Pansy burst through the ornate penthouse door like a force of nature, fury rolling off her in palpable waves. Her heels struck the marble with sharp, unforgiving rhythm as she tore through the silent corridor, fully prepared to unleash her frustration on Hermione for vanishing without warning.
Hermione was nowhere to be found.
Instead, the study stopped her cold.
Papers lay scattered across the floor like fallen feathers, books half open and abandoned. An overturned chair rested near the desk. And there, in the middle of the wreckage, sat Draco Malfoy.
Or what was left of him.
The man who once embodied control and precision was slumped on the floor, back against the desk, head bowed.
His hair was unkempt, his shirt stained and wrinkled, his hands shaking around an empty bottle. Tears clung to his lashes and tracked down his cheeks without restraint. Whatever dignity he had once worn like armor had been stripped away completely.
Pansy stared for a beat, her chest tightening despite herself.
"Well," she said at last, her voice slicing through the room. "That's a new low. Even for you. What happened, Draco? Did the universe finally run out of patience?"
He lifted his head slowly. His eyes were bloodshot, unfocused, swimming with alcohol and humiliation. When he spoke, it was sharp and ugly, like a cornered animal snapping out of instinct.
"Get the fuck out of my face, whore."
The word landed hard.
"Sometimes you really forget who you're talking to," she replied coolly, stepping closer. "You might be my boss. You might think you outrank me. But you do not get to speak to me like I'm something you scraped off your shoe. Who the hell do you think you are?"
Her voice filled the study, steady and unyielding. The portraits lining the walls seemed to watch in quiet judgment as Draco's bravado faltered. His mouth opened, then closed again. Whatever fury he'd tried to summon collapsed under its own weight, leaving only exhaustion and shame.
For the first time, he looked small.
"Hermione left," he muttered finally, the words slurring together. "She left me."
Pansy stared at him, something dark and complicated twisting behind her eyes.
"Oh," she said, lips curling. "Good. Looks like Granger finally grew a spine."
His head snapped up. "How could you say that?"
"Oh, shut the fuck up, Malfoy," she snapped, cutting him off mid-breath. "You don't get to mope around like some tragic hero after dragging her through hell and back. You broke her, then stood there blinking like a confused owl when she finally had enough. I know your version of events, Draco, and it's bullshit."
His face twisted, whatever the alcohol had been numbing now stripped away, leaving only raw, ugly desperation. "So now I'm a liar?" he shot back, voice cracking despite his effort to sound furious.
She laughed once, sharp and humorless. "If the shoe fits, lace it up and stagger in it. And while we're here, a bit of practical advice." She flicked her gaze down at the empty bottle, then back to his face. "If you're going to vomit, do it on your side so you don't choke. Hermione's been through enough without you dying theatrically on a Persian rug."
He flinched.
"And if you actually want her to have peace," she continued, stepping closer, voice low and lethal, "then don't turn back. Not even a little. Don't haunt her. Don't rewrite the past. Don't try to crawl back into her life because you're lonely and drunk and suddenly self-aware. Let her breathe."
The silence that followed was razor sharp.
Draco sagged back against the desk, whatever fight he had left bleeding out of him. The bottle slipped from his fingers and rolled away across the floor. He looked broken now. Not dangerous. Not powerful. Just wrecked.
Pansy watched him for a long moment, anger and something dangerously close to grief warring in her chest.
"You don't get to destroy the people who love you and then drown yourself because they won't stay," she said quietly. "And you don't get to take her down with you."
He said nothing.
That told her enough.
With one last look, Pansy turned on her heel and walked out. Her steps echoed down the corridor, sharp and decisive. She did not look back.
Behind her, the penthouse remained silent, bearing witness to the aftermath of pride and loss. And as she left, one thing was clear in her mind.
She would protect Hermione. Even if that meant standing between her and Draco himself.
~~~~~~
The moment Pansy arrived at the sprawling Nott estate, she didn't so much enter as invade. She tore through the manicured gardens and elegant corridors like a woman possessed, heels striking stone with the sharp authority of someone who had Important Business and zero patience for pleasantries.
She found Luna exactly where she always was when the world felt too loud. Outside. Barefoot. Calm. Lysander sat beside her in the grass, laughing softly, sunlight tangled in his curls.
And then Pansy saw it, a creature that looked like the universe had sighed heavily and given up halfway through designing it, scruffy, round, and wearing the expression of someone who had never been told no.
Her nose wrinkled on instinct. "Ugh. What is that."
Lysander, delighted and unbothered, patted the creature's rough fur with unearned confidence and then spotted Pansy. His entire face lit up. He threw his arms into the air like he was summoning her. "Rocio!"
Pansy sighed. Defeated instantly. She scooped him up and pressed a kiss into his curls.
"Hello, my beautiful pumpkin," she murmured, soft despite herself. Then, eyeing the creature again with visible suspicion, she added, "And that… thing… is quite special, I'm sure."
Lysander babbled happily, curling into her shoulder, entirely pleased with the situation.
Luna watched the scene with quiet amusement before finally lifting a brow. "Alright, love. Out with it."
Pansy straightened immediately. Gossip mode engaged. With Lysander still on her hip, she turned to Luna, eyes bright with theatrical glee. "I have news."
Luna nodded patiently. "I'm listening."
Pansy inhaled, ready to deliver the performance of a lifetime. "So today I went to show Mimi my new portrait of Lady and Princess—"
"Pviness!" Lysander shrieked joyfully.
Pansy clenched her jaw. "Yes. Princess. As I was saying—"
"Ladii!" he added, swinging his legs with glee.
She closed her eyes. Counted to three. Opened them again, glaring at the sky. "Oh, for fuck's sake."
She snapped her fingers. "NELLY."
With a pop, her house elf appeared, already exhausted on principle.
"Bring the dogs. Immediately. I need silence."
Luna gasped. "Pansy!"
Pansy waved her off. "He'll be thrilled."
Lysander clapped excitedly, clearly in agreement. Nelly vanished again.
Luna crossed her arms, shaking her head. "You are unbearable."
Pansy smirked. "Efficient."
Luna rubbed her temples. "If you don't say it in the next five seconds, I'm hexing you."
Pansy's smile widened. She flipped her hair back, savoring the moment like a villain about to monologue. "Hermione left Draco, isn't that wonderful?"
Luna's expression didn't shift immediately. Then it did. The light drained from her face, the amusement gone, replaced by something heavy and sharp. She exhaled slowly. "That's not good. That's fucking sad."
Pansy scoffed. "Sad? What's sad is that it didn't happen sooner. He put her through hell. She survived him. That's not tragedy, that's progress."
Luna tilted her head, studying her in that quiet, unnerving way. "And Neville didn't?"
The words landed wrong.
Pansy blinked. "What?"
Luna's voice stayed soft. "Neville didn't endure you. He didn't take everything you threw at him."
Pansy's fingers curled into her palm. "That's different," she snapped. "Neville chose me. He loves me."
Luna's gaze softened, and somehow that hurt worse. "Or do you just think the only way someone would love you is if they were forced to marry you?"
The air went still.
Pansy stopped breathing for half a second. Something cold slid under her ribs, tight and sharp. She stared at Luna, jaw set, hands shaking just enough to give her away.
Luna wasn't attacking her.
She was seeing her.
And that was unbearable.
The silence stretched between them like a standstill after a brutal fight, neither of them stepping forward, neither retreating. Pansy's chest rose and fell too fast, breath coming shallow and sharp, her heart slamming against her ribs as Luna's words sank in despite every instinct screaming to reject them.
They words lodged themselves inside her, heavy and cold, squeezing the air from her lungs until it felt like she might actually choke on them.
She tried to swallow the feeling down, tried to crush it the way she always did, but it clawed its way back up anyway, bitter and ugly and impossible to ignore.
Luna wasn't looking at her with anger. That would have been a relief. Anger was familiar. Anger meant a fight. It meant teeth and claws and victory or loss. But this was worse.
Luna's face was calm, open, unbearably gentle. Understanding sat in her eyes, quiet and unwavering, and beneath it something dangerously close to compassion.
It made Pansy feel flayed.
It dragged her back to a place she hadn't thought about in years, to the small, sharp ache of being a child tugging at her father's sleeve, desperate for approval, for warmth, for proof that she was worth keeping. She hated that feeling. Hated that Luna could touch it without even trying.
Her jaw clenched so hard it hurt. "You bitch," she hissed, and the tremor in her voice made her stomach twist.
She needed the insult. Needed the venom. If she stayed angry, she didn't have to deal with what was underneath it. Because what was underneath it was unbearable.
Luna just stayed where she was, hands resting loosely in her lap, gaze steady, patient, like she was waiting for a storm to burn itself out.
That only made it worse.
Pansy had survived by being sharp. By striking first. By turning everything into something cruel or clever before anyone could get close enough to see the cracks. She had perfected it. Lived inside it. But Luna had slipped past every defense with one quiet sentence and torn her open without ever raising her voice.
"Fuck you," Pansy snapped, louder now, desperation bleeding through the anger. "Fuck you and your perfect marriage. Fuck you and your perfect family. Fuck you for never having to wonder if you were enough."
Her hands were shaking. That was unforgivable. Luna should have been the one rattled, the one struggling.
Not her. Not Pansy Parkinson, who had built herself into something untouchable. Something dangerous. Something that didn't break.
But she was breaking now.
And Luna still didn't move.
She just looked at Pansy with that quiet, devastating understanding, like she had always known. Like she had always seen her exactly as she was.
That was the moment Pansy lost.
She couldn't stand there another second. Couldn't wait for Luna to say anything else, couldn't risk hearing words that might finish what had already started. She spun on her heel and stormed away, heart pounding, blood roaring in her ears, the world narrowing to the sound of her own footsteps and the echo of a truth she couldn't outrun.
Because Luna was right.
And that was the cruelest thing of all.
~~~~~~
Pansy tore through the grand halls of the Nott estate like a woman being hunted, her heels striking marble with sharp, furious cracks that echoed far too loudly in the cavernous space. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out everything else, her vision swimming as Luna's words chased her down with merciless precision.
Or do you just think the only way someone would love you is if they were forced to?
The sentence wrapped itself around her ribs, tight and suffocating, a living thing that slithered under her skin and refused to let go. She had meant to leave with her chin lifted, her spine straight, her dignity intact. She had meant to walk away untouched, untouchable, like Luna's words were nothing more than a mild irritation.
She barely made it home before the weight of it crushed her.
Her knees hit the marble floor hard enough to sting, the impact jolting through her body as her breath shattered into short, uneven gasps. The world tilted violently. She dug her fingers into the cold stone as if she could anchor herself there, as if sheer will could keep the thoughts from crashing down on her in relentless waves.
She hated Luna for saying it.
She hated herself for knowing it had landed.
This had never been a love story. There had been a contract. A decision. Ink on parchment. A marriage decided long before her heart had ever been consulted.
And yet.
The thing that had made it bearable, the thing that had made it everything, was Neville. Neville loving her. Neville choosing her, again and again, without hesitation. That had been the constant. The truth she clung to when the rest of the world felt sharp and unforgiving.
But what if one day he stopped?
What if one day he woke up and realised he did not have to love her?
The thought split her open.
Her breath hitched violently as something deep and carefully buried finally cracked. She dragged herself upright and collapsed onto the nearest sofa, pressing her hands to her face as the sobs tore out of her, raw and unrestrained. She had never cried like this.
She had built her life on composure, on sharp edges and sharper words, on never letting anyone see the fragile thing underneath.
Now there was no one to see.
The silence swallowed her whole.
She felt Neville before she heard him. A shift in the air. A warmth that settled around her bones. The way the world always seemed to steady itself when Neville was close, like something ancient and instinctive recognised him as home.
His voice came next, low and steady, threaded with something that made her chest tighten.
Panic.
He crossed the room quickly, and then his hands were on her face, warm and grounding, thumbs brushing gently over damp skin and ruined mascara as he tilted her chin up. His eyes searched hers with quiet intensity, taking in every tear, every tremor, every fracture she had tried so hard to hide.
"Bloom," he said softly, her name roughened by worry. "What's wrong?"
She wanted to snap. To deflect. To roll her eyes and tell him it was nothing, to bury the truth under sarcasm and pride like she always did. But her throat closed, her chest ached, and the words slipped out broken and small.
"Luna," she whispered. "She was cruel."
The change in him was instant. His arms tightened around her, muscles going rigid beneath his shirt, his expression darkening with something fierce and protective. He did not ask what had been said. He simply pulled her into him, hard and close, as if daring the world to touch her again.
She broke against him.
Her face pressed into his shoulder, her fingers fisting in his shirt like she might fall apart if she let go. His scent wrapped around her, familiar and steady and undeniably Neville, and for the first time since leaving the estate, she could breathe.
This was what held them together. This. The way he caught her when she collapsed. The way he loved her without conditions, without asking her to be softer or kinder or easier to love.
But even as she clung to him, shaking and exhausted, the fear lingered quietly beneath it all.
Because what if Luna was right?
Pansy had only ever truly, selflessly loved two people in her entire life.
Neville.
And Luna.
And if either of them ever left her, if either of them chose to walk away, she would burn the world down for them. Not metaphorically. Not poetically.
She would scorch the fucking earth. Tear it open. Salt it. Drown cities in ruin before she let them slip through her fingers.
Which was exactly why she was pacing the length of their sitting room like a caged animal, heels biting into the rug, hands shaking with barely contained fury, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls that did absolutely nothing to calm her down.
Her skin felt too tight. Her heart sat wrong in her chest, like it was trying to claw its way out. Thoughts tangled over each other, looping back, sharp and relentless.
Neville sat on the sofa, arms draped over the back, watching her with that look. That infuriating calm. That quiet steadiness. Like a mountain letting a hurricane scream itself hoarse.
"She was irritated that I offended her stupid fucking capybara," Pansy snapped, throwing her hands up. "Have you seen that animal? It looks like a wet loaf of bread with opinions."
Neville lifted a brow.
"Pansy."
She ignored him, stalking past. "And then she started in on me and I was already in a mood and she was being smug and—"
"What was the real reason."
She stopped. Just barely.
The tightness in her throat doubled. Her stomach rolled, nausea licking at the edges of her composure.
Neville did not push. He did not argue. He did not raise his voice.
He waited.
And Merlin, that was so much worse.
Her mouth twisted into something sharp and ugly. "I said it was a good thing Hermione finally left Malfoy," she bit out, folding her arms like armour. "Because it is. And Luna said it wasn't. And I said it was. And she said—"
Her voice cut off mid sentence.
Neville tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving her face. "And she said what."
Her fists clenched so hard her nails dug into her palms.
When she screamed, it ripped out of her. Raw. Unfiltered.
"She said that you should leave me."
Neville flinched.
From the fear underneath it. The naked, shaking terror in her voice, in the way her shoulders trembled, in the way she looked at him like she was already bracing for the blow.
"She did not say that," he said gently.
Pansy's vision blurred, her body buzzing with emotion she had no outlet for. "She did," she insisted, voice breaking around the edges.
Neville stood.
In two steps he was in front of her, hands warm and solid on her arms, pulling her close before she could spiral any further. His thumbs brushed her shoulders, grounding, steady, unyielding.
"Pansy," he said softly. "What did Luna actually say that made you feel like this."
And there it was.
The wound.
Her resistance collapsed all at once. The anger drained out of her like blood from an open cut. She shook her head, swallowing hard, unable to meet his eyes.
Because the truth was not something Luna had invented.
It was something Pansy had always carried.
Something she had always known.
And Luna had simply named it.
Luna apparated into the house with a soft crack, her arms full, both pugs cradled against her chest like a peace offering she had debated for the entire walk up the drive. The moment Pansy saw her standing in the doorway, she froze. Completely.
Her body went rigid, as though an invisible hand had closed around her spine and locked her in place.
Shock flickered across her tear streaked face, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, grief and fury still clinging to her like a second skin she had not yet managed to peel away. She had been bracing herself for this. For sharp words. For another fight. For something ugly and final.
But seeing Luna there, shoulders tense, mouth uncertain, eyes weighted with regret, made something twist painfully in her chest.
Neville, who had been hovering just out of sight, moved immediately. He crossed the room, gently lifted the dogs from Luna's arms, and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. A quiet thank you wrapped in affection. "Good luck," he murmured under his breath, knowing exactly what he was leaving behind.
Then he turned and walked away, disappearing down the hall and taking the last bit of buffer with him.
The silence that followed was thick and alive.
Neither of them moved at first. Pansy's breathing was still uneven, shallow and sharp from crying too hard too recently, while Luna stood with guilt written into every line of her posture, lips parting and closing again as if she were trying to choose the least damaging words from a thousand possible wrong ones.
As always, Pansy broke first.
"I would like to apologize," she said abruptly, her tone clipped and stiff, the words delivered like a rehearsed script. "That I offended Rocio."
Luna blinked once, unimpressed. "It's not about the animal."
Pansy cleared her throat and shifted her weight. "I would also like to apologize for being snappy with Lysander."
"It's not about him either."
Pansy stilled.
The room suddenly felt cavernous, like she was standing alone on a stage after the curtain had already fallen. Luna exhaled slowly, eyes never leaving Pansy's face, the look in them careful and reverent, as though she were holding something fragile between her hands.
"Pansy," she said softly, "I'm pregnant."
For one brutal heartbeat, nothing existed.
Then Pansy screamed.
"Oh my GOOOOOD!"
The sound could have shattered wards. Before Luna could react, Pansy launched herself forward, crashing into her with reckless enthusiasm, arms wrapping tight as she spun her around in a burst of laughter that sounded almost hysterical with relief and joy.
She kissed Luna's cheeks, her mouth, her temple, anywhere she could reach, giddy and breathless and alive in a way she had not felt in days.
The fight vanished. The hurt receded. Everything else dissolved.
Luna laughed, startled and breathless, squirming in her grip. "Girl, stop the kissing," she protested, fond and overwhelmed. "Take me on a date first or something."
Pansy grinned wickedly and planted one last dramatic kiss on her forehead before pulling back just enough to cup her face. "Sorry, love. Can't. You're married."
Then reality crept back in, soft but insistent. The joy dimmed just enough for the earlier pain to resurface, lingering between them like an unhealed bruise.
Luna drew in a steady breath. "I would like to deeply apologize," she said quietly. "For hurting your feelings."
Something tightened in Pansy's throat. Her hands loosened on Luna's arms.
"I know I hit you where it hurts the most," Luna continued, eyes shining with remorse. "And I have no excuse for that."
Pansy did not trust herself to speak.
Instead, she pulled Luna into another hug, slower this time, heavier. Not celebratory. Forgiving. Luna sagged into it with a shaky breath, relief pouring out of her in the way her shoulders dropped.
"I feel terrible," Luna whispered.
Pansy clutched her chest dramatically. "Terrible?" she croaked. "Luna, I almost died. I saw my life flash before my eyes. I perished."
Luna snorted, then laughed, then cupped Pansy's face and pressed a warm kiss to her cheek. "I'm so sorry," she said, sincere and steady.
Pansy hesitated, then sighed. "I think it's okay," she muttered, though the wobble in her voice betrayed her.
"No," Luna said gently but firmly. "It's not okay. It was cruel, and I wish I could take it back. I love you. And I swear to you, I will never say anything like that again."
Pansy swallowed, emotion swelling until it threatened to crack her open. Then she pulled Luna into one last fierce embrace, burying her face against her shoulder.
"I love you too," she murmured, the words settling into place like something finally set right again.
~~~~~~
The planning started over tea, though calling it tea was generous when the table was littered with half empty wine glasses and the sad remains of a charcuterie board that had very clearly lost the will to live.
The bored housewives, as they had very proudly and very inaccurately begun calling themselves, occupied the sunroom of the Nott estate like it was a war room.
This was not casual gossip. This was not idle bitching about husbands who forgot to buy flowers or the eternal question of whether French tailoring had finally gone too far.
This was a crisis.
Hermione had left Malfoy. Properly left. She had packed her things. She had stayed gone.
And while both Luna and Pansy had rallied beautifully, offering comfort, wine, aggressive emotional validation, and the occasional drunken sleepover, the truth remained deeply inconvenient.
A Draco Malfoy without Hermione Granger was a manice to society .
To himself. To others. And most offensively, to their collective peace.
"We have to fix this," Pansy announced, sprawled dramatically across Luna's absurdly plush chaise, one heel kicked off, champagne flute balanced with dangerous confidence between her fingers.
Luna, who was absently running her fingers through Lysander's curls as he dozed against her side, hummed. "Yes. It is becoming rather tedious. He's been drinking himself into a tragic spiral for weeks now. And Hermione is pretending she's fine, which she is very bad at. Her aura is dreadful. Far too much dark blue."
Pansy flicked a grape across the table with a scowl. "Obviously she's miserable. He's miserable. We're miserable watching it. And frankly, I do not have the time for Draco's self inflicted brooding hero routine when I have actual babies to raise." She sat up abruptly, eyes sharp with purpose. "So we're fixing it."
Luna nodded like this was simply the next logical step. "Agreed."
Pansy slammed her glass down with the gravitas of someone declaring war. "Master Plan. Operation Malfoy Reconciliation starts now."
"You cannot name it that," Luna said calmly.
"Fine. The Grand Malfoy Redemption Arc."
"No."
"Dramione: The Sequel."
Luna looked at her.
"Better," Luna allowed, lips twitching.
Pansy stood and began pacing, every movement infused with righteous authority. "Here's how this works. You, my ethereal little weirdo, are going to talk to Hermione."
Luna tilted her head thoughtfully. "Reasonable. She trusts me. But how?"
"You visit her," Pansy said, as though explaining something to a child. "Unannounced. Bring a sad dessert. Something half eaten and emotionally loaded. Treacle tart works. You sit. You listen. You gently remind her that she misses him, despite the fact that he is exhausting and dramatic and deserves to be throttled."
Luna took a sip of wine. "And you?"
Pansy smiled. Slowly. Dangerously.
"I am going directly to the source of Malfoy guilt."
Luna blinked. "You mean—"
"Narcissa," Pansy purred. "I will handle her."
Luna exhaled, equal parts impressed and concerned. "That feels… ambitious."
"I am extremely persuasive," Pansy said brightly. "And she loves me."
"She tolerates you."
"Same thing."
And just like that, the plan was finalized. Two women, utterly convinced of their moral authority, armed with wine, guilt, emotional manipulation, and an unshakable belief that they knew better than everyone else involved.
The Malfoys never stood a chance.
~~~~~~
Neville was already in the bedroom, waiting for her. His posture was relaxed, but there was something in his eyes—an amused curiosity as he leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed. He had been expecting her, and Pansy knew it.
"Well?" he prompted, tilting his head slightly.
Pansy scoffed dramatically, tossing her bag onto the chair and striding toward him with an exaggerated flourish. "Nothing well, sir!" she declared. "We made up because she loves me."
Neville smirked. "And you love her."
She rolled her eyes. "Why are you like this?"
"Because," he said, pushing off the bedpost and stepping closer, "after three years, it's still hard for you to say your emotions out loud. So I'm trying to push the button."
She gasped in faux offense, her hands on her hips. "That is not true! I tell you how much I adore you every single day! And if that's not enough, then I—"
"Hush, my love," he murmured, placing a finger gently against her lips. "I have something for you."
Her entire demeanor shifted in an instant. Her eyes lit up with childlike excitement. "A DOG?!?"
He groaned, rubbing his temples. "Pansy, we are not getting another dog."
"Yet," she muttered under her breath.
Ignoring her, he reached into his pocket. "I found something special while I was in the Muggle shops today."
She perked up, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. "Ohhhh, let me see!"
He raised a brow. "Will you be a good girl and wait patiently on your knees?"
And just like that, she felt it. A rush of heat pooled low in her stomach. The shift in tone. The way his voice dipped slightly. Her heartbeat stuttered, then sped up.
Oh.
So that's how tonight is going to go.
Her body responded before her mind even finished processing. Without hesitation, she reached for the hem of her dress, peeling it off in one fluid motion. Letting it drop to the floor, she stepped out of it with slow, deliberate movements—keeping her gaze locked on him the entire time.
Then, just as gracefully, she moved to the foot of the bed and sank to her knees.
Her pulse thrummed in anticipation. She could feel the cool air against her bare skin, could see the way Neville's jaw clenched, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her waiting there—obedient, eager, his.
He exhaled slowly, stepping forward. "Are you a brat tonight?"
Pansy swallowed, licking her lips. "No… no, sir. I'm a good girl. I'm sitting right here."
Pansy knelt at the foot of their bed, her back straight, thighs parted just enough to be enticing, hands resting delicately on them. The cool air of their bedroom sent a shiver up her spine as she watched Neville take his time—rolling up the sleeves of his button-down shirt, his movements slow and deliberate, the muscles in his forearms flexing slightly with each adjustment.
Her pulse quickened.
He was always composed, always steady. That was the thing about Neville—he never rushed. He savored. And right now, he was savoring the sight of her, kneeling before him, waiting for his next command.
The anticipation was maddening.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. Not a collar, then, she mused, her lips curling into the hint of a smirk.
"Take your knickers off," Neville said, his voice calm but firm.
A delicious chill ran down her spine at the authority in his tone. She obeyed immediately, lifting her hips slightly as she slid the lace down her thighs and let them pool at her knees before kicking them aside.
"I'm sorry, sir," she whispered, looking up at him through her lashes.
His lips twitched as he reached out, tracing the line of her jaw with his knuckles. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, tilting her chin up just enough to make her shiver. "You will be."
His eyes were dark, filled with something possessive, something hungry.
And Pansy, Merlin help her, lived for it.
He finally crouched down in front of her, placing the velvet box on the floor between them. His fingers brushed over her bare knee, the slow glide of his touch making her squirm.
"I picked up something special for you today," he said smoothly.
Her breath hitched. She ached for his touch, but she also knew better than to reach for it without permission.
Instead, she wet her lips and asked, "What is it, sir?"
He chuckled, his gaze flickering between her lips and her waiting hands. "Open it."
She hesitated for only a second before reaching out, her fingers trembling slightly as she lifted the lid of the small box. Inside, nestled against a bed of black satin, was a delicate, silver bracelet—thin, elegant, with a tiny charm hanging from the center.
Her brows furrowed in confusion. "A bracelet?"
He hummed. "Look closer."
She did, and that's when she saw it—the charm wasn't just any charm. It was a miniature snake, its body coiled elegantly, its tiny emerald eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Her breath caught.
It wasn't just jewelry. It was theirs. A symbol of her, of them. Of who she was—who she would always be.
Her gaze snapped up to meet his, and for a moment, her usual sharp tongue failed her.
"Nevie," she whispered, her voice softer than she intended.
His lips curved into that knowing smirk. "I know how much you hate talking about feelings, Sassy," he murmured, taking the bracelet from the box and unclasping it. "So I figured I'd give you something to wear instead."
She swallowed thickly, her eyes burning.
This wasn't just a gift. It was a promise. A silent acknowledgment that he saw her, knew her, accepted her. Every ruthless, dramatic, poison-making, dog-worshipping inch of her.
"Give me your wrist," he commanded gently.
Pansy obeyed without question.
As he fastened the bracelet around her wrist, his fingers lingering just a second too long against her skin, she exhaled shakily.
"I love you," she blurted out before she could stop herself.
Neville's gaze flicked to hers, something warm, something real settling in his chest.
"I know you do," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her palm. Then, with a teasing glint in his eye, he added, "Now, back on your knees, darling. I'm not quite finished with you yet."
Her breath caught in her throat as he knelt before her, his touch reverent, as if she were something sacred. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path down her thighs, parting them with a gentle insistence that sent shivers coursing through her body.
He moved with quiet devotion, his lips pressing against her skin in a series of lingering kisses, each one a silent vow, a promise spoken through touch alone.
He worshipped her with every brush of his mouth, every caress of his hands, as though she were the only thing that had ever mattered.
With exquisite patience, he laid her back against the soft sheets, his gaze locking onto hers, filled with something deeper than desire—something that spoke of love, of devotion, of absolute, unwavering adoration.
And as he continued his slow, unhurried exploration, he whispered her name like a prayer, savoring the way she trembled beneath him, utterly his.
He leaned in, his tongue finding her clit and circling it slowly. Pansy gasped, her hips bucking against his face. Neville continued his relentless assault, his fingers joining his tongue in bringing her to the brink of orgasm.
Just as she was about to explode, he flipped her over, his hands gripping her hips. He positioned himself behind her, his cock rubbing against her bum. He leaned down, his voice a low growl in her ear. "I'm going to fuck you now, baby."
She nodded, her breath coming in short gasps.
He guided the head of his cock to her ass, gently pressing against her tight hole. He reached for the lube on the coffee table, coating his cock generously. He rubbed the lube onto her bum, his fingers gently probing her entrance.
She moaned, the sensation sending shivers down her spine.
He pushed his cock into her bum, inch by inch, allowing her to adjust to the intrusion. She cried out in pleasure, the sensation of being stretched and truly fucked sending waves of pleasure through her body. He groaned, feeling her ass clench around him, her moans driving him wild.
He started to thrust, slowly at first, but quickly building up speed. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts with her own. The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room, their moans and gasps creating a symphony of pleasure. "Faster, Nevie," she begged, her voice a desperate plea. "Please."
He complied, his thrusts becoming more forceful. He reached around, his fingers finding her clit and rubbing it in time with his thrusts.
Her moans grew louder, her body tensing as she neared the edge. He felt his own orgasm building, his cock throbbing inside her bum.
As he reached his peak, he pulled out, his cock exploding with a loud groan. Ropes of cum shot out, landing on Pansy's ass and back. The sight of his cum dripping down her cheeks only added to her pleasure. She turned around, her eyes locked on his cock, still glistening with their combined juices. She leaned forward, her mouth capturing the head of his cock, sucking and licking every drop.
He watched in awe as she took him into her mouth, her eyes never leaving his. He ran his fingers through her hair, guiding her head as she took him deeper. Pansy moaned around his cock, the vibrations sending shivers through him.
After a while, he pulled her up, his arms wrapping around her. He kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth. "That was incredible," he whispered, a satisfied smile on his face. She smiled back, her body still tingling from the intense pleasure.
~~~~~~
Pansy strode through the grand entrance of Malfoy Manor with her usual confidence, the sharp echo of her heels striking the polished marble floors. The towering walls rose around her in quiet judgment, steeped in the kind of old world opulence only pureblood families could wear without irony.
Today, though, the house felt heavier. Maybe it was the conversation she had come to force into existence, or maybe it was the knowledge that everything here, from the portraits to the woman waiting inside, was tangled up in the disaster that was Draco Malfoy.
She found Narcissa in the sunroom, composed as ever, pouring herself a cup of Darjeeling with delicate precision. She looked up as Pansy entered, a knowing smile already settled on her lips.
"Hello, dear," Narcissa said, setting the cup aside with effortless grace.
Pansy did not bother with pleasantries. She waved a dismissive hand, impatience already gnawing at her. "Narcissa, we have important things to discuss."
The edge in her voice earned a slight lift of Narcissa's perfectly shaped brows. "Oh dear," she replied lightly, amusement softening the feigned concern. "What is it now?"
Pansy sat across from her and leaned forward, elbows braced as if for combat. "I'm going to say this exactly as it is. Your son is a piece of shit."
Narcissa gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in theatrical outrage. "Pansy!"
Pansy lifted a finger. "Let me finish."
She did not wait for permission. "Draco, in all his infinite wisdom, managed to drive Hermione away. She left him. Walked out. Packed her things and vanished like a ghost. And I do not blame her."
Something real broke through Narcissa's composure. The mock offense drained from her face, replaced by a stillness that felt dangerously close to grief. Her lips parted, and for a heartbeat she simply sat there, absorbing the words as though they carried physical weight.
"Oh, my baby girl," she whispered.
The rawness in her voice caught Pansy off guard. She narrowed her eyes, studying her carefully. "You actually like her?"
Narcissa gave a soft, incredulous laugh and shook her head. "Like her?" she repeated. "Pansy, I love her. She is my daughter in law. She is family. I have been so proud of her." Her voice thickened, then steadied. "She was the best thing that ever happened to my son."
Pansy let out a slow breath and nodded once. That mattered.
"Hm," she murmured, crossing one leg over the other. "Interesting."
Narcissa's gaze sharpened. "And you, Queen of Slytherins. What do you feel about Hermione?"
"I love her," Pansy said without hesitation. The words landed clean and firm, stripped of theatrics. "I have been with her through every step of the hell she survived. You have no idea how many tears I have shed because of her."
She swallowed, anger giving way to something quieter and far more dangerous. "I have watched her suffer. I have listened to her break apart. I have held her together when she could not do it herself. And I am done watching her bleed for a man who does not know how to keep the best thing he has ever had."
Narcissa's expression softened further. "So have I," she said quietly. "And I am exhausted watching my son destroy the only love that ever mattered."
They held each other's gaze, an understanding settling between them without the need for words.
"Then do something," Pansy said. "Save their marriage. Or if that is impossible, at least save Hermione from Draco's destructive spiral."
Narcissa leaned back and reached for her teacup. She took a slow sip, eyes drifting toward the glass doors that opened onto the gardens. Her gaze lingered there, distant and calculating, as though she were surveying an old battlefield rather than a manicured lawn. Years of tradition, expectation, and power pressed quietly against her frame. She was not mourning what had fallen apart. She was deciding what came next.
She set the cup down with deliberate care, porcelain clicking softly against its saucer.
"Very well, dear," she said, her voice smooth and unyielding. "Let us get to work."
Pansy arched a perfectly sculpted brow, a dangerous smile forming. "And what exactly does 'work' entail?" she asked, already bracing for whatever chaos Narcissa Malfoy was about to unleash.
Narcissa leaned back in her chair and folded her hands neatly in her lap. The movement was smooth, practiced, elegant. "I think I'm going to visit Jane," she said lightly, as though she were announcing an afternoon walk rather than a calculated act of social warfare.
Pansy blinked. Once. Then again. "Mrs. Granger?" she repeated, disbelief creeping into her voice. "I am sorry, what in Merlin's name did you just say? Are you telling me you are about to casually pop in on Jane Granger?"
Narcissa lifted her chin, a faint glimmer of amusement at the corners of her mouth. "Do try to keep up, dear. We're best friends now."
Pansy made a choking sound and gripped the arm of her chair as if the room had physically tilted. "What the actual fuck," she managed. "Lucius is rolling in his grave."
"Well, I sincerely hope so," Narcissa replied, entirely unbothered. She took another sip of tea with maddening calm. "It has been far too long since anything inconvenienced him."
Pansy let out a sharp laugh, half hysterical. "I cannot believe this. Narcissa Malfoy, last reigning queen of the pureblood elite, is best friends with a muggle dentist."
"Not just a muggle dentist," Narcissa corrected gently. "My only friend. And I find I rather enjoy it. It is refreshing to speak with someone who does not weigh every sentence against ancient bloodlines and dinner party politics."
Pansy stared at her as if she had sprouted a second head. "Are you hearing yourself right now?" she demanded. "Since when are you the ambassador of muggle relations?"
Narcissa released a long, tired sigh. The kind that came only from motherhood. "Since my son became an absolute idiot and set fire to his own marriage. Someone had to take responsibility."
Pansy crossed her arms, still visibly struggling to process reality. "So what now? You and Janie," she emphasized the nickname with theatrical disdain, "have brunch dates where you sip mimosas and complain about your disaster children?"
"Oh, not brunch," Narcissa replied airily. "Daily. And we do more than complain. We strategize."
Pansy groaned and dragged a hand down her face. "This is unhinged. You own a mobile phone now, don't you?"
"I do," Narcissa said, with unmistakable pride. "Fascinating little thing. Efficient. The muggles are quite clever."
Pansy scoffed and flipped her hair. "Please. You are not special, Cissa. I have one too."
"Yes," Narcissa said sweetly. "But mine is pink."
Pansy opened her mouth, closed it, then narrowed her eyes. "You chose that colour on purpose."
"I did."
"Well," Pansy huffed, rolling her eyes despite the smirk tugging at her lips, "good for you. So what is this grand master plan, oh benevolent mother of the year?"
Narcissa set her teacup down with a soft, decisive clink. "I will visit Jane," she said calmly. "And I will speak to her."
Pansy leaned forward, elbows on her knees, studying her like she was witnessing a natural phenomenon. "And you genuinely think that will work?"
Narcissa lifted one perfectly manicured brow. "Oh, my dear girl," she said softly, confidence coiled beneath every syllable. "I know it will."