Ministry of Magic
Department of Magical Unions
Forced Marriage Act Division
[Ashford, Kent
TN25 7LX
South East England]
Dear Ms. Parkinson,
It is with the utmost gravity that we inform you of your mandated participation in a binding magical union, as outlined in the Forced Marriage Act of 2002. This legislation, enacted for the preservation and stability of the wizarding community, requires the pairing of eligible individuals for the purpose of procreation, lineage preservation, and societal cohesion.
After a thorough review of magical aptitude, bloodline integrity, and familial alliances, the Ministry has determined that your designated partner in this union shall be Neville Longbottom.
A formal ceremony will be scheduled in accordance with Ministry protocol. Further details, including the date, time, and location, will be provided in due course. Noncompliance with this decree will result in severe penalties, as stipulated under the Act.
Your immediate cooperation is expected.
Yours sincerely,
Penelope Puffington-Plimpton
Head of the Forced Marriage Act Division
Ministry of Magic
Pansy crossed the drawing room like she was hunting something. Her heels struck the marble in sharp, angry beats, each step echoing too loudly through a house that had once been her kingdom. Now it just felt too big. Too gold. Too smug.
She didn't stop moving. Her hand was clenched around the letter, fingers digging into the parchment like she could strangle it into submission. Her jaw throbbed from how tightly she was holding it together. One wrong breath and she'd start screaming.
She paused only to hurl the letter across the room. It fluttered through the air like it hadn't just detonated her life, landing softly on the rug beneath the fireplace. Of course it landed softly. Of course it was smug about it.
The Ministry had decided that what she really needed after surviving a war, a trial, and the relentless, bloodthirsty judgment of wizarding society, was to be married. Legally bound. Magically tied. To a man chosen by paperwork and some half-baked formula about bloodlines and civic duty.
A forced marriage.
She blinked hard, then harder, like maybe if she refused to look at it long enough, it would go away. It didn't.
She knew what name was on the parchment. She had seen it only once, but it had burned itself into her vision.
Neville Longbottom.
Her lip curled. Of all the people. Not that any name would have made her happy, but him?
"Oh, fuck off," she muttered, pressing her fingertips to her temple. The headache was already blooming.
With a sharp breath, she flopped back onto the nearest chaise like she was being lowered into a grave. The velvet groaned under her weight, dramatic and indulgent and absolutely on brand for the breakdown she was about to have.
"I have spent years fixing this," she muttered, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Years cleaning up the wreckage of that school, that war, my entire reputation. I've smiled at people who spat in my face. I've endured charity galas with former Death Eaters and tea with Ministry officials who barely remember their own laws. And now, what? This?"
Her voice cracked as she sat up, legs crossed beneath her, fingers dragging through her hair.
"This is how they thank me?"
She glanced toward the parchment lying like a corpse on the floor.
"This is not happening."
But it was. And now she had to do something about it.
She could run. Disappear into the Muggle world and fake her death. That was dramatic enough to be tempting. Or she could stay. Fight them in court. Exploit every loophole the law forgot to close. Ruin their decree with a single, exquisite scandal.
She wasn't sure yet. But one thing was already clear.
This was war.
Her eyes flicked toward the fireplace, catching the mirror above the mantel. The woman staring back at her didn't flinch. She was poised, polished, and furious. Her eyes were sharp, dark with something deeper than anger, and her jaw was set in that unforgiving way she'd inherited from generations of pure-blood mothers who never cried in public. Her hair was still perfect, sleek and sharp as ever, because even in chaos, some things were non-negotiable.
She let out a long, slow breath and ran her hands down the front of her silk dressing gown, smoothing out creases that weren't there.
"Fine," she muttered under her breath, a smirk curling at the edges of her lips. "Let them think they've won."
She would smile. She would nod. She would pretend to play along just long enough for them to underestimate her. Let them believe she was cooperative, that she was quietly accepting her fate like some watered-down society girl who knew how to keep her knees together and her opinions tucked behind her teeth.
But Pansy Parkinson had never been quiet. She had never been tame.
If the Ministry wanted a puppet, they'd chosen the wrong witch.
She tilted her head, voice dripping with sugar and venom as she spoke to the empty room. "Let's see who they think deserves me."
Poor idiot. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
With a breathy huff, she stood and crossed the room, snatching the crumpled letter off the rug with a single, elegant motion. Her wand twitched at her side, and the parchment smoothed itself out instantly. But the name printed at the bottom still made her stomach twist.
Her eyes narrowed, her smile faded, and the only sound in the room was the quiet hiss of firewood crackling behind her.
Neville Longbottom.
She froze.
For a moment, she just stood there with the parchment in her hand, her mind caught somewhere between shock and disgust. Her breath held. Her brain stalled. It felt like the sentence had knocked the wind out of her.
She blinked slowly, once, then again, as if staring long enough might cause the letters to change into something less preposterous.
"Neville Longbottom," she said again, the words leaving her mouth like a challenge. Her tone was clipped, like she was tasting something bitter she hadn't ordered.
Surely, it wasn't that Neville Longbottom.
The same bumbling fool from school? The one who melted cauldrons and forgot passwords and misplaced his wand like it was a sock? That wide-eyed Gryffindor boy who always looked a bit startled, like someone had just shouted his name from across the Great Hall?
She could still see him in her memory, all nervous hands and clumsy limbs, with that ridiculous toad and a face like he was bracing for disaster.
But then, just as quickly, her brain offered another memory. One she hadn't planned to revisit.
Neville Longbottom during the Battle of Hogwarts.
Not the soft, hesitant boy she remembered. This was someone else entirely. A man. Standing firm, blood on his collar, jaw clenched, fire behind his eyes. Sword in hand. Unyielding. Somehow taller than she remembered. Broader. Unshakable.
Pansy let out a short breath and lifted a brow.
Well. That version of him was not as tragic.
Actually, he was downright decent to look at. If one liked the rugged, morally righteous type. Which she didn't. Not really. Not often.
She scowled at the thought and gave her head a sharp shake. This was not the moment to be contemplating the structural merits of Longbottom's shoulders.
Still, she couldn't deny it. He was pure-blood. A war hero. Technically respectable. And tall. Tall enough to matter.
She rolled her eyes skyward, as if addressing the universe itself.
"You happy now, Gran?" she muttered. "I'm marrying a pure-blooded national treasure."
The absurdity of it almost made her laugh. She bit down on the sound before it could escape, turning her attention back to the letter. The Ministry had chosen well, or at least, less terribly than she had expected. It could have been someone worse. Someone greasy or loud or tragically short.
Instead, she got the man who beheaded a snake with a sword.
Not a disaster. Not by a long shot.
Still, she felt something twist behind her ribs. Poor Neville. He had no idea what kind of storm was heading his way.
But she did. And if she was going to be shoved into this arrangement, she was going to shape it herself. Break it in. Make it hers. That had always been her way.
With a breath of resolve, she turned on her heel and left the room, her silk dressing gown catching the air behind her like a cape.
This wasn't surrender.
This was strategy.
And as for Neville Longbottom?
He didn't know it yet, but he had just become the leading man in a story that was entirely hers to write.
°°°°°°
Neville sank deeper into the old couch, the leather creaking beneath him as the fire cracked and popped in the hearth. He watched the flames shift and curl, trying to focus on the light, but his thoughts kept sinking beneath it, into something colder and far less forgiving.
So this was it.
This was what came after everything. After standing in the ruins of Hogwarts with blood on his collar and a sword in his hands. After funerals and headlines and handshakes from officials who didn't look him in the eye. After rebuilding greenhouses in silence because speaking felt too close to breaking.
This. A letter from the Ministry and a name printed neatly in black ink.
Pansy Parkinson.
He leaned forward and ran a hand over his face, fingers dragging across tired eyes and an unshaved jaw. Her name lingered like smoke. It felt like some kind of cosmic joke, the universe twisting itself into something cruel and surreal just for the sake of entertainment.
He hadn't thought about her in years. Not really. Not with any substance. She had been noise in the background once, all heels on marble and laughter that cut sharper than it should have. Always behind Malfoy. Always watching. Always smirking.
He remembered her voice from those years. High. Sharp. The kind of voice that knew it could wound and chose to anyway. She had sneered at his robes, mocked his plants, turned her nose up at everything that made him feel even slightly human in that place.
But that was then.
And then had been a long time ago.
He wasn't a boy anymore. And neither was she.
The last time he saw her had been at a fundraiser for post-war legislation. She had walked in like she owned the building. And maybe she had. Her gown had shimmered like oil in candlelight, her mouth painted in the kind of red that made men forget what they were saying. He remembered watching her cross the room without tripping once. He remembered how quiet the room went when she laughed.
It had knocked something loose in him.
Not attraction. Not at first. Just surprise. The kind that leaves you still for a few seconds longer than you should be. She had spoken to him, made a dry joke about the speeches dragging on, and he had laughed before realizing who she was.
Then she had smiled.
Not the sharp, cruel smirk he remembered, but something softer. Something practiced. Dangerous, still. But layered now. Calculated. More woman than girl. More predator than flower.
And now, apparently, she was his wife.
He sat in stillness for a moment, staring at the parchment like it might offer something else if he just looked long enough. Then, slowly, he exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face, pressing the heel of his palm into his brow until the pressure dulled the thoughts spinning behind his eyes.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
The Ministry's decree had landed like a curse. Too official. Too final. The seal at the bottom had shimmered faintly when he opened the envelope, and for a second, he thought it was some kind of sick prank. But it wasn't. It was real. Legal. Binding. Pansy Parkinson, of all people. It felt absurd in a way that made his stomach twist.
And yet, the longer he sat with it, the less certain he felt about the shape of his reaction. Was it really as disastrous as it first seemed? She was not the same girl who had sneered at him across Potions class, not the one who used to whisper behind her hand and roll her eyes at the sight of his herbology-stained robes. Just as he had outgrown his awkwardness, she had outgrown whatever performance she used to hide behind. They were older now. Wiser. Maybe still sharp in places, still scarred from the same war, but changed all the same.
He wasn't afraid of her. That much surprised him.
More than anything, he was curious.
There was something about her that had always pushed him, even when they were younger. Something that refused to be ignored. And now, with this new version of her—refined, elegant, undeniably powerful—he found himself wondering if what had once been irritation had actually been the earliest hint of fascination.
He sighed and leaned back into the cushions, letting the fire warm the front of his legs as his thoughts drifted again to the life he once imagined. A quiet cottage tucked into the hills. Rows of greenhouses. A steady rhythm of mornings spent with soil under his nails and evenings without obligations. No politics. No bloodlines. No war.
Just peace.
But peace was never simple, and it was never promised. He had learned that early. If this marriage was the next battle, then maybe it wouldn't be one he had to lose. Maybe it wouldn't be a battle at all. Maybe it was something he hadn't learned how to name yet. Something harder. Something better.
He didn't know if it could work. But he also didn't know that it couldn't.
The memory of her lingered, uninvited. That look in her eyes. The way she had held her chin just a little too high, as if daring the world to push her down again. She had looked beautiful, yes—but also dangerous. In control. Alive in a way that made him feel like maybe this wasn't just a punishment, but a new kind of beginning.
She had surprised him once.
There was every chance she might do it again.
He let the thought settle as he stared into the flames, quiet now. The house creaked around him in the places old houses always did, but the silence felt different. Not empty. Just waiting.
"Neville Longbottom," he said softly, the words catching on a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Married to Pansy Parkinson."
It still sounded ridiculous. And yet, it was real.
His life, his future, had once again been rewritten without his permission. But he had faced worse.
And he would face this too.
Whatever came next, he would meet it the way he always had—steady, unflinching, and ready to fight for whatever scraps of meaning he could carve out of the chaos.
And if Pansy was standing there beside him, well… at least he wouldn't be bored.
~~~~~~
The next morning, Neville stood at the foot of Parkinson Manor's grand steps, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The towering doors loomed before him, dark and foreboding, as if the very house itself disapproved of his presence. It was fitting, really—everything about this place was designed to intimidate, much like the woman who resided within.
He had been here once before, years ago, though under very different circumstances. Back then, he'd had the luxury of leaving without his entire future hanging in the balance. Today, there was no such escape.
Lifting his hand, he knocked for what felt like the hundredth time, the motion mechanical, his knuckles sore from the repeated impact. He was fairly certain he'd been standing here for eighteen minutes, but who was counting? Certainly not him.
The back of his shirt stuck to his skin, a clammy reminder of just how deeply out of his depth he was.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open, revealing Pansy standing in the doorway. She looked exactly as he remembered—sharp, poised, and entirely unimpressed—but there was something different about her now, something more self-assured, more deliberate in the way she regarded him.
Her dark eyes flicked over him, taking in the slightly rumpled clothes, the nervous set of his shoulders, the way he hesitated just a fraction too long before speaking.
"Longbottom," she said coolly, his name less a greeting and more of a challenge.
He swallowed hard, past the lump of nerves lodged in his throat, and forced a smile. "Pansy, it's… nice to see you again."
Her lips curled, though it was too sharp to be a smirk, too dry to be genuine. "Oh yes, I'm absolutely thrilled." She leaned lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, her expression one of casual disinterest. "What do you want?"
He inhaled slowly, trying to steady himself, trying to ignore the sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. He had faced worse than this, had stared death in the face, had fought battles he never thought he'd survive—and yet, standing in front of the Parkinson's front door, he felt alarmingly out of his depth.
"I'm here," he began, voice wavering slightly before he forced it into steadiness, "because I'm required to be here this morning… to offer my sympathy. And to have a conversation about our… marriage."
Her brow arched in a perfectly calculated display of skepticism. "Sympathy? For what, exactly?"
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, aware that one wrong step could send this entire conversation into a tailspin. "For… well, for the situation we've found ourselves in."
She laughed—a short, sharp sound, biting and humorless. "Sympathy, Longbottom? I don't need your pity." Her eyes glittered with something cold, something unreadable. "This isn't my bloody dream scenario either, but here we are."
The words landed harder than he expected, and though he felt them sting, he held his ground. "I'm not pitying you, Pansy. I just—" He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the weight of the moment. "I just want to make the best of this. We both know the Ministry's decree is out of our hands, but that doesn't mean we have to make this harder than it already is."
For a moment, he thought she might slam the door in his face. Her fingers twitched at her side, her jaw tightening as if she were waging an internal battle. But then, something shifted. A flicker of something he couldn't quite name passed across her face before she sighed—less sharp now, more resigned—and rolled her eyes.
"Fine," she muttered, stepping back and pulling the door open wider. "Come in, then. Let's get this over with."
Neville nodded, stepping into the cavernous entryway of Parkinson Manor. The house was just as grand and imposing as he remembered—high ceilings, dark wood paneling, gilded chandeliers that cast a dim glow over everything. The air smelled of aged parchment, polished mahogany, and something distinctly floral, like roses left too long in a vase.
He followed her through the foyer and into a drawing room that was almost too elegant—all rich upholstery, heavy velvet drapes that swallowed most of the morning light, and portraits of Parkinson ancestors who looked like they were deeply unimpressed by his presence.
She gestured vaguely toward a plush, overstuffed couch, and he sat, feeling distinctly out of place amidst the opulence. She remained standing, arms still crossed, her eyes sharp as she studied him.
"Alright, Longbottom," she said, her voice cool and clipped. "Let's talk. What exactly do you want from me?"
Neville shifted, trying to find the right words, trying not to let the weight of her stare unravel him. "I… I want us to be able to talk about this, to figure out how we're going to… make this work."
Pansy let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, shaking her head as if he had just suggested something completely idiotic. "Make this work?" she repeated, voice dripping with mockery. "You think there's something to be 'made to work' here? This isn't a bloody business arrangement, Longbottom. It's a life sentence."
The words landed like a slap, but he refused to let them rattle him. "I know it's not ideal," he admitted, keeping his tone level, "but we don't have a choice, do we? The Ministry made sure of that. So rather than spend the rest of our lives hating every second of it, why not try to find some kind of common ground?"
Pansy stared at him for a long moment, her gaze piercing, like she was trying to pick him apart, trying to find some crack in his resolve. He met her eyes and held his ground, refusing to be the first to break the silence.
Then, at last, she let out a breath and uncrossed her arms.
"Fine," she muttered. "But don't think for a second that I'm going to make this easy for you."A small, uncertain smile tugged at Neville's lips. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Pansy rolled her eyes, but this time, there was no real bite to it. Instead, she sat across from him, posture as rigid as ever, arms folded like a shield. "So, what now?"
"Now," Neville said, feeling a little steadier, "we talk. About how this is going to work, about what we expect, and… about whatever else we need to figure out. We've got time, Pansy. Let's not waste it."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tensions and reluctant acceptance. It settled like a fog in the room, thick and suffocating. But then Pansy leaned back, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly, as if conceding that, whether she liked it or not, this conversation had to happen.
Neville exhaled. "Where are we going to live?"
"Here, of course," she said without hesitation, her tone making it clear there was no discussion to be had.
Neville blinked. "But I have a flat," he argued, caught off guard by how quickly she had dismissed the idea. The thought of leaving his small but comfortable home, filled with his books, his plants, his peace, made his stomach twist. That flat was his, the only place where he had ever truly felt settled.
"Then sell it," Pansy said, her voice flat, unyielding, as if the matter was already settled in her mind.
His brow furrowed, the creeping unease mixing with something more stubborn. "No."
That caught her off guard. Her brows lifted ever so slightly, clearly not expecting him to push back. "Then rent it out. Next question."
Neville opened his mouth to argue, to tell her that this wasn't how this was going to work, that she didn't get to just dictate everything. But then he stopped himself. There was no point in pushing this now. She wouldn't back down—not yet. And they had bigger battles to fight than whose name was on the bloody deed.
"Fine," he said, though the word felt heavy, begrudging. "We'll stay here."
Pansy's lips twitched, the barest hint of satisfaction flickering across her face. "Of course we will." Her gaze swept the lavish room, as if daring him to challenge her again. "This is my home, Longbottom. It's only fitting."
Neville met her stare, jaw set, reminding himself that this was just the beginning.
He had a feeling the real negotiations had only just begun.