There they were—another routine Sunday brunch with their friends. Except this time, it wasn't routine at all.
Ron had brought Lavender.
The moment they stepped in, Pansy's gaze locked onto them like a predator spotting its prey. Her eyes widened, then narrowed in sheer disbelief. Of all the days to show up looking like that. Lavender's outfit was not just a poor choice, it was a personal attack on brunch fashion itself.
"Absolutely not," Pansy muttered, leaning toward Neville with the kind of scandalized expression one reserved for witnessing a crime. "Is she trying to look like an overripe banana? Because that shade of mustard yellow is offensive." She flicked her manicured nails toward Lavender's dress in disgust. "It's like she lost a duel with a thrift store discount rack."
Neville made a soft, noncommittal hum, but Pansy wasn't done. Oh, she was just getting started.
"And clogs?" she hissed, barely able to contain her horror. "Merlin's saggy left—are those actual clogs? Who in their right mind pairs an expired condiment dress with Dutch footwear? Someone needs to Obliviate this entire outfit from existence."
Ginny, catching Pansy's scathing expression from across the table, smirked. She was already enjoying the roast. "Come on, Pans, maybe she's going for 'quirky.'"
Pansy scoffed, her expression dripping with aristocratic disdain. "If that's quirky, then I'm a Muggle-born. That's not a look, Red, that's a cry for help." She shook her head, genuinely offended. "I've seen house-elves with more coordinated outfits. The Malfoy peacocks dress better than this."
Draco, who had been quietly sipping his tea, smirked but wisely stayed out of it. Blaise, on the other hand, was openly entertained. "I mean, it's bold," he offered, trying to keep a straight face.
"Bold?" Pansy repeated, aghast. "No, Blaise, war crimes are bold. This is blinding. I swear, Ron must have hexed his own eyes shut before leaving the house. That's the only explanation."
Luna, ever the diplomat, tilted her head. "I think it's nice," she said dreamily. "She looks like a sunflower."
"She looks like a sunflower that drowned in pumpkin juice," Pansy shot back. "And was then stomped on by a herd of centaurs."
Ginny snorted so loudly she had to pretend to cough into her napkin. Even Theo, normally the picture of polite indifference, muttered a low, "Merlin's beard," as he eyed Lavender's ensemble.
And then, just when Pansy thought her patience had reached its limit, Lavender flounced toward their table.
"Morning, everyone!" she chirped, radiating oblivious confidence as she took her seat beside Ron. The mustard monstrosity of a dress swayed with her movements, assaulting Pansy's vision with every ripple.
Pansy plastered on the fakest smile known to wizardkind. "Lavender, darling," she purred, her tone dripping with saccharine sweetness, "I adore your outfit. It's just so... daring."
Lavender beamed. "Oh, thanks, Pansy! It's vintage!"
"Ah, yes," Pansy said, her voice smooth as silk. "I could tell. Very... timeless." She took a languid sip of her mimosa, pausing just long enough to deliver the killing blow. "Practically prehistoric."
Ginny collapsed into silent, shaking laughter. Ron, ever the human embodiment of confusion, glanced at Lavender's dress as if only just realizing it might be offensive to all five senses.
Lavender, still smiling, blinked. "Oh, well—"
"I mean," Pansy continued, tone syrupy, "not everyone can pull off looking like an old Hogwarts tapestry. It's a statement, really. What statement, though, I can't quite figure out."
Blaise covered his mouth to muffle his laugh. Neville shifted uncomfortably but made no move to intervene. No one was saving Lavender from this.
Draco, ever composed, casually set down his teacup. "I think what Pansy's trying to say," he drawled, eyes glinting, "is that your bravery truly knows no bounds."
Pansy leaned back, looking utterly pleased with herself as Lavender finally, finally, started to look uncomfortable.
Maybe next time, she'd think twice before showing up looking like a regrettable Potions experiment.
If Draco Malfoy was an enigma, then Lavender Brown was a nails-on-a-chalkboard migraine in human form. Sitting next to her at brunch felt like some cosmic punishment, Hermione would have rather been locked in a room with Peeves, or worse, forced to tutor Crabbe and Goyle in advanced Arithmancy.
Trapped at the table with Lavender's endless stream of frivolous gossip, Hermione felt a familiar, simmering resentment bubble beneath her practiced poise. Draco, for all his arrogance and contradictions, was at least intellectually engaging. Lavender? A walking, talking Witch Weekly column with the emotional depth of a teaspoon.
She let her gaze drift to her china cup, pretending to be utterly captivated by the delicate floral patterns. Merlin, she'd rather be analyzing runes scratched onto a troll's arse than enduring another second of this.
Lavender's voice, shrill and unrelenting, prattled on, each word scraping against Hermione's patience like a dull blade. Every forced laugh, every vapid anecdote about her latest beauty charm or 'accidental' run-in with someone famous, felt like slow, torturous decay of Hermione's remaining brain cells.
She let her mind wander, complex spell theories, the satisfaction of unraveling ancient magical texts, even the adrenaline of battle during the war, all infinitely preferable to this. But no, she was here, stuck in the brunch purgatory of Lavender Brown's company.
And frankly, she'd rather be interrogating Bellatrix Lestrange.
A sudden, sharp pang of hunger dragged Hermione back to reality. She forced herself to take a bite of her food, though the bland taste paled in comparison to the acrid bite of irritation sitting heavy on her tongue. Across from her, Lavender's voice droned on, rising and falling like a particularly grating concerto—pretentious, overdone, and impossible to tune out.
Lavender Brown, a human embodiment of a discount perfume sample, lazily pushed her eggs around her plate, her every movement calculated, every word dripping in saccharine condescension. Thinly veiled barbs laced her compliments, subtle little jabs at Hermione's place among them, a game of social warfare Lavender was far too eager to play.
"Alright, Granger," Lavender drawled, her manicured nails tapping a slow, taunting rhythm against the tablecloth. "Fancy seeing you here. Still scraping by on those modest Ministry wages, or has Malfoy finally started footing the bill? I hear the new Auror uniforms are rather... plebeian."
Her voice was honeyed poison, her eyes glittering with predatory amusement as they raked over Hermione like she was something unfortunate that had stumbled onto her designer rug.
Hermione, ever the picture of grace under fire, offered a saccharine smile that could curdle milk. "It has its adjustments, Lavender. Though I find designing my own home much more rewarding than, say, spending my time on the floo to Witch Weekly for a feature that never quite seems to come." Her tone was sweet but sharp enough to draw blood.
Lavender's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered, tilting her head. "I bet. It must be thrilling to live in such a... historic place."
The insinuation was clear. Hermione felt her grip tighten around her fork, but she refused to take the bait. "Every place has its charm. It's the people who live there now that matter."
Lavender's expression darkened, her lips curling at the edges. "Oh, please, Granger, drop the noble act. You married up, plain and simple. And don't think I haven't noticed the way you've been clinging to Malfoy like a barnacle. It's almost... pathetic."
A slow, simmering anger settled in Hermione's chest, but she smoothed it down, lifting her glass to her lips with practiced poise. "Lavender," she said with a cool finality, "I appreciate your deep concern for my happiness, but perhaps we should find something more engaging to discuss. Like your latest heartbreak? I hear they last about as long as your dye jobs."
Ginny let out an abrupt cough while Pansy casually stirred her mimosa, not bothering to hide her smirk.
Draco, however, had heard enough.
"Lavender," he interjected, his voice like velvet-lined steel, "I believe this conversation has run its course."
Lavender smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Just curious, Draco. We're all friends here, aren't we?"
"Friends," Hermione thought dryly, stabbing a piece of toast with unnecessary force. If this was friendship, she'd rather spend an evening alone in Knockturn Alley.
But then Draco's expression shifted, his usual cool indifference sharpening into something colder, something lethal. His fingers flexed against his glass before he placed it down deliberately.
His voice sliced through the air like a blade, sharp and deliberate. "I would strongly advise your husband to mind his wandering eyes during the meal," he murmured, his gaze locking onto Ron's with deadly precision.
The air thickened, a weighted silence settling over the table like the hush before a storm. The once lively hum of conversation died, drinks half-sipped, utensils frozen mid-motion. Every breath in the room felt measured, cautious.
Draco leaned back lazily, but his grip on the silver knife remained firm. His fingers curled around the handle with a practiced ease, the blade catching the light as it twirled in his hand with a slow, rhythmic flick. Not careless. Not idle. A message. A warning. A predator deciding whether the hunt was worth his time.
Ronald's face, already tinged with red, lost its color in a slow, humiliating drain. His Adam's apple bobbed with a thick swallow. His eyes darted, as if scanning for an escape, but there was no out. No one dared interfere. Not with Draco Malfoy sitting there, a knife in his hand and murder in his eyes.
"Perhaps," he continued, his voice deceptively light, "you should consider keeping your focus on your plate instead of staring at something you can't have. Because if I catch that filthy gaze lingering on my wife again..." He trailed off, the knife spinning one final time before landing flat against the table with an ominous thud.
The promise of pain hung in the air, thick and inescapable.
Ronald's throat worked as he cleared it, his voice thin, forced. "Look, Malfoy, I wasn't—"
He silenced him with a lazy flick of his wrist, as if dismissing an insect. "Save it, Weasley. I know exactly how you used to look at her. I remember every pathetic, yearning glance, every time you treated her like some backup plan. And here you are again, looking at what's mine."
His voice was low, deadly. Each word laced with poison, sinking deep.
"Some habits die hard," he mused, tilting his head in feigned thought. "But some creatures? They never change at all." His lips curled into something that was almost a smile. Almost. "A leopard can't change its spots, can it?"
Ronald's fists clenched, but his silence betrayed him. He knew better than to engage. Everyone at the table did.
She placed a hand on his arm—a silent plea. A tether keeping him from fully baring his fangs.
"Draco," she murmured, her voice calm, though the tension in her grip was unmistakable.
His eyes flicked to her, and for a moment, his expression softened. But then, slowly, he turned back to Ron, his amusement darkening into something more possessive.
"She is mine," he said, voice quiet but lethal. "She belongs to me. To look at. To talk to. To touch. She means nothing to you now, and she never will again."
The next words dripped from his lips, a whisper of pure malice.
"I'm the only one who knows how the golden cunt tastes. So get over her. Go home to that whore of a woman you call a wife, and don't ever let your eyes land on mine again."
The weight of the words sank like iron. The world stood still.
Ronald opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Without warning, Hermione stood. In an instant, she grasped Draco's wrist, and with a sharp crack of Apparition, they were gone, leaving only the lingering chill of his words in the stunned silence they left behind.
The tension in the room shattered like glass.
In one swift, unthinking motion, Pansy lunged across the table. Crystal clattered, silverware toppled, and an entire wave of mimosa splashed directly into Lavender's face, drenching her in citrus and indignity.
Gasps rippled through the table, chairs scraping against the floor as people jerked back to avoid the chaos. But Pansy? Pansy didn't flinch. Her chest heaved, fury crackling off her like a live wire.
"HOW DARE YOU!" she roared, her voice slicing through the stunned silence like a whip. Her eyes blazed, locked onto Lavender with the kind of rage that could set the entire bloody brunch table ablaze.
Lavender, wide-eyed, sputtered through the dripping mess of orange juice and champagne, utterly dumbstruck.
Across the room, Luna stood as well, her usual dreamy expression replaced with quiet, steady disappointment. "This," she said softly, her voice carrying with unnerving weight, "is absolutely disgusting."
Her words landed like a death sentence.
Ron sat frozen, his face a mess of red, whether from humiliation or sheer confusion, no one could tell. He looked like a child caught in the middle of a storm far beyond his comprehension, utterly useless as the situation spiraled beyond his control.
But Ginny?
Ginny wasn't frozen at all.
Her temper, already a live flame, ignited in an instant. In one sharp move, she rounded on Ron, grabbed his arm, and yanked him up with enough force to rattle the entire table.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she spat, her voice low and seething, her fingers digging into his wrist like iron shackles.
Ron barely managed a stammer before she dragged him from the table, her grip unyielding, her fury radiating off her in waves.
They disappeared into the next room, leaving only the sound of Ron's scrambling footsteps and the deafening silence they left in their wake.
Pansy leaned in, her voice like silk wrapped around a dagger, eyes gleaming with venomous intent as she fixed Lavender with a stare that could curdle milk.
"You have no right to talk about Hermione like that." Her words were slow, deliberate—razor-sharp and meant to cut. "What's the problem, Lavender? Can't handle being a sloppy second? Can't stand the fact that she's always been better than you? Always will be better?"
Lavender's complexion drained, her lips parting as if to retort but before she could get a word out, Luna stepped forward with quiet, unshakable grace.
Gone was the whimsical, dreamy girl people so often underestimated. In her place stood something far more formidable, a woman of ethereal calm, delivering words that hit harder than a slap.
"You're not even a sloppy second, Lavender," Luna said, her voice deceptively light, but laced with something sharp. "You were never more than an afterthought. How can you possibly be jealous of someone as kind and brilliant as Hermione? Someone whose goodness radiates?"
Lavender flinched, her throat bobbing as if she wanted to argue but couldn't find the words.
Neville, who had been uncharacteristically silent, finally spoke, his voice level, steady, but charged with quiet authority. "And an incredible friend. She's everything you'll never grasp."
The weight of his words settled in the air, thick and suffocating.
Then, Blaise stood up.
Unlike the others, he didn't seethe, didn't rage, his movements were slow, deliberate. He adjusted his cufflinks, took his time straightening his already-perfect posture, and then finally let his dark, unreadable gaze flicker toward Lavender.
"Brown."
Just one word. Her last name. Spoken with such cold, biting disdain it could've frozen fire.
"It's time for you to leave." His voice was smooth, almost pleasant, but the threat lingered beneath, razor-sharp and waiting. "And if you so much as leave a single champagne stain on my rug, I promise you—you will regret it."
He paused, tilting his head slightly, as if examining something truly pathetic. Then, with a lazy smirk and venom dripping from every syllable, he added:
"Fucking bitch."
Silence.
The table was dead silent.
Lavender, for once in her entire life, looked unsure of herself.
Pansy, however, was vibrating with anger.
"That absolute hag just ruined a perfectly good brunch," Luna muttered, the rare steel in her voice making even Blaise arch a brow.
Pansy was pacing now, fists clenched, every muscle in her body practically itching for a fight. "She has some nerve. I swear to Salazar, I'm about to go beat that bitch's ass."
She spun toward the door, fully intending to chase Lavender down and handle this the good old-fashioned way, by dragging her across the cobblestones of Diagon Alley.
Neville reacted just in time.
Moving on pure instinct, he surged forward and caught her around the waist, yanking her back against his chest before she could storm out of the room like an avenging banshee.
"Sassy, darling," he murmured into her ear, his voice soothing but undeniably amused, "let's just go home, yeah?"
She struggled against his hold, still glaring at the door as if she could summon Lavender back just to swing at her. "No! I want to hit her!"
Neville barely suppressed his laugh, shaking his head as he held her tighter. "Alright, love. You can hit the plant when we get home."
Pansy huffed, still glaring, still brimming with murderous intent, but finally crossed her arms in grudging defeat.
"Fine."
Then, after a long pause she added: "But it better be a big one."
~~~~~~
They apparated home in a brilliant flash of swirling color, landing in the grand foyer of the manor with a disorienting lurch. No sooner had the light dissipated than Pansy took off like a shot, leaving him standing in a haze of confusion. What the hell—
Neville barely had time to register her departure before the sharp staccato of her heels echoed down the corridor. She was a woman on a mission, storming toward the expansive greenhouse at the back of the estate with the kind of unyielding determination one might expect from a general leading a charge into battle.
For a moment, he just stood there, blinking, before instinct kicked in. Merlin help me. With a sigh, he took off after her, propelled by a mix of curiosity and deep, deep concern.
The greenhouse, typically a tranquil oasis of vibrant flora, bathed in the warm, golden glow of enchanted lanterns, was anything but peaceful tonight. The usual spicy-sweet scent of growing things clashed violently with the absolute chaos that was Pansy Parkinson in a state of unfiltered rage.
And her first victim?
An unsuspecting lavender plant standing near the entrance, completely oblivious to the war it was about to be dragged into.
SMACK.
"TAKE THAT, YOU INSIPID BITCH!"
Neville skidded to a halt just in time to watch in sheer disbelief as Pansy full-on slapped the plant.
The poor lavender shuddered, its delicate purple stems bending in absolute horror, as if even it couldn't quite believe what had just happened.
Neville stared.
"Pansy."
She didn't turn, just stood there, breathing hard, hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Neville dragged a hand down his face, half amused, half genuinely concerned for his own safety. His gaze flicked from his wife to the trembling lavender.
"...Feeling better now?"
Pansy placed her hands on her hips, tilting her head at the lavender as if contemplating a second round. "Marginally."
Neville sighed. "Right. Well. Can we agree to not declare war on my plants whenever someone pisses you off?"
She turned then, eyebrows arched, arms crossed, and regarded him with an expression that screamed 'absolutely not'. "No," she said flatly. "No, we cannot."
Neville snorted, shaking his head as he stepped closer, placing a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder. "Look, love, I appreciate the commitment to botanical-based revenge, but if you keep this up, you're going to start traumatizing the entire greenhouse."
Pansy sighed dramatically, flicking a disdainful glance at the lavender. "Fine. But if this one keels over, I'm blaming you, and you'll be buying me a new one. Preferably something less... purple."
Neville chuckled, relieved to see her sharp mood begin to soften. "Deal. Just promise me you won't go after my prized roses next time you're in a mood?"
She tilted her head, studying him with a mischievous glint in her dark eyes, her earlier frustration melting into something far more dangerous—playful wickedness.
"No promises, Nevie. If 'Lavender' keeps pushing my buttons, your roses might just end up on my hit list too."
Neville groaned, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her close. "Merlin help my garden."
She smirked up at him. "Merlin help you, darling. Because if I ever see that woman again in another tragic fashion disaster, I might have to start hexing people's wardrobes instead."
Neville chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Remind me to start warding my suits."
"Smart man." She smirked, letting him hold her just a little tighter. "Maybe I'll spare them."
"Your mercy is truly inspiring."
And just like that, the storm passed, leaving only them, tangled together in the warm glow of the greenhouse—Neville, the ever-patient gardener, and Pansy, the beautifully unhinged force of nature who loved him.
~~~~~~
She paced the length of her living room, the rhythmic click of her heels against the polished floor doing nothing to calm the frustration snapping at her nerves. The tension in the air was thick, suffocating, curling around her like an invisible vice as she tried to reach Draco and Blaise.
They were always so reachable, their presence as constant in her life as her own reflection in the mirror. But today? Today, they were as elusive as a whisper in the wind, as if they had deliberately cut themselves off from her.
Her jaw tightened, impatience prickling under her skin like static.
Fine. If the bastards wouldn't answer, she'd go to the one person she knew would pick up.
With a determined flick of her wand, she cast the Floo spell, her eyes blazing as green flames erupted in the hearth.
"Theo!" she barked, her voice sharp as a blade.
A second later, Theo's familiar face flickered into view, surrounded by swirling emerald fire.
"Pansy," he said, his voice calm but tight, carrying an edge of urgency that sent an immediate chill down her spine.
Her stomach twisted. That tone—she knew that tone. And she didn't like it.
"What the fuck is happening?" she demanded, her nails digging into her palms as she struggled to keep her voice steady despite the rising anxiety gnawing at her insides. "I can't reach the other wankers. What's so important that I'm left in the bloody dark?"
Theo exhaled slowly, the firelight casting shadows across his face.
"We're going on a mission," he said, voice clipped. "I can't explain everything right now."
"Of course, you are," she snapped, throwing up her hands. "You always go on a mission!"
"Pansy." His tone shifted, low and serious, cutting through her irritation like a blade through silk. "Just pack a funeral dress."
Her heart dropped like a stone.
For the first time since the call began, she stilled, her breath catching in her throat.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" she asked, voice quieter now, but sharper, deadlier.
Theo's jaw tensed, his eyes dark, unreadable. "Listen to me," he said, low and steady, like he was carefully picking every word, weighing them before they left his mouth. "Weasley. We have dirt on him. It's not just about him ogling Hermione."
A cold, sinking dread settled in her stomach.
"What kind of dirt?" she asked, her voice almost reluctant, as if she already knew the answer but didn't want to hear it out loud.
Theo hesitated. Just for a second. But that second was enough.
"Let's just say," he finally said, his voice tight with restrained fury, "he's been less than kind to those around him. Hermione included. He's crossed a line that can't be ignored."
The words hung between them, heavy, suffocating.
She swallowed hard, a flicker of unease igniting in her chest.
Ron Weasley.
The war had changed everyone. She had seen firsthand how it could twist people, how it could take someone good and turn them into something unrecognizable.
But this? This was different.
Ron Weasley was not supposed to be the villain.
Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.
"Oh, Merlin," she whispered, the weight of realization pressing down on her like a vice.
Theo nodded, his expression grim, unwavering. "Yeah," he murmured. "And if we don't do something about it soon, it'll only escalate. We need to protect her. All of us."
Something cold and sharp sliced through the initial shock, replacing it with pure, burning determination.
"What do we do?" she asked, her voice steady now, stronger.
Theo's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smirk, something far too dark for that.
"Now be a good girl and shut your mouth," he said, but there was a softness beneath the words, a silent warning wrapped in familiarity. "I'll handle the details. We move quickly."
And just like that, the Floo connection snapped shut, the green flames flickering out, leaving the room too dark, too silent in its wake.
Pansy stood frozen, her mind whirring, piecing together the fragments of what Theo hadn't said.
Her heart pounded violently, but her hands? Her hands were steady as steel as she turned toward her wardrobe, already calculating, already planning her next move.
The world was spiraling into chaos, but she wouldn't let it consume her.
With each piece of clothing she pulled, with each spell she cast, the fire inside her ignited, brighter, stronger, hotter.
This wasn't just about Ron Weasley anymore.
This was about Hermione.
This was about all of them.
And Pansy Parkinson? She wasn't about to sit back and let the darkness take them.
No.
She was going to burn it to the fucking ground first.
~~~~~~
The next day, she found herself standing outside his office, her thoughts a tangled web of frustration and unease, every word Theo had told her replaying like a cursed record in her mind. Without hesitation, she knocked—sharp, deliberate, a demand rather than a request and before a response could come, she pushed open the door.
Her heels clicked against the polished floor, a sound of quiet authority as she crossed the threshold.
He was seated at his desk, surrounded by delicate plant specimens and parchment stacked in uneven towers, the comforting scent of soil and fresh herbs lingering in the air. But the moment he looked up and caught the sharpness in her gaze, the warmth in his usual smile flickered, then faltered entirely.
"Parky," he said slowly, sitting up straighter, his brow creasing with concern. "Everything alright?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she strode forward, perching herself on the edge of his desk, arms crossing over her chest like a queen preparing to deliver a verdict. Her dark eyes never wavered.
"Neville," she began, voice smooth as silk but lined with steel. "Tell me what you know about Weasel—" she paused, her lip curling with exquisite disdain, "and his little bitch's relationship?"
He blinked, leaning back slightly, clearly caught off guard by the abruptness of the question.
"Ron and Lavender?" he repeated, running a hand through his hair, his confusion apparent. He exhaled, a reluctant sigh that told her he already knew this conversation would be a long one. "Not much, honestly. They've always been… hectic. Like fire and gasoline."
She let out an exaggerated huff, rolling her eyes as if his answer personally offended her.
"Neville, don't insult my intelligence. Or my eyesight." Her tone was sharp, but beneath it, a note of something else lingered, something unspoken, something dangerous. "I know what I saw."
He studied her, silent now, his expression unreadable, but he didn't interrupt. He knew her too well for that, knew that when Pansy Parkinson was in a mood like this, it was best to let her have her say first.
And Merlin help him, she had a lot to say.
"We both saw the bruise on Lavender's wrist at brunch last day." Her voice was quieter now, but there was no less force behind it. "You can't tell me that was nothing."
Neville stiffened slightly, his easy posture shifting into something more alert, more focused. He hated gossip, hated speculating on things he couldn't prove. But there was no denying that Pansy had a point.
"Yes, love," he admitted, his voice softer now, more thoughtful. "I saw it too." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "But what do you want me to do about it? It's not as if any of us particularly like Ron or Lavender. And let's be honest—Lavender isn't exactly forthcoming."
Her eyes flashed, her hands balling into tight, trembling fists at her sides.
"Neville, this isn't about whether we like them or not!" she snapped, her voice vibrating with restrained fury. "That bruise wasn't from a bloody Quidditch match, and it wasn't an accident." She took a breath, then said the part that had been clawing at her throat since the moment she'd walked in. "What if there's more to it?"
His expression darkened, his jaw tightening. She could see the war in his eyes, the part of him that wanted to believe in the best of people, and the part of him that had learned, through war and loss, that people could be cruel in ways they never admitted to themselves.
"Pans, we don't know the full story," he said carefully, measured, hesitant. "Maybe it's not what we think. Lavender can be… volatile. But Ron? I don't think he'd—"
"Don't be naive." She cut him off, her frustration boiling over like an overheated cauldron. "You don't think he'd what? Hurt her? He's a bloody Weasley. And just because they're Gryffindors doesn't mean they're incapable of being cruel."
Neville winced at her words, but he didn't immediately argue.
Still, he shook his head, his voice quieter but firm. "I'm not saying that, Pansy, but—"
"Was he abusive toward Hermione?"
The words dropped like a bomb between them, the weight of them sinking into the floor, into the very air around them.
Neville froze, his breath hitching ever so slightly, his grip tightening on the desk.
Hermione's name had shifted the atmosphere entirely.
And Pansy knew it.
He leaned back slowly, blinking as if trying to process what she had just asked him.
"Hermione?" he repeated, as if saying her name aloud would somehow soften the question. He rubbed a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. "I… I don't recall anything like that happening. She was always so… busy when they were together."
Too careful. That was the first thing Pansy noticed.
His words were too careful.
Like he was trying not to say something.
"Busy?" she repeated, arching an unimpressed brow. "Please. Don't feed me that rubbish. Hermione was always 'busy.' But did it ever occur to you that maybe she was keeping herself busy on purpose? That maybe she wasn't just working, she was… avoiding him?"
Neville opened his mouth, then hesitated.
Pansy saw it. That tiny flicker of doubt, of hesitation, of something clicking into place that had never fully settled before.
For a moment, he just sat there, silent.
Then, slowly, he shook his head.
"I don't know, Pansy," he admitted, and there was something almost… guilty in his tone. "Hermione never mentioned anything to me. And she's not the type to keep quiet if something was wrong."
Pansy scoffed, rolling her eyes, her frustration morphing into disbelief.
"Oh, Neville." Her voice dripped with exasperation. "She's a Gryffindor, not invincible. Just because she's strong doesn't mean she couldn't have been suffering in silence."
And for the first time since the conversation started, Neville didn't have a response to that.
"Pansy, I know you're worried. But we can't jump to conclusions without knowing the full story. If Ron had hurt Hermione, she would have told someone. She's not the type to suffer in silence."
He said it with such certainty that it made her stomach twist. She stared at him, long and hard, her gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. Neville meant well but his faith in people's honesty was infuriating. He didn't understand how deep wounds could go, how expertly people could hide their pain, even from those closest to them.
"I'm not jumping to conclusions," she said, her voice low but unyielding. "I'm asking questions because I don't like what I'm seeing. Lavender's a mess, and now you're telling me Hermione was always 'busy' when she was with Ron? That's not a coincidence, Nevie. Something doesn't add up."
He sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly before pulling her into his arms. His hold was warm, grounding but it wasn't enough to quiet the storm raging inside her.
"I know, love," he murmured into her hair, his tone soothing, patient. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves, alright? We don't know what's really going on, and we can't make accusations without proof."
She didn't answer, but her mind was already spinning, working, analyzing. She wasn't the kind of woman to let things go, especially when her instincts told her something was wrong.
Pansy rested her chin on his shoulder, but her eyes remained cold, distant, her thoughts miles away.
"Nevie… I can't just sit back and do nothing. I know something's wrong. And if no one else is going to do anything about it, I will."
He pulled back slightly, tilting her chin up until she met his gaze.
"Just promise me you won't do anything rash," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Let me talk to some people, see if there's more to this. Don't go charging into the middle of it."
She smirked but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Since when have I ever done anything rash?"
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I don't have enough fingers to count the times."
Her smirk deepened slightly, but the amusement was fleeting. This wasn't just another game. This was different.
"Just be careful, Sassy," he added, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "You know how messy things get when you start digging into other people's lives."
She nodded, but they both knew she wasn't going to let this go. A bad feeling had lodged itself deep in her chest, refusing to be ignored. And when Pansy Parkinson had a bad feeling, it usually meant something dark was lurking beneath the surface.
As she stepped out of his study, her decision had already been made.
She was going to find out exactly what was going on between Ron and Lavender.
And if it was worse than she feared…
Ron Weasley wouldn't know what hit him.
Hours later, something shifted within him. The conversation with her had been gnawing at him, tugging at threads of concern he hadn't fully unraveled before. His mind replayed moments, memories, glimpses of her reactions when certain topics arose, the way her sharp tongue sometimes hid something deeper, the way she deflected with wit whenever the subject strayed too close to something raw.
He couldn't let it rest. There was something beneath the surface, something she had hidden away so masterfully that even he, the person who knew her best, had never dared to see it fully. And the thought made his heart ache.
Moving quietly, as if approaching a skittish creature, he made his way to the living room. She was stretched across the sofa, her legs draped elegantly over the armrest, fingers grazing absently over Lady Lemongrass, who snorted softly in her sleep. The pug, completely oblivious to the tension that filled the room, lay sprawled across her feet, a picture of perfect contentment.
He stood there for a long moment, just watching her. There was something fragile about her in that instant, something unguarded, something that made his chest tighten. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes distant, lost in thought. She looked untouchable, yet strangely small, like a woman carrying more weight than she ever let anyone see.
He crossed the room slowly, his movements deliberate, and lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa, close but not touching. Close enough that she would feel his presence, close enough that she would know he was there.
"My love," he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. He waited, patient as ever, until her sharp gaze flickered toward him, locking onto his.
For a second, she simply studied him. He hesitated for just a moment, unsure of how to approach the storm he could see brewing behind those eyes.
Then, finally, he asked, "Has anyone… ever hurt you?"
She raised an eyebrow, her expression hardening like steel against a blade. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face, was it surprise? Annoyance? Pain? She shifted slightly, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a stone in her chest.
"A lot of people have hurt me, love," she said, voice clipped, guarded. "Be specific."
His frown deepened. He hated seeing her like this—defensive, on edge, always ready to strike first before anyone else had the chance to wound her. He reached out, placing a hand gently on her knee, a steadying touch.
"Did anyone ever… hit you?"
The words left his lips softly, but they landed with the force of a curse, heavy and unrelenting.
Her reaction was immediate. Her body stiffened, her jaw clenched so tightly he thought she might shatter. She sat up suddenly, her legs swinging off the couch as she put space between them. Crossing her arms like armor, her fingers curled into her sleeves, as if holding herself together.
"YES."
The single word cut through the quiet of the room like a dagger. Sharp. Raw. Unforgiving.
Her voice cracked on the edges, but she didn't falter. She stared him down, daring him to react, daring him to ask her for more than she was willing to give.
His heart clenched, but he didn't pull away. Didn't flinch. Didn't break eye contact.
Instead, he reached for her again, his touch careful, deliberate. His fingers found her wrist, tracing gently over skin that had once borne bruises she had never spoken about.
"Baby, please," he whispered, his voice barely more than breath.
She resisted at first, stiff against him, as if holding onto her anger was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. But then, after a moment that stretched like eternity, she exhaled shakily and let herself be pulled into his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her like she was something precious, something breakable. She clung to him, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, gripping him like a lifeline.
"Would you like to talk about it?"
His hand ran through her hair, his touch light, not demanding—only offering.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing. Hers, shallow and uneven. His, steady and grounding.
She shook her head. "Nope," she whispered, but the word was weak, trembling. She was unraveling, piece by piece, and he could feel it in the way her body shook against him.
Her eyes filled with tears before she could stop them. She tried to blink them away, but it was too late, the dam had broken. Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling unevenly.
He simply held her.
He didn't tell her to stop crying. Didn't tell her it was okay. Didn't tell her to let it go.
He just held her. Let her break. Let her be vulnerable. Let her fall apart in the safety of his arms.
Her silent tears soaked into his shirt, and she hated it, hated feeling weak, hated that she couldn't keep her walls up around him. But being in his arms felt safe.
It was the only place in the world where she didn't have to be invincible.
It was the only place where she could just be Pansy.
His heart broke for her, and he wished that he could take every ounce of pain from her, could rewrite her past so that she had never been touched by cruelty. But he couldn't. All he could do was hold her through it.
And he would. For as long as she needed.
When her sobs finally faded into soft, exhausted breaths, she pulled back slightly, rubbing at her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand, avoiding his gaze.
"I'm fine," she muttered, her voice still wobbly, betraying the lie.
He cupped her face, tilting her chin up until she had no choice but to look at him.
His eyes were soft, full of love and understanding.
"You don't have to be fine, Pansy."
That was all it took. Her bottom lip trembled, and another wave of tears spilled down her cheeks.
But this time she didn't fight them.
She let herself cry.
And for once, she didn't feel weak for doing it.
He just held her, murmuring soft reassurances, his fingers threading through her hair, his lips pressing gentle, feather-light kisses to her forehead.
"You're safe, love. I've got you. You're safe with me."
And she believed him. For the first time in a long, long time, she truly believed him.
~~~~~~
Pansy had spent the last week in a haze, a persistent fog of fatigue and sorrow that clung to her like a shroud. The early autumn chill seeped through the windows of the Manor, and she could feel its bite on her skin. Days blurred together, each one a shadow of the last, as she found herself curled up on the couch, a blanket wrapped tightly around her, but it did little to warm her.
Lady had sensed her distress, snuggling close, providing a small measure of comfort in the way only a pet could. But even the usually endearing antics of her beloved companion failed to lift her spirits. She spent hours staring blankly at the fire, its flickering flames mirroring the turmoil within her.
The truth was that her malaise stemmed not from any physical illness but from an emotional illness that gnawed at her insides. She was upset at herself, frustrated with the part of her that had become a fortress, so determined to guard its secrets that it had nearly suffocated her. She had spent far too long hiding behind walls she had constructed brick by brick throughout her childhood. Walls built from the hurtful experiences that had shaped her, that had carved deep grooves into her soul.
How could she not share her childhood with the love of her life?
The question echoed in her mind like a haunting melody. She had grown up in a world where vulnerability was seen as weakness, where showing her true self would lead to nothing but mockery and disdain. Her parents had always instilled in her the belief that emotions were a liability, something to be hidden beneath layers of bravado. The relentless pressure to maintain a facade of perfection had left her feeling isolated, even among those who were supposed to be closest to her.
She thought of him, with his gentle spirit and unwavering patience. He had opened himself to her in ways that left her in awe. His own struggles, his own vulnerabilities, he shared with her openly. Yet here she was, clinging to her own secrets, terrified of what would happen if she let them slip. Pansy felt like a fraud, living in the light of their love while hiding the darkness of her past.
The memories flooded her mind, unwelcome and persistent. Her childhood home, with its high walls and cold marble floors, felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. The echoes of raised voices, the sting of sharp words flung like daggers, lingered in the corners of her mind. Her parents had been distant, emotionally unavailable, caught up in their own worlds of prestige and reputation. She had learned early on that affection was a commodity she would have to fight for, a treasure she would never receive unless she conformed to their expectations.
As the week dragged on, she found herself grappling with the heaviness of her silence. She remembered the last time she had seen him, the way he had looked at her with concern when she had brushed off his questions about her well-being. She had wanted to be brave for him, to show him that she was strong, that she could handle her feelings without burdening him with her past. But instead, she had only pushed him away, creating a rift that left her feeling more alone than ever.
What had she been thinking?
Each day that passed without her sharing the truth felt like another nail driven into the coffin of their relationship. The thought of losing him made her heart race with fear. What if he couldn't love her fully if he knew the depths of her pain? What if he saw her as weak? She couldn't bear the thought of his disappointment, the look in his eyes that said he no longer recognized her.
But deep down, she knew that keeping this part of herself hidden was not sustainable. The walls she had built were starting to crack, the pressure building behind them until she felt she might burst. Pansy longed to be free, to breathe in the fresh air of honesty and vulnerability, but every time she tried to approach the topic, fear would seize her heart, and the words would become lodged in her throat.
As she sat there, staring into the flames, Pansy felt a wave of determination wash over her. She had been living under a veil of shadows for too long, allowing her past to dictate her present. If she truly loved Neville, she owed it to him, and to herself, to share her story.
Perhaps it was time to take a leap of faith.
With a newfound resolve, Pansy rose from the couch, wrapping her arms around herself as if to gather her courage. She glanced at Lady, who looked up at her with an expression that seemed to say, "You can do this." The little pug had always been her cheerleader, a beacon of unconditional love that inspired Pansy in moments of doubt.
She paced the room, breathing in deeply, trying to calm the storm inside her. She would tell Neville everything—the pain, the hurt, the scars that still throbbed under her skin. She imagined the moment vividly, seeing his warm eyes filled with understanding, his gentle smile encouraging her to share the darkest corners of her heart.
But as the day faded into night, doubt crept back in, whispering insidious thoughts that made her second-guess herself. Would he truly understand? Would he see her as she truly was, or would he pull away, terrified of the shadows lurking behind her?
She picked up her wand and absentmindedly twirled it in her fingers, contemplating what to do next. Should she write him a letter? No, that felt too impersonal. Perhaps a more direct approach was needed.
After what felt like hours of deliberation, Pansy decided she wouldn't wait any longer. She would confront her fears head-on and invite him to sit with her. She would find a way to open up, to breach the chasm her silence had created.
With a deep breath, she grabbed her cloak, the cool fabric reminding her of her strength.
"I can do this,"
The walk to his office felt both exhilarating and terrifying, each step a testament to her determination. She imagined how he would react, picturing the moment when she would finally let him into her world, allowing him to see the real Pansy, flaws and all.
She raised her hand and knocked on the door, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night. A part of her wondered if she would turn back, if she would flee back into the safety of her solitude. But as the door creaked open and his familiar face appeared, all doubts melted away.
He looked surprised but concerned, his eyes immediately searching hers for answers.
She took a breath, feeling the gravity of the moment. "Nevie," she said softly, her voice trembling slightly, "can we talk?"
And in that moment, as he stepped aside to let her in, she knew she was taking the first step toward freedom from her past, freedom from her fears, and perhaps, a new kind of freedom with Neville by her side.
Neville's gentle voice broke the stillness of the room. "My love, we don't have to talk about it if you're not ready."
Pansy had been sitting across from him, silent for what felt like an eternity, her mind spinning with a million thoughts that refused to settle. His words, so soft and filled with concern, washed over her like a wave of comfort, but they also stirred something deeper within her. She had been holding onto this burden for so long, the weight of it pressing down on her soul. It had become part of her, a shadow she carried in the corners of her mind.
But now, here was Neville, the love of her life, offering her an escape from the darkness she had grown so accustomed to. She knew he meant every word—if she wanted to keep it buried, he would never push her. He would let it lie, allow her to hold her secrets close if that's what she needed. But that's not what she wanted. Not anymore.
She looked at him, her heart aching. He was sitting on the sofa, his posture relaxed but his eyes filled with worry. With two fingers, he motioned for her to come closer. The simple gesture was enough to break down her last defenses.
She felt a surge of emotion rise within her, a mix of fear and gratitude. Slowly, she stood from where she had been sitting and walked over to him. Her steps were hesitant at first, as if each one carried her closer to an abyss she wasn't sure she could cross.
When she reached him, she didn't sit beside him. Instead, she lowered herself onto his lap, curling into him like a child seeking comfort. His arms wrapped around her, holding her close, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him. It was grounding, soothing in a way that nothing else could be. For a moment, she just let herself exist in that space, feeling his warmth, his presence.
Neville pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her temple, his lips barely brushing her skin. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice hoarse with unshed tears.
"Anytime, my love," he murmured against her hair. "I'm here."
She closed her eyes, letting his words sink in. He was here. He had always been here, patient and unwavering. And he deserved to know. She owed it to him to let him in, to share the parts of herself she had kept hidden for so long.
"It was my parents," she said suddenly, her voice trembling. The admission hung in the air between them like a weight. "They were the ones who abused me."
His arms tightened around her slightly, a silent show of support. He didn't say anything, didn't push her to continue. He simply held her, letting her decide when to speak.
She swallowed hard, her throat constricting with the effort. The memories, the ones she had locked away for years, began to surface. They were hazy at first, like ghosts at the edge of her consciousness, but the more she spoke, the clearer they became.
"I was... so young when it started," she began, her voice quiet, almost detached. "I didn't even realize it was wrong at first.
My parents—everything they did, they framed it as if it was normal. They were strict, yes, but I thought that was just how things were supposed to be. I thought all children were treated the way I was."
He remained silent, his hand gently stroking her back in slow, soothing circles. Pansy felt the tension in her body ease slightly as she continued.
"They had rules for everything," she said, her voice soft but growing heavier with every word. "How I sat, how I spoke, what I wore, how I walked. Everything had to be perfect, or there would be consequences. At first, it was just the coldness, the disapproving looks. My father had a way of making you feel like you were worthless with just a glance. And my mother... she played her part, too. She was distant, always so concerned with appearances, with making sure we looked like the perfect family on the outside. But inside, it was... it was different."
She paused, her breath hitching slightly as she felt the old memories clawing their way back to the surface. Neville's touch was steady, grounding her, silently encouraging her to go on.
"As I got older, it got worse. They expected more from me. It wasn't enough to just be a good student or a well-behaved daughter. I had to be flawless. I wasn't allowed to make mistakes, to show weakness. If I cried, they'd mock me. If I failed, they'd tear me apart. My father... he was the worst. He'd remind me that I was a Parkinson, that I had a legacy to uphold. He said I should be grateful for everything they were doing for me, that it was all to make me strong."
Her voice trembled, and she fought back the tears that threatened to spill over. She hadn't allowed herself to feel this in so long. It was easier to pretend it didn't matter, to bury it beneath layers of indifference and snark. But now, sitting here with Neville, it was all unraveling.
"And when I wasn't strong enough," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "he made sure I knew it. He wasn't the type to hit me, not at first. He didn't need to. He had his words. He'd stand over me, tall and menacing, and tell me how weak I was, how disappointing. He'd remind me that I was a failure, that I'd never be good enough for him or for anyone. And I believed him."
Her voice broke, and she felt the first tear slip down her cheek. She didn't try to wipe it away this time. Neville was there, his hand still rubbing her back, his other arm holding her close. He didn't say anything, but his presence was enough. He was listening, and for the first time in her life, she felt like someone truly cared about what she had to say.
"The first time he hit me," she whispered, "I was fourteen. I don't even remember what I did to make him so angry. It didn't take much. I must have said something, or maybe I didn't say enough. But I remember the look in his eyes—how cold they were. He slapped me, hard enough that I fell. And when I looked up at him, he just... he just stared at me like I was nothing. Like I wasn't even worth his anger. He didn't say a word, just turned and walked away."
She took a shaky breath, the memories cutting deeper than she had expected. "After that, I was scared all the time. I never knew when it would happen again. Sometimes he'd go days without saying anything to me, and then out of nowhere, he'd snap. He never apologized, never explained. It was like I didn't matter. And my mother... she just let it happen. She never defended me, never even acknowledged it. She just... turned a blind eye."
He tightened his hold on her, his silence speaking volumes. She could feel the tension in his body, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. But he didn't interrupt her. He let her speak, allowed her to let it all out.
"I tried so hard to be perfect," she said, her voice wavering. "I thought if I could just be what they wanted, they'd stop. But nothing was ever good enough. The harder I tried, the more they pushed. And when I finally gave up, when I stopped caring... they called me a failure. They said I was weak, ungrateful."
She wiped at her eyes, the tears falling freely now. "That's why I am the way I am. Why I push people away. It's easier that way, you know? If I keep everyone at arm's length, then no one can hurt me like they did. No one can get close enough to see the cracks."
His heart ached for her. He had always known Pansy was guarded, that she kept her walls up. But he hadn't realized just how deep those walls went, how much pain she had been hiding behind them.
"Parky," he said softly, his voice full of tenderness. "You don't have to be perfect for me. You don't have to be anything but yourself. I love you, flaws and all."
She looked up at him, her eyes red and glistening with tears. "I don't know how to let go of it, love. I've carried this for so long. I don't know how to be... free."
He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing away her tears. "You don't have to let go of it all at once. We'll take it one day at a time, together. You're not alone anymore. You have me. And I will always be here for you, no matter what."
His words, so simple and sincere, broke something inside her. The floodgates opened, and she collapsed into him, sobbing into his chest as years of pain and fear poured out of her. He held her tightly, whispering soft reassurances into her hair, letting her cry as long as she needed.
It felt like hours before her sobs finally subsided, leaving her exhausted and drained. She stayed in his arms, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his body grounding her in the present.
"I'm so tired, Nevie," she whispered, her voice thick with exhaustion. "I'm tired of carrying all of this."
"You don't have to carry it alone anymore," he murmured. "I'll help you. We'll face it together."
She nodded, her head still resting against his chest. For the first time in a long time, she felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, she didn't have to be strong all the time. Maybe she didn't have to keep everything locked away.
With him by her side, she could finally start to heal. And maybe, one day, she could learn to forgive herself for the scars her parents had left behind. But for now, she was content to simply be in his arms, safe and loved.
"I love you," she whispered, the words feeling lighter on her tongue than they ever had before.
"I love you more," he replied, his voice full of quiet determination. "Forever."
And with that, Pansy closed her eyes, letting herself rest in the comfort of Neville's love, knowing that she was no longer alone.