’s,” he said, smirk spreading. “Ready to go?”

Arsehole. She hated this side of him. Of herself. That he could completely undo her with so few words.

That he now knew it.

“Don’t—” She broke off. She hated being vulnerable. He already knew too much. Was she really going to give him more?
Neville’s eyebrow rose.

Fuck it. “Don’t do…that around them.” She cleared her throat. “Around anyone.”

His head dropped, closing the gap between them so his lips almost brushed hers. “Princess,” he said, voice lower than normal. The way the nickname rolled off his lips made her clench her thighs together. “I thought I already made it very clear that I do not like to share.”

The intensity in his gaze burned straight through her. She wanted to be fucking devoured by him.

Instead, clinging to her pride, she stepped around him towards the fireplace. This time, he stepped into the floo with her, crowding into her personal space.

She moved away from him as soon as they arrived in an effort to regain her composure and strutted into the game room.

Everyone else was already there. She accepted her drink from Blaise and sat down in her usual spot next to Theo.

He watched her and Neville through narrowed eyes. “There’s a weird energy between you two tonight.”

Oh, fuck. No matter what Neville had said, Theo was a niffler when it came to gossip.

“Pansy finished her fall line today and decided to charm all the drawers in our home to explode ribbons in my face whenever I open them,” Neville said. “Apparently I complained one too many times about not being able to walk across my living room.”

Hermione shot her a disapproving look but the rest of her friends smirked.

“Then why is Pansy the one who seems irritated?” Theo asked, eyes dancing.

Neville took a careful sip of his drink in a vain attempt to cover his smug smirk. “She didn’t get the reaction she was hoping for.” He glanced at her with a secret smile. “It was an impressive bit of magic though.”

She rolled her eyes and took a long drink to hide how his compliment made her feel. No one had ever called one of her spells impressive before.

“Ah,” Theo said. “Domestic bliss at work before our eyes.”

“Speaking of…” Draco began.

Hermione beamed. “Draco and I just bought a house.”

There was a round of congratulations and Blaise brought out one of his special bottles of sparkling wine. Italian, obviously, but delicious in spite of it.

The new Granger-Malfoy residence was a townhome, within walking distance of the old Black Townhome that Sirius Black had left to Potter. If Draco felt anything about living so close to his old school nemesis in the townhome that should have rightfully been his, he said nothing about it.

“Property’s always a good investment,” Blaise said.

Draco gave him a rueful smile. “Thanks for your advice the past few months as we’ve worked though…”

“Your newfound poverty?” Theo asked with a falsely sympathetic sigh.

“Should have patented that potion instead of giving it away for free like I recommended two years ago,” Blaise said.

“That was never an option,” Draco said, voice tight.

Hermione reached over and squeezed his hand, her eyes bright with pride.

Gryffinors. Gag her.

“It was generous of Lucy to leave you all those muggle investments you made,” Theo said.

Hermione smirked. “Wouldn’t it be just terrible to have the Malfoy fortune tainted with money made from muggles?”

Theo snorted. “You mean the family that argued against the Statue of Secrecy because they made their fortune from muggles?”

“Solid investments are solid investments.” Blaise turned his full attention to Draco. “Have you given any further thought to the other ideas I sent?”

“Ugh,” Theo groaned. “Nouveau riché are so gauche.”

“I’m a penniless blood traitor now,” Draco said with a hint of pride.

“You’re hardly penniless,” Hermione said. “We have more than enough to be quite comfortable.”

Draco cringed.

Neville smirked and he held up his drink to Draco. “Cheers to ‘quite comfortable’ blood traitors, then.”

From the heir to the wealthiest wizarding family in Britain to similar status as the Longbottoms. For a moment, she watched all that flicker across Draco’s face before he lifted his drink and tapped his glass against Neville’s, looking like he’d swallowed something sour but was pretending it wasn’t.

“Cheers.”

Pansy caught Hermione’s eye and they both had to immediately look away before they burst out laughing.

“So you’re really going to live in town?” Theo asked. “Where will you keep the peacocks?”

“There will be no peacocks,” Hermione said primly.

“Ah,” he said. “Had to choose between house elves and peacocks? It’s a shame but absolutely the right one.”

For perhaps the first time in her life, Hermione did not start a lecture on elf rights or the wrongness of slavery.

Instead, she turned bright red.

With the biggest shit-eating grin she’d ever seen from Draco Malfoy—which was saying something—he leaned back in his chair. “Moppy?” he called.

There was a loud crack, followed by the most peculiar sight Pansy had ever seen in Blaise's card room, and to be honest, that was saying something.

A tiny house elf wearing the oddest assortment of clothes beamed at them. A half dozen hand-knit stocking caps stacked on top of her head. Her dress looked the correct size but the purple silk blouse worn on top of it would have fit a grown woman. The ensemble was topped off with mismatched socks, one rainbow stripes and the other lime green and purple argyle.

“Hello, Master Draco!” the elf said cheerfully. “Is Mistress Granger needing her Moppy?”

A strangled sort of laugh sounded next to her from Neville. “Mistress Granger?”

Theo looked like he could hardly believe himself either. “And Master Draco?”

House elves would only refer to the head of the household as “Master” or “Mistress” and sometimes their last name. The rest of the family was referred to as their first name, the “Master” or “Mistress” used out of respect to their relation to the head of household.

Meaning this elf saw Hermione as the true authority and only responded to Draco out of respect to her.

Hermione dropped her head into her hands.

“Oh, yes, sirs,” Moppy said. “Moppy was taking care of the Malfoy family when Mistress Granger and the ministry wizards come to make them give us clothes.”

A condition of Lucius’s house arrest, insisted upon by Granger herself.

“The master and mistress was not wanting to give us clothes, no sirs,” she said. “But Moppy and my brother and sister, we are good elves. So we stay taking care of the Malfoy family. Then Mistress Granger, she was coming each month, checking to see that we was not being given too many punishments and to tell us we are free elves now.”

“No punishments,” Hermione said from behind her hands. “You shouldn’t have been getting any punishments.”

Draco covered his mouth with his hand even as his shoulders shook with repressed laughter.

“Moppy is liking Mistress Granger,” Moppy continued. “Master Draco is liking Mistress Granger even more than Moppy.”

Theo looked like he could barely hold in the laughter. “Does Master Draco call her Mistress Granger as well?”

“Mistress Granger is liking us to call her—Hermione—sir,” she said with a hushed reverence. “Master Draco does but Moppy is a good elf, sirs, always being respectful.”

Theo’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“Master Draco is always being nice to Moppy,” she said. “When the Dark Lord was living at the house and Mistress Bella was liking to hurt us—”

Next to her, she felt Neville stiffen at mention of Bellatrix Lestrange. A little bit of her humor died as well.

“—Master Draco told Moppy he could be giving her clothes so Moppy could leave, but Moppy is a good elf and Moppy is not leaving her Master Draco,” Moppy continued.

Still with her head in her hands, Hermione collapsed into Draco’s side, as if she’d already heard this story and it was still too much. He put his arm around her and patted her on the shoulder.

“Then, the Malfoys is saying mean things about Mistress Granger,” Moppy said. “They is calling her mean and nasty names and Moppy is not liking this and neither is Master Draco.”

Still clutching Hermione, Draco’s face hardened.

Moppy leaned forward. “They is even calling Master Draco the worst name of all, sirs,” she said in an exaggerated whisper.

She never would have asked Draco, but had wondered if his father had ever thrown that name at him.

Mudfucker.

She’d heard Lucius and her father use it countless times, but to hear it used against her friend—both her friends—made her stomach roll.

Moppy continued on, ignorant of the hush in the room. “So, Master Draco says he is leaving the Malfoy family and Moppy is sad until she remembers that Mistress Granger is saying that Moppy is a free elf! Moppy can pick her family and Moppy has chosen Mistress Granger and Master Draco!”

Hermione turned back to the elf. “Moppy, you are a free elf,” she said, a tinge of desperation in her voice. “You don’t need a family anymore, you can do whatever you want—”

The elf nodded frantically. “Moppy is wanting you and Master Draco for my family!”

“Moppy—”

“Thank you for your help, Moppy, we appreciate you,” Draco said with the steady authority of someone raised to manor life.

She nodded eagerly. “Moppy is finishing putting Mistress Granger’s new books away!”

With a loud crack, she disappeared.

Draco looked like he was barely holding back his laughter.

Theo shook his head. “So you campaign for almost ten years to free house elves, and now you have one stocking your books? Hermione Granger,” he shook his head. “What self-serving hypocrisy. I have never been so proud.”

She had a crazed, desperate look to her eyes. “I don’t have her stocking my books, I keep trying to free her—”

“Hasn’t stopped knitting hats since Moppy showed up in her kitchen one morning,” Draco said, laughing.

Hermione rounded on him. “This isn’t funny, I could lose my reputation and personal credibility—”

He rolled his eyes. “If getting engaged to the youngest Death Eater ever didn’t damage either of those, you can’t expect having a freed house elf is going to either.”

She continued as if she hadn’t heard him, “—or worse, my job.”

“Interesting priorities,” Theo said.

Neville let out a bark of laughter.

“She even went so far as to literally give Moppy the shirt off her back, thinking that would work,” Draco said.

Pansy gasped. “I thought I recognized that blouse! I gave it to you.”

“And Moppy keeps insisting that she is a free elf and a free elf gets to pick her family,” Draco said.

Theo was laughing now too. “Seems logical to me.”

“Hermione now pays Moppy a weekly wage,” Draco said, “and Moppy has taken every Knut she’s received directly to Flourish and Blotts to purchase books for Hermione because, and I quote, ‘It is making Mistress Granger so happy.’”

Hermione groaned.

“How have the selections been?” Theo asked.

“Any book she can find on Hermione, Potter, or Weasel,” Draco said.

Neville had now completely given over to laughter, doubling over as his entire body shook. “Does Ron—”

“No!” Hermione rounded on him, pointing her finger. “None of them know, and none of them will know!”

“I find it interesting that someone with such strong beliefs about the rights of house elves is the only one trying to force Moppy into stopping exactly what she wants to do,” Draco said.

Hermione’s finger flew to point at him. “You just don’t think you can live without a house-elf.”

“Moppy and I are both very happy with our current arrangement, it’s you who is objecting,” he said. “She’s free, she’s paid a wage, and she’s treated like a member of the family, it’s literally everything you wanted for house-elves.”

Hermione dropped her head onto the table with another groan.

“Does this mean the vomit club is formally disbanded?” Pansy asked.

“It’s the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare,” Neville corrected. He turned to Hermione. “And I, for one, would like to request the return of my two sickles.”

Without lifting her head, she tossed two at him across the betting table.

Pansy grinned at him. “You actually joined the club?”

“To get her to stop asking,” he said. “Apparently I’m not as resistant to Hermione’s tenacity as Moppy the House Elf.”

Draco smirked. “Few among us are.”

The next two weeks were busy.

Entirely because she took possession of her new storefront and it was going to take the full two weeks to make sure everything was set up exactly as she wanted so she could open on time.

Not busy because she was avoiding Neville.

Avoiding his long, lingering looks and the hint of a smug smirk as he watched her, as if he knew a secret.

Which he did.

And it would stay that way.

Their situation was complicated enough without bringing…that into it.

It made no sense. He had no problem admitting how much he wanted to spank her—Merlin, she couldn’t think about it without blushing—but he refused to fuck her. He’d refused to spank her too, actually.

She didn’t understand it. Hated that she didn’t understand it. She wanted to know but refused to be the first one to bring it up and so…

She stayed busy.

Finally, after two long weeks of work—breaking only for Slytherin night on Friday—everything was ready. All that was left was to bring in the outfits and accessories, make finishing touches over the weekend, and she’d be ready to open on Monday.

She rounded the winding loop of Diagon Alley and stopped in her tracks.

It was her store, and yet…it wasn’t.

The big beautiful windows she loved so much, the ones she polished to a shine right before she left for the night, were shattered on the ground.

The tasteful sitting area with cream colored couches had been destroyed, upholstery shredded and stuffing exploded all over the area.

Mirrors were shattered.

Doors ripped off the changing rooms.

Shelves were broken, the few decorative pieces crushed into the wood floor.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

KEEP DIAGON ALLEY DEATH EATER FREE

Painted in bright red paint right above what remained of her windows.

Before she had a chance to fully process what she was seeing, the crack of apparation sounded directly next to her.

“Oh, shite, Pansy.”

She knew that voice. Somewhere, in the back of her mind she knew she recognized it and yet…

DEATH EATER

“I came as soon as I got the call,” the voice rambled on. “I was hoping we could get it cleaned up before you saw.”

Before she saw? This would take days.

“Bloody hell, let me get ‘Mione.” There was a muttered incantation and a flash of bright silver.

Draco hated that he called her that.

It was such an inconsequential thought compared to the destruction in front of her, and yet it was all she could think about.

How irritated Draco got when he heard Harry Potter use Hermione’s nickname.

DEATH EATER

Shite. Draco couldn’t see this either. If Hermione saw it and told him—

But before she could so much as turn, her friend was there, brown eyes shining with concern.

She hadn’t even heard her apparate.

It was hard to hear anything over the ringing in her ears.

Gentle hands touched the top of her shoulders, rubbed her arms. “Come on, Pansy, let’s go to the Leaky for some breakfast.”

A shutter snapped and there was a bright flash and a cloud of purple smoke.

“Fuckers,” Harry muttered under his breath. He raised his voice, taking on his official auror tone. “This is an active crime scene, no journalists!”

“Auror Potter, should law abiding store owners be concerned about the attention former Death Eaters will bring and be concerned for their safety and livelihoods?”

She closed her eyes. Former Death Eater.

“Will Ms. Parkinson’s business license be revoked?”

Her stomach clenched. They couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Hermione wouldn’t let that happen, at least.

“Ms. Parkinson has as much right as any witch or wizard to lease or own property along this street,” Harry snapped.

Through the small bubble of relief, she realized what else had seemed so wrong about what the journalist said. “Mrs. Longbottom.”

Hermione turned to her. “What?”

“It’s Mrs. Longbottom,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not Ms. Parkinson.”

Hermione’s head whipped towards the journalists. “And that’s Mrs. Longbottom to you all!”

“Bollocks, sorry, Pansy,” Harry said.

“Harry, you have to make a statement,” Hermione said.

He let out a sharp huff and marched over to the journalists.

Hermione spoke two quick incantations, sending off two silver otters.

A small piece of stuffing fluttered back and forth in the now door-less entryway, light enough that it'd managed to drift from the pile of destroyed seating but too heavy for the wind to carry it completely away.

“The Department of Magical Law Enforcement will be conducting a thorough investigation into the perpetrator of these crimes against Mrs. Longbottom,” Harry said. “Any law abiding business owner on this street, like Mrs. Longbottom, can be assured that our aurors will not tolerate this behavior and will see justice served. As this is an ongoing investigation, there will be no other comments at this time. No photographs.”

The journalist continued calling out questions but Harry ignored her.

There were more cracks as additional aurors arrived on the scene. One of them took one look at Harry and ran to do crowd control herself.

“You okay, Pans?”

She glanced up into familiar grey eyes, filled with concern. Hers immediately started filling with tears but she blinked back the burning.

How long had Draco had stared at the scene? How long did those flashing cruel words blink down at him?

“Chin up,” he said, soft enough only she could hear.

Never let them see her cry.

It was enough to straighten her spine, swallow back the tears.

He nodded once at her, pride in his gaze.

He knew this—so much worse than she ever would. If he could endure all he had, she could too.

“We’re going to go to the Leaky while Harry and the crew gets everything fixed up,” Hermione told him.

Before Draco had a chance to answer, there was another crack and Neville appeared. Still wearing a dirt-stained apron and smelling of peat, he gaped for a moment at the scene and then found her.

He sprinted over, grabbing her arms. “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

“No.” Not physically.

He must have seen it in her face. His expression hardened.

“Harry got here less than a minute after she did,” Hermione said. “George put in the call when he came to open up and saw what happened.”

George Weasley reported a crime against her.

She hadn’t known it was him. Maybe someone had told her and she just hadn’t heard. They kept talking as she stood there, staring at the mess that was the store she’d been so proud of only minutes before.

Neville squeezed her hands. “I’m gonna talk to Harry, I’ll meet you at the Leaky in a bit, okay?”

Smiles were beyond her, but she forced her expression in what she hoped was at least a pleasant look and nodded.

Numb.

Everything was just, numb.

More and more owners were arriving for the day. Some gave her looks of pity. Others were stoic.

How many were happy? How many believed she deserved this?

DEATH EATER

Just like that, she was back at her trial. Sitting in front of the Wizengamont, hearing Harry Potter’s huff of disgust as he stormed out of the chambers before she was given a chance to speak in her defense.

Not that it would have mattered in the end, anyway.

They saw what they wanted to see. Always had, always would.

A warm mug of coffee was pushed into her hands. She glanced up and realized they were already in the Leaky.

“Thanks, Hannah,” Hermione said.

The pretty blonde witch gave her a smile. When she looked back at Pansy, it dimmed.

Right. Hannah Abbott. Hufflepuff, their year. Neville’s ex.

Whose muggleborn mother had been murdered by Death Eaters sixth year.

“I’m sorry about what happened to your store.”

Pansy blinked, but Hannah seemed sincere. Not that she had any right to be. Words were beyond her, but she nodded her thanks.

“Let me know if you three need anything else.”

“Thanks, Hannah,” Hermione said.

Pansy stared at the steaming brown liquid in her mug.

“I’ve seen the auror team at work, they’re brilliant,” Hermione said, filling the silence with nervous chatter as Hannah walked back to the bar. “With the number of them there, I’d say they’ll have everything fixed and in top shape by noon. Then we can increase the protective enchantments—”

“We’ll let Theo do it,” Draco said.

No one was better at ward-building than Theo.

“Unless Pansy wants someone to walk around with ‘VANDAL’ written across their face in painful boils for the next year,” he added.

At the reminder of what Hermione had done to Marietta Edgecombe, something between a laugh and a snort burst through her mouth.

Hermione looked concerned, but Draco grinned.

“Oh, Merlin.” More laughter started to bubble up. “Do you remember the balaclava? She wore it the rest of fifth year.”

Hermione’s lips pressed together.

Pansy couldn’t stop. “And when it was still their sixth year and not even all that makeup could cover up SNEAK?” She laughed again.

Hermione cleared her throat. “I might have been a bit…overzealous.”

“You?” Draco gasped with mock disbelief.

Pansy fingered her mug as the two fell into their familiar playful banter.

If Draco could smile and laugh minutes after a reminder of what their world really thought of them, she could do it too.

What better way to show those sanctimonious, hypocritical fuckers she wasn’t going anywhere?

The store would be fixed, Theo and Hermione would ward it so no one could so much as spit in its direction, and she’d open on Monday morning as planned.

Half an hour later, on her way back from the loo, Potter’s raised voice stopped her in her tracks just outside the Leaky.

“I don’t give a fuck that he wasn’t the one who did it, knowing she was a target and not only ignoring it but skipping rounds is as good as!”

“It’s Cresswell,” an unfamiliar voice said. “After what happened to his dad, you of all people should understand—”

“Then he can blame Runcorn or Scabior or Greyback, all of whom are either dead or in Azkaban like they deserve, not an innocent woman just because her father served Voldemort—”

Innocent? From Harry Fucking Potter?

Obviously sharing her shock, the other person scoffed. “First time I’ve ever hear Pansy Parkinson described as innocent,” he said. “I may not have been in your year—”

“Longbottom.”

“What?”

“It’s Pansy Longbottom,” Harry said, his voice cold. “Neville’s wife. Who, I would like to remind you, deserves as much credit as me or Ron or Hermione for defeating Voldemort.”

“I’ve never said a word against Neville—”

“You can’t claim you respect him if you disrespect his wife,” Harry snapped.

Well. There they were again, associating her worth with the men she was attached to. How disappointing from the Chosen One.

“We’ll find who did this and hold them responsible.”

“Cresswell should be fired—”

“He’s lost enough, I reckon,” the other man said quietly.

“So have I, and I’m not turning my back while innocent women are attacked.”

Perhaps he could throw that word around in his office a time or two. Surely Saint Scarhead Potter calling her innocent counted as a full pardon?

So this was the new society they were trying to create. One where aurors sat back and watched while anyone associated with Death Eaters was targeted.

She strode away, walking back towards Draco and Hermione.

Another conversation—one she unfortunately couldn’t hear—made her pause.

Neville, standing at the bar, talking with Hannah.

She couldn’t see his face from this angle, but she could see hers.

Ripe with emotion. Sadness, regret…longing.

She remembered the way he’d dragged his hands through his hair. “I always thought Hannah and I would eventually work things out. I just…”

Feeling like a voyeur, she walked back to the table. Hermione and Draco kept glancing between her and the couple at the bar. Draco looked concerned but Hermione was looking at her like an arithmancy problem.

She sat, curling her hands around the now-lukewarm mug of coffee.

“I don’t think they’ve seen each other since they broke up,” Hermione said. “I think the wedding came as a…surprise to her.”

She flashed her friend a flippant grin. “You say that like there was someone the wedding didn’t come as a surprise to.”

Draco snorted. Hermione only hummed, tapping her lower lip with her finger as she studied Pansy.

She was saved from further scrutiny from her two best friends by the arrival of the Chosen One.

Neville extracted himself from the bar and followed Potter over to their table. He took the seat next to her, immediately pulling one of her hands into his. She looked down at it for a moment, how neatly her fingers intertwined with his.

The screech of a chair drug her eyes up as Potter pulled a chair up to the booth.

“What do you know?” Neville asked.

“I brought in a couple members from the curse-breaker team and they’ve been over every inch of the shop but it appears to be just simple vandalism.”

Simple vandalism.

As if her shop being destroyed and her being threatened was nothing.

Not that she’d prefer to have the place cursed and jinxed, but hearing Potter put such a simple spin on it stung.

“Any leads on the perpetrator?” Neville asked.

Potter hesitated.

Here’s where he lied, protected his colleague who could have stopped this.

“Yes,” he said. “Our office received a tip about the attack. We’re following up on the note now.”

Hermione straightened. “Someone who knew who did it?”

Potter inhaled slowly. “From the vandal, warning whoever was on duty not to be present on the street at the time of the attack.”

There was a long, heated silence.

“Who?” Neville demanded, his voice low.

“Cresswell,” Potter said. “My assumption is that the vandal chose him because of his…family history with…”

“Death eaters,” Pansy said. The Chosen One had no problem using the Dark Lord’s name but he couldn’t say “Death Eater” in front of her or Draco?

Potter sighed. “Which isn’t you, Pansy.”

“The new paint above my shop would suggest otherwise.”

Neville squeezed her hand.

“Was Cresswell fired?” Hermione asked.

Potter tugged his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose before he replaced them. “Two week suspension,” he said. “With pay.”

Draco snorted lightly.

Hermione looked appalled.

“He lets Pansy’s shop get destroyed and he gets a two week vacation?” Neville snapped.

Draco gave him a look of pure condescension.

“Robards made the call, it’s above my head.” Potter turned to her. “I will find whoever did this. I promise.”

He would probably try his best. Until someone committed a crime against a Gryffindor or Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff and that took priority. Not just aurors looking the other way.

“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione said softly.

“I’ll keep you updated.” Harry lingered for a moment longer before he rose and walked away.

“That…that’s not right,” Neville said. “Cresswell can’t get away with that, he…”

“I am afraid that he very much can,” Draco said. “Something you should prepare yourself to continue to see happen.”

Hermione reached over and rested her hand on Draco’s.

The two war heroes…and their Slytherin partners.

“There are anti-discrimination laws in place,” Neville said. “Everyone who willingly served Voldemort is in Azkaban for life, anyone left has done their time or is innocent.”

She could feel Draco’s eyes heavy on her. She didn’t meet them, couldn’t answer the question in them.

Of course she hadn’t told Neville. Nor would she.

“It’s…we’re trying,” Hermione said. “It will…it will just take time.”

Endless optimism. Important when camping out for months on end, trying to defeat the darkest wizard of the age with minimal resources.

But watching it be crushed over and over again every time Draco was treated as lesser was taking its toll even on Granger's relentless tenacity.

If there was no hope for the future husband of Hermione Granger…what was there for Pansy Parkinson?

Chapter Text

“Well, let’s get the unpleasant business out of the way first,” Augusta said in a way of greeting.

Since the wedding, they’d only seen her at their weekly afternoon teas with Frank and Alice. She leveled a stern stare at Pansy across the too-bright hallway of St. Mungo’s.

She braced herself, preparing for a lecture on how she’d shamed the Longbottom name.

The Daily Prophet certainly believed so.

Vengeance in Diagon Alley: Pansy Parkinson-Longbottom Store Vandalized

Front page. A number of pictures of the store, the warning in red paint flashing above the store, Potter waving off the journalists.

Her standing stoically, staring at the mess.

The article was even less complimentary than the headline.

“I’ve sent an owl to the editor,” Augusta said. “None of this hyphenated nonsense. They just earned my business back, I will not hesitate to cancel my subscription again if necessary.”

She blinked. That’s what bothered her? That the editor had hyphenated her name?

Augusta tapped her cane on the ground. “A Longbottom was attacked and it will be answered for.”

She glanced up at the fierce look in the witch’s eyes.

“Robards can look to my weekly owls until this shameful oversight is corrected.” She rounded on her grandson. “You have Potter on it?”

“Don’t think I’ve ever been one to tell Harry Potter what to do,” he said with a rueful grin. “But, yeah, he promised us he’d work the case until it’s solved.”

She nodded once brusquely before turning back to Pansy. “And you open tomorrow?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The aurors had done their work all day on Friday. By evening, the usual Slytherin crew had descended upon it to place the finishing touches the aurors missed.

Theo and Hermione argued over wards. Blaise adjusted everything in the store, even if it was by less than half an inch, until he deemed it perfect.

Neville brought in a number of plants, only two of which he warned her not to touch. He also promised to care for each of them as she’d barely gotten an ‘Acceptable’ on her herbology O.W.L.s and was likely to kill them all.

Even if she’d never admit it to him, they added a lively brightness to the space that helped it feel completed in a way it hadn’t before.

Trusting in Theo and Hermione’s wards, she’d spent all of Saturday organizing the various robes and accessories so they were ready for opening day on Monday.

“Good,” Augusta said. “Longbottoms don’t back down.” With a quick pivot, she marched off towards the lifts.

“I think Gran’s starting to like you,” Neville said with a small smirk.

She wasn’t sure if that made her feel flattered or more terrified of the elderly witch.

“You were wrong.”

He glanced at her and arched an eyebrow.

“About not telling Harry Potter what to do,” she said. “I specifically remember that being the cause of the final few points that lost Slytherin the House Cup First Year.”

He grinned. “Six hours in a full body bind and all I get is ten measly points?”

“Almost as horrible as being told we won the cup only to have it ripped from us last minute.”

“If Draco hadn’t tattled on Harry, Hermione, and I—”

“You shouldn’t have been out of bed in the first place, and that only lost you a hundred and fifty points so we still would have beat you by twenty.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I hope you aren’t as arbitrary with awarding points.”

“I don’t dock house points just because I don’t like the way someone answers a question when it’s correct.”

Clear dig at Severus Snape, which—while she would never admit it out loud—was true.

“But, come May, do I award points anytime a Gryffindor picks up pruning shears for me…absolutely.”

A smirk tugged her lips. “How very Slytherin of you, Professor Longbottom.”

The visit was the same as any other. Augusta and Neville talked to Alice and Frank like they could hear them. Neville told them all about the store, but didn’t say a word about the destruction early Friday morning.

When Frank started to fidget about twenty minutes into the visit, their conversation stopped and the healers were summoned to put Alice and Frank back to bed.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to cut Alice’s hair again,” the healer told Augusta. “She’s getting too agitated to brush it and washing never goes well.”

Augusta nodded once. “Whatever you think is best.”

Staring at the silent witch with matted, limp hair, all Pansy could think of was the smiling, laughing woman in the photos spread out on Neville’s dresser. Even the candid shots showed a smartly dressed woman with long, elegantly styled hair.

As Alice brought Neville a gum wrapper and Augusta checked in with Frank’s healer, Pansy turned to Alice’s.

“Could I…could I try to help with her hair?”

She gave her a slightly pitying look. “There’s nothing left to do but cut it.”

“If I could just try.”

It wasn’t going to make a difference. This Alice probably wouldn’t care, but the witch in the photographs would. If it were Pansy…she’d want someone to do it for her.

“I could come on Tuesday at lunchtime.” She’d need Monday to shop for supplies. “Thursday as well. If it’s not better by the end of the week, you can cut it then.”

The healer considered her, then nodded. “Alright.”

She watched as Neville pocketed the gum wrapper from his mother. Yet another one for his box in the closet.

Maybe in the scheme of things, doing Alice’s hair didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was vain and Neville wouldn’t think she had any right.

But it wasn’t about her, or him.

It was for the witch in the photos, the adoring mother who risked everything to make a better world for her son.

Alice deserved better and if she could help her, she would.

“I lied.”

The slight tensing of Neville’s shoulders was the only indication he’d heard her speak. He hadn’t said much since they’d returned from St. Mungo’s. He’d simply sat on the couch and continued reading what was doubtless some fascinating treatise on plant life in a country she’d never visit.

Maybe the evening after visiting his parents wasn’t the time to bring this up. But she was nervous about the next day and what she would—or wouldn’t—find in the morning when she went to the shop.

And when she got restless, she got reckless.

Which was exactly what bringing this up to Neville was.

Reckless. And stupid.

And a hundred other bad ideas and yet…

“The other day, when you came home for lunch and I made all the drawers explode ribbons and you called me a brat.” As if there was any other day she could have been talking about. “I lied.”

Finally, he shut the book and sat back. He stretched his arm across the back of the couch, the muscles of his arms and shoulders flexing even under the hideous jumper he wore.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

If it wasn’t for the predatory gleam in his eyes, she would have thought him completely unaffected by the conversation.

“What do you want to do about it?”

The corner of his mouth curled in a smile that would put a sphinx to shame. “You know exactly what I want to do about it.”

“You didn’t do anything last time.”

He rose from the couch and strode towards her.

Each step was slow, but with purpose, sending thrills down her spine and heat building in her core. By the time he was towering over her, her pulse was thundering. She was frozen to the spot, unable to move, unable to look away from the blue gazed locked on hers.

“I did.”

She frowned up at him, trying to think through his overwhelming presence. He’d showered before tea so the smell of the greenhouse was faint, but the smell of fresh dirt clung to him the way it lingered outside after a rainstorm. It blended with the scent of the soap she smelt every morning during her shower to combine into an intoxicating scent that was all him.

“You said there would be consequences if I lied and then you didn’t touch me for two weeks.”

Merlin. When had she ever sounded that desperate, that needy?

“Sixteen days,” he corrected.

So he had been paying attention.

The corner of his mouth lifted in a half smirk. “Did you ever stop to think that was your consequence?”

She swore his voice had dropped an entire octave. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to ignore the growing warmth, the growing need.

He leaned down and her breath caught as his lips grazed her ear. “Brats don’t get rewards until they earn them, Princess.”

Her toes curled inside her shoes as she tried not to shiver.

What sort of fucked up reality had she entered that she was actually engaging in this conversation instead of hexing his balls off?

She poured all her derision into her tone, trying to keep him from seeing what he was doing to her. “Getting spanked is supposed to be a reward?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “The reward is what you get after taking your punishment like a good girl.”

A thrill shot down her spine as heat pooled in her core.

Fucking. Hell.

This was not supposed to be turning her on. Was not supposed to make her want Neville. Fucking. Longbottom.

But the confidence pouring off of him now, the smug smirk filled with promises…it was doing things to her.

Things he couldn’t know.

“You think awfully high of yourself that anything you could do to me would be considered a reward.”

His smirk turned condescending. “I’m not the boy I was at school, Pansy,” he said. “You’re not going to goad me into proving you wrong.”

Nothing about the man in front of her was like the boy at school. Sometime between losing his toad on the train the very first day and pulling the Sword of Gryffindor out of the Storting Hat, she’d blinked and he’d changed.

He leaned towards her, his breath tickling her ear. “You want something, you’re going to have to ask for it.”

She stepped back and his smirk spread, relishing that he had her on the defense. She straightened, pride making her cling to her desperate and increasingly ineffective attempts to pretend she was unaffected by his presence.

“You think I’m going to ask you to punish me?” she sneered.

“No.” He stepped back into her space, crowding her. He used his height like a weapon, leaning down and making her breath catch as his lips almost grazed hers. “I think you’re going to beg.”

She was not desperate. Especially not for Neville Fucking Longbottom, no matter what how disturbingly attractive he’d gotten.

Neville’s gaze roamed over her face, drinking in the details. Her dilated eyes, flushed cheeks, near-panting breaths. Her entire body betrayed her and they both knew it.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of what Neville Longbottom can do to you.”

Her spine hardened. “Nothing about you scares me.”

He smiled. “Then prove it.”

He was goading her. Laying down a challenge after just telling her she wouldn’t be able to do the same to him.

The only difference was that his was working.

“Or you could stew about it for another sixteen days,” he said. “I’m a patient man, I don’t mind drawing this out.”

This—whatever it was between them—was just physical. Proximity combined with how long it had been since she’d last dated. Once she got it out of her system, Neville Longbottom could go back into his little box and she wouldn’t have to deal with all this simmering…tension between them.

“Fine,” she said. “Punish me.”

Theo was right. She’d been imperio’d. Confunded.

Obviously manipulated by some level of dark magic because there was no other reason to account for the thrill that sent through her body. The desperate heat spreading through her core.

Neville’s nostrils flared. “Try again.”

Frustration warred with need. She had never felt this desperate for someone in her life and the fact that it was Neville Fucking Longbottom—

“You’ve gotten this far, Princess,” he said. “Don’t chicken out now.”

Merlin, she was already a mess now. If he made her wait another two weeks it might kill her. She gritted her teeth. “Punish me, please.”

He smiled, his expression condescending and patronizing and everything she hated and yet her body was nearly quivering with desperation from the promise in his eyes. “I know you’re a clever witch,” he said. “So I’m going to give you one. Last. Chance. To get it right.”

Fuck this. She’d take care of herself, she didn’t need a damn thing from Neville Fucking Longbottom—

He leaned down, his voice soft. “Be a good girl and ask for what you want, Princess.”

The velvet promise in his voice crumbled the last of her will.

Because what she wanted, more than anything else, was to see if he actually lived up to the promise in his gaze. If he could command her body the way she so desperately craved.

Holding his gaze, she slowly lowered herself to her knees before him.

Neville’s nostrils flared again. He was holding himself steady, but his body betrayed him. Tension in every every line of his frame, from the tightness in his shoulders to the white knuckles in his hands. Every part of him, coiled like a cobra ready to strike.

A thrill of power ran through her that he couldn’t hide how much this affected him.

How much she affected him.

“Punish me.”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“Please.”

As if he’d just been freed from a full-body-bind, the tight tension in his body melted away.

Like a predator released from his cage.

Before she had a chance to rethink this thing she so desperately wanted—needed—but never should have admitted, he had her off her feet, into his bedroom, and over his knees.

A strong hand pinned her down between her shoulder blades as the other slowly dragged up her robes.

She bit her lip to hold back her desperate moan. How many times in the past two weeks had she imagined him dragging up her robes again, this time to finish the job?

“You want this to stop immediately for any reason, say ‘mercy,’” Neville said.

The world where she begged Neville Longbottom for mercy—

The sharp slap of skin on her newly exposed calf made her yelp. It hadn’t hurt, just surprised her.

“Do you understand?” he demanded.

This was humiliating. So, so humiliating.

And so fucking hot.

He smacked her again, higher this time. “Answer me.”

She’d never been more turned on, more desperate for another person in her entire life.

“Yes.”

His hand ran over her calf, the gentleness a sharp contrast to the two smacks he’d just given her, making her melt into his body. “Good girl.”

Fuck. She hated how much she loved that. Her mind, her body was a desperate jumble of humiliation and want and need and—

Her robes pooled around her waist.

Neville’s low growl of approval nearly made her whimper. “Can I touch you?”

How he was supposed to punish her without touching her made no sense until she realized what he meant. Merlin, the thought of those fingers on her…

“Yes,” she said, fighting against herself to make it sound like a statement and not a plea. She was Pansy Parkinson, she refused to beg for anything and earlier didn’t count because…it didn’t.

He pulled off her panties, dragging the scrap of lace down her legs in a slow torment.

She jumped when his hand found her arse, massaging and squeezing. “What do you say if you want it to stop, Princess?”

She grit her teeth and was treated to another smart smack, this one more of a sting than the first two. “Mercy.”

He rubbed the spot he’d hit. “Good girl.”

She pressed her face into the covers to hide the effect he had on her. She wanted to scream at him to get on with it but he seemed to enjoy drawing this out as long as he could in order to torment her further.

With one hand holding her down in the middle of her back, the other continued its exploration of her body. Sliding down the swell of her arse to her upper thighs and then sweeping in between.

She gasped as his fingers found her core. His slow, sweeping exploration was enough to make her squirm but nothing close to what she needed.

Neville made a sound of low approval. “Fucking drenched, just like I thought.”

She gritted her teeth. That he could actually feel how much this turned her on shamed and excited her all at once.

He leaned down, his body covering hers. “Do not lie to me again, Pansy.”

When she didn’t respond, he grabbed a fistful of her hair. He’d taken enough so it didn’t hurt so much as startle her, but she was now completely immobilized in his hands.

She wanted to writhe, to move, to get his fingers currently between her legs to do something—anything—but she was absolutely helpless.

She fucking loved it.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she gasped.

He let go of her hair and she sagged forward onto the bed. Before she had a moment to breathe, his hand landed on her arse.

“Fuck!”

This was nothing like the previous smacks he’d given. This one hurt. Her skin burned where his hand landed but the heat went straight to her core.

A second one immediately followed on her other cheek. On instinct, she tried to scramble off him, but his second hand still held her pinned down. “Do you need mercy?”

She would never beg for mercy from a man. Not to mention that she might die if he didn’t finish what he started. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“You want me to keep going?”

The reward is what you get after taking your punishment like a good girl. “Yes.”

He waited.

Fuck. “Please.”

His hand moved over her arse, squeezing in a gentle knead. “You have no idea how hot it makes me to hear you beg,” he said. “Good girl.”

Sweet Circe. Why did she love that so much?

“Let’s talk about all the times you’ve lied to me.” His hand fell again, right next to where he’d slapped her the first time. The sharp sting burned across her skin, the answering echo from the place he’d hit before.

“There was the ribbon day—”

His hand landed a fourth time and she almost screamed.

Tears burned her eyes but she swallowed them back.

“The conditions of our marriage—”

He hit her lower on her arse this time, almost where it met her thighs and it was like a direct line to her clit. Pressing her face into the bedspread, she tried to mask her moan but as his hand hit the same spot on the other side and she couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“Then there’s every time you’ve been a brat.”

Two more sharp slaps had him putting even more pressure on her back, pinning her down with all the strength in those shoulders.

“Moving my things—”

“Spilling tea in my bed—”

“Breaking the wine—”

“Your stunt with the ribbons—”

Each transgression he threw at her resulted in another slap.

Her arse was on fire, but every time his hand slipped lower and lower her tension rose higher and higher. The need between her thighs was almost unbearable.

She’d long lost the battle of holding back her tears. She was a trembling, weeping mess and all she cared about was getting his fingers back between her thighs.

“Please! Please, st—” Her words choked on a sob.

His hand landed gently on her arse, but the skin was so sensitive even that soft touch made her cry out and her back arch.

“Please, what?” His voice was breathless.

She bunched the red comforter she’d never look at the same way again together in her hands. “Please…just, please—I…”

His fingers slid between her thighs, each brush a tiny spark that nearly made her see stars. She moaned so loud she almost missed the quiet “Fuck” he muttered to himself.

“Have you had enough?” Neville asked, fingers grazing, not giving her half of what she needed.

Sweet Merlin, if he was going to leave her like this… “No.”

He rewarded her with just a hint more pressure and she moaned again. She could feel her orgasm hovering so close but just out of reach if he didn’t give her more.

“You want to be punished more?”

A sob escaped her throat. “No! Fuck, just—”

“Then use your words, Princess.”

He had her writing, begging, and she couldn’t care less. Anything to get those fingers on her. To give her what promised to be the best orgasm of her life. “Please make me come.”

His fingers moved away and she almost screamed. “How?”

“With your fingers—shite—”

He hummed as if he was still deciding.

“Please,” she begged on a sob. “Please, I don’t care how, just make me come.”

The hand on her back slid up her spine, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Every brush of his hand, touch of his skin left burning flames, stoking the fire building in her core.

He turned her head so he could see her face instead of her burying it in the covers. “Good girl.”

She nearly came at the praise alone, then his fingers started working between her legs in earnest. Despite how close she was, he still made her earn it. Teasing, pulling back just as she started to feel it crest until she was begging again.

His fingers circled her clit, building that wave higher and higher.

This time—finally—he led her up and over it until she was screaming with the force of how hard she was coming. Wave after wave crested over her as her vision went black as he dragged every single ounce of pleasure out of her body until she was a limp, sobbing, trembling, mess on his lap.

Pansy wrapped her hands around the mug of tea as Neville settled onto the bed. She could feel his eyes on her but she stared down into the warm brown liquid.

She winced as she shifted. He’d applied a healing balm that took away the stinging and burning, but she could tell she’d still be sore for a few days.

Apparently that was what he kept in the mysterious nightstand. Along with a various assortment of toys she never would have expected Neville Longbottom to be able to recognize, let alone use.

After the ointment, he’d just held her for a few minutes. Made her drink some water, whispered soft things over and over as she came down from the high.

As reality slowly started to creep back in, she’d struggled to compartmentalize what had just happened. So when he asked what she’d needed, she’d said tea in an effort to get some space and her composure back.

The moment he’d left the room, she’d felt worse. As if she’d lost her anchor and was left drifting without any frame of reference.

She’d done more than her share of experimenting—while managing to avoid the obvious—but nothing had ever come close to that.

In the moment, it had been so easy to sink into the roles, to let go and just feel.

Now, she waited for the burning shame of humiliation, for him to laugh or mock or bring her low.

Vulnerability did not sit well with her, and Neville had just see her at her lowest.

“How are you feeling?”

She shifted, trying to find a comfortable way to sit. “Fine.”

Neville lounged on his side, resting his elbow on the bed to prop up his chin with his hand. “I can get a stronger ointment if you need it.”

“I’m fine.” Sore, but now that the stinging was gone, only in the most delicious of ways.

He smirked. “I like the idea of you feeling the reminder for the next few days anytime you sit down.”

She glared at him over the tea, but it wasn’t like she could now demand a stronger ointment, not without admitting it hurt.

From his triumphant grin, he’d done it that way on purpose.

She took a careful sip of the tea, uncertain of the dynamic after what had just happened between them.

“How are you really doing?” he asked. “And be honest.”

She glanced up at him through her lashes. “Or you’ll spank me again?”

“Oh, I want to do that again regardless,” he said. “But not until you’ve completely recovered and only if you’re honest with me about how you felt about it this time.”

She looked back at her mug. “I am fine.” Turning the mug, she watched the few tea leaves he hadn’t managed to skim float back and forth. “That was…unexpected.”

“Good or bad?”

Her eyes snapped up to his. “Why am I the only one being questioned?”

The corner of his mouth rose. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll go first. That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever done.”

Underneath the covers, her toes curled as a warm pride spread through her. She smiled down into her tea. “It was good.”

The sheer arrogance in his smirk made it clear he knew she was vastly underselling what was the best orgasm of her life.

If the contents of his nightstand were any indication, he’d clearly had more than enough practice with kinky orgasms.

“Well, I guess that explains the blood lock,” she said. Not to mention the guardian cactus. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about Mimby watching all of that. Perhaps she’d have to find a new home if this was going to continue.

Neville smirked. “Tried to snoop, did you?”

Obviously. “Isn’t that why you put it on?”

“No, that was done years ago for Gran,” he said. “Not to mention Ginny, Luna, Seamus, or really, honestly, any of my friends with no boundaries. Which happens to be most of them.”

“So Hannah Abbott isn’t quite as chatty as everyone thinks?”

His cheeks pinked. “We never really…Hannah’s not into any of this.”

Her loss.

“It caused more than one of our breakups, actually.” His eyes widened. “Not that I ever pressured or even so much as asked her to…you know, once I knew she wasn’t interested, I never—”

If he hadn’t been so earnest she would have laughed at him. “Darling, I knew what you meant, no need to hurt yourself.”

He playfully swatted her thigh over the covers and she giggled.

He rubbed his forehead. “I guess me dating witches who were into this anytime we were broken up didn’t help matters,” he said. “I think sometimes she felt a little guilty or insecure, even though I was fine—happy—with the way things were between us.”

There was a difference between fine and happy. Perhaps Hannah was a bit more realistic about their relationship than Neville. But that wasn’t her place to point out. The two of them could figure it out after she and Neville got divorced.

“And it didn’t work out with any of the other witches you dated?”

He sighed. “It’s my fault, I’m probably too difficult.”

She arched an eyebrow.

He sighed again. “I like to be in control in the bedroom,” he said. “Tying up, edging in particular, sometimes spanking and…other stuff.” His gaze flicked to the nightstand and back to her.

She smirked as she sipped her tea. “Oh, I saw.”

His cheeks darkened. “It’s hard to find the right balance between submissive and bratty and spanking is the only impact play I’m into,” he said. “I don’t like being dominant outside of the bedroom and for most people it’s all or nothing so…”

Too kinky for someone like Hannah but not kinky enough for the witches who were into that. It was the most Neville Longbottom response ever to think he was the problem and not just that he hadn’t found someone yet who was perfectly compatible.

Clearly he needed to broaden his horizons because she couldn’t imagine a single witch experiencing what he’d just done and not becoming desperate for more.

Not that she was desperate, obviously, but if she couldn’t date anyone but him for the next year and he was willing…she’d take as many of those orgasms as she could get.

“So your ideal witch is someone who’s just a little bit bratty, enough to give you an excuse to spank her whenever you’re in the mood and who pushes back but doesn’t actually mind getting tied up or edged?”

A smirk tugged his lips. “Why? Know anyone who’s interested?”

“I happen to be free between now and the middle of June.”

His eyes narrowed. “Pretty sure we already discussed that you are not free at all between now and the middle of June.”

That hint of possessiveness was strangely hot. Maybe because it had an end date it didn’t make her feel smothered.

“Plus, I’d say you’re quite more than a little bit bratty.”

She smirked. “Working on that is half the fun, isn’t it?”

His sharp, predatory grin took over his face. “You have no idea, Princess.”

Her toes curled underneath the covers. Fucking Merlin. How did he keep doing that to her?

If this was going to be a thing between them, though, he probably had expectations. “Do you need me to…” She waved in his direction. “Take care of anything for you?”

“No, that was just for you.”

She frowned at him. “What?” He didn’t want anything from her? “You’re just going to wank to that later?”

He shifted, his cheeks flushing a hint of pink. The switch from completely dominant to bashful schoolboy was delightful. “I mean, probably.” He cleared his throat. “It’s just as satisfying to me to watch you come undone.”

Surely he wasn’t serious.

“The Rite requires you to be a virgin so we can’t have sex until we get that figured out.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Do I need to be the one to inform you that there are things I could do for you that don’t involve losing my virginity?” Things she’d gotten rather good at, if she did say so herself.

He gave her a smile that was pure male arrogance. “Well, you were a little too out of it in the moment to be much of an active participant.”

Fair. Not that she would give him the satisfaction of verbally agreeing, however.

“And I wasn’t about to spaff all over you since I didn’t think you’d be into that.”

Well, fuck.

Why was that so hot?

His eyes lit with a predatory excitement, as if he could read her thoughts. “Or would you?”

She cleared her throat. “Sure.” Honestly, after that experience, there wasn’t much she wasn’t willing to let him try, particularly with the limits he had.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Okay.” His excitement gave way to discomfort. “If we, uhm, if we’re going to start…playing—like this, we should, uh, talk about…us.”

She burst out laughing. “Longbottom, you gave me one decent orgasm, that does not mean I’m suddenly in love with you or want to stay married to you.”

She didn’t want that any more than he did, but the relief on his face still stung a little. “Okay,” he said. “So still work to find a Rite that will work to fulfill the blood oath and invoke the succession clause after thirteen months but in the meantime we can…play.”

“Alright.”

“Also, if it almost makes you pass out, I think you can use a description a little more flattering than ‘decent.’”

Best of her entire life but she wasn’t about to admit it. “Guess you’ll have to try harder next time.”

Sitting up, he leaned closer, every inch the overwhelming, domineering man from before. “Then I guess you’ll have to be very, very good because if you thought you liked your punishment, Princess…wait until you earn a reward.”

Chapter Text

“Mrs. Longbottom, are you sure you don’t want a stool?” Margaret, one of the Janus Thickey Ward healers, asked again.

Despite her request to the contrary, none of the healers called her by her first name thanks to Augusta’s insistence on formality. Since the harridan was bloody terrifying, she couldn’t blame them, but hopefully it wouldn’t take long to get them on her side when Augusta wasn’t around.

“No, thank you.” She needed to move freely to do this well. Not to mention that even after two days, sitting still smarted a little.

A fact her husband had noticed and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying.

But if there was one thing Pansy shouldn’t think about while doing her mother-in-law’s hair, it was what had happened between her and Neville on Sunday night.

It was almost all she could think about. Even the bustle of opening day hadn’t kept her mind off it for long.

While she had a small established customer base from private designs and fittings the past few years, just as many people seemed interested in seeing if there was any lasting damage to the shop.

As insulting as it was, a customer was a customer. She’d outsold her expectations and already had a number of new private clients.

By the time she’d finally closed the shop and returned home, she was exhausted. Neville had offered her a massage, which she had immediately assumed was a ploy to get her back in the bedroom.

Instead, he’d massaged the life back into her exhausted feet in an experience more pleasurable than half the men she’d been with before had ever managed, kissed her forehead, and served her dinner before going to bed in the guest bedroom like usual.

Every time she thought she had Neville Longbottom back in a box, he changed it again.

Shoving thoughts of him aside, she smiled at Alice. Margaret and Olivia, another one of the healers, had already guided her to a stool next to her bed. A charmed towel wrapped around her neck and down her back that would immediately absorb any water it came into contact with to prevent her robes from getting wet.

“Okay, Alice, we’re going to start with getting the tangles out first, alright?”

There was no response but a vacant stare. Taking the lack of distress as permission, she began working Madame Toussaint’s Tangle Treatment through her hair. While it was marketed for children, it was perfect for soothing tangles without damaging the hair further. The gentlest approach seemed like a safe bet.

The pink potion bubbled up upon contact. She continued working as much as she could into the hair until the bubbles all faded. After that, all she had to do was comb it out.

The comb ran smoothly through the hair. As she brushed it, she could feel Alice start to relax and soften under the routine.

“That’s remarkable,” Margaret said, examining the bottle. “I’ve only used Sleekeazy’s.”

Of course. Was anyone aware other hair care existed?

“It’s a French brand my aunt used.”

Most of the pureblood women of her acquaintance exclusively used Madame Toussaint’s full line. Expensive, exclusive, and effective. A must-have combination for those women.

The detangler was second to none and there was a hair loss scalp tonic she knew would work wonders for the missing patches on Alice’s head. Once a proper hair care routine was established, she hoped they would cease happening entirely.

Since it seemed to sooth Alice, she continued brushing for a few minutes, getting out as much of the detangler as she could and enjoying the peaceful calm. “Okay, Alice, just a little bit of water now and then I’ll shampoo, okay?”

It felt silly, talking to her like that when she obviously wasn’t going to respond but just treating her like a doll without telling her anything felt wrong.

Rinsing was the part the healers had warned her that Alice hated the most. Margaret and Olivia watched them with wands out and ready.

Starting at the ends, she used the tip of her wand to project a slow stream of water onto her hair. Working section by section, she made her way up to the hairline.

“I think you’ll like this shampoo,” Pansy said. “It’s extra clarifying but we’ll follow it up with the conditioning masque that’ll leave it soft and silky.”

Years of neglect had left her scalp greasy and suffering from buildup that probably accounted for much of her hair loss, but the hair itself was dry and brittle.

As she reached the hairline, extra water beaded up and a small drop rolled down the side of Alice’s face.

She exploded.

The normally quiet, stoic woman began thrashing. Arms and legs flailed as she fought off an invisible foe. A glass of water on her nightstand shattered before one of the healers hit Alice with a stunning spell.

Pansy just managed to grab her before she fell. The healers ran over to grab her and levitated her into her bed, still unconscious, as Pansy watched in horror.

“Now you see why we’ve done things the way that we have,” Olivia snapped. “We do our best to minimize the distress to our patients and even if you think you are trying to help—”

Her head snapped up. “It did help.”

“Mrs. Longbottom—”

“She calmed down when I was brushing her hair,” she said. “It was the drop of water on her face that she hated—”

Olivia scowled. “Well, unless you can find a way to wash her hair without water—”

“She didn’t mind the water until it got on her face!” Pansy turned to Margaret.

The older woman looked hesitant. “Mrs. Longbottom has been through enough, I do not want her to suffer as a result of experimentation—”

Merlin. Was this what everyone thought of her? “Of course not, neither do I!”

“But I was going to agree that when you were brushing her hair, it was the calmest I have seen her in years,” she said.

Hope sparked in her chest. It wasn’t just her who’d noticed. “If I can find a way to keep water off her face while I’m washing it…”

“Then, provided nothing else triggers her, it will likely be as good for her emotional state as it is for her physical appearance.”

She beamed. “I’ll start work on it right away,” she said. “I’ll be back on Thursday at lunchtime.”

Margaret nodded. “Very well.”

It took only a small amount of badgering to get them to agree to let her dry Alice’s hair before they woke her back up from the stun. If water was the trigger, she didn’t want them to have to stun her again as soon as she woke up from a stray lock of wet hair.

While it was hardly where she hoped it would be, at least Alice’s hair was no longer matted and tangled when she left.

A little work and she was confident she’d have something that would prevent water sliding down her face by Thursday morning.

Pansy ran the soft terrycloth band over her fingers, checking her spellwork one last time before she went to see Alice at lunchtime. While she preferred fashion, there was no denying that designing something to solve a problem—whether it was an unflattering waist or trigger to past trauma—fulfilled her in ways few other things did.

She looked up at the ringing of the bell above her shop door as a man, woman, and young girl strode inside.

The man was in a three piece suit and polished cow leather shoes. The woman wore a cream form fitting dress underneath a lightweight blazer-style coat that dropped to her knees. The white tweed had pops of colors through it. Pansy instantly recognized it from the Chanel spring line.

Muggles. More specifically: wealthy muggles.

“Oh, this is lovely,” the woman sighed as soon as she entered.

“First place we’ve been that isn’t completely off its rocker,” the man muttered.

The young girl sat in one of the chairs and pulled The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 out of her bag and began reading.

She couldn’t help her smile, immediately picturing a young Hermione Granger. Who, of course, had been an annoying busy-haired swot but, still. Hindsight and all that.

“Good morning,” she said. “May I be of any assistance?”

The man approached the counter. “I certainly hope so,” he said. “That chit your government sent certainly hasn’t been.”

It took everything in her not to laugh. Hermione and Shacklebolt’s muggleborn initiative to assign ministry representatives to help muggle parents shops for school supplies, board the train the first time, and answer any other Wizarding World related questions had largely been met with success and glowing feedback.

This family, however—dripping with wealth and prestige—would never get along with a ministry representative.

“I am sorry to hear that,” she said. “What places do you have left on your list?”

“Mother got us kicked out of the robe shop,” the girl said without looking up from her book, looking neither surprised nor perturbed by that fact.

The woman in question studied the mannequin at the front of the shop as it moved to show the fit of the garment it was styling. “Dear, look at this,” she said. “Now this is delightful.”

She lifted the bottom of the robe and examined the hem. Appearing pleased, she turned to Pansy. “Do you sell school uniforms?”

“I don’t have any ready-made, but I would be happy to custom make a set.”

“Lovely,” the woman said. “Penelope, darling…” She swept her hand towards the fitting area as if she was the one who owned the shop.

The girl shut her book with a sigh and walked over to the stand.

“Don’t worry, it won’t take more than a minute.” Pansy conjured her measuring tape and set it to work.

All three blinked in surprise as the tape wound its way, tracking measurements. Her notebook and quill appeared next to it, recording the numbers.

After the brief surprise, they seemed to take it in stride. The girl’s mother brandished the shopping list. “Now, the pointed hat, is it necessary?” she asked. “Seems a little on the nose, if you ask me.”

She wasn’t exactly sure what the woman meant. “Unfortunately, yes,” she said. “They’re worn by every student at all the main feasts.”

“And this…what’s the bloody school name again?” the man asked.

“Language, Richard,” the woman chided with no heat.

“Hogwarts,” Pansy said.

“Yes, Hogwarts,” he said. “Is it truly the only one? Or are there actually other options?”

She was dying to know who their ministry representative was. “Hogwarts is the only magical school in the United Kingdom,” she said. “Beauxbatons Academy in France and Ilvermorny in America are the most similar to Hogwarts, though each school is unique.”

Richard scoffed. “The only place I’m less likely to send my daughter than France is America.”

She smiled. “The other major schools are in the Amazon, Russia, Japan, and Uganda.”

The woman’s eyebrow arched. “So few?”

“The magical community is quite small, especially compared to the muggle population,” she said. “Globally, it is more popular for wizarding families to homeschool. Europe is the exception.”

“And two schools support the magical population of Europe?” Richard asked.

“There is a third,” she said. “Durmstrang Institute in northern Scandinavia. Traditionally, however, they have not accepted muggleborn students. Some high-profile alumni are working to change it, but it is not an environment I would want my daughter in.”

Since his retirement from international Quidditch, Viktor Krum had led the push to change the entrance requirements.

Nodding to Penelope, the young girl hopped off the stand and marched back towards her books. Her mother and father exchanged a long glance.

“Is that something we could expect her to face?” her mother asked. “Prejudice for having non-magical parents?”

Pansy paused her review of the measurements in her notebook. Of all people, they had to ask her that question. “It would not be unheard of, no, but it is something our society is working very hard to correct.” She closed the book. “Did the ministry representative explain to you anything about the Second Wizarding War?”

“The Wizarding Hitler?” Richard asked.

“He means Voldemort,” Penelope called from the front, eyes still intent on her book.

She blinked. It had taken a few years to get used to hearing Potter and Granger throw his name around but to hear the tiny wisp of an eleven year old muggleborn witch say it so casually rendered her speechless for a moment.

“Darling, you’re not supposed to use the name,” her mother said. She glanced at Pansy. “Some sort of superstition, I understand?”

“Habit,” she said. “His followers didn’t use it out of respect, and he placed a Taboo on his name to track his enemies during the war.”

Potter’s slip had led to the capture and near deaths of the Golden Trio. If that night had gone just a little differently—

“Forgive us, dear.”

She glanced up to the woman’s concerned face.

“Did you lose someone in the war?”

This was where her business model failed her. Bridging muggle and wizarding fashion was hard enough without her family history. A lie would prevent them from storming out but the truth…

Her gaze fell on Penelope. Maybe it was the book, maybe it was simple fact that she was muggleborn, but all she saw was Hermione Granger.

She turned back to the mother. “My father died in the final battle.”

She placed her hand over her heart. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

“I am not.”

The two blinked.

“My father was not a good man,” she said. “He was cruel and prejudiced and chose the wrong side.”

Richard studied her. “He was one of the wizarding nazis.”

“Death Eater,” Penelope said from her spot.

Her parents’s expressions were unreadable.

Pansy straightened. Her father’s sins were not her own. “Yes, he was.”

She watched the subtle change in the woman across from her. Straightening her spine, smiling patronizingly as she sharpened her metaphorical claws.

Attack before you are attacked was a mechanism she knew all too well.

“From your shop, I would have assumed you came from a family just like ours.”

It had the cadence of a compliment, but she could see it for the test it was. There was a time being compared to a muggle family would have been the gravest insult.

Instead, she smiled with genuine appreciation. “Thank you,” she said. “While my family was one of the oldest pureblood families left in Britain, my best friend is muggleborn. My design concepts are a merge of both wizarding and muggle styles.”

The woman seemed to soften somewhat. She eyed the mannequin. “I can see that,” she said. “They feel foreign but still accessible.”

The core of what she wanted her shop to be. “Braving a new world is not easy,” she said. “But it is worth it.” She would know.

The woman smiled at her. For the first time, it felt like true, genuine emotion. She held out her hand. “Theresa.”

She accepted it with a smile. “Pansy.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Yours as well,” she said. “I’d be happy to show you the glove options I have that will meet the uniform requirements.”

“This bit about bringing an animal to school,” Richard said as she pulled out the tray of gloves. “It’s listed as optional, but will she benefit from one? Which is best?”

“What are they called?” Theresa asked. “Familiars?”

Was that a muggle phrase she didn’t know? “Familiar with what?”

“Spirit animals bonded to witches,” Penelope said.

For once, Penelope failed her in explaining her parents. “Is that part of muggle mythology?” she asked. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Theresa looked oddly relieved. “Well, I can’t deny it’s refreshing to know that at least some of our legends are actually made up.”

Perhaps a muggle had misconstrued what an animagus was and the legend grew from there.

“The option to bring an animal is only if you have one as a pet,” Pansy said. “There is no benefit other than companionship. Owls do deliver wizarding post, but the school has a large number that Penelope can borrow at any time.”

Richard stared at her for a long moment. “Owls deliver post?”

Was their ministry representative that bad or did the entire process have this many gaps? Were they just supposed to be surprised the first time Penelope wrote home and an owl dropped a letter onto their breakfast?

He shook his head. “Can’t be worse than the Royal Mail, I suppose.”

Theresa eyed the gloves. “Now, when they say dragon hide…”

“From actual dragons, yes,” she said.

Richard grunted. “Familiars aren’t real but dragons are.” He held up the list again. “Dragon hide or similar.” He raised an eyebrow at Pansy.

“Dragon hide is top line,” she said. “There are budget friendly options you can find for less that will perform similarly for a short period of time, but as their quality does not match my standards, I would have to recommend a different shop for you to find them.”

“We will take dragon hide.” Theresa paused for a moment as soon as she spoke as if just realizing how odd her statement sounded to her ears. She recovered well, finally selecting a pair. She held it up towards her daughter. “Penelope, what do you think of these?”

She glanced up from the textbook for all of three seconds. “Fine, mum.”

“Do you garden?” Pansy asked.

The older woman hesitated for a moment. It was a very acceptable hobby for pureblooded witches, but perhaps muggles saw it differently. “On occasion.”

“Dragon hide is nearly impenetrable, it will keep you safe from even the sharpest thorn bushes.” Some of the rarer magical plants were a different story, but she doubted anything in Theresa’s proper English garden would come close.

Theresa smiled and glanced at Penelope. “What do you think, darling? Should we get a matching pair?”

Penelope rolled her eyes.

Pansy pulled out her expanded selections for Theresa to examine.

“That rounds out the list, except for wand,” Richard said.

“Ollivander’s, for that,” Pansy said.

Richard nodded. “Now, this thing about different Houses,” he said. “The chit would tell us their names but nothing else except for some nonsense about how each student is placed in the one with the best fit. Which is the top one?”

For all that these two reminded her of the old money personalities she’d grown up around, she doubted any of them would have handled their world upturning with half as much grace as these two muggles.

Granted, she hadn’t been there for the early bits, but they had gone past taking it all in stride and were now determined to make sure their daughter succeeded.

“It depends who you ask,” she said. “Every person who attends Hogwarts will say their House is best, except for a Hufflepuff who would probably say they’re all wonderful.”

He made a face. “So clearly not their house.”

She grinned. “Hufflepuffs are traditionally hard-working, patient, loyal, and modest.”

“The middle-class, head-down, do what they’re told type?”

It was a fair assessment. “They usually have a strong sense of justice and will stand up for that, but otherwise, yes.”

He was clearly not impressed. “What else?”

“Gryffindors value courage, bravery, determination, daring, and chivalry.”

He frowned. “So the military types or the vigilante justice as they see fit types?”

He’d yet to spend a single knut in her shop and he was already her favorite customer. She smirked. “Both, sometimes in the same person depending on which direction the wind is blowing.”

“Alright, tell me the last two are better.”

“Ravenclaw House is focused on wisdom, intelligence, and creativity.”

“Academics or eccentrics?”

All she could picture was Loony Lovegood in those radish earrings. “Again, both.”

Theresa straightened with a small, knowing smile. “And what is your House?”

She grinned. “Slytherin,” she said. “We are known to be cunning, ambitious, proud, and resourceful.”

Penelope sat up, her spell book forgotten. From the looks on her parents’s faces, they’d resonated with those traits just as much.

It made sense. This family screamed Slytherin. It had nothing to do with money—Flinch-Fletchy was apparently loaded and there had never been a more Hufflepuff since Helga herself—but the way they carried themselves.

“We do prioritize self-preservation, which is rather looked down upon by the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs—”

Richard adjusted his cuffs. “They don’t seem like the types to be taken seriously anyway.”

She smirked briefly. But there was another side of her house she couldn’t let them leave without knowing. “We have a more sinister history,” she said. “Most dark witches and wizards were in Slytherin House in school. It also prioritized much of the pureblood ideology, as recently as my time at school.”

Rather than looking off-put, Theresa looked intrigued. “You used past-tense.”

“Yes,” she said. “Much has changed since the Second Wizarding War. While there has yet to be a muggleborn in Slytherin, I believe it is only a matter of time.”

“Unlike the Scandinavian school you mentioned?”

“Hogwarts itself has been accepting muggleborn students since it was founded so the teachers and staff are very prepared to assist and welcome them,” she said. “The war exposed the true cost and the hypocrisy of pureblooded ideology. Most current prominent Slytherins are eager to prove ourselves beyond that.”

“How would a student ensure her placement in a given house?” Richard asked.

“There isn’t a way, unfortunately,” she said. “The sorting ceremony utilizes an impartial magical object to sort students based on their intrinsic qualities.” She looked over at Penelope. “But do not be afraid to ask for what you want.”

It’d worked for Potter and Hermione.

Richard nodded once at his daughter and then turned back to Pansy. “What about extracurriculars? Sports, clubs, the like?”

“Our only sport is quidditch, and first years aren’t allowed on house teams.” Unless they were the Chosen One, of course.

“Quidditch?” Theresa repeated.

“Its a sport played on broomsticks with enchanted balls.”

Her eyebrows shot up and she glanced at her husband.

“All first years take flying lessons so if it is something she’s interested in, you could always purchase her a broom to practice over the summer months for tryouts her second year.”

Theresa looked partially stunned. “Richard, did you hear that?” she asked. “Our daughter is a witch who will wear a pointed hat and fly about on a broomstick.”

Richard didn’t look much better off than his wife.

She wasn’t quite sure what about that seemed to be so unthinkable. Hermione was terrified of flying, perhaps it was a muggle thing. “There are other forms of magical travel she will learn as she gets older.”

Theresa exhaled slowly, as if she needed a moment to compose herself.

“As for clubs, she should participate in anything that interests her,” Pansy continued, sensing the two needed more familiar ground. “The exception is the Slug Club.”

Theresa looked a little pale. “Does it have anything to do with actual slugs?”

“No, it’s a play on the founding professor’s name, Slughorn.”

The relief on her face was almost comical.

“Professor Slughorn is the potions master,” she said. “He likes to mentor students who he sees as particularly talented or well connected. The members of his club have almost all gone on to have outstanding careers in their chosen fields, and he often uses those connections to the benefit of the next crop of students.”

“Were you a member?” Theresa asked.

“No,” she said. “While he himself is a pureblooded Slytherin from one of our oldest families, Professor Slughorn has always rejected blood purity beliefs. Because of my father, I was not allowed in the group.”

Slughorn made no secret that two of his favorite students of all time were Lily Evans and Hermione Granger. He’d have no problem with another muggleborn witch joining that list.

There was a bright gleam in Richard’s eye. “You said it was by his invitation?”

She nodded. “Exclusively.” She turned to Penelope. “Being placed in Slytherin House will immediately gain his attention,” she said. “Studying up on potions and having even a small grasp of the fundamentals before you start school is another way to set yourself apart.”

She shut The Standard Book of Spells and pulled Magical Drafts and Potions out of her bag. “This one?”

She nodded. “He’s not immune to a bit of flattery, and he sees any social invitations he issues as a honor he is bestowing,” she said. “Holding his attention and becoming a member of his club is more difficult than catching his interest, but as he’s always looking to expand his influence, mentioning your family’s connections in the muggle world would serve you well with him.”

Richard looked pleased with this assessment.

Of course, Slughorn was sometimes more eager to believe what he wanted than the actual truth. Despite Hermione’s attempts to convince him otherwise, he was still under the impression that dentistry was a particularly dangerous profession.

“Penelope will be able to handle that,” Theresa said.

Indeed, the girl in question looked excited and intrigued. “Will you teach me some hexes?”

She nearly burst out laughing. “What?”

“Only the ones the professors won’t be able to catch,” she said. “Just in case someone tries to target me for being muggleborn.”

She doubted the Sorting Hat would even give Penelope a chance to ask before it lumped her straight into Slytherin.

“No one, muggleborn or not, is capable of that kind of magic right away,” she said. “You’re as likely to hurt yourself if you try it too soon.”

Penelope didn’t look deterred. “Alright,” she said. “For when I’m ready, what should I do?”

“Most importantly, you need to be sneaky about it,” she said. “You’ll pick up the usual ones, leg-locked, jelly-legs, but the creative ones—spitting up slugs or buck teeth or antler horns—are talked about for much longer. Always go for embarrassing over hurtful.”

Penelope looked excited but Theresa was horrified.

Perhaps not the best advice to give in front of someone’s mother. “There’s not much students can do to one another that the teachers aren’t capable of undoing,” she tried to reassure her.

“Were those hypothetical examples?”

“No, but we’re all good friends now.” Perhaps a bit of an exaggeration when it came to the Weasel, but it got the point across.

She turned back to Penelope. “If you ever do need assistance or a sympathetic ear, you can always ask Professor Longbottom. He happens to be a Gryffindor, but don’t hold it against him.”

“Longbottom?” Theresa asked carefully.

She smirked. “The herbology professor,” she said. “My husband.”

The bell to her shop ringing cut their conversation off.

Alicia Spinnet burst through the door in a frantic huff. “You were supposed to stay at Madam Malkin’s!”

She was their assigned ministry representative? No wonder none of them got along.

Theresa looked down her nose at her. “I wanted to find something that catered better to our tastes.”

Alicia noticed Pansy for the first time. Her eyes narrowed. “Has she been giving you any trouble?”

Theresa shot her an equally sharp look. “Pansy has been incredibly helpful.”

“A refreshing change,” Richard said.

Alicia screwed her jaw.

Oh, this was fun.

Richard wasn’t done. “Having someone actually answer all of our questions was much appreciated.”

Alicia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Griffiths, if this is about Hogwarts Houses, your daughter will be placed in the one that best fits her abilities,” she said. “No one House is better than another.” She could hardly say the last bit without cringing.

He gave her a long, assessing look. With a tap of his fingers on her countertop, he turned to Pansy with a triumphant grin. “She’s a Gryffindor, isn’t she?”

Pansy tried—unsuccessfully—to fight her smirk.

He nodded once, as if that was all the confirmation he needed. “Thought so,” he said proudly.

Alicia’s eyes narrowed. “And did Pansy Parkinson happen to explain the priorities of her house?”

Theresa straightened. “She was very forthcoming, even when she didn’t need to be.”

For a long moment, Alicia looked like she’d taken yet another bludger to the head.

Pansy doubled down on it. “And it’s Pansy Longbottom.”

Theresa turned to her, a hint of pity in her expression. “Is it not done in your culture to keep your maiden name or hyphenate?”

She tried not to smirk. “It’s not common, but not unheard of either.”

“Well.” Her face softened. “You must love him very much.”

It was difficult not to laugh or cringe. Although, he was certainly growing on her if Sunday was any indiction.

Something about her expression must have made Theresa believe her assessment. The other woman reached out and patted her hand. “I am glad you were able to find happiness.”

“Thank you.”

Alicia watched her, suspicion giving way to confusion. She let out a huff. “Well, if you have the uniform sorted, last is Ollivander’s for your wand.” She looked as if she was ready to be done with the lot of them.

Richard settled the business with Pansy. As he walked towards the door, he paused. “You said most dark witches and wizards came from Slytherin House,” he said. “The ones who didn’t. They were Gryffindors, weren’t they?”

Alicia screwed her jaw.

“Yes,” Pansy said.

“Thought so.” He winked at her before walking out the door Alicia held open for them.

Chapter Text

“How was the shop today?”

She glanced up from the mirror, taking in a long moment to drink in Neville’s half naked form as he grabbed clothes from the bedroom. He had a towel wrapped tightly around his waist and secured with his hand.

She wanted to lick the last few water droplets off his chest and see how much lower he’d let her taste, but he hadn’t made a move since their encounter on Sunday night so she distracted herself with continuing to get ready.

Apparently the Dumbledore’s Army crew was meeting for drinks and they were going.

“A muggle family came in,” she said in answer to his question.

He glanced up, confused.

“Their daughter just got her Hogwarts letter,” she said. “Apparently my shop was the first place they went that wasn’t ‘completely off it’s rocker’ and made them believe I was a muggleborn witch as well.”

His expression was guarded. “They probably meant it as a compliment.”

Oh, good. A small taste of righteous Gryffindor judgement before she was thrust into a crowd of it. “My goal is to merge wizarding and muggle fashions,” she said. “I’m hardly going to take being a welcoming place to muggles and muggleborns as an insult, Longbottom.”

“Right,” he said. “Sorry.”

She went back to touching-up her makeup.

He cleared his throat and left the room with his clothes.

Shortly after the Griffiths left, she’d closed for lunch and spent an hour at St. Mungo’s. The charmed headband had worked perfectly. It shrunk to a comfortable snugness around Alice’s hairline and completely covered both ears. Like the towel the healers used, the headband immediately absorbed and dried any water that came into contact with it.

Under the watchful eye of Margaret and Olivia, she’d completed the entire routine. Alice hadn’t just been calm the entire time, anytime Pansy combed or brushed her hair, she seemed to relax further and further into the routine. Not only had Margaret been impressed enough to offer her to come back anytime, they’d asked if she would sell more of the headbands to St. Mungo’s for other patients with water aversions.

She wasn’t sure why she still wasn’t telling Neville. It was his mother and yet…why a nearly catatonic woman would benefit from having her hair treated and styled felt like something he wouldn’t understand.

She finished her routine and then selected her shoes. Walking into the lion’s den required nothing less than five inches.

Neville was in the living room, dressed and ready, reading again. She never would have guessed him to be as academic as Hermione, but she hardly saw him do anything else at home.

Toeing over a footstool, she propped up her foot and began fastening the straps of her heels.

That caused his eyes to drift up from the book. She felt his gaze like a burning trail up the exposed skin on her leg. Her skirt was long enough to hide anything, but short enough to entice.

When she switched legs to fasten the other heel, she saw his nostrils flare and it took everything in her to hide her smug smirk.

“Do you still have the dress you wore to the Three Broomsticks?”

She pretended not to know what he meant. “I’ve worn lots of dresses to the Three Broomsticks.”

“The night you came to seduce me.”

She straightened. “I was not trying to seduce you.”

He smirked. “No? You genuinely have an interest in doing a herbology tour of Eastern Argentina?”

She crossed her arms. “Expressing an interest to travel to Argentina and intending to hire a guide who knows the magical flora and fauna is hardly a seduction, Longbottom.”

His smirk only turned more smug. “Okay.” He picked his book back up.

“I burnt it.”

He glanced up. “What?”

“The dress,” she said. “I burnt it.”

He looked appalled. “Why?”

She gave him a condescending look. “And be seen in the same thing twice? How gauche.”

He frowned. “How wasteful,” he said. “You could have at least—”

Always so quick to think the worst of her. “When I came home that night, Ivan told me to wear it for Pedro when he arrived because he knew his friend would like the look of me in it.”

His face twisted.

She adjusted the folds of her current dress. “Didn’t exactly feel like something I wanted to keep after that.”

His expression was pained.

Before he could do something stupid like apologize, she gave him a bright smile. “Ready?”

He rose and held out his arm to apparate together.

The apparation point was in a dark alley. Neville spun her so her back was pressed against the brick wall and leaned over her.

Her heart started pounding. As much as she didn’t want to mess up her hair or makeup, he hadn’t kissed her since the wedding. She wanted to know how much of it she’d imagined and how much was real.

“Shame about that dress,” he said, voice low. “I really liked it on you.”

The way his presence twisted her up was the only excuse for what came out of her mouth next. “I designed it for you.”

He smiled down at her. “So you were trying to seduce me.”

“Shame it didn’t work.”

His smile spread. “I wouldn’t say that.”

She studied him, trying to figure out what he meant. Had he actually wanted her that night? If it hadn’t been for all of the disgraced families trying to gain advantage by going after DA members, would she have been successful?

He pushed himself back from her and held out his arm. “Come on.”

Still a bundle of want and need and confusion, she followed him into the bar, pretending to be unaffected.

The DA was towards the back. Alicia was already there, facing away from the entrance and deep in conversation with George and Angelina. She appeared to be ranting about something. As they got closer, both George and Angelina saw the two of them but aside from trading a smirk, neither acknowledged them.

When they were close enough to hear Alicia, it was clear why.

“So then the posh bastards take her side against me,” she said. “Muggleborns. Choosing Pansy. Fucking. Parkinson. Over me.”

She leaned over the booth with a bright smirk. “That’s Pansy fucking Longbottom.”

Alicia practically jumped out of her seat. Angelina and George burst out laughing.

Pansy glanced over her shoulder and made a show of winking at Neville. “Officially, even.”

He was fighting his own smirk, but shot her a warning look.

Across the table, George and Angelina both shook with suppressed laughter. Alicia glared at both of them.

“You could have warned me,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Where’s the fun in that?” George asked.

Pansy slid into the seat next to Alicia right as Liam came over with drinks. She intercepted Alicia’s, took a sip, and immediately made a face. “Oh, you can have that.” She passed it back to her and turned to Liam. “I’ll take my usual.”

Neville placed his order, along with a replacement drink for Alicia, and then gave his half-embarrassed, half-furious friend a smile. “Hey, Alicia,” he said. “How’s work?”

Angelina pressed a hand to her mouth to hide her laughter. Moments later, she winced as if someone kicked her underneath the table.

“One of the families I was assigned this year is a bit much, that’s all.” She glared at Pansy. “I can’t believe you were starting to teach her hexes.”

Neville turned to her with what she could only assume was his disapproving professor expression.

Sweet Circe. What would she have to do to get him to use that on her in the bedroom?

“I did not teach her any hexes,” she said. “I informed her that using hexes could get her kicked out of school.”

Alicia scoffed. “So the fact that she spent the rest of the day asking me for the jelly-legs jinx and leg-locking curse was coincidence?”

She gave her a small smile. “The fact that she didn’t know the incantations is proof that I didn’t teach her anything,” she said. “I only mentioned those as examples of hexes to use that don’t cause lasting harm.”

Alicia snorted. “How Slytherin.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Because you never casted magic you weren’t allowed to use at school?”

Nothing but proud smirks met her comment.

Gryffindor hypocrisy.

Liam returned with their drinks as another crop of DA members arrived. Neville scooted over until his thigh was pressed against hers and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

She’d accidentally been to enough of these mini-reunions with Hermione to know exactly how much of an unwanted outsider she was with this crew.

But Neville making such a physical, public claim on her centered her just a little bit. Even if it was pretend, knowing at least one person actually wanted her there took her off the defense just enough that it was easier to pretend to be pleasant.

When Liam returned with their drinks and took orders from the new arrivals, Neville leaned down to whisper in her ear. His head was turned so no one could see his lips moving, creating their own small moment of intimacy.

“Be nice tonight and don’t have more than one drink.”

The sensuous promise in his voice sent a shiver down her spine.

She glanced up at him through her lashes. “Or what?”

With a small smirk, he leaned back down again. “You shouldn’t be asking what happens if you don’t, you should be asking what happens if you do.”

He pressed a kiss to the skin right by her ear and her toes curled inside her shoes. Being told what to do immediately made her want to do the exact opposite, but Neville’s comment about earning a reward had been running though her mind since Sunday.

Her internal debate was cut off by the arrival of Draco and Hermione.

Her friend immediately squealed and made Neville and Pansy switch seats so she could sit next to her. “I want to hear all about the shop! How have the first few days gone?”

They got more than one side eye—as she usually did whenever someone in this crowd was reminded Hermione was actually friends with her—but she ignored them.

“A muggle family came in today.”

She gasped and her face immediately lit up. “Did they really? What did they think?”

Across the table, she heard Alicia snort. She grinned. “Apparently it was the first place they went that ‘wasn’t completely off it’s rocker.’”

Hermione giggled. “Oh, gods, that’s something my dad would have said.”

“But they found it delightful and made them assume that I was a muggleborn witch as well.”

She beamed. “See? I told you that you could do it!”

Something in her softened at Hermione’s bright excitement and immediate trust that Pansy saw those words as a compliment, not an insult. “What is it with muggles and pointed hats and flying on broomsticks?”

A sheepish smirk came to her face. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “What did they say?”

“Well, she thought the pointed hat was ‘a little on the nose’ and seemed alarmed by the broomstick but the two in conjunction was really seemed to throw her.”

She sniggered a little bit. “The stereotypical view muggles have of witches is that they wear pointed hats and fly on broomsticks.”

She eyed her friend. “We do wear pointed hats and fly on broomsticks.”

“Right.” Hermione rubbed her forehead. “It’s like a connotation thing? I guess?”

“They’re also usually green and have warts,” Dennis Creevey added.

Pansy stared at him. “Why?”

“That’s from a children’s fantasy novel written in the early 1900’s,” Hermione said. “There was a wicked witch who was green and had warts and flew on a broomstick and wore a pointed hat.”

“Don’t forget the flying monkeys,” Dennis said.

“Flying monkeys?” Pansy repeated. Was this more muggle mythology she’d never heard of before? That sounded like something Loony Lovegood would make up.

“It was a fantasy tale made up for children.” A flash of annoyance crossed Hermione’s face. “It was also a statement about American politics at the time but that part isn’t important, it just became a cultural thing. Like if someone is being particularly nasty, someone will ask them where’s their broomstick and it’s like a way to say they’re being a wicked witch.”

She started at her for several heartbeats. “What?”

Hermione let out a huff. “We’ll watch the movie together.”

“I thought you said it was a book.”

“Yes,” she said. “It was turned into a movie.”

“I didn’t realize muggle cinema was that advanced.”

“They don’t literally turn the book into a movie, they build sets and have actors act out the book and film it and show it to audiences.”

It sounded like an awful lot of extra work when the book was already available but she let that bit go for now. “So they thought I was saying their daughter was going to end up a dark witch?”

“No, that’s just one example, and the only time they were said to be green,” Hermione said. “Muggle depictions of witches dating back to the Middle Ages show them wearing pointed hats and flying on broomsticks. The more common descriptions are frizzy hair and brewing things in cauldrons.”

Her gaze darted up to her friend’s bushy mane. She leaned forward. “Hermione, we don’t all have frizzy hair, you can brush yours once in a while and still fit in—”

“Oh, piss off, Parkinson,” she snapped.

“Longbottom,” Neville corrected.

Pansy giggled as Hermione rolled her eyes. “So you being scared of brooms is just a you thing, not a muggleborn thing?”

“Yes,” she said with a forlorn sigh.

“Plenty of muggleborns play professional quidditch,” Ginny Weasley said, her voice loud enough to carry to the entire table. “Pansy, are you saying they shouldn’t?”

The conversation around the table faded as everyone turned towards them. Weaslette’s eyes were sharp, preparing for a fight.

Pansy smiled, ready to give her one. “Oh, of course not,” she said. “I’m just saying that with quidditch being such a noble and dignified pastime—”

Neville pinched her side right as Hermione started to speak over her.

“That’s not what she was saying.” She rounded on Pansy. “And don’t egg her go.”

If only to find out whatever Neville had in mind for the evening, she took a drink of her wine instead of responding.

“Pansy was asking about what muggles think of flying after a family came into her shop today,” Hermione said.

Pansy propped her chin up on her hand and smiled. “Were’s your broomstick today, Weasley?”

Her eyes narrowed further.

Neville pinched her side again, hitting a particularly ticklish spot that made her squirm and giggle. “That’s two,” he murmured.

“How many do I get?” she murmured back.

“Two.”

She smirked and sipped her wine before turning back to Hermione. “Anyway, aside from that, they were very lovely.”

Alicia snorted again.

“I spent a little extra time answering some questions that their ministry representative refused to answer—”

Alicia banged her palm on the table. “I answered every single question I’m allowed to!”

Her eyebrows arched. “You aren’t allowed to tell them the main traits of each house?”

“They’re not supposed to influence them in any direction,” Hermione said.

“Fine, then at least give them a print out with the basic values of each house,” she said. “They deserve to go into it knowing something more than just the names. All the children raised in magical homes do.”

A thoughtful look crossed Hermione’s face and she nodded slowly.

“You immediately swayed them towards Slytherin,” Alicia said.

Pansy scoffed. “I can’t help where they immediately identified.”

She rolled her eyes.

She arched an eyebrow. “Like you didn’t meet them and instantly think that family screamed Slytherin.”

She took a large swallow of her drink in lieu of answering.

“You think she’s going to be a Slytherin?” Hermione asked.

“If she isn’t, I’ll lose any last semblance of trust that there’s justice in this world and deeply pity the housemates of wherever she is mistakenly placed.”

Penelope would do well in Ravenclaw but it would be no match for her ambition.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Hermione said. She grinned at Pansy. “I’m glad she met you.”

She beamed at her friend. “Me too.”

The conversation moved away from muggleborns and Pansy’s shop. She sat back and listened instead of participating in most of it. They reshuffled a number of times as more and more trickled in, but Neville’s arm never left her shoulders. His hand traced idle designs on her shoulder, upper arm, driving her to distraction.

“So how’s the shop?”

She glanced up, not realizing she’d ended up next to George Weasley on their latest arrangement. “It hasn’t been a full week yet, but so far it seems to be going well.”

He glanced across the way at Alicia, smirking ever so slightly. “Sounds like you made a good impression on the muggles today.”

She took a small sip of her ever-dwindling wine. “That’s the goal.”

He eyed her like he wasn’t quite sure how to figure her out.

Merlin. Was everyone just waiting for her to start screaming “death to muggles” every time she turned around?

“Thank you for calling the aurors last week,” she said.

That seemed to surprise him even more. “Yeah,” he said. “Shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry, Pansy.”

She shrugged.

“Any word yet?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” she said. “Not exactly holding my breath.”

He eyed her for a few moments, then a gleam entered his eyes. “Want me to donate a few items to your security?”

She laughed once. “The goal is to limit damage to the store.”

He smirked. “Always fun to get them worse than they got you.”

“Hermione helped with the new wards,” she said. “I have a feeling that’ll be the case regardless.”

He chuckled. “She scares me more than Ginny.”

Neither witch was to be underestimated. She’d wondered for a while if Ginny had been the one to curse her with antlers, but she’d definitely have taken credit for it by now.

“What you’re doing, though, it’s important,” George said. “For more than just the posh Slytherin types too.”

The fact that George Weasley could sit there and say that to her meant maybe others would start to see it too. “Thanks.”

“Some of the older shopkeepers get a bit territorial when new places open,” he said. “Especially if it’s a new concept.”

Opening a joke shop as the war was getting worse had been a controversial move. The place had been ransacked more than once after the Weasleys had gone into hiding, but somehow George had brought it back better than ever, even while mourning his brother.

“All that to say, I’m glad to have you there,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Pansy, another drink?”

She glanced up at Liam. “No, thank you.”

Next to her, Neville squeezed her shoulder and shot her a look of smug satisfaction before he turned back to his conversation with Loony Lovegood and her husband.

She’d thought that would have been an indication she was ready to leave.

Instead, they sat there for another hour and a half. When she was ready to crawl out of her skin and was about to order an entire bottle of wine and go through every sassy comeback and snide remark she’d withheld the entire night, Neville finally announced they were leaving.

There was a chorus of complaints, but he reminded them all he had a class of first years to teach in the morning and extracted them from the booth.

“You were quiet tonight,” he said on the walk to the alley.

“My version of being nice.”

He smirked. “And you only had one glass of wine.”

She sighed. “And why was that, may I ask?”

Slipping into the alley, he pushed her up against the brick wall. He leaned over her, overwhelming all her senses. “Because I wanted you completely sober for what I want to do to you.”

Her breath caught.

His eyes darted over her face, drinking her in. “Can I kiss you?”

“Neville Longbottom, when I say that you have my full permission to do whatever the fuck you want to me tonight—”

He cut her off with his lips. This was not the sweet kiss from their wedding.

This was a claiming.

A fierce, passionate devouring that left her desperate and wanting more. More of Neville, more of his lips and tongue and fingers.

He broke the kiss just long enough for his lips to move across her jaw, down her neck.

Using the brick wall as support, she wrapped her leg around his waist, pulling him closer, and ground her hips against his, feeling every hard inch of him.

His low groan was her reward and then next she knew they were spinning, apparating back into his bedroom.

Seeming to regain some of his control, though if the lust in his eyes was any indication he was barely holding onto it, he stepped back from her. “Strip and get on the bed.”

Magic could have her clothes off in seconds, but if this was going to be her only chance to torment Longbottom back, she was going to take her time.

She slowly slid her robes off one arm at a time. Reaching behind for the zipper of her dress, she pulled it down and let her dress fall and puddle on the ground at her feet.

His gaze darkened as he drank her in, standing there in only her shoes, thigh highs, and lingerie. Placing a foot on the bed, she unclasped her shoe and then rolled down her stocking down inch by inch. She repeated the tease on her other leg until she was left in her bra and panties.

Those came off as well.

“Bed,” Neville growled, pulling back the covers with a flick of his wand.

She positioned herself in the center, propped up on her elbows, and watched as he shrugged out of his robes. The cufflinks she’d picked out were tossed carelessly to the floor before he rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows.

He’d worn the charcoal trousers and matching waistcoat with a royal blue shit. Seeing him completely dressed save for those deliciously exposed forearms made her melt into the bed.

“Why am I naked and you aren’t?”

He crawled up on the bed, covering her body with his own. “So I don’t forget and take this too far.”

Before she could gloat about wrecking his self control, he clasped both her hands in his and pushed them above her head. Leaning down, his lips found hers in another harsh, claiming kiss. As if he was half as desperate for her as she was for him.

Even fully restrained, either by his hands pinning her hands to the bed above her head or his body flattened against hers, she relished the power she had over him. The tiny cracks in his control that revealed exactly how much he wanted her.

His hands stayed locked around hers, not touching or drifting to anything she was freely offering. Arching her back, she tried to force more contact but he had her completely pinned.

He kissed her until she was dizzy and delirious with need before sitting back on his knees. With a flourish of his wand, red ribbon burst from the tip. It split into two, each piece wrapping around one of her wrists and then around the bedposts, tying her down.

Stepping back from the bed, he repeated it on either foot. The stain was soft against her skin, but none of the ribbons so much as budged when she tried to move.

She was now completely naked, bound spread-eagle to Neville Longbottom’s bed.

She’d never been so turned on in her life.

Neville’s hungry gaze drifted slowly over her body before his eyes met hers with a satisfied smirk on his face. “Since you enjoy ribbon so much.”

“Not when it’s red.”

His smirk spread. He waved his wand again and this time thinner gold ribbon burst out, laying over the red ribbons already binding her.

If her vulnerable position and the smugness on his face wasn’t making her melt she would have rolled her eyes. “I take it I should add humiliation to your list of kinks?”

“Not really,” he said. “Might have made school more fun for me if it was, though.”

A startled laugh burst from her.

He crawled back over her, covering her body with his but not touching. None of the ribbons gave so much as an inch as she tried to move towards him.

His lips slid across her neck. “But it felt only fair, considering that it’s Gryffindor night.”

She bit back her moan as his teeth scraped her earlobe. “Does that mean you’ll do this again tomorrow with green and silver—” her question ended on more of a gasp as he gave her the smallest bite against her neck.

“Only if you’re very good.”

With his hand skimming the skin of her ribcage just beneath her breasts, she would have promised him almost anything in the moment.

“You remember what you say if you want this to stop?” he murmured into her skin.

“Mercy.”

“Good girl.”

His hand slid higher, cupping her breast in his hand. He let out a low groan, then pulled back until his fingers were tracing the lightest of circles across her skin. They grazed over her nipple and she let out a small cry as he pinched her. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but enough to send a sharp jolt straight to her clit.

The rate at which he switched from gentle to rough left her anticipating every single touch.

He kissed a trail down her neck to her other breast and started doing things with his tongue that had her writhing beneath him—at least as much as his ribbons would allow. Being forced to just lie there, helpless to do anything but take what he gave her, was the sweetest form of torture.

When he finally lifted his head, she almost came at the smug look of pure arrogance. Instead of doing anything about the burning ache between her legs, he kissed his way to her other breast and began his delicious torment of that one while his fingers worked her other.

Fuck.

None of her previous partners ever spent enough time on her breasts. A few quick squeezes for their own satisfaction and then onto getting her off as quickly as possible in order to have the favor repaid.

Because she never, ever gave a man an orgasm until she’d had one first. Not since Draco, anyway, but she didn’t count that disastrous part of her life.

But Neville…

Neville wasn’t just taking his time.

He was worshiping her breasts in a way that made her believe she could come from that alone.

The scratch of his teeth had her back bowing and then he did something with his tongue that made her see starts.

“Merlin, Neville!” she gasped.

His hand pinched her other nipple and she yanked at the ribbons. “You’re not going anywhere, Princess,” he murmured into her skin. “Not until I’m done with you.”

She was practically throbbing with need. “Please.”

He raised his head, smug arrogance back. “Please stop? Or more?”

“More,” she gasped. “Please, more.”

“Good girl.”

She nearly sobbed as he worked his way down her body, kissing and touching and building her higher and higher.

When he had those delicious shoulders between her thighs, she moaned. Even with the ribbons tying her down, he put a firm hand on either one of her thighs as he learned forward and pressed his tongue against her in one long, slow lick.

If she’d been able to move more than half an inch, it would have launched her off the bed. “Fuck!”

“Not tonight,” Neville said before he started use to use his tongue on her clit the exact same way he had on her nipple.

He freed one of her thighs to reach up and roll her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Her orgasm was building, coming faster and harder than she’d ever experienced in her entire life. Right as she felt the beginnings of it erupting through her, Neville pulled away.

She almost screamed as it faded before it even started.

Neville smirked up at her.

“Bastard,” she gasped.

She yelped as he pinched her nipple, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she panted. “Just don’t…don’t stop.”

With another smirk, he went back to tormenting her with his mouth. This time, it was rough and hard and she felt her orgasm barreling towards her in seconds.

Forcing herself to remain perfectly still, she tried not to let her body betray her so he didn’t have a chance to stop another one.

Just as she felt the swift rush of it beginning to hit her, he stopped.

She let out a cry of frustration as his lips ghosted over the skin of her inner thighs.

“Neville, please.”

His mouth moved back to her clit, this time soft and slow and almost sweet like he was savoring every kiss.

It was as if he wanted to find every way he could make her come, all without actually letting her do so.

This time when he pulled back right before she could come, she let out a sob. “Please,” she said. “Please don’t stop.”

She could feel his smile against her inner thigh. “Oh, Princess,” he said. “I could do this all night.”

As he started kissing her again, she realized he would. Keep leading her to the edge, over and over again without ever actually getting her off.

Again and again he tormented her, until she lost count of how many orgasms he’d denied her. Despite the ribbons, he was back to holding her down with both hands as he feasted on her as she fought and writhed against him, desperate for anything to finally take her over.

She sobbed, cheeks wet with tears as he denied her yet another one. “Please, please—”

He kissed a trail up her inner thigh. “Please what?”

“Please make me come,” she begged. “Please.”

He raised his head to look at her. His lips and chin glistened obscenely from how wet he’d made her. “Had enough, Princess?”

“Please, Neville.” She didn’t care how desperate she sounded, how much he was making her beg.

He moved his hand, thrumming her clit with his thumb and she almost screamed. It wasn’t enough. “I can’t tell you how much I fucking love making you beg.”

“Please,” she sobbed.

He pulled his thumb away and she sobbed again.

Then his mouth was back there, tongue teasing her clit like he had the very first time. She sobbed again, this time in relief.

He’d kept her so close to the edge that she was right there. Her orgasm barreled towards her, only this time he swirled his tongue and then sucked, barreling her straight over the side.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware she was screaming as she came—wave after wave of the most intense pleasure she’d ever felt in her entire life. She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel anything other than Neville’s mouth and the overwhelming pleasure he was forcing from her body.

He didn’t stop, continuing to carry her through each wave until she collapsed back, sobbing and shaking and unable to take any more.

She panted as she stared at the ceiling as Neville finally released her. Something between a laugh and a sob bubbled from her lips.

Fuck.

She had never, ever felt anything like that before in her entire life.

The sound of a belt unbuckling and zipper had her looking back up. Neville was kneeling between her spread thighs, gripping himself in his hand.

She pulled at the ribbons. “Let me touch you.”

He leaned over her, pumping himself with one hand as the other landed next to her head.

“I don’t think you’ve earned that privilege yet.”

She moaned as he kissed her, his lips and tongue harsh against her mouth. She could taste herself on his lips, could feel his hard and rather impressive length against her stomach as he pumped himself.

Then he was gasping as he came, covering her chest in his warm, sticky come.

With a stifled groan, he collapsed next to her, panting for breath. When he managed to catch it, he looked back at her, still bound and covered in his come, and laughed once. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

Grabbing his wand, he finally severed the ribbons binding her down. He gathered her into his chest without a care for the mess all over her and rubbed her back in slow, steady strokes.

She’d never been cuddler, but she melted into Neville, breathing in his familiar scent and letting him just hold her.

After a few minutes, he vanished the mess and summoned a glass of water for her. She sipped it, watching him. The wave of vulnerability hit her again, not quite as sharp as last time.

“I don’t remember you being this good at non-verbal spells in school.” Her voice was hoarse. Probably would be for a few days after the abuse he’d put her throat through.

Not that she would trade anything for another one of those life-changing orgasms.

Fuck.

How was she ever supposed to find another partner who compared once this was over between them?

No.

There was no chance in hell that Neville Fucking Longbottom had ruined her for other men.

Neville spun his wand in his hands. “For the first five years at school, I was using my dad’s old wand,” he said. “Ash with dragon heartstring.”

She immediately frowned. “Ash wands rarely take to new owners.”

He nodded once. “Gran’s theory was that if I could be just like my dad, the wand would accept me.”

She stared at him for several heartbeats. “While not as bad as mine—which is saying very little because that’s quite a low standard—your family is a little bit fucked up, Longbottom.”

He exhaled in a sharp huff that could have been either agreement or disagreement. Perhaps both. “What happened to my parents…it was pretty traumatic for all my relatives,” he said. “None of them believed that Voldemort was truly gone, or that Bellatrix would stay locked up, and they were terrified that I would be targeted.”

Losing both his parents at such a young age was deeply traumatic for a fifteen month old as well.

“That’s why they were so worried I was a squib,” he said. “If my parents, who were both incredibly powerful aurors who’d defied Voldemort three times, could be…you know…then I needed to be better and stronger than them both.”

That was ridiculous. “Is that how they defended themselves?”

“After fourth year, when Harry saw Voldemort come back, Uncle Algie apologized,” he said. “For all of it. He gave me my mimbulus mimbletonia and told me that war was coming and we needed to be ready but that I didn’t need to lose myself along the way and that he was proud of me.”

Seemed about seven years too late but Neville seemed moved so she decided not to argue.

She glanced over at Mimby sitting on the nightstand. If they were going to do this again, she probably needed to be moved to another room.

“Anyway, Dad’s wand got snapped during the battle at the Department of Mysteries,” he said. “I had to get a new one. I assumed it would be chestnut since those are preferred by herbologists but this one chose me instead.”

“Alder, right?”

He nodded. “Unicorn hair core.”

While alder itself was an unyielding wood, they typically chose helpful, considerate, and likable owners. Combining that with the consistency and faithfulness of a unicorn hair and it wasn’t hard to see why this one chose Neville.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like I did when I first held it,” he said. “It took me most of sixth year to relearn a lot but stuff came easier than it ever had before.”

Because he’d actually had a wand that accepted him.

“They’re pretty wicked at non-verbal spells,” he said. “Really came in handy seventh year against the Carrows.”

He was lucky he hadn’t gotten himself killed.

He turned to grin at her. “And now it’s fun to keep you on your toes if you don’t know what I’m doing.”

A small smirk tugged her lips. “As long as it’s you, I don’t really seem to mind it.” The words feel from her lips without actually thinking about the weight of them.

Neville simply grinned. “Good, because I have a lot more ideas when it comes to you, Princess.”

She tucked her head into his shoulder.

His arm tightened around her waist and he kissed her forehead. “I’m proud of you, Pansy.”

The praise wrapped around her like a warm, beloved blanket.

“The shop, your goals, all of it,” he said. “I just…I thought you should know.”

She pressed her face into his shirt, inhaling the warm, comforting smells of wet earth and soap and the spicy hint of firewhiskey.

Comfort and spice.

Completely Neville.

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

“Alright, Alice, all done.” Pansy slid the headband off her head and fluffed her neatly dried hair.

After four weeks, every bald spot had completely filled in. Even with the magical properties of the serum, the new growth was only an inch and a half long at most, but she hoped by Christmas she’d be able to trim her hair to one complete length.

She came three times a week, during her lunch hour on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Closing for an entire hour three times a week wasn’t the soundest business model—August was one of the busiest shopping months, second only to December—but she found she actually enjoyed the time with Alice.

She didn’t have to pretend to be nice or force herself to smile to please customers. After the success of the headband she’d made, no one questioned her or argued with her. No one made snide comments about her family history or compared their blood status with hers and pointed out that she was now waiting on them.

Those moments were few and far between, but they left a bad taste in her mouth. Customer service was never going to be her strength, but it took time to build a reputation strong enough that she could get away with being herself.

Which was to say, go back to being a bitch.

The time at St. Mungo’s seemed to benefit Alice too. It was subtle, but she seemed calmer and more relaxed after their time together.

Proof that good hair was sometimes more than just hair.

What had initially taken her almost the full hour to do, she could now easily get done in half the time. She might even have a chance to stop at a cafe for a real meal now that she’d gotten so efficient.

Margaret had noticed as well. “You know, we have wheeled chairs you can use to take her to the courtyard,” she said. “Make the full use of your time with her.”

What was she supposed to say? No, that’s okay, I’m not actually here to spend time with her I just want her to look nice because I’m as vapid and vain as everyone thinks me to be?

“Won’t she…she gets anxious if she’s not near Frank, right?”

She thought she remembered Neville or Augusta saying something like that.

“Not for short bursts.” Margaret was already scrambling to her feet. “Plus, she trusts you. I think you’re her favorite.”

A sinking feeling entered her gut. She had no right being this woman’s favorite. But before she could think of an excuse, Margaret brought over with the chair and gave her instructions and that was how she found herself in the blessedly empty courtyard with her nearly catatonic mother-in-law.

With nothing else to do, she pushed Alice over to one of the benches and parked her there while she sat.

There had been a bit of a mid-September chill in the air that morning, but it had brightened up to a beautiful warm fall day. It would be too cold to sit outside without warming charms before long.

Alice turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes.

“Down to our last few nice days.” She winced. How asinine could she be?

Years of training on how to properly converse and all she could bring up was the weather. In reality, the training was how to properly hide insults and barbs and build yourself and your family up while tearing the other woman down but under the veneer of civility.

It was no wonder Daphne Greengrass was her only girl friend at Hogwarts. No one else was able to keep up.

Although, this wasn’t exactly a conversation.

The rest of her classmates that didn’t undergo proper pureblood training would probably be dumbfounded that the opportunity to prattle on to someone about whatever she wanted while they were forced to listen and couldn’t respond wasn’t her favorite pastime.

Thinking of her old classmates brought a grin to her face. “I made a new friend this fall, well, customers too, but we’ve been regularly corresponding.”

Odd as Richard and Theresa had found it at first, they’d returned to Diagon to purchase an owl so they could correspond with her directly instead of through Alicia Spinnet, something all four of them found vastly preferable. Theresa and Pansy exchanged letters at least once a week.

“Their daughter just started at Hogwarts this year,” she said. “The first muggleborn in history to be sorted into Slytherin.”

The news still brought a smile to her face. “Neville swears he saw the Sorting Hat smirk the moment it touched her head,” she said. “Apparently it barely took anytime to decide.”

The Welcome Feast was always a late night, but she’d waited up until Neville got home to hear the news. She’d never been so excited about another person’s placement.

She was going to write to Theresa immediately, but Neville had stopped her before she could take three steps and caught her lips in a searing kiss.

Spinning them, he’d pressed her against the wall of the living room. He’d pinned her hands over her head against the wall and locked them there with a sticking charm.

Then he’d slid his hand up her dress, vanished her knickers, and pressed the cold metal of his ring directly to her clit.

She shivered at the memory of his lips ghosting against her ear.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been imagining giving you a real reason to stare at my ring, Princess.”

Then he’d made her come on it twice—until her knees gave out—and carried her to bed.

She’d certainly never be able to think about that blasted ring the same way again. He could make the fucking thing vibrate, for Salazar’s sake.

Alice shifted and heat flooded Pansy’s cheeks. “Merlin, I’m so sorry.” Sitting next to her mother-in-law was the last place to be fantasizing about Neville. If he wasn’t so damn distracting and skilled at knowing exactly what to do to her body, it’d be easier to keep him out of her thoughts.

“Augusta and Neville are a lot better at this than I am.”

There. The mention of Augusta was enough to kill even the best fantasy she could make up about Neville.

At least she always knew exactly what to say when they were with Frank and Alice.

There wasn’t much Augusta wasn’t good at doing. Although, the witch struck her as the type of person who would either dismiss or not acknowledge anything in which she didn’t excel, and Merlin save anyone who made the mistake of pointing it out to her.

“Were you scared of her too?”

Alice blinked.

“Right, sorry,” she said. “Gryffindor. I forgot.”

Granger would probably take this moment to point out that bravery didn’t mean never being scared, but running headfirst into an absolutely idiotic stunt even when you were terrified.

She was editorializing, obviously.

“I’m sure you were scared, that day,” she said, her voice low and soft. “For Frank. For Neville.”

Alice’s gaze drifted across the courtyard. Lingering on certain things, but her face showed no reaction.

“I’m sorry you never got to see him grow into the man he is.”

Not in the same sense, anyway.

“You’d love him.” Another stupid thing to say. “Of course you would, you’re his mother.”

All mothers loved their children. The good ones, anyway.

She thought of the pictures of the smiling witch in photos. Clapping with Neville. Cheering as he took his first steps. Kissing his chubby little cheeks. Always laughing, always smiling. Not in the fake, poised for photos way, but with true joy.

Alice Longbottom had been one of the best.

“He keeps them,” she said. “The gum wrappers.”

Again, no flicker of recognition.

“In a box in his closet,” she said. “Probably every one you’ve ever given him. I just…I just thought you should know.”

There was a lot she should know about her son. It should have been firsthand, not idiotically recounted to her from her son’s fake wife in the empty courtyard of St. Mungo’s.

Doing Alice’s hair was one thing. Actually trying to share details about Neville’s life was another. Merlin, she’d bullied him almost nonstop the first six years she’d known him.

Seventh year had just been about survival, for both of them.

Friendship with Granger aside, she hadn’t exactly gone out of her way to interact with any of the Dumbledore’s Army crowd post-war.

Even now, married and living together, she wasn’t even sure if they actually liked each other. Had fun together, sure. Easily the best lay she’d ever had.

Not something she’d share with his mother, altered mental state or no.

But as for knowing him…he held things close to the chest.

It was no wonder she constantly wanted to jump his bones. Strong, silent type with defined shoulders was basically her dream man.

Not that Neville Fucking Longbottom was her dream man. His job was manual labor and his clothing choices were atrocious. But there was enough of her ideal man that made him…interesting, at least.

She wondered if Alice ever questioned Frank’s clothing choices. The pictures of her showed a fashionable, elegant witch. It was hard to believe she hadn’t had something to say about all of Frank’s hideous jumpers.

Alice began fidgeting. She tapped the wheels of the chair.

“Okay, Alice.” She rose. “Let’s get you back to Frank.”

Hideous jumpers meant very little in the end, it seemed.

A witch in a delightful emerald green ensemble was waiting on her stoop as she returned. She tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder and Pansy smirked.

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry but we don’t have any donations for the poorhouse today.”

Her sharp blue eyes narrowed into a glare.

“I could happily direct you to the nearest food kitchen.”

Daphne smirked. “I forgot what a bitch you can be when you’re jealous.” She gestured to her outfit. “Upset you didn’t think of it first?”

She immediately recognized it as the fall line from a new Italian designer. She’d seen the mockups for it and it had looked hideous. The man had insisted it looked brilliant once a witch was wearing it.

She hated that he’d been right.

Of course, Daphne had made a few strategic changes to it, making it something worth wearing.

Pansy smiled. “Oh, if you like the dowdy traditional look, it’s perfect.”

Her mind was already spinning about how to rework some of the ideas and add some muggle influences to bring into her spring line.

A fresh, bright green reminiscent of the first daffodil shoots. Drop the tapered waist, take out some of the fullness of the skirt. Higher neckline but use the fun muggle off-the-shoulder look. It would scandalize the old set.

She loved it.

“Going to let me in?” Daphne asked.

“You’re lucky I don’t have an appointment for another hour.”

A wave of her wand disarmed the wards and allowed her and Daphne to step into the shop.

Daphne’s cool gaze swept over the place. “It’s lovely, Pans.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s the air of possibility, I think,” she said. “You have enough options for suggestion but not enough to prevent those looking for custom work to be overwhelmed.”

Daphne’s approval wasn’t given lightly.

“It’s inspired by high-end muggle fashion stores.”

She blinked. “You’ve been to one?”

“With Granger.” The two had spoken French so Pansy hadn’t revealed just how out of place she was. Still, it had been a fun change. And since Granger got to practice her French, she hadn’t been an aggravating swot the entire time complaining about fashion.

“Right.” Daphne glanced back around the space. “Well, muggles certainly did this better than us.” Her expression was soft, wistful. Someone who was still battling the conditioning of their youth against the logic of their new world.

At least she was trying.

Certainly much more than many of their old housemates could say. Even the ones not in Azkaban.

“Did you buy or lease?” Daphne asked.

“Buy.” Not many were willing to lease to the child of a former death eater. She wasn’t about to risk her carefully built business to someone who would throw her out the next time anyone got their knickers in a twist about her attempts to move on from her father.

“Are the living quarters above absolutely dreadful?” she asked. “I’ve heard they can be a disaster.”

“The second floor is my studio,” she said. “Haven’t had need of the third floor apartment since I moved into Neville’s place in Hogsmeade.”

Daphne glanced at her. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

She eyed her. “I was…surprised when I saw the announcement in the Prophet.”

A fishing expedition, but she refused to take the bait. “Many were.”

Daphne stepped to admire the shelves that were part display, part art. “Do you have an assistant? Anyone who works with you?”

“Not at the moment.”

She nodded as if she expected that. “You lost at least three customers during your lunch break.”

Merlin, she was sick of the posturing. “What do you want, Daphne?”

She turned to face her, all pretense gone. It was then that Pansy noticed the tightness around her eyes, the extra layer of makeup covering dark circles. The nervous energy her friend was trying so hard to hide.

She straightened. “Are you in trouble?”

She waved her hand. “Nothing like that.” She sighed. “Well, Tori is. Or she will be.”

There were no lengths Daphne wouldn’t go for her little sister. Guilt, perhaps, that the old Greengrass family blood curse skipped Daphne and latched onto Astoria.

Daphne had broken down after Astoria had one of her fits at school and confessed the entire thing to Pansy. To her knowledge, no one else outside the Greengrass family knew of it. Wouldn’t do to ruin Astoria’s chances for a proper pureblood match. She already had enough against her after the Draco fiasco.

Draco had hoped he would be blamed for calling off their betrothal to date a muggleborn but—as expected—the blame fell upon the woman not the man.

After all, if Tori really was the perfect pureblood princess she was supposed to be, the heir to the Malfoy Family never would have strayed.

“How much trouble?” Pansy asked.

“We need time,” she said. “And a place to stay.”

The Greengrass Family had been careful about their wealth for generations. Their estate was in top shape, managing to avoid any damage during or after the war. Said wealth was what made it impossible for them to maintain their neutral stance from the first war during the second. Six months before the Battle of Hogwarts, Daphne’s father had taken the Mark and pledge his family wealth to support the Dark Lord.

“Father…controls more than we thought,” she said. “Even now.”

He’d gotten a lifetime sentence to Azkaban. As she knew all too well, incarceration or even death wasn’t enough to release the grip pureblooded wizards held over their families.

Especially the Sacred Twenty Eight.

“Tori’s started her own business,” Daphne said with a small smile. “Restoration, largely, with a fair amount of interior design. Done a few small estates with the help of some magical construction crews.”

“Sounds brilliant.” Astoria had always had an eye for that sort of thing. Not to mention a devious destructive streak that her mother had never fully managed to groom out of her.

Daphne nodded before her face dimmed again. “Of course, only until she settles down into a respectable pureblood match.” She spat the last bit with no small amount of disdain.

Interesting.

“Father’s allowing it for now, provided she continues to meet his conditions, but as our mother reports everything to him, living in her home has become…difficult.”

That their mother—even now—couldn’t see reason didn’t surprise her. Not after learning that Narcissa Malfoy allowed her only son to walk away without another word.

“The owner of the crew Tori works with the most has a few friends at the ministry,” she said casually. “He found her a solicitor who developed a…plan to invest as much of our family fortune into the business as possible.”

Well that sounded downright corrupt. Possibly illegal. Yet, there weren’t many ministry types who weren’t eager to destroy the legacies of any former Death Eaters.

Tori’s construction worker must be well connected.

“What you’re doing here, Pansy, is brilliant,” Daphne said. “I adore every bit of it, from the concept to the execution. However, customer service is not your strength.”

“That’s the second time you’ve called me a bitch today.”

She smirked. “If you hire me as your assistant and let us live upstairs, Tori will restore your manor,” she said. “For free.”

Things that sounded too good to be true always were. “Why the manor?”

Daphne fidgeted with one of the displays. “That’s a rather large part of the plan.”

“To launder money from your trusts into Tori’s business?”

Her friend’s face tightened. “I figured you, of all people, would be understanding,” she said. “You’ve certainly gone to great lengths to get your family fortune in your hands.”

She cocked her head. What was she talking about?

Daphne rolled her eyes. “You don’t honestly expect me to believe you actually married Longbottom, do you?”

Ah. “I know you’re not used to asking for help, but it typically does not involve repeatedly calling the person you need a favor from a bitch and then insulting her marriage.”

She blinked. “You…you and Longbottom,” she repeated. “That’s…real?”

She gave her a hard smile.

“Your father didn’t make receiving your fortune conditional on marrying a pureblood?”

She scoffed. As if that was the least of what he’d done. “Of course he did.”

Daphne stared at her.

“Access to my family’s money was a happy coincidence,” she said. “Not the reason for our marriage.”

There were some things no amount of money could ever buy, and her magic was one of them.

“Sorry, Pans, I…” She gaped at her like she’d just announced her intention to give up fashion and move to Romania to work at the dragon sanctuary. “Neville Longbottom?”

To be fair, Pansy wouldn’t have believed it herself a few months ago either, but it was rather comical this side of things.

“Wasn’t it fifth year we watched him pour an entire cup of maple syrup down the front of his shirt at breakfast?”

She almost burst out laughing at the memory. Merlin, they’d mocked him endlessly for that.

Although…the thought of him doing it now, when she was there to lick up every last drop…

If she kept up that line of thinking, she’d need to cast a cooling charm on herself.

Not that she’d so much as touched Neville, let alone been allowed to lick any part of his delicious body—with or without maple syrup.

Every time they’d been together, she’d been bound or pinned or restrained in some way which was admittedly crazy hot but she would like to return the favor. Not the bondage, but absolutely the licking.

“For the love of Merlin, please stop!”

She blinked, coming back to the shop and her friend who’s face was starting to match her green outfit.

“I do not want to watch you fantasize about Neville Longbottom licking anything off your—” She broke off with a half-shudder, half-gag.

She gave her friend a slow grin. “What makes you think Neville’s the one doing the licking?”

Daphne shuddered again.

Pansy had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing as Daphne struggled to compose herself.

When she finally lifted her head, she had never looked more serious. “You can’t repeat a word of this, but…we found a cure.”

She froze, all humor gone.

“For Tori,” she said, as if there was anything else she could be talking about. “We found a cure.”

“Daph…that’s amazing.”

“It’s rather simple, actually,” her friend said in wonder. “Expensive—even for us. It’s going to take time to get all the right pieces into place but we can do it.”

If they had Pansy’s help.

“Will Neville or I be implicated if the scheme is caught?”

A look of desperate relief flashed across her friend’s face. She pulled out a roll of parchment. “No,” she said. “I promise, we made sure B—the solicitor made you untouchable. This is what you’ll be agreeing to. Tori and I are talking all the risks on ourselves.”

She unrolled the parchment and was practically smacked in the face with legal jargon.

“Take it to your solicitor, have them examine it,” Daphne said.

No way in hell was her family solicitor coming near this. If she had her luck, she’d only need to see him twice again in her entire life. Once at her first year wedding anniversary to confirm the Rite was completed and then a month after when Neville invoked the Succession Clause.

“If you could get back to me in a week…”

“I will,” she said. “At a minimum, Tori can come out anytime and take a look upstairs. I’m sure it needs work. I’ll pay her the gold directly.”

Daphne beamed. “She’ll be here first thing tomorrow.”

As her friend swept out of the shop, Pansy scrawled a quick note to the closest thing to a solicitor she could trust.

“Pansy, I really don’t feel comfortable with this.” Hermione examined the roll Daphne had given her.

She sat across from her at the chic French restaurant that had been the site of her and Draco’s first official date once his internship was done. He hated it when Hermione came without him so, naturally, Pansy dragged her there whenever she could.

“You work in the Department for Magical Creature Laws,” Pansy said.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

Same thing.

She frowned, then muttered as an afterthought, “Still hate that name, by the way.”

“Change it.”

Hermione looked up, blinking. “What?”

“Change the department name.”

She scoffed. “You have no idea how difficult it is to change anything at the ministry,” she said. “It took a full year to get both the werewolf and house-elf legislation passed—”

“This isn’t legislation change,” she said. “What do you need? Approval of the department and the Minister of Magic, with whom you’re on a first name basis?”

She looked like someone had just stunned her.

Was this seriously the first time she’d ever thought of that? Honestly. Brightest Witch of her Age complaining about a simple matter to adjust.

“Just don’t pick something with an acronym that means vomit.”

Hermione shot her an annoyed look.

Pansy smirked and tapped the document in front of her. “Speaking of legislation change, do you or do you not read, write, and memorize laws all day long?”

“It’s an entirely different area,” she said. “Katie Bell is a solicitor now, I’m sure she’d—”

“No,” she said. “This stays between us.”

Hermione huffed and scoured the document for what had to be the fifth time since they sat down. “You’re just making me feel like there’s something illegal going on here,” she said. “This is far too good to be true.”

Her thoughts exactly.

“It’s structured like a standard contract, but the payments…”

She sat up.

“The way this works, you actually won’t pay for anything,” Hermione said. “Even materials.” Her voice was stunned. “I could understand if Astoria is trying to build her business to do labor for free for the chance to get a big project but why would she pay for materials as well?”

If she needed to steal money that was rightfully hers from her blood purist father.

“What is the risk to me?” Pansy asked.

“That you don’t like the curtains she picks?” Hermione sighed. “You give her full creative control. That’s the sole condition. That and this weird bit about the payments. You’ll create an escrow account—standard—but all funds you put in will be returned to your personal account by the end of the month.”

That had to be the crux of the plan. They needed a third party to create an escrow account to move funds in and out without any suspicions.

Hermione rubbed her head. “This is bizarre, Pansy. Bizarre.”

Perhaps she shouldn’t have put the brains of the Golden Trio in charge of evaluating a legal document that was involved in a laundering scheme.

“But no risk to me?”

“Other than creative control…not that I can tell,” Hermione said with a sigh. “I really wish you’d let me ask Katie Bell to have a look.”

She took the roll of parchment from her and slipped it into her bag. “I trust you.”

“You have a solicitor,” she said. “I met him at your wedding.”

“And I hope that’s the last time I ever have to see him.” Until he verified her marriage and then dissolved it a month later.

Then she’d be done with him forever.

“I hope we’re not too late.”

She looked up from her bag and immediately frowned at the smirking face of Draco Malfoy. She glared across the table as he leaned down to kiss Hermione’s cheek.

She—at least—looked bashful. “Oh, you know how he gets when he pouts.”

Draco sat down and shook out his napkin with a sharp snap before draping it over his knee, looking sickeningly smug. “Don’t act like you didn’t plan this just to annoy me.”

Pansy straightened. “I happen to like this restaurant.”

He smiled. “As do I.”

Hermione gave her a hopeful smile. “I thought it would be perfect for a double date.”

She frowned. “Double—”

“Hey, Pansy.”

She glanced over to see Neville pulling out the chair between her and Hermione. At least he’d managed to change into one of the robes she’d picked out for him but really…that belt and those shoes? What was he thinking?

A waiter came over and poured Draco a glass of the red wine Hermione had selected.

That should have been her first clue something was up. And the fact that the table was still set for four.

She sighed. So much for their girls evening. “And here I thought you were finally starting to develop a taste for decent wine.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It all tastes the same, the extra galleons are just for the added cost of pretentiousness.”

Neville nodded as if he agreed with her.

Pansy shook her head. “Draco, you really should have taken her on an educational tour of your family’s vineyards before you got disowned.”

He examined the menu. “Blaise has an itinerary for each of his as soon as Hermione agrees to take some vacation days.”

“Italian wine, really, Draco?” Not that it would make an actual difference to Hermione but it was the principle of the matter.

He sighed. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“You two are being snobs and it doesn’t matter anyway, I cannot take a month off of work,” Hermione hissed, scandalized.

“You have five months of vacation built up,” Draco drawled.

“She is the only one who works at that office.” Pansy turned to Neville. “You should have heard about the shitty intern they assigned her two years ago.”

Neville smirked at Draco. “It came up a few times.”

Draco turned to Hermione and arched an eyebrow.

She studied the menu intently, her cheeks turning pink.

“Suddenly stopped talking about him completely, what was it…February?” Neville asked. “Around Valentine’s Day?”

Hermione turned an even brighter shade of red.

Draco smirked. “February, huh?”

She tried to hide behind her menu. “I did at one point decide that complaining about said intern was not the most effective use of my time.”

Pansy smirked. “And at what point did you decide that shagging him was?”

The menu fell. “Pansy Parkinson—” she started to hiss.

“Longbottom,” she and Neville said at the same time.

He glanced at her, a spark of surprise in his eyes.

Draco was studying her as well, while Hermione’s too-clever-for-her-own-good gaze darting between her and Neville.

She flipped up her menu, reading the same list of options for the twenty-eighth time since she’d sat down. “You two were actually at the wedding, you don’t have an excuse like everyone else.”

“Sorry, Pansy,” Hermione said, but her voice was just shy of suspicious to be an actual apology.

She set her menu down and looked up. “Daphne Greengrass stopped by the shop today.”

Hermione’s gaze flicked to Draco ever so swiftly at the mention of a Greengrass in his presence.

He must have felt it because his lips twitched.

Honestly. It wasn’t as if Draco and Astoria’s betrothal had ever been finalized. Not that Draco had bothered to explain the complexities of pureblood betrothals to Granger when he was desperately trying to get her to notice him as more than the inconvenient intern.

“She’s going to start as my assistant,” she said. “She and Astoria are moving into the third floor apartment above my shop.”

“That’s a fun coincidence,” Neville said.

She glanced at him.

“That they’re renting the apartment right above your shop,” he said. “Or is that what gave her the idea to ask to be your assistant?”

What was he saying? “I own the apartment too, not just the shop.”

He blinked. “What?” He turned to face her. “You own the building?”

Why was this coming as such a surprise to him? “Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Since I bought it in August.”

Draco and Hermione’s gazes were darting between them like they were watching quaffle passes.

Neville didn’t seem to notice. Or care that they were having a horribly inappropriate conversation for dinner, especially with others present. “With what money?”

How dare he? She straightened. “My inheritance.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You never mentioned that to me.”

She forced a smile that was pure warning. “I didn’t realize I needed to.” She turned to their friends. “Astoria’s starting a business. Restoration and interior design.”

Hermione didn’t so much as twitch at Astoria’s name, too busy eyeing her and Neville. “Good for her.”

Draco sipped his wine.

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said. “I believe it’s very important to support and encourage female entrepreneurs.”

Hermione shot her a warning look.

Ignoring her friend’s censure and Neville’s scathing look, she smiled as the waiter approached and placed her order.

Neville was quiet throughout dinner. Draco made a few efforts to include him in their conversations. Hermione’s concern grew more and more obvious with each short response he gave.

Pansy didn’t care.

In fact, she made every effort to draw out the meal in an attempt to further piss him off.

Who was he to demand she spend her money a certain way? Since when did she need his permission to spend it? He was the one who said he didn’t want any of her gold. If he thought he was going to turn around and demand some now he’d have another thing coming his way.

When they apparated back into his living room, Neville didn’t drop her arm. Instead, his grip tightened and he spun her to face him.

“How much of the inheritance did you spend?”

She wrenched her hand out of his grasp. “How is that any of your business?”

His eyes flashed with rage. “Because I’m the one who’s going to have to pay it all back—with interest!”

She froze, anger giving way to icy fear.

“There’s no fucking way I can afford that, Pansy!”

“The only reason you would need to pay it back is if you’re not intending to see this through,” she said, her voice low and measured.

Finally dropping her arm, he spun away, digging his hand through his hair.

“You promised,” she spat, hating how her voice wavered.

“Because I was certain we could find another way.”

And there it was.

Fucking Gryffindor chivalry at its finest.

Further proof she couldn’t trust anyone but herself.

The fact that she had…the fact that she’d let herself hope all these months…

“So what is this, then?” she said. “A way to prolong the inevitable? Get back at me for how I acted in school?”

He rounded on her. “Cut it out—”

“And everything between us?” she sneered. “What’s that been? Just something to look back on anytime you need a wank?”

He seethed. “I’ve never done anything to you that you haven’t ask for!”

She took a half step back at the rage in his voice.

His face softened and he sighed. “I’m trying to help you,” he said. “I’ve only ever tried to help you.”

Some help. “Well if you can’t perform the rite, then Ivan is going to pass me off to whoever else he pleases.”

His lip curled in disgust.

Nausea churned her stomach. “So where’s the help, Longbottom?” she demanded. “You expect me to be grateful to you for the fact that I’ll only be raped for five years straight before I’m murdered? Instead of six? Thank you, so much. Everything I could have hoped for and more!”

He rubbed his face. “I know you hate being there, but you’ve been coming with me to St. Mungo’s for months,” he said. “I figured you’d be able to understand why this is hard for me.”

Hated being there? Is that what he thought? She spent more time with his mother than he did each week.

“What does this have to do with your parents?”

He glared at her. “Are you serious?” he asked, voice low. “I actually have to spell it out for you?”

“If someone would let me read the fucking rite for myself, maybe you wouldn’t need to!” she yelled.

He reared back.

“I told you I’d never seen it,” she said. “I learned about it the exact same time you did, Longbottom. And even though it’s my body and my life and my magic on the line, you’re the one making all the decisions about something I’ve never been allowed to see!”

He flinched as if she’d slapped him. “Pansy, I’m—I—” He turned without another word and disappeared into his bedroom.

Dropping her head into her hands, she rubbed her temple.

Longbottom was back before she had a chance to walk over and make the cup of tea she was craving. Her father’s will, the marriage contract, and the instructions for the rite were in his hands.

“Here,” he said. “I’m…I’m sorry. I wasn’t…I didn’t mean to keep it from you.”

She accepted the stack of parchment, eyeing him.

“I’ll make you some tea.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

She settled into the couch, starting with the least offensive of the lot, her father’s will.

Her tea was down to the dregs by the time she got to the rite.

Longbottom sat in the chair adjacent to her, watching her as she read.

Her stomach twisted as she read it.

The rite gave the man—because of course it had to be a man—complete control over the woman he performed it on. It didn’t just bind them completely, it gave him power over every part of her. Her body, her magic, her mind.

It could be invoked at any time, with any thought from the husband. If he wanted anything from her physically, he didn’t have to ask if he didn’t want, he could simply make her do it. He could limit her magic however he chose. Even control her thoughts, her very sanity.

“You understand now why I can’t do it?” Longbottom asked, voice soft.

A head of white hair, tilted towards the sun in the St. Mungo’s courtyard filled her mind.

This rite would give Neville the power to turn her into his mother.

Her hands shook as she gripped the parchment. “That’s how he did it.”

A woman’s voice, both strange and familiar, screaming in agony, echoed through her memory.

Not my daughter! I won’t let you do this to her too!

“Did what?”

“You aren’t the only one with an institutionalized mother, Longbottom.”

He froze. “What?” His voice was a low whisper.

She stared at the words on the page. She’d always assumed he’d paid off the staff to keep her there. That that place had slowly driven her insane. But if he’d actually…

“Your father used this?” he asked. “He didn’t just perform the rite, he actually invoked it?”

Words swam in front of her eyes. She tossed it down on the table, unable to look at it anymore. She wrung her hands, trying to hide how much they were shaking.

“There’s a…preparation ritual,” she said. “Put on Parkinson brides once they pass the examination or girls born into the family as infants.”

His face twisted in disgust.

She repeated the story she’d heard from her aunt. “My mother believed it was only for women marrying into the Parkinson family,” she said. “When she found out it would be put on me she…objected.”

Tried to run away with her. But there was no where her father couldn’t track her. Not with this spell.

“And your father took her mind?”

“No,” she said. “Not completely. He could turn it on and off at will.”

Neville looked as green as she felt.

“We’d visit, sometimes,” she said. “She was always lucid for at least part of the time.” Long enough for her father to attempt to convince her to come back to him. Then she’d refuse and her father would stare into her eyes and the woman before her was no longer her mother. “It was almost worst that way.”

“I thought she died.”

“She did, before fourth year,” she said. “I think my father thought he could break her, but by then there were too many rumors about where she’d gone. It’s bad form impregnate a woman who’d been insane for the better part of twelve years, so if he wanted the son he was so desperate to have to carry on the Parkinson line, he needed her gone.”

Which apparently the rite allowed him control over as well.

Heart attack was the official cause of her mother’s death. She’d always assumed it was a lie, a cover-up paid for with family gold but perhaps that was the piece that was true.

Her father had literally ordered her mother’s heart to stop beating, and it had.

“You see why I can’t do it.”

She glanced over at Longbottom, something clenching in her chest. “Just because you perform the rite doesn’t mean you have to act on it—”

He rose from his chair. “Pansy, how can you even consider letting someone have that kind of control over you? Giving away your mind and your body—”

She scoffed. “Letting?” She shook her head. “Someone has always had control over me my entire life, Longbottom. I was never allowed…” She swallowed.

Anything.

Not the things that mattered, anyway.

“At least I know you’ll never use it against me,” she whispered. “If there’s anyone I could trust to do this to me…it would be you.”

Neville knelt next to her and took her hand in his. There was something in his gaze, a depth of emotion she didn’t know how to read or process so instead she dismissed it.

“Don’t try to say something sweet and make it moment, Longbottom.”

He studied her for a few heartbeats before the corner of his mouth quirked. “I was just going to remind you the number of times I lost Trevor at school before you put that kind of trust in me,” he said. “Don’t know if that speaks in my favor or against it in this matter though.”

That coaxed a watery half-chuckle from her.

Something in his gaze softened.

Her chest squeezed again. “You promised.”

He had. He promised. Even after he’d read the rite. Only because he thought he’d find another way, but…

She thought of Alice again. The bright, brilliant woman in his photos contrasted with the stoic, silent woman who couldn’t handle a drop of water on her face.

Could she really hold Neville to his word? Even if he never used it against her, simply having that power more than went against his morals, it was a complete betrayal of his parents.

How could she ask Neville—ask Alice’s son—to do this to her?

But if he didn’t perform the rite, she’d be back under Ivan’s control. Married off to someone who would prefer that sort of control over his wife.

It was no longer a choice of becoming a squib or marriage to someone she hated, it was become a squib or a shell of herself, nothing more than a body for someone to command.

Her stomach rolled. It was less of a choice now than ever, but when she looked up at Neville, the words died in her throat.

“I did promise,” he said. “And I meant it. But I’ll still keep looking until the last possible day.”

It felt as if something was lodged in the back of her throat so all she could do was nod.

Chapter Text

Moment of apology and understanding or not, Pansy signed the paperwork for Daphne the next day.

Without speaking to Neville about it.

If Hermione Granger hadn’t found anything in the fine print, she doubted anyone could.

At least this way Daphne and Astoria would get out of their father’s grasp, even if she couldn’t escape hers.

Astoria took a week to fix up the apartment. It went from a dark, dingy worn-down sorry excuse for a living space to something bright, clean, and airy. Everything was in soft shades of cream and white with subtle touches of blue.

The state of her family’s manor hadn’t mattered one way or the other to Pansy before Astoria got her hands on it, but she had a feeling she might actually be able to walk through the halls without horrible nightmares once the restoration was complete.

Daphne was every bit as brilliant of an assistant as she had promised. She took over Pansy’s schedule, reached out to her contacts for custom designs and fittings, and handled walk-ins with a cheerful smile anytime Pansy was busy. Or just not feeling like being cheerful.

So, most of the time.

She also started coming to card night at Theo’s. Astoria declined due to her schedule but Pansy couldn’t imagine she was doing a lot of work on Friday nights. It probably had more to do with her former betrothed and his new fiancé being there but Pansy decided not to push her on it.

When she and Neville strolled in the first night she joined, Daphne choked on her drink the moment she saw Neville.

“Right?” Theo asked.

Neville turned bright red. “Okay, can you all just…”

Pansy grabbed a drink from Blaise. “Wouldn’t be an issue if you’d gone to a tailor at any point since sixth year.”

Daphne gaped at her. “Tailoring?” she demanded.

Pansy nodded with a smug grin. “To fit those shoulders.”

From the way Daphne eyed him, she was starting to understand the maple syrup conversation the week before.

“Can I have a drink?” Neville muttered.

Blaise, ever helpful bartender, handed him one with only the smallest of smirks.

He took a long gulp before he gave Daphne a friendly smile. “How are the trees at your estate doing?”

Her friend’s cheeks turned pink. “Oh, fine.”

Hermione frowned. “Was something wrong with them?”

“Daphne asked me to come out and take a look this spring because they were worried about blight,” he said. “Only one was infected but it was pretty early stage so it could be taken out before it affected any of the others.”

Hermione started asking more questions, but Daphne looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.

“Honestly, I’m impressed Daphne caught it for as early stage as it was,” Neville said.

Pansy had a feeling Daphne hadn’t caught anything. “When was this?”

“Early April,” Neville said. “Thought I told you.”

Because they were supposedly dating at the time.

“Must have slipped your mind.” Her gaze slid back to Daphne’s, who looked like she’d rather be anywhere than there.

Then, Merlin bless her sweet, innocent, all too naive husband, he spoke again. “I got a bit distracted,” he said. “Some really amazing specimens on the estate. Sorry again about missing the lunch.”

Pansy burst out laughing. To think, she and Daphne had been trying to hook Neville Longbottom in the exact same month. At least he’d actually caught on to what she’d been attempting, unlike when Daphne tried it.

Check on her estate’s trees. Honestly.

Apparently Daphne assumed she’d married Longbottom for the money because she’d had the same idea in April.

Daphne glared at her. “Oh, piss off, Pansy.”

Neville’s brow creased for several moments before his eyes widened with realization. A flush spread across his cheeks as he tried not to smirk into his drink.

Theo covered his mouth with his hand as his shoulders shook with silent laughter.

Daphne looked like she wanted to avada Pansy and then herself on the spot.

“What’s so funny?” Hermione asked.

“Later,” Draco said, barely holding back laughter of his own.

“When we were catching up, you did mention you were single at the time,” Daphne said, throwing a pointed look at Pansy.

Ah. Another reason she’d been so suspicious about their fast marriage.

Draco and Hermione had almost identical looks of suspicion.

Neville flashed Pansy a wry grin. “Well, by that point it had been three months straight of, ‘casually fucking isn’t a relationship, Longbottom—’”

She beamed at him, impressed with his ability to improvise.

Hermione gasped. “Pansy!”

Again with the hypocrisy. “Yes, I do recall you immediately going public with your relationship with Draco as soon as you two started—”

Her expression was prim. “That was an entirely different situation.”

She grinned. “You must love the view from your high horse.”

“Are we going to play cards at any point?” Daphne asked.

“Yes, I would love another opportunity to make money off of the poorest amongst us.” Pansy threw a pitying look at Draco.

He strode past her towards the table. “You’re just enjoying the fact that it isn’t you anymore.”

Oh, she was going to take him for everything he was worth that night. “I do run a very successful business that I started all of my own.”

“Thank Merlin you’re here,” Theo said to Daphne. “The only thing worse than new money is old money who no longer have it.”

She laughed at Theo, but something flickered across her expression. Because as soon as their father found out whatever was going on with Astoria, Daphne would be left without a knut to her name.

With an easy toss of her long blonde hair, Daphne took her seat.

Pansy caught her eye and inclined her head ever so slightly towards Theo. Their mark for the evening.

Daphne smirked.

Game on.

“We got a package from Daphne,” Neville said as soon as she emerged from the bedroom the following Monday morning while he stared at a brown wrapped package with no small amount of suspicion. “Note says it’s a wedding present.”

She grabbed it. “Ooh, I love presents.”

His lips lifted in what seemed like an affectionate smile.

She tore off the paper and burst out laughing.

“Is that a bottle of maple syrup?” Neville asked.

Still chuckling, she reached for the paper he was holding. “What’s the note say?”

“Just something about congratulations and hope we’re enjoying our time as newlyweds.”

She laughed again.

Neville didn’t look impressed. “Is this about fifth year?”

Feigned confusion was surely the way to go. “What about fifth year? A lot happened.”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t remember calling me ‘Syrupbottom’ for a month and a half?”

Laughter bubbled up despite her best efforts.

“Which, might I say, was not your most creative nickname.”

“Well, ‘Longbottom Sticks’ didn’t fit as well on badges and we’d already had ‘Weasley is Our King’ so another song seemed a little silly…”

“Fred and George charmed the bottle to pour out on whoever touched it,” he said. “It was supposed to be a prank on Ron.”

“Oh, now I feel terrible.”

His eyebrows rose in disbelief.

“That could have been a whole extra verse for ‘Weasley is Our King!’” she said. “Covering himself in syrup to try to help him catch the quaffle…it’s all right there!”

He rolled his eyes and handed her the syrup. “Well I’m never touching that bottle again.”

She gave him a sly smile. “If you did spill this all over yourself, I’d be happy to clean it up.”

His lips twitched. “Sounds sticky.”

She ran her hands up his chest. “I’d wash you off in the shower afterwards.”

“Well, I guess it’s too bad then that I don’t like food in the bedroom.”

“But the shower’s still an option?”

He chucked once like she’d been teasing. “I have to get to the castle.” He kissed her forehead. “Have a good day.”

She smirked to herself as he strode away.

Daphne was already at the shop when Pansy arrived, reading the Prophet. “Look at this,” she said. “This is disgraceful.”

“As disgraceful as you sending me the syrup on a Monday morning five minutes before we were supposed to leave so we didn’t have time to use it properly?”

Daphne smirked as she accepted the tea and pastry Pansy picked up for her.

She craned her neck to read the headline Daphne found so offensive. “Granger got promoted,” she said. “She’s no longer just in house-elf relocation she’s the liaison for the Wizengamot. Going to be writing and presenting new bills and stomping down any that threaten our dearly beloved magical creatures.”

“Yes, I’ve read it,” Daphne said. “But what is missing from this paper?”

She sighed. It was far too early in the morning for this. “I assume you’re going to tell me?”

“A picture,” she said. “And why is there never a picture of Hermione Granger in the papers anymore?”

“Too many reporters heard rumors about glass jars with unbreakable charms?”

“I still think you and Draco made that up.”

She smirked as she sipped her tea.

“Because she has the same three sets of robes,” she said. “They literally cannot print pictures of her anymore because they look like all the same ones.”

She hated being reminded of Granger’s stubborn refusal to wear anything resembling fashion. “They reuse the bloody one from her at the Battle of Hogwarts each May.”

Daphne rolled her eyes.

“What do you want me to say, Daph?” she demanded. “I’ve offered so many times to redo her wardrobe but there’s not a more stubborn witch in Great Britain—”

“Would Hermione Granger know what to do with a remade wardrobe?”

She frowned.

“How to put outfits together, find shoes that match, style her hair and jewelry, or will she end up looking like your husband did the other week on your double date?”

She almost groaned at the reminder. He’d been so close, but far enough off that it made it painfully obvious he had no idea what he was doing.

“Hermione Granger should be the face of your line,” Daphne said. “Even if we ignore the fact that she’s Hermione Granger and photographed daily just for being herself, she’s a also muggleborn witch arguing cases at least weekly before the Wizengamot.”

Plans already started running through her head.

“You take over her wardrobe, make her the new face of your line and business will explode.”

She drummed her fingers on the countertop. No amount of galleons could ever pay for that kind of advertising and yet… “There’s no way she’ll go for it.”

“Well, you better come up with something quick because she’s your eight o clock.” Daphne looked up and sighed. “And she’s early.”

The shop wasn’t supposed to open for another quarter of an hour, but there was Hermione Granger, dismantling the wards she’d set with Theo. She swept into the space, wand out. “Daphne said it was urgent, what happened?” Her eyes darted around the shop, looking for danger around every corner.

Pansy rolled her eyes at Daphne. “I don’t know what Daph said, but we’re fine, Granger.”

Daphne was struggling not to laugh. “Do you always come bursting into places with your wand out?”

She straightened, eyes narrowing. “You said Pansy needed help.”

“Professionally.” Daphne’s gaze flicked up and down Granger’s outfit. “As do you.”

Granger’s wand flicked towards her and Pansy slid between them. “Daphne had an idea that could help us both out.”

She continued glaring at Daphne over Pansy’s shoulder. “As you two have made abundantly clear over the years I’ve known you both, fashionable clothing isn’t exactly my strength.”

“Exactly, it’s Pansy’s,” Daphne said. “And yours is being photographed doing important things for the wizarding world.”

They hadn’t named her the brightest witch of the age for nothing. Her wand dropped and her expression was pained. “I’m not signing up to be your doll, Pansy.”

“Model.”

She cringed as if that was worse.

“If you want people to take you seriously, you have to dress the part,” Daphne said. “Especially if you’re going to be in court this much.”

Hermione let out a long breath, but didn’t storm out.

Merlin. They were winning her over.

“Five professional outfits a week,” Pansy said. “Gowns or formal robes for special occasions. Tailor made for you, and all you have to do in return is say my shop’s name whenever someone asks where you got your outfit.”

She moved back and forth from foot to foot.

How could the woman who fought tooth and nail for house-elves in a courtroom full of powerful wizards be incapable of requesting something for herself? “Spit it out, Granger.”

“Couldyoumakemesomedateoutfitstoo?”

A slow smile spread across her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” she said. “What did you say?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You heard me.”

“I didn’t.” She turned to Daphne who was wearing an identical smirk. “Did you catch it?”

She shook her head. “No, sorry, you’ll have to repeat yourself Granger.”

She let out an angry huff and muttered something under her breath about snakes. “I only have like the same four nice outfits that you helped me pick out and I would like a few more.”

She beamed. “I would be honored.”

Granger started shifting back and forth again.

“There’s a loo in the back,” Daphne said helpfully.

Hermione shot her a glare that would have made the Dark Lord stumble and then looked back at Pansy. “Doyouremembermyyuleballdress?”

Daphne snorted. “Ten years later and he’s still on about that?”

The moment Hermione Granger waltzed into the Great Hall in that periwinkle number with actually controlled hair on the arm of Viktor Krum was the moment Pansy had lost Draco Malfoy forever.

Granger’s cheeks were bright pink. “I don’t want the same dress exactly—”

“I am not going to dress you as a fourteen year old,” Pansy said.

“I was fifteen,” Hermione muttered.

“Trust me, Draco will like it.”

Her blush deepened.

“If you want to wear it more than once, make sure Pansy puts anti-tearing charms on it,” Daphne said.

She was now Gryffindor red but she nodded and cleared her throat. “Yeah that’d be great, thanks.”

She beamed. “Anything to piss off Draco.” She jerked her head towards the stand. “Come on, first official fitting.”

“Can’t it wait—”

“You have court tomorrow.”

She let out a sigh.

“Let’s see that infamous Gryffindor courage, Granger,” Daphne said.

She glared at them both before stomping over to the stand.

Daphne shot Pansy a triumphant grin. “You’re welcome.”

Granger behaved surprisingly well throughout the fitting, despite the unnecessary reminders about what the ministry considered appropriate hem lengths and necklines.

When they were done and Hermione was finally able to escape back to work, even Daphne’s quick, “Tell Draco that Astoria sends her love” didn’t phase her.

She smiled as easily as a pureblooded socialite tossing back insults as compliments. “I’ll tell him over dinner when he gets home tonight.”

Daphne beamed. “So the kitten does have claws.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and left the shop with a wave to Pansy.

By the end of the week, Daphne’s assistance was more of a necessity than a convenience with everyone who wanted to match the suddenly stylish Golden Girl.

Friday night with the Slytherins got cancelled since the DA wanted to take Granger out to celebrate her new promotion.

For once, Pansy wasn’t even upset about it. The last time hadn’t actually been a disaster and the reward she’d gotten when she got home…

She could put up with some self-righteous war heroes for a few hours in return for Longbottom’s undivided attention once they were alone.

When they showed up at the pub, whichever of the Patil twins was there already grinned at her right away.

Pansy blinked. She’d never gotten that reaction from someone in this crowd.

Not without antlers on her head, anyway.

“Pansy! Hermione’s been absolutely stunning all week!”

“She’s always stunning,” drawled an aristocratic voice over her shoulder.

She glanced over at Draco and a blushing Hermione. Knowing her social calendar as well as her work one allowed her to tailor each outfit for the day. Hermione had been following her instructions perfectly, even making the suggested alterations to her Friday outfit to make it a perfect work-to-drinks ensemble.

“Pansy got her claws on you too?” Neville asked.

Hermione gave him a sympathetic smile. “At least I volunteered.”

She glanced up at Longbottom through her lashes with a suggestive smile. “I thought you liked my claws on you, darling.”

The Patil twin behind her started twittering.

Parvati, then.

Apparently there had only been enough self-respect to go around for one twin and it had gone with the brains.

“If you want anyone else to makeover…” Parvati said suggestively.

Still, she smiled. “Owl Daphne and she can put you on my schedule.”

She started chattering, asking her questions about trends and what she thought would be popular in the spring. Parvati didn’t work in the fashion section but she did work for Witch Weekly so she wasn’t someone to snub entirely.

Plus, it covered the arrival of the Chosen Scarhead Who Lived and Died and Lived Again and the Weaslette so she continued to indulge her for a few minutes.

When Neville was done hugging Weaselette—for a suspicious enough amount of time that she was proud of Potter for not hexing or threatening to curse his friend—she paused the conversation to greet her and froze.

She’d never seen the witch in such a state. Her face was splattered in bright red blotches and even her hair looked like it had barely been brushed.

“Goodness, Weaselette,” she said. “You really need to work on your skincare if you’re going to be out on a broom all day long.”

It was as if she’d cast a silencio over the entire group. Everyone stared at her with varying degrees of shock or fury.

Weaselette started to reach for her wand but the Savior of the Wizarding World was faster, wrapping a hand around her wrist to stop her.

Honestly. That was hardly an insult. “I have some samples if you—”

Potter put himself between her and his wife and turned to Hermione. “I’m sorry, ‘Mione, we’re going to head—”

“No, we’re leaving,” Neville said, his voice tight and clipped. “Just came to say congrats quick to Hermione.”

Before she could stutter a single word, Neville kissed Hermione’s cheek, nodded to Potter and Weaselette, and grabbed her arm to drag her out of the pub. He didn’t even walk her to the apparation point, just spun and disapparated them both on the stoop right outside the restaurant.

The moment they appeared back in their living room, he dropped her arm like it was dirty.

“Well, if I’d known that was all it took to get out of—”

Neville rounded on her, furious like she’d rarely seen him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because I suggested a redhead who’s out on a broom all day invest in some sunscreen and moisturizer?”

“She’d been crying,” Neville spat.

Oh. Well, that was an unfortunate look for her.

“Do you have any idea what day it is?”

If he was going to treat her like an idiot, she would give him one. “Friday.”

His gaze sharpened. “It’s the first of October.”

She racked her brain trying to come up with something of significance for that date.

“Fred and George’s half birthday.” He tugged his hand through his hair. “They always celebrated it like it was their actual birthday because they said if they had to share a birthday they deserved two and today is…hard. For all of us who were friends with them.”

And he had the audacity to be upset with her not knowing that obscure fact? “And I’m just supposed to know that?” she demanded. “I couldn’t have even told you when their actual birthday is, let alone—”

He rounded on her. “You shouldn’t have to know!” he yelled. “We went through a fucking war, Pansy! People we love died!”

Did he honestly believe their side was the only one who’d lost something? Who were haunted by the events of the war?

“Do you really have to ask why Ginny might be crying? Or why I flinch anytime someone says ‘crucio me’ as a joke?”

His words landed as sharp as lashes against her skin.

“If you weren’t so self-absorbed all the time…”

Right.

Back to that.

What everyone always thought of her.

“Well, forgive me for not basing my entire life around Ginny Weasley’s every whim,” she spat. As if she hadn’t gone through enough because of that witch.

Neville shook his head. “I can’t do this.” He stormed towards the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from you.”

The door slammed behind him and the sharp crack of disapparation echoed into the silence.

She was left, standing alone in the kitchen of the house that wasn’t hers, wondering exactly how many men in her life were going to put Ginny Weasley above her.

Chapter Text

Pansy sat on the bench across from Number Fifteen Grimmauld Place, staring across the street and down a bit at the empty space between eleven and thirteen.

It had been an absolute clusterfuck of a week.

She’d woken up on Saturday morning to find Neville sitting at the kitchen table with bloodshot eyes, still in the outfit he’d worn the night before.

Ignoring him, she marched over to start her tea.

“I’m sorry,” Neville said, his voice gravelly. “So fucking sorry, I…”

Turning, she leaned against the counter and stared at him.

He didn’t look up from the table. “I forgot,” he whispered. “I knew what day it was but I forgot what it meant until Hermione told me why Ron and George weren’t coming.”

Her jaw tightened. If he didn’t bloody remember, how could he expect her—

“I forgot about Fred,” he whispered. He pressed his fist against his mouth and inhaled shakily through his nose.

Something in her chest started to thaw just a tiny bit. Forgetting about a birthday—a half birthday, at that—wasn’t the same as forgetting his friend.

“I was angry at myself and felt so guilty and I took it out on you.” His throat bobbed as he finally lifted his head to face her. “I was wrong and I am so sorry, Pansy.”

She held his gaze, trying to decide if she was ready to forgive him or not.

“I just…” He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply before he looked back at her. “Why did you go after Ginny like that? She was obviously upset and you just started mocking her—”

A low, humorless laugh bubbled up. “Well done, Longbottom,” she said. “Excellent apology.” She started towards the door but he got up and stepped in her path.

“I know I was wrong and I’m sorry and I’m going to do better, I promise, but you have to know where the line is when it comes to what’s okay to tease about and what isn’t!”

She walked around him. “I have clients.”

“Please don’t walk away—”

She rounded on him with another humorless laugh. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.”

His shoulders dropped and he hung his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll give you space until you’re ready to talk.”

She hoped he got comfortable because she was never going to be ready to listen to a lecture on how she needed to be nice to Ginny Weasley.

Draco, at least, had learned his lesson about suggesting she apologize to any of the Gryffindors in an effort to smooth things over, but his fiancée hadn’t.

“I know your sense of humor and teasing isn’t exactly in line with theirs,” Hermione said during her weekly fitting. “But they don’t know that.”

“Almost like I had no idea that day meant anything to them.” But of course they were allowed their ignorance and she was not allowed hers.

“And that’s on Neville for not preparing you for how the Weasleys in particular were feeling that night,” she said. “But you still owe Ginny an apology for teasing her for crying. Especially now that you know what else was going on.”

If any of them knew the real reasons she hated Ginny so much, she wondered if they would be telling her to grovel to Pansy instead. It didn’t matter, though. They’d made it more than clear they didn’t care to learn any of her reasons for her behavior.

She hated being the bigger person, but neither was she willing to sink as low as the sanctimonious hypocrites.

So, exactly one week after the disaster of the pub night, she marched across the street and pounded on the door of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.

Potter himself answered a minute later, his friendly smile immediately fading. He leaned against the door, hand resting against his pocket where he doubtless kept his wand. “Pansy.”

She swallowed. “Is Ginny home?”

“Yep.”

And Granger had the nerve to suggest she act mature. “May I speak with her?”

“I’ll ask.” He shut the door in her face and disappeared back into the house.

Classy, Potter.

She was just about to give up and leave when he returned. “She’s making dinner but she said you can come back.” He turned and walked down the hallway.

She took that as an invitation to follow him through the house. It was an improvement over standing on the stoop, anyway.

The house was…interesting. A formal dining room was off to the left as she entered, but it looked like it hadn’t been used in a few decades. Various chunks of the walls down the hallway had been taken out and roughly patched over, as if instead of taking down paintings they’d removed the whole wall behind them. The staircase upstairs had a row of patched squares leading up the wall.

Merlin, Astoria needed to get her hands on this place. Potter could put some of that Sleekeazy fortune to good use to make this place livable.

The stone steps at the end of the entry hall led down into a kitchen that was in surprisingly decent shape compared to what else she’d seen of the house. It was clean and bright, obviously the place the Potters actually ate as opposed to the dreary formal dining room upstairs.

Perhaps the more commonly used parts of the house looked better as well. Certainly still could do with Astoria’s touch—or frankly anyone who knew a thing about interior design—but if no one visited except for the floo she might have been the first visitor in years to see the bleak front hall.

She stood at the stove, long red hair wrapped up in a bun as she supervised the various knives prepping vegetables and pans on the stove.

“I’ll be upstairs, Gin,” Potter called before he disappeared back down the hallway.

Ginny didn’t acknowledge him, or Pansy. Just remained at the stove, cooking dinner for the husband who loved her in the house they shared together.

It was so fucking hard not to hate her. The way she went about her life, blissfully unaware of the collateral damage she left in her wake just by being who she was.

Pansy cleared her throat.

Ginny glanced over her shoulder and then back to the food she was prepping. “I know you’re there.”

Gritting her teeth, she stepped further into the kitchen. “I came to apologize for what I said to you Friday night.”

Ginny finally turned, wand still in hand. “Well, go on then.”

She’d rather eat raw flobberworms, but she swallowed and forced out what she’d practiced. “I apologize for what I said to you on Friday,” she said. “I did not know the significance of the date for you or your family.”

Her eyebrows flicked up, unimpressed.

“I am sorry for what happened to your brother.” That, at least, she meant. No one deserved to be buried that young.

Her gaze narrowed. “Would you have turned him over to Voldemort as well?”

So that’s what this was really about.

Her lips spread in a humorless smile. “Ignoring the obvious—that none of the teachers or over three quarters of that school was going to allow Potter to be handed over—you have no idea what it was like for those of us trapped on the wrong side.”

She snorted. “You made your choice.”

She’d never made a single fucking choice that counted in her entire life.

Something inside her snapped. She stormed forward, completely uncaring of the fact that Ginny still held her wand, pointed loosely at her.

“You think you like the view from the moral fucking high ground, but you never really made a choice either, Weasley,” she spat. “You fought alongside your family and every adult you’d grown up respecting for the ideals you’d been raised to believe in.”

Her eyes flashed. “Pureblood ideology is fucked up bullshit!”

“And around the time that a deranged half-blood moved into my boyfriend’s house and started torturing and killing and feeding people to his giant snake, I realized that,” she snapped. “What exactly do you think I could have done about it?”

She scoffed. “Asked for help.”

How nice it must be to be so fucking naive. “Oh?” she asked. “So if I or Draco or any other child of a Death Eater had come to any of the members of the Order of the Phoenix, if I’d offered to join Dumbledore’s Army seventh year, we would have been welcomed with open arms?”

Something that looked like doubt—or guilt—flashed across her face.

“Even with Dumbledore’s word that Snape was on your side, how many in the Order actually trusted him? How many still doubt Potter’s testimony about him?”

She watched the sanctimonious superiority slide from her face entirely. For once, Ginny wasn’t brimming with the unflinching confidence with which she’d strutted down the halls of Hogwarts with ever since her Fourth Year of school.

It felt so fucking good to be the one to do that to her. To remind her the world was a lot more gray than she believed, that Pansy wasn’t as evil as she might want to think. She and Draco had played their parts when they’d had to.

Maybe Draco had decided he needed to simper and apologize and try to earn their forgiveness and trust, but she’d done what she had to do and made no apologies for it.

Something chimed, breaking whatever spell had locked their gaze together.

Ginny turned, flicking her wand with practiced ease. The utensils and food followed her instructions, flowing from one step to the next.

It was all so…domestic. Sweet, even.

“Do you do this every night?” What once might have come across as snide simply sounded curious.

Ginny glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. “Cook?”

No, stand there and berate people who came to apologize. “Yes.”

“I do dinners, Harry makes breakfast.”

She watched her wand fly, directing the ingredients into the pots and pans on the stove.

Something not unlike envy slithered through her stomach.

Ginny glanced at her again. “I assume Neville eats at school each night?”

Of course she had no bloody idea how to cook. “During the week, when it’s in session.”

She pointed her wand at a bookshelf and a book floated towards her.

Easy Recipes for the Remedial Home Cook

Ginny smirked as she glanced up. “You can have that for the weekends.”

“Maybe Neville does the cooking on the weekends.”

“I have no doubt he does all of the cooking,” she said. “Still nice to plan a surprise for your spouse from time to time.”

She thought of the dejected way she’d left Neville the week before. She’d hardly seen him since. “When do you want it back?”

“You can keep it,” she said. “It was a wedding gift from George and Angelina.”

So the witch was trying to poison her. She set the book on the counter. “I’ll pass.”

Her smirk spread. “It’s a real book,” she said. “The joke was that I’m actually a good cook.”

“Modest, too.”

“I didn’t even think you knew the definition of that word.”

This felt like something. Possibly forgiveness. Acceptance, at least.

Maybe she could try to return in kind. “If you ever want to come by the store sometime, I’d be happy to do a few outfits for you.”

She shot her a look. “Is that a passive aggressive insult about my clothing?”

Since when had any of her insults been passive aggressive? “A genuine offer.”

Ginny eyed her for a few heartbeats before she shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”

This was probably about to blow her goodwill, but she couldn’t let it go. “Astoria Greengrass has started a restoration and interior design business.”

Her eyes narrowed.

She held up her hands. “I promised Daphne I’d pass along the information to anyone who inherited an older home,” she said. “No judgment at all if this is your style.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I’ll let you finish,” she said. “Thank you for the book.”

“Give my love to Neville.”

There was no sign of Potter as she walked herself out. She wondered if he’d used his cloak or an extendable ear or another item from Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes to eavesdrop on that conversation. She didn’t believe for one moment that he hadn’t listened in some form or another.

She apparated back to Neville’s cottage.

Dark and empty.

She didn’t need to be like the Potters. But if they could at least go back to tolerating one another…they had eight months of this left.

Not to mention the rite, whenever Neville finally agreed to it.

She sat on the couch and began flipping through the pages of the cookbook. All those years of training and she’d never learned anything practical or useful for survival. Malfoy wives didn’t need to know how to feed themselves, they just needed to know how to command house elves.

What rubbish.

Her hands froze at a recipe she never would have expected in a British Wizarding cookbook.

Chicken tikka masala.

Her lips lifted at the brief description. A popular muggle dish with Indian influences but invented entirely in Britain. Often a favorite of muggleborn witches and wizards, this dish is simple to prepare but has an exotic presentation. Serve with rice and store-bought naan for easy accompaniments.

She rolled her eyes at the “exotic presentation” bit but the inclusion of the recipe brought a small smile to her face. She traced her fingers over the picture, remembering the first time she’d gotten muggle takeaway with Hermione.

From the outside looking in, Hermione had always seemed to blend the wizarding world and her muggle roots with such ease. In truth, she knew it was a lot more complicated than her friend made it appear. She thought of Penelope, reading through her spell books the moment she bought them in an effort to catch up to her peers.

They had both been thrown into a brand new world, one completely contrary to the one they had been raised in. And yet both faced it head on, not just adapting but thriving.

Pansy shut the cookbook, determination coursing through her as she rose to find a piece of parchment to make a grocery list. If they could do it, so could she.

Granger was onto something about house elf rights.

Because this…this was torture.

Tuesday night she destroyed the food. Completely. It looked like Weasley’s potion ingredients when he’d been ordered to help Draco Third Year after the hippogriff incident. Even the rice congealed into a semi-solid soggy mess. There was literally nothing left to cook so she gave up and vanished it all.

Wednesday went much better. Until everything burned. Even the rice. She barely got the scent of smoke removed before Neville came home.

Thursday was somehow both over and undercooked and Sweet Salazar keep her away from salt because it was absolutely inedible.

Friday, Neville came home early. His eyes widened in alarm at the smell and he rushed over to the stove. “What’s this?”

“Dinner.”

Hopefully. The rice seemed correct, at least.

Her response only seemed to increase his alarm.

Well, then. Now she was giving him no choice but to eat it.

She scooped a large helping of both rice and tikka masala onto a plate and held it out to him with a smile.

He accepted the plate, looking more terrified than any Gryffindor before him in history.

“Sit down,” she said. “There’s naan and wine too.”

Men had walked to the gallows with more excitement than Neville as he sat down at his kitchen table. Pansy pulled the naan out of the oven, completely unburnt, she was proud to note, and sent it in a basket over to the table. She poured the wine herself and brought him a glass.

“Well,” she said, “how is it?”

A Slytherin would have walked out. Demanded she eat a bite first. But—despite his obvious trepidation—her Gryffindor husband picked up his fork and knife and cut the chicken straight down the middle.

They both glanced at the center, but there wasn’t a hint of pink.

At least she’d done that much right tonight.

With that reassurance, he cut a bite appropriately sized for a toddler. After a brief moment, perhaps for prayer, he put it in his mouth and started to chew.

She was practically holding her breath as she watched him.

His eyebrows shot up and he looked up at her. “This is good.”

Thank Merlin. “You sound surprised.”

He cut himself a reasonably adult-sized bite. “I didn’t know you knew how to cook.”

She settled down across from him with her own plate. “It’s a recently acquired skill.” If taking four tries over that many days counted as acquiring a skill.

“What inspired it?”

“Granger telling me she’d no longer be my friend if I used the rest of my inheritance to purchase a house elf.”

She took a bite and smiled. It didn’t taste exactly like the takeaway she’d gotten with Hermione, but it was more than passably edible. It was good. And she’d done it all by herself.

Pleased with herself, Neville’s narrow-eyed glare from across the table caught her off guard for a minute.

Right.

The house elf comment.

Or maybe he was pissed about the reference to her spending her inheritance.

Who knew with him anymore.

She sighed. “Ginny Weasley—Potter,” she corrected, “gave me a cookbook she doesn’t use.”

That seemed to shock him even more than the fact that she’d actually made a decent meal.

Which, to be honest, she wouldn’t have placed a single knut on the likelihood of either of those events occurring as much as a week ago either.

“You saw Ginny?” His expression was guarded. “Why?”

Why did he think? “Quidditch lessons.”

The fork and knife he’d been holding fell with a clatter. He rubbed his temples.

“I went to apologize,” she said, staring at the plate as her appetite faded.

“Oh,” he said, voice soft. “Thank you.”

She wanted to snap that she hadn’t done it for him, but she knew that was a lie.

He stared down at his plate, the same dejected look on his face that he’d had the day she walked out.

“Forgetting it was his half birthday doesn’t mean you forgot about Fred,” she said softly.

His gaze darted up, searching her face. “It feels that way.”

“That’s just the grief.”

The corner of his mouth rose in a sad half-smile. “I always forgot their half birthday,” he said. “October after the battle was the first time I remembered, actually.” He looked down at his plate. “Some days I think about him and I laugh at all the stupid shite he used to pull and other days I think about him and it feels like finding out he died all over again, and both ways I feel guilty.”

Pansy reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back. “It’s like that with everyone we lost. Lavender, Lupin, Tonks…Colin shouldn’t have even been fighting but…” He exhaled in a low, shuddering breath. “It just hits hard, sometimes,” he said. “Everything we lost. I’m sorry for taking it out on you, that wasn’t fair of me.”

Pride or peace. She took a slow breath. “I am trying,” she said. “With your friends. I am trying.” Maybe she’d been more of a bitch to Ginny than she was to anyone else, but she’d gone to her house to apologize directly.

He opened his mouth to say something, but she wasn’t done.

“But I need you to meet me halfway.”

He nodded. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I will do better. I promise, Pansy.” He squeezed her hand again.

She nodded once. “Thank you.”

They both went back to their meal.

After several minutes of silence, Neville cleared his throat. “Harry, Ron, and Ginny have come to the Gryffindor Slytherin quidditch match with me the past two years,” he said. “Would you like to come this year? I could invite Draco too and try to convince ‘Mione to come too.”

Inviting Draco was probably the only way to get Hermione to attend the match. How she’d survived eight months of dating one of the most famous quidditch players in the world never ceased to shock her.

She smirked. “Sure you want two Slytherins there?”

He grinned in return. “Honestly I think seeing the looks on your faces when you lose will make it more fun for me.”

She laughed. Another thought that’d been rolling around came to her. “Can muggles ever visit Hogwarts?”

He frowned. “The place is surrounded by muggle-repellant wards—”

“The Griffiths,” she said. “Theresa was writing to me the other day about how muggle boarding schools typically have parent weekends and she was disappointed to hear Hogwarts didn’t.”

He swirled his wine glass. “They’d need McGonagall’s permission,” he said. “Probably Slughorn’s help too since he’s Penelope’s head of house.”

That would only increase Penelope’s chances of ending up in the Slug Club. “I’m sure Hermione would love helping show them around too.”

His lips lifted in a half smirk. “Good way to get Horace to agree to anything.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“I’ll ask Minerva about it on Monday.”

She beamed. “Thank you.”

He eyed her. “What is it about them?”

She ran her finger up and down the stem of her wineglass. “I don’t know,” she said. “They remind me a lot of most of the adults I knew growing up, without being…”

“Blood supremacists.”

“Right.” Obviously. “But it’s obvious how much they truly love and care for their daughter.” Being completely and totally out of their element with the magical world was only proof of how far they would go. Despite how posh and refined they were, she didn’t think there was anything they wouldn’t do for Penelope.

For a moment it looked like Neville was about to reach across the table for her hand, but he seemed to think better of it.

She flashed him a smirk. “Plus they’re very wealthy and I can tell Penelope’s going to go far so I figure the more I invest in them now, the more it’ll pay off for me later.”

He smiled as if he didn’t quite believe her. “Good thinking.”

“Slytherins always are.”

Chapter Text

“Well, I have to say, that was something.” Theresa shielded her eyes to glance up at the castle behind them. “Penelope’s letters did not do it justice.”

Richard was still deep in conversation with Hermione, McGonagall, and Slughorn as they strolled from the entrance down towards the quidditch pitch.

Bringing muggles to Hogwarts had almost immediately been dismissed as too much work.

Then, with a few well-placed comments, Pansy unleashed Hermione Granger on the situation.

Within a week, Hermione had a meeting with McGonagall, Shacklebolt, and the head of the muggle relations department at the ministry. They left with not only a plan to invite the Griffiths to Hogwarts the day of the Gryffindor Slytherin match, but the beginnings of a plan to host an annual event each summer for muggle-born students and their families to be introduced to the school and the magical community.

The Griffiths were ever so happy to volunteer their services as a personal favor to the Headmistress of Hogwarts and Minister of Magic to figure out how to bring muggles to the school.

It was a bit of a complicated process but once the Unspeakables finished their work, Richard and Theresa had talismans they could wear that allowed them past any muggle specific wards around public magical places. Some places, like Diagon Alley, still required use of a wand to enter but Theresa could find the Leaky on her own. She and Pansy already had plans to meet there and take lunch at one of the finer dining establishments in Diagon.

Theresa wore her runic coin on a long gold chain. It complimented the outfit Pansy had designed for her for the occasion, an emerald green dress with a tighter fitting muggle silhouette but wizard robe style sleeves. The perfect balance of fitting in yet standing out.

McGonagall, Slughorn, and Hermione led the tour. It took all of five minutes for Pansy to regret inviting the woman whose favorite book was Hogwarts: A History participate. But there were enough times she slipped into what felt like a different language with the Griffiths about muggle references that it was probably worth the trade off in the end.

“I don’t think I knew half that and I lived here for seven years,” Pansy told Theresa.

She laughed. “Your friend is delightful, though,” she said. “Ravenclaw?”

“Almost,” she said. “She was a hat split but went with Gryffindor in the end.”

“It’s a unique name,” she said. “Is she the same Hermione of the…what are they called? The three…”

She smirked. “Golden Trio.”

“That’s it.”

She’d recommended a few books to Richard and Theresa to catch them up to date on wizarding current events.

Well, to be fair, she’d asked Hermione what books to recommend to Richard and Theresa for current events and then passed those onto the couple but really, same thing.

“Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger,” Pansy said. “You’ll meet Harry and Ron today at the pitch.”

“Are they friends of yours now as well?”

It took everything in her not to snort. “Better friends with my husband.”

“I read about his heroics as well.”

She smiled softly, wondering—not for the first time—if her words were written in any of those histories. Forever recorded as the villain everyone wanted to see.

“But he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!”

“Penelope said she’s been enjoying his classes,” Theresa said, steering them towards easier ground.

“Neville said she’s been doing really well.”

Well enough that the Ravenclaw boy who’d been teasing her since school started—which Neville assured her he was keeping an eye on but so far was nothing insidious, just an awkward First Year who didn’t know how to talk to pretty girls—had missed two days of classes after sprouting purple hair all over his body.

Not even Pansy would have been able to put it together if Neville hadn’t been complaining about missing bottles of fluxweed syrup he’d made up for Slughorn on the same day she received a reply from Penelope informing her that Jacob had in fact finally started leaving her alone due to his mysterious ailment and then his frantic need to catch up on his missed classes.

If Neville examined his shrivelfigs, Pansy was certain he’d find at least one of the plants pruned. The Slytherin girls dormitory had its share of secrets, and she was glad to see Penelope was privy to them.

Pansy sent her a package full of Honeyduke’s best in reply.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, obviously being a professor is an important position,” Theresa began, “but is herbology a respected discipline?”

She was being delicate about it but Pansy knew what she was asking. If the Griffiths should encourage Penelope’s budding skills in herbology or if prestige and fortune were best found elsewhere.

It was a difficult question to answer. “I suppose it depends on the person and their position,” she said. “Unless you made some spectacular discoveries or managed to monetize it in some way, I wouldn’t say it would necessarily be a venerated profession in the circles I was raised in.”

Not that any profession truly was. “We are a small, insular society so innovation and discovery is celebrated.” So long as it didn’t threaten the status quo too much. “However, herbology has always been considered a very respectable hobby. Many witches I knew growing up took great pride in their gardens and greenhouses.”

Theresa seemed to lose a bit of her nerves and gave Pansy a shy smile. “It’s not too different for our circle,” she said. “I’ve done a lot of work in our rose gardens, as our social calendar allows.”

“I’m sure they’re beautiful,” she said. “My aunt rather despaired for a while that I wouldn’t make the match she hoped for me because of my black thumb.”

The Malfoy rose gardens were legend, and Narcissa Malfoy personally saw to the curation of each plant.

Theresa’s smile turned sly. “Well, you obviously managed to convince him anyway.”

It took her a moment to realize Theresa thought she was talking about Longbottom. She laughed. “Oh, Neville never would have met my family’s approval.”

“Oh, forgive me, dear,” she said. “I was under the impression he was also, what’s the term? Full-blooded?”

That sounded much nicer than pureblood. “He is, in fact, from one of our oldest families and there is not a muggle or muggleborn in his direct line,” she said. “However his family is…I think the closest muggle term would be middle class? Ancient family line and comfortable but not particularly deep vaults.”

Theresa nodded.

“To make matters worse, his family is what the pureblood elite would refer to as a ‘blood traitor,’ a pureblood who does not believe in blood supremacy,” she said. “Neville is a pureblood by happenstance, not carefully arranged matches.”

“Unlike you.”

She smiled briefly, hoping it didn’t look as forced as it felt. “Yes.”

It was ironic, though. Of the once revered Sacred Twenty-Eight, soon there would be only four pureblooded families left. Longbottom, Fawley, MacMillan, and Weasley. Another generation or two and they would probably all be wiped out.

“Would they have forced you into the other match?”

Being back at Hogwarts always twisted something inside her. She’d loved this place for so long, but sometime during Fifth Year, it had started to grow tainted. The darkness that inhabited her home started to seep into the school that had been her bright spot of hope. By Seventh Year, by the battle, it was all she saw.

Now, the bright hope had returned, but there would always be the undercurrent. The memories of when the darkness had almost won.

Her attempts to help Draco through his panic attacks during Sixth and Seventh Year.

Watching the Carrows torture her classmates.

Seeing people she’d thought of as friends doing the same and enjoying it.

Knowing what would happen if Theo’s secret was found out. Not realizing Blaise was keeping the same thing hidden.

Wondering if Daphne would suffer the same fate she’d been forced into.

Desperate to keep Draco safe.

“He was—is—one of my best friends,” she said, finally answering Theresa’s question about the convoluted mess that was her relationship with Draco Malfoy. “He was in love with someone else, someone he could never have. We both had familial…expectations.”

If such a word could even begin to explain the twisted darkness that they had no choice but to follow. The threat from her father and of having her magic stripped from her. The threat from Bellatrix who would do anything to keep the last pureblood heir to the Malfoy and Black lines from tainting himself with a muggleborn.

“I like to think that—had the worst happened—we would have done what we could to save each other.”

Theresa’s gaze was heavy on her.

Laughter caught her attention and she glanced over at Hermione grinning with McGonagall and Slughorn.

“The other woman was her, wasn’t it?” Theresa asked gently.

Her lips quirked. That hadn’t taken her long.

“Did you help them hide the relationship at school?”

If not telling anyone Draco was fantasizing about being with Hermione anytime they were together counted.

“He had to pretend to hate her,” Pansy said. “For her own protection.”

“You did too?”

She looked down at the grass. “I didn’t have to pretend.”

There were times she didn’t believe she had any shame left in her body. She’d made the decisions she had in order to protect herself and the people she cared about. Anyone who judged her for that had no way of understanding what she’d gone through.

But speaking to this woman, this mother who dearly loved her daughter, a muggleborn witch who Pansy from ten years ago would have scorned, she felt it.

“I had a plan.” Pansy swallowed.

Words she’d never told another soul. Had given up believing she ever would. But for some reason she needed this woman, this muggle mother, to know.

“It probably wasn’t even a very good one, but I had a plan,” she said. “To help her. Try to save her. For him.”

A gentle hand rested on her shoulder and she almost flinched. She did not deserve kindness from Theresa. Not in regards to that.

“I don’t pretend to know or understand much of your world, especially from that time,” Theresa said. “But even I know that would have carried great risk. I’m sure she is grateful for what you would have tried to do.”

“She doesn’t know,” she said. “No one does.”

“Not even your friend? Or Neville?”

Especially them. “I didn’t do it to be good or kind,” she said. “I needed something from him, and I knew he would do anything for her.”

Some days, that made her plan seem worse than not having one at all.

Theresa’s hand squeezed her shoulder. “You were a child during a war,” she said. “Of course you tried to save yourself.”

Tears stung her eyes. Fuck, she hated crying.

“The fact that you chose to save her to get what you needed says something too.”

She swallowed hard.

Moments later, Theresa pulled her into her arms. She clung to her in the unexpected hug, inhaling deeply against her shoulder until she regained her control.

Theresa gave her a soft smile, cupping her cheek. “No one, whoever they are, does things out of pure altruism,” she said. “Don’t let the goody Gryffindors get to you.” She winked.

She laughed. “Penelope teach you that?”

Theresa linked their arms together as they walked to catch up with the others. “She’s leaned into the rivalries a bit, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, it’s good for them.” These days it was, anyway.

“Sounds like today is always quite the event.”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Are you a fan of muggle sports?”

“Only as it pertains to my social calendar,” she said with a laugh. “Although in school I used to play field hockey. Team captain, actually.”

“Well, maybe in a few years we’ll see Penelope leading one of these matches.”

“Thank you for making it possible for us to be here today.” Theresa said, her voice soft. “Being welcomed into this part of her world is a gift.”

“I’m glad it worked out.”

They reached the others and McGonagall turned to her with a look she’d rarely seen on the older witch. Something almost near approval. “Well, Ms. Park—”

Hermione bit back her smirk as McGonagall stumbled.

Pansy didn’t bother to hide hers. “What’s worse?” she asked. “Calling me Mrs. Longbottom or knowing one day you’re going to have to call her Mrs. Malfoy?”

There was the look of disappointed superiority she was used to from Hogwarts’s headmistress. “I have been a teacher for decades,” she said. “If you think there’s any pairing that could still shock me at this point, you would be very much mistaken.”

Pansy’s marriage to Neville was the first time one of those surprise pairings involved the grandson of her best friend from school, however.

“I am always happy to see former students find happiness,” McGonagall continued, “even in unexpected ways.”

For a moment she wondered if that was a slight to her, but Hermione and Draco probably made less sense than her and Neville. And they were the ones who were actually in love.

McGonagall turned back to the Griffiths. “We can continue to the pitch, if you both are ready?”

Hermione dropped back to scold her. “She was trying to pay you a compliment.”

“She’s doubtless thanking Godrick I saved her from that embarrassment.”

They soon caught up with the few stragglers towards the match. Apparently it was a well known fact that two-thirds of the Golden Trio regularly attended this match and the news that Hermione Granger was attending as well left the stands packed earlier than ever, everyone excited to catch a glimpse of the Wizarding World’s Greatest Heroes.

Neville, Draco, Potter, Weasel, and Weaselette were already seated when they arrived.

Neville greeted Pansy with a kiss to her cheek, practically buzzing with excitement. She introduced him to both Griffiths.

Theresa looked him up and down, taking in the eyesore of a red and gold jumper, before glancing over at Draco’s polished look.

Pansy smirked. “We’re a work in progress.”

Neville rolled his eyes.

Hermione introduced the rest of their friends and then each of the professors who were present.

Weasel glared at Pansy in lieu of a hello, but she managed a civil greeting to both Potters that was considerably warmer than when she’d last seen them both at their house.

Potter took over with a brief explanation of quidditch for the Griffiths.

“Did you play in school?” Richard asked.

Potter beamed. “Seeker, from my first year.”

“I thought first years couldn’t play,” Theresa said.

“Yes, Professor, could you catch the rest of us up on that?” Draco asked, leaning over to glance at McGonagall.

“First years can’t bring their own brooms to school and they can’t try out for the team,” she said. “Mr. Potter did neither.”

“Ah,” Draco said. “And since when did the school carry Nimbus 2000’s?”

Her look was stiff and prim. “First years on their house team are allowed to have brooms.”

“How did you make the team without trying out?” Theresa asked. “Family legacy?”

“Well, I was, but I was raised by muggles so I’d never actually gotten on a broom until our first flying lesson,” Potter said. “Thanks to Draco here, though, I got to try a fancy bit of flying when our instructor was taking Neville to the hospital wing with his broken arm and McGonagall saw.”

Theresa’s eyebrows flew up and she glanced at McGonagall. “A child broke his arm falling off a broomstick and the rest of the class was left unsupervised?”

Potter pressed his lips together.

“Broken bones are incredibly easy to heal by magic,” Hermione tried to reassure Theresa. “Almost instantaneous so it’s seen as a very minor injury.”

“It’s regrowing them that’s difficult,” Potter muttered to Weasley and they both sniggered.

“Re-growing bones?” Theresa asked.

“Magic can also do that, not as fast, but overnight so not as bad as you’d think,” Hermione said. “What you really need to know, though, is that Harry Potter’s experience at Hogwarts was very atypical and Penelope is going to be just fine.”

“Atypical even for a Gryffindor,” Pansy clarified. “Penelope’s in the right house so she already has a leg up.”

“Indeed, and we couldn’t be more proud to have her,” Slughorn said.

Hermione used his distraction, and McGonagall’s efforts to assure Richard and Theresa of the school’s emphasis on safety, to smack Potter upside his head.

All squabbles ceased as the teams stepped out onto the field. Even Pansy got swept away in the magic of an exciting quidditch match.

Both teams were remarkably well matched. The Gryffindor chasers were a seamless team—apparently being scouted by different professional teams according to Weaselette—but the Slytherin keeper was absolutely brilliant.

“You don’t seem nervous yet, Potter,” Draco said as Slytherin edged ahead by forty points.

“It all comes down to the seeker anyway,” he said, eyes scanning the sky for the two seekers circling above the pitch.

“Tell that to the 1994 Irish World Cup team,” Hermione said primly.

Weaselette snorted. “Hermione, you can’t keep bringing up one of the only exceptions in recent memory as if it is a fact.”

“It is a fact that in 1994, Ireland won but Viktor caught the snitch.”

Weasel gave Draco the side eye with a small smirk. “How is Vicky?” he asked. “Still keep in touch?”

Hermione’s international news-making rebound after she and Weasel broke up apparently bothered Weasel more at the time than it did Draco currently, but Weasel never passed an opportunity to needle him.

Draco, to his credit, didn’t rise to Weasel’s bait. “She’s been working with him on his efforts to get Drumstrang to accept muggleborns.”

“Is that the Scandinavian school you mentioned?” Richard asked Pansy.

She nodded but that was all it took before Richard, Hermione, and a few professors were deep in a discussion about international Wizarding politics.

Theresa gave Pansy a playful eye roll. “It’s Korea Japan 2002 all over again.”

Almost three hours into the match, Potter jumped to his feet. Seconds later, the Gryffindor seeker shot into a dive.

The Slytherin seeker, however, shot in the opposite direction.

Everyone else jumped to their feet, eyes on the match below.

“Fuck.” Potter muttered, digging his hands through his hair.

“Fernsby, you arse!” Neville groaned.

Pansy finally saw the flick of gold the Slytherin seeker was flying towards. The Gryffindor beaters were frantically trying to knock her off course, but she performed a sloth grip roll without slowing down.

Pansy’s hands tightened on the railing in front of her. “Come on, come on…”

The Gryffindor seeker pulled up from his wronski feint just in time to realize what was going on. He flew after his opponent, but he was far too late.

The moment her hands wrapped around the golden snitch, the stands erupted. As the Gryffindors around them groaned and dropped into the stands, Pansy and Draco cheered. Several of the other teachers clapped politely, but only Slughorn was on his feet with Pansy and Draco cheering.

“And with that, Slytherin wins, two-hundred and ten to ninety!”

Pansy threw her arms around Draco as they celebrated the win. All she could do was laugh. For a moment, it felt like they were right back at school.

Neville glared at Potter. “This is the last time you can come.”

“How is this my fault?” he demanded.

“Fernsby was bragging all week about how he was going to do a wronski feint to impress you.”

“Well maybe next time the head of his house should let him know a win is going to impress me more,” he muttered darkly.

“What year is the Slytherin seeker?” Weaselette asked, calculating eyes on the field as the young girl celebrated with her team.

“Second,” Neville groaned.

“Not today,” Potter told his wife. “Plot another day.”

Weaselette shrugged. “She’s good.”

“Not today,” Potter said again.

Pansy said goodbye to the Griffiths, who were spending the rest of the afternoon with Slughorn and Penelope at the castle.

As the teachers slowly started to clear out, Draco turned to Hermione with his biggest shit-eating grin. “Alright, Granger,” he said. “Pay up.”

She frowned. “What?”

“We had a bet.”

She looked horrified. “Not here.”

“Twenty-four hours,” he said. “That was the deal.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed, his hand slipping to his wand. “What’s this?”

Weasel was eyeing Draco with equal levels of suspicion, hand already on his own wand.

Draco didn’t pay either of them mind.

Hermione straightened, her face prim. “Well, it’s not here so you’ll have to wait until we get home—”

Draco reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a familiar green and silver piece of fabric.

Pansy immediately burst out laughing as all the boys moaned.

“Good Godrick, Ferret, are you fourteen?” Weaselette asked.

“It’s been his wet-dream since at least that long,” Pansy said.

“Pansy!” Hermione hissed, cheeks flaming red as she looked around to make sure none of their former teachers were paying attention.

Nearly every one remaining in the box was.

Draco tossed the fabric at her.

“Draco…” she moaned.

He simply beamed. “You agreed to it.”

“Because Ginny said Gryffindor was going to win!”

“You can’t trust someone to be objective when their team is playing!” Potter scolded her.

“I also said it was the Slytherin seeker’s first match,” Weaselette said.

“Yes, but—”

Pansy laughed. “Yes, in 1994 the Irish World Cup team won even though Viktor caught the snitch, we know.”

Hermione turned to Draco. “Let me out of the bet or I’ll tell everyone what your patronus is.”

He considered her words for a moment.

Finally, grin spreading, he turned to the pitch, wand raised.

“Oh, come on!” Hermione groaned.

“Expecto Patronum!”

Silver light shot from the end of his wand. It took a moment, but when Pansy recognized the animal, she laughed so hard she dropped into the stands.

Even the moping Gryffindors joined in.

A fucking lion.

Draco Malfoy’s patronus was a lion.

“Eighteen months you’ve been able to do that and refused to tell anyone and today you decide you’re going to?” Hermione demanded.

“I wanted the reveal to be timed with a negative memory for them,” Draco said. “Thanks for the reminder.” He nodded to the bundle of fabric in her arms. “Pay up.”

With an exacerbated sigh, Hermione tugged on Draco’s old quidditch jersey. “Slytherin” blazed across the front in bright silver letters, “Malfoy” on the back.

Potter, Weasel, and Neville groaned. Weaselette only rolled her eyes.

Hermione looked like a petulant teenager as she glared at him. “Happy?”

He beamed. “Enough to fill the stands with lions,” he said. “In fact, the more to celebrate a Slytherin victory, the better.”

“This is so childish,” she snapped.

“What did Draco have to do if Gryffindor won?” Potter asked.

Draco smirked. “Go with her to a muggle picture show.”

Weasel threw his hands up. “Hermione! You have to pick something equally mortifying,” he said. “That’s not even remotely close.”

“Next time I’ll make him wear your old jersey.”

“Ew,” he and Draco said at the same time.

Hermione beamed.

Draco threw his arm around Hermione. “Alright,” he said. “Who’s ready for the Three Broomsticks?”

Loyal and chivalrous to a fault, everyone looked at Hermione for her permission.

“First round is on me,” Draco said.

That made a few of them shift.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “He’s going to make me go anyway, you might as well be there too.”

Draco beamed. “That’s the spirit.”

As they turned to make their way, Professor McGonagall did a double take when she saw what Hermione was wearing.

An avid quidditch fan, this had to kill her.

“We bet on the match,” Hermione muttered sullenly.

“Good one today, eh, Professor?” Draco asked.

She shook her head. “Not today, Mr. Malfoy,” she said. “Not today.”

The crowd at the Three Broomsticks grew rather unruly quite quickly. Most of the Dumbledore’s Army crowd showed up, many of them sulking. Padma, to her credit, laughed when she saw Hermione swimming in Draco’s old jersey.

Looney Lovegood smiled. “That’s nice of you to be supportive, Hermione.” She seemed to genuinely mean it.

Neville made her sit at the other end of the table from Hermione.

Finnegan groaned when he arrived and saw Pansy. “Oh, come on, Nev,” he said. “Snakes need to get their own table. Especially today.”

Pansy sat up with a smirk and turned to him but Neville cut her off. “You’ve never complained about hanging out with any of the Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs following those matches, even when Ernie spent all night bragging.”

“Yeah, but they’re snakes—”

“Pansy is my wife,” Neville said. “And Draco’s patronus is a lion so—”

Finnegan spun towards him, a grin spreading across his face. “No fucking way!” Then he saw Hermione and his smile dropped. “What the fuck is that?”

Under the table, Neville reached over and squeezed her hand. She could hold her own but, for once, it felt nice not to have to. When she glanced up at Neville, he winked at her before letting go.

Before she had a chance to miss his touch, he wrapped his arm around her and draped it across the back of her chair.

There was plenty of room at the table, they weren’t trying to cram into a booth or a tiny loveseat. It wasn’t a necessary gesture, it was just a casual show of affection. Belonging.

It softened something inside her.

He tapped her shoulder and she glanced up. “This okay?” he mouthed.

She nodded with a smile smile and he beamed.

Draco finally gave in and casted his patronus again, but only to send it off to Theo and Blaise to invite them to join them. He sent a second one to Daphne and sat down with a smug smirk.

Astoria surprised them all by coming with her sister. She got mixed up at the other end of the table with Loony and a couple of the younger DA members including the younger Creevey brother.

Neville nursed his drinks throughout the evening, only having two by her count. Despite his misery at the loss, he seemed to relax more around his friends, his laughter easy and carefree.

His arm stayed around her most of the evening. When it wasn’t, he held her hand under the table or rested his hand on her thigh. The idle touches on the back of her neck or on her leg were driving her almost to distraction.

She sipped her wine, trying to keep her cool as Neville’s fingers slowly, casually, and unintentionally drove her mad. He never seemed to hesitate to show physical affection to any of his friends, and he was being open and free with it to her that evening. Anytime they were intimate, however, she was always bound or restrained in some way from touching him back.

Was it her? Or non-platonic touch in general?

For once, she wanted to be the one to use her hands and lips and tongue to repay the favor and make him lose his mind.

Once it was clear no amount of dinner was going to sober most of them up, they started clearing out. The three members of the Golden Trio had to be escorted home by their partners, each one in no state to apparate.

“Thanks for bringing us, Nev,” Weaselette said, giving him a hug.

“Anytime,” he said.

Weaselette turned to her and nodded once. “Pansy.”

“Thank you for the cookbook, by the way.”

A small, surprised smile brightened her look of not-quite-suspicion. “Yeah, of course,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to owl Daphne. I’ll do that sometime this week.”

“I’ll tell her to look out for it.”

Neville beamed like they’d just made a pact of eternal friendship.

Ginny slung her husband’s arm over her shoulders. “Alright, Potter, let’s get you home.”

“He made her wear his jersey, Gin,” he moaned.

She patted him on the shoulder. “I know, it was truly terrible, wasn’t it?”

“I would never make you do that.”

Ginny glanced back at the two of them, smirking ear to ear. “Thank Godrick,” she said. “I don’t think I could live down the mortification of having to wear a jersey with ‘Potter’ across the back.”

Neville took on the role of apparating anyone home who didn’t have a partner to escort them, popping in and out of the Three Broomsticks until it was only Pansy left.

“Ready?” he asked with his easy smile.

Nodding, she followed him back to his home, hands hanging close but never touching.

“Well, that sucked,” he said when they got inside.

“There’s always next year.”

“So long as Fernsby pulls his head out of his arse.”

He got himself a glass of water and surprised her by handing it to her first before getting himself one.

It didn’t escape her notice that he held it so their hands wouldn’t have to brush as he passed it to her. Because they were alone? Or something else?

“So what’s your thing with people touching you?”

His hand froze, halfway to lifting his glass to his mouth. “I didn’t realize I had one.”

“I know you like your partners restrained, but it obviously wasn’t that way with Hannah,” she said. “So unless she was a pillow princess—and respect to her if she was—I’m assuming she got to touch you.”

Neville strode towards her, his steps slow and deliberate. The easy, carefree atmosphere from before was changed into something thick, ripe with possibility. “Do you want to touch me, Pansy?”

Fuck. How could he turn it on just like that? Go from Neville Fucking Longbottom to Neville Fucking Longbottom?

“I want to know why you don’t want me to touch you.”

His lips lifted as if he heard more in that non-answer than there was. “I wouldn’t say that’s true.”

“Then what is it?”

A shadow of something crossed his face. “Maybe I wanted to be the first man who gave you what you needed without demanding something in return.”

A snort escaped her. That’s what this had been about? Fucking Gryffindor chivalry? “Don’t let my fucked up history with Draco confuse you,” she said. “Aside from him, I have never given a man an orgasm without first getting my own.”

His eyes darted over her face. She wished she could read the expression there. “I’ve enjoyed the way things are between us.”

“You wouldn’t enjoy my hands or my mouth around your cock?”

His nostrils flared and he stepped back just a hair. “Fuck, Pansy.”

“Well, since you’re making me wait to do that…” She started to lower herself to her knees, but Neville caught her.

She’d never seen a man so conflicted. “Pansy, stop,” he said. “We can do whatever you want tonight, you don’t have to do that.”

Was he seriously turning down a blowjob? “You don’t want me to do it or is this some fucked up Gryffindor chivalry at work?”

His hands tightened on her arms. “I know women don’t like doing that—”

She burst out laughing. “Oh, Longbottom, you have been dating the wrong women.”

He frowned at that, but she wasn’t done.

“Tell me, do you enjoy eating me out?”

His lips lifted in a grin that was almost predatory. “You think I’d spend as long edging you as I do if I didn’t?”

“And you don’t think I could feel the same?”

He watched her, his gaze conflicted.

Fine.

She’d play his way.

“Oh, I’m going about this wrong, aren’t I?”

She pushed off his hands and—Gryffindor gentleman that he was—he immediately dropped her and stepped back.

So she went to her knees in front of him, lacing her arms behind her back and staring up at him.

His nostrils flared. “Pansy…”

“Please let me suck your cock,” she said.

His pupils blew wide and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

She was supposed to be turning him on, but something about this was working for her too.

“Please tell me I’ve been your good girl and let me suck your cock until you come down my throat.”

Being down on her knees, begging to give him a blowjob should have been humiliating. Should have made her feel weak and pathetic and everything she’d tried to avoid her entire life.

Instead, all she felt was powerful. That she knew exactly how to get him desperate for her.

She might be the one on her knees begging, but she held all the power in her grasp.

“Or come wherever or however you want, just please let me taste you.”

His breath caught. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Yes, do it.”

Grinning up at him, she reached up to undo his belt. She’d caught glimpses of his cock often enough, but usually only when she was half-delirious with bliss.

This was her first time seeing it in its full glory and her mouth immediately watered.

Because of course Neville Fucking Longbottom would have a perfect cock. Long and thick, just shy of being unmanageable in either dimension.

She wrapped her fingers around the base and licked a long line up to the already-weeping tip. She glanced up at him right as she wrapped her lips right around the tip and sucked like it was a lolly.

His eyes rolled and his head dropped back.

No woman ever made it to twenty four remaining a virgin without being a complete prude or getting really good at giving blowjobs.

Pansy Parkinson had been called many things, but a prude was never one of them.

She knew exactly how to touch and lick and suck and kiss to bring a man right to the edge and keep him there.

Finally give Longbottom some of the payback he so richly deserved.

His hands clenched and fisted, as if he was restraining himself from grabbing her head and fucking her mouth.

The man had probably never gone this long without fucking anything but his hand since he lost his virginity.

Pulling off him with a long, deep suck, Longbottom gasped.

She lifted his hands and put them on her head. “Fuck my mouth.”

He barely touched her. “Pansy…”

She tapped his thigh twice. Hard. “I’ll do that if I need you to stop,” she said. “Fuck my mouth.”

She took him back in her mouth but didn’t do anything else.

He gave the smallest hint of an experimental thrust.

She arched her eyebrow as if to ask if that was the best he could do.

Something shifted in his gaze and there he was. The dark, predatory gleam was back in his eyes.

Anticipation coiled in her core.

Hand tightening in her hair, he thrust again, right up to the point she might gag before he pulled back.

Leaving one hand on his thigh, she wrapped the other around his base, twisting and squeezing in time with his thrusts.

Groaning, he pounded into her over and over again. Words tumbled from his mouth. “Yes, Pansy. Fuck. Just like that. Good. So fucking good.”

Even as he lost himself in fucking her mouth, he never pushed to hard, too far. Right to the edge where she was nearly gagging but never quite over.

Watching him come completely undone, hearing the desperation in his voice, breaking his tightly held control…she’d never been so turned on just from sucking someone off.

“Stop me now if you don’t want to swallow, otherwise—fuck!”

As he teetered on the edge, she hallowed her cheeks and sucked.

With a gasp, he was coming, gripping her hair so tightly tears sprang to her eyes. He didn’t let go until he finally stopped with one last shudder.

Panting, his grip loosened into a gentle hold. “Fucking hell,” he whispered.

He moaned again as she sucked and licked him clean before tucking him back into his pants and zipping up his trousers.

“That was…”

She smirked up as he struggled for words. “Still preferred me with my hands tied?”

“You wouldn’t need your hands to do that.”

Fuck. That sounded hot.

From the look on his face, he agreed.

She smirked at him. “Now you’ll forever associate Slytherin beating Gryffindor with that experience.”

His expression of bliss immediately turned into a glare. “You are such a brat.”

Her smirk spread. “Maybe I’ll promise you that every year Slytherin beats Gryffindor.”

He tensed right as she realized what she’d said.

There wouldn’t be an every year, because this wasn’t real. Not a real marriage, not even a real relationship. There wouldn’t be a next year, they’d be divorced long before that.

Recovering, she flashed him a grin. “If we’re both single, obviously.”

His expression was unreadable. “You’d do that?”

“I think it’ll torture you even more next year when you aren’t getting it from me on the regular to want Gryffindor to win but know that if Slytherin does, I’ll suck you off.”

There. She’d managed to save that.

He rolled his eyes, but there was almost a hint of relief there.

Fine. It wasn’t like she wanted this anyway either. He was just a means to an end, and they might as well have fun along the way.

“Alright,” he said. “My turn.”

She frowned. “You just—” Oh. Oh.

Before she could blink, he’d swept her up and carried her into the bedroom with a grin that told her she was about to regret the way she’d just teased him.

And she couldn’t fucking wait.

Chapter Text

Pansy whirled as the door opened, her heart thundering.

What the fuck was Neville doing home today, of all days?

He looked as surprised to see her. “Pansy? I thought you had a full day of—” He broke off, seeing the other person at the table. “Harry?”

Potter gave him a friendly smile. “Hey, Nev,” he said. “Pansy said you’d be at the castle all day but I’m glad I get to see you after all! We’re almost done.”

“Done with what?” Neville’s gaze darted between them. “Why do you have Pansy’s wand?” He stepped forward. “Did something happen at the shop again? Are you okay?”

Well this was going to be fun.

Potter glanced at her, as if realizing for the first time that Neville had no idea what he was doing there.

“Shop’s fine,” Pansy said with a bright smile. “Harry just stopped by for tea and I asked him to run a quick diagnostic on my wand.”

Neville’s eyes narrowed. He turned to Potter. “Why are you really here?”

Potter’s eyes darted between them, completely ignoring the diagnostic that was still running on her wand. Not that he’d find anything dark or illegal, but still. One expected better from the Chosen One.

Pansy blew on her now-lukewarm tea, betting her shop that Potter would give her up.

Ironic, considering the reason he was here.

“Sorry, Neville,” he said, shifting. “Just stuff for her probation.”

And there it was. She flashed him a humorless smirk. “I guess turnabout really is fair play, Potter.”

He frowned.

“Probation?” Neville spat. “What probation?”

Potter’s eyes widened. His eyes darted between them, brilliant mind finally putting it all together. “Uhm…”

She sat back and crossed her legs. “Don’t stop now, Potter, you’re doing so well.”

He shifted.

“Someone tell me what the fuck is going on,” Neville snapped.

Potter sighed, already giving in. Goodness. Was it just because it was her and Neville or was he actually this easy to break? “Pansy’s on probation and undergoes a full auror investigation every six months.”

“Probation?” he spat. “For what?”

Potter shifted again. Merlin, he was twitchy. “Intention to aide and abet a mass murderer.”

Neville froze. He turned very slowly towards the Chosen One, looking every inch the man who killed the Dark Lord’s final horocrux with the Sword of Gryffindor. Merlin, it was hot. “Are you fucking serious.”

Potter pulled off his glasses and began polishing them.

“How could you let this happen—”

His head shot up. “It’s not like there weren’t hundreds of witnesses,” he snapped.

Each one more willing to testify against her than the last.

Neville gaped at him. “Is this about what she said in the Great Hall?”

“But he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!”

She sipped her tea, watching Potter.

“Yeah.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he demanded. “You think she was serious about that?”

Potter pinched the bridge of his nose. If he’d read her other evaluation transcripts—and she was certain he had—he knew the answer to that.

“And why are you here?” Neville snapped. “This has to be a gross conflict of interest!”

“I’m the lead investigator on the attacks against Pansy because I’m the only one taking that case seriously, and Pansy herself approved me doing her evaluation this year.”

Neville rounded on her, glaring.

She smiled. “I said any close friend of my husband’s is a close friend of mine.”

Potter cleared his throat. “It’s actually good you’re here, I need to examine the contents of the nightstand in your bedroom—”

“The fuck you do,” Neville spat.

Honestly, she was a little disappointed. She wanted to see the look on Potter’s face when he saw Neville’s collection of nipple clamps.

Not that she’d made it easy for Potter. Despite Neville’s insistence that Mimby wasn’t sentient, she’d made him move her to the guest room. As Potter had searched the kitchen, however, she’d put her back on the locked nightstand, hoping he’d get a stinksap shower for his trouble.

Perhaps already upset about the move, Mimby started quivering the moment Potter began cycling through unlocking spells. He’d given up rather quickly, but then again he’d shared a room with the cactus for two years and doubtless had already learned that lesson.

Whatever the version of a treat was for a mimbulus mimbletonia, Mimby was getting it tonight.

Potter sighed. “Nev, I understand this is difficult—”

“Oh?” he said. “You have someone come into your home, look through your things, question your wife?”

That made Potter snap. “Ginny fought against Voldemort!”

Neville threw his arm out at her. “Pansy never lifted a wand for him!”

Potter inhaled slowly. “You want to know why Pansy is still on probation?” He spun towards her. “Pans—Ms. Parkin—Longbottom.” He cringed as he awkwardly stumbled through her names.

She smiled. “Mrs. Longbottom is fine.”

“Do you still swear allegiance to the Dark Lord Voldemort or any of his causes?”

“No.”

“Do you believe in or support the mass genocide of muggles or muggleborns?”

“No.”

“Do you believe muggles or muggleborns are inferior to pureblooded witches and wizards?”

“No.” Merlin, that one still felt good to say.

“See?” Neville demanded.

Potter stiffened as if he was preparing himself.

This was the first time he’d been her examining auror, but he still knew what was coming next.

“On the evening of May 2nd, 1998, did you know that it was the intention of the Dark Lord Voldemort to murder…me if I was handed over to him?”

“Yes.”

“Everyone fucking knew that,” Neville snapped.

Well said, Longbottom.

Potter ignored him. “With that knowledge, did you still intend to turn me over to Voldemort and his followers?”

“Yes.”

“He would have killed her and her entire family!” Neville said.

The first was certainly a detriment. The latter more of an incentive.

“Do you regret your decision to demand I be turned over to Voldemort?”

Ooh. Skipping right ahead to the fun part.

“I do not.”

Nor would she ever.

Neville’s head snapped towards hers, eyes wide with shock.

Potter’s face tightened. “Given the chance to go back, would you make the same decision?”

She looked straight into his bottle-green eyes and without a waiver in her voice said, “Without hesitation.”

She’d never seen a look of such betrayal as the one on Neville’s face. Part of her pitied him. He really had no idea who’d he married.

Potter rubbed his forehead. “Pansy, all you have to do is say…”

Did he coach all the people he was in charge of evaluating or just those married to his old school friends?

“Believe me Potter, I know exactly what I need to say and do.” It wasn’t as if she enjoyed having her movements monitored by the ministry and her privacy violated every six months. “Do you know why I always tell the truth for those last two questions?”

He sighed. “No.”

“So you know that I was telling the truth for the rest of them too.”

He eyed her.

“And so you know that I’m telling the truth now when I say—for the record—that not a day passes that I am not grateful that you defeated the Dark Lord,” she said. “But there will never come a day where I regret the decisions that I made that night.”

He studied her for several long moments, as if he could crack her open and spill all her secrets.

Finally, he let out a long breath. “Due to your confession of guilt and lack of remorse for your decision to turn over one of your classmates to certain death on the evening of May 2nd, 1998, your probation has been extended for the next six months.”

She smiled. “Harry, you don’t need to make up excuses, you’re welcome by the house anytime.”

“Pansy, please stop,” Neville muttered.

Potter glanced at him and back at her. “As a reminder, your wand will be weighed at your next evaluation,” he said, tone flat as he repeated the same lecture she got every six months. She probably had it memorized now as well.

“Any presence of dark spells will result in the appropriate Azkaban sentence. Any attack spells cast in self-defense in the next six months must be reported to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement within twenty-four hours of being cast.”

Because that would be evaluated fairly.

“You must continue to keep your primary residence as well as any other real estate you own on record with the ministry at all times,” he said. “Each property has the right to be searched at any given time. You are required to authorize an auror team to examine your Gringotts vaults if it is ever deemed necessary.”

Or if there were more heirloom jewels they wanted to pocket.

“You are not allowed to leave the country without prior ministry approval,” Potter said. “Do you have any questions about the terms of you probation?”

“No,” she said. “Sounds like fun.”

Neville shot her another sharp look.

Potter gathered up the stack of paperwork he’d brought with him. He turned to Neville with a pained expression. “The nightstand…”

“Is keyed with my own blood lock and not even Pansy can get in,” he said. “Only my belongings are in there and I take responsibility for each of them.”

Potter wavered. Finally, he nodded. “I’m taking your word for it,” he said. “If we do discover anything illegal came from there—”

Pansy couldn’t quite suppress her brief laugh.

“I’d like for you to go now,” Neville said.

Potter nodded. “Sorry again, Nev.”

Neville stared at him. “You’re sorry.” His voice was flat, expressionless.

“Yeah, of course,” Potter said. “I hate doing this to you—”

“To me?!” Neville demanded. “What about Pansy?”

Potter glanced at her and then back at his friend. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Yeah?” Neville asked. “How’s finding the person who vandalized her shop going?”

“I’m not giving up, there just haven’t been any new leads in a while—”

“Well, if you need to free up some department resources, I have some ideas about where you can start.”

A muscle in Potter’s jaw tensed. “Take it up with the Wizengamot,” he said. “Or better yet—” He snapped his mouth shut but it was already too late.

“Better yet what?” Neville asked, his voice silky smooth but dangerous. It usually meant she was about to either get her arse reddened or edged until she begged. She wondered what it meant when he used it on Potter.

Potter rubbed his forehead. “I don’t like this either.” He turned to Pansy. “Thank you for being so cooperative this morning. I’ll go make sure everything else is complete.”

Just as he reached the door, Pansy called out, “Give our love to Ginny!”

His body locked up, knuckles turning white on the handle. With a long exhale, he yanked it open, stepped outside, and was gone with a crack.

At least Potter had been quick about it. Some of the other aurors seemed to relish drawing it out and taking up her whole day.

She never received any notice before her evaluations. Daphne had to rearrange her entire morning, which threw off the rest of her week. She had to send a note to St. Mungo’s that she wouldn’t be in to see Alice and, since it was a Monday, it meant going five days without seeing her.

There was just enough time to be early for her first afternoon appointment—and make sure the aurors hadn’t completely tossed her shop—but it would probably be best to get Neville’s lecture over with now.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

She knew what he meant but decided to intentionally misunderstand him. “I didn’t find out it was today until I arrived at work this morning.”

Only to find Daphne standing outside pacing while the team of aurors worked their way through the shop and Daphne and Astoria’s flat, despite neither of them being on probation. If she’d been renting to a couple Ravenclaws she doubted they would have gotten the same treatment, but all daughters of Death Eaters were the same, weren’t they?

Another team was already at work at her manor. She could only hope there was no proof there of whatever Daphne and Astoria’s embezzlement scheme was.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were on probation?”

She sipped her tea, the brew long gone cold and bitter. “Perhaps I didn’t want to witness you flipping from indignant on my behalf to telling me to shut up in so short an amount of time.”

He dropped his head and rubbed his face with both hands. “Just about the sarcasm and I didn’t say shut up—”

“I believe it was implied.”

He didn’t bother arguing that fact. “Why did you do it?”

She sipped her tea.

“I know you’ve said you knew no one would actually listen to you, so why did you say it?” he demanded. “Why not just be silent and leave with the rest of the evacuating students?”

Words couldn’t express how much she wished it had been that easy. Finally giving up on her tea, she walked over to the sink and poured it out. “I have appointments I need to get back to—”

“And I have a class I need to teach, but neither one of us are leaving until you tell me why you demanded Harry be turned over to Voldemort and why you still don’t regret it!”

For a moment, she let herself feel the weight of the old, crushing burden. The desperation she’d felt all of Seventh Year. From the moment her father forced her into that oath until the night he died and the Dark Lord was defeated, she’d carried that fear, that weight.

One she’d nearly forgotten until her father’s solicitor showed up with Ivan on her doorstep months before her twenty-fourth birthday.

Neville clearly already thought she was a monster. Might as well lean into it entirely.

She spun to face him. “It was an easy decision, almost risk-free,” she said. “If the Dark Lord won that night and found out that I was the sole person to stand up for him, the sole person to demand Potter be turned over to him, I would have been richly rewarded.”

He drew back as if she’d slapped him.

“And if Potter and the Order triumphed, my actions would have been put down as those of a spoiled, misled, foolish girl and I would have gotten little but a slap on the wrist.” She gave him a humorless smile. “Or the inability to leave Britain without prior ministry approval.”

She attempted to stride past him, but he stepped in her way. “And what, may I ask, was the reward you were so desperate for?” he spat. “What meant more to you than Harry’s life?”

“I wanted Harry to win,” she seethed. “I was desperate for him to win. Do not judge me for what I did to save myself if he did not.”

“It’s not like you would have suffered under Voldemort’s rule.”

She laughed once. “Are you fucking serious? Look around, Longbottom! I’m still suffering from what happened under him!”

His lip curled in disgust. “You wanted to be let out of the blood oath?”

“You can’t be fucking let out of a blood oath!” Hadn’t they come to that conclusion themselves after months of research?

“Then what was it for?” he yelled.

“Hermione Granger!”

He reared back.

Fuck.

Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?

At least she hadn’t given him the full truth.

“You were going to save her?” He blinked. “You didn’t even like her then.”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t. But Draco did.”

His tone was weary, exhausted. “And you needed Draco to complete the rite.”

Draco would have done anything for Hermione Granger. And Hermione Granger would have done anything for— “She could have gotten us out.”

“Us?”

Fuck. When had he gotten this astute? And when had she gotten so sloppy? She met his gaze. “Draco and I,” she said. “Theo too if we could manage it. Who else?”

He threw his hands up. “The rest of us who survived the battle only to end up…”

“You would have been fine,” she said. “Sacred Twenty-Eight and all, regardless of being a blood traitor.”

Probably forced into her father’s program at one point or another.

“And by fine you mean not immediately murdered.”

She swallowed. “The ones who were going to be murdered right away were the lucky ones.”

If she knew anything, it was that.

Bile rose to the back of her throat. “Macnair had plans, you know. For after the war, once they won. Elaborate plans for entertainments. The sort Death Eaters and wannabe aristocrats would enjoy.”

His face twisted.

“He was going to start monthly hunts,” she said. “Mostly muggles, but muggle-born witches and wizards apparently made for especially exciting prey. Potter’s Golden Girl…well, she would have been the best prize of all.”

Neville’s breath caught. “You were going to save her from that.”

“If positioning myself to be able to ask the Dark Lord for a reward for my loyalty so I could request that Hermione Granger become my slave to torment daily in order to force Draco’s hand into marrying me and completing the rite counts as trying to save her, yes,” she said. “Absolutely.”

He drug a hand through his hair.

“Tell me, where do I go to pick up my Order of Merlin?” she asked. “I know it’s not quite throwing off a spell cast by the Dark Lord using the Elder Wand in order to decapitate his final Horcrux with an ancient magical relic but surely—surely—I’d at least get a Third Class for that level of heroism.”

His hands curled around the top of a chair so hard his knuckles turned white. “Do you ever take a break from the fucking sarcasm?”

Where would the fun be in that?

“How can they—especially Harry—keep you on probation knowing all that?”

“Harry doesn’t know.”

He frowned. “Hermione hasn’t told him?”

“No one knows.” Except now him.

He blinked. “Draco?”

She scoffed. “You really think I could look him in the eyes and tell him that I was going to save the love of his life only to use it against him to help myself?”

He chewed on the corner of his lip. “It’s more complicated than that, isn’t it?”

She laughed once. “Make up your mind about me already, Longbottom,” she said. “Am I a monster or not?”

His long silence was telling.

Too telling.

“Right,” she said. “Glad to know I’m good enough to fuck, not good enough to trust.”

“Pansy—”

“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “I’m not actually good enough for that either.”

He started to say something else but she cut him off. “I’ve already had to reschedule most of my week because of this, I would like to limit the damage as much as possible.”

He didn’t speak as she gathered her things and strode towards the door. “I know my interactions with the Potters usually results in the silent treatment for a few days,” she said. “So before you start avoiding me, I just want to say good luck with everything that’ll keep you at the castle past when I go to bed for the next week or so.”

“Pansy—”

“And if you ever, ever so much as think about telling Hermione and Draco or either of the Potters or any of your other friends about what I just said, I swear to fucking Salazar…” She couldn’t think of a threat strong enough.

Because at the end of the day, he still held all the power and she still had none.

Even after everything, he could decide not to complete the rite and send her back to Ivan where he now probably thought she deserved to be anyway.

“I won’t,” he said, voice soft.

She swallowed, hating the rush of gratitude as much as the doubt that still snaked through her.

“I think you should though.”

Of course he thought that. Him with his countless friends and Order of Merlin and perfect fucking life.

She pulled the door shut behind her and apparated back to the shop.

Her client was early, so she didn’t have a chance to chat with Daphne before jumping into the thick of things. At least the aurors were gone. All she got was a quick confirmation from Daphne that they had finished and nothing had been too disturbed in the shop or her and Astoria’s flat.

Unfortunately, Daphne had taken her quick comment that she’d work through lunches on Tuesday and Thursday to make it up to clients as her blessing to schedule out Wednesday and Fridays lunches as well.

Seeing a fully booked schedule should have made her happy, but not when it meant going a week without seeing Alice.

The only opening left was a brief hour on Friday afternoon that she swiftly blocked.

The healers were flexible about Alice’s schedule during the day but there were no exceptions to the visitor policy after dinner.

It wasn’t like Alice was going to notice Pansy’s absence or miss her but she wasn’t happy about not being able to follow up on her care. On top of that, the brief respite of quiet peace with Alice in the courtyard were always some of her favorite parts of her week.

To make matters worse, ever since the Gryffindor Slytherin quidditch match, the DA crew seemed to no longer hate her. Or at least grown interested enough into booking appointments with her.

Not only was her week uncomfortably full, it was uncomfortably full of Gryffindors who she had to be extra nice to for Neville’s sake.

Thanks to Potter, at least six of them had to have their appointments changed. Which she was certain none of them would ever hold against her considering their overly forgiving nature towards her.

Wednesday afternoon, right before she was supposed to have an appointment with Parvati Patil, an urgent message arrived from St. Mungo’s.

“Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” Daphne asked, casually trying to tilt her head to read the missive.

She vanished it before she got a look. “I have to cancel on Patil.”

“Pansy, you can’t do that twice in one week—”

“Send her some sort of gift basket and tell her I’ll throw in two free outfits next time,” she said. “This can’t wait.”

Before Daphne had a chance to argue further, she had already fled the shop.

Her errand took longer than expected, but she was on the Janus Thickey Ward in just under a quarter of an hour.

Margret sagged in relief when Pansy swept into the ward. She and another healer were trying to coax Alice back into bed, but she looked like she was moments away from needing to be stunned. She wouldn’t stop swaying and shaking, on the verge of another outburst like the one she’d had when water had dripped down her face.

Pansy’s heart clenched. “What happened?”

Matted to the back of Alice’s head was a large piece of droobles blowing gum.

“Yesterday wasn’t a good day, and she’s been a wreck all morning,” Margaret said. “She did this right after lunch.”

“Has she ever put gum in her hair before?”

“No,” Margaret said. “It’s her favorite candy but we wouldn’t have allowed her anything that would cause her harm.”

“I brought a few things that can help,” she said. “Hopefully it isn’t too embedded…” She trailed off as Alice’s frantic movements started to still.

Margaret and the other healer traded looks.

Pansy walked over. “Alice?” she asked softly. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

There was no hint of recognition in her eyes. They seemed as dull and empty as ever, but she calmly walked over to the stool she typically sat in whenever Pansy came to do her hair.

Hands folded in her lap, perfectly still.

Margaret inhaled sharply.

All because Pansy hadn’t show up for five days.

Because somewhere deep down Alice had decided that if she tried to ruin her hair, Pansy would come back.

A lump embedded itself in the back of her throat.

Fuck.

Neville could never, ever know about this.

Going behind his back to shampoo his mother’s hair a few times a week was one thing.

Alice harming herself because Pansy hadn’t shown up for a few days was a whole other issue.

If he thought she’d somehow twisted this, made his mother dependent upon her to use her in some way…

She’d just have to make sure he never found out.

Pansy walked over and lifted Alice’s hands. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to cancel on Monday. Or today.” She squeezed her hands. “I promise I won’t let it happen again.”

Next time the ministry surprised her, she’d take the whole day off and come see Alice whenever it was done. And make sure Daphne never scheduled anything on her Monday, Wednesday, or Friday lunches again.

Alice didn’t blink, didn’t move, didn’t react.

But Pansy hoped somewhere, deep down, she heard her.

She turned to Margaret to ask after the towel and headband. She already had both at the ready, tears in her eyes.

She hoped the witch didn’t start crying. She was already hanging by a thread and if Margaret lost it, she didn’t know what she would do.

“You spend years taking care of someone, thinking nothing will ever change, and then…” The older witch brushed underneath her eyes. “You’ve been good for her. Good to her, and good for her.”

She didn’t know what she was supposed to say to that. She wasn’t used to being good. Not for or to anyone.

Instead of responding, she started working on getting the gum out of Alice’s hair.

Even with the extra products from Madame Toussaint, it took almost half an hour to get every last bit of gum out. The least painful method of removal involved copious amounts of oil so Alice’s hair was saturated with it by the time she was done. That required several rounds of shampooing to remove, but she tried to be as gentle as possible.

The entire time, Alice hardly flinched. Shampooing was never her favorite part, but every time Pansy combed through her hair, she seemed to melt further into the stool.

Finally, Alice’s hair was free of gum, washed, conditioned, and dried. Thanks to the impromptu oil treatment, it was the shiniest and softest Pansy had ever seen it.

Perhaps she should give it a try now that the dry, cold November air was starting to cause her signature black bob to frizz.

She had less than five minutes to make it back to the shop before her next appointment.

She bent forward so she was level with Alice’s face, smoothing the locks of hair around her face. “I don’t have time to go to the courtyard today, I’m sorry,” she said. “But I’ll be back on Friday, after lunch, and we’ll go then. Okay?”

Margaret came up to take over for her. Alice got down from the stool as instructed but instead of getting back into bed, walked to her nightstand.

When she turned back around, there was a small pink scrap in her hand.

Pansy’s breath caught, tears springing to her eyes as Alice walked over. Extending the droobles blowing gum wrapper with one hand, Alice reached up and tugged on a lock of Pansy’s hair with the other.

Trembling, doing her best to swallow back the tears, Pansy took the gum wrapper from her. “I promise, Alice,” she said. “I’ll be back on Friday.”

There was still no change, no flicker of recognition, but Alice turned and walked back into her bed while the other healer helped her.

Swallowing, Pansy turned to Margaret. “My assistant mistakenly booked my lunch on Friday as well so I won’t be able to make it in until the afternoon but I will be here.”

Margaret nodded and squeezed her hand. “She’ll be alright, dear.”

There was no time to linger, no time to find a broom closet and sit down and sob in the dark for a few minutes.

Not with an appointment next and an already screwed-over week.

It didn’t matter anyway. Parkinson’s didn’t cry. They didn’t have emotional breakdowns because a mentally unstable woman missed them and gave away an empty gum wrapper.

When Pansy finally swept into the shop, less than a minute late, Daphne shot her a stern look and a pointed glare at the clock.

Fuck that. This was her shop and her life. If Daphne had listened to her in the first place, none of this would have happened.

She marched straight up to the counter. “Do not ever book anything during my lunch on Monday, Wednesday, or Fridays again.”

Daphne blinked. “What…what happened?”

“Do you understand?”

Looking equal parts taken aback and offended at Pansy’s tone, Daphne stiffed. “Whatever you say, Pansy,” she said, her voice clipped. “Your three o clock is here.”

Spinning, she saw Maisey Reynolds watching the two of them from the couch with wide eyes.

She forced an apologetic smile to her face. “Please, forgive me for not being on time, I was dealing with a family emergency.”

Her eyes widened. “Is Neville okay?”

Right.

Fucking DA.

“Yes, of course, it was nothing like that, he’s perfectly well.”

“Oh, good.” A frown ended the look of relief on her face. “I’m sorry, is everything okay with your family?”

She felt Daphne’s eyes on the back of her like a brand.

Because she didn’t have family.

Not even Neville.

She could feel the imprint of the droobles wrapper in her pocket, the sole sign that anyone would miss her. That anyone had ever noticed her absence or been distressed by it.

“Everything is fine now, thank you for your patience and for being so understanding.” She gestured to the stand. “Let’s start with measurements and then talk about what you’re looking for.”

The door swinging open surprised her.

Neville stood there, later than usual but well before she usually went to bed. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

Awkward silence fell over the room. It was the first time she’d talked to him since their fight after Potter’s visit on Monday. Rather than relive that awful experience, she turned back to her sketchbook, working on the designs from the day.

“Did you just get out of the shower?”

She glanced up. Neville had a peculiar look on his face she couldn’t place. “No,” she said. “Trying a treatment on my hair. It has to set for another quarter hour or so, then I’m going to wash it out.”

From a distance it probably did look wet. She’d pulled it back in two French braids to let it set while she finished her designs.

Every witch was different, and yet they all had the same desires. Hide this, emphasize that, never these colors or those colors. It was a difficult balance but she relished each opportunity to put each one in her best light, combining personal tastes with the most fashionable looks into something her customers could call their own.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without makeup on before.”

In lieu of the good cry she’d needed all day—maybe since the day Ivan had showed up at her home—she’d just scrubbed her face when she came home. Done a skin mask she had only just washed off right before Neville came in.

Nothing like a full night of self-pampering to help her feel like herself again.

Granted, her self-pampering evenings typically didn’t include Neville Longbottom showing up halfway through to judge her.

“I assumed you’d be at the castle late.” Two days hardly counted as the silent treatment.

“Nah, later night because of Herbology club but it went well tonight, a lot fun.”

“Good for you.” She went back to the sketch.

“How was your day?”

Her eyes flicked up. What was this? They’d never chatted about their days before.

Perhaps he just needed a reminder. “An absolute shit show,” she said. “Having to reschedule my Monday morning threw off my entire week. It’ll take me at least another week to fully catch up. Unless, of course, canceling last minute on so many clients makes them lose their confidence in me and they cancel their orders.”

“Did it run long?”

“What?”

“Your…appointment with Harry on Monday.”

That was a nice spin on things. “Actually, Potter was rather quick about the whole thing,” she said. “Much shorter lecture this year. Normally the aurors really like to drive the betrayal point home.”

“Why’d you schedule clients for when you had the meeting with Harry?”

Oh. Her sweet, innocent, naïve husband believed she had a choice. “It’s a surprise evaluation,” she said. “I don’t get any notice.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

“So I don’t have time to hide all the dark, evil things I get up to between meetings with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“They can’t do things that are going to affect your business.”

She arched her eyebrows. “The same people who decided that a two week vacation was the best punishment for the auror who skipped rounds the night my store was vandalized?”

His face tightened.

She waited for him to say she deserved that too, but he changed the subject instead. “Sorry I was late the past two nights,” he said. “Had a couple detentions.”

“Ooh,” she said. “Anything fun?”

“Missed homework.”

Boring.

“You look really pretty, you know.”

Her gaze snapped up.

“Right now,” he said. “Without the makeup on.”

“Oh, Longbottom, don’t start with the ‘you don’t need any makeup, you’re beautiful just the way you are’ routine, it’s so cliché.”

The corner of his mouth rose. “You know you look knock-out gorgeous with it on,” he said. “But you look really pretty right now too.”

She studied him, trying to figure out what his goal was. There had to be a motive to it. To him.

“Not really my look,” she said finally. Makeup, clothing, accessories…they were her armor. Her shield against everyone who judged her, who looked down upon her for who or what she was. Who and what she’d been raised to be, whether or not she wanted it.

Her wand buzzed as the timer she’d set for her hair went off.

“Sorry, I can let you get back to whatever you need to do,” Neville said. “Enjoy your evening.”

He disappeared into the guest room without another look back, leaving her alone in the living room, once again questioning who he was and what he actually thought of her.

“I think it was okay.”

Her soft voice didn’t carry far in the empty courtyard.

Empty but for her and a silent Alice Longbottom.

Warming charms kept it comfortable enough without a coat, but the vegetation had all gone dormant for the winter, making it a rather depressing sight.

“To have wanted to save myself,” she said. “I think it was okay.”

Alice Longbottom, who’d endured hours of torture of the worst kind that left her insane and her son an orphan in all but name, probably wasn’t the one to confess that to.

But Pansy felt like she was burning up. Years of holding it in, torn between wanting to scream the truth or burying it deep.

It was easy to let them all think she was a monster when they didn’t know the full truth.

Better than confessing everything she’d taken into account that night—the plots known to no one but the Dark Lord, her father, and his closest advisors—only to find out that it still wasn’t enough.

That they still all believed she was evil.

“I had other ideas, other plans,” she said. “The obvious was to get Granger out of the way completely. Leave Ginny to her fate.”

Safest option by far. Even if Draco wouldn’t marry her after Granger’s death, Theo would have needed her as much as she needed him. A Parkinson-Nott union would have been everything their fathers hoped for. Celebrated by all. Considering how much Lucius had fallen from the Dark Lord’s favor by the end of the war, her father likely would have preferred that match to one with the Malfoys.

It was the easiest, safest path for her. And Theo.

“But I was going to try to save them instead. Does that…does that all go away just because I wanted to save myself as well?”

Alice watched the dead leaves blow across the paved path.

“Potter, Hermione, all the Weasleys, the whole Order…they fought for their lives too,” she said. “They said it was because it was the right thing to do, but it was for them too.”

It had to have been.

A tear rolled down her cheek and she flicked it away.

“Is it…is it so wrong that I wanted to survive as well?”

That she had a backup plan in case Potter didn’t triumph that night? One that involved saving both his best friend and his girlfriend from unthinkably horrific fates?

Even if the Dark Lord had allowed her Granger, even if it had all gone perfectly to plan, she wouldn’t have been able to treat her well. Would have still had to play her part.

At least until Granger’s brilliant mind found a way for all of them to escape.

But surely, surely that all weighed out in the end.

“I suppose that’s a rather Slytherin opinion,” she said. “That the ends justify the means.”

She glanced over at Alice.

She offered no absolution, but then again she wasn’t the one Pansy needed it from.

Not that absolution would come from any of the people who could actually grant it.

Before Neville, she hadn’t cared what anyone thought of her. The Order and Dumbledore’s Army had made up their minds about her long ago. Nothing was going to change that.

The day of her trial, they’d barely asked her any more questions than Potter did on Monday.

Did she still swear allegiance to the Dark Lord or his causes?

No.

Did she believe in or support the mass genocide of muggles or muggleborns?

No.

Do she believe muggles or muggleborns are inferior to pureblooded witches and wizards?

No.

Did she know that it was the intention of the Dark Lord to murder Harry Potter if he was handed over to him?

Obviously.

Did she still intend to turn him over anyway?

Yes.

Did she regret her decision to turn him over to Voldemort?

No.

That was the part when she should have been able to speak for herself. To explain, defend.

To say exactly what her father had planned for Ginny Weasley. What Macnair was going to do to Hermione Granger. Her plan to save them from all of it.

Instead, the Wizengamot had slapped her with indefinite probation until she showed “sufficient remorse” for her actions.

She’d been livid.

Half the Wizengamot had fled Britain once the ministry fell. And yet they sat there, judging her.

Fucking hypocrites.

“Neville thinks I should tell them,” she told Alice. “He doesn’t even know the worst of it.”

Would that be enough to change his mind about her? He’d guessed it was more complicated than what she’d said, but that long pause when she asked if he thought she was a monster…

“You probably think I should tell him,” she said. “And take his advice about telling everyone else.” She glanced back at Alice. “Isn’t that what mother in laws are supposed to do? Take their son’s side in all things over their daughter in law?”

Although that wasn’t just because Neville was her son. Just about anyone with a conscious would take his side over hers.

“I don’t believe for a minute Augusta ever took your side against Frank.”

Even now, the man could do no wrong. Perhaps more so.

“Augusta loved you too, though,” she said. “Said you were Frank’s other half in every way. So if she ever gave you shit, just know that you’re her new standard.”

One Pansy certainly didn’t meet.

“Maybe we would have bonded over that.”

In a world where Bellatrix had been locked up before she ever got close to the Longbottoms. Where Neville had chosen her. Alice would have welcomed her into the family, happy as long as her son was. Sheltered her, stood up to Augusta whenever she needed a defender.

Whenever she needed a mother.

It was a beautiful dream.

But just that.

Because Bellatrix had been there. Alice and Frank spent the past two and a half decades in a permanent ward at St. Mungo’s. Neville hadn’t looked twice at her until he thought she needed saving. Augusta didn’t think she deserved her grandson. Or anyone worth having.

Not the girl who’d tried to give up Harry Potter to the Dark Lord.

Still, for the next few minutes until Alice started to fidget in her signs to return to Frank, Pansy sat and let herself dream.

Chapter Text

Pansy shot up in bed, grasping for her wand as her door burst open.

A shirtless Neville swept in, tip of his wand aglow. “We need to get to the ministry.” He started digging through the drawers.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Just got a stag from Harry. Something happened at the shop.”

She flew out of bed. “Was it trashed again?” She gasped. “What about Daphne and Astoria?”

“They’re fine, the shops fine, the wards held,” he said. “Harry just said we need to meet him there.”

She dressed quickly and they floo’d together. It wasn’t yet midnight, but the deserted ministry atrium was dark and eerie.

Neville marched straight towards the lifts. Potter was waiting for them when they got off at level two.

“What happened?” she demanded. “Are Daphne and Tori okay?”

“They’re fine,” he said. “Astoria’s a little shaken. Daphne’s pretty pissed.”

“Did you catch who set off the wards?” Neville asked.

Harry nodded once, his body stiff as a board.

“Who?”

“You’re not going to like this.”

They marched into a room where Gwain Robards, Daphne, and Astoria were gathered. On the other side of the room was a long glass window. Through it, she saw a small room with a table and two chairs. One was empty and the other—

“What’s Dennis doing here?” Neville demanded.

“Not cooperating,” Robards said.

“He’s fully cooperated!” Astoria snapped. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you. Dennis and I were working late on a site. Because the shop had already been targeted once, he escorted me home. Neither of us realized him touching the doorknob would set off the wards. That’s it.”

“Robards—”

The Head Auror cut off Potter. “You’re the one who created the profile of Mrs. Longbottom’s vandal,” he said. “The suspect is most likely a former target of You-Know-Who or his followers. Someone who lost business or property during the second wizarding war or even a family member, perhaps by Mr. Parkinson himself.”

“What a thorough profile,” Daphne said. “Congratulations, oh Chosen One. You managed to rule out at least ten percent of the wizarding population of Britain.”

“Colin was murdered by Rockwood, not Pansy’s father,” Astoria said.

Her father was too much of a coward for open battle. He’d only entered the Hogwarts grounds once Harry Potter was dead and he was assured of victory.

Hadn’t worked out very well for him.

Potter pulled off his glasses and ran his hands over his face.

Neville clapped him on the shoulder.

“All Mr. Creevey needs to do is surrender his wand for inspection,” Robards said. “As long as there’s nothing suspicious on it—”

“Dennis Creevey’s job is magical construction, of course you’re going to find spells used in the destruction of Mrs. Longbottom’s property present, likely on the day of the attack.”

They all turned as Katie Bell strode into the room, looking far too put together in her pristine robe and heels for a midnight run to the ministry.

Potter blinked. “Katie, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here on behalf of my client.”

“Client?” Robards sputtered. “Mr. Creevey doesn’t even have a single charge yet—”

“Excellent,” Katie said. “In that case, I will escort him home with your apologizes for the inconvenience.”

Potter rocked back on his heels, grinning as his supervisor started sputtering.

“He is not free to go!” Robards snapped. “We’re holding him for questioning about his connection to the vandalization of Pansy Longbottom’s store back in July.”

Katie crossed her arms. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “Dennis escorts Astoria Greengrass home for her own protection after their work at the Parkinson Estate Manor ran late and you think that makes him the person who vandalized Pansy’s store four months ago?”

“He fits Potter’s profile,” Robards said.

“What profile?” Katie asked.

Potter handed her a file.

She skimmed it before passing it back. “That’s half the magical population of Britain.”

“What I said,” Daphne muttered.

Katie’s eyes flicked up with a hint of a smirk. “Are you serving as Mr. Creevey’s counsel as well, Ms. Greengrass?”

Daphne’s lip curled in a small sneer that only made Katie’s smirk widen.

“If he could provide us with an alibi from the night of the attack or surrender his wand for weighing, we would be happy to let him go,” Robards said.

“Where is his wand?” Katie asked.

“It somehow ended up in the shop in the scuffle when the wards went off and our team appeared,” Robards said. “Both Ms. Greengrasses are refusing to let the auror team into the shop or their apartment to retrieve it.”

“We've already had our privacy violated by one of your ‘teams’ this month,” Daphne sneered. “We know Dennis is innocent, we won’t let you fabricate another excuse to go through our things.”

“Perhaps you should rent from a non-criminal,” Robards said.

“That’s not fair,” Neville snapped.

Potter glanced at him, emotion flicking over his face too fast to read.

Robards rounded on Pansy. “Exactly why are your wards so strong, Mrs. Longbottom?”

She smiled. “I asked Hermione Granger to assist after the attack on my shop.”

Potter chuckled. “No wonder we can’t get in.”

Robards’s eyes narrowed at him before his gaze landed on Pansy. Something sparked in his expression. “Why don’t you take Mrs. Longbottom to her shop to obtain the missing wand?”

Four pairs of eyes immediately shot her warning glares, ranging from pleading to downright homicidal.

Interesting.

Potter and Neville she understood.

Daphne and Astoria were another matter entirely.

Why were they trying to hide Dennis’s wand? And for what purpose?

Katie took the decision out of her hands. “As I already said, the missing wand isn’t going to give you any information other than further your misplaced suspicions,” she said. “Dennis casts bombarda more days than he doesn’t.”

“He does a lot of ward and curse breaking too,” Astoria said. “Most of those old estates have some nasty spells that need to be removed.”

“Interesting way to plead Mr. Creevey’s innocence,” Robards said. “He didn’t do it but he has the skills and knowledge from his everyday work to know how.”

“Everyone in your department has the skills as well,” Katie said.

Robards’s eyes narrowed. “Does he have an alibi for the evening Mrs. Longbottom’s store was vandalized?”

“Do you remember exactly where you were on a random night four months ago?”

“I wasn’t found trying to break into Mrs. Longbottom’s shop.”

“Neither was Dennis, he was being a Godrick-damned Gryffindor trying to open a fucking door for me!” Astoria snapped.

Daphne shushed her.

Katie glanced at the window. “Can he not see us from in there?”

“Our side is a window, his side is just a mirror.” Robards jerked his head. “Potter’s idea.”

“It’s a very common muggle police interrogation tactic,” Potter said. “I already told you it isn’t going to work on muggle-borns.”

“His father is a milkman and his mother works for his uncle’s construction company,” Robards said. “He wouldn’t know anything about muggle police procedure.”

“It’s common knowledge amongst muggles,” Potter said.

“Well, then what good is it if they know they’re being watched?”

He sighed. “It’s to keep witness identity secret and an intimidation factor,” he said. “They know they’re being watched but not by who or what they’re saying.”

Robards frowned. “And that works on muggles?”

He shrugged. “Just the threat of veritaserum gets all sorts of wizards and witches to confess all sorts of things.”

Katie turned to them, interrupting their banter. “If Dennis will submit to questioning under veritaserum will you let him go without weighing his wand?”

“Katie, no!” Astoria gasped.

“Why don’t any of you want his wand weighed so badly?” Robards asked.

Katie met his stare unflinchingly. “Because of his career, it will only cast more suspicions on him and we’ll end up here anyway,” she said. “Let’s just cut to the quick.”

Robards eyed Potter. “Your case,” he said. “Your call.”

He crossed his arms with a petulant look on his face. “I think Astoria and Dennis are telling the truth and he should be let go now.”

Robards frowned. “You’re letting your emotions get the best of you,” he said. “You don’t get to hold your friends to different standards.”

“The condition of him taking veritaserum is that I get to do the questioning and silence him at any point if he starts veering off subject,” Katie said.

Finally, Potter sighed. “If Dennis okays it.”

“I’ll go get it,” Robards said.

“I’ll brief Dennis.” Katie walked out into the hallway. Moments later they saw her enter the room.

“Oh, thank god,” Dennis breathed the moment he saw her.

“Thank Astoria,” Katie said, sliding into the seat across from him. “Lucky she remembered you saying that I’d done the legal work for your business and sent for me.”

His eyes darted over Katie’s shoulder to the window. “Who all’s watching us?”

She grinned. “Harry, who’s probably gloating that the mirror didn’t trick you.”

He smirked. “Did he say it was a muggle police thing?”

“Apparently it’s been a rather ingenious way to catch various witches and wizards confessing things,” she said. “Robards didn’t believe that it’s common knowledge amongst muggles.”

His smirk spread. “Nice to know my upbringing has some advantages in this society.”

Katie grinned. “Neville and Pansy Longbottom and Daphne and Astoria Greengrass are back there as well.”

He frowned. “Why are the Greengrasses still being held?” He looked past her at the mirror. “Harry, let them go!”

“Daphne and Astoria are here to give testimony to why you were present at the premises this evening and are going to remain until you are released or charges are filed,” Katie said.

“Harry should still let them go,” he called at the mirror.

Potter glanced over at the two Greengrass sisters. “You are both free to leave now that you’ve given your statements.”

“Dennis gave his statement too, what’s he still doing here?” Astoria asked.

“I’d like to know the same thing,” Potter muttered.

Back in the interrogation room, Dennis looked back at Katie. “They really think it was me in July?”

“I think Robards’s wand is so far up his ass that he’s being a little bitch about Harry trying to take Pansy’s case seriously and you’re caught in between.”

Dennis pressed his lips together.

Potter pressed his wand to his throat, casting his voice into the room. “Katie, he’s gonna be back soon.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Thanks for letting me know,” she said. “I’ll be sure to say it again when he’s here to hear it.”

Dennis pressed his fist to his mouth, shoulders shaking with repressed laughter.

Katie turned back to him. “So the option is to provide an airtight alibi for the night of the vandalization and offer your wand for weighing or agree to questioning under veritaserum.”

He immediately tensed.

“I will be doing the questioning and I will silence you at any point if you start going off track,” she said. “Once you answer the questions to Robards’s satisfaction, you can come back to my flat until you sleep it off.”

He didn’t look convinced. “How qu—” His lips continued moving but no words emerged from his mouth. He touched his throat, looking stunned.

“I’m a solicitor,” Katie said. “I’m very good at wandless, wordless silencing charms.”

The corner of his mouth rose, looking slightly impressed.

“It is your decision, but it is my professional opinion that you take the veritaserum now and get this whole issue resolved as quickly as possible.”

Finally, he nodded.

“You can talk now.”

“You scare me a little,” he said.

She grinned.

Robards came in shortly thereafter. He placed three drops of a clear liquid into a glass of water.

Dennis stared at it for a moment. His eyes flicked back up to Katie’s.

“I’ve got you, Dennis,” she said softly. “Promise.”

With that guarantee, he downed the glass of water in three large gulps.

The change was almost immediate. His face grew slack and his eyes became unfocused.

Robards leaned against the wall inside the chamber, watching Dennis intently.

“Please state your full name,” Katie said softly.

“Dennis Fitzgerald Creevey.”

“Why were you at Pansy Longbottom’s shop tonight?”

“I was walking Tori home.” His lips kept moving but there was no sound.

Robards turned to Katie. “You can’t silence him for everything.”

Pansy glanced over at Tori.

She seemed mildly irritated at best, but there was something more there. An edge to her feelings. Daphne had it too. She vacillated between annoyance with Dennis and fear for Astoria.

It was subtle, hardly noticeable to anyone who didn’t know them as well as Pansy did, but it was there. Which made no sense. There was no reason to fear for Tori.

Unless this was part of the embezzlement scheme somehow. Was Dennis involved?

Katie picked up the interrogation again. “Did you vandalize Pansy Longbottom’s store back in July?”

“No.”

“Do you have any intention of causing harm to Pansy Longbottom or any property she owns?”

“No.” A funny smile brightened his expression. “I kind of like her. She wants everyone to think she’s a bitch but she actually really cares.”

Astoria glanced at Pansy, a small smile tugging her lips. Potter eyed her like he was trying to decide if what Dennis said was true or not. Neville looked like he was about to burst out laughing.

“Like the muggle fashion thing,” Dennis said. “And getting Hermione to start the program for muggle-born students at Hogwarts. Colin and I needed that. Our parents needed it. And Pansy made it happen.”

Pansy sighed. “Potter, let him go, he’s obviously far too naive to have masterminded the attack on my shop, which to be honest wasn’t all that brilliant to begin with.”

His look of suspicion transfigured into a glare.

Neville, however, smirked. “Proving the first point he made about you true, I see.”

Dennis was continuing so she didn’t have a chance to respond. “And everything she’s doing to help Tor—” His lips continued moving as Katie cut his voice off again.

Katie didn’t want him telling anyone that she was helping Tori or Daphne.

Which meant Katie knew about the embezzlement plan.

The owner of the crew Tori works with the most has a few friends at the ministry. He found her a solicitor who developed a plan to invest as much of our family fortune into the business as possible.

Katie Bell had come up with the plan and had been helping Astoria and Daphne all along. She was pretending she hardly knew Daphne or Astoria because of it.

Dennis, clearly, was in on it as well. That was the second time he had called Astoria “Tori.” Few people used her nickname. Before the veritaserum, he’d only called her “Astoria.” Clearly they were closer than they wanted anyone to notice.

What on earth did the scheme involve that kept Dennis and Tori up past midnight? The only thing she could imagine two people would be up at that hour in a manor by themselves…

She clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to suppress her laughter.

Dennis and Astoria hadn’t been working late together alone in her manor.

And if the last spell Dennis had cast was a contraceptive charm…

She fought off another giggle.

Daphne shot her an unamused look.

Potter and Neville were both watching her too. She didn’t need Tori’s pleading look.

Azkaban ran on rumors and gossip. Not a single hint of a relationship between Astoria and a muggleborn could reach her father’s ears. Not until Daphne and Astoria had the money they needed for her cure.

She rubbed her brow. “Sorry.” She slid the back of her hand across her forehead as dramatically as possible. “I’m just so tired.”

“Well, we’ll try to wrap this up soon for the sake of your beauty rest,” Potter muttered darkly.

“Harry,” Neville chided.

The Chosen One let out a huff.

On the other side of the glass, Robards was giving Katie her own lecture.

“I have more questions,” she said, cutting him off. “I really don’t think it’s a good use of anyone’s time to listen to Dennis go on about Pansy when he clearly harbors no ill will towards her.”

“You didn’t ask about his brother, did you?”

The mood in the room immediately darkened.

Katie took a moment to compose herself. “Dennis,” she said. “Do you blame Pansy Longbottom for the death of your brother?”

“No I blame Rockwood and Voldemort and anyone else who served him.”

“Do you think Pansy served Voldemort?”

“No.”

“She was going to turn Potter over Voldemort,” Robards cut in.

“I don’t think she actually wanted him turned over,” he said. “You weren’t there. When Voldemort’s voice filled the Great Hall I practically—”

Katie cut him off with a silencing charm again and rounded on Robards. “The agreement was that I do the questioning,” she snapped. “Next time you interrupt or address Dennis in any way, I will silence you. Understood?”

He waved his hand as if to instruct her to continue.

Katie turned back to Dennis. “Do you believe that any children of former Death Eaters should be held responsible for the sins of their parents?”

She could feel the same tension she felt in her gut radiating from Daphne and Tori. The question all of them—Daphne and Tori and her and Theo—had grappled with for years.

“No,” he said. “Some of them had it as bad or worse than the rest of us.”

Potter scoffed. Neville, Pansy, Daphne, and Astoria were silent. Neville reached down and squeezed Pansy’s hand once before interlacing their fingers.

Katie turned to Robards. “Anything else?”

“Dennis, we need a minute, we’ll be right back.”

His lips moved, chatting on, but no sound emerged.

Katie wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

Robards still looked skeptical as they walked back into the observation room.

“He answered every question,” Potter said without preamble.

He rubbed his jaw. “Yeah.”

He’d obviously sensed something suspicious about the situation. Potter, between his thing about saving people and friendship with Dennis and guilt over Colin’s death, remained oblivious to it all.

Time to draw attention away from the Greengrass sisters.

Pansy wrapped her other hand around Neville’s arm as if she needed him for comfort. “It seems like he really meant it.” She looked up at Neville. “You knew him well in school. You don’t think he’d be capable of trashing my store, do you?”

There was a hint of suspicion in his gaze at what she was up to but loyalty to his friend won out in the end. “No, it’s not something Dennis would do at all.”

She gave him a small smile. “Taking an extra fifteen minutes at the end of an already long day to help someone who’s hardly more than an acquaintance sounds like something you would do.”

He’d spent half an hour apparating his drunk friends back to their homes after the Gryffindor Slytherin quidditch match. Probably put a glass of water and hangover potion by each of their beds as well.

Stepping closer to him, she glared at Robards. “Especially since we never know when someone in the auror department might turn their back when they’re feeling like a two week vacation might just hit the spot.”

Robards’s eyes narrowed. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and staring down at her like she was little more than dirt. “Cresswell immediately confessed to his wrongdoing and how much he regrets it.”

That was news to her.

“Perhaps you should give it a try, Mrs. Longbottom.”

She smiled at him. “Oh, that’s very important to me,” she said. “Anytime I’m in the wrong or do something I regret, I am the first to admit it and apologize.”

He snorted.

She could practically hear Potter’s teeth grinding.

“Pansy,” Neville muttered in a warning tone.

“Fun as this is, I take it Dennis can go now?” Katie asked.

“Yes, he’s clear,” Robards said. “Please extend our department’s apologies in the morning.”

She nodded once, heels clicking as she marched out of the room.

“Harry, we do appreciate you continuing the investigation into the vandal,” Neville said.

Pansy gave him a bright smile. “Yes, thank you to everyone at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who does their jobs.” She threw a look at Robards. “We do hope it’s not too much of an ask.”

“We are grateful,” Neville said. He shot Potter an apologetic look. “Sorry, it’s just late and the stress about the attack has been a lot.”

He nodded.

Pansy smirked. “Do give our love to Ginny.”

His face tightened as any goodwill Neville had earned her immediately vanished.

Feeling Neville stiffen next to her, Pansy dropped his arm and went over to Daphne. “Come on, we’ll floo you both home and make sure everything’s okay there.”

Daphne squeezed Pansy’s hand as they walked towards the lifts.

Once they checked over the shop and verified nothing was damaged and the wards were fully in place, she and Neville returned to his home.

“Why do you do that?” he asked, his voice weary.

She lifted an eyebrow.

“Harry’s trying to help you,” he said. “From what I understand, he’s one of the few in the department who’s actually willing.”

Only because of his friendship with Neville. “So I should be flattered that one member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is actually attempting to enforce the law?”

“No, but intentionally antagonizing them about what you said about Harry in the Great Hall when you had a legitimate reason for—”

“They needed a villain,” she said. “Tonight, they needed a villain and it wasn’t going to be Dennis.”

He stared at her for several long moments. “Altruism is a Gryffindor trait, you know.”

She smiled up at him, stepping closer. “Is it?” She ran her hands up his chest. “I guess we have more in common than I thought—”

He pushed her hands off and stepped away. “Don’t do that.”

She pouted. “What?”

“Pretend you did what you did for Dennis just to manipulate me.”

She crossed her arms. “Don’t assume you have any idea why I do anything that I do, Longbottom.”

“Why are you so afraid of people thinking you’re a good person, Pansy?”

“I’m not a good person!” she snapped. “I’ve never been a good person. I am a selfish, judgmental bitch.”

“Pansy—”

She wasn’t done. “There is not a decision I have ever made that hasn’t been for myself in some way,” she said. “I have never done anything for someone that I wouldn’t hesitate to use against them as soon as I needed something in return.”

The sooner he fucking figured it out, the better. “Every person in this world is either a user or gets used,” she said. “I’m not going to let myself be used.” Not again.

He gave her a long assessing look. “That’s not true,” he said, voice soft.

She let out a laugh. “Isn’t it?” she demanded. “Tell me, what exactly are you getting out of this arrangement?”

He blinked.

“Is it the way I’ve come between you and your friends? Affected your chances of ever getting back together with Hannah? The way I’ve manipulated you into promising to complete a rite that violates your upstanding Gryffindor morals?”

She threw her arm out at his bedroom. “I mean, I know I’m good in the sack but no one’s that good,” she said. “Not when you could so easily get it from someone else.”

Anger sparked in his eyes. He stepped forward, towering over her. “Our physical relationship has nothing to do with any of the rest of this,” he said. “If you are just using your body in an attempt to manipulate me then that aspect of this whole thing is over.”

Shame burned through her and she dropped her head.

“Is that what it’s been for you?” he demanded.

“No,” she whispered finally.

The word hung in the dark room for several long heartbeats.

There was almost no line she wouldn’t cross in order to keep her magic and earn her freedom. Whoring herself out didn’t even come close to that line, but implying that was what she was doing to Neville…

Cheapening what they had together like that felt wrong.

“No,” she said again. “No, that’s never been what it is for me.”

He let out a long sigh. “You know why you haven’t been using me, Pansy? Despite how difficult you’ve tried to make it for me at every turn?”

She glanced up at him.

“You can’t take what’s freely being given.”

Daphne was uncharacteristically nervous the next morning when Pansy showed up at the shop. It was in the firm way she held her stance, the completely unaffected look she portrayed. The flawless hair and makeup. Armor for what she feared was coming.

Pansy held out the tea and pastry she’d picked up. “Did you actually find a cure?”

Daphne nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Father’s study when we were going through it after his arrest.”

Their father had it the entire time? For him to prefer watching his daughter slowly waste away rather than break the curse…

“Is Dennis part of it?”

She hesitated. “His mother.”

She frowned.

“Most muggleborns are the only wizards or witches in their family,” Daphne said. “It’s as if the magic takes time to manifest and there’s only enough for one child. The fact that both Colin and Dennis were wizards is incredibly rare.”

She hadn’t known that. Ever taken the time to care.

“After the war, Dennis and his mom did a lot of ancestry research,” Daphne said. “She is descendant from three different lines of squibs. From her mother’s mother, mother’s father, and father’s mother lines.”

“That has to be rather rare.”

Daphne laughed once. “The cure requires the blood of a muggle woman who comes from two lines of wizards who has given birth to at least one magical child,” she said. “We thought that would be impossible to find. Then Dennis let that little fact about his family drop…” She shook her head, a smile of disbelief blossoming across her face.

“How much blood?” Pansy asked.

Daphne shot her a sharp look. “Less than a pint,” she said. “Honestly, Pansy. We’re not about to murder a woman. Especially not…”

Astoria’s future mother in law.

She sipped her tea. “Is the cure actually expensive?” Not that she would judge Daphne or Astoria for taking as much of their inheritance as they could.

“Several of the other ingredients are,” she said. “A few will probably have to be obtained through questionable legal means.”

Meaning bribes on top of the cost.

“Any that are grown in the Hogwarts greenhouses?” She’d find a way to get Neville to provide them.

“Draco and Dennis are working on acquiring all the necessary ingredients.”

She arched her eyebrow.

“Draco’s known since they called off the betrothal,” Daphne said. “Tori asked him to spread the rumor of her not being physically capable of carrying an heir so she wouldn’t get trapped in another betrothal agreement to someone less understanding.”

That rumor had impacted Daphne as much as Tori, but she’d never seen her friend express even a hint of bitterness about it.

“Dennis is working on obtaining the more illegal ingredients,” Daphne said. “He’ll be taken a little less seriously if he’s caught doing something on the fringes of legality than Draco.”

“Call in some favors from Potter?”

She nodded. She looked down at the takeaway cup of tea. “Our father’s solicitor can weigh our wands at any point,” she said. “To make sure that we aren’t behaving ‘beneath our station.’”

Giving their father license to strip them of their inheritance. It explained why Dennis was the one casting the contraceptive charms.

“Trace apothecary purchases too?”

“Tori can’t take most potions.”

She still didn’t know the details of Tori’s curse. Whether potions made it worse or would just be ineffective. Getting pregnant with a muggleborn’s child out of wedlock would certainly blow things up for Tori.

“Well, hopefully Mr. Creevey won’t be doing anything as foolish as he was last night again.”

Daphne rubbed her forehead. “I know.” She glanced up. “Thank you.”

She offered her a small smile. “Can’t let Tori get into trouble until she’s done with my manor.”

Reaching across the counter, Daphne squeezed her hand.

They looked up as a crack sounded. Katie Bell and Dennis Creevey stood outside the shop.

Pansy flicked open the door with her wand.

Dennis looked sheepish as he entered the store. “Morning.”

She gave him her most haughty expression. “Here to cause another disturbance, Mr. Creevey?”

“Just to get my wand.”

Daphne set it on the counter.

“Thanks.” He turned to Pansy. “And thank you for being so understanding last night.”

“I’m prepared to take Astoria and Neville’s word that you can be trusted if you give me yours that it won’t happen again.”

He nodded. “It will not,” he said. “I also wanted to apologize if anything I said about you while under veritaserum was hurtful in any way.”

She smiled. “You were very much mistaken last night,” she said. “I don’t pretend to be a bitch. I am one.”

The corner of his mouth rose. “I believe what I said is that I knew you liked people thinking you’re a bitch,” he said. “I never said you weren’t one.”

She almost laughed. She was starting to like him. She jerked her head towards the back. “This way.”

He didn’t move. “For what?”

“You to make up for last night.”

Daphne and Katie trailed after them as she brought him to the storage room. She nodded to the stack of unbuilt shelves against the wall. “I need those built,” she said. “I want them all along this wall, six high, eighteen and a half inches between each.”

He stared at her.

“You do construction, right?” she asked. “Surely a few shelves shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Pansy—” Katie started.

“No, it’s fine,” Dennis said. He lifted his wand. “I don’t mind.”

She pushed his wand down. “Not now,” she said. “I have customers arriving any minute.”

He blinked.

“You can do it tonight or early tomorrow morning, as long as it won’t disturb Daphne or Astoria,” she said. “I’ll add you to the wards so you can get in without bringing the entire auror department down on our heads again.”

A huge smile broke across his face.

“I expect them done by Monday morning.”

He eyed her. “And the wards?”

“You’ll be taken off as soon as I remember you still have access.”

She hoped he heard the unspoken order. That he could have access to the wards but only until someone noticed. As soon as he did, they were gone.

He smiled. “Got it.”

“Remember, wall to wall, six high, eighteen and a half inches exactly,” she said. “I will make you redo them if they’re wrong.”

“They won’t be.”

“Good,” she said. “Now, as I said, I have customers arriving soon and I don’t like them to see the help. In any case, I believe you have another job to get to for me?”

He had a goofy little smile on his face. “Thanks, Pansy.”

Katie was watching her like she was seeing her for the first time. “I get it now.”

Pansy arched an eyebrow.

Katie just smiled. “You and Neville.” Without another word, she turned and followed Colin from the store.

Chapter Text

Pansy sipped her wine, taking a few moments to appreciate the quiet before the chaos descended on the pub in the form of another DA night.

It was going to be ugly.

Whatever Katie Bell or Dennis Creevey thought about her now was not shared by the rest of the DA crew. She wasn’t even sure if it had been the night Dennis was almost arrested or back to her evaluation with Potter but any goodwill she’d earned after the Gryffindor Slytherin quidditch match was officially gone.

Alicia Spinnet had literally crossed the street last week rather than pass her on the sidewalk. Several of the DA members who had picked up their outfits had been downright rude.

She had more than enough clients without them, and it wasn’t as if they weren’t all just doing it for Neville anyway.

Still, it didn’t mean that it was going to make her night any easier.

Rather than head back to Neville’s home, she’d come straight to the pub after closing her shop for the day. A glass or two of wine before everyone else started arriving was exactly what she needed to get through the night.

Taking the high road was not her natural state.

She tried not to think about how low she’d sunk in her efforts to please Neville Longbottom.

But since their fight or whatever it was after Dennis had nearly been arrested she was…trying.

“Let’s grab this one here for now.”

Her ears perked at the familiar voice in the booth behind her.

Had Ginny not seen her or was she ignoring her?

She had not had enough wine for this yet.

“Merlin, it’s been such a long week.”

That was Padma. She listened carefully, trying to figure out who else was there as they all took turns complaining about their week and their jobs. Maisey Reynolds and Susan Bones.

They switched to gossiping about who was and wasn’t coming.

“Apparently Neville can make it tonight,” Ginny said, her voice glum.

“Oh that’s great!” Maisey said.

“Not if he brings Pansy,” Ginny spat. “I’m so fucking sick of trying to be nice to her.”

Ginny had been trying to be nice to her? Her people skills needed more than a little bit of work.

“Why did he have to break up with Hannah?” Ginny moaned. “She was perfect for him. Sweet, funny, pretty…”

All the things Pansy wasn’t.

She took a swallow of wine.

“I mean, come on,” she said. “Is Pansy actually that good of a shag?”

“Ginny!” Padma said, attempting to scold but sounding like she was holding back laughter.

“What?” she asked. “It’s not like he married her for her personality.”

Pansy ran a finger up and down the stem of her wine glass.

“I love Neville, but he’s still just a guy.”

“Yeah, but he married her,” Padma said. “You don’t marry someone you don’t care about.”

“Unless you’re being manipulated,” she said.

“Well, it’s pretty obvious you were wrong about Pansy being pregnant.”

No surprise Weaselette had been one of the ones to believe that.

“I think we should give Neville a little bit more credit,” Padma finished.

She groaned. “Not when it comes to Pansy Parkinson,” she said. “I can’t believe he broke Hannah’s heart for her.”

“Hannah broke up with him,” Maisey said.

“Yeah, and then he got married, what, five months later?” Susan Bones asked.

Six, actually, not that anyone cared.

“I know they were on-again, off-again a lot,” Susan continued, “but she thought they’d eventually end up together.”

Neville, too. She remembered the look on his face, the way he’d drug his hand through his hair. I always thought Hannah and I would eventually work things out. I just…

Just had to save Pansy Parkinson from her well-deserved fate of her own making.

Well, come June they’d all get their wish and Neville would be single again.

“She’s been trying,” Maisey said, unexpectedly coming to her defense.

Ginny snorted. “Did you know she’s still on probation?”

White hot anger burst through her.

How fucking dare she?

“Every six months she gets questioned by an auror,” Ginny said. “They ask her every time if she regrets yelling out to give Harry up in the Great Hall. And she doesn’t. Can you believe that?”

Pansy rotated her wine glass, watching the dark red liquid roll.

“Robards assigned Harry this year to be the examining auror,” she said. “Thought it would finally get her to say she regrets it so they could finally stop wasting department resources on her. Pansy started him straight in the eyes and said she’d do it again without hesitation.”

This was the closest she’d ever come to regretting it.

“Thanks to Pansy, Harry had to search Neville’s whole house,” she said. “Go through Neville’s stuff to make sure Pansy wasn’t hiding anything illegal there. Can you imagine how that made him feel?”

How it had made Potter feel? How about what it fucking did to her?

“Neville has a blood lock on his nightstand,” she continued. “Not even Pansy can get in. What kind of marriage can they have if he has to hide things from his spouse with a fucking blood lock?”

Potter didn’t have the same concern of hiding kinks from his relatives for obvious reasons.

But if he felt so bad about snooping through Neville’s house, why the fuck was he gossiping about what he found?

“And then poor Dennis goes out of his way to escort Astoria Greengrass home after she kept him—guess where—at Pansy’s family manor until almost midnight one night and it sets off the most obnoxious set of wards Harry’s ever seen.”

She doubted Dennis was complaining about why Astoria kept him at her manor near midnight.

If the auror department had done their jobs, she wouldn’t have needed to get Hermione and Theo in a competition to see who could lay the strongest wards to protect her shop.

“As if Harry doesn’t already feel enough guilt over Colin’s death, he had to question his brother under veritaserum!” Ginny continued. “All because he tried to do a good thing for a fucking Slytherin.”

Actually, because he was busy fucking a Slytherin but Weaselette probably wouldn’t approve of that either.

At least the gossip was that Astoria forced Dennis to work late. That sounded like something her father would approve of.

“And you heard about what she did to Parvati, right?” Ginny asked. “Cancelled her appointment twice in one week and showed up late for Maisey’s.”

By one fucking minute. What was going to be enough for them?

“She said she had a family emergency,” Maisey said.

“She doesn’t have any family!”

They were wrong…and right.

Because Alice wasn’t truly her mother-in-law.

“Plus, Padma saw her coming out of Madame Toussaints’s Salon with a bag full of products.”

“She did send Parvati a bottle of wine and a note apologizing,” Padma said.

“She blew your sister off twice and then lied about an emergency when she just wanted extra time to do her hair,” Ginny drawled. “Unless the emergency was her hair. Though you’d think it’d look better by now.”

“Ginny,” Padma said, her tone half-scolding, but she sounded like she was trying not to laugh as well.

“She wanted Harry handed over to Voldemort and doesn’t regret it, I’m allowed to be petty.”

“Hermione likes her,” Maisey said.

“Hermione has to be nice to her because of Draco,” she said. “Honestly, I’m not sure what the Ferret sees in her either. He turned out to be a pretty decent person. Don’t know why Pansy couldn’t do the same.”

“Why do you still call him Ferret?” Susan asked, laughing once.

“It’s funny,” she said. “And if it actually bothered him, I’d stop.”

“Why forgive Draco and not Pansy?” Susan asked.

“Draco lied about recognizing Harry to save him from Voldemort,” Ginny said. “Draco spent an entire year of his apprenticeship making a potion to heal cursed scars for Hermione and anyone else injured during the war. Draco apologized to each and every one of us. Draco gave up his family and his fortune to be with Hermione.”

Draco fucking Malfoy. Always managing to end up on top, no matter what he did.

“Pansy wanted to turn Harry over to Voldemort,” Ginny continued. “Pansy doesn’t regret offering to turn him over. Pansy is cruel and selfish and self-absorbed and Neville deserves so much better than her.”

“Hey, Pansy.”

Her head snapped up at the loud voice. Liam stood over her otherwise empty booth, a look of concern on his face.

Ginny hadn’t exactly been careful about her volume. Liam must have heard her all the way from the bar.

What she couldn’t tell was if he was looking out for Ginny or for her.

Either way, the damage was done.

She heard someone in the booth behind her scrambling and then a low, “Oh, fuck.”

“Can I get you another glass of wine?” Liam asked, his pity obviously directed at her.

She smiled at him. “Actually, I just remembered I was going to meet Neville at home tonight first.”

Liam tried to return the galleons she left for her drink. “It’s on me tonight.”

“Tip, then,” she said, leaving them on the table.

Without looking anywhere but the door, she strode from the room, head high and expression haughty.

The last thing that little ginger and her friends were going to see was that anything they said might have gotten to her.

Because she cared for them as little as they cared for her. And when this whole thing with Neville was over she would never have to see them again.

The lights were on in the house when she arrived back. Neville was standing in front of the closet in one of the new robes she’d gotten him, holding up two belts.

Relief blossomed across his face as soon as he saw her.

Something twisted inside her chest.

When was the last time anyone had been happy to see her?

“I forgot the rule about belts,” he said. “I know it’s black with black or grey and brown with blue or navy but these are both brown.”

He looked back at the belts, a look of utter confusion on his face. “I figured I should go dark brown because the navy is dark, but maybe it’s a statement thing with the lighter tan?”

She bit her lip to hold back her smile. She didn’t want him to think she was laughing at him.

“But then I thought that I’m not the type to be able to pull off a statement look so I should go with the darker brown.”

He stood, staring at the two of them for several long moments. He glanced up at her and did a double take. “What?” He dropped them. “How wrong was I?”

“Only a little bit.” Stepping forward, she put her hands on his chest and went up to her tiptoes to kiss him.

He blinked down at her, cheeks blushing ever so slightly as a small smile pulled at his lips. “What was that for?”

“You being cute.”

His eyebrows drew together in a mock frown. “I am not cute.” He snaked his arms around her, holding her close. “What part was I wrong about?”

“That you couldn’t pull off a statement piece.”

He grinned. “Really?”

There was something so sweet and innocent about the bright, hopeful look in his eyes.

Ginny was right about her not deserving him.

“So it was the tan belt?”

“No, definitely dark brown.”

His face fell. “I’m never going to get this.”

She smirked.

“Alright, enough laughing at me,” he said. “You can pick out my cufflinks and I’ll be ready in a minute.”

Sliding her hands up his chest, she grabbed his lapels. “Or we could stay in tonight.”

Much as she hated the thought of the Weaselette thinking she’d won, she really couldn’t face her tonight. Or any of the rest of those sanctimonious hypocrites.

Neville frowned. “Pansy,” he said. “They’re my friends. We spend Friday night with yours—”

Staring up at him through her lashes, she gave him her sultriest smile. “You could punish me for it.” She refused to let herself think about why she wanted that tonight.

Why she felt she deserved it.

Something flickered in his gaze. “Pansy—”

He looked like he didn’t want to say no but was going to anyway. She pressed herself further against his chest. “Please, Neville,” she said. “It’s been so long.”

Since before her evaluation with Potter.

If he rejected her now, said he didn’t want her, on top of everything with Weaselette at the pub…

Desperation didn’t sit well in her stomach. “I’ll do anything you want me to do tonight.”

Finally, she saw the wavering in his face fade. The predatory gleam that always made her weak in the knees sparked in his eyes.

“Do you want to know what happens to brats who try to top from the bottom, Pansy?”

She smiled. “Going to punish me for that too?”

“Maybe your punishment will be to go another two weeks without an orgasm.”

“I’ve never gone two weeks without an orgasm since I first learned how to finger myself.”

His smirk was pure arrogance. “Oh, but it’s not as good as when I do it, is it?”

Before Neville, she would have just said an orgasm was an orgasm.

It had not taken long to learn how wrong she was.

“Maybe I’ll spank your arse until it’s bright red and you’re dripping down your thighs and edge you until you beg and then stop,” he said. “You said you wanted a punishment, right?”

His words made her shiver. “Yes, please.”

Twisting her, he walked her the four steps to the bed and bent her over it.

Every other time he’d spanked her, she’d been over his knee. Being thrown over the bed instead, with the only point of contact the hand he pressed between her shoulder blades to hold her down, made her feel…dirty.

Is Pansy actually that good of a shag?

It’s not like he married her for her personality.

She slammed Weaselette’s words from her mind, trying to concentrate on the feel of Neville flipping up her skirt, dragging her knickers down her legs.

“Spread your legs wider.”

Awkward as it was with her upper half pinned to the bed, she took a step in either direction.

Neville leaned down close to her face, his lips almost brushing her cheek. “If you think you will get a reward by pretending to be good now you’re going to be very disappointed.”

Pretending to be good.

Because deep down, they both knew she wasn’t.

Never had been, and never would be.

You don’t marry someone you don’t care about.

Unless you’re being manipulated.

It wasn’t as if she’d orchestrated having Neville walk in on Pedro attacking her.

But if she’d know it would work, she would have done it in a heartbeat.

“What do you say if you want this to stop?”

“Mercy,” she said.

Yet another thing she didn’t deserve.

Neville’s hand landed sharply on her arse and she yelped.

Tears immediately filled her eyes. It was like something unlocked inside her.

An excuse to finally let them start to fall.

Because she wasn’t crying over the Weaselette or anything she said tonight.

Just the fact that she was getting her arse reddened by Neville’s hand.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but all she could see was the look on Potter’s face when she told him she would hand him over again without hesitation.

The look of betrayal from Neville’s.

But she had to look out for herself. No one else was going to.

She doesn’t have any family.

Not Neville. Not Alice.

Hermione has to be nice to her because of Draco.

I’m not sure what the Ferret sees in her either.

Even Daphne only came back into her life because she needed something. To her, Tori would always, always come first.

Pansy was only ever a means to an end.

Neville’s hand landed a second time and she bit down so hard on her lip that she tasted blood.

Cruel

Who hadn’t she been cruel to in school? Besides Draco?

Selfish

And that was only because she needed something from him.

He may have been using her, but she’d used him for far longer.

Self-absorbed

Even when she was trying to save Hermione, trying to save Ginny, she was thinking about herself.

Always thinking about herself.

Even tonight, all Neville wanted to do was see his friends and she’d manipulated him into staying home because she didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to face the people she’d willingly tormented for years simply because it amused her.

Neville deserves so much better than her

A sob finally broke free and she realized Neville no longer had her pinned to the bed. She slid down the covers, collapsing into a pile on the floor. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed into her hands.

“Fuck! Pansy, are you okay? I’m so sorry.”

Neville’s hands roamed over her, only making her sob harder.

She did not deserve comfort. Not from anyone, but especially not this man.

“Did I hurt you?” His voice was panicked. “I’m so sorry, Pansy. I didn’t think I was doing it any harder than normal, I—”

Her body heaved with the force of her sobs. She didn’t deserve it, but she reached for him anyway. Just to lay her hand on his chest and feel another heart beating.

His hands stopped her, gently cupping her face and holding it up for his inspection. He ran a thumb over where her lip stung. “Fuck, you’re bleeding! Merlin, Pansy, I’m so sorry.”

His face blurred with the force of the tears pouring from her eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Her words were a wet, garbled mess. “I’m so sorry, Neville. So, so sorry.”

“What?” he breathed.

“I know I’m a bitch,” she sobbed. “I know it, I do. I just…I’m sorry, Neville. I’m sorry.”

“Pansy,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, unable to form words.

No, Neville didn’t hurt people.

“Okay.” Resting his back against the bed, he pulled her onto his lap. “Come here.”

She curled up against him, shaking from the force of her sobs.

He ran his hand up and down her back in long, slow, soothing strokes. “It’s okay,” he said. “You’re okay.”

What was okay? How she’d treated him, treated everyone, her entire life? How she’d mocked him and used him and manipulated him?

“It’s not,” she sobbed. “I’m not. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever it was, I forgive you,” he said. “You’re okay, Pansy. We’re okay.”

How could he say that? Think that? She’d ruined everything in his life. The longer she stayed, the more she would mess things up for him but she couldn’t…wouldn’t stop this.

Not until she got what she needed.

Because in the end, that’s what she was. Selfish and self-absorbed.

“You’re okay, Pansy,” he said again. “We’re okay.”

So she let herself cling to him for a little bit longer. Let herself be weak and selfish, let herself use him just a little bit more. To get that smallest hint of comfort she so desperately craved.

When her sobs finally stilled, when she’d finally cried every last tear, Neville pulled away just enough to look at her face.

His face was lined with concern. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, feeling tears well up again. “No, you didn’t,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“You can’t do that again, Pansy,” he said, his voice firm. “The most important piece of all of this is trust. If I can’t trust you to safeword when things get too much, this is over.”

A pang of panic shot through her. She swiped at her cheeks with her sleeves. “It wasn’t too much, you weren’t doing it harder than normal—”

“I’m not just talking about when you reach your limit physically,” he said. “Emotions are a big part of this too and if things are getting too much emotionally, you need to safeword then too. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “I won’t do it again, I promise.”

“If you feel like you need to punish yourself for something, talk to me about it,” he said. “You can’t let me do things blind like that. It’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

He let out a long sigh. “What happened today?”

She stared down at her lap. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Was it something you did or something someone else did?”

Shame and rage coursed through her. Of course he’d guess she’d done something wrong. Based on all the years they’d known each other, what other evidence was there to the contrary?

“Pansy, what is it?” he asked. “What is it? What did I say?”

“Someone said something rude, that’s all,” she said. “I probably deserved it.”

Everyone else had always picked Ginny Weasley above her. Why would Neville be any different?

“No you didn’t.”

She stared at her hands. She couldn’t do this. Listen to him defend her. Because the moment he found out what happened—and he would—he’d take it all back. Find a way to blame her for what Ginny said.

Because, in the end, didn’t they all think she deserved it anyway?

“No one deserves to be treated poorly,” he said. “I’m sorry for whatever was said.”

All things he’d said in more or less words the entire time they’d been together.

“What do you need?”

Exhaustion weighed heavy on her bones. It was as if she’d sobbed out any of the energy left inside her.

“Probably just to go to bed.”

“Okay.”

He helped her up. Healed her lip and arse. Poured her a full glass of water and made her drink it. Got ready for bed in tandem with her, locking up and turning off all the lights as she crawled into bed.

The sheets were cold. The bed was too wide and empty. She felt Neville’s absence like a missing limb.

Rather than go back to the guest room, Neville entered his.

Without a word, he pulled back the covers on his side and slid into bed next to her.

Her breath caught as he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close, holding her back against his warm and naked chest.

“Just for tonight,” he said. “If you want.”

Her lip trembled. She bit it to hold back the tears.

“Is it okay, Pans?”

“Yeah,” she whispered, hoping her voice sounded stronger than she felt. “Neville?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

Sitting up, he pressed a kiss to her cheek before he settled back behind her, holding her close.

Apparating back to Hogsmeade at the end of the day, a sense of warm relief spread through her as soon as she saw the bright lights shining from the cottage.

Neville was home early tonight.

She’d been practicing a few of the other recipes in the book. Maybe there would be time to whip something up for both of them to eat together.

It had been a long day. She’d spent most of it on edge, trying not to jump every time the bell chimed as someone entered the shop.

But an entire day had gone by, and there had been no Ginny Weasley. No Padma Patil. No Susan Bones. No Maisey Reynolds.

Just her appointments and walk-in customers.

She’d have to face them again, probably sooner than she would like, but she didn’t want to be accosted at her place of business.

Neville was sitting at the kitchen table, holding a glass of firewhiskey. It looked like he’d barely drunk a drop of it. He rolled it around on the bottom rim, lost in thought.

“Hey,” she said, smiling. “Are you hungry? I’ve been working on a couple other recipes…”

His gaze snapped up and she trailed off.

She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen him that furious, and considering how often she pissed him off, that was saying something.

“Listen,” she began. “About last night, I…”

He let out a low chuckle and she flinched. There wasn’t a drop of humor in his tone.

Her stomach twisted. What was this? Last night when she was a wreck she got comfort and sweetness, got a single night without being alone in her bed, and today was the lecture? When she finally got to hear how ashamed he was, how furious he was?

How he wasn’t going to touch her again?

“Interesting you should bring that up,” he said. “When were you going to tell me Ginny was the one who made you cry?”

Fucking Ginny Weasley. Of course this was about her.

Wasn’t it always?

Stiffening her spine, she met his gaze. “Who told you?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why wasn’t it you?”

Because hearing him defend Ginny after everything she said would have shattered her beyond repair.

And still might if she had to listen to it now.

Aiming for casual flippancy, she hung up her cloak and hat. “Don’t tell me I missed her coming by the house to apologize.” She let out a small sigh. “Guess I’ll have to wait for another night. Can’t deny I’m looking forward to having the tables turned.”

She strode into the kitchen. Her appetite was gone but she needed to do something with her hands.

“Don’t do that,” Neville said, turning in his chair to face her. “Don’t pretend like this was nothing.”

Gripping the edge of the sink, she stared down into it rather than meet his gaze.

“You were hurt and upset last night and rather than tell me, you used your body to manipulate me into staying home even after our conversation last week when I said I never wanted you to do that.”

“That wasn’t what it was,” she said. “I thought I wanted it.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. “So instead, I had to find out from Harry fucking Potter what happened when he showed up after my last class today to explain the situation!”

She shouldn’t have spent so much time worrying about Ginny or anyone showing up at her work. It was yet another double standard by the sanctimonious hypocrites.

Because when she was wrong, she had to humiliate herself and grovel but like the mature adult witch she was, Ginny Potter got to send her husband to explain things on her behalf—and not even to Pansy directly—but to Neville to then pass along to her.

Some people really never outgrew the schoolroom.

“Apparently, Ginny had a rough day at practice and was just letting off some steam and never would have said anything if she’d known you were listening and felt so badly this morning that she couldn’t even eat breakfast.”

Of course.

Of fucking course they would all make this about Ginny and how she felt.

“Mercy.” The word slipped past her lips but Sweet Salazar if there was a time she’d ever needed it, it was now. “Please, just…mercy.”

She heard him rise from the chair and take a few steps towards her. “What?”

She didn’t look up from the sink, trying to hold back her tears. “You said the safe word wasn’t just for physical, it was for when things get too much emotionally too and I can’t…”

Merlin, this was making her sick.

“I can’t listen to another man put Ginny Weasley before me again. Not tonight.” Not ever, but that didn’t feel like an option. “So just…just give me the silent treatment. Or whatever else for like a week. You can lecture me then just…just not tonight, okay?”

If she had a better chance to prepare herself, to not be so raw from what happened between them last night, she’d be able to handle it better.

Or at least not break down sobbing and begging.

Reaching out, he rested his hand over where hers gripped the sink. “I promise I will respect it if you really need to stop, but I’m worried you’re misunderstanding the situation.”

Of course. Of course the one time she actually was vulnerable enough to ask him to stop and told him why, he’d push.

Because it was Ginny Weasley, wasn’t it?

“I’m pissed as hell at Ginny.”

For a moment, her entire world froze. Lifting her head, she stared at him in disbelief.

He still looked furious, but something in his gaze had softened.

“She is the one who was in the wrong last night,” he said. “I am so pissed off at her for it. And Harry for that bullshit today. And whoever else was there last night and didn’t stop it.”

He reached out, swiping a tear off her cheek she hadn’t even noticed fall. “And if you want or need to stop this discussion, I promise that can be it for tonight but I need you to know that you were not in the wrong. It was Ginny. And she made it worse by sending Harry to me instead of coming to you directly and apologizing.”

Leaning forward, she pressed her face into his chest. He stepped forward, pulling her in tighter and wrapping his arms around her.

For a few long minutes, she just stood there, letting him hold her.

When she finally pulled away, she swiped at her cheeks, brushing away the moisture.

Second fucking time in two days she’d let Neville see her cry.

“Do you still need to be done with this conversation tonight?” he asked gently.

Knowing he was on her side, she wanted it over with. “No.”

“Okay.” Taking her hand, he led her to the couch. He didn’t let go as he sat close to her, his thighs brushing hers. “Will you tell me what she said?”

“No.” She looked down at their intertwined fingers. “Don’t really want to relive it.”

“Okay.” Just like that, he let it drop. “Who else was there?”

“Padma, Susan, and Maisey.”

“Did they say things too?”

“Not really.” Mostly just laughed with Ginny.

Although Padma and Maisey had clearly been gossiping about her before.

“Did you just offer yourself to me last night because you thought it was the only way I would stay home?”

That made her lift her head. “No,” she said. “I thought I wanted it.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Take my mind off what happened.” That wasn’t the full truth though. She looked back down at their hands. “And a part of me thought I deserved it.”

“That’s not what this is,” he said. “You can’t cross that line again, Pansy.”

She thought of the panic in his voice the night before when he’d thought he hurt her. Guilt wormed its way through her. This was as much about him as it was her. “I won’t,” she said. “I promise.”

He squeezed her hands. “Thank you.”

She nodded.

“What did you mean when you said you couldn’t stand another man putting Ginny before you?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. But there was no point in fighting it now.

And Neville hadn’t taken Ginny or Harry’s word—their side—against hers.

Maybe he would believe her now.

So she started at the beginning.

“We’re dying off,” she said. “Purebloods.”

He frowned.

“The war, both of them, were huge parts of that, but it’s also ancient family blood curses and intermarrying and…who all even knows,” she said. “Blood purists talk a big talk, but the fact is that something is drying up.”

Maybe even their magic itself. Almost every one of the most powerful magicians of the past century were half-bloods.

But to admit that their fundamental beliefs were wrong…that would never happen. Even now, Lucius Malfoy clung to his rotten beliefs rather than accept his son.

“Aside from the Black sisters—one of whom never had a child and two of whom nearly died in childbirth—there is not a Sacred Twenty Eight pairing that has had more than one child—two tops—in generations,” she said. “Except for the Prewetts.”

Neville inhaled sharply.

“Prewett women are…unnaturally fertile,” she said. “Look at Molly Weasley…six sons. In the eyes of the pureblooded wizards who care about their legacies and blood purity above all else…there is nothing they desire more.”

“And Ginny is her daughter.”

She nodded. “It was well known in the circles that if Ginny Weasley was captured for any reason, she was not to be maimed or permanently injured in any way.”

Couldn’t damage the goods.

“But the question of which one of the Dark Lord’s supporters would get her…that was a debate,” she said. “Sacred Twenty Eight members obviously had the edge. The issue, of course, was who was going to be able to control her.”

And that was where her father specialized.

“My father was too much of a coward for open battle,” she said. “Hardly led any raids. He was too far down the line of command to get her. Talk was that it would be Avery or Rabastan Lestrange.”

Neville looked sick. Learning one of his best friends would have been given as a war prize to be bred was bad enough. Knowing it could have been one of the men responsible for the torture of his parents was another.

“But my father had something no one else did,” she said. “A way to control her.”

“The rite,” he breathed.

“The Dark Lord wanted proof it would work,” she said. “So on my seventeenth birthday, when I was presented to him, my father extolled the virtues of the Parkinson line. Of the control Parkinson men had over their women. What he did to my mother when she objected to me undergoing the same thing someday.”

And then made her swear the blood oath that sealed her fate.

“Before me, you just got disowned if you were unmarried at twenty-five.” Wouldn’t do to have a spinster draining family resources. “But to win Ginny Weasley, my father had me swear that oath.”

Neville rose from the couch and started pacing.

“It grew from there,” she said. “Once he had the Dark Lord’s guarantee he could have Ginny, my father knew he needed to appease the men who were furious he got her over them. So he developed plans for a breeding program.”

Neville froze, gaping at her.

“Any pureblooded or half-blooded girls who fought for the Order would be put into it, provided they were still virgins,” she said. “Father would do the preparation rites and then assign each girl to the Dark Lord’s closest supporters who still didn’t have sons.”

She didn’t like to think about what would have happened to the women who weren’t virgins.

She hadn’t been lying when she said that those who would have been murdered right away would have been the lucky ones.

“I hate Ginny Weasley,” she said. “I always have. Maybe it’s all petty reasons, like how she’s flawlessly beautiful and has a family who loves her and six brothers who would do anything for her. How she struts around like she can do no wrong, how everyone seems to worship the ground she walks on…”

How fucking perfect every part of her life was.

“I probably hate her more today than I ever have and yet…” She looked down at her hands. “I don’t hate anyone enough to leave them to that fate.”

Given the chance, she would still make the exact same decision.

“So when the Dark Lord demanded that we turn over Potter…it was the easiest fucking choice of my life,” she said. “Yell out that I’d found him, order someone to grab him and hand him over, knowing that more than three quarters of that room would die before doing so.”

Fifty of them had.

“And if Potter didn’t triumph, if the worst happened and the Dark Lord won, I was going to ask for Granger,” she said. “Even if it was only for a year or a few months before Macnair got her for his plans, I just needed to buy us time. For Granger to figure out how to get us out, and…”

“Not to escape with her and Draco but with Ginny and all the other girls your father had trapped at the estate,” Neville finished.

She still couldn’t look at him. Didn’t know what he thought of her story. If he believed it or not. “Draco too,” she said. “He would have helped. Malfoy men are like dragons.”

Words her aunt had drilled into her head.

“What do you mean?”

“Temperamental, wealthy, aristocratic hoarders,” she said. “But they fiercely guard their treasure and to a Malfoy man, there is no greater treasure than his woman.”

“Is that why you wanted Draco to complete the rite so much?”

She laughed. “I was never his,” she said. “Ever. I tried—so hard—to make myself everything he wanted.”

She’d never been a particularly nice person, but doubted she would have given Potter, Weasel, or Granger the time of day if Draco hadn’t been so obsessed with bullying them.

“That, of course, was my mistake,” she said. “There’s nothing men want more than what they’re told they can’t have.”

From the moment she’d waltzed into the Yule Ball on Viktor Krum’s arm, there was nothing Draco Malfoy wanted more than Hermione Granger.

The thing was…she didn’t care. Didn’t care that he loved someone else, wanted someone else. Even before the blood oath, her options were slim. But even if she wasn’t the one he loved, if Draco married her, he would have protected her. With him, she would have been free, even if she wasn’t who he wanted. It wasn’t like he’d ever be able to marry a muggleborn anyway so if he was going to be miserable, maybe it would be better with a friend who understood.

“She may not have wanted him back until recently, but Hermione was Draco’s,” she said. “There is nothing he wouldn’t have done for her. Still isn’t.”

“Why…why haven’t you told anyone this?” Neville demanded. “How can you let them treat you the way they do when…”

She laughed once. “I was going to tell them, you know,” she said. “Spent my weeks in Azkaban plotting it out.”

It’s not like there had been anything better to do. Even without the dementors, the cold, barren stone fortress had been a thing of nightmares.

“Finally, it was the day of my trial and they went through all the same questions you heard Potter ask me,” she said. “He was there. Apparently came to almost every single trial.”

She looked down at her hands.

“As soon as he heard me say I would have given him up again, he stood up and walked out,” she said. “It was supposed to be my moment. Where they gave me a chance to mount my own defense.”

The same white hot anger she’d felt that day burnt through her. “Where I said exactly what my father had planned for Ginny after the war. What Macnair was going to do to Hermione,” she spat. “How while almost all of those fucking cowards on the Wizengamot fled Britain the moment the ministry fell, I was still there.”

Trapped in an absolute nightmare.

“How I made a plan, positioned myself perfectly to be able to save the fucking Golden Girl Hermione Granger and Harry Potter’s girlfriend and Merlin knows who else from a fate worse than death!”

She drew in a shuddering breath, trying to compose herself. “And instead, they moved straight on to sentencing,” she said. “Read some letter from McGonagall about how I was young and misguided and deserved a lighter sentence and so they gave me indefinite probation until I showed remorse and I was shown out.”

McGonagall hadn’t even bothered to show up in person.

She shook her head. “If there is one thing in my life I swear I will never fucking regret, it is what I did in the Great Hall that night.”

Neville just stared at her.

She looked past him towards the kitchen. Where his untouched fire whiskey still sat waiting. “And yeah, I was going to use Hermione to force Draco to marry me and complete the rite.”

Tears burned in her eyes. “And maybe that makes me a horrible person but…” She drew in a shuddering breath. “I was going to try to save them. Is it…is it so bad I wanted to save myself too?”

“No.”

Her eyes started burning and she squeezed them shut.

Neville crossed the room. His hands rested on her shoulders. “No it wasn’t wrong to want to save yourself,” he said. “You deserved to be saved too.”

She fell forward, head dropping against his chest.

“You did right, Pansy,” he said. “You did good.”

A sob escaped her.

He held her close, running a hand up and down her back. “You need to tell them,” he said. “They deserve to know. And you deserve to have everyone know what you were going to do.”

So fucking naive. “If they didn’t listen to me then what makes you think they’re going to believe me after I’ve had six and a half years to concoct a story?”

“I believe you.”

“Yeah but you also bought dried doxy droppings from Harold Dingle Fifth Year because you believed it was powdered dragon claw.”

He snorted. “I did not.”

She pulled back to look at him. “You didn’t?”

“No,” he said. “Where did you hear that?”

She tried to remember. “Hermione put it in the prefect reports that she confiscated it.” Maybe he hadn’t managed to sell it to anyone yet. “I guess we just assumed it was you.”

He flicked her nose. “Brat.”

She smirked. “I thought you liked that about me.”

He smiled. “Maybe.” His eyes darted over her face, taking it in. His expression grew somber once more. “That’s why you haven’t lied to get off probation,” he said. “So they’ll believe you if you ever do tell them.”

That was the plan. Wait for a year when an auror asked her why.

And for the past thirteen times, no one had.

“You need to tell Ginny.”

What good would that ever do? But she wasn’t going to keep fighting. “Alright,” she said. “If she asks, I’ll tell her.” And since Ginny would never demean herself to ask, it was an easy promise to make.

He looked as if he knew exactly what was thinking, but let it go. He gave her a soft smile. “Do you want to go somewhere to grab something to eat?”

She gave him a sly smile. “Neville Longbottom,” she said. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

The corner of his mouth rose in a half-smile. “Of course not,” he said. “I just remembered you threatened to cook when you came home and I don’t want to get food poisoning.”

Food poisoning? She knew she wasn’t winning any awards for her cooking, but she thought he’d actually enjoyed it last time.

She looked down at the hideous combination of brown, mustard, and forest green of his jumper. “Right.”

“Pansy, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” she said, forcing a smile to her face. “You’re right, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”

“No, it’s not,” he said. “I’m sorry. I wanted to do something nice for you and then I tried to make a joke to lighten the mood but I was an arse. I’m sorry.”

She glanced up at him.

“I loved what you made last time,” he said. “You’re a really good cook.”

“No, I’m not.”

“No, it was amazing, I—”

“I’m not a good cook, Neville,” she said. “It took me five tries to make that one dish. I was never taught how to cook, or how to take care of myself. Just how to win a man who could do it for me.”

His face hardened.

“Teaching myself how to cook, it…I don’t know,” she said. “It’s something I can do for myself. Take care of myself. Prove I’m not helpless.”

The corner of Neville’s mouth rose. “Helpless is the last thing you could ever be,” he said. “If you put your mind to it, there’s nothing you couldn’t do.”

She was no stranger to the warm glow she got anytime Neville complimented or praised her, but tonight it felt different. Stronger.

“Still not entirely unconvinced I’ll wake up one day and you’ll be ruling us all.”

She laughed. “That’s how you lighten the mood.”

“Oh, that wasn’t a joke.” He nuzzled her neck. “You know how much I like getting on my knees for you.”

Her breath caught.

He pulled back and smirked. “I love what you cooked last time and I would love to try anything else that you want to cook as well,” he said. “However, tonight I would like to do something nice for you. Can I take you out to dinner?”

She tried unsuccessfully to fight her smile. “Okay.”

He beamed. “Great.”

She started plucking some of the pills off his jumper. “But, if we’re going out in public, you will need to change.”

“Right,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to publicly shame you.”

“Exactly.” She extracted herself from his arms and sauntered towards the bedroom. “I’ll lay something out for you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, Pans, I—” Neville froze in the doorway.

She smiled up at him from the couch. Her legs were stretched out in front of her and she slowly uncrossed and recrossed them.

Neville’s gaze tracked every movement before it snapped back up to hers. “What do you think you’re doing.”

She stretched her arms over her head. “Oh, just relaxing after a long day at work.” As she lowered them, the neckline of the jumper slid off her shoulder completely. “Are you going to leave the door open?”

Eyes widening, he stepped in all the way and slammed it shut. His steps were slow and measured as he strode towards her. “What are you wearing?”

She looked down as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I just grabbed the first thing I found in the closet.” She looked up at him through her lashes. “I forgot I wasn’t supposed to touch your jumpers. Are you mad?”

As far as his jumpers went, this one was…something else. Bright red with a giant gold “N” on the front and green plants decorating the cuffs, collar, and hem. The fact that it was obviously made for Neville and not one of Frank’s made her hope he would get just the right amount of angry about it.

His nostrils flared. “Are you wearing anything underneath that?”

Not a stitch. “Why don’t you come over here and find out?”

“You’re such a brat.”

She smirked. “What are you going to do about it?”

He started to say something and then stopped himself. She saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

She was ready for that. Sitting up straighter, the jumper slid higher up her thigh. Neville’s gaze dropped down before flicking back up to hers.

“First, let me tell you about my day,” she said. “Because it was wonderful.”

The corner of his mouth rose.

“Hermione Granger was on the front page of the Prophet this morning for her do-gooding—”

“Centaur legislation.”

“As I said.”

His smirk spread.

“Wearing an absolutely stunning ensemble designed by me,” she said. “I was specifically mentioned as the designer in the article with glowing praise for my work, without a single mention of my father, his allegiances, or the attack on my store in July.”

It was by far the most complimentary piece ever written about her. Likely because Hermione Granger was the one wearing her clothes but she wasn’t about to let that hamper her celebration.

“I have been getting owls all day long and have officially signed to do the clothing for four major ad campaigns in the coming year and got so many requests for designing gowns for Christmas and New Years Eve galas that I had to turn down five models and two members of minor royalty and counting.”

The next three weeks before Christmas were going to be a nightmare and she’d never been more excited.

“Days like this are everything I dreamed of when I started this business and I want to celebrate.”

A spark glinted in his eyes. “So you stole one of my jumpers after I specifically told you not to touch them.”

She smiled. “Going to punish me?”

The hesitation was back. “Last time we tried that…”

“You could punish me for that as well.”

“Pansy.”

That wasn’t a no. She tucked her legs underneath her body and rested on her knees. “I want you to take me over your knee and spank me so hard that anytime in the next week that I try to sit down, I think of your hands on my body.”

Another nostril flare.

“I want you to make me scream so hard that tomorrow people think I’m ill and have completely lost my voice.”

He leaned down. “I want you to stop touching my clothes.”

“What about touching myself while wearing your clothes?”

“Fuck, Pansy.”

“Oh, you can do that too.” She gave him a slow smile. “Anytime you want.”

His eyes narrowed. “You know I can’t and you know why I can’t so stop saying it.”

She pouted. “Am I in trouble?”

A flicker of doubt crossed his face again.

Fuck. If she’d fucking ruined this for herself…

“Nev, I promise I’m fine,” she said. “I didn’t like being bent over the bed like that, but—”

The predatory gleam came back to his gaze. “You like being taken over my knee when I spank you?”

Was that all she had to say? She smiled up at him. “Yes.”

He traced his finger lightly over her exposed collarbone. “I thought I really hurt you,” he said softly. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.”

Rejection laced with a bit of humiliation settled in her gut like a heavy stone. “Alright—” She started to get up, but Neville’s hand wrapped around her throat, stopping her.

Her pulse leapt at the gentle hold. She could feel the cold brush of his ring against her skin.

“And, in any case,” he said, his voice a low near-purr that sent a wave of heat to her core, “I’m not really sure that you did anything today worthy of punishment.”

“I touched your jumpers,” she whispered.

He smiled and his hand lowered to trace the giant “N” on her chest. “What man in his right mind is going to complain about coming home to his wife completely naked underneath something with his initial on it, already wet and desperate for him?”

“I am not desperate.”

He pulled away and she nearly whimpered at the loss of contact. “That sounds more like something that should be rewarded rather than punished.” His hands dropped to his belt and he started to loosen the buckle.

With a smirk, Pansy started to crawl towards him. He pulled it off and stopped her before she could unbutton his trousers.

She arched her eyebrows.

Neville smirked and raised her wrists above her head. The jumper slid higher, exposing most of her thighs. He belted her wrists together. They stayed suspended above her head by some sort of wandless, wordless magic.

Holding her carefully, Neville guided her up off the sofa and into the middle of the rug. The belt pulled her up so high she was on her tiptoes, lifting the bottom of the jumper so it barely covered her arse.

Neville circled her, a predator playing with his prey. He stopped in front of her and smiled. “Definitely worthy of a reward.”

Something told her they weren’t using that word in the same way. “Neville,” she whimpered.

He walked behind her and stepped close. She arched her back, trying to lean into him as his arms wrapped around her. One slid slowly up the inside of her thigh while the other wrapped around her waist as if to steady her.

“Have I told you lately how much I love you in my jumpers?”

“Neville,” she whimpered again.

Fuck. How long was he going to tease her for this time?

One of his hands dipped under the jumper and slid across her belly towards her breasts. He pushed his knee between her legs, forcing them apart, as his other hand slid towards her center.

The jumper pooled above her breasts, completely exposing her while Neville stood fully clothed except for his belt behind her. Directly in the middle of his living room, facing the door, where anyone could see her if they stepped through the door.

The cool brush of metal against her clit made her jump.

“Since you like things with my name on them so much,” he whispered into her ear.

His free hand teased and plucked her nipples while he worked the metal of his family ring against her clit. He didn’t use any of the fancy tricks of the last time he used it on her, just the simple press of metal against her core.

She could feel her orgasm building and tried to hold it off, tried to not let him see that she was about to come because she knew he was going to stop it—

“Come on, Princess,” Neville murmured against the skin of her neck. “Take your reward like a good girl.”

She exploded beneath him, her orgasm cresting over her so strong her legs gave out. Neville clutched her body against his, holding her up as he worked her through the aftershocks.

Limp and sated, he carried her to the bedroom and removed the belt from her wrists and stripped her out of the jumper.

She panted, trying to catch her breath as he pushed her back onto the mattress.

Spreading her legs, Neville knelt between them and kissed his way from her bellybutton to the underside of her breast. “How many VIP’s did you have to turn down today?”

“Seven,” she breathed.

He kissed his way back to her breastbone and traveled up her chest. “That’s a rather magical number.”

“Right.”

“I say we should celebrate each one.” The slow grin he gave her could only be described as villainous. “So you have six left.”

It took several heartbeats for her muddled brain to catch up to his meaning. “That’s impossible.” Especially with the orgasms Neville gave her.

His teeth caught her earlobe and she gasped. “It’s like you know how much proving you wrong turns me on.”

“Neville—” Her protests cut off as his hand slipped up to cup her breast. All she could do was moan as he pinched and rolled her nipple.

“I am more than happy to do this all night long, Princess,” he said. “So just so you know, I’m not stopping until you reach seven, or beg for mercy.”

He was—as always—true to his word.

The next two came by way of his fingers.

Number four was by his mouth, so fast and hard he debated if it would count until she begged him to make it number four.

By five she was certain she would have cried less if he had spanked her.

Six he seemed determined to make her come by stimulating her nipples alone. She was about ready to use “mercy” when he reached down and had her screaming his name with a few quick circles on her clit.

He’d obviously taken her sore throat from screaming comment very seriously.

With a lazy smile, he slid back down to kiss her between her legs, taking his time like he hadn’t already been at it for Merlin-knew how long, as if he savored every single lick, kiss, and suck.

When she finally exploded in the impossible seventh orgasm, she dropped back onto the bed, a panting, near-sobbing, sweating, shaking mess.

Since the Gryffindor Slytherin quidditch match, she’d gotten much more attentive during the times they played together.

Not that night.

All she could do was lay there on the tacky red sheets, absolutely wrung out, as Neville took himself in hand and came all over her chest and stomach.

Panting, he dropped next to her. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead.

“That was…incredible.”

She couldn’t agree more.

“You are incredible.”

Perhaps she’d be capable of words later but for now, all she could do was cling to him.

“How are you doing?”

She smiled as Neville refilled her water glass again. After a few minutes of holding her, he had cleaned them both up and made her drink a glass of water.

She’d never admit it, but this was her favorite part of all this. The gentle, possessive way he took care of her afterwards. It would have pissed her off in any of her previous relationships, but with Neville…it just felt natural.

Everything else about their relationship might be fake, but this was real.

“Forget not being able to sit for a week, I don’t think I’ll be able to walk for that long.”

His smirk was pure arrogance. It suited him. “Gonna touch my jumpers again?”

Mind-blowing as that might have been, it was not something she could endure on a regular basis. Fuck. How did the man punish her with orgasms? Still, it wouldn’t do to shut that door completely. “You have to admit, that one is particularly hideous.”

He frowned. “Molly made it for me.”

“Awh,” she said. “That was sweet of grandma.”

It took him a moment, then he rolled his eyes and dropped back on the bed with an arm flung over his face. “Don’t make jokes about that.”

“Humor is my coping mechanism.” If she couldn’t joke about Voldemort winning the war and Ginny becoming her step-mother and Molly Weasley her step-grandmother, what could she joke about?

“Sarcasm is your coping mechanism,” Neville drawled.

She smirked. “Fair.”

“Molly makes them for all of us, kids and their spouses and those of us she’s semi-adopted every year at Christmas,” he said.

She could not imagine Fleur Delacour in one of those jumpers.

“The Weasleys do their big Christmas celebration on Christmas Eve every year so everyone can go to their in-laws on Christmas Day.”

Juggling the schedules of that many people sounded impossible otherwise.

“I usually go,” he said. “Have every year since the war, anyway.” He was obviously trying to gear himself up to ask her to attend.

Ginny had come straight up to her at the most recent DA drinks night a week ago and apologized. She was obviously far more sorry that she’d been overheard than for what she said, but with Neville’s hand on the small of her back, Pansy attempted to accept the apology with grace.

Something Weaselette could stand to learn a thing or two about.

Padma and Maisey both apologized as well during the evening, the latter practically in tears. Susan hadn’t said anything but she was obnoxiously nice to her, as if that would make up for it.

Honestly, the sooner they went back to the way things were, the sooner she could forget about it.

“Would you…would you like to go this year?” Neville asked, drawing her out of her thoughts. “To the Weasley Christmas?”

It was obvious it meant a lot to him. “Am I invited?”

“I am,” he said. “Hermione’s bringing Draco.”

They were engaged. Although, she and Neville were supposedly married. “Ah, that lion is fitting in just fine with the rest of them these days.”

Her, on the other hand…

She could come up with an excuse. Work was certainly going to be insane up until New Years. However, if it meant that much to Neville… “If you want me to come, I’ll come for you.”

He gave her a smug smirk. “Oh, I know. I just proved that seven times in a row.”

Did he ever. She refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging the joke though. “I’ll even be nice,” she said. “But only because it’s Christmas.”

He kissed her cheek. "I'll make sure they're nice to you too," he said. “But thank you.”

She had no idea how he could promise that but she let it go. “Will you get another one of those monstrosities this year?”

“Molly’s stopped knitting our initials onto the jumpers,” he said. “Has ever since the Battle of Hogwarts. No one’s said anything, but I wonder if it was when she realized she’d have to knit an “F” jumper for Fleur but not Fred.” His face clouded over in sorrow.

“I’m sure that must be difficult.”

He nodded. “We still did Christmas Eve at the Burrow Seventh Year,” he said. “It was…subdued. Over half of everyone we knew had fled the country or was in hiding and we knew it wouldn’t be long before the rest of us had to as well.”

She’d spent that Christmas at a party at Malfoy Manor.

One she’d avoided thinking about since the event. The Dark Lord’s displeasure that Harry Potter slipped through his grasp again…

She shivered and burrowed closer to Neville.

“Everyone opened our jumpers and there were still two packages underneath the tree.”

The Burrow was watched. Going back to Godrick’s Hollow that night had been immensely stupid of Harry and Hermione.

“No one asked about them, but we all knew who they were for,” he continued. “Ron got up and walked out of the room and we all realized he wasn’t going to let anything stop him from finding them again. That it might be the last time I saw him.”

For a while, or for ever?

Neville attempted a smile. “Harry and Hermione always get their jumpers first now,” he said. “Like they’ll take away the year they didn’t get them at all.”

“Are they still embellished, even without the initials?”

His lips quirked. “Most of them are monochromatic now but she always makes mine fun.”

She winced. “I’m terrified to know what that means.”

He laughed. “Did you pick the one you thought was the worst on purpose?”

She should have said yes. “Just the one that was most obviously yours,” she said. “Didn’t want to pick one of your dad’s by mistake.”

He froze for a few heartbeats and then glanced up at her, his face softening. “Thanks.”

She nodded once.

He trailed his fingers over her bare stomach, expression lost in thought. “Sometimes I wonder what they’d think of this.”

“Our fake marriage?”

His hand stopped, then continued. It happened so fast she almost wondered if she’d imagined it. “The, uh…kink.”

That didn’t feel like something you told your parents, regardless of their mental state.

“Like, ‘hey, dad, sorry about what happened to you and mum. By the way, have I mentioned that my favorite way to get off is by spanking or tying up or otherwise tormenting my wife until she begs to come screaming my name?’”

It wasn’t the point of what he was saying, but all she could hear was, “my favorite way to get off” and had to fight the smile that the warm glow inside her was trying to emit.

Neville’s face was filled with self-loathing. “Like, what would he say to that?”

The question was likely rhetorical. She answered anyway. “Probably something along the lines of, ‘good work, son, bitches need to learn their place.’”

Neville sat halfway up, looking equally disgusted and horrified.

She shrugged. “I don’t think men who gossip about their sex lives with their wife have a particularly high respect for women but if he was that sort, it seems like what I’d expect to hear.”

She fought her smirk as he gaped at her, expression slowly turning from outraged to incredulous.

Leaning over, he slapped her arse cheek. It was more of a warning hit than a true spank but it smarted enough that she yelped and jumped before immediately collapsing into laughter.

“I knew I’d get you to spank me again,” she gloated.

He gaped at her. “Merlin, you are such a brat.”

“I think I made my point effectively though.”

He shook his head. “You’re awful.”

She beamed. “But your favorite way to get off.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose but didn’t hold back his rueful grin. “Yeah, you are.”

She burrowed further into his side, enough that he had to put an arm around her so she could cuddle up against his chest.

“Do you think it’s wrong?” he asked. “That I enjoy this? After what happened to them? Han—someone once implied that it was.”

Hannah was the only person he’d told about it that hadn’t done it with him so she wasn’t sure why he was trying to protect her. But that’s who he was. Someone who protected those he cared about.

She ignored the crawling sensation that felt a little too much like jealousy and focused on her anger instead. “She shouldn’t have said that.”

“She didn’t, she was just…surprised to hear I even considered it, let alone…”

Got so into it?

She sat up, resting a hand on his chest so she could meet his eyes. “I have never, ever, been more respected or listened to or had someone care as much about my consent than you.”

He frowned. “Has anyone ever…”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you think I would have hexed their balls off if they had, Longbottom?”

Relief sparked in his gaze and he smirked. “Honestly, I’m still surprised you haven’t done that to me.”

“I still need you to fuck me so I’m bidding my time.”

His eyes danced. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“I’m just saying, as long as everyone’s into it and no one’s being permanently maimed or injured, do what you want,” she said. “This is fun and consensual and really fucking hot. It has nothing to do with your parents or what happened to them and anyone who thinks that it’s related in any way has no idea what they’re talking about.”

There was more, she could see it in his eyes. Giving him space to work it out, she rested her head against his chest and waited.

“I guess I just always…” He sighed. “They were both top of their class in school. Top marks in the auror program. Well respected, powerful and brave enough to defy Voldemort three times. They were…”

“Heroes.”

“Right, and then there’s me who didn’t even get enough O.W.L.s to get into the right N.E.W.T. level classes to become an auror, and part of me was…relieved that I didn’t have to try anymore.”

Frank and Alice Longbottom had left a hell of a legacy.

“When Kingsley announced that anyone who fought in the battle could apply straight to the program even without graduating, my gran was so excited because I was finally going to follow in my mum and dad’s footsteps and I just…” He sighed again. “I just wanted peace. Plants and peace.”

How many people had he ever shared this with?

The warm feeling that she’d gotten when he’d said being with her was his favorite way to get off came back, but different this time. Softer.

“The thing about heroes is that their legends often outgrow them,” she said. “Look at Harry and Ron and Hermione. They might have saved the Wizarding world, but Hermione also polyjuiced herself into a cat Second Year and I don’t even know where to start with the hundred other idiotic things Ron and Harry tried over the years.”

He exhaled in a half snort, half laugh.

“Your parents are heroes, but they’re also human and full of flaws that you never got to learn,” she said. “You led the DA Seventh Year, fought in the battle, beheaded the Dark Lord’s final horocrux with the fucking Sword of Gryffindor—you’re a hero too.”

“Not compared to—”

She pressed a finger to his lips. “You’re a hero too,” she said. “You chose to fight when the world needed you to fight, and you chose plants once there was peace. You fought for the same world your parents wanted for you when you were just a baby and once it was here, you chose the path you wanted. Any parent would be incredibly proud of a child like that.”

His eyes were filled with a heavy emotion. “Thanks, Pansy.”

She shrugged.

His arms tightened around her. “Really.”

Resting her head back on his chest, she curled up closer.

“You’re not normally this nice to me.” A hint of humor crept back into his tone.

Half a dozen snarky responses were on the tip of her tongue, but for some stupid reason she didn’t go with any of them. “You were nice to me the other week when I was…down.”

His arm tightened around her.

Fucking Merlin. Why had she brought that up again? The last thing she needed was to remind either one of them of that night.

Extracting herself from his arms, she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

Neville turned onto his side, bending his arm at the elbow to prop his head up on his fist.

If he was going to try to be sentimental—

“Can I admit something to you that I’ve never told another person?”

She immediately brightened. A good piece of gossip was exactly what she needed. “Yes.”

“The sword didn’t just appear in the hat, it dropped directly on my head,” he said. “Really hard. Like really, really hard.”

She bit the corner of her cheek.

“I actually thought it was part of him torturing me because it hurt so bad,” he continued. “It had to gently tap twice for me to realize that there was something from the hat on my head.”

Finally losing control, she burst into laughter.

“I didn’t intentionally throw off the body-bind either,” he said. “I just saw this big arse snake slithering towards me and remembered Harry’s last words to me. I didn’t have my wand so I just grabbed the first thing I thought of, which was whatever had been bruising the top of my head.”

Doubling over, she shook with laughter.

“Imagine if I’d been a Hufflepuff,” he said. “What would I have done? Chucked a cup at the snake?”

Laughing so hard it hurt, she clutched her stomach.

“I waited a full day before I let a healer check me out and everyone said I was so noble for it because I was insisting anyone else who was hurt worse go first but it was really just because I didn’t what them asking what the three lumps on the top of my head were from.”

“Stop, just stop,” she managed to wheeze.

Seemingly unworried about her accidentally hitting him in her hysteria, he drew her into his arms. “There we go,” he said as she finally started to calm down. “Back to our normal.”

Another laugh burst out. “Cuddling?”

He smirked. “You laughing at me.”

“Well, don’t make it so easy, Longbottom.”

He flicked her nose. “Brat.”

They settled into an easy silence, interrupted only by her intermittent bursts of laughter that she couldn’t quite control.

Several minutes later when she felt his breathing slow and relax, she looked up to see he’d fallen asleep.

With a few easy flicks of her wand, she turned off the lights and settled back into his arms without waking him up or sending him back to the guest room.

Chapter Text

“Happy Christmas!” Neville’s joyous exclamation was echoed back by the dozens of people crowding the kitchen and living room.

Molly Weasley came over with a hug and a kiss for Neville. “Thank you for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said with a grin. “You remember Pansy?”

The happiness in her eyes froze over into an icy glare. “Of course.”

Neville had presents for almost everyone, but Pansy still brought wine as a hostess gift. She held the bottle out to Molly. “Thank you for welcoming me into your home.”

“Neville has been like a son to us,” Molly said, her eyes sharp. “Harry, too, even before he married Ginny.”

Ah, that’s what this was about.

“Pansy picked out the wine,” Neville said, as if buying a nice bottle of wine would make up for her insistence on offering Harry up to the Dark Lord.

Molly gave her a tight smile before finally accepting the gift. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find someone to drink it.”

Neville looked like he was about to say something else when Molly cut him off with a herbology question and swept him into the kitchen.

So much for him staying close to make sure everyone was nice to her. Pansy glanced around the cluttered room, looking for another familiar face.

It was exactly as she’d expected the Weasley home to be. Slightly worn down, but obviously well loved. Knitted throws and pillows were all over the place, covering the threadbare patches on the upholstery. A warm fire burned in the fireplace, which was decorated with a hideously tacky flashing garland and more stockings crammed along the mantle than she could count. The circle of gifts around the tree took up three times the space the tree itself did.

Draco was arguing good-naturedly in the kitchen about quidditch with Potter, Ron, Oliver Wood, another redhead who was obviously a Weasley.

Hermione was deep in conversation with a serious looking redhead and the woman at his side. He was by far the best dressed of the Weasley clan. The woman next to him was wearing the unfortunate shapeless look typical for pregnant witches.

She nearly sighed. As soon as Draco knocked up Hermione, she’d have a thing or two to say about maternity fashion but unless another progressive high profile client volunteered to model, the Wizarding world wasn’t ready for her ideas.

“Hello.”

Nearly jumping out of her skin, she turned to find herself face to face with Looney Lovegood.

“We checked for nargles,” Looney said. “No need to worry about the mistletoe this year.”

The wizard just over her shoulder’s gaze flicked between protective glances at Looney and suspicious glances at Pansy.

“Ah.” As usual, Pansy had no idea what the witch was on about. “Thank you for that.”

The wizard’s face eased up. He grinned and held out his hand. “Don’t think we’ve met yet,” he said. “Rolf Scamander.”

“Pansy Par—Longbottom,” she said, catching herself.

“Congrats,” he said, slipping an arm around his wife. “Sorry we missed the wedding.”

Looney had a small smile. “Ginny said it was so quick because she guessed you were pregnant but I found it romantic.”

That made exactly one person in existence. “Thank you,” she said instead. “Neville and I thought so too.”

Looney tilted her head. “Your aura is different from school.”

Bloody hell. Where was Neville? Surely he had something to talk to these two about.

“It used to be orange,” Looney continued. “Not your color.”

Rich coming from her. She’d seen pictures of Looney’s wedding dress. Perhaps she thought everyone’s color was all of them at one time.

“But when you’re around Neville…” She smiled. “I like it now.”

She swallowed back her discomfort. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

Looney’s smile spread. “Ginny doesn’t always listen to me about auras, but I’ll tell her again.”

That would fix things. “So do you two have any other plans for the Christmas holidays?”

As predicted, Looney went off about their plans for hunting down some magical creature that Pansy—and probably no one else in the room—had ever heard of. Still, attempting to follow along with the ramblings at least gave the semblance of Pansy participating in a pleasant social interaction.

It took a quarter of an hour before she was rescued.

“Luna, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Hermione said. “Audrey wants to meet Pansy, do you mind if I steal her away?”

Looney smiled at Hermione. “Oh, I think she’ll very much prefer it,” she said. “She’s doing what Harry does when he’s trying to be polite.”

Pansy wasn’t sure what she found more offensive, being compared to Harry Potter or that Looney had realized she had zero interest in the conversation. “It was nice speaking with you both,” she said, offering an apologetic smile to Rolf.

He grinned. “Yeah, it was nice to meet you, Pansy.”

Hermione linked arms as they strode across the room packed with redheads. “Look at you, being nice to Luna.”

“It’s Christmas.”

Audrey turned out to be the pregnant wife of one “Percy Weasley, Deputy Director of Magical Transportation.” She seemed sweet and managed to get in a few questions on if Pansy would ever consider doing a maternity line before her husband dominated the conversation with the pressing magical transportation issues that a business owner in Diagon Alley might face.

Between Hermione and Draco—and eventually Neville once Molly apparently exhausted her herbology questions—Pansy managed to have civil conversations with almost everyone present throughout most of the afternoon, excluding persons with the surname “Potter” who always seemed to be on the opposite side of the room from her.

As there was not a table large enough to fit them all, there was no formal meal but food continuously flowed from the kitchen on enchanted trays.

Eventually, they all gathered as best they could in the living room for presents.

Tears in her eyes, Molly grabbed two of the lumpy parcels under the tree. “Harry and Hermione, of course.” She sniffed and dabbed her eyes as the two accepted the gifts.

“Come off it, mum,” George said. “It’s been seven years of them getting the first gifts. They’re not even your kids!”

Molly rounded on him. “They’re as good as!”

This was obviously a familiar argument from the smirks and muffled laughter around the room.

“Even before he married Ginny, Harry’s been part of this family and even if Ron couldn’t make things work with Hermione—”

“Mum!” Ron yelled. He waved his arm in an exaggerated gesture at Padma.

Molly smiled. “Of course, we love you Padma darling, it’s just that Ron and Hermione were so close—”

“Mum!” Ron cut her off again. “For the last time, Hermione is like—”

Half the room started calling out for Weasel to shut up. Neville cringed and sunk down into the couch.

“—sister to me,” Ron finished to groans from half the room.

Hermione turned as red as a Weasley. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

Ginny, who’d been draped over Harry’s lap on one of the arm chairs, sat up and started gagging. Leaning over the side, she theatrically dry heaved.

“For the last time, you all know what I mean!” Ron yelled.

George whipped out a piece of parchment. “Alright, Charlie, that’s twelve galleons to Angelina for her guessing Christmas,” he read off. “Bill you owe eight—”

Pansy leaned over to Neville. “This is why you all don’t let Ron talk about dating Granger?”

He smirked and held up a hand as a pouch flew towards him. He opened it up and pulled out a galleon before pocketing it. “Yeah,” he said. “Nice way to make some cash though.”

“No gambling on Christmas!” Molly said.

“It somehow makes it not quite as bad,” Neville muttered to her.

Everyone who won money passed some back to George. He divided it into three and handed a pile to Ginny, Hermione, and Padma. Only Padma looked amused by the situation, Hermione and Ginny both looked like they were barely willing to touch the coins.

“At least let Ron go with Harry and Hermione, mum,” Bill said. “He deserves it as much as they do.”

“Debatable,” Ginny muttered.

Ignoring her daughter, Molly handed Ron his package as well.

The Golden Trio opened their jumpers as one, going on about how wonderful they were and how nice Molly was until she was blushing and almost in tears again.

Somehow they worked their way through the rest of the assembly, presents from everyone else getting thrown into the mix.

Neville’s Christmas jumper was—as promised—a sight to see. A dizzying combination of red, blue, yellow, and green argyle that he seemed as excited to receive as Molly was to give it to him.

Luna’s was equally as…unique with its bright near-fluorescent stripes. All of the yarn was multi-colored, just with a different strongest hue so the whole thing was a dizzying array of colors. She seemed to love it, and Neville seemed a little too interested in it for Pansy’s comfort.

If he ever brought home something like that, she would destroy it, deal or no.

As the pile dwindled, Molly walked over to Draco with two lumpy packages.

“Oi!” Ron said. “Why does Draco of all people get two?”

“Ronald Weasley, mind your manners!” Molly snapped. When she turned to Draco again, her eyes filled with tears. “I know Christmas is going to be much different for you this year.”

To say the least. Pansy had been a regular attender at Malfoy Manor Christmas celebrations. Weasley Christmas was its opposite in every way. Draco seemed to enjoy it all the more for that.

“After what you said to me when you came back from Egypt and what you’ve done for our Hermione, I—” She pushed the packages towards him, wiping at her eyes.

“Thank you for your forgiveness and hospitality, Molly, it means more to me than I could ever say,” Draco said.

She waved her hand. “Oh, go on!”

He opened up the smaller of the two and froze.

“Let’s see!” George called.

Draco lifted a pair of white mittens. It took her a heartbeat to recognize the animal they were supposed to be.

Ferrets.

George broke first and the entire room erupted into laughter.

Hermione slapped her hands over her mouth but her shoulders were shaking. Even Pansy couldn’t help herself, pressing her face into Neville’s arm while he shook with laughter as she tried to contain hers.

“George and Ginevra Weasley!” Molly yelled.

Ginny laughed so hard she fell off Potter’s lap. Harry was too busy wiping tears off his cheeks to help her.

“I didn’t think you’d do it!” George barely managed to get out through his mirth.

Molly looked torn between hexing her two children and wringing her hands at Draco. “They said it was your favorite animal—”

Another round of laughter burst out.

“—and to knit it on your jumper but that seemed too juvenile so I thought I’d make mittens instead…”

Draco, with all of the grace he could muster, smiled at her. “Thank you, Molly, I can tell you put a great deal of effort into these and I appreciate that.”

She waved off his praise with an angry glare at George and Ginny. “There’s a jumper too.”

Like Fleur’s jumper, Draco’s was made from what Pansy immediately recognized as silver rambouillet lambswool. While Flour’s was a soft blue, Draco’s was a light gray.

“To match your eyes,” Molly said.

Draco thanked her but a flustered Molly waved him off.

“Oi, got another here!” Ron said, pulling another package from underneath the tree. “Pansy.”

The room fell silent. Ron glanced at his mother with a disbelieving look.

Molly sat down next to Arthur and nodded to Pansy. “Well?”

Ron chucked the package at her so hard she just managed to catch it.

It was smaller than the jumper packages, but obviously something homemade by Molly. She hadn’t expected anything from her. From the looks on the faces of her children and their spouses, neither had anyone else.

With all eyes on her, she carefully opened the package. The paper fell away to reveal a bright red scarf.

Gryffindor colors, of course. And with pansies knitted along one end. Still, the fact that Molly made anything—

She lifted it up and froze.

Someone snorted.

“Scarf” was a rather generous description of the piece of knit. It was barely long enough to wrap around her neck all of one time.

Everyone in the room who’d shot Molly looks of betrayal for giving Pansy a gift were now trying to hide sniggers.

Despite everyone laughing about Draco’s ferret mittens, that hadn’t been cruel. A joke Draco was a part of, as much a trick for Molly as it was for him.

But this…

This was supposed to humiliate her.

Across the room, Hermione and Draco watched her with equal expressions of pity.

Molly’s eyes glinted as she gave her a smile bordering on smug. “Ginny said you don’t like to have pansies around and that there weren’t any at the wedding but I thought if you were wearing them you might feel different.”

There were a thousand cutting remarks on the tip of her tongue. Ways to gut the smug woman in front of her, eviscerate her and humiliate her as much as Pansy felt in that moment.

But she could feel Neville’s thigh pressed against hers. She’d promised him she’d be kind.

Across the room, she caught Luna’s gaze. Unlike most of the others, she didn’t show judgment or vindication. Not the pity of Hermione and Draco either. Just curiosity.

Nothing had infuriated Pansy more when they were in school than when she mocked Luna and didn’t get a response.

She turned to Molly Weasley and smiled at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” she said. “I’ve never had someone take the time to make me a homemade gift before so I hope you know how much I appreciate this.”

Molly’s smile hardened and she brushed at her robes, finally looking somewhat embarrassed.

The mocking glances shot her way turned to ones of irritation.

Right.

There was never any winning with this lot.

“Yeah, that’s great,” Neville said, beaming with genuine feeling, oblivious to anything unspoken. He put his hand on her knee and squeezed. “We’ll get you loving Gryffindor colors.”

His reaction almost hurt worse than the others. Perhaps the only person who would stand up for her—the only person who had chosen her over a Weasley before—had no idea she was being mocked.

“Well, Molly, you’ll have at least two new jumpers to make next year,” Angelina said. “At least they’ll be little ones.”

Molly patted Audrey’s hand. “Yes, we’re so—” She froze and her head whipped towards Angelina. “Two?”

Anglina’s hand dropped to her abdomen and she grinned. “Middle of July.”

Molly screeched and ran over to embrace Angelina and then George. The rest of the room followed, everyone wanting to hug and congratulate the two.

Pansy stayed where she was, letting them all have their moment, feeling like more of an outsider than ever.

Somewhere in the midst of the chaos, the subject of the annual Weasley Family Christmas Quidditch Match came up.

Hermione had apparently made some spell that assigned teams based on position after Christmas of 2001, an incident Neville refused to promise to explain to Pansy.

“I’d relive most of Seventh Year before that.” He jerked his head towards where the rest of them were tromping off to bundle up. “Gonna watch?”

She glanced at those remaining inside. Audrey was sweet, and she’d had a lovely conversation with Fleur and Andromeda both, but they had young children to distract them. Molly, Padma, and Loony did not. It was freezing out, but there were warming charms for that. No magical spell existed to get any of them to tolerate her without Neville around.

She smiled. “Yeah, I think I will.”

With a tap of her wand, she transfigured her heels into warm boots and put on her coat.

“Pansy, you gonna wear your new scarf?” someone called.

The not-so-hidden snickers were back.

Fine.

She summoned the sorry excuse for a scarf from where she’d left it on the couch. It took a quick charm to get the ends to lay flat against her chest and actually do the job. When they stepped outside, the wind immediately cut through the loose knit. She added a warming and wind-blocking charm, but instantly missed the thick cashmere scarf she’d worn there.

No one else said a word to her as they all marched outside to the quidditch pitch in the field behind the house.

She watched the two teams do a few quick warmups before they started the game. They were playing without beaters or bludgers. Whether that was a concession because of the numbers or because of Fred she didn’t ask.

It was boring, not to mention difficult, to watch quidditch from the ground, but it was better than being inside that house.

A quarter hour into standing in the snow with a neck cramp from trying to pay attention to the game, she heard the crunch of footsteps and turned.

Hermione smiled at her.

Pansy cocked her head. “You hate quidditch.”

“I like you.”

She turned back to the game. Ginny was berating Ron for missing a goal. That she could enjoy. “I don’t need your pity.”

Hermione watched the sky for a minute. “Do you remember the Witch Weekly article about me, Harry, and Viktor Krum fourth year?”

Sweet Circe, how could she forget? “Hermione, you’ve been all over the news sources ever since you befriended the Chosen One.”

“Rita Skeeter quoted you.”

It was so hard not to smirk. “She quoted me a lot that year.”

“I remember,” Hermione muttered. She sighed. “It’s the one you rubbed in my face right before potions class and when Snape caught us with it he read it out for the entire class.”

A chuckle broke out before she could reign it in.

“You did remember, ugh, Pansy!”

She laughed for real this time. “Of course I remember that.”

“You called me ugly,” she said.

Was that what this was about? Further grievances she was expected to repent? “I also complimented your intelligence.”

Hermione scoffed. “You called me brainy in the context of saying I was drugging Harry and Viktor with love potions.”

That irritating piece of nagging guilt tugged at her. “I am sorry,” she said. “I was mad about you stealing Draco away from me and wanted to get back at you however I could. I shouldn’t have done it.”

“He didn’t even realize he liked me yet—”

“No, but I did.”

From the moment Hermione swept into the Yule Ball, Pansy had seen it. The moment she’d lost Draco Malfoy for good. And so went the next three years of desperately trying to cling to the man who should have been her salvation.

“Well, thank you for the apology,” Hermione said. “But that’s not why I brought it up.”

She glanced over at her friend.

“Molly believed the article,” she said. “She always sent us treats for Easter. That year Harry and Ron and everyone else’s eggs were as big as their heads. Mine was about the size of a chicken egg.”

Pansy turned back to the sky, watching without seeing.

“Not only does she get a bit vindictive when someone she thinks of as family has been wronged, Molly doesn’t have a great record with anyone who married into the family.”

Lucky for Molly that Pansy and Neville weren’t intending to stay married.

“She hated Fleur for the longest time, it only changed when Fleur went off on her after Molly assumed she’d break the engagement after Bill was attacked by Greyback.”

She didn’t bother telling Hermione she’d been there that night. It wasn’t like she would believe her anyway.

“Oliver she liked a little better because he’s the reason Charlie came to run the Welsh Sanctuary instead of staying in Romania, but that hasn’t stopped her from commenting how disappointed she is that they won’t have grandchildren.”

The woman had seven children. Did every one of them need to have babies?

“Then she was furious at Angelina for dating George because she thought she just saw him as a replacement Fred,” she said. “Actively tried to break them up until George put her in line.”

That was something she’d been curious about for years. “Were she and Fred ever serious?”

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I don’t even know if the Yule Ball was a date or just friends. I do know she loves George though.”

She wondered if things would have been different if Fred lived.

“Molly hated Padma because she was still holding out hope that Ron and I would get back together,” she said. “Padma handled it with more grace than I ever would have.”

There had always been a deep inherent grace to the Ravenclaw Patil sister. One that even the most well-trained pureblood woman could only imitate.

“Is that what won her over?”

Hermione smiled softly. “No.” Her eyes watched the figures, heartbreak in her eyes. “George falls in and out of depression. Has ever since Fred died. It used to be a lot worse. For several years we didn’t think he’d ever touch a broom again.”

She glanced back at the sky, watching him zoom and try to score on his previous captain.

“Angelina does her best, but Padma seems to have this…sense about George,” Hermione said. “When it’s about to happen, what she can say or do. None of us really get it. They both haven’t said much about it, other than it’s a twin thing.”

“Does it make Angelina jealous?”

“No, they’ve become really good friends, actually.”

She wouldn’t have noticed it before, but looking back at all the DA gatherings—throughout the day at Weasley Christmas even—Padma was right there by George’s side.

Considering how jealous Ron had gotten over the years, she wondered why it didn’t bother him either. If it did, at least she hadn’t seen it.

“And I suppose Molly hated Harry most of all?”

Hermione snorted. “Exactly.”

She smirked at the sky.

“Probably would have disowned Ginny if she’d let him get away.”

How pureblood of her.

“Anyway,” Hermione said, “I’m sorry about the scarf. Molly shouldn’t have done that. She’s just protective of Harry. Everyone else in there too, really, considering everything we went through to keep him alive.”

Pansy stared at the flyers above, knowing exactly how this conversation was going to go and that there was no way to stop it.

“Once they realize you didn’t actually mean what you said—”

“I did mean it,” she said. “Every word.”

Today, standing here in the snow with the only person who’d seen how she was feeling after the humiliation of gift opening and come to check on her, the truest friend she’d ever had, she meant it more than ever.

What she would have lost if she’d remained silent in the Great Hall twisted her gut. Potter had won, yes, but if he hadn’t, this kind, good witch who’d somehow found it in herself to forgive not only Draco but Pansy as well and then go on to befriend them both would have been turned over to Walden Macnair.

Nausea rolled through her and she quickly packed that thought away with the rest of the darkness she kept tucked away in the recesses of her mind.

With every passing day since she’d marched into the Office for House Elf Relocation to watch Draco being tormented by Hermione’s presence, only to leave with Hermione for a shopping trip minutes later, she meant those words in the Great Hall more and more.

Hermione let out a sharp huff. “You wouldn’t have said it if—”

Her voice rang with conviction. “I said it because I meant it and I would do it again.”

Watching her friend, she waited. Waited for the judgment, the scorn. For Hermione to finally stop believing in her. To say their friendship was over.

But if she asked…if she for one moment gave her the benefit of the doubt, if she asked her why…

She swore she’d tell her everything.

Hermione frowned. “Pansy, you don’t have to pretend around me, I know you’re a good person.”

Disappointment hit her like a familiar punch to the gut. No one ever listened. Or asked. They just assumed based on their preconceived notions of her.

She turned back to the game. “I’m not pretending and I’ve never tried to be a good person.”

Ask me. There’s nothing you love more than learning, Granger. Just ask.

But her friend remained silent as they stood still, watching the quidditch match circle above.

Chapter Text

“Thanks for getting the gifts for the healers,” Neville said.

A week ago, he’d mentioned he was struggling to make time to run to Diagon Alley to pick up something for the Janus Thickey Ward healers. Rather than admit that she’d already bought some, Pansy promised to grab something on the way home from work.

“What’d you get, by the way?” He shifted the tissue paper to peek at the presents.

“Oh, just some hair products.” All from Madame Toussaint’s line.

By now, she’d met all twelve of the healers who rotated through the ward and took care of Alice and Frank. There wasn’t a single one that she hadn’t had a conversation about hair products and Madame Toussaint’s line so it felt appropriate.

Neville’s head snapped up. “What?” He cringed and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand before he pulled out his watch. He put it back before he even opened it. “It’s Christmas, no shops are open,” he muttered.

“Why would we need an open shop?” she asked, her voice sharp.

He cringed. “Sorry,” he said. “I just…I wouldn’t have gotten them shampoo.”

“These are luxury products,” she said. “I thought they might appreciate some pampering.”

He forced a smile. “No, that’s great,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll know you had good intentions.”

She ground her teeth together to keep from snapping back at him. She was already on edge about the visit. It had been fairly easy to convince the healers not to mention her visits to see Alice to Augusta. Almost everyone was terrified of the harridan so they didn’t question Pansy’s little white lie that Neville and her had agreed not to mention it to his gran.

If Augusta or Neville had noticed how much better Alice’s hair looked, neither of them mentioned it to her or the healers. It helped that they only saw Alice on Sundays and by then she had spent two nights sleeping on it and it was usually flat and matted by the time tea rolled around.

Ever since Alice started gifting her gum wrappers whenever she visited, Pansy had managed to come up with excuses to miss Sunday Tea so she was never around Alice the same time Neville or Augusta were there.

There was no avoiding Christmas tea, however. If Pansy hung back and didn’t draw any attention to herself, maybe Alice wouldn’t even notice her. Especially without doing her hair.

Either way, as soon as tea was done, she planned to slip away to the loo and tell Neville she’d meet them at Augusta’s so there was no chance for Alice to give her a gum wrapper.

It was a good plan. It would work. It had to work. Neville wasn’t going to find out about her visits to see his mum, and she wouldn’t have to spend Christmas attempting to defend herself from the inevitable accusations that would follow.

Neville passed six of the twelve carefully wrapped bags into her arms and took the other half before he led her to the fireplace. As soon as they landed at St. Mungo’s, she froze the minute she saw Augusta’s companion.

Augusta stared down at them. “We were wondering where you two were.”

Neville grinned. “Happy Christmas, Gran.” He beamed at her companion. “Minerva, thanks for coming.”

McGonagall, who was carrying a bouquet of flowers and a pack of Droobles Blowing Gum, finished greeting him and turned to Pansy. “Ms. Park—” She cut herself off.

Something bordering on shame curled through Pansy when she remembered their last interaction. “Pansy’s fine, Professor.”

She offered her a tight smile. “Happy Christmas.”

“You too,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were coming.”

Augusta’s gaze slid to Neville and she lifted a single eyebrow.

McGonagall smiled. “Frank is my godson.”

“Shall we?” Augusta asked, marching down the hall without pause.

McGonagall fell in line with Neville, chatting about whatever nonsense the latest set of troublemakers had gotten into over break.

When they reached the ward, Pansy hung back to place the gifts next to the other ones left out for the healers. Most were chocolates or candies or other sweets. A couple baskets of fruit. Bottles of wine.

Shite. Maybe she had fucked it up.

Mary, the head healer on weekends and holidays, came over. “They’re all set up in the back, the others just sat down.”

“Thank you.”

Mary spotted the gift with her name on it. “For me?”

“Yes,” she said. “I didn’t realize everyone else brought food but I thought—”

Mary squealed when she saw what was in the bag. “You remembered!”

Pansy smiled. At least she’d done one thing right today.

Feeling someone’s eyes on her, she glanced up and saw Neville hadn’t sat down with his grandmother and McGonagall but was watching her instead.

“Everyone’s is a little bit different but I put names on the tags,” she told Mary.

“Thank you.” Mary reached down to squeeze her hand. “Really.”

She flashed her a quick smile and then glanced over at Neville who was watching her with a suspicious glint to his gaze.

Mary squeezed her hand again and winked. “I’ll let you get back to your family,” she said. “Alice will be so happy to have you all here together.”

That’s what she was afraid of.

Neville’s gaze left hers to watch as Mary beckoned over another healer. “Look what Pansy got us!”

Unable to resist, she stopped in front of him with a fake smile. “I guess they realized I had good intentions.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “Are they clients of yours or…?”

Fuck. She hadn’t realized what a slip up that would be. She smiled instead. “Yes.”

Not all of them were, at least not yet. Olivia, for one, was spending all her free time helping out her sister who had just given birth to twins. Pansy was going to add them both into her schedule as soon as her sister felt ready to venture out. Her treat. If there was anything a woman who had just given birth to twins needed, it was something to help her feel beautiful and back to her old self again.

“Did you know they worked with my mum and dad?”

“Yes.”

He cringed and rubbed his head. “Pansy, I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have trusted you about the gifts. I just…today’s always hard for me. Especially after yesterday, I…”

The contrast between the Weasley Family Christmas and the sad assembly on the Janus Thickey Ward was stark.

Swallowing, she reached down and squeezed his hand.

Everyone deserved a little kindness on Christmas.

He gave her a forced smile in return before they sat down for tea.

Alice didn’t look over at Pansy once. Granted, she didn’t look directly at any of the others either. Pansy did her best to speak as little as possible throughout the entire conversation. It wasn’t like there was anything Neville could prompt her to tell his mum that Alice didn’t already know.

When Frank started fidgeting in his usual sign that he was done with the conversation, Mary came over to assist him back into bed.

Pansy was about to excuse herself when McGonagall spoke.

“Alice seems…different.” She studied Alice with the intensity she afforded students who tried to pass notes in her class. “Stronger, perhaps. Has anything about her care changed?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Everyone’s attention turned back to Alice as she handed Neville his usual gum wrapper.

“Nothing has changed on our side, neither has her prognosis, but as we’ve said from the beginning, family makes all the difference in comfort,” Mary said. “Mrs. Longbottom’s visits have had a remarkable impact on her.”

Fuck Mary and her big fucking mouth.

Pansy watched as Alice picked up another scrap of pink wrapper and turned around.

Not that Mary keeping her mouth shut would have mattered.

Neville and McGonagall turned to Augusta, who looked as confused as either of them. “I haven’t done anything different than I’ve always done.”

“Oh, I meant the younger Mrs. Longbottom,” Mary said.

Everyone turned to her right as Alice stopped in front of Pansy, holding out the second gum wrapper in her hands.

She blinked back the stinging in her eyes.

Of course she’d remembered. Even though Pansy hadn’t done a thing for her, had barely said a word, Alice remembered her.

“Pansy?” Neville asked.

Fuck. She was not going to let them see her cry. “I didn’t mean to overstep,” she said. “In all your photos she just had such long, beautiful hair, and they were going to cut it off so I thought if I could help take care of it for her…”

McGonagall’s expression softened.

Augusta’s eyes narrowed. “She hates having her hair washed.”

“It was the water on her face,” Mary said. “Pansy figured that out and made a special headband for her. Been very successful treatment on a number of other patients who also have water aversions.”

It wasn’t that complicated. She’d just copied the charms on the towels they used that absorbed water and changed the shape.

“She makes them for St. Mungo’s for free whenever one is needed,” Mary said.

Merlin. Did she know how to shut up?

Neville still hadn’t moved or said a word.

She didn’t know how to explain this to him. Why it mattered to her. How it would feel to not be able to visit Alice again. “She always had such elegant hair and…it’s what I would want someone to do for me.”

Merlin. That just made her sound worse.

McGonagall, however, smiled, a look of fond remembrance crossing her face. “Frank used to tease her,” she said. “How no self-respecting auror would put more effort into her hair than her dueling skills.”

Augusta smirked. “Usually ended up with him flat on his arse, didn’t it?”

Neville watched the two women. A desperate longing filled his face for those small scraps of information about his parents.

McGonagall laughed. “I used to swear she was the only one who could.” Her face fell as soon as she said the words, heartbreak in her eyes echoing the one in Augusta and Neville’s.

Because, in the end, they’d all been wrong about that.

“Pansy’s visits have brought about the largest change we’ve seen in Alice since after her first year,” Mary said. “Physically, obviously, but mentally and emotionally as well. Their walks to the courtyard have been just as beneficial as the hair routine.”

That elicited another round of shock from all of them.

Alice, obviously fed up with Pansy not accepting the gum wrapper, reached out and tugged a lock of her hair twice.

“Mum?” Neville asked.

“She’s asking if I’ll be back to do her hair,” Pansy said.

Neville blinked.

She swallowed. “What do you want me to tell her?”

His throat bobbed as he held her gaze. She couldn’t read the expression on his face. It almost looked like he was in pain.

Mary put her hands on her hips. “By Alice’s distress when Pansy’s unexpected appointment with the auror office threw off her week and she couldn’t make it in for six days, in my professional opinion, it would be far more detrimental to her care not to see Pansy.”

That was a rather flattering spin to put on her probation appointments, but she hadn’t been able to confess the truth.

“What distress?” Augusta asked.

“She put gum in her hair.”

The three looked horrified.

“She’s never done that before,” Augusta said.

“I’m sorry,” Pansy said. “I didn’t know that would happen. I made changes to my schedule so it won’t happen again next May.”

She watched the pieces fall into place in Neville’s mind.

Alice tugged her hair again, harder this time. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked. “What do you want me to tell her?”

She resigned herself to whatever he decided. It was his mother, after all. Maybe if the healers followed her instructions exactly, Alice wouldn’t even notice she was gone.

“Yeah,” Neville said. He cleared his throat. “Yeah if you don’t mind and it’s good for her, of course.”

Pansy smiled at Alice. “Yes, Alice, I’ll be back tomorrow.”

She held out her hand again and this time Pansy took the gum wrapper.

She didn’t look up from the gift in her hands as Alice turned and walked herself back to bed. An emerald robe swished into view in front of her. She’d never noticed before how often the former Head of Gryffindor House wore green.

Her gaze flicked up to meet Minerva McGonagall’s.

She offered her a small smile. “Poppy would be very proud.”

She wasn’t going to cry again. She wasn’t. “Tell Madam Pomfrey hello from me next time you see her.”

“Neville was rather surprised to hear how disappointed she was to miss the wedding.”

She deliberately ignored the unasked question. Of course Neville knew nothing about that. “We intentionally kept it small on purpose.”

“Perhaps you should try coming clean more often, Mrs. Longbottom,” McGonagall said, a twinkle in her eyes. “I am certain you have many more surprises and proving others wrong seems to bring you a special sort of enjoyment.”

Proving people wrong, yes. Being doubted and having to defend herself at every turn, not so much.

“I forgot something back at the house,” she said. “Will you tell them I’ll meet them at Augusta’s once I’m done?”

McGonagall nodded.

Without another word, Pansy turned and strode from the ward. She managed to make it downstairs and through the floo before she let the first tear fall.

It was stupid to cry.

Parkinsons didn’t cry.

But after the day-long humiliation of Weasley Christmas and the stress of not knowing how Alice would act or Neville would respond if he found out…

Perhaps she was allowed a tear or two.

Pressing a hand to her chest—the one still clutching Alice’s gift—she took a deep, shuddering breath.

Alice had remembered. Alice had seen her. Even though Pansy hadn’t done her hair that day. Even before she’d asked if Pansy would be back to do her hair, she’d offered it to her.

A true gift from a woman who had almost nothing left to give.

If there was any doubt about how Alice felt about her, it was proven today.

She swiped at her cheeks, pushing away the tell tale moisture.

Slowly, her breathing returned to normal.

Once she was calm, she went to the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup.

Armor for whatever the elderly Longbottoms would put her through when she arrived.

She still didn’t know how Neville actually felt about it all. She’d find out—sooner rather than later—but hopefully in privacy after they were done with his family.

Maybe since it was Christmas, he’d go easy on her for just the day.

Appearance fixed, she strode out of the bathroom and stopped in her tracks when she found Neville leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom waiting for her.

His arms were crossed over his chest. She couldn’t read the expression on his face before his gaze immediately dropped to the pink wrapper she clutched in her hand.

She gave him a flippant smile. “Just needed a quick touch-up before we go to your gran’s,” she said. “Give me a sec and I’ll be ready whenever you are.”

The rest of the wrappers Alice had given her were at the shop, tucked away in a tiny box with a notice-me-not charm on it. This one could just go in her nightstand for now.

Neville leaned against the doorframe of his bedroom as she slipped it away. “How long?”

Letting out a slow breath, she shut the drawer. Apparently they were doing this now. So much for a Christmas truce. “July.”

“Why?”

Hadn’t they been through this already? “Because the healers weren’t doing it right,” she said. “I don’t blame them, they have a lot to do and your mum’s aversion to water on her face made it even more difficult but…”

She waved her hand at the pictures along the dresser. “She was such an elegant witch,” she said. “I thought…she lost so much but I thought I could give that little bit back to her.” Foolish, really, that she’d ever thought that and yet…having her hair styled calmed Alice.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

She’d expected him to be mad. Suspicious. Furious.

Instead, he just sounded…lost.

“I thought I would just go a few times until it was better, but then she seemed to enjoy it so much and I liked being there with her and I didn’t think she’d get attached.”

No one else ever had.

Typically, the more time people spent with her, the less they liked her.

“I didn’t do it on purpose.” Above anything else, she needed him to know that. “I wasn’t trying to ingrain myself in her life or make her dependent upon me, I just—”

He looked horrified. “What? Why would I…” He shook his head. “I would never think you would do something like that.”

She shrugged. “Maybe because you don’t know me very well at all.”

He took a step towards her. “No, it’s because I know you that I know you wouldn’t do that. Not to her.”

Tears filled her eyes again and she looked down, blinking them back before another one could fall.

“This is probably the nicest thing anyone has done for her since her…since what happened.”

She wanted to lie and tell him that it was nothing, but…it was something. To both her and Alice.

“That’s why you canceled on Parvati,” he said. “Because my mum put gum in her hair and you spent the afternoon getting it out.”

It’d only taken an hour; she was back in time for Maisey’s appointment.

“You chose my mum over your business and your reputation, even after an already hard week.”

She straightened. “That’s a little dramatic,” she said. “My business is hardly dependent upon the goodwill of a group of Gryffindors.” Thank Merlin for that or she’d have nothing.

He must have heard it in her voice because his face tightened. “I’ll tell them what happened—”

“You will not,” she snapped. “It’s none of their fucking business.”

He’d never been good at hiding his emotions. It was what had made him so easy to tease throughout school. What made it so fun, too.

She watched them flicker across his face now. Anger, sadness, guilt, confusion. He dug a hand through his hair. When it dropped, he glanced at her and at the bed and back at her. “Do you…how can I thank—”

She stepped away, feeling like he’d slapped her. “I didn’t do it for that.” Merlin, was that what he thought of her? And he’d accused her of cheapening that part of their relationship.

His face fell. “No, I know, I didn’t mean…” He dropped on the bed and buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not good at…telling people how I feel.” His throat bobbed. “What you did, what you’re doing for her, it…I don’t think I can tell you what it means to me.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

The corner of his mouth rose. “I know,” he said. “That makes it mean even more.”

She looked at her feet, not sure what to say to that. In all her planning, she’d never expected things to go this direction if he found out. All she had prepared were defenses and justifications. She didn’t know how to accept his gratitude.

Taking care of Alice had just sort of…happened. She kept coming back for herself as much as Alice.

“I know it means a lot to my mum too, even if she can’t say it,” he said. “The gum wrappers…I know it’s not a homemade scarf—”

Laughter burst out of her before she could stop it.

Neville’s head snapped up, confusion on his face.

She’d fucking break if he thought she was laughing at Alice. “You can’t even call that thing a scarf,” she said. “It was too short—”

He frowned. “That wasn’t a fashion thing?”

She rubbed her head, regretting bringing it up. “No.”

“Maybe she thought she was trying—”

“The only person in that room who didn’t see it as an insult was you,” she said. “And possibly Lovegood.”

“They weren’t laughing at you like they did Draco…”

Why did she have to spell this out for him? “That was a prank. They were laughing as much with him as at him,” she said. “Molly was intentionally trying to humiliate me. You’re welcome to ask Hermione if you don’t believe me. Apparently it’s a right of passage.”

The Potters and Weasel would probably deny it, reassure him like the morally upright devoted friends they were.

Neville dug his hands into his hair. “Fuck.” He stood up and started pacing. “I fucking talked to them.” He turned to her. “I promise, I talked to Harry and Ginny and Ron and Padma. I didn’t think I’d have to say anything to Molly for fuck’s sake.”

She sighed. “It’s not your fault, Neville.” All he wanted was to see the good in people. She didn’t want to be the one to shatter that for him. Not with people he so obviously loved.

“No, but I didn’t see it and I didn’t stop it. Fuck,” he said again. “I thought I had it under control.”

It wasn’t as if there was anything he could have said to make things better in the moment. Not without ruining his relationship with all of them. “Neville—”

He spun to face her. “I’m so fucking sorry, Pansy,” he said. “I knew you wouldn’t want to talk about herbology but you also wouldn’t want me to smother you all day so when Molly started asking me about her garden, I sent Luna to say hi and made sure you were with her or Hermione or me or Draco all day.”

She pressed her lips together at the very sweet but incredibly misguided notion of sending Looney Lovegood to keep her company. Granted, for all her quirks, she had been nicer to Pansy than just about anyone else there.

Which, considering how rude she’d been to the other witch over the years, really wasn’t deserved. It was probably past time to stop calling her Looney, even if she only did it in her head.

Neville shook his head. “I was so worried you weren’t going to get a gift and you’d feel left out and then there was one for you and I was so relieved she made you something that—fuck!”

As she watched him pace, part of her wished she hadn’t brought up the scarf. That she’d let him have his naive belief in the Weasley family, that she hadn’t had to be the one to shatter his trust in them.

Neville pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. “I told Ginny you didn’t like pansies,” he said. “Back in May when she asked why there weren’t a million at the wedding. She must’ve told Molly. That’s what the pansy comment was about, wasn’t it?”

She’d wondered how Ginny figured that bit out.

He turned towards her. “I will talk…” His voice trailed off as she flicked her eyebrows up. She’d made her opinion on him sharing things about her with his friends rather clear by now.

His face tightened. “If you told them what really happened in the Great Hall—”

“Hermione Granger doesn’t even want to hear my explanation for what happened,” she said. “There’s no fucking chance anyone with the last name of Potter or Weasley will either.”

He frowned. “You’ve tried to tell Hermione?” he asked. “About why you said what you did in the Great Hall?”

“Apparently I’m actually a good person on the inside and she knows I didn’t mean it,” she said. “Every time I insist that I did, she changes the subject.”

He sighed. “If you just told her—”

It would get her the exact same place it always had. “What hurts the most, Longbottom?” she asked. “Realizing your friends are just as prejudiced as you once accused mine of being? Or knowing you were the exact same way just a few months ago?”

The stricken look on his face said it all.

“You want to know the real reason I never told you about my visits to see your mum? Why I stopped visiting her with you once she started giving me gum wrappers each time I saw her?”

He looked like a little boy who’d just lost his puppy but she couldn’t find it in herself to stop.

“For the same exact reason I haven’t told Hermione about Macnair’s plans for her,” she said. “Or Ginny or any of her insipid relatives about what my father planned for her.”

She took a step forward, rage rolling off her in waves. “Because people only see what they want to see,” she said. “And while I may not give a fuck about what Harry Potter or the rest of the DA or the Wizarding World at large thinks of me or the decisions I made during the war, I wasn’t going to let you do that to me about this. To question, to judge, to condescend, to—”

To stop her from going back.

“This has nothing to do with you,” she said. “If it had, I would have stopped a long time ago.”

He reached out, then dropped his hands. “I’m sorry, Pansy.” His throat bobbed. “Thank you,” he said. “It…thank you for seeing the gap in her care and filling it. I mean it.”

His gaze was so pained, so earnest, she nodded in acknowledgement.

“And I’m really sorry about yesterday,” he said. “I’m going to take a step back from DA nights. And any other time that group all gets together.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“Every time I think I have it handled, they get more underhanded,” he said. “I miss it and you end up hurt. I obviously can’t be trusted to be a good judge of what’s going on when it comes to them.”

It had stung when Neville missed the intent to humiliate her. But she knew it wasn’t malicious. He wasn’t the one who should be beating himself up. “Wanting to see the best in your friends isn’t a bad thing, Neville.”

“It is if you get hurt in the process.”

“I know I had a rough night that one night but I really don’t care what they think of me,” she said. “They don’t have to like me, and I don’t particularly like any of them.”

“I care,” he said.

She sighed. “Neville—”

“I’m the one who keeps dragging you to all those events, hoping this time it’ll be better and it’s only getting worse and more malicious,” he said.

“Neville, you cannot cut out all of your friends for me,” she said. “That’s not fair to me. I never asked for that, I never wanted that.” Choosing her over them was only going to make things worse in the long run.

“I’m not cutting them out,” he said. “It’s probably hopelessly, foolishly naive of me, but I still think that things will get better and they’ll see you the way I do and—”

He looked down for a heartbeat and she wondered what he cut himself off from saying.

“But until they apologize—and actually mean it—and change their behaviors and make things right, I’m not going to walk into any situation and blindly trust that they’re going to be decent people,” he said. “I can’t keep putting you through that, and I can’t keep having my trust betrayed like that.”

Her throat felt thick. It was too much for him to give up. Especially for her. She couldn’t keep asking, keep taking from him without giving him anything in return. She didn’t want to ruin his life, to come between friendships that he’d had for almost a decade and a half.

And yet, no one had ever defended her like that. Stood up for her and taken her side. It was brash and reckless and she wanted to scold him for it…and she also wanted to curl up in his arms and let him hold her. To rest her cheek against his heart and breathe in his scent until her heart beat in sync with his.

“I just don’t get it.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “They think you’re my wife and that I’m in love with you.”

She knew it was pretend and a complete charade. That was always the plan. Always the intention. But something about the reminder stung for the first time.

“How can they believe that and treat you like this?” he demanded. “Even without knowing what they do about your plan, it was seven fucking years ago when we were children. Why can’t they just fucking let it go already?”

She swallowed, unsure what he wanted her to say.

Neville turned towards her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you like I promised I would be yesterday,” he said. “I’m not going to let it happen again.”

“I didn’t blame you yesterday,” she said softly.

“You should have.”

She didn’t want to keep talking about the Weasleys. It was just too fucking exhausting. The weight of him giving up all his friends for her when they were in a fake marriage was too much for her to take, too much to process.

“We should get going so we’re not late,” she said instead.

He studied her for a moment before he finally nodded. “Okay.”

In the living room, he paused before the fireplace. “Did we forget one?”

She eyed the small package on the coffee table. “Oh,” she said. “I wasn’t sure when we were going to exchange gifts.”

He brightened. “Let me get yours!” He disappeared into the guest bedroom and came out with a large box. “You first.”

Smiling, she pulled off the wrapping paper. When it fell away, all she could do was stare at the box.

Neville smirked proudly. “It’s a ribbon organizer.”

“I can see that.” She pressed her lips together, staring at the photo printed on the outside of the box of some sort of muggle wooden dowel contraption to hold up spools of ribbon.

A scrap of parchment caught her eye. She grabbed the note and then looked up at Neville. “Why is there a note from Penelope that just says, ‘I’m so sorry, I tried to stop him’ taped to the box?”

“Oh,” he said. “It’s a muggle thing so I had to ask her for help.”

She pressed her free hand to her mouth.

“I remembered Hermione saying something about her mom or aunt using one of these, but she refused to help me with your Christmas present because she said she wasn’t going to lose to you twice over?”

She bit the inside of her cheek. Gift giving was a competitive sport to her, one she had never lost yet. Everyone else had given up but Granger still got pissy about it and beating her was absolutely delightful.

“I thought it would make you laugh,” Neville said, suddenly sounding uncertain.

“It’s very funny,” she said. “Thank you.”

He gave her a sheepish smile.

“I got you something practical.” She handed him the box she’d wrapped. “I thought you could use them in the greenhouse.”

He tore the wrapping and stared at the gloves for a heartbeat. Instead of the elation she’d been expecting, he forced a smile. “These are great, thanks, Pansy,” he said. “I can only use dragonhide in the greenhouse, but these will be great for the rest of winter.”

She had a black thumb but she wasn’t that useless. “They’re Peruvian Vipertooth.”

Most dragonhide came from Swedish Short-Snouts. The magical properties were perfect for protective gear, but at times could be bulky and limit mobility. Peruvian Vipertooths shared the same properties as Short-Snouts, but with the smallest and smoothest scales of any dragon. Its leather was rumored to fit like a second skin.

Heavily coveted by alchemists and herbologists alike, the few manufacturers of Peruvian Vipertooth hide goods had wait lists years long. Between international dragon trade regulations and the reclusive nature of vipertooths, their hides were not easy to obtain.

Of course, the wait lists would move quicker if people didn’t bribe their way up to the top like she had six weeks ago but that wasn’t her problem, just that of people who didn’t design robes coveted by one of the top manufacturer’s granddaughters.

Neville’s head snapped up. “Are you serious?” Dropping the wrapping, he slid them on.

She immediately smirked at the perfect fit.

He flexed his fingers as he examined them. “Pansy, these are amazing! I thought about trying to get on a waitlist but I didn’t think I’d be able to afford them even if I got off but—” He broke off and then looked at the muggle ribbon contraption he’d picked out for her in horror. “Oh, Godrick,” he muttered.

“It was a really sweet gift,” she said. “Funny to both of us and yet practical as well.” If she ever got the urge to display a tiny fraction of her ribbon collection on an odd wooden contraption.

“Should have gone with the amethysts,” he muttered.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Was that his backup plan? There was no way Penelope Griffiths suggested those as a present.

He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Unable to resist ribbing him further, she smiled. “I know you had good intentions.”

His face fell. “Pansy, I…”

Laughing, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Happy Christmas, Neville,” she said. “Let’s go before we’re late.”

He followed her through the floo moments after.

By the time they arrived, Augusta had already informed the elderly aunts and uncles about Pansy’s visits to see Alice. Her presence alone had made two elderly women burst into tears, and not in the fun way but the awkward hugs and offers of decades old candy from their purses or pockets kind of way.

After an hour, she managed to get a quiet moment to herself on the couch. She sipped a cup of tea, wishing for something stronger, as she debated the chances she could get the ministry to approve her to take a trip to Italy next Christmas.

Augusta marched over and sat next to her with a heavy red album. Pansy quickly had to set her tea to the side as Augusta flipped open the album without regard for the hot liquid she was holding.

An eleven-year old Frank smiled up at her from the pages with the excited gleam of a young boy off to Hogwarts for the first time.

All of Neville’s pictures of him were of a grown man, a fit and trim accomplished auror.

But as an eleven year old, he was as chubby as Neville used to be.

She couldn’t help but grin back at the smiling blond boy with plump, rosy cheeks. “He looks just like Neville at that age.”

Augusta smiled as she flipped the page. Across this one were pictures of eleven year old Alice at King’s Cross.

“He’s the perfect blend of both of them, really.”

“He is,” Augusta said simply.

There was a picture, now of Frank in Gryffindor robes, with his arms around two friends. She pointed to the boy on the left. “Ted Tonks?” Augusta had said they were close in school.

Augusta nodded. She pointed to the other boy. “Fabian Prewett.”

Another victim of the war.

As they flipped pages, she watched Frank and Alice grow up before her eyes. Any picture that Frank and Alice were in together, Frank’s eyes drifted towards Alice.

Even as a school girl, she was always neatly put together. Flawless hair and skin that Pansy would have hated her for if they’d been the same age. A casual elegance to her movements but the way she smiled and laughed took away from any pompous airs she might have had.

She reminded Pansy just a bit of Ginny Weasley. A compliment the Weaselette certainly didn’t deserve.

Around sixth year, as Frank shot up in height and his robes were filled out with muscle, the Alice in the photos started sneaking glances at him. By the end of that year, there was a picture of them holding hands and smiling shyly together.

She watched their love blossom across the page. Graduation pictures. Gatherings with friends at pubs. The two of them dressed up for a date.

At least Alice was.

She shook her head at Frank’s outfit. It was an unfortunately recognizable jumper. “Tell me she hated the jumpers.”

Augusta smirked. “When they moved in together, he put a blood lock on his closet so she couldn’t get to them.”

She laughed. Like father, like son.

“Frank scored almost twice as high as her in the auror program when they were disguising themselves as muggles,” she said. “Never seen a man that smug.”

Next were the wedding pictures. Alice absolutely glowed, looking more beautiful than ever. Frank watched her with a look of joy mixed with desperate disbelief and longing. Like he couldn’t believe they were there, that she was his.

A rock settled in Pansy’s stomach.

It wasn’t in the cards for her, but what she wouldn’t give to have someone look at her the way Frank did Alice…

Augusta pointed out the guests, told a few stories about each one. So many of the names were familiar. Many of them she’d read on lists of first war casualties. Parents, aunts, uncles of her classmates who never got to meet them.

She lingered over the picture of the original Order. A young James and Lily Potter first appeared, newly graduated seventeen year olds.

“Frank told them not to go through auror training,” Augusta said. “By that point, it was clear the ministry was compromised.”

Not to the extent it was in the second war, but perhaps even more insidious because of it.

As they flipped through the album, faces started disappearing. The ones who remained started gathering injuries, scars.

She froze at a picture of Alice and Lily, grinning at the camera with arms around each other. Both their stomachs were swollen with pregnancy.

The first picture of Neville and Harry together.

“Right before they went into hiding,” Augusta said.

Because of the Prophecy that could have been about either one of them.

For all that he was the Heir of Slytherin and a blood supremacist, the Dark Lord was a half blood raised by muggles. The elite purebloods of Britain might have flocked to him, but he never understood them.

If he had, if Voldemort had truly been one of them, he wouldn’t have looked twice at the Potters. Wouldn’t have ever considered that the son of a muggle-born witch would be the boy of the Prophecy. Not when the pureblood son and heir of a Sacred Twenty Eight family was another option.

Augusta flipped to the baby pictures of Neville. The love and pride and joy that Frank and Alice had for their son was almost palpable.

Now it was just pictures of the three of them. The Longbottoms were in hiding, protecting their son, while the war raged on around them.

The last picture in the album was of what remained of the Order. Halloween decorations were still up wherever they had gathered. It couldn’t have been much after the Dark Lord’s first defeat. There was sorrow and heartbreak in the faces of the group, as well as far too many missing people, but a determined triumph.

The Dark Lord was defeated, they had won.

“Frank went missing the day after this photo was taken,” Augusta said, voice soft. “Alice brought Neville to the house, said I was in charge until she came back.”

And she never had. Not truly.

Augusta closed the album. “This was Alice’s,” she said. “She put it together when they were in hiding. She’d always collected pictures, had boxes and boxes of them, but these were her favorites.”

“Thank you for sharing it with me.” The glimpse of the people Alice and Frank had been before.

She slid it onto Pansy’s lap. “I think she’d like you to have it.”

Her stomach flipped. “Oh, I couldn’t—”

“You saw her,” Augusta said, voice soft. “You saw her, saw what she was missing, what she needed, when no one else did.”

She fingered the album. “She’s who I would have wanted to be, if I’d had that example growing up.”

That her only two options weren’t just to become an ornament or a soldier. That someone could be beautiful and brave. Elegant and determined. Kind and fierce. Powerful and loved.

“You still can be,” Augusta said.

For once, she appreciated the witch’s gruff demeanor. The lack of empty platitudes. Because she wasn’t anything like Alice. But the fact that Augusta believed someday she could be…

She swallowed, trying to push down the lump in her throat.

“I should have seen it,” Augusta said. “She was my daughter. I should have insisted on additional care but…” She sighed. “I was raising Neville and then another war was brewing and I failed her.”

“You didn’t—”

“I had my reasons why, some good, some bad, but I did,” Augusta said. “By then I didn’t see her as I used to, I saw her as she was. You were the one who was different.”

She traced the edge of the album.

“I believe you now,” Augusta said.

She glanced up.

“About trying to become the type of person who deserves him.”

With that, the elderly witch rose and strode off, calling out to Enid about something. Across the room, Neville was standing just apart from a cluster of his relatives, watching her with an uncomfortably familiar expression on his face.

Like he was trying to flay her open, dissect her to find out what secrets she held.

Her grip tightened on the album, locking away the one she was intentionally keeping from herself.

Because if she admitted it, even just to herself, it would shatter her.

Better to be a liar than broken beyond belief.

So she shored up her armor, tucked that knowledge away with the rest of the unpleasant memories she worked so hard to suppress, and forced a flippant smile to her face as one of the Great Aunts strode by again with a platter of desserts.

Chapter Text

Hermione spun, the giddiest Pansy had ever seen her while trying on clothes. “Trousers! You made me trousers!”

The ministry was insufferably old fashioned. Pansy was determined to change that, and Hermione Granger was going to help her do it.

While even the most elite purebloods accepted witches wearing trousers for casual or non-social occasions, it was still expected that women wear skirts or dresses in all other circumstances. That mindset had influenced the ministry for far too long. There was no rule, no formal obligation, but the social pressure was enough that a woman wouldn’t be taken seriously unless she was dressed in the expected manner.

Unless she was the Golden Girl Hermione Granger, close personal friend and heir apparent of Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Hermione alone could have gotten away with it, but to change the ministry itself, Pansy first needed to make Hermione follow all the rules and establish her as a fashion icon. Then, when Hermione broke the rules, everyone else would follow as well.

The older set would be scandalized, but it was nearly impossible to speak out against Hermione Granger without ostracizing yourself.

Within the year, Pansy predicted there would be more women in trousers at the ministry than not. Not only would Pansy mastermind the change, she was the only designer aware of and prepared for it.

Shame no one else was taking the time to study muggle designs. They’d have to start from scratch figuring out the best types of trousers to flatter a woman’s physique while Pansy was busy selling out her stock.

“There’s more than one way to change the world, Granger.” Popular opinion was as important as legislation.

“Have I told you lately how much I adore you?” Hermione asked.

“I told you from the very first day I showed up at your offices that you needed me.” She’d been talking about clothes then as well.

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t stop smiling.

Now that Hermione was finally standing still, Pansy set to work sharpening the hem of the trousers. “While I have you here, I think we need to revisit the terms of your exclusivity contract with me.”

Hermione shook her head. “I told you, I’m not going to stop wearing muggle clothes entirely,” she said. “Weekends at home and when I’m in the muggle world are still my time.”

She smirked. “Worried I won’t let you have your precious muggle denims anymore?”

“They’re my favorite.”

She scoffed. “Your favorite is how much you like Draco checking out your arse when you wear them.”

Her cheeks turned a predictable shade of pink. “You should get a pair and see how Neville responds.”

Neville, who hadn’t touched her since before Christmas. Who no longer seemed to know how to act around her. The man ran so hot and cold she didn’t know what to do with him.

If this fucked up him performing the damned rite…

She wasn’t going to let herself think about what would happen to her if he decided not to do it at all.

Instead, she smirked at her friend. “I’ve seen how much work it is to get those things off and on,” she said. “I prefer the accessible nature of skirts.” As one did when they had to quickly take advantage of their husband’s interest before his morals spoke louder than his horniness.

Fucking Gryffindors.

Or not, as the case may be.

She waved that thought off. “But no, I’m talking about the number of designers sending you packages.”

Hermione’s head snapped from talking to her reflection in the mirrors to face her fully. “Who told you about that?”

Pansy simply smiled.

She sighed. “I haven’t ordered anything,” she said. “They’ve just been sending me free things.”

“All of which you sent back right away?”

Hermione turned back to the mirror and began adjusting her shirt. “It’s not just professional attire.”

Pansy crossed her arms. “Exclusivity means exclusivity, Hermione.”

She continued playing with her shirt, the slightest hint of a smirk playing across her face. “Some of them aren’t even real outfits, just mock ups.”

This was worse than she feared. “For. What.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. When she caught Pansy’s look in the mirror, her lips twitched. “Wedding and bridesmaid dresses.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

In two steps, she’d jumped up on the platform and had her wand pressed to Hermione Granger’s throat.

Distantly, over the roaring in her ears, she heard a small commotion outside the shop but she couldn’t care less.

“I know you’re going to ask Weaselette to be your matron of honor and that I might not even be a bridesmaid but if you fucking dare allow anyone else to design any of the robes for your wedding—”

Her threat was cut off by a loud bang and flash of light.

“Expelliarmus!”

Her wand shot out of her hand as Hermione’s flew up from the side table.

“Incarcerous!”

Thick ropes caught her as she reeled from the blast of the force of the expelliarmus. Rather than supporting her or stopping her fall, they lashed her limbs to her body. She crashed to the ground, smashing her elbow and hip into the hard floor, barely managing to keep her head aloft enough to not crack it open.

Ron Weasley stood over her, wand pointed directly at her while Harry Potter ran over to Hermione, brandishing his wand.

“What the hell?” Hermione sputtered.

“Are you hurt?” Potter demanded.

“Oh my god!” Hermione gasped.

Ron didn’t look up from where he glared at Pansy. “We saw her threatening you—”

Pansy burst out laughing. Perhaps the wand at Hermione’s throat had been a bit much but the thought that she would or could hurt Hermione was ridiculous.

Hermione yanked her wand out of Potter’s grasp, elbowed him sharply, and marched over to undo Weasel’s spell.

Pansy rubbed her hands and forearms, trying to restore circulation to them. “Merlin, Weasel,” she said. “What are you trying to prove?”

Hermione helped her to her feet. Pansy straightened her clothes as Hermione rounded on her two friends. She’d leave her in charge of that. No point in getting knocked down and tied up twice. Not when it was someone other than Neville doing it.

“Again, I ask,” Hermione demanded, sparks practically flying from her mass of curls, “what the hell was that?”

Potter and Weasel looked more than a little put out that they hadn’t been the saviors they were clearly intending to be.

“We were on duty in Diagon Alley last night and when we walked by the shop we saw Pansy threatening you,” Potter said.

“Your shift ended forty minutes ago—oh my god!” Hermione’s glare increased. “Are you two checking up on me?!”

Their faces tightened.

Hermione marched towards Potter and he scrambled. “Where’s the cloak, Harry?”

“I don’t know what you’re—ow!”

Hermione jabbed him in the side with her wand. When he flinched towards that side, she stuck her hand into the other pocket. He stopped her before she could yank out the rest of the garment but Hermione had clearly seen enough.

“I cannot believe you two!” Hermione seethed. “First of all, after the number of times that I saved both of your sorry arses—”

“She had her wand at your throat!” Weasel snapped.

“Yeah, because I was teasing her about something that I knew would piss her off,” she snapped. “I didn’t see you two disarming or restraining Ginny two weeks ago when I was making those quidditch jokes and she tried to destroy my dining room!”

Potter’s face tightened. “Ginny wouldn’t hurt you—”

Hermione’s hand flung wide, almost striking Pansy in the face in her rage. “Neither would Pansy, she’s my friend too!”

“Yeah,” Ron scoffed. “So good a friend she’s trying to come between Nev and all his—”

Hermione whipped her wand on him so fast he let out a tiny squeak of terror. “Start that fight with me, Ronald Weasley,” she spat. “Start that fight right. Fucking. Now.”

Potter started to approach her like she was a wild animal. “Mi—”

“Don’t you dare,” she seethed. “I am not going through this shite with you two again. I did it once with Draco and that was enough. Figure it out.”

Potter crossed his arms. “We’re fine with Draco.”

“Yeah,” Weasel said, shooting Pansy a sharp glare. “He’s apologized.”

Hermione smiled at him in such a way that the blood drained from his face and he took a step back. “The way you apologized for attacking an innocent woman?” she asked.

It was hard to tell who was more furious with her.

“Innocent?” Weasel spat.

“Enough!” Hermione yelled. “Apologize and get out! I’ll deal with you two later!”

“Sorry, ‘Mione,” Weasel muttered.

Potter crossed his arms. “Yeah, sorry for overreacting to someone pointing a lethal weapon at your throat.”

“Not to me!” she snapped.

Both of them glared at her like she’d just promised their firstborn children to a manticore camp.

Her eyebrows shot up.

Potter broke first. “Sorry for overreacting, Pansy.”

Weasel crossed his arms.

“Ron, it’s fine,” Potter muttered.

Weasel gave his best friend a long look before he turned to her. “Sorry for tying you up,” he said. “I promise I won’t do that next time.”

As far as apologies went, it was rather subpar.

Hermione clearly agreed. “Ronald Weasley—”

Pansy laid her hand on her arm. “It’s okay, Hermione,” she said. “They’ve just come off a long shift, and Harry’s been working ever so hard to find whoever attacked my shop.” She gave them both a benevolent smile. “I accept both your apologies, and promise I won’t file a report to the DMLE about inappropriate use of excessive force.”

Their glares only increased.

Hermione muttered under her breath. Just as Weasel opened his big mouth, she pushed them. “Out, now! You’ve done enough.”

With one last glare in Pansy’s direction, they slunk towards the door.

Right as Potter was pushing it open, Pansy called out. “Do give my love to Ginny!”

His knuckles tightened, then he stormed out and apparated away with a crack, immediately followed by Weasel.

Hermione sighed. “Why do you always do that?”

Send love to the woman who would have been her stepmother? Pansy turned towards her and crossed her arms. “And did you learn an important lesson about pissing me off today?”

“Merlin,” she muttered. “I’m going to kill them.”

Fine with her. “And who will be doing your wedding robes?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course it’s going to be you, Pansy.”

“Good.”

Hermione shifted. “I’d like for you to be a bridesmaid too,” she said. “The only reason I haven’t asked yet is because Draco and I have been arguing over which of us you’d stand up with.”

Pansy froze, a lump filling her throat. She had no idea Draco would have even thought of her. That he and Hermione both wanted her standing with them at their wedding.

Pansy cleared her throat. “How horridly modern,” she said. “You’re a terrible influence on him.”

Hermione beamed. “I love you too, Pansy.”

“Alright, back up.” She shooed her up onto the stand once more to start over on the hem.

“Regardless of who wins, you’ll need to have a wedding party outfit,” Hermione said.

She let out a sigh. “Nothing that clashes with red hair, I suppose.”

Hermione let out an amused huff. “No.”

“That’s fine.” She smirked up at her friend. “Weaslette and I both look incredible in emerald.”

Hermione’s head dropped back as she cackled. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Depends on the season.” Honestly, she’d probably go with a shade of purple but it was more fun to think about forcing those three Gryffindors into Slytherin colors. “Any decisions on the date yet?”

“No, and I’m not pushing,” she said. “I’m happy with a long engagement.”

She looked up from the hem of the trousers. “I assumed Draco would be the one pushing you.”

A touch of guilt filled her eyes. “I think he’s still hoping his mum will come around.”

Pansy wondered if Draco was playing it wrong. His mother probably saw the lack of date as a lack of commitment. Still, it was their life to figure out. Narcissa would come around eventually or she wouldn’t.

“Well, whatever you do, don’t look at venues without me,” Pansy said.

Hermione grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Pansy was never more thankful for Slytherin night as when they arrived the next night. Now that he knew she saw his parents four times a week—since she started styling Alice’s hair before tea as well so she looked her best for when they all visited—Neville was particularly awkward those days.

It wasn’t as if she made it easy on him. He’d stumble through a few awkward questions about her day, fishing for information in a way she was deliberately obtuse about until he finally asked directly if she’d gone to St. Mungo’s and how his parents were. Yes and fine were all she ever said.

Then he’d go all quiet and bumble around for the rest of the evening, reminding her far more of the awkward boy she knew at school than the confident man who liked to tie witches up and spank them to screaming orgasms.

One of which sounded rather nice right about now.

She needed a drink and to win a bucket of galleons off Theo. Or Blaise. Even Draco.

It was mostly about the galleons and maybe a little bit about humiliating someone. She wasn’t picky about which one.

Sipping her fire whiskey, she waited as Blaise dealt the first hand.

“How’s the shop, Pansy?” Theo cast the first bet. “Still raking in the galleons profiteering off our Golden Girl?”

She smirked. “The nickname is apt.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Calmed down a bit since Christmas.” There was nowhere to go and nothing to do in January. February, too, would be slow. Maybe next year she’d do something special for Valentine’s Day.

She’d been toying with the idea of adding a lingerie line. Modeling her designs for Neville would certainly be fun…

A bitter taste filled her mouth when she remembered Neville would be back with Hannah by next Valentine’s Day. She washed it down with a sip of her drink.

Draco snorted. “You can’t call yesterday calm,” he said. “How are you holding up?”

Ooh. This was going to be fun. She let out a long sigh. “Still a little shaken but okay.”

Draco shook his head. “The nerve of those two, I swear.”

Neville sat up. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “What happened at the shop? Does Harry know?”

Everyone, even Theo and Blaise, gaped at him.

“Pansy,” Hermione said, her tone scandalized. “You didn’t tell him?”

Neville’s head whipped to hers so fast he was lucky it didn’t snap.

She made a show of moving the cards in her hand around. Merlin, it was so hard not to smirk right now. “No,” she said, voice quiet. “I didn’t.”

“Tell me what?” Neville demanded.

She flicked her eyes up to his and then back to her cards. “Hermione was in for her weekly fitting yesterday morning.”

They always took place on Thursday mornings, an hour before the shop opened up because being on time to work for Hermione Granger meant arriving a full hour early.

“She started teasing me so I pulled my wand on her,” Pansy continued. “I obviously wasn’t going to hurt her, but I didn’t realize Potter and Weasley were hiding under Potter’s cloak right outside the shop.”

Neville, bless his heart, still assumed the best of his friends. “Were they staking it out in case the attacker came back? Did they get another tip?”

Draco looked at him with all the familiar patronizing contempt from school. “They were tailing Pansy.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Why?”

Pansy propped her chin up and turned to Draco and Hermione. “Do they tail you two when you’re together?”

Draco smirked. “Not anymore.”

Hermione turned bright red.

Theo snorted. “Bet Weasel regretted that decision rather quickly.”

Draco’s smirk turned smug. “I believe Potter was the one particularly scarred by the experience.”

Hermione dropped deeper into her chair, muttering something Pansy didn’t quite catch.

Neville set his cards down on the table and turned to her, game forgotten. “Why were they tailing you?”

“Because I was with Hermione and they needed to assure her safety.”

“Idiots,” Hermione muttered. “They burst into the shop, disarmed Pansy and tied her up!”

Everyone else in the room missed it, but she could feel the moment Neville went preternaturally still. “What?” His tone had the sharp crisp of a command that sent a thrill down her spine.

“Be honest, is that actually the only spell Potter knows?” Pansy asked Hermione. “I know he used it to defeat the Dark Lord twice but I just need to know that his dueling skills didn’t peak in Second Year after one sole lesson from Gilderoy Lockhart.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed.

“Harry disarmed you and Ron tied you up?” The undisguised ire in Neville’s voice drew everyone’s eyes.

Pansy didn’t look up from her cards. “Knocked me off my feet, wrapped me in ropes from head to toe.” She placed a bet on the table for the game no one else was paying attention to anymore. “Did not pause a heartbeat for mercy.”

Her word choice had the exact impact she’d meant.

Neville shoved himself back from the table and stormed from the room. Moments later they heard him call out for Grimmauld Place and the whoosh of the floo.

Pansy finally let her smirk slip out as her friends all turned to stare at her. Everyone else had given up on the game so she pretended she’d won and collected all the bets.

“Thank bloody Merlin,” Hermione muttered.

Draco arched an eyebrow at her as Pansy gathered up all the cards.

“I have spent the past fourteen years trying to keep those two idiots in line,” she said. “None of you have any idea the relief it is to finally have some help.”

Pansy shuffled the deck with a snap. “Maybe you would have had some help earlier if you hadn’t put him in a body bind First Year when he did try to keep said idiots in line.”

Hermione gaped at her. “We had to save the Sorcerer’s Stone from Quirrel!” she said. “Otherwise Voldemort would have come back three years earlier than he did!”

“Actually, the three of you going down there gave Quirrel’s plan its highest chance of success,” she said. “Potter was the one who got the stone out of the mirror. Quirrel would have just been stuck there trying to figure it out until Dumbledore came back.”

Her mouth opened and shut a few times like a gaping fish.

Pansy patted her hand. “There, there,” she said. “We all make mistakes as children.”

“And then they got blood rewarded for it and stole the House Cup from underneath us,” Theo muttered.

Hermione straightened with a bit of a smug smirk. “Well, if Draco hadn’t tattled on us—”

Draco rounded on her. “The rampant favoritism that you, Potter, and Weasel received in school—”

“Favoritism?!” Hermione demanded. “Someone was constantly trying to kill us!”

He scoffed. “‘Constantly’ is a bit of an exaggeration—”

“Children!” Theo clapped once.

Both Hermione and Draco turned towards him, blinking as if they’d forgotten anyone else was in the room.

“Please save the foreplay for your own home,” he said.

Hermione turned pink. “We were having a discussion.”

He snorted. “Sure,” he said. “Like we don’t all know that’s exactly how you two get off.”

Her blush deepened. “Can we just play cards now?”

Their teasing continued through multiple hands before they finally heard the rush of the floo.

“I was starting to worry,” Hermione muttered.

Neville stormed into the card room, hair mussed and cheeks ruddy. He was breathing heavily and looked ready to rip someone apart.

Pansy wanted to get on her knees and lick every last disgruntled inch of him.

Neville turned to Theo and Blaise. “I apologize for my abrupt departure.” He glanced at her. “What happened is not going to happen again,” he said. “Stay as long as you want. I will meet you at home.” Without another word, he spun and marched back towards the floo parlor.

Pansy couldn’t help her smirk as all four of her friends turned towards her. She reached to collect the bets but Blaise slapped her hand.

She yanked it back. “Ouch!” She leaned back in her chair. “Nev—”

The sound of the whooshing floo cut her off. She pouted.

Theo chuckled. “Like we don’t all know exactly what gets you off too, Pansy.”

She tossed down her cards and gathered up her actual winnings, leaving the bets in the middle of the table. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “But, if you all will excuse me, I should go check and see if my husband is okay.”

“Card night used to be sacred before you all partnered up,” Theo said.

“Yeah,” Draco drawled. “Really miss the days of Blaise trying to pretend he wasn’t pining over you while you pretended you didn’t notice it either.”

Pansy blew Hermione a kiss before she swept out of the room after Neville.

“You wouldn’t know anything about pretending not to pine for someone, would you?” Blaise drawled.

Still smirking to herself, Pansy stepped into the fireplace and called out Neville’s cottage.

Neville was sitting on the couch, head in his hands. He raised his head as if to confirm it was her and then dropped his head into his hands. “You should go back,” he muttered. “You’re going to have a lot more fun there.”

Not if she had her way. “How were the Potters this evening?”

He drug his hands down his face. “I should have listened to you,” he said. “You said it was going to get worse and I thought how the fuck could it get any worse?”

She dropped next to him on the couch and rested her elbow on the back of the couch to prop up her chin.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice haunted.

Aside from a sore hip, which had faded in a few hours, they hadn’t hurt her. And it had been rather cathartic to watch Granger go at them.

Regardless, she was so fucking sick of fighting about the Potters and Weasleys.

All she really wanted was for Neville to snog her senseless and then do something utterly depraved to get as many orgasms out of her as possible.

She gave him a small smile. “Oh,” she said, “you know I don’t exactly mind getting tied up.”

A look of disbelief crossed his face. “Not like that!”

She stared off in the corner of the room with a dreamy expression. “Right, that raw, animalistic, throw me down and…” She broke off and cleared her throat, glancing back at him. “It does nothing for me,” she said as unconvincingly as possible.

His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“You’re right,” she said. “I should calm down.” She tapped her chin with a thoughtful expression. “Maybe I’ll go draw a bath. Pour in some oils and take a nice long soak.”

She could practically hear Neville’s teeth grinding.

She trailed her fingers down her neck to play with the collar of her dress. “Do whatever it takes to keep my mind off just how quickly Weasel conjured those ropes…”

“Pansy, stop it,” Neville said, his voice a near-growl.

She blinked at him. “I’m sorry, Neville, did you say something?”

“You are such a brat,” he said through clenched teeth.

She smirked at him. “Are you going to do something about it?”

“You were attacked yesterday!”

She shrugged and rose. “That’s fine,” she said. “Let my most recent memory of getting tied up be Ronald Weasley. It works for me either way.”

“It does not,” he snapped.

She spun and smirked. “You don’t know that, though, do you?”

His expression hardened. “You need to stop.”

“Do I need to stop?” she asked. “Or do you need to keep going?”

“Pansy, I’m already worked up enough as it is—”

She let her gaze drift towards his crotch. “How worked up?”

He rose with the familiar predatory gleam that made her weak in the knees. “Stop. Talking.” He stormed towards her.

She backed up with a smirk. “Or what?”

He strode after her until he had her pinned against the wall. “Or I will make you.”

“Hmm,” she said as he towered above her, using his height as if he could scare her into submission. She certainly wanted him to try. “Not into being gagged.” She smirked up at him. “Plus, then you wouldn’t be able to hear me beg and I know how much you love that.”

“Fuck.” The word was little more than a growl. Her heart sped up the moment she saw the glint of determination settle. “Pansy, I need to know I can trust you.”

He might as well have dumped a bucket of cold water over her. Turning her head, she was about to shove him away when he grabbed her chin and forced her gaze to meet his.

“To safeword,” he said. “I need to know I can trust you to safeword because I am worried once this starts I won’t be able to stop unless you do.”

A thrill of anticipation shot down her spine. “I don’t want you to stop.”

He inhaled in a sharp breath. “Promise me,” he ordered.

She grinned. “I promise that I don’t want you to stop.”

“Pansy,” he said through gritted teeth.

Reaching up, she cupped his cheek with her hand. A brief shudder went down his body. He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand. She ran her thumb across his cheek.

“I promise I’ll safeword if I need it.”

Turning his head, he pressed a kiss to her palm. A rare moment of tenderness that made her soften and want him all the more.

But that wasn’t what this was supposed to be.

Stepping forward so their chests were flush, she leaned in to whisper in his ear. “And I promise to beg for every touch, but only if you earn it first.”

Any sense of calm she’d managed to restore in him disappeared. His eyes glinted with his own dark promise. “Take off your dress.”

It was a command, short and fierce. One that demanded no disagreement.

So, naturally, she disobeyed. “No.”

“Now.”

She pressed her palms against the wall. “No.”

“Pansy, take off your dress or I will rip it off your body after I tie you to my bed.”

Exactly what she’d been fucking hoping for. “No.”

She shrieked as he grabbed her around the waist, tossed her over his shoulder, and marched towards his bedroom.

Almost as soon as she was tossed down, his wand was out and ropes flew from it, binding her wrists and ankles to the four posts. Rotating her wrist, she tested the slack on one of them.

“Hmm.”

“What?” Neville snarled, in the process of rolling up his sleeves. The veins in his forearms bulged as he fixed the second one. Sweet Salazar. He hadn’t even touched her yet and she was already dripping for him.

“It’s just…Weasley’s ropes were so much tighter…”

With a flick of his wand the ropes snapped, removing almost any slack from the line and rendering her completely immobile on the bed.

Neville leaned down over her, his body covering hers. “I do not want to hear you say his name again.”

“You can’t blame me for comparing, this is almost how things started yes—”

Before she could continue, his lips crashed down on hers in a punishing kiss. His lips were rough, demanding. Brutal.

She wanted to wrap her arms and legs around him, force him to be as close to her in every possible way. The ropes stopped her from moving a single inch so she was helpless to do anything more than try to meet him in the kiss.

He broke away, lips trailing across her jawline. They weren’t gentle kisses, but hard, fierce bites and sucks. As he moved to show the other side of her neck the same treatment, she realized what he was doing.

Marking her.

She sucked in a sharp breath as he bit down especially hard.

He kissed the spot and sat back. “You drive me fucking insane.”

Panting, she watched him sit back. She could say the same.

Raising his wand, he slid it down the first few inches of the neckline of her dress, slicing a two inch cut.

Before she could ask what the point of that was, he tossed his wand to the side and grabbed her neckline. With the flex of his shoulders, he ripped her dress halfway to her navel.

Fuck.

Three more tears and he had it ripped straight down the front.

His chest heaved as he stared down at her. “No one else.” His voice was a low growl. “I said no one else and you promised.”

Those words combined with the possessive way he looked at her made her stomach flip.

He started pressing the same fierce kisses across her chest, marking her all along the place where her bra met her skin. It didn’t take long before he had his wand back out, slicing her bra in two.

His ministrations made her squirm—or made her want to squirm since he had her tied down so tight she couldn’t move. “Neville, please.”

She yelped as he bit down and sucked on the underside of her breast. “Fuck,” she gasped.

“That’s right,” he said. “You’re going to lie there and take it because you are making me lose my fucking mind.”

He slid almost completely off her body and began kissing his way up her knees, marking every few inches as he pleased.

When he was done, her body was going to be riddled with tiny bruises.

As his mouth neared the apex of her thighs, she regretted ever teasing him about the ropes because she was completely immobile but he was so fucking close and if she could just move an inch to the right—

She nearly sobbed as he drew away and started making his way up her other leg. “Please, Neville.”

He gave a low moan of satisfaction. “I fucking love hearing you beg.”

She groaned as he marked a trail of love bites up the inside of her thigh. He pulled away and she almost screamed her frustration.

He towered over her, gaze hot and furious. “Promise me.”

She tried to twist her way out of the ropes but they were unmovable. “What?” She’d promise him anything if he’d just keep going.

“That there’s no one else.”

The heated, possessive look in his eyes cracked something in her chest. “There isn’t.”

His hand slid between her thighs, swirling but not quite giving her what she needed. “Promise me there won’t be.”

That thing she’d been keeping locked away started to make itself known. For her own sanity, she needed to stop this. “I promise.”

He started kissing down her neck.

“Not as long as we’re together,” she added.

She felt him freeze for several heartbeats. Maybe he’d walk away, but both of them needed the reminder that this was temporary.

There would be no misunderstanding based on something said in the heat of the moment.

Neville kissed his way back down her body, marking it as he went with a renewed fervor.

This time he didn’t stop when he reached the inside of her thighs. His tongue found her clit, swirling and licking and sucking in the pattern that had her orgasm barreling towards her in seconds.

He didn’t pause his ministrations and all she could do was lay there and take it as her orgasm crashed over her.

Fucking Merlin. She’d missed that. Missed the way only he could make her feel.

Even as she came down from the high, he didn’t let up. Despite her over-sensitized flesh she felt a second one building.

“Neville, stop—”

He lifted his head just enough to give her a wicked smile. “I know you can take more.” Then he was back at it, making her vision grow black as her second orgasm built and exploded through her body.

She sobbed as he kissed her thigh, body weak and spent from the force of how hard she’d just come.

Twice.

“I need you to take one more,” he said.

She almost cried. “No.”

“Be a good girl and beg for it.”

“No,” she said, but her voice hardly sounded reassuring.

He started kissing her again, just enough to tease but not enough to take her over.

“Fuck,” she gasped.

“Beg.”

He was torturing her. Taking her to the edge and holding her there. She was so sensitive it almost hurt but so desperate for him to take her over the edge and terrified of a third mind-blowing orgasm…

He won in the end.

He always did.

“Please.”

“Beg.”

“Please make me come.” The words babbled out of her. “Please, Neville, please.”

“Good girl.”

Fuck. She almost sobbed.

He returned his attentions to her clit, increasing the force and pressure, building her orgasm until it cashed over her.

Pleasure exploded from her core, washing over her until she was shaking and sobbing.

He guided her through it until she finally sagged back into the bed, spent.

Gasping for breath, she stared at the ceiling as she heard him undo his belt.

She was grateful she was tied to the bed because she wasn’t capable of any movement.

Then she felt him dragging himself through her folds and she froze.

“Neville.”

He froze at the panic in her voice and immediately pulled back. “Fuck.” He threw himself back, scrambling away from her and dropping his head into his hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

It should scare her. How easily he could overpower her, what the implications of that would be.

What did scare her was how much she trusted him that it would never come to that.

“Neville, untie me.”

He launched forward, grabbing his wand and slicing the ropes right above her wrist. “Merlin, Pansy, I’m so sorry—”

She pressed a hand to his chest and he dropped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling with no small amount of self-disgust.

Well, she could fix that.

“Fucking Merlin, I can’t believe I—fuck!” He sat up, holding himself up by his elbows as she took him in her mouth and swirled her tongue and sucked exactly the way that made him lose his mind.

His pupils had blown so wide his eyes were nearly black. “Pansy, stop,” he said. “You don’t have to do that, I—”

She pumped him in a long stroke that cut off his words in a deep groan. “Do you really want me to stop?” she asked. “Or do you want to tell me what a good girl I am for sucking your cock like no one else ever has?”

His expression darkened. Reaching down, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and brought her face back down towards his dick.

She took him as deep as she could without gagging and used her hand to work the base.

“Fuck,” he groaned again. He kept his grip on her hair, firm but not painful. From the way his hips thrusted, pushing her just to her limit but never past, he was hovering on the edge of control.

“Yes,” he hissed. “Just like that. Keep going. Fuck, Pansy. So fucking good.”

His rambling praises curled around her, warming her chest and making her heart race.

“Watching you take my cock is the best fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Such a good girl.”

She hollowed out her cheeks, sucking hard before she lifted her head. He groaned the moment her mouth left him. “Do you want me to swallow?” From the way he marked her, maybe he wanted her painted in his come again.

His grip in her hair tightened. “I want you to take every last drop I give you.”

She flashed him a grin before she went right back to work.

“Yes,” he hissed. “Good girl.”

His hips began to thrust a little more each time she went down. “I fucking swear to you, Pansy, as soon as we get this damn rite figured out, I am going to make you pay for every single time I had to come on you instead of in you.”

She lifted her head. “Do you promise?”

His only response was a half moan, half growl.

She swirled her tongue and then hollowed her cheeks, sucking as hard as she could until he burst in her mouth.

The salty, bitter taste hit her tongue but she did what he’d ordered and swallowed every last drop until he’d collapsed back onto the bed, panting.

With one last soft kiss, she crawled up next to him, curling into his chest.

After a moment he looked her over, admiring his handiwork. A gleam of appreciation filled his eyes. “Fuck, Pansy.”

She was ready whenever he was going to stop stalling. She held out her wrists, still bound in the ropes even though they weren’t tied to anything. “Gonna take these off anytime soon?”

Guilt took the place of appreciation and he sat up. “Fuck.” He grabbed his wand and vanished the ropes. Holding her hands, he started to rub them.

She smiled as he shifted into the soft, pampering portion of the evening.

“I’m so sorry, Pansy,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me, I just…I lost it. I’m so sorry.”

Was he going to ruin all the fun with his guilt? “Because you got jealous that Weasley tied me up when he was just doing it because he wanted to arrest me?”

He winced as if she wasn’t the one to put that thought in his mind in the first place. “I’m sorry,” he said. “And then I almost…” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I forgot myself like that, I have no excuse, I’m so sorry and I swear I won’t let it happen again.”

She supremely hoped it would eventually happen one day. She sighed. “Will you make it up to me?”

His grip on her hands tightened. “Anything.”

She smiled. “Wonderful,” she said. “There’s this gorgeous diamond necklace in the jewelry store just down from the shop—”

He dropped her hand and fell back into the bed. “Godrick, you’re the worst.”

“Salazar,” she said with a smirk. She ran her hand across his chest. “Never forget how easily I can weaponize weakness against you.”

He opened one eye. “Since when is guilt weakness?”

“Since I had a rather good time tonight but you were feeling guilty so I decided if I could get three orgasms and a diamond necklace out of it, I might as well.”

He rolled his eyes. Reaching up, he grabbed her hand and interlaced their fingers. “I’m sorry I can’t buy you diamond necklaces.”

There was a true sorrow in his eyes that made her feel the tiniest bit guilty for teasing him.

Merlin. He really was fucking with her head.

“I can buy my own diamond necklaces,” she said. “You’re giving me my freedom and helping me keep my magic.”

His expression filled with determination. “I am working on it, I promise.”

She nodded. “I know.” Eventually he’d realize they only had one option.

He flashed her a small smirk. “I’m sure there’s some ruby jewelry somewhere in the Longbottom family vaults.”

She made a face. “Not my color.”

His gaze slid down her body. “I think you’d look incredible in red.”

“Stop trying to make me into a Gryffindor,” she said. “I’m far too evil for that.”

“Oh, I know,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I won’t imagine you draped in ruby jewelry and nothing else.”

She smirked. “I think that’s mostly about the nothing else.”

“We’d better give it a try sometime to test it and see.”

Chapter Text

Pansy perked up the moment she heard the bell from the front of the shop. It had been a slow day in an already slow week. Hopefully business would pick up soon with Valentine’s Day approaching.

She herself was planning a rather fun surprise in all red for that evening.

Apparently Draco had taken it upon himself to remind Neville to make dinner reservations before all the good restaurants booked up and he’d managed to get one at her favorite. She was certain that was Draco’s doing as well but she’d take any excuse to eat there.

Pansy froze when the two men stepped through the door.

Not customers after all.

Daphne, ever the professional, smiled. “Good afternoon,” she said. “What can we help you with today?”

Ivan smirked at Pansy, revealing his crooked, yellow teeth in all their glory. “We are here for her.”

Pansy squeezed Daphne’s hand underneath the counter. “We’re closing early,” she said, voice low enough to hide from Ivan and the solicitor. “Go straight to Hogwarts and tell Neville that Ivan’s here.”

“But—”

She squeezed again. “Greenhouse One. Now.”

Daphne, thank Merlin, didn’t hesitate. Dropping Pansy’s hand, she grabbed her wand and apparated on the spot.

Pansy turned to Ivan and Lawrence. Daphne couldn’t apparate past the gate, so she’d have to run to the greenhouses and then Neville would have to run off the grounds to be able to apparate to Diagon. It would take at least ten minutes before help arrived.

She needed to stall.

Drawing herself to her full height, she stared down the two men. “What are you doing here?”

Ivan strolled over to the shelves, looking at the decorations and merchandise on display. “Vomen have no place in business,” he said. “That fool you pretended to marry better pay back every knut you’ve vasted of my money.”

Her stomach clenched. Had they found out about the farce? How? “It’s his money now, as you well know,” she said.

He grinned. “Ve vill see.”

She turned to Lawrence. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “I’m married, he has no role in my life anymore.”

“Your marriage is not finalized until the rite has been completed.”

Fuck. “The marriage verification is supposed to happen on our one year anniversary.” It was too soon. They still had time, it was in the will. Neville had a full year.

Lawrence smiled as if she’d just confirmed what he’d already expected. “Your guardian can request verifications as often as he pleases up to that time,” he said. “If the rite has been completed, I will verify the marriage today. If not, your guardian maintains his legal rights.”

Fuck.

She glared at him. “I’m not discussing any of this until my husband is present.”

Ivan smiled. “Good thing you have sent for him.”

A solicitor and someone who looked like Ivan standing in her closed-early shop wasn’t good optics for her business. “Why don’t we go upstairs and wait for him?”

The second floor was mostly an empty studio. It had been a giant mess when she was dealing with the rush of Christmas orders, but she’d organized and put everything away in the quiet weeks that followed.

It was the place both of them were least likely to cause her trouble. The folders and notebooks where she kept her designs were kept elsewhere, as were her fabrics and mannequins. Thanks to Theo and Hermione’s hyper-vigilance, even the steps were warded so she would know if they tried to go back into the shop or come upstairs.

She directed the two men to sit and wait on chairs around one of the tables while she went into Daphne and Astoria’s flat to prepare tea.

Hopefully it would give Neville enough time to get to her.

When she finally heard the crack of apparation and felt someone who had access slip through the wards, she floated the tea tray down to the second floor. Neville burst into the room moments after she set it down.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, panting and flushed from rushing there.

Lawrence smiled at him, clearly at ease. “Ms. Parkinson’s guardian requested a marriage verification.” He sat forward to help himself to a cup of tea.

“Mrs. Longbottom,” Neville snapped.

Ivan grinned. “Perhaps.”

Neville moved to stand in between her and the other two men. Like the coward she was, she let him. “She is my wife.”

The fierce protective possession in his tone sent warmth coiling through her and she forced herself to remember it was just a farce.

“So long as the rite has been completed,” Lawrence said.

“I have an entire year to complete the rite,” Neville snapped.

The two men exchanged a look. Ivan gleeful, Lawrence calculating.

“I take it by your refusal that you have not completed the rite?” Lawrence asked.

“I vant him declared impotent!” Ivan said, his voice triumphant.

“I have a year,” Neville repeated. “I am not required to use the Parkinson Family rite. My family rites have taken time to obtain and set up.”

Lawrence sipped his tea. “The year is mostly a formality, Mr. Longbottom,” he said. “It has been eight months—”

“And yet it is there,” Neville snapped. “I will not hesitate to involve my own solicitor or the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if you attempt to make things difficult for us.”

Ivan shoved himself to his feet. “You dare threaten—”

“Mr. Longbottom is correct,” Lawrence said. “He does have the full year. No need to involve his ministry friends.”

That better have been a fucking bluff.

Lawrence gave him a sharp look. “I believe it is to everyone in this room’s benefit for this to stay between us.”

Neville straightened. “We will see you on our first anniversary and not before.”

“Mr. Dimitrov is well within his rights to demand an examination at any point.”

“Neither one of you are allowed to drop in unannounced on Pansy again,” he snapped.

Lawrence’s smile turned patronizing. “Mr. Longbottom—”

“The auror office already watches this shop,” Neville said. “It would not be difficult to give them your pictures.”

Lawrence eyed Neville as if seeing him as an equal opponent for the first time.

Pansy didn’t trust the glimmer in his gaze.

“You will be notified as soon as the rite is completed,” Neville said. “Until then, neither one of you is allowed near Pansy without me again.”

“Mr. Dimitrov is entitled to check on his ward—”

“Then he can do so as my time allows and under my supervision,” Neville spat. “If you drop in unannounced on Pansy again I will not hesitate to get my solicitor and the DMLE involved.”

Lawrence’s mouth curled in a half smile. “I think we all want to avoid the DMLE, Mr. Longbottom.”

Pansy’s heart clenched at the threat to Neville. The magic to perform the rite was a one-way ticket to Azkaban. Lawrence and Ivan enforcing it was just as bad and she couldn’t see either man willing to risk a prison sentence, but if they so much as fucking tried, she would down a whole bottle of vertiaserum and testify before the Wizengamot of every secret she’d ever kept if it would keep Neville safe.

“Now get out,” Neville spat.

“Not until we have a chance to perform an examination,” Lawrence said.

“I’ve already told you that the rite hasn’t been completed—”

“And we cannot take your word for it,” Lawrence said, standing and hefting his wand. “Mrs. Longbottom, please present yourself.”

Fucking bastard. They were only doing this to humiliate her.

There was nothing for her to do.

There had never been anything for her to do.

She stepped around Neville and stood still as Lawrence cast the familiar spell.

She stared at the ground rather than Ivan’s gloating face as the familiar gold ball of light appeared.

Tears stung her eyes but she refused to let them fall.

Parkinson’s didn’t cry.

“Get the fuck out,” Neville said. “Now.”

Words were exchanged. She didn’t bother to listen.

More men making decisions about her and her life.

Neville followed them downstairs. She sunk into a chair as she heard the door slam. A few moments later the hairs on the back of her neck rose as the magic of the wards fell over the shop.

The next thing she knew, dirt streaked hands were reaching out to grasp hers.

He obviously had rushed right over without stopping to wash, but she still frowned. “You don’t wear your gloves?” Had she messed up on the size somehow? Was he just being polite and didn’t actually like them?

“Every day,” he said. “But only when the plant is dangerous enough to require them.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You touch dirt with your bare hands?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Best way to get a feel of the soil.”

Disgusting.

He squeezed her hands. “Pansy, I need you to listen.”

Her gaze flicked up from where he was getting her hands and dress filthy.

“I’ve been doing as much research on your family genealogy as I can,” he said. “I…I have an idea. But I need you to listen.”

That didn’t bode well.

He took her silence as acquiescence. “Obviously there’s been a lot of intermarrying between your family and the rest of the Sacred Twenty Eight and other pureblood families.”

“Only purebloods.” Her family went to Europe if there wasn’t an acceptable match available in Britain. It was looked down upon by some of the other pureblood elite, but at least they weren’t marrying first cousins like the Blacks or Lestranges.

“Since the first time a Parkinson woman married into the Malfoy family, a Malfoy woman has never married a Parkinson man.”

She blinked. That was odd.

“Between that and what you said your aunt told you about the Malfoys and how hard she pushed you to secure a marriage to Draco, I think maybe…”

She stood up from her chair, walking past him to stare out the window. “You think they know about the rite and pass on the information to their heirs.”

As fiercely protective as Malfoy men were over their wives, she couldn’t imagine how they would feel about their daughters.

Her family rite was a closely guarded secret, one that anyone who knew of it—whether a Parkinson by birth or someone who married one—was forbidden from revealing.

For wizards who married Parkinson women, telling anyone about the rite was immediate cause to forfeit her dowry. Even the families wealthy enough to not be concerned about such a loss wouldn’t risk it. From her experience, most pureblood men would salivate over that type of control over their wives. Admitting to magical control, however, was a sign of weakness. So the secret remained so.

But if a Parkinson woman married into the Malfoy family, that man would have learned about the rite. Someone who had enough money not to be concerned about risking the dowry clause. Someone who was horrified enough about it to make sure that none of his female descendants ever went through the same thing. If they were concerned enough about that…

“You think they might have an alternative rite.”

He was still kneeling next to the chair she’d been sitting in. His throat bobbed. “I want to ask Draco to look over his family’s marriage rites.”

She scoffed, the tendril of hope puffing out as quickly as it had come. “You have no idea how sacred those are,” she said. “Even if he is ready to burn his entire family legacy to the ground, I doubt he’ll let anyone near those.”

“For you he would.”

Her heart clenched. Neville had no idea what he was asking.

Still, Hermione had said Draco wanted her to stand up with him at their wedding. When he’d remembered Neville was a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and became suspicious about their marriage, he’d promised to do anything for her.

“I won’t tell him anything specific,” Neville said. “Or do anything else to betray your trust to him. But if I tell him you need his help, that his family marriage rites might—”

“Alright.” She turned back to the window.

“What?” Neville asked, breathless.

There were few shoppers out. Only the apothecary looked somewhat busy, but even that was just people getting in and out with exactly what they needed. It was too cold to browse or plan a long trip.

“You can ask him,” she said. Whatever good it would do her. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let herself get her hopes up. But she couldn’t keep arguing about it either.

Neville scrambled up and made his way over to her.

She didn’t meet his gaze, still staring at the street below her. If he needed to exhaust every last possible idea he could come up with until the night before their anniversary, she’d let him.

“I might…we might need some help,” he said. “If we have to get access to the manor. Hermione…”

The woman who’d planned a successful theft of Gringotts was probably their only hope for getting in and out of Malfoy Manor unnoticed.

“Whoever you think,” she said. “I trust you.”

“Thank you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him start to reach for her, but then his hand fell back to his side again.

“I’m going to find a way, Pansy,” he said. “I promise. Even if we have to do the Parkinson one. I won’t let them—”

She didn’t need more empty platitudes. He’d promised and she was going to hold him to it. She didn’t have any other choice. “I know.”

He let out a long breath. “Pansy…” His voice trailed off, but it wasn’t like there was anything left to say. Their situation was as fucked up as it had ever been. “You got it put together?”

Pansy glanced up at him at the sudden change in his tone and then over her shoulder to where he was staring. The ribbon holder he’d gotten her for Christmas was sitting on one of the shelves, filled with all the shades of green that reminded her of spring. She hadn’t been able to resist adding a few light shades of pink and white to the rows as well.

Apparently the thing arrived in pieces and part of the experience was assembling it. Neither one of them had remotely been able to manage it. If they’d been married for real, Pansy was certain the experience would have ended in their divorce.

“Sort of,” she said. “I hired Dennis Creevey to do it.”

He’d acted rather insulted about the whole matter, grumbling his thoughts on Swedish engineering—which apparently weren’t high. She hadn’t realized it was a Swedish invention, although that explained why the instructions were only drawings. Penelope must have suggested a high end brand that Dennis was snobbish about because it wasn’t British.

“I don’t know how muggles do it,” Neville said, his voice filled with a hint of awe.

Dennis hadn’t used magic, except for a quick reparo on the pieces she and Neville had broken. Daphne and Astoria had both sat and watched him put it together with her, as fascinated as she was. It was yet another thing that Dennis apparently found insulting and led to a rant about all the other things he was better at doing than assembling mass produced furniture.

She frowned. “Where is Daphne?”

“Oh, shite.”

She glanced up.

Neville looked horrified. “I left her in charge of a class full of second years.”

A snort escaped her before she could stop it.

Neville pulled out his watch. “Gryffindor Slytherin third years start in ten minutes.”

Laughter bubbled up. “You better run.”

He started to turn and then paused. His eyes roamed over her face. “You okay?”

She nodded.

He kissed her on the cheek and then sprinted down the stairs.

Halfway down, he must have remembered he could apparate and disapparated with a crack.

Despite the afternoon, she couldn’t help her smirk as she continued watching the street below.

Neville was not an unfamiliar sight in her and Draco’s home. The nervous energy she didn’t think she’d seen since fifth year potions, however, was.

She passed him a cup of tea.

“Thanks.” Neville’s forced smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Next to her, Draco had hardly taken his eyes off Neville since he arrived through the floo.

On the other hand, Harry—who was clinking his cup repeatedly as he stirred sugar into his tea—hadn’t looked at Neville once.

The fact that Neville had asked her to invite Harry was the part that had her the most curious about what he wanted. As far as she knew, Neville hadn’t spoken to Harry since the card night when he’d found out what happened at Pansy’s shop.

Once she fixed her own cup, Hermione sat back in her chair. “What can we do for you, Neville?”

Draco glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Curious as he was about what Neville wanted, he didn’t approve of the bare minimum of social niceties.

She ignored him. He knew exactly where he could stick his pureblood etiquette.

Harry looked up, glancing over at Neville.

Neville set his cup down. “Not me.” He looked across the room directly at Draco. “Pansy.”

Draco immediately stiffened.

Harry let out a long breath that almost sounded like relief. “Nev, we’re all your friends here,” he said. “Whatever is going on with Pansy, we promise to help. We’ll support you no matter what.”

The patronization in his tone made Hermione’s fingers twitch towards her wand, tempted to hit him with another stinging hex to the face.

A muscle in Neville’s jaw twitched. Still, he turned to Harry with a smile. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “I’m going to hold you to that promise.”

Next to her, Draco snorted softly. Hermione’s own lips twitched. Pansy really was rubbing off on him.

Neville turned to Draco. “I—we—need access to your family spells.”

Draco inhaled sharply. Hermione put her hand on his knee and frowned at Neville. He knew Draco had been cut off. How could he bring that up? “Neville—”

He cut her off, still staring at Draco. “I know what I’m asking,” he said. “But Pansy…”

“What spells?” Draco asked.

Neville spun his family ring around his finger. “Marriage rites.”

Draco’s cup landed on the saucer with the amount of clatter Hermione usually associated with Ron. “I knew it.” He stood up and started pacing. “I fucking knew it.”

What exactly he knew, she had no idea. After the card night when he’d noticed Neville’s family ring, she’d asked Draco why Neville being Sacred Twenty-Eight made him worry something was wrong. He hadn’t told her anything other than that she had no idea how fucked up old pureblood families could be and that if they had a daughter, she wasn’t allowed to marry a pureblood who wasn’t a blood traitor.

She’d refrained from pointing out that between Azkaban and the war, those were pretty much the only purebloods left. Or the fact that their hypothetical daughter would be a half-blood and thereby ineligible to marry any pureblood who wasn’t a blood traitor, Malfoy and Black lineage or not.

Obviously there was some sort of old pureblood custom going on, but she had no idea what it was or why the Malfoy Family rites were so important.

Harry cleared his throat. “So it was…she did have something over—”

Neville rounded on him with a glare. “Pansy is my wife,” he snapped. “I’m asking for your help, not more of your judgment about her or our marriage.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

Hermione couldn’t help but be suspicious, though not for any of the reasons Harry was. From the moment Pansy had appeared in her old flat, announcing that she and Neville were getting married that weekend, she and Draco had known there was more to the story.

And yet…

She suspected there was even more to the story now. Neville had always been protective about Pansy and their marriage, but there was an edge to it now. A depth that hadn’t been there eight months ago.

Harry crossed his arms. “If you need access to the Malfoy family marriage rites, what am I doing here?”

She had her suspicions. From the look on his face, Harry shared them.

Neville glanced back at Draco, a hint of guilt in his expression. “I’m assuming Draco no longer has the same…access to his family rites.”

She glanced over at Draco.

He simply raised his eyebrows.

Neville inhaled. “We need to do it without anyone finding out or…getting caught,” he said. “I figured after breaking into Gringotts, Malfoy Manor shouldn’t be too difficult.”

She frowned. Between the blood wards and protective enchantments—not to mention the presence of Lucius, Narcissa, and their elves who would notice something suspicious right away—it would be. Draco would have to go in alone, but if his parents caught him—

Draco barked out a laugh. She glanced at him, concerned. There wasn’t a hint of humor in his tone. He gripped the back of the wingback he’d just vacated and smirked at Neville. “Then they better be ready to do it again because our family grimoires aren’t kept at the manor.”

Neville’s face fell. He ran his hand over it, but not before she caught the sharp bite of fear in his eyes.

Knowing Pansy and her aversion to showing what she saw as weakness, asking for help was doubtless his very last resort. Neville immediately took Gringotts as a lost cause when in fact…

Her mind started whirling, ideas and plots circling.

“Shockingly, it’s been that way even before the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was allowed to come in and toss the manor at will,” Draco sneered.

“You can’t exactly say your family never gave us a reason to be suspicious of what goes on there,” Harry muttered.

Draco shot him a sharp glare.

“Oh, come on,” Harry said. “You’re not seriously going to argue—”

It wasn’t the history of his family manor he objected to, just that Harry had brought it up in front of her. She’d argue with them both—Harry for giving Draco a hard time and Draco trying to protect her—but there were more important things to discuss.

“I disagree,” she said.

The three men gaped at her as she sipped her tea.

Harry glanced at Draco and back at her. “That Malfoy Manor doesn’t have a recent history of suspicious behavior?”

Even Draco looked dubious. His gaze dropped to her left arm, the familiar grief and guilt flashing across his face.

She let it go. “About Gringotts being more difficult than the manor.” She glanced up at Draco.

His eyebrows shot up but a small smile curled his lips.

She knew that look. It was the one that told her she was absolutely insane and yet he loved her all the more for it. She grinned back.

Harry stood up. “I need to leave before this discussion continues.”

Hermione glared at him. “Sit back down.”

“Hermione, if I break into Gringotts, I would lose my job,” he said. “Probably end up in Azkaban.”

Only if they got caught, and he was still the Chosen One. Draco was the only one they really had to worry about, but they were his family vaults to begin with. “Since when did you become such a rule follower?”

Harry gaped at her. “We only did what we had to in order to defeat Voldemort!” he said. “I have a wife and a job and a life I’m not going to risk just for…” A flash of guilt crossed his face and he glanced over at Neville.

His face hardened. “My wife?”

He couldn’t be serious. “Harry!” she snapped.

He rounded on her. “I’ve given her the benefit of the doubt for seven fucking years and when I gave her the chance to address it with me, she looked me in the eye and said she’d do it again without hesitation or remorse!” he yelled. “She wanted me dead—”

Neville rose from the couch, more furious than she’d ever seen him before. “If you paid attention to a single one of the outrageously fucking invasive investigations your department has done over the past seven years, you would know that she wanted you to live, she wanted you to win!” he snapped. “She had as much reason as anyone in this room to want Voldemort dead!”

Harry scoffed.

She loved Harry, and always would, but he saw the world in black and white. Order and Death Eaters. With time, he was working on it, but he didn’t believe for one minute that any purebloods beyond the Weasleys or Longbottoms would have suffered under Voldemort’s rule.

He didn’t know most of the things that Draco had shared with her. The hints she’d gotten from Pansy. The truth that Theo and Blaise knew.

Voldemort’s defeat and death saved a lot more than just muggle-borns and blood traitors.

Still, now wasn’t the time or place to unpack and argue that. Pansy put on a tough exterior to avoid getting hurt, but she was a good person. One of the most fiercely loyal friends Hermione had known, even if she showed it in her own way. “Pansy didn’t mean it—”

Neville rounded on her, eyes flashing. “Yes, she did!”

His fury made her blink. Was he really defending Pansy’s decision to turn Harry over to Voldemort?

“And if any one of you had ever taken a single fucking minute to ask her why—” It looked like it took everything in him to stop himself from continuing.

As if there was a secret he was keeping.

Hermione turned to Draco. He didn’t look at her, he just watched Neville with his piercing gray gaze.

“Alright,” Harry said, tone full of disbelief. “Why did she do it?”

Neville snorted. “You should be asking Pansy, not me,” he said. “Although I think you of all people have lost that right.”

He sputtered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You really want to know why she offered you up that night?” he demanded. “Have Ginny ask her.”

“What do you…” Draco broke off.

She looked up in time to see his eyes widen.

“Why Ginny?” Draco demanded.

A muscle in Neville’s jaw tensed again.

Draco’s face hardened and he spun, slamming his teacup into the wall. “FUCK!” He ran his hands through his hair and fisted it.

Hermione jumped up, looking between Neville and Draco. “What’s going on?”

Neville met her gaze. Something in his eyes sent a shiver down her spine. “Do you know?” he asked softly. “What they had planned for you if they won?”

Draco spun, eyes flashing. “That’s enough, Longbottom!”

She held Neville’s gaze. To this day, she couldn’t think of it without hearing Draco’s broken sobs as he’d told her. Words he had to force himself to speak of a fate he wrongfully saw as something he needed to beg atonement for.

She straightened. “Yes.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, a look of growing horror on his face. As if realizing for the first time that if they had failed, the certain death of his muggleborn best friend might not have been an easy avada kedavra.

Draco stepped between her and Harry. “Enough!” Every line of his body was thick with tension. “I will not have that spoken in my house!”

Harry glanced past him to Hermione, question and fear in his eyes. She nodded to let him know she’d tell him later. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he found out what her fate would have been. He wouldn’t be able to sleep for a few nights after either, but the not knowing would haunt him worse.

Draco rounded on Neville. “There are things that aren’t spoken about for a reason, Longbottom!”

He didn’t flinch at the sight of Draco’s fury. It was moments like these that she realized how much he’d truly grown. But she thought of him First Year, trying to stop her, Harry, and Ron from going to get the Sorcerer’s Stone. His strength, his courage had always been there.

Now, he leveled his even gaze at an enraged Draco Malfoy. “Is that why you never asked Pansy why she said what she did that night?”

He scoffed. “I’ve asked her countless times and she’s only ever said…” His voice trailed off and his body stiffened.

Not in anger.

This time…

She couldn’t read him. Reaching forward, she grabbed his hand and squeezed once. “Draco?”

His gaze trailed down to where their hands linked. She saw the expression of sickening realization but by the time his eyes met hers, it was one of tormented heartbreak.

A look she’d seen far too many times on his face, and never wanted to see again. She squeezed his hand again. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m okay. It’s over. I know you would have found a way to keep me safe.”

Draco’s throat bobbed. He glanced over at Neville and the two traded a look.

He squeezed her hand and then dropped it, his features schooled back into a look of pure determination as he turned to Harry.

Harry looked as lost as she felt between that exchange. Perhaps more so, since he didn’t know anything about Macnair’s plans for her.

“What do you want?” Draco demanded.

Harry blinked. “What?”

Draco glanced at her. “I assume Potter is vital to the plan?”

“Yes.” For the easiest path, anyway. She had a backup plan but she wasn’t sure if Harry or Ron would forgive her for taking it.

“Name your price, Potter,” Draco said.

“You don’t have to bribe him.” Hermione shot Harry a stern look as soon as it looked like he was about to disagree to help. “He’s going to help because it’s the right thing to do.”

“I don’t even know what this is about!” Harry said. “I’m not risking my job or my freedom for something no one will even tell me!”

“I don’t know anything either,” Hermione said. “All I know is that Pansy needs our help and if it was Ginny, neither Neville or Draco would hesitate.”

“Didn’t you just promise to support and help me no matter what?” Neville demanded.

Harry rounded on him. “Yeah, when I thought it was you that needed help—”

“I do need help!” Neville snapped.

“Pansy needs your help,” Harry spat. “Pansy Parkinson, who never lifted a finger to help a single one of us, who tried to turn me over—”

“You have no fucking clue why she said or made any of the decisions that she did that year and until you do, you’ve lost any fucking right to pass judgement on them,” Neville yelled.

Harry drew back.

“You said you would help me,” he said. “You said you would make up for the way you’ve been treating Pansy. You said you would make up for attacking her in her own shop. Prove it.”

He gaped at him. “Not by risking my job and my reputation and my freedom!”

“I’ve risked a lot more for you off a lot less.”

Harry’s face fell as guilt flooded his expression.

It was a low blow.

But not entirely unfair.

“How about the time I flew all the way to London to invade the Ministry of Magic knowing nothing other than you needed to save someone and stop Voldemort from getting a weapon?” Neville demanded.

The Prophesy none of them realized at the time could have been about Neville too.

“Or about the time I patrolled the hallways of Hogwarts past curfew because you just knew something was going to happen that night?”

Draco stiffened next to her.

God. None of them were holding back about slinging around each other’s deepest regrets and insecurities.

Men.

“Or about the time I single handedly held a bridge full of Snatchers from attacking Hogwarts to buy you time to look through the entire castle for something that possibly once belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw?”

Harry rubbed his forehead. “Nev…”

“Or the time I decapitated a snake based on what I thought were your dying words to me?”

Harry hung his head.

“Are we friends or not, Harry?” Neville demanded. “Or is trust a one way street with you?”

“No, fuck, of course it isn’t, I…” Harry shook his head. “I’m sorry, Neville. Again. You are my friend, and I trust you.”

He nodded once, his neck stiff.

Harry turned to Hermione. “But we’re not kids, and we’re not fighting Voldemort,” he said. “Last time we had nothing to lose and everything to gain and we still got caught and almost died. We need a foolproof plan to avoid either.”

She grinned. “You don’t need to worry about getting caught when you do it legally.”

His eyebrow arched.

“We need a way to get Draco and Neville into the Malfoy family vaults, and we need an alibi for Draco,” she said. “You’ll need to get Ron on board.”

He grimaced.

“Is there any way it can just be the four of us?” Neville asked.

“Ron doesn’t need to do anything other than have lunch with me,” she said. “Honestly, the less he knows the better.”

Harry snorted.

She turned to Neville. “It’ll be better if there’s no purchases to track, so we’ll need you to obtain a few ingredients from Slughorn’s office.”

“Which ones?” Draco demanded, his voice clipped.

She tried not to smirk. She’d wondered how long it would take for him to figure it out. “Boomslang skin and lacewing flies.”

Harry groaned and dropped his head back. “Not again.”

“Fuck, no!” Draco snapped.

Harry’s head rose. “Well, that’s my key for getting Ron involved.”

“I said no!” Draco said.

Hermione ignored him and looked at Neville. “Can you manage that?”

“Probably,” he said.

“If you need to convince Slughorn, you could always bribe him with some venomous tentacula leaves,” Harry said with a smirk. “Ten galleons to the right buyer.”

Neville looked about ready to jump out of his seat and strangle someone. Slughorn, probably. “He’s the one who’s been clipping my plants?!”

“Neville, focus on Pansy,” Hermione said.

He screwed his jaw.

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco said. “We’ll find another way.”

Hermione shot Neville a look.

He dropped back and crossed his arms. “Fine,” he snapped. “But I will be having words with him.”

“After you obtain the boomslang skin and lacewing flies.”

“Not. Fucking. Happening.” Draco said.

Hermione only beamed. “This is going to be fun.”

Harry snorted. “You’ve been at a desk too long.”

Chapter Text

“Once again—”

“Yes.” Hermione cut Draco off before he could pout further. “We know. You don’t like this plan.” She leaned over and pulled his watch out of his pocket. “Your ‘far superior plan’ was due ten minutes ago. What do you have?”

Absolutely nothing and they both knew it. He could put up with this for two hours for Pansy’s sake.

Draco glared across the table at the small cafe at Ron and Harry. Both of them wore matching shite-eating grins. “They’re enjoying this far too much.”

She grinned. “Of course they are,” she said. “We all are. And your pouting is only adding to said enjoyment.”

For all he’d grown and changed, he was still the spoiled rotten only child who sulked anytime someone so much as looked at something he wanted. It was the ever-so-slight implication of possession that really raised her hackles and made her all the more smug about her plan.

Which was nothing short of pure genius, if she did say so herself.

“You forget after a while,” Ron said with a fond look. “How much fun it is to break the rules.”

Harry shot her a smirk. “I get so sick of my speech about how you’re focusing on noble causes and revolutionizing our world from within rather than becoming an auror with us instead of just saying point blank that you would have lost your badge after your first mission.”

She rolled her eyes at him. She only manipulated the rules when she had good reason.

To be fair, that probably would have made her a rather terrible auror. Just in case she acted on incorrect information.

“How do you manage without Hermione Granger keeping you both in line?” Ron asked in a pitchy falsetto. “Mate, she’s the reason we were in trouble most of the time.”

“She just got away with blaming me,” Harry muttered.

She grinned. She’d never exactly blamed him, per say, but if an adult assumed Harry was responsible and he wasn’t in too much trouble, she allowed the assumptions to stand. “I didn’t hear you complaining when I kept you alive or when you won your Order of Merlin.”

It was easy to fall into laughter and easy banter and let the plan drift to the back of her mind. The more natural they all were, the better. Draco sulking wasn’t out of character for someone who’d been planning a private lunch with her until they ran into her friends.

Neville, however, was a nervous wreck. He kept shuffling his papers around, making more noise than necessary.

“What’s that?” Draco asked, apparently taking pity on him. At least he was committed to the plan now.

He held up the drawing. “Whomping Willow seeds.”

Draco took the parchment from him. “Fascinating,” he said. “They look familiar.”

“Their appearance is rather similar to that of a weeping willow, noticeably how the epidermis is covered in long strings.” He started to relax as he fell into a herbology lecture. “These will actually move in whomping willow seeds. The short germination period of willows makes seeing a live one rather rare.”

He frowned. “Can they survive in stasis?”

“It’d be a challenging bit of magic, but if they’re kept in a moist environment with the correct level of spells, it’s possible.”

Draco turned the drawing upside down. “Would they be expensive?”

“I can’t even begin to imagine how much these would go for on the black market.”

Draco passed the papers back to him. “That explains it.”

Neville shuffled the papers again. If there’d been an order to them before, there wasn’t now. “Explains what?”

“Why the Malfoy vaults have a dozen of them in Gringotts.”

“You have a dozen whomping willow seeds kept in stasis in Gringotts?!”

She winced as the noise in the restaurant faded at his outburst. Neville was supposed to be loud but not quite that loud.

Cheeks red, Neville leaned forward, his voice actually at a normal volume. In the quiet restaurant, however, it could be heard across the room. “Do you have any idea how rare those are?” he demanded. “They’re a Class-A Non-Tradable good for a reason, Draco!”

Harry sat forward. “Did you just say Class A Non-Tradable good?”

Ron groaned. “No.” He dropped his head on the table and started banging his head. “It’s supposed to be our day off!”

“We could just report it and have whoever’s on duty take it,” Harry muttered.

Ron perked up but then his face immediately fell. “It’s Cresswell.”

Who had been banned from working any cases involving family members of Death Eaters.

“Fuck,” Harry breathed. “Fine, we’ll just handle it.”

“Harry,” Ron moaned.

Harry ignored him and turned to Neville. “What do we look for?”

He shuffled the papers, pulling out the diagram once more.

Hermione glanced over just to make sure he’d actually pulled out the correct diagram in his nervousness.

“If the seeds are in stasis, they’re going to be almost indistinguishable from regular willow seeds but if you examine the dermis closely—”

“What’s the dermis?” Harry asked.

He gaped at him. “You took NEWTS level herbology, Harry, this is second year stuff!”

“Well…” Harry cast a side-eyed look at Hermione.

“This is how this was missed during your first sweep of the vaults!” Neville said. “Honestly. Your department needs more herbology training, there are plenty of Class-A Non-Tradable goods that aren’t just magical creature parts!”

She tried not to laugh. That last bit clearly wasn’t acting.

Harry gave him a humorless smile. “Well, guess what?” he asked. “You just got yourself named the Official Herbology Advisor for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“What?” His voice was almost a squeak.

“If we bring him I bet we can get in and out in under an hour,” Harry muttered to Ron.

“Bring me where?” Neville asked.

“Wait here.” Harry rose. “We’ll be back with the approval and the warrant.”

Ron followed him out of the cafe and they both disapparated with a crack.

The rest of the patrons stared at their table, some more obviously than others.

Draco turned to Hermione. “Oh, look! It’s Harry and Ron and Neville!” He spoke in a high, exaggerated voice that sounded nothing like hers. “Let’s just dip in and say hi real quick!”

She narrowed her eyes at him. His terrible imitation of her voice was definitely something they’d talk about later.

“Oh, thanks, Harry!” he continued in the same voice. “We’d love to join you for lunch!”

She rolled her eyes. His irritation with this plan was bleeding through. “I’m not the one who loudly announced to two aurors that my family has Class-A Non-Tradable goods in their Gringotts vaults.”

“They’re not my family,” he said, voice soft.

She reached over and squeezed his hand. Still, there was no doubt, no hesitancy in his voice. Just a fond determination in his gaze. He’d made his choice and was proud of it.

Neville cleared his throat and she and Draco both turned to him, having forgotten he was there for a moment. “What did Harry mean about me being an advisor?” he asked. “Am I going with them?”

Draco sent him a patronizing look. “You should go through your wife’s vaults sometime,” he said. “Just wait for a day when Potter and Weasel aren’t along.”

He pushed at least half of his sandwich into his mouth, looking more than a little bit horrified at the thought.

Potter and Weasel returned within half an hour with all the necessary paperwork. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Potter how his mother was but Draco swallowed it down.

She knew exactly what was in every one of the Gringotts vaults. Did she have any idea what they were up to today?

Weasel headed towards the loo. Draco waited a minute longer while Potter started explaining protocol to a pale Longbottom who’d already gotten this lecture several times over.

“Excuse me.” He rose from his seat and walked across the small space to the loo, casting a quick confundus on the door so any other patrons would be temporarily confused and unable to find it.

Luckily, the loo had two stalls. He and Weasel both took one and began undressing, passing their robes over the wall. Fucking Merlin. Were these sackcloths?

“This is disgusting,” Draco muttered. It was bad enough that he needed to wear the clothes Weasel had been in all day but this was an insult to injury.

“How many bloody layers are you wearing?” Weasel demanded. “You were supposed to keep it simple.”

“How you can be married to someone with such good fashion sense and have none of it for yourself…” Draco began.

“I’m going to tell Padma you said that.”

He finally stepped out of the stall, the loose robes uncomfortably hanging off his body. “I have no fault with your wife knowing I think she has good taste in some areas.”

Weasel made a show of tugging on his shirt and pulling down the sleeves with a smirk. “Forget how short you are, mate.”

It was three inches. “Don’t call me mate,” he snapped. “Vials are in your pocket.”

As he reached for them, Draco ripped out a few strands of Weasel’s hair.

“Ouch!” Weasel rubbed his head. He reached out to retaliate, but Draco already had several strands of white blond hair at the ready. “So I’m supposed to trust you but you’re not going to trust me?”

“We have a cat with the exact same shade of hair,” Draco said. “I would prefer Hermione to be the only one who experiments with human-feline transformation.”

Ron snorted.

“Still can’t believe you all were dumb enough to think that was me,” Draco drawled.

A simple family genealogy would have revealed that his family hadn’t even crossed the Channel yet at the time Hogwarts was built so he couldn’t be a direct male descendant of Salazar Slytherin.

“Since your father was the one who slipped an innocent eleven year old girl a horocrux, your family was more than a little bit involved—”

Draco smirked and clinked vials. “Cheers, Weasley.”

The changing process wasn’t quite painful, but it was exceedingly uncomfortable. Finally, his body settled into the new frame.

He fucking hated that Weasel was taller than him, which was even more noticeable from this height.

Weasel walked over to the mirror to investigate, wearing Draco’s face. “Blimey,” he said. “This is weird every time.”

Draco avoided the mirror. It wasn’t as if there was anything to correct about his appearance. Looking anything close to put together would be an immediate red flag that he wasn’t the Weasel. “It’ll last two hours,” he said. “We should get going.”

“You’re sure the full two?”

“I’m a potions master, not a thirteen year old student brewing it in a girl’s lavatory,” he said. “You’re lucky that one lasted more than ten minutes.”

His lips twitched. “Eh, I think Hermione wished hers had been over a little quicker.”

Merlin. He still wished he’d seen that. “Come on.”

Weasel adopted a posh stance and began to strut.

“Relax, you git,” he said. “I don’t look like that.”

Weasel poked him in the side. “Speaking of relaxing, I’ve never looked like that in my life.”

Trying not to roll his eyes, he hunched his shoulders and stomped out into the restaurant.

Hermione was the first to stop them. As soon as she did, she immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. Potter looked like he was trying just as hard to hold back laughter. The lack of support from Potter was expected but he couldn’t help but feel betrayed by Hermione’s enjoyment of his suffering.

Weasel sauntered over and sat next to Hermione, throwing his arm around her shoulder.

A dozen hexes were on the tip of his tongue.

Hermione moved Weasel’s hand off her shoulder. “Draco, darling, you know how I feel about public displays.”

“I’ll save it for later then.” He shot a cocky grin at Draco.

He took a step forward but Hermione cut him off. “Ron,” she said in a warning tone, “Draco’s just trying to irritate you, don’t let him get to you.”

He knew it. But seeing Weasel of all people in his body next to his fiancée…

Potter slapped him on the back with an easy grin. “Ready?”

He trusted Hermione. Even the Weasel, to some extent. The fact that he was in love with his wife, at least, and that he would never do anything to hurt Hermione.

No matter what, Draco owed Pansy. So even if he wanted to break every bone in Weasel’s body that had ever touched Hermione…he forced a grin to his face. “Yup,” he said in his best imitation of Weasel’s tactlessness.

Hermione couldn’t even make eye contact with him. She looked seconds away from collapsing into laughter.

At least one of them found this funny.

Longbottom looked like he was terrified aurors were going to burst in and arrest them all at any minute. “Let’s get this over with.”

Gringotts was busy for a Saturday, but Potter marched right up to the front of the line. No one seemed to mind getting cut as soon as they realized who it was.

It took Draco a minute to realize why he felt so odd.

People were…smiling at him.

A woman actually winked and tried to hand him a piece of parchment with an address on it.

Fucking Weasel. He was married. Did she have no shame?

Potter handed a stack of paperwork over to the goblin. “Afternoon, Odbert.”

The goblin looked down at him through narrowed eyes. “Mr. Potter.”

“Official auror investigation,” he said. “We have all the necessary paperwork. We will need an escort and the Thieves Waterfall deactivated for us.”

Odbert’s glare narrowed. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Potter?”

Apparently none of the goblins were over Potter’s break-in.

Potter ignored the barb. “You will see our paperwork is all in order.”

After the war, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the goblins at Gringotts had come to an agreement on the aurors investigating bank vaults. If a strict series of conditions were met—including permission from the owner—aurors were allowed into the vaults. Granting permission to the Malfoy vaults was a condition of his entire family’s probation.

He’d told Potter to ask for his mother. His father would have stomped his feet and made a big showing and brought in the solicitors but his mother knew exactly what was in every vault and would have realized this was about something more than a mere auror investigation.

The short time it took Potter and Weasel to return to the cafe meant they met no resistance from her.

Maybe she was starting to change her mind.

It was probably a fool’s hope. His father was a lost cause he’d written off years ago but his mother…there were glimpses of a changed opinion. If she had enough of a push—

Odbert finished examining the paperwork. “This way, Mr. Potter.”

Draco shook his head. He needed to focus. They had a limited amount of time to find what they needed and get out.

The ride deep into the base of Gringotts to the oldest and largest vaults was familiar. He had no idea where the Longbottom Family vault was located but doubted Longbottom had been down this deep before. Potter had at least once when he robbed the Lestrange vault.

He still couldn’t believe the fucking audacity of those three.

As they approached a tall waterfall, the tension in the cart was nearly palpable, but the goblin guiding them waved his hand and the water cut off as they rode underneath it.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Safe for now.

They finally came to a stop near the very bottom of the vaults. The goblin opened the vault for them and Potter led the way. “Alright, Neville,” he said. “Ron and I will sort through and you let us know what you—” He broke off as the door swung shut behind them.

Draco marched over to the long row of books along the wall. “Only those with Malfoy blood can touch these.” Polyjuice might change his appearance, but not his blood. It was the crux of Hermione's plan, even if he hated the necessity of having Weasel swap places so he had an alibi.

“You sure your parents haven’t…” Potter broke off, as if his disownment was something he regretted or was ashamed of when in fact it was the proudest moment of his life.

He didn’t hesitate as he started scanning the shelf. “My father doesn’t have a wand and my mother is still hoping I come to my senses,” he said. “We’re fine, Potter. What are we looking for, Longbottom?”

He read off the first time a Parkinson woman married into the Malfoy family.

There were centuries of family history to sort through. His instruction to the family histories had been interrupted with his father’s failures after the Department of Mysteries battle. Still, he knew enough to get by.

Potter started poking around the rest of the treasure in the vault. Longbottom didn’t move from the entrance, gripping his list of Malfoy-Parkinson unions as Draco poured over the ancient texts.

“Longbottom, burning a hole in the back of my skull won’t make me work faster,” he drawled, not looking up from the books.

“Anything yet?”

The answers to all his lingering questions but nothing that answered Longbottom’s. Still, neither one of them wanted Potter to find out what they were doing down there. “Just that my ancestors positively abhorred the Parkinson family, and why.” Longbottom would know what that meant. “You were right, it’s forbidden for any women of my family to marry into theirs.”

After reading what they did to their wives and daughters, he understood why. And he’d thought the Black and Lestrange Families were fucked up. Which, to be fair, they were. But still. Doing that to your daughter…

He amended his ultimatum to Hermione. If they did have a daughter, she wasn’t allowed to marry any Pureblood, blood traitor or no.

Potter looked up from whatever he was holding. “What?” he asked. “Why? I thought your families loved each other.”

“That falls under Longbottom’s strict need-to-know clause of this adventure.” A sentiment he knew ultimately came out of protecting Pansy and that he echoed.

Fuck. He’d heard whispers of Matthias Parkinson’s plan, known what he wanted to do to Ginny Weasley, but he hadn’t ever once thought it was something he’d have done to his own daughter as well. Apparently as an infant. Fucking bastard.

From everything he could read, something had to have changed since the last Malfoy-Parkinson union. According to his family histories, failure to complete the rite only resulted in disownment. For Pansy, that only amounted to losing her family’s fortune. It would be unfortunate, but not cause for the level of distress he’d seen in Longbottom.

Matthias must have come up with some extra piece of fucked-up bullshite and Pansy was still paying the price for it even after his death. From the moment he’d seen Longbottom’s ring, he’d known there was something more going on, but he’d fallen for Pansy’s distraction.

He wanted to wring Pansy’s neck for not coming to him first. Had she doubted the depths of his friendship? Did she not realize how far he would go for her?

Especially after what she’d done for him.

Fuck. How was he ever supposed to talk to her about that? To make it up to her?

He’d known her since they were in nappies. Confronting her about what Longbottom had revealed—doubtless against her wishes—would only drive her away. Or put a wedge between her and Longbottom when she still needed him for something.

Fucking war. Spending their teenage years hiding, lying, pretending had fucked them all up. Made them all believe they couldn’t trust anyone, that they needed to handle it themselves. Pansy most of all.

He’d known more was going on the night of the battle. Every fucking time he’d asked her about it, she’d told him she’d done it for the reward.

If Longbottom knew about who had claimed Hermione as a war prize, and for what purpose, Pansy did too. Pansy, who also knew how far his family had sunk in the Dark Lord’s favor and how far he would have gone to try to save Hermione. That it would have resulted in both their deaths.

The reward she wanted was Hermione. To save her, for his sake. Maybe even to help save the Weaselette as well. For all she tried to hide it, Pansy was as much of a bleeding heart as any Hufflepuff.

“Have you found the rites?” Longbottom asked.

He walked back over to the shelf, shoving thoughts of what Pansy had done for him aside. He needed to focus so he could attempt to return the fucking favor. He’d find a way to address it with her once whatever was going on with Longbottom was settled. The last thing he wanted was to complicate an already tenuous situation.

“It’s a lot to decode and I was only taught this in theory, I don’t have practical experience.” He was close though.

Potter pulled out his pocket watch. “We have an hour left.”

He pulled down a tome and flipped the pages. “Apparently this is one option.” He glanced over at Potter, who was still busy examining the treasure. He directed Longbottom’s attention to the correct page and then consulted the first book again.

He walked back and pulled down the next book. After flipping through, he found the right page and indicated where the rite began. “Option number two.”

He could tell by the hopeful look on Longbottom’s face that the first one wasn’t right.

“There’s at least one more.”

That one took the longest to find.

There was a touch of desperation as Longbottom read over the third passage. Draco watched as a fragile hope blossomed into true relief.

“This is it.”

Potter started to walk over but Draco shot him a look.

He held his hands up and turned back to the treasure but Draco didn’t ignore the fact that the other wizard was inching closer.

Draco scanned the rite, but whatever foolish hope was on Longbottom’s face was obviously misplaced. “This won’t work.”

“Even your ancestors agreed with me,” he said. “The next two Malfoy-Parkinson unions used this version as well.”

He pointed to the conditions. “Well, apparently their wives were virgins.”

Longbottom glared at him. “Are you going to duplicate the page or do I need to write it down?”

Hadn’t he outgrown his naiveté by now? “I’m not risking this twice!” He snapped. “This rite will not work unless the woman is a virgin.”

Longbottom conjured a quill and parchment and began copying it down.

Merlin. He was serious. “Longbottom, I’m not sure what Pansy’s led you to believe, but just because she hasn’t fucked you—”

Longbottom was red with anger. “Like she slept with you?”

A fifth year rumor both of them had encouraged for their own reasons. Up until he’d said something, even Theo, Blaise, and Daphne had believed it. Pansy had laughed it off, telling them all about the Italian she’d actually lost her virginity to not long after her trial.

Longbottom’s fury hadn’t abated in the slightest. “I made it very clear no comments or judgments about my wife,” he snapped. “If I say this will work, I know it will work.”

Pansy had dated a handful of men since school. Had been open about her exploits in the crass way of hers.

And yet…she’d said the same things about him and more Sixth and Seventh year.

Bragging to the other girls about him.

At the time, he’d just assumed she was protecting him.

But maybe she was protecting them both.

The family records had listed a version of the Parkinson rite, but if it had changed over the years, if a virginity requirement had been added…

“Pansy’s a virgin?”

The clatter behind them made Longbottom round on Potter. “In case I haven’t already said it enough, keep your fucking mouth shut about anything said down here.”

Potter held his hands up but the look of shock on his face didn’t change. “I’m not going to tell anyone—”

Longbottom scoffed. “Just like you didn’t tell anyone about the blood lock on my nightstand?”

He turned red. “I didn’t—Ginny accidentally—”

“Then I guess you learned your lesson about sharing things with Ginny,” he snapped. “Not another word about Pansy. To anyone, especially her. Understood?”

Potter nodded.

Draco cocked his head, examining Longbottom. He had no idea what they were talking about, nor did he care.

If Pansy had been lying from the beginning about their relationship—as he’d always expected—she’d certainly laid it on thick.

A small chuckle escaped before he could stop it.

Longbottom rounded on him, murder in his eyes.

Draco held up his hands. “Relax, Longbottom,” he said. “I’m not laughing at Pansy.”

His eyes narrowed.

He picked some lint off the shoulder of Weasel’s robes. Honestly. How had Padma let him out of the house dressed like this?

“Odd thing to ask for, I suppose, but I have been wondering what you got out of this and why Pansy has been spreading those crass rumors about you.” It wasn’t his style, but if that’s what Longbottom needed to feel like a real man…

The man in question smiled through the rage in his eyes. “If you truly think the only way to please a woman is by repeatedly sticking your cock into her, I feel worse for Hermione than I did when I just had Pansy’s word to go off.”

A strange sort of part wheeze, part choke, part laugh erupted from Potter. He coughed as if trying to cover it up. “Sorry,” he said. “Bit dusty back here.”

Draco’s hand found his wand. “How dare—”

“Expelliarmus!”

Longbottom glared at Potter as he caught both their wands. “You use that spell too often.”

Potter ignored him and shot a pointed look at Draco. “Are you going to copy the page for Neville now?”

Storming over to Potter, he snatched his wand back—second fucking time that bloody git had stolen it—and marched back to the book. With the pass of his wand, a second page appeared over it, complete with all of the notes written in the margins by the creator and the two descendants of his who had used it as well.

Longbottom read them both over, comparing them carefully.

Draco saw something he hadn’t noticed the first time, having immediately dismissed this rite because of the virginity clause.

He still couldn’t believe Pansy was still a virgin, especially after she’d gone so far out of her way to pretend differently. He shook his head. Her business was her business.

He pointed to the line. “Did you see this one?”

Longbottom knocked his hand to the side and folded up the paper. “Yes, Draco, I know how to read.”

He stared at him for a few moments, breaking down everything he knew. The mysterious guardian who’d been at her wedding. The fact that Longbottom was a pureblooded Sacred Twenty-Eight. Pansy needing a mysterious rite completed in order to correct something her father forced on her, worse than mere disownment.

And yet, if what Longbottom had just admitted was true…

“Longbottom…” He began. “The thing you have to understand about Pansy—”

“I don’t need you to tell me anything about my wife,” he snapped. He nodded to Potter. “Let’s go.”

Completely ignoring the tea service in front of her, Hermione stared across the street at the marble steps of Gringotts.

A hand reached over and squeezed her knee before she even realized she was shaking it.

“Sorry.” She did a double take at the look of that smile—Ron’s smile—on Draco’s face. She groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Merlin, this is weird.”

He chuckled. “I think I have it the easiest.” He ate another petit four. “All I have to do is sit here and avoid a mirror.”

She glanced around, but now that it was just her and Draco no one was really paying attention anymore. A complete contrast from the first few months that they were dating.

If Ron was actually in his own body, she’d probably get a lot more attention. Not to mention several articles in the paper for the next weeks about Ron’s impending divorce and the two of them getting back together.

She sighed. Everything was easier before she’d become one of the most famous witches in Britain. She didn’t get half as upset as Ron did about the ridiculous rumors, but she wasn’t quite to the place Harry and Ginny were with their ability to joke about them.

Draco, of course, hated any single mention of her romantically linked with another person, particularly one of her exes, but she’d come to rather enjoy his way of dealing with said jealousy.

Ron reached over and squeezed her hand. “He’s gonna be okay.”

As long as they didn’t get caught. Even if they did, she, Harry, Ron, and Neville would probably be fine. Draco, however, was another matter. Now that they were in the bank, there was nothing she could do to ensure he’d stay out of any trouble.

“It’s hard,” she admitted. “Being out here while they’re in there.” Planning the second Gringotts break-in had been just like old times, but not being with Harry on the adventure was more difficult than she’d anticipated.

“Yeah,” Ron said softly.

She knew he’d been thinking about retirement for a while. Now with Angelina expecting and George wanting time off from the shop…

It was her turn to squeeze his hand. “You know he’s going to support whatever you decide.”

He smiled. “I know,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to leave him alone.”

Part of her was nervous about it too. It had been easier to let them go their own way, knowing they were together. But if Ron retired, Harry wouldn’t have him anymore either.

“Even on missions, anytime he breaks off, it makes me think…” Ron trailed off, but she knew what he was going to say.

Of the time when Harry had left to go bring Snape’s memories to the pensive in Dumbledore’s office. They’d been waiting in the Great Hall for him to return when Voldemort had marched on the castle, announcing his death.

Seeing her friend, so tiny in Hagrid’s arms…

She still dreamed about it sometimes.

About what would have happened if he hadn’t been pretending.

Ron squeezed her hand again. “He’s not the dumb kid he used to be,” he said. “So that helps.”

“Neither are you.”

He grinned.

She glanced back at the large marble building across the street. They had just under an hour left. Unless they’d already been caught. Or the answer wasn’t there.

If whatever Pansy needed wasn’t in the Malfoy vaults, she hoped Neville and Draco would finally tell her what was going on enough to help. Draco hadn’t explained a word to her after their tea, but if today didn’t solve anything she would get to the bottom of it and make sure Pansy had whatever she needed.

Ron lifted his teacup. “I thought for the longest time you were just being nice to her for Dr—my sake,” he said, recovering quickly. “That’s not true, is it?”

She frowned. They hadn’t told him any details about the day, only that Neville needed into Draco’s family vaults and he needed to polyjuice himself into Draco.

The corner of his mouth rose in a half smirk. “Doesn’t take the brightest witch of the age to figure out the link.” He was being careful not to use names.

“I’ve told you many times,” she said. “She’s one of my closest friends. I’d do anything for her.”

“Clearly,” he said. “But…why? After everything she did to you, to us…”

“You’re not the same person you were in school,” she said. “And I’m starting to think there was more going on then than even I knew.”

Neville and Draco had both hinted at such. Draco refused to talk to her, saying he only had suspicions, but he’d woken up in a cold sweat almost every night for two weeks after that tea.

Pansy was the only one who could answer her questions. Whether or not she would was another matter. Draco had told her not to bring anything up with Pansy until everything with Neville was settled. He’d known Pansy longer than her so she was going to trust him, especially since Neville implied it was life and death, but knowing something was going on and not being able to find out was making her itchy.

“Harry said the same thing.”

She glanced at Ron.

“That there was more going on than what we know.” He sighed. “He thinks we’ve misjudged her and need to give her a chance.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh? So since Harry Potter said it, you suddenly believe it?”

His face fell. “No,” he said. “It’s not like that.”

“Can you blame me for feeling that way?”

He opened his mouth to say something and then shut it again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to take sides, but since he was the one she said to grab—”

“So what?” she said. “We were children. Of course she was terrified, we were all terrified. Does that at all justify the way she’s been treated ever since?”

“She never apologized—”

“So what?” she said again. “Does that really justify the way she’s been treated ever since? To still be on probation seven years later?”

He sighed. “No,” he said, his voice soft. “No, probably not.”

“Definitely not,” she said. “People in the DMLE need to have a serious conversation about why that’s still going on and what needs to be done about it.”

He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

This was the furthest she’d gotten with him since she first became friends with Pansy. She nudged him with her elbow. “I usually am, aren’t I?”

He laughed and reached for another petit four. Was that six or seven for him? “You’d think I’d have learned by now.”

She smirked. It was still so weird to see all of Ron’s mannerism in Draco. She glanced down at their linked hands. Simple physical touch had always come easy to her. Draco—who had been expected to bow to his parents at the start of each meal in childhood—was another matter. It was part of the reason physical touch meant so much to him, and why he’d hate the sight of her holding hands with Ron so much.

“You told Padma about this, right?” They’d told him not to tell anyone but she assumed no one counted his wife in that.

He grinned. “Can’t remember the last time I saw her laugh that hard.”

She smiled. “She’s the best.”

He nodded. “Yeah.” He didn’t say anything else, but his goofy smile gave it all away. “Weasel’s certainly lucky.”

“Hmm,” she said, trying not to laugh.

“In fact,” he began, “I, Draco Malfoy, have to say that there is not a wizard that I admire or respect more in this world than Ronald Weasley.”

Even though she’d assumed he was going to start something like that, she kicked him in the shin under the table for good measure.

It only made him laugh.

She lifted her tea for a sip. “I’m very grateful you’ve always been so supportive of me and my friendships, especially after Ron in particular wasn’t very nice to you.”

He sputtered. “Wasn’t nice to me—what about what I’ve done to them?”

She patted his hand. “Even after they hexed you into a slug three times.”

“I deserved it the first two!” he snapped. “And you helped.”

She sipped her tea.

“Probably deserved it the third time too just for being a dumbarse,” he muttered.

She’d certainly called Draco that at the time but Ron didn’t need to know that. “I think Ron and Harry and everyone else were being the dumbarses in that moment.”

He glared again but she only smiled.

Glancing back at Gringotts, she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Harry, Ron, and Neville speaking with a reporter.

More accurately Harry, Draco, and Neville.

She squeezed Ron’s hand. “Why don’t we leave the rest of the errands for next weekend and head back home?”

Their signal. He grinned. “Lead the way, Granger.”

Merlin. This was too weird.

Harry, Draco, and Neville were already in their living room when they arrived minutes later. Draco—in Ron’s body—turned about ten shades of red when he saw their linked arms.

She rolled her eyes. “Relax,” she said. “Honestly.”

“Go easy on him,” Harry said, sitting down and smirking. “I had to disarm him so he didn’t hex Nev in the vaults so he’s a little touchy.”

She rounded on him. “Draco! Why would you threaten Neville?”

He glared at her. “Why would you immediately take his side?”

It was Draco’s voice and mannerisms but Ron’s face. It instantly brought back every fight the two of them had had while dating. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I can’t do this when you look like him.”

Draco looked affronted but Ron started laughing. Harry and Neville looked equally amused. Sighing, she walked over to a chair and dropped into it. Draco walked by and she reached for him but it took his incredulous look to remember he was actually Ron.

Draco—in Ron’s body—looked even more affronted than before.

She held up her hands on either side of her face like blinders and focused on the smirking Harry and Neville on the couch instead. “Both of you just need to stay away from me until the polyjuice wears off.”

Out of the corner of her eye, someone stomped towards the bar cart in the corner.

She focused on Neville. “Are you okay?”

Harry laughed. “He’s fine, it’s Draco you should be worried about.”

Neville looked like he was trying to fight a smug smirk but failing.

“Why?”

“Nev won the wand measuring contest.”

Her eyes narrowed. “A wand measuring contest?” If this was about some patriarchal sexist bullshite…

“Just prepare yourself for a bruised ego for a few days,” Harry said.

Ron set down a bottle with a loud clang. She turned to him. “Oh, Ron, not that one, it’s Draco’s—”

He gave her an incredulous look and she remembered he was in fact Draco. She rubbed her temple. “Sorry.” This had been a lot easier when they weren’t in the same room.

She turned back to Neville. “Did you get what you needed? For Pansy?”

He nodded. There was a bright, hopeful excitement he couldn’t hide. “Complete success.”

She grinned. “Good.” She glanced at Harry. “And no trouble from Robards? Or…others?” She didn’t glance over in the corner where Draco was still sulking. Bringing up his mother surely wasn’t going to help whatever was going on now.

“None whatsoever,” he said. “Going to file a quick report but all it’s going to say is that Ron and I investigated a rumor of Class A Non-Tradeable good in the vaults but the Malfoy family cooperated fully and no illegal items were found.”

His eyes darted around the room before he shifted. “Will probably only help Lucius at his next hearing.”

He appealed every year to get his wand back. It would happen eventually. Draco knew it too. He hadn’t liked talking about it before the disownment either.

“Thank you for your help,” she said.

Harry traded smirks with Neville. “It was fun.”

“Thank you,” Neville said, his expression earnest. “All of you. I know…thank you.”

“Glad you found what you needed,” Harry said. “All worth it in the end.”

“Debatable,” Draco muttered from the corner.

Hermione glanced up from the page in her book.

Draco, fresh from a bath, strode into the room, looking settled in his usual clothing. Everything from his posture to expression screamed “Draco” but she’d been wrong enough times today that she couldn’t help but be suspicious.

“Potter, Weasel, and Longbottom left half an hour ago.”

They’d come to say goodbye, Ron back in his own body and wearing a spare set of robes he’d brought with him.

“I know Weasel has poor taste but I cannot believe Padma lets him out of the house in what he was wearing.”

“She doesn’t.”

Grey eyes flicked to her.

It took everything in her not to laugh. “He wore those purely for your benefit today.”

His eyes narrowed. “Remind me again why you’re friends with him.”

“When we were First Years he helped save me from a mountain troll after I got locked into a bathroom,” she said. “I corrected his homework for the next six years. It felt like a fair trade.”

His look was half deadpan, half exasperation.

She smirked.

“Weren’t you only in that bathroom because he’d made me cry?”

Her smirk spread. “I’ve been known to be very understanding and forgiving towards boys from boarding school who made me cry.”

He cringed.

“Although I never got the chance to slap him and call him a foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach.”

A hint of a smile returned. “You know, that might have been the first moment I started to fall in love with you.”

She almost made a joke about if that was why he asked to see her knickers at the World Cup only a few months later, but let it slide, knowing it wouldn’t go over well.

Both Ginny and Pansy would have laughed at it.

Crossing the room, he put his hands on either arm of the chair and leaned down to kiss her.

She pulled back and his eyebrows shot up in disbelief.

“I’ve been scarred too many times today,” she said. “Tell me something about me that only the real Draco would know.”

He shot her a look. “Due to your oversharing nature, the only things I know about you that the Weasel doesn’t are crass.”

She grinned. “Say something crass then.”

Instead of flirting back—or actually saying something dirty—his face fell. “Do I…would you…” He cleared his throat. “Would you like me to say more crass things? In the moment?”

She studied him. “What’s going on?”

“Are things between us…satisfactory?”

She sputtered. “What?” The hesitancy on his face and the fact that he wouldn’t meet her eyes made her realize he was serious. “Oh, Merlin,” she said. “You really are Ron.”

He swatted her hand away as she started giggling. “Is it wrong for me to ensure that my fiancée is well satisfied?”

“Have I ever given you an indication that I’m not?”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes,” she said. “Highly satisfied. Where is this coming from?” Good Godric. If this had anything to do with Harry’s comment about his and Neville’s wand measuring contest—

“You asked if I would say crass things,” he said. “I am aware that it is an area I’m not exactly…proficient.”

It was so hard not to laugh at him. Years of pureblood etiquette training left their mark and apparently rendered him incapable of dirty talk. “Maybe not.” It was perhaps the one area she appreciated actions more than words, however. “But there are much better ways to use your tongue.”

The corner of his mouth rose in a half-smirk. “Shall I keep that in mind for later?”

“Or now.”

His eyebrows arched. Placing either hand on her thighs, he leaned closer. “You don’t like being interrupted when you’re reading.”

“You already interrupted me.”

“Shall I apologize for it?”

She grinned. “Profusely.”

Dropping to his knees, he started to slide her skirt up her thighs and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee. “Feel free to demand profuse apologies from me anytime you wish.”

Pansy strode out from the back, ready for her next appointment. Things had finally started picking up again, although she wished everyone would have thought ahead instead of waiting for the week before Valentine’s Day to get their outfits ready.

Part of her was debating developing a line of lingerie before next year’s holiday.

She could model some of her ideas for Neville…seeing how fast she could get his jaw to drop was quickly becoming a favorite pastime of hers.

Her feet slowed as the door swung open and Neville was actually standing there.

He’d mentioned he was meeting Ron and Harry for lunch and might stop by. She’d given up on him after he still hadn’t shown by two.

Neville’s face split into a big grin and he walked forward, kissing her soundly. She heard a soft gasp and a few titters from shoppers and pulled herself back.

She straightened her dress, holding back what was surely a foolish smile. “Neville,” she said. “What brings you by?”

He beamed down at her. “Finished my errands and wanted to say hi.”

Licking her thumb, she wiped some of the lipstick she’d smudged across his chin. “That was sweet, but I am a little busy.”

“I know,” he said. “See you tonight?”

They still lived together, didn’t they? “Obviously.”

“Right,” he said, a goofy smile still in place. “Bye.”

Just like that, he left the shop and wandered down the street.

She gaped at his disappearing form for a few minutes. What the hell had that been about?

“So romantic.”

She turned to an older witch who was smiling at her with a faraway look in her eyes.

“I remember when my Albert used to sweep me off my feet like that…”

She didn’t know if she wanted to melt or disappear. Instead, she smiled at the older woman. “Let’s help you sweep him off his feet on Monday, alright?”

Chapter Text

Pansy tucked the blanket tighter around Alice’s knees. It wasn’t strictly necessary but even the strongest warming charms couldn’t completely hold off the winter chill and she couldn’t stand the thought of Alice being uncomfortable for even one minute.

“Neville’s taking us out to dinner tonight,” she said, settling back onto her bench. “My favorite restaurant, actually.”

Alice watched the bare trees sway in the faint breeze.

“I’m sure Draco told him,” she said. “Neville made sure to tell me that Draco was the one who reminded him to get a reservation.”

For a moment she’d actually…

Well, it didn’t matter anyway.

“I’ve never been a fan of the holiday, honestly,” she said. “Just seems like posturing. If you love someone, you show them every day.”

Chocolates and flowers and a fancy dinner reservation once a year hardly counted. Not if the rest of the year was a pattern of neglect.

Only a truly desperate witch would be convinced that attention one day a year meant genuine feelings.

She was all for big gestures, preferred them, even, but if that’s all you ever received then they were just empty.

“Did you and Frank celebrate?”

Alice didn’t so much as blink at her husband’s name.

“He seems like the type who showed up every day and then stressed over the big gesture days.”

Maybe that was just projecting, though. Looking for hints of Neville in Frank whenever she could. The way he agonized over Christmas gifts for his friends, never certain it would be enough, when the true gift was how he was there for them the other three hundred and sixty four days a year.

The thought of Christmas gifts brought a smirk to her face. All of her muggle or muggleborn friends—from Penelope to Hermione to Dennis to Theresa—had been horrified by what Neville got her. Between Theresa’s tactful explanation that the ribbon holder was from an internationally known store that her family had never patronized before and the fact that Dennis had to repair it anytime she tried to use it, it clearly wasn’t of the quality she’d initially believed it to be. But he’d been so proud of himself and it really was sweet in the misguided sort of way only Neville could manage.

“I got him something,” she said. “They arrived at the shop on Saturday, exactly as I ordered.”

They hadn’t exactly discussed whether or not they were even getting each other gifts, let alone how much they would be spending on them. There was a chance he hadn’t gotten her anything or that they would be as off as they were at Christmas. Still, when she’d gotten the idea she couldn’t let it go.

“I just…I don’t know what this is,” she said. “They never trained me on proper decorum towards my fake husband who’s going to divorce me a month after our one year anniversary but is still shagging me on the side. Or not shagging but, you know.”

She glanced over at Alice. “Sorry,” she said. “That’s probably horribly inappropriate to talk about with you.”

There were a lot of things she’d told Alice that she probably shouldn’t have confided in her mother-in-law.

“Thank you,” she said. “For listening. I know you don’t have much choice but…”

Hopefully they helped each other.

Neville froze when she strode into the living room. He was looking particularly put together in her favorite set of robes—navy with the light blue shirt underneath. It made the widening of his blue eyes all the more dramatic as he drank her in.

She smiled. “Almost ready.” Sliding over the footstool, she slid her feet into her heels. They were one of her favorites, black with a flirty strap around the ankle.

She was buckling the second when Neville came up behind her.

Strong hands grabbed either side of her waist as she straightened. His voice tickled her ear. “Nice dress.”

She smirked. “This old thing?”

It was an exact replica of the dress she’d worn to the Three Broomsticks the night she’d tried to seduce him.

With one obvious difference.

His lips grazed her ear. “You look good in red.”

She turned to him. “I was feeling festive.”

“Guess I should give you your gift now, then.”

Her heart raced despite herself. “You got me a present?”

He handed her a small velvet box.

Nestled inside was a ruby pendant, surrounded by tiny diamonds, on a delicate gold chain.

Her head snapped up. How could he afford this?

“It’s okay if it doesn’t go with the dress or if you don’t want to wear it tonight,” he said.

The neckline was all wrong, but she smiled at him anyway and held back the box. “Help me with the clasp?”

He put it around her neck and pressed a small kiss right below her ear. “It’s always been one of my favorites and I wanted you to have it.”

She spun. “One of your favorites?”

“Yeah, it’s a family piece from our vaults.”

Her heart stuttered.

For the first time that night, he looked uncomfortable. “I hope that’s okay?”

In her world, offering family heirlooms only meant one thing. Asking if she was okay with him giving her a family piece was the equivalent of asking—

“Gran suggested it.”

Disappointment cut through her like a blow.

Of course Augusta would have asked why Pansy never wore any of the Longbottom jewelry.

She still believed this was real.

“Sorry if I should have bought something, I—”

She forced a smile to her face. “No, it’s absolutely lovely, thank you.”

A relieved smile blossomed across his face.

To give herself something to do, she crossed the room and handed him the small box that had arrived at the shop on Saturday.

“You didn’t have to get me anything—”

“Open the box, Longbottom.”

He took it from her and opened it slowly. For several heartbeats, he squinted at it before his eyes widened. His head snapped up. “Is that—”

“Little Mimby’s to take with you wherever you go.”

He laughed. “I still can’t believe you gave my plant a nickname,” he said. “Especially after kicking her out of the bedroom.”

“I don’t want her to watch what happens in there.”

He laughed again. “She’s not sentient,” he said. “She’s not even a ‘she,’ minbulus mimbletonia—”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” she said.

He smirked down at her.

She nodded to the velvet box. “Do you like them, at least?”

“They’re brilliant!” he said. “I’m going to be the envy of every single herbologist between these and the vipertooth gloves you got me for Christmas.”

She beamed.

He started to tug off his current cufflinks before he paused. “I can wear them, right? Like with this, it’s okay?”

Merlin, he was cute when he was flustered. Stepping forward, she slid the cufflinks she’d bought him at the beginning of their marriage out of his sleeves. “Accessories are the perfect place to show off a little quirk,” she said. “It’s what elevates the outfit from merely fashionable to truly stylish.”

His smirk spread. “Did you just call me stylish?”

She adjusted the new cuffs and then stepped back. “I said you looked stylish,” she said. “Considering I picked out every part of the outfit, it isn’t surprising at all.”

He pressed a brief kiss to her lips. “Ready?”

She nodded.

The restaurant was two short blocks from the closest apparation point. There were subtle nods to the holiday in the red roses and rose petals on the tables but nothing obscene.

As they settled into their seats and perused the menu, she glanced up when she felt Neville’s eyes on her. “What?”

He smiled. “This is nice.”

“Yes, I love this restaurant.”

“That’s what Draco said.”

Being right about Draco telling him what to do didn’t fill her with the expected satisfaction she usually felt.

He sighed. “It’s a pity though.”

She glanced back up.

His lips twitched as he glanced at the menu. “None of my usual moves would work on you.”

She decided to play along. “Do you have any moves beyond public rejection followed by begrudgingly agreeing to pretend to marry someone because your Gryffindor morals manipulated you into helping her?”

His eyes flicked up with a bright intensity. “I have moves you could only dream of, Pansy.”

She swallowed at the heat in his gaze. “Do you usually pull those out on the first date?”

“No,” he said with an easy grin. “My first date move is to pick the fifth most expensive wine on the list and order that and then tell my date that anything after that is just markups.”

For curiosity’s sake, she examined the wine list and almost laughed. She sighed instead. “Alright, I suppose we can try that one.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “You should pick the wine, I’m not—”

She closed the menu. “It would be impolite for me to pick. We’ll go with your selection.”

He looked so helplessly concerned she almost let him out of his misery.

Almost.

When the waiter came to take their drink order, Neville shot her a last desperate look before ordering the wine.

The server smiled. “Ah, Ms. Parkinson’s favorite, excellent choice, sir.”

She was trying so hard not to laugh at Neville that she didn’t bother to correct him on her name.

“You’re such a brat,” Neville said.

She smirked. “And here I thought you liked that about me.”

The meal passed in equal parts easy conversation and their familiar banter.

As he helped her into her cloak before they left, Neville leaned down to quietly say something in her ear. “I have another surprise for you back at home.”

She leaned forward to whisper back. “Is it your cock?”

He rolled his eyes and grabbed his own cloak as she laughed at him.

“I’m just saying, it’s Valentine’s Day,” she said. “That doesn’t really count as a surprise.”

He pulled her out into the bitter February chill. “No, that’s not what I was talking about but if you keep that up, you won’t get that either.”

“Not even if I beg?”

He didn’t respond, but he did pick up the pace.

When they apparated back into his living room, he pulled away as soon as he took her cloak. “Let’s…just, sit on the couch first,” he said. “I do actually have to talk to you.”

With a pout, she went to the couch. After watching him for a few heartbeats, she realized how stiff he was. The little ticks that gave him away as he poured them both a small glass of firewhiskey.

After the two glasses of wine each at dinner, that was an indulgence from him.

She fingered the necklace he’d given her.

His nervousness…giving her a family heirloom…the alcohol…

Neville handed her the glass. He sat sideways on the couch, knee bent and angled towards her with his arm stretched out along the back.

“I did ask Draco and Hermione for help with the marriage rite.”

She looked down at the amber liquid in her glass, trying to suppress the instant pang of rejection. Of all the things to talk about tonight…

“I didn’t tell them anything other than that I needed access to the Malfoy family marriage rites for you,” he said. “Draco might have formed his own assumptions based on what he read in his family grimoires—”

Her head snapped up. “He went through his family grimoires?”

“Yes.”

Her heart thundered. “And?”

His expression only conveyed relief. “We found one.”

Air left her in a fast exhale. She looked down at her glass, blinking back the tears.

“It’s worked for the last three Malfoy-Parkinson unions,” he said. “It’s still a soul bond that mimics the Parkinson Family Rite, but it won’t give me any power or control over you. You will still be your own woman.”

For the first time in her entire life.

He cleared his throat. “If you want to look it over and decide for yourself…”

Something about him seemed nervous. She wondered if it was the thought of her choosing the Parkinson Family Rite instead. That thought felt impossible, especially knowing why he objected so strongly to her family rite. “If it gives me my freedom in addition to fulfilling the blood oath, it’s certainly better than anything my family could come up with.”

“I wouldn’t offer it if I had any doubt of it working,” he said, his face earnest. “I know we only have one chance at this.”

Because if he did it wrong, if there was any doubt, Ivan would take her back and bankrupt Neville in the process. She didn’t even want to think about what could happen to her magic.

She held his gaze. “I trust you.”

He gave her a shaky smile. “It has to be done on a new moon,” he said. “Next one is March 10th.”

“I’ll add it to my planner.”

He smirked. “Not the one Daphne sees, I hope.”

“Oh, I only have one,” she said. “I’ll just write in ‘Sex with Longbottom’ instead of ‘Lose virginity in ancient Malfoy Family ritual to Longbottom’ so she thinks it’s something normal like you trying to knock me up.”

He cleared his throat. “That, uhm—”

The horrified look on his face was like being doused with ice water. “Relax, Longbottom, I just need the rite completed, not to carry your spawn.”

“The rite won’t work if we use a contraceptive charm or if you’re on a tonic,” he said in one long rush.

She froze.

Neville looked absolutely miserable.

“Ah,” she said. “So there is a chance I could end up pregnant.”

“Yes.”

She eyed him, trying to figure out how he felt about that.

“The Parkinson Family Rite also won’t work with a charm or tonic,” he said. “Both need me to, uhm, finish…inside, but the Parkinson rite could be done any day so that one we could…time appropriately to minimize the chances of your getting pregnant.”

She looked at the drink in her hands. “So, if I pick the Malfoy Family Rite, I won’t be magically tied to you but I could get pregnant.” Which would tie her to him forever in other ways. “But if I pick the Parkinson Family Rite, I wouldn’t get pregnant but I would be bound to you.”

“The Malfoy Rite would tie us together permanently,” Neville said.

A tendril of guilt snaked through her. A better person would ask him if he was sure about forming a soul bond. If he was willing to risk that much, to always be tied to her. But with her life and her magic on the line…she couldn’t.

“I won’t have any power over any part of you,” he said quickly, “but we will always be connected.”

She studied him. “You’re letting me pick?” He’d still perform the Parkinson one if she wanted?

“I’m out of other ideas and with Ivan and Lawrence breathing down our necks…I think these are our only two options,” he said. “It’s your body and your magic and your life.”

It was supposed to be, anyway.

“The choice is yours, Pansy,” he said. “I will do whatever you want.”

“If I pick the Malfoy Rite and I do get pregnant…” She glanced up at him. “What would happen?”

“Nothing you’re not comfortable with,” he said. “I would want to stay together. For the child. If you were willing. But I’m not going to force you into anything you don’t want.”

Of course not.

She strode across the room and pulled out her planner. March 10th was the start of the second week of her cycle. “It wouldn’t be impossible that day but it’s probably not likely.”

He didn’t say a word, just watched her.

Waiting for her decision.

“Which one are you more comfortable performing?” She was almost certain of his answer, but with a hypothetical child now a possibility, she had to be certain.

He shook his head. “It’s your body and your magic—”

“Yes, so thank you for making the decision ultimately mine, but it’s your life too,” she said. “Which one is going to be easier for you to live with?”

He exhaled slowly. “I don’t ever want that kind of power over another person,” he said. “Even if I know I’ll never use it, it feels sick to even have it.”

She nodded once. She knew that.

“A baby…” He pulled his hands through his hair. “Forcing a woman to carry a baby she didn’t want is just as abhorrent to me.”

“If I deemed the risk acceptable.”

He glanced up, the look in his blue eyes unreadable. “I’ve always imagined I would have kids one day.” His throat bobbed. “It…if you weren’t opposed to it, a baby would be a blessing.”

Blessing was a bit of a stretch. He’d already given thirteen months of his life to her, a child was a lifetime of responsibility. He would never be free of her.

Something tugged in her chest as she stared across the room at him. “Are you ever going to reach a point where you finally tell me I’m asking too much of you and that you’re done?”

He cocked his head. “Placing my moral and ethical objections to your family rite over the physical and emotional cost that an unwanted pregnancy would have on your body and life feels like I’m asking far more of you.”

“I have plenty of objections to my family rite as well.” She played with the binding of her planner. “Would…if there is a child, will you be able to care for it?”

“Of course,” he said. “Nappy changes, making up bottles, getting up in the middle of the night—”

She waved her hand. “Not those things, not the parts we could hire someone for but the…intangibles.”

He frowned.

“Would you be able to love the child and ensure that they feel loved?”

He blinked. “Of course.” He looked both shocked and confused, as if the idea of a child being unloved had never crossed his mind.

But she had to be sure. “Even if it was mine?”

He frowned. “Pansy—”

“I’m not bringing a child into the world if they are going to spend their life unwanted and unloved.” Especially if their parents were only staying together for their sake. She needed to know that whatever he felt towards her wouldn’t affect their child in any negative way.

He was silent for several long heartbeats, studying her. “Pansy…of course.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “I promise I would love any child you give me with my whole heart.”

She thought of the pictures on his dresser. The album Alice had filled with photos showing her and Frank’s desperate love for Neville. It was in his blood. Hopefully enough to compensate for what was in hers.

“Okay,” she said. “Then I would prefer the Malfoy Family Rite.” If she did get pregnant, they’d deal with it then.

He nodded. “Okay.”

“The chance of pregnancy is small enough that this discussion is primarily hypothetical.”

He nodded again.

She set her planner down before turning back to him. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For not giving up.”

“I promised I wouldn’t.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m still grateful.”

He gave her a soft smile.

Fucking Merlin. This was all getting to be too much.

“So is our holiday going to be this maudlin or do you have something depraved you want to do to my body?”

He settled back into the couch and sipped his drink. “I generally want to do something depraved to your body.”

“What’s it tonight?”

His gaze drifted over her body, lingering on her legs.

“Come on, Longbottom,” she said. “Give me your worst.”

The corner of his mouth rose. “My worst?”

There was enough of a challenge in his words that she felt herself smirk. “Try me.”

“Take off your dress.”

Arching her back, she grabbed the zipper and slowly pulled it down. When she dropped her arms, the fabric slid down her body and pooled at her feet.

His heated gaze was full of appreciation as it drifted over the red bodysuit, the exact same shade as her favorite lipstick. It was made up of lace and sheer panels that left very little to the imagination. A deep plunging neckline left the inner swells of her breasts exposed and ended below her bellybutton. A thrill of excitement went through her as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. His gaze flicked back up to meet hers once more. “Come here.”

She’d barely lifted her foot to take a single step when he stopped her.

“No.”

She froze.

“Hands and knees.”

For a moment, all she could do was gape at him. At the fucking audacity.

He took another sip of his drink, watching her, with a look of bright challenge in his eyes.

He didn’t think she’d do it. Part of her wanted to find out what sort of punishment she’d get if she refused.

“Or we can finish our drinks and call it a night and head to bed,” he said with a casual air, as if it actually didn’t matter to him either way. “You choose.”

She could stop this now, refuse to crawl towards him.

Or.

She could let herself fall, and wait for him to catch her like he always did.

Ever so slowly, she lowered herself to her knees. The heat in Neville’s gaze and the way his nostrils flared sent a thrill of satisfaction through her.

The room wasn’t that large but felt like forever as she crawled over to him before she finally kneeled between his legs.

“Good girl.”

Warm satisfaction curled through her at the praise.

He sipped his drink, watching her. “Beg.”

“What?”

He leaned closer, a small smile on his face. “Be brat and go to bed alone, or be a good girl, beg for me, and then get your reward.”

His smirk spread as if he could see her inner turmoil. The moment he told her what to do, she wanted to do the opposite. She never begged until he dragged it out of her in the heat and desperation of the moment.

But tonight, if she wanted this to continue…

“Please let me suck your cock.”

His nostrils flared. “Good girl,” he said. “You may.”

Sliding her hands up his thighs, she undid his belt, unzipped his trousers, and pulled him out.

“Stop.”

She glanced up in disbelief. If it wasn’t for how rock hard he was beneath her hands, she’d think him entirely unaffected by her.

“Hands behind your back.” He took another sip of his drink.

She laced her fingers together behind her back. The position thrusted her chest forward. His eyes dropped down with an appreciative gleam before he looked back up at her.

“Carry on.”

This was going to be fucking difficult. Without her hands to steady him, there was nothing to do but take him straight into her mouth.

She expected him to fuck her face, but he simply sat there, watching her. It wasn’t until she finally found her rhythm, drawing slowly up with a long suck, that she heard his breath catch.

She felt herself relax, deepening how far she could take him this time.

Her reward was a low groan. “So fucking good, Pansy.”

His voice settled her, the praise like a warm blanket. As she worked him with her mouth, alternating how deeply she took him, she drew more groans and muttered praises from him. They spurred her on, desperate to hear more.

His breathing quickened. “Yes, fuck, just like that, keep going, I’m going to—”

She swallowed every drop as he pulsed into her mouth. When he finally dropped back against the couch, panting, she licked him clean and then rested her head against his thigh.

He reached out and curled his hand into her hair. “That was amazing.”

She glanced up at him.

“Come here.” He drew her up into his lap, cuddling her close. “You were perfect,” he murmured into her hair. “So fucking perfect.”

Resting her head against his chest, she basked in the warm glow of his praise, feeling his heartbeat underneath her cheek.

“I know I pushed you,” he said. “Your trust is beautiful, Pansy. Thank you for giving it to me tonight.”

He ran his fingers over the tiny embroidered detail at the top of the left side of the lace that barely covered her breast. “What’s this?”

“Some herbologist you are,” she said, glancing up with a smirk.

He flicked her nose. “Brat.”

She shrugged. “You already promised me a reward.”

His smirk softened as he fingered the embroidery again.

“Pink azalea, green dahlia, and white delphinium,” she said. “For fresh starts with pretty girls who need protection from boys with giant swords.”

His head dropped back and he laughed. “Is that a euphemism?”

“Whatever you want it to be, Longbottom.” She wasn’t going to stroke his ego further.

Something in his expression softened as he fingered the tiny embroidered flowers again. Bright blue eyes flicked up to meet hers, a question in them.

She smirked. “It just needed something there and they’re the only three flowers I know how to embroider.”

Something in his gaze flickered. Before she could ask what it was, he cupped her cheeks and pulled her in for a deep, lingering kiss.

“They look beautiful,” he said when he finally pulled away. He cleared his throat. “You look beautiful. I was right about the red.”

He moved his hands, scooping her up in his arms as he stood.

She yelped and clutched his shoulders.

He strode towards his bedroom. “But I think I need to see you in ruby jewelry and nothing else just to be sure.”

She laughed as landed on the bed with a soft bounce and then Neville was there, kissing her until her head spun. He peeled off the bodysuit and began to touch and kiss every inch of her with a reverence that almost felt like worship.

It wasn’t until she was sweaty, exhausted, and sated three times over that he removed everything but his pants and crawled into bed next to her, holding her close.

When he fell asleep a minute later, she simply flicked off the lights with wandless magic and snuggled in tight.

Chapter Text

Pansy set her teacup down on its saucer and looked at the witch and wizard across from her. “I apologize, can you please repeat that?”

Nothing about the meeting made sense. When the editor of Wizarding Times reached out to her, she assumed it was about an ad campaign. The monthly periodical was one of the most respected news sources in Wizarding Britain. Granted, the Prophet and Witch Weekly set a rather low bar for trustworthy journalism, but working on a feature with Wizarding Times was any designer’s dream.

It was the only reason she had allowed them to insist on a meeting late Wednesday morning. It helped that she didn’t have any appointments until mid-afternoon so as long as this meeting didn’t run long, she would have enough time to visit Alice and take care of her other goal for the day.

However, the conversation had not gone anywhere she expected.

Marjorie, the head editor, smiled. “We’re publishing a feature on the Seven Year Anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts,” she said. “The original idea was to focus on the Golden Trio, but they’ve each insisted that the rest of Dumbledore’s Army be included.”

That part had been easy enough to follow.

“Hermione Granger reminded us of her exclusivity clause with you,” she continued. “With the popularity of your brand, we’d like you to outfit the entire group for the feature.”

The popularity of her brand certainly did not extend to anyone who’d been in the DA besides Hermione Granger. Did they want this to be a disaster?

Pansy folded her hands on the table. “You are aware that not only was I not a member of the DA but actively tried to bring them down Fifth Year as part of the Inquisitorial Squad, right?” And now they wanted to offer her the design contract that could make her career?

She beamed. “Yes, the story practically writes itself,” she said. “Former childhood nemeses turned friends, even lovers in the case of you and Neville Longbottom and Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione and Draco, perhaps. But marriage of convenience turned fuck buddies didn’t print as well.

Not that they were, technically, fuck buddies.

Not for another day, anyway.

Orson, the article’s producer, handed over a stack of parchment. “The contract.”

She began reading through it. It all seemed fairly standard, until she got to the part about commission. Her gaze flicked up. “Is this number correct?”

“We obtained your rates from your assistant,” he said. “Twenty-six outfits plus fifteen percent to account for the rush.”

Put that way, it seemed fair.

She tapped her chin. “Full creative control is a condition.”

“Well,” Majorie began, “we will be doing full group photos as well as individual and smaller groups.”

The golden trio, Neville with the Weaselette and Looney—Luna, fuck, she needed to get better at that—all the Houses…she got it.

“Even if we don’t use them all, we want as many options. The outfits will need to be coordinating—”

This was going to go well if they thought she was that much of an idiot. She turned to Orson. “Do you have a quill?”

They traded grins.

Instead of signing as they both expected, she crossed out the number of outfits, commission rate, and scrawled in a few notes before she passed it back to the wizard.

“Two outfits per individual,” she said. “One for the group photo, which you will be allowed an advisory role. Individual outfits will be at the discretion of me and each member, although I will ensure they are coordinating fabrics to allow for cohesion in any conceivable group photo.”

The two exchanged a long look. “We cannot pay this much for commission.”

“I will also accept the initial rate you offered plus five percent of the sales of the magazine.” She pulled that number out of her arse but a feature like this was sure to have insane demand so it had to be a decent deal.

The look Orson gave her was downright condescending. “Miss Parkinson—”

“Mrs. Longbottom.”

He flashed her a quick smile. “Apologies,” he said. “While the two outfit idea has merit, these numbers are not going to pass.”

She sipped her tea. “Shame,” she said. “The feature sounds like such a lovely idea, pity it won’t come to fruition.”

Marjorie leveled her a sharp look. “While your participation would be nice, there are many designers who would clamor for this opportunity.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that,” she said. “What I do doubt is the public’s interest in an article about the heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts that does not include Hermione Granger.”

Both their expressions hardened.

“Her solicitor or mine would be happy to provide you with a copy of our contract that clearly states any formal press needs to be outfitted by me.”

Which was doubtless the only reason they were sitting there with her, but she was going to capitalize on it.

The two exchanged a look.

Marjorie turned back to her, a begrudging hint of respect. “Very well, Mrs. Longbottom,” she said. “You have a deal.”

“I could kiss you.”

Hermione looked up from the piles of paperwork on her desk. “How did you get in?”

She pointed to her ministry visitor badge. “Front entrance, obviously.”

She let out a huff. “Sorry, just a lot to do,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, we’re going out to lunch.”

“Pansy, I have stacks of research—”

Ignoring her, she walked back into the waiting area just outside the ring of offices. “Tildy?” She was always on her side.

“Do not get Mathilda involved!” Hermione yelled.

The other witch had already emerged from her office and leaned against her door frame. Her gaze dropped down, taking in Pansy’s fitted dress and five inch heels before it flicked back up. “Long time no see.”

She pouted. “I know, Hermione’s kept me running ragged with her demands for outfits.”

“That’s not true, you made me do that!” Hermione called.

“How’s the husband?” Mathilda asked.

“Fine for now,” she said. “You’ll of course be the first to know if that changes.”

“Stop pretending that you’re not straight just to get her on your side!” Hermione snapped.

Mathilda’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. It had been their little game ever since Pansy first stopped by the department when Draco was an intern there.

“Hermione, how very narrow minded of you,” Pansy said. “People can be attracted to more than one gender.”

“I know that, I just know you—” Grumbling, she turned back to the mountain of paperwork.

Pansy turned to her ally. “Mathilda, darling, would you be a dear and remind Hermione that she needs to eat?”

Hermione groaned. “Don’t you have a shop to run?” she demanded. “I thought we were finally done with you interrupting me every week.”

Grimblehawk strode over. “We both know you’re not going to eat until dinner if you stay here,” she said. “One hour isn’t going to set you back.”

“Lunch with Pansy has never taken less than two hours,” Hermione grumbled. “She usually tries to make it an entire afternoon.”

Pansy sighed. Gone were the days of her life of luxury, blowing through what remained of the family fortune before it was taken from her. “Well, I have an appointment at two thirty so I can guarantee you’ll be back by then.”

Hermione paused.

“Come on, Granger,” she said. “Won’t be able to save the kneazles if you die of hunger.”

“One missed meal is not going to result in starvation.” Still, she rose from her desk and grabbed her bag.

“Mathilda,” Pansy said, giving her a once-over before winking.

“See you around, Pansy.”

Hermione grabbed her arm and yanked her towards the lifts. “Stop flirting or I’m telling Neville.”

That sounded more like a favor than a threat. Getting him worked up usually worked to her advantage.

They’d barely been seated at Hermione’s favorite cafe near the ministry before her friend set down her menu and gazed across the table with a serious, intent look. “I’m glad you stopped by,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you but it’s been forever since it was just the two of us.”

“You know, you could invite me out for lunch once in a while, it doesn’t always have to be me,” she drawled.

Hermione crossed her arms. “I’ve dropped by at least three different times around lunch and Daphne said you were at a meeting and wouldn’t say where or what it was for each time.”

Because she didn’t know who Pansy went to see every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Thinking about it now, she wondered if Daphne thought she was having an affair. No wonder she was cagey to Granger. Daphne was devoutly loyal but would do whatever she thought was best, typically without admitting it.

“Some of my clients value discretion and I would never compromise that,” Pansy said instead.

Hermione’s gaze flicked up, deadpan. “Unless it’s me.”

“You aren’t a client, we’re a professional partnership.”

Hermione opened her mouth to say something but seemed to rethink whatever it was and changed tactics. “But I am your friend first and foremost,” she said. “And I hope you know how much that means to me.”

She frowned at her. What was going on with her? “Alright.”

“I know that sometimes I’m not the best listener and that I can steamroll conversations.”

“What’s steamroll?”

“Oh, it’s a muggle machine that flattens things,” Hermione said. “Like roads. It’s a muggle expression for knocking down anything in your path.”

She fought off a smirk at the appropriate yet shockingly self-aware analogy.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry if I’ve done that in the past and that I promise I’m going to do better in the future.” She gave her a focused, determined look. “So if there’s anything you ever want to tell me, I promise to listen with an open mind.”

Pansy stared at her for several heartbeats. Hermione was clearly trying to get at something but she had no idea what it was. “Thank you,” she said slowly.

She nodded. “Whenever you’re ready, I promise to listen first.”

Hermione still had that wide-eyed, intent look like she was trying to discuss something that Pansy wanted kept secret. “Did Weaselette convince you that I am manipulating Neville somehow?” Hermione hadn’t figured it out, had she?

She frowned. “No, why? Is she still on about that?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “We don’t speak much.”

She let out a sharp huff. “Yeah, I don’t blame you for that,” she muttered. “No, nothing about Neville, I just needed to get that off my chest. For whenever you’re ready.” She shot her another pointed look Pansy had no idea how to decode.

At least it wasn’t anything to do with Neville. “I will keep it in mind,” she said, even if she had no idea what it was.

Pansy could have used that attitude about ten months ago, but, then again, things had worked out rather well, considering. Even if she’d confessed everything, since her husband had to complete the rite, Draco likely would have refused and she definitely wouldn’t have found out how much she liked getting tied up and brought to orgasm again and again and again.

Which was not something she could allow herself to be distracted by at that moment.

“I actually asked you to meet for lunch so I could thank you,” Pansy said. “I just signed a contract to outfit the entire Dumbledore’s Army crowd for the Wizarding Times Battle of Hogwarts Seven Year Anniversary memorial issue.”

Hermione dropped her menu, looking like someone had just kicked a kneazle. “You said yes to that?”

“Obviously,” she said. “You can’t pay for that sort of advertising. Not married to a Longbottom, anyway.”

Hermione groaned and dropped her head to the table, hitting it once.

“Glad to see my best friend is so supportive of my career,” Pansy drawled.

Hermione lifted her head but slunk back against her chair with an exaggerated pout. “I told them I couldn’t do the article because I had an exclusive contract with you,” she said. “I didn’t expect them to turn around and ask you to do everyone’s outfits for it.”

“Well, I was taking you out to lunch to thank you for the most lucrative contract of my career so far, but if this turns into me having to convince you to do the article so I don’t have to sue you for the funds lost, I will be very put out.”

She groaned again. “Harry’s going to kill me.”

“As long as it’s after the article.”

Hermione ignored her. “He said he wouldn’t do it if I wasn’t going to do it, but now that I have to do it, he’ll have to do it.”

She gave her an exaggerated pout. “Poor little heroes,” she said. “How difficult your life must be when people want to take your picture and put it in a magazine.”

She shot her a glare.

Pansy smirked as she returned to peruse the menu. “I negotiated for Daphne to be in charge of hair and makeup,” she said. “You’ll look stunning.”

She grumbled again. “You’re buying lunch.”

“As I previously told you,” she said. “I’ll even throw in dinner. Pick the night.”

Hermione brightened. “We should double! It’s been too long.”

Their one disastrous double date back in September had led to her and Neville’s fight about her purchasing a building on Diagon Alley. Surely the next one would be better. “We’d love that.”

“Pretty sure we’re free tomorrow,” she said.

She fought off a smirk. “Unfortunately, Neville and I have plans.” A double date didn’t exactly match the tone of performing an ancient family marriage rite to finally lose her virginity.

Hermione tapped her jaw. “Hmm,” she said. “Next Wednesday?”

“Works for us.”

“Perfect,” she said. “What are you and Neville doing? Anything fun?”

She sipped her drink. Hopefully. “Nothing too exciting, just something special for the two of us.”

Hermione got that gleam in her eye like Pansy was a particularly difficult arithmancy problem. “I’m glad.”

She looked like she wanted to say more, but Pansy had a very specific reason for bringing her out to lunch beyond the Wizarding Times interview. “That does remind me, I need to stop by the apothecary before I run back to work.”

“Why would that remind you…oh.” She flushed at Pansy’s knowing smirk.

“Not all of us live with a potions master who makes us bespoke potions whenever we desire.” She paused. “Do you trust Draco to make your contraceptive potion? Or do you use muggle methods? They have those, right?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, muggles have forms of contraception and of course I trust Draco,” she said. “We’ll have kids when we’re both ready.”

That sounded nice.

“And no, I don’t use muggle methods,” she said. “Most of them don’t work for witches and wizards anyway.”

Dammit. “Most of them?”

She shrugged. “Tracking your cycle and timing…relations—”

She snorted. “Relations?”

Hermione shot her a look. “We are in public, Pansy,” she hissed.

She cackled.

“Why do you care anyway?”

“Oh, I should let Theresa know before she gets to that point with Penelope.”

Hermione blinked. “You’re still talking to her?”

“Letters a couple times a week and lunches once or twice a month, yes.”

“Really?”

She sighed. “Please don’t tell me you’re disappointed I keep up regular correspondence with a muggle,” she said. “I’ll have you know they’re not the barbarians we were raised to believe, even if they do bathe in mud.”

“That is not what I—” She let out a sharp huff. “I still can’t believe I told Draco about that, or that I let you and Theo drag me to that stupid spa in the first place.”

She laughed again.

“But, yes, definitely let her know Penelope should use magical birth control when she needs it,” Hermione said. “Muggle methods aren’t going to work and methods that aren’t magical or muggle are unreliable.”

Well that answered that. Disappointing but not surprising.

“You and Neville seem like you’ve been…getting along?”

She quirked an eyebrow at Hermione’s not so subtle change in conversation. “Have I ever seemed like I haven’t been getting along with my husband?”

Her smile morphed into a smirk. “Anytime I saw the two of you together from the day you met until the day you announced you were getting married.”

Pot, kettle. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

She shrugged with a swotty little smirk. “There’s just something…different,” she said. “Good.”

“I think you just don’t want to admit that it took you ten months to come around to the idea of us.”

She studied her like Pansy was an especially difficult research project. “And how long did it take you to come around to the idea of Neville?”

“About four months.” It was—shockingly—close to the truth.

Hermione hummed noncommittally.

“Or is it jealousy that Neville and I got through our issues so much faster that you and Draco did?”

She frowned. “Hardly.”

“Honestly, I think you would have felt a lot better if you’d had a hate fuck a lot earlier in his internship.”

She turned red. “That would have been inappropriate.”

She grinned. “Yes, thank goodness nothing inappropriate happened between you two when he was your intern.”

Cheeks darkening further, Hermione turned back to her menu.

Neville was waiting for her when she got home.

“Oh no,” she said. “What happened to Herbology Club?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I, uh, I’ve got a bit of time before I need to leave for it.”

Normally he just stayed at school until it was time for it to start. She strode towards the kitchen. “Want me to make you some dinner?” She had at least six recipes she trusted herself to make these days.

“Nah, I’ll grab something at the castle.”

Whatever this was about, it wasn’t looking good. She poured herself a glass of wine and turned to face him.

His hesitant smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How was your day?”

“Good,” she said. “Had a meeting with two editors from Wizarding Times. They hired me to make all the outfits for the article they’re doing on the DA for the Seven Year Anniversary.”

His face broke into a bright grin. “Really? Pansy, that’s awesome!”

She nodded. “Very lucrative,” she said. “It’ll be wonderful exposure, even if only two of the people I’m designing outfits for can actually stand me.”

He frowned. “That’s not true,” he said. “I know—”

She waved him off. “They don’t have to like me, Longbottom, they just have to wear my clothes and smile.”

“I can talk…” He trailed off at the look on her face.

Over her dead body was he going to try to endear her to his DA friends.

It was really no wonder Snape didn’t want anyone knowing he’d spied for the Order since before Voldemort’s first fall. Poor man was probably rolling over in his grave every time a Gryffindor said something nice about him.

“Anyway, I took Hermione out to lunch after that since my exclusivity contract with her is the only reason I got the job.” She sipped her wine. “I found a way to casually bring up muggle contraceptives but apparently they won’t work on witches or wizards so back to where we started.”

He blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Non-starter anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We can…”

She waved her hand. “I don’t want to rehash it, a baby as the worst case scenario is far better than my other choices,” she said. “As long as the rite works and my magic is safe and I’m free of Ivan and Lawrence, I’m going to be happy.”

His expression was earnest as he nodded. “It’ll work,” he said. “I’ve been practicing—”

She almost spit out her wine. “On what, your pillow or have you spent the past three weeks deflowering other virgins?”

He rolled his eyes. “The runes,” he said. “I’ve been memorizing the rite and practicing the runes I’ll need to draw.”

“You’re not going to try to collect your own little harem of bonded women?”

“Godric, no,” he muttered. “You’re already almost more than I can handle.”

She felt her smile start to slip so she took a sip of her wine.

He cleared his throat. “I made dinner reservations for tomorrow night.”

She raised an eyebrow at him over her glass of wine. “You know you’re getting laid no matter what, right?” she asked. “You don’t have to buy me dinner.”

“It’s your first…you know, so I thought I’d try to…”

The poor man was bright red. “Longbottom, please don’t tell me you’re trying to make the night special or romantic because you’re going to take my virginity.”

He threw his hands up. “You are the only woman I know who…” He dug his hand through his hair.

She took a sip of wine instead of laughing at him.

“Fine,” he said. “If you’d rather eat alone, I can eat at the castle.”

She set her wine down on the counter. “You’re going to take my virginity and you’re not even going to buy me dinner first?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know why I even bother…”

She burst out laughing.

He sighed and dropped his arm. “Anyway, dinner is at eight.”

She grinned. “Alright,” she said. “Is that what this was about?”

“Yes, uhm, but also I…”

She arched an eyebrow.

He was already red and getting redder. “I don’t know how much, uhm…obviously I am going to everything I can to make things…comfortable, uhm, but even with that, uhm, a woman’s first time can be…uhm, painful—”

She burst into laughter. The force of it made her double over as tears sprang to her eyes.

“Merlin, save me,” Neville muttered.

She finally straightened, gasping for breath. “I’m sorry, are you trying to give me the sex talk?”

She hadn’t seen him that red since fourth year. “Well, which one of us has actually had sex before?”

That only made her laugh again. “Ten months,” she said. “You’ve had ten months to come up with virgin jokes and that’s the best you’ve got?”

He slunk down in the chair and crossed his arms.

“I can’t decide what’s funnier,” she said. “The fact that you’re trying to give me the sex talk, or that you’re warning me it might hurt.”

He let out a sharp huff.

She couldn’t stop laughing. “From the man who gets off by spanking me until I bruise.”

He pushed himself back from the table. “Why I even fucking bothered…” he muttered.

“Wait, you can’t go yet!” she called as he started to walk towards the door.

Neville fucking Longbottom, bless his naive heart, paused and glanced at her.

“I still have questions about my changing body.”

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, rolling his eyes and storming towards the door.

“Neville, wait, stop!” She ran forward and cut off his exit. She ran her hand up his chest. “I’m sorry, Neville, I shouldn’t have been teasing.”

His eyes narrowed.

She bit her lip. “I’m sorry, I was just uncomfortable.”

He looked like he believed that as much as Gringotts accepting leprechaun gold as currency.

“I do…I do have one question though.”

He stared at her for several heartbeats before he exhaled sharply, looking like he already regretted it. “Fine.”

“What’s a cock?”

His gaze darkened and he stepped forward so their chests were flush. “Keep this up and I’ll make you choke on one.”

Heat coiled in her core. She fucking loved when he got bossy, but, more than that, she had a point to make about her level of experience. She dropped to her knees and looked up at him through her lashes in time to see his nostrils flare. “Do you promise?”

For a moment, he looked torn. “I have to be at the castle in ten minutes—”

She reached for his belt. “You won’t last five.”

He grabbed her hands. “I don’t have time to return the favor and I’m not—”

“Then think about all the ways you’re going to get me back when you get home from Herbology Club,” she said before she slid her hands from his and proceeded to undo his belt.

In the end, they were both wrong.

He didn’t last three.

Chapter Text

Still laughing at Neville, Pansy swept past him into the house while he held the door for her. She fiddled with the clasp on her cloak but before she could undo it, Neville came up behind her and took over.

“Let me,” he said, his warm breath tickling her ear.

Her laughter immediately faded. Swallowing, she nodded once.

The evening had been fun. Over wine and food, the awkwardness and anticipation had faded away. They had just been…them. Neville telling stories of his students, Pansy sharing her most ridiculous customer interactions. Teasing about memories from school.

They’d lingered over each course and sat talking well after their dessert was done.

It wasn’t until Neville’s hands lingered across her collarbone as he pulled off her cloak that she remembered what tonight was supposed to be about.

Swallowing down the pixies wreaking havoc in her gut, she turned to him with a smirk. “Do I finally get to see if all that practice deflowering virgins the past month paid off?”

He tossed her cloak at the stand, letting the magic of the cottage hang it up. Turning to her, his lips lifted in a half grin. “You know I don’t mind that you’re usually a brat.”

Understatement of the year. “I thought it made you harder than I could ever possibly imagine.”

His smirk spread at his words from July. He stepped forward, towering over her. “Oh, I think you have a pretty good idea of it by now.” Reaching up, he wrapped a lock of her hair around his finger and tugged on it with a soft smile.

For a moment, he looked so much like his mother that she felt all her defenses crumble.

He gazed down at her with a soft but determined look. “Tonight, the rite, the magic is…complex,” he said. “I need to take it seriously, I need you to take it seriously so no…games tonight.”

The look he gave her stripped her. Peeling away all the layers she kept up as armor.

She swallowed. What he was asking for was more intimate than sex itself. With no sarcasm, no brattiness, she was just…her. Defenseless, open. Vulnerable. Exposed.

His expression was soft as he stepped closer and ducked his head to whisper in her ear. “Don’t think,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. “Just feel.”

He pressed a kiss to the spot just behind her ear that never ceased to make her breath catch.

His lips trailed across her jaw in a fiery trail. When they met hers, his kiss was soft and slow. Sweet, gentle.

The type of kiss that might have been their first, in a different world.

One where she was someone who deserved him.

It was a sobering thought. But if there was one thing she was good at, it was ignoring unpleasant things.

Neville’s kiss was anything but unpleasant.

It was second nature now to surrender to him completely. To let him lead her back into his bedroom. To let his fingers search out her zipper and slide it down before guiding her out of her dress, lips never leaving hers.

Tonight, though, he let her fingers find the buttons of his shirt. To undo each one and guide it off his shoulders. To run her hands over his chest, to feel the strength of his muscles underneath his smooth skin.

“It’s not midnight yet,” she mumbled when his lips drifted down her neck as he unclasped her bra.

His low chuckle only inflamed the heat that was building in her core. “If you think I’m not going to take advantage of every minute of foreplay I get, you don’t know me very well at all.”

That certainly wasn’t true, but the way he used his tongue against her nipple stripped every word of protest from her mind.

He was as good as his word, stripping her completely and kissing every inch of her body. Despite how tender and gentle he was being with her, he was as demanding as ever, building her pleasure but not letting her fall until he wanted.

Tonight, though, she got to touch him back. Run her hands across the solid muscles of his shoulders. Kiss his chest. Feel the flex of his abdomen under her fingers. Lick the dimples on his back.

Their interactions had always been intense. Overwhelming.

But she knew how to handle that.

How to handle him, how to break rules and boundaries for her own amusement. To give them both what they wanted but never cross the lines into anything more than just…fun.

Tonight was a new kind of intense. One full of feelings and emotion. Without the rules, she felt adrift. Every part of her longed to drive them back to their usual routine, to antagonize Neville into taking back control so everything between them could go back into the little box she’d allowed for them.

But she couldn’t.

Not with what he’d asked. Not with her life and magic and future on the line.

Yet again, she was plunging off a cliff and hoping that Neville would catch her.

So she did as he asked and sank into the feelings, the sensations. There was no room for emotion or doubt or questioning the difference between having sex and making love.

There was just pleasure. Just Neville. His skin against hers. His fingers. His mouth. Drifting across her body, bringing her to various heights before watching her fall.

She was still trying to catch her breath after her second orgasm when his wand started buzzing.

Neville, who’d snuggled up next to her after guiding her through the last aftershock, sat up. He turned to her, an unreadable look in his eyes. “Ready?”

Half a dozen sarcastic responses were on the tip of her tongue, but instead she merely nodded.

Using his wand, he drew a small cut across the line of his palm. He dripped blood into a small bowl. She held hers out and he repeated the actions, the new cut just above the faint scar from when she’d made her blood oath. Not even Draco’s fancy potion could remove a scar left by blood magic.

Neville met her eyes. “You sure?”

She nodded again.

Taking his wand, he dipped it into their combined blood. The seven runes he needed to draw began at her forehead and ended just below her navel, spaced out along her midline.

She could feel the magic sink into her body as he drew each one. It tingled, buzzing underneath her skin like a low pulse of energy.