She was tearing the house apart like it had wronged her personally, like every fragile thing inside it had dared to witness her unraveling and needed to be punished for it.
Crystal glasses lay in jagged ruins across the dining room floor, hand cut and imported, wedding gifts now reduced to glittering wreckage that caught the light in cruel, fractured angles.
Porcelain crunched beneath his boots, the remnants of her grandmother's china ground into dust and memory.
A vase that once held fresh peonies lay on its side, water bleeding across the hardwood like something sacred spilled and wasted, petals torn apart and trampled as if love itself had died right there.
And she stood at the center of it all, a singular storm wrapped in silk and fury.
Her chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven pulls, every breath a fight to stay upright, every exhale sharp with words she refused to let loose.
Her hair was wild, strands clinging to her damp cheeks, no longer sculpted into perfection. Her lipstick was smeared into a dark crimson stain that trailed from the corner of her mouth like war paint.
She looked like she had clawed her way out of a battlefield, dragged herself through wreckage and fire, and refused to lie down afterward.
When she turned to face him, time seemed to lock in place.
And gods, he felt it. The sheer force of her. That sharp, trembling fury threaded through with something far more dangerous than anger.
Heartbreak.
It was the look he had been waiting for without ever admitting it. The look she had never given anyone else. Only him.
She was unhinged. Untethered. Devastating in that raw, ruined way that only Pansy could be when pushed past the edges of herself. Her eyes, usually clever and calculating, were bottomless now, dark with betrayal and longing and a fury that went straight to the bone.
"Did you enjoy yourself tonight?" she demanded, her voice jagged, eyes locked on his like she was lining up a curse.
Her hands shook at her sides, fingers twitching as though she was seconds away from grabbing the nearest object and hurling it just to hear something break the way she had.
Neville only tilted his head slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world to watch her burn.
"Oh," he said, his voice smooth and measured, calm in a way that was almost cruel. "Immensely."
Her whole body reacted. Her shoulders snapped back. Her nostrils flared. Her mouth parted like she could not decide whether to scream or sob.
"Go fuck yourself, Longbottom," she hissed, the words sharp and shaking with everything she refused to name.
But he was not done.
He took a slow step toward her, savoring the way her breath caught, the way her body leaned back on instinct even as her eyes stayed locked on his. She was shaking now, vibrating with anger and something hotter, something dangerous.
"You would rather I fuck Daphne instead?" he asked quietly, each word pressed into the air like a blade.
Her eyes darkened. Her lips parted in a gasp she refused to let escape.
"Say that again," she whispered, her voice barely there, but the threat in it was unmistakable.
He smiled then, slow and infuriating, like a man who knew exactly which nerve to touch to bring the whole structure down.
"I said," he murmured, stepping close enough to smell wine on her breath and fury clinging to her skin, "do you want me to fuck—"
The wine glass flew.
It shattered against the wall inches from his head, red splashing across the cream wallpaper like a bloodstain.
He did not blink.
But gods, he wanted her.
This was the Pansy he knew. The one who did not hide behind ice or performance. The one who felt so fiercely it terrified even herself. The one who burned with jealousy because she loved him in a way she did not know how to soften. The one who could destroy a room and still be the only thing that mattered in it.
The one who could destroy him.
And tonight, he wanted to burn with her.
She stepped forward, heels striking the floor like a war drum through the wreckage, then another step, and another, until she stood toe to toe with him. Her chin lifted in pure defiance, eyes wild with fury and something far more dangerous. Her hands were clenched into trembling fists at her sides, knuckles white, tension vibrating through every inch of her body.
"You," she hissed through her teeth, her voice low and shaking with emotion she could not begin to untangle, "are such a fucking bastard."
Before she could draw another breath, his hand moved.
Fast. Instinctive. Possessive. His fingers closed around the column of her throat, not in violence, but in something intimate and devastating. He looked at her like he was watching the only thing that had ever mattered to him come undone in real time.
"You are still wearing my dress," he said, and there was no mockery in his voice. It was reverent. Dark with need. Threaded with something that sounded dangerously close to regret.
His thumb slid slowly along the underside of her jaw, tracing the curve like it belonged to him. "All of this," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the crimson silk clinging to her body, "you got dressed up for me, didn't you, love?"
Her breathing fractured into short, furious bursts, chest rising and falling so quickly it looked like she might combust. "Fuck you," she spat, but the words betrayed her, trembling and raw and aching with too much feeling.
His grip tightened just a fraction, just enough to steal her breath for a second, to remind her he knew her. Every reaction. Every lie she told herself. And when he spoke again, his voice was low and devastatingly calm.
"You already did."
That was it. Something broke loose inside her. A raw, guttural sound tore from her throat, not quite a scream or sob, and she shoved him hard, palms slamming into his chest with all the force of her grief and rage and longing.
He caught her wrist before she could pull away, spun her with practiced ease, and pinned her against the nearest wall.
She gasped in shock, in adrenaline, in that breathless place where fury and desire blurred into the same sharp edge.
His mouth was at her ear instantly, his breath hot against her skin, and he was not smiling anymore. He looked at her like she was the only god he had ever believed in.
"What's wrong, Parky?" he whispered, his voice a silken threat. "Didn't like seeing me with her?"
She wanted to scream. To hit him. To claw at the way he made her feel things she hated needing. Instead, she dug her nails into her palms, lifted her chin, and hissed, "Why should I care?"
He laughed softly, dark and low and so infuriatingly sure of himself it made her stomach twist. "Oh, you care, darling," he said, drawing out the word like a secret only they shared.
Then his hand moved. Slow. Confident. Deliberate. His fingers slid up the slit of her dress, barely grazing the warm skin of her thigh. Electricity shot through her, every nerve ending lighting up at once. Her jaw clenched, her whole body trembling, the air between them thick with everything she refused to say.
"Admit it," he breathed, his voice curling through her like smoke, dangerous and intoxicating.
She said nothing.
Her teeth ground together as she swallowed the scream whole, her throat working around it while her body burned with the need to hit him, kiss him, ruin him. She would not give him the satisfaction. She would rather tear out her own tongue than offer him the words he was waiting for.
But Neville had always known exactly how to dismantle her. He knew which threads to tug and which lies to wait out, and she could feel him circling closer to the fault lines even now. He was not finished. Not even close.
Slowly, deliberately, with the ease of habit and control burned into muscle memory, Pansy slid her hand beneath the heavy silk of her dress.
Her fingers found the familiar leather strap above her garter and curled tight around the hilt of the blade she kept there, not out of fear, but out of principle. The cold touch of metal against her thigh grounded her, sharp and steady, a reminder of who she was and what she refused to become.
She drew it free without hesitation, smooth and precise, the motion of someone who had done this a hundred times before. To warn the world not to mistake beauty for fragility.
She stepped into his space in one fluid movement and pressed the tip of the blade to the soft line of his throat beneath his jaw, where skin thinned and blood ran fast.
The pressure was gentle enough not to break flesh, but the promise was unmistakable. It was a silent threat and a wordless vow all at once. Her wrist stayed steady, posture locked, like a dancer caught mid pose, except this dance carried the edge of violence.
Neville just looked at her. His spine straightened, shoulders settling as if he were accepting the knife the way a king might accept a crown.
His dark eyes did not flicker with fear or anger. Instead, they held something far more infuriating. Curiosity. Anticipation. His lips curved faintly, not mocking, but amused, the way a man smiles at a fire he knows could consume him. He had always understood that her heat could burn.
"What's the plan, Bloom?" he asked, his voice husky and infuriatingly calm, that intimate nickname sliding under her skin and cracking her armor no matter how hard she braced. "Going to carve me up like Dimitar? That was beautiful. Do better."
He leaned into the blade just slightly, slow and deliberate, a willing offering. He wanted her feral. He wanted her undone. He wanted her real.
Her breath hitched, sharp and furious, tearing through her throat like smoke. She pressed the blade a fraction harder, just enough to feel the give of his skin. His throat moved beneath the steel, and still he did not retreat. It made her furious that he could stay so composed while she was unraveling in plain sight.
"Fuck you," she spat, her voice raw with everything she could not say and every wound she would not show. Her grip tightened, knuckles whitening, her whole body strung tight with fury and heartbreak. "I hate you."
His smile deepened, slow and devastatingly familiar, the kind that had always made her want to kiss him or kill him or both. "Yes, my love," he murmured, his voice soft as velvet and just as sharp. "Of course you do."
Her jaw trembled, her arm locking as though the blade were the only thing keeping her upright. She hated how easily he stripped her bare, how he knew without question that whatever hatred she claimed was eclipsed by how fiercely she ached for him. How deeply she needed him, like breath, like blood, like war.
Then he moved, fast and sure.
His hand snapped around her wrist before she could react, and in the same motion his other hand rose to her throat to hold her steady. To feel the frantic beat of her heart under his palm. To tell her without words that he saw her.
His grip was firm, commanding, and certain, but not cruel. It was a reminder that no matter how many blades she drew or how many masks she wore, she was still his. Still the girl who once cried in his arms in the quiet dark and asked if broken things could still be wanted.
"Drop it," he said softly, his voice low and coaxing, terrifying in its gentleness. It sounded like a command wrapped in reverence, like a promise that surrender would not mean being lost.
She stayed frozen for a heartbeat, truly considering it, imagining the blade sinking just enough to draw blood. Just to mark him. To leave something visible that mirrored the scars he had etched into her. Her hand shook.
Her fingers betrayed her, trembling with grief and need, and the knife slipped free. It hit the floor with a sharp clatter, the sound final and hollow, like the last word in an argument neither of them had ever really won.
And she stood there, breath caught in the tight cage of her ribs, chest heaving like she had just survived a war, her skin flushed, her pulse a wild and frenzied beat beneath the steady weight of his hand still curled possessively around her throat.
She felt utterly exposed in that moment, stripped of every last defense, laid bare not by lack of clothing, but by the sharp, blistering intimacy of his gaze and the maddening certainty with which he held her—not as if he was testing her power, but as if he knew it was his. And worse, as if she did too.
She trembled beneath his touch, in the unbearable awareness of how deeply he could see her, how infuriatingly well he knew her. Her fury, her pride, her pain—it was all there, trembling on the edge of surrender.
She felt more naked than if he had torn the dress from her body himself. More vulnerable than she'd ever allowed herself to be.
"Good girl," he murmured, the praise low and dangerous, curling at the edges of his voice like smoke rising from something still burning beneath the surface. It wasn't condescending—it was claiming.
Her breath hitched, sharp and audible, as her chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm. Her lips parted slightly, her body trembling with adrenaline, want, and rage in equal measure.
Her wide eyes locked onto his, brimming with wild contradiction—desperation and defiance, love and loathing, longing and fury.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to sob. She wanted to throw him through a fucking wall and kiss him until he couldn't breathe. She wanted to bury her hands in his hair and tear at him until nothing else existed. She wanted to destroy him and have him hold her while she did it.
"Collect my belongings," he said next, his tone maddeningly level, composed, each word crisp and deliberate—like he hadn't just shattered her with a single look.
She didn't respond. Her wand was in her hand before she even realized she had reached for it, her magic pulsing hot and fast with emotion as she flicked it with practiced precision.
The scattered remnants of his life, clothes she had thrown out the window in fury, shoes she had launched into the garden like insults, books she had shoved from shelves in some desperate bid to erase his presence, rose slowly from where they lay, carried gently through the open glass doors and back into their place as if they had never been cast out.
Her hands didn't move. Her lips didn't part. But her eyes never left him, because if she looked away now, she'd fall apart completely.
The air between them buzzed, thick with the weight of unsaid things. Her magic responded to the tension, the charged air vibrating with raw, unfiltered power, as if even the house itself was watching, waiting.
"Clean up the broken glasses," he added, stepping closer again, so close that she could feel the heat of his body without a single point of contact. His breath fanned across her cheek, brushing her skin like a promise and a punishment. "And don't hurt yourself."
Her nostrils flared. Her hands clenched at her sides. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to disappear into him and never be seen again.
But she obeyed.
Wordlessly, she turned her wand toward the wreckage, crystal shards and china splinters, the physical echo of her emotional unraveling and repaired each piece with precision. It was easier than telling him the truth: that she was already broken in places no spell could touch.
He was still watching her, always watching her, and she could feel it—feel the weight of his gaze like a brand on her skin, feel the way it curled around her ribs and wrapped around her spine.
Then, suddenly, he was in front of her again, his hand at her throat once more, less forceful now, but no less commanding, tilting her chin up, forcing her to look at him when all she wanted to do was hide.
"Do not ever do that again," he said, voice dipped in a darkness that made her stomach twist. Not angry. Not scolding. Just final. Like a truth he would not allow her to forget.
She swallowed, the sound loud in her throat, her entire body rigid with the effort not to tremble. She nodded, once, sharp and reluctant, her eyes never leaving his.
He let go of her slowly, his fingers brushing her jawline on the way down, his thumb tracing her skin like a memory he was trying to commit to touch.
"Strip."
She blinked. Just for a second.
He tilted his head, that maddeningly unreadable look returning to his face, a flicker of something dangerous sparking in his eyes—daring her to say no. Daring her to disobey. Daring her to test just how far she could push him tonight.
She didn't.
Her hands moved slowly, almost reverently, reaching for the zipper at the back of her dress. She drew it down inch by inch, the sound loud in the charged silence, her fingers trembling only slightly. The crimson fabric slid off her shoulders, down her arms, pooling at her feet like spilled wine.
She stood tall, her chin lifted, her eyes locked on his, her spine unbending despite her nakedness. There was no shame in her. Only challenge.
Only Pansy.
"Go take a shower," he said finally, his voice lower now, rougher, laced with something primal. His eyes raked over her with slow deliberation, dark and heated. "You look a mess."
She didn't move right away.
But when she did he watched her go like she was his salvation and his ruin all at once.
Her entire body throbbed with the heavy ache of too many emotions crammed into a space far too small to hold them, like a dam stretched to its limit and cracking beneath the weight of fury, sorrow, shame, and something far more vulnerable, something raw and trembling and unspoken.
Every step away from him felt like walking through fire, like tearing her own skin apart with each motion, but she did not look back, not once. She turned without a word, her spine stiff with pride even as her soul screamed inside her chest, and made her way to the bathroom, the echo of her footsteps swallowed by the thick silence hanging between them.
Still, she felt him, felt the heat of his gaze searing into her back like a brand, like a hand reaching across the void and refusing to let go.
The moment the door shut behind her, her composure collapsed.
She stepped into the shower like a soldier stepping onto a battlefield, steam already curling around her like the ghosts of all the things she could not say.
Hot water rained down over her skin, burning away the tension in her muscles while doing nothing to touch the storm beneath. Her fingers trembled as she braced herself against the cold marble tiles, her breath catching in her throat as the first tear broke free, then another, then another.
The tears fell freely and messily, blending with the water streaming down her face until she could not tell where one ended and the other began.
Angry sobs tore from her chest, silent but violent, wracking her shoulders as her knees gave out beneath her and she sank to the floor in a graceless heap of silk and skin and heartbreak.
Why would he do this.
Why would he come back just to light her up from the inside, just to open every wound that had barely begun to scar.
Why would he look at her like that, touch her like that, ruin her like that, only to hold himself back when she had already surrendered.
Why would he love her the way he did, only to hurt her like this.
Because you love him, a traitorous voice whispered, curling like smoke around her thoughts.
You love him more than anything in this world, more than every plan, every wall you built, every version of yourself that pretended you did not need him.
More than the universe itself.
And that was the cruelest truth of all. She knew it deep in her bones, down to her marrow, that he loved her just as ferociously, just as destructively. That he could burn down kingdoms for her and still leave her bleeding in the ruins. That they were two stars in constant collision, bound to crash again and again, unable to stop.
That was what made it hurt so unbearably.
They had gone too far.
This time, they had both done damage.
Eventually, her body moved on instinct. She shut off the water, reached for a towel with shaking fingers, and dried herself with slow, careful movements. She found her silk robe and wrapped it around her body like armor, even though it offered no protection from what she was about to face.
She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stay upright, forcing her body not to betray her. Her spine stayed rigid, her expression sharp, even as every instinct inside her screamed to drop to her knees and beg him to speak. To say more. To say everything. To say he loved her. To say he was hers. To say she had not destroyed this beyond repair.
"I can look the other way," she whispered.
The words came out wrong. Cold. Hollow. Like poison forced past clenched teeth. Like blood drawn from somewhere too soft to survive exposure. Her voice barely trembled, but it cost her everything to keep it that way.
"If you want to fuck Daphne."
His reaction was immediate and absolute.
His body went rigid. His nostrils flared. His jaw flexed once, sharp and restrained. His shoulders squared like a man bracing himself for impact.
But his face stayed still.
Unreadable. Closed. Carved from the same stone she had been trying to crack open for weeks.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Low. Precise enough to cut clean through the space between them.
"Can you?"
It was a warning. It was devastation disguised as a question.
Her breath caught painfully in her chest. She wanted to scream no. Wanted to scream until her throat tore itself apart, until the truth bled out of her in ruinous clarity. But before she could force the sound past her lips, his eyes lifted fully to hers.
And when he really looked at her, it knocked the breath from her lungs.
There was no arrogance there now. No calculation. No cold distance worn like armor. No hint of satisfaction or control. What she saw instead was devastation, raw and unguarded, threaded with guilt and a tenderness so deep it scraped against her ribs like bone.
He looked at her like she was something precious he had dropped without meaning to. Something fragile he did not know how to fix.
Like he was memorizing her face, trying to understand her, trying to apologize without daring to speak. His gaze never drifted. He looked only at her face, at her eyes, at the damage he had helped uncover.
That restraint undid her completely.
It stripped her bare in a way that had nothing to do with skin. It exposed her in the quiet, devastating way that only care could. The way he looked at her like breaking her had been the last thing he ever wanted.
It made her want to scream.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, thick and burning like glass lodged behind her ribs, and crossed her arms over her chest with more force than necessary. It was defiance and shielding and survival all at once.
Her fingers dug into the soft fabric of her sleeves like claws, and she lifted her chin with the kind of brittle pride only a woman on the brink of breaking could summon. Her throat ached from holding everything back.
Rage. Sorrow. Desperation. Love.
She forced the words through it anyway, her voice sharp and fraying at the edges, worn thin by sleepless nights and too many things left unsaid.
"So you don't care about me," she spat.
Every syllable trembled with wounded pride and poisonous vulnerability, the kind of hurt logic could not touch and time could not soften.
He stayed still. Maybe she could have stopped loving him if he had given her something solid and selfish to cling to.
But he didn't.
He exhaled instead, slow and deliberate, like the breath itself was the last fragile thread keeping him intact. Like he had replayed this conversation a hundred times in his head and still had no idea how to make it hurt less. Or maybe he knew it never would.
"I care about you," he said at last.
The simplicity of it hurt more than any insult. His voice was steady, low, grounded, the kind of calm that only made everything inside her feel more unbearable. "Morning, noon, and night, I care about you."
Her breath caught halfway out, splintering in her chest like the echo of a scream she did not let escape. The words slid straight through her defenses because they were true.
That was the worst part. They were too much and not enough all at once. If he cared that deeply, why did he make her feel like this? Why had he spent the entire night twisting the knife until she bled?
She wanted to tell him that the thought of him touching Daphne made her physically ill.
That imagining him laughing with her, giving her even a fraction of what belonged to Pansy, made her want to crawl out of her own skin.
That she would rather burn their home to the ground and salt the earth than watch another woman take a piece of him.
But she didn't.
Instead, she lifted her chin again, blinking past the sting in her eyes, forcing her voice into something calm and distant and utterly false. Something that sounded nothing like the truth lodged in her chest.
"You are what I want," he said quietly. "But not like this."
The words landed like a blow. Her chest ached so sharply she thought it might cave in.
His voice stayed even, maddeningly controlled, but there was an edge beneath it now, sharp and dangerous. His gaze searched her face, tracking every tension in her jaw, every blink, every crack in her composure.
"What is your problem lately, Parky?" he asked.
The nickname hit harder than any accusation ever could. Once affectionate. Now heavy with frustration.
"What happened to you?"
She did not answer.
He stepped closer, and when he spoke again, his voice rose. It was sharper now, stripped of restraint, edged with the kind of frustration that had been simmering too long beneath the surface before finally snapping. This was no longer patience or quiet control. It was a demand. Raw. Honest. Dangerous.
"Why are you so damn annoying?"
That was it.
Something inside her split wide open. All the pressure, all the panic, all the gnawing insecurity that had been pounding in her chest like a second heartbeat finally tore through what little composure she had left. She snapped.
Her hands flew forward, shaking with fury and something that tasted too much like grief, slamming into his chest with more desperation than strength.
He barely moved, but she needed the contact. Needed to hit something. Break something. Be loud. Be seen.
"I found your letters!" she screamed. The words left her like shrapnel, each one burning on the way out, her voice already splintering under the weight of what she was confessing.
Her breath hitched, lungs spasming with panic. "Your disgusting love letters to that bitch. That filthy bitch."
His brows drew together, not in guilt or fear or anything close to what she wanted to see, but in sharp, genuine confusion.
"What?" he said.
"Don't lie to me!" she shrieked, because she had nothing left to hold herself together with. No patience for calm explanations or slow revelations. "I saw them, Neville. I read every single one."
Something shifted then.
His body went still instead, squared and rigid, his presence hardening. His gaze turned lethal, not cruel, but wounded and indignant. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as he fought not to explode.
For the first time that night, he looked truly angry.
"You found my work letters," he said quietly. His voice was so low it barely carried, threaded with disbelief that unraveled word by word. "The ones sitting right on the desk? The letters from Hannah?"
Her stomach dropped. Shame pooled heavy and sudden, sinking through her like poison.
"The reports," he continued, each word precise and cutting, "on the restoration project we're funding. The Herbology documentation. The soil updates."
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her lips shaped around an apology she did not yet know how to say.
The memory of the letters flashed through her mind in brutal clarity. The formal tone. The bullet points. The neat, professional sign off from Hannah Abbott, Assistant Coordinator.
They were not romantic.
They were not love letters.
They were work.
Her spine stiffened as everything inside her locked up. Every instinct screamed at her to deny it, to cling to the version of the story where she was betrayed and he was the villain. But it was slipping away, crumbling in her hands.
She had spent weeks, nearly a month, torturing herself. Building an entire mythology of betrayal around something that had never existed.
But instead of backing down, instead of collapsing into shame or offering an apology that would splinter what little protection she had left, she reached for the last scrap of control she could still feel between her fingers.
"Then what the fuck was tonight?" she snapped, her voice coming apart at the seams, too sharp, too exposed, too honest to be safely contained. "Was that your revenge? Was it fun for you, Neville? Did you enjoy watching me unravel while you flirted with that…"
He laughed.
It was bitter, jagged and hollow laugh, the sound of something sacred that had caved in on itself, the kind of laugh that drained warmth from the room.
"You started this fucking game, Bloom," he said, and her nickname cut instead of soothed, a reminder of just how far they had slipped from where they began.
He stepped closer, not in threat but in weight, his presence crowding her senses, his voice pulling something raw along her spine. "And now you're angry that I learned how to play."
She opened her mouth, ready to strike back, but he moved first. His hand came up and caught her chin, rough enough to stop her, careful enough not to hurt, tilting her face until she had no choice but to look at him. His thumb dragged along her jaw, not gentle, not cruel, simply claiming.
"You think I don't know you?" he murmured, his voice so low it seemed to vibrate inside her chest. "You think I haven't seen every mask you wear? Every time you shove me away, every time you scream and fight and break things just to see if I'll come back?" His head tilted slightly, his eyes sharp with fury and exhaustion all at once. "You're trying to see if I'll stay."
The breath left her lungs in a rush that felt like being struck.
Because he was right.
And for the first time in their long, messy, beautiful collision of a history, she had nothing. No clever remark. No venom. No shield to raise. Only silence.
He held her gaze for another moment, the tight line of his jaw the only sign of how close he was to breaking himself. Then he exhaled, slow and rough, and let his hand fall from her face as if touching her burned.
"I don't know what the hell is happening inside that twisted little mind of yours," he said as he stepped back, his fingers trailing down her collarbone in one last touch so light it barely existed before settling briefly over her pulse. "But if you think I'm going anywhere, you're more delusional than I thought."
And then he turned and walked out.
He simply left, and the sound of his departure landed with the quiet finality of a door closing for good.
She stood there in the aftermath, frozen in the wreckage of the evening, stripped bare by the truth and shaking under the weight of it.
The silence closed around her, thick and heavy, swallowing everything. The room shimmered with what she had not said, with apologies that had died on her tongue, with honesty she had been too afraid to reach for. Her hands trembled at her sides, fingers twitching with the urge to call him back, but her pride locked her in place.
She stayed there long enough for the shadows to stretch across the walls, long enough for the tears to finally come.
And still, she said nothing.
The dogs were already curled up at the foot of the bed, their small bodies tucked into one another, soft snores and steady breathing filling the room in a way that felt both comforting and unbearably cruel.
Their peaceful innocence stood in sharp contrast to the storm tearing through her chest, and the sight of them, so safe and unbothered, twisted something deep and aching inside her. Even they, she thought bitterly, did not deserve to live inside this kind of chaos. Not even them.
Her knees gave out before she reached the mattress. It was a quiet surrender to the weight pressing down on her from every direction. She collapsed to the floor, the cold wood biting into her skin, and wrapped her arms around herself as if she could physically hold the pieces together. It did nothing.
The first sob tore out of her like it had been waiting for hours, maybe days, maybe longer, just for permission. It folded her forward, curled her inward, reduced her to something wounded and small and no longer capable of pretending. "Love me, please," she whispered, the words cracked and fragile, barely loud enough to exist, like a child begging the dark not to swallow her whole.
It was not enough. It was never enough.
"Come back to me," she gasped, louder now, breath hitching as her hands fisted in the tangled sheets. She clung to the fabric with white knuckled desperation, as if it could pull her back from the edge, as if holding on hard enough might bring him back. "Please. Please, come back to me."
The next wave broke her completely.
"I need you," she wailed, her voice hoarse and splitting, every word soaked in pain and longing, hollowed out by the impossibility of existing without him. "I can't function. I can't breathe without you. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I'M NOTHING WITHOUT YOU. NOTHING."
The dam gave way at last. Sobs ripped through her with violent force, leaving her body heaving, her throat raw, her heart screaming for something it could not name. Her whole frame shook as everything unraveled, as the agony tore its way out of her in waves she could not stop or hide anymore.
And then there was warmth.
A presence. Arms she had not realized were moving until they were already around her, lifting her from the floor as if she weighed nothing, pulling her tight against a chest that felt like salvation. She had not heard him approach.
She did not know when he left the bed. Suddenly he was there, truly there, and his scent wrapped around her, familiar and grounding, anchoring her to something real and solid and achingly known.
His embrace was desperate and fierce, bruising in the way only love can be when it is close to breaking. His arms locked around her like a vow, like a tether, like letting go would destroy him too.
"If you ever died," he whispered into her hair, his voice shattered and thick with emotion and salt and all the things he could not say, "I would die with you. I swear it. I swear on everything I am. You are it, Bloom. You are my whole world."
A choked sob tore out of her against his chest and he held her tighter, his lips pressing to the crown of her head like an apology, like a prayer. "I would never leave you. Not ever."
She dug her fingers into his shirt, clinging to him with everything she had left. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst, and maybe that was what she needed. For something to finally give.
"I enabled you," he murmured, his voice rough and split open. "I made excuses. I should have drawn a line. I should have said something when things went bad, but I could not. All I ever wanted was you. All I ever loved was you. Every maddening, selfish, radiant part of you."
"Why would you do that to my heart?" she whispered, anguish threaded through every syllable as her lips brushed the base of his throat. "Why would you touch anyone else? Why would you let anyone touch you? You can't. You can't. You're mine, Nevie. Mine."
A low growl rumbled out of him, raw and barely contained. His grip tightened at her waist as if he could pull her closer than physics allowed.
"I wanted to make you jealous," he admitted, guilt thunderous beneath the words. "I wanted to punish you. But while I was pretending, while I was laughing at that stupid cow's jokes and acting like I cared, all I could think about was you. About ruining you. About taking you in that red dress until you screamed my name in front of everyone, so Daphne would see, so they all would. What is mine."
A broken sound slipped from her mouth, somewhere between a sob and a breathless ache, and she clawed at his back like she needed to crawl inside him just to feel safe.
"Then do it," she whispered, the words trembling, nearly lost between them.
His breath caught against her hair.
"Do what?" he rasped, even though he already knew, knew it from her eyes, from the way she shook against him, from the way she held on like she was drowning and he was the only thing keeping her afloat.
She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her mascara streaked face was devastation and fury and unbearable need all at once. Her lips were swollen from crying, her eyes bright with tears and fire and truth she could no longer hide.
"Ruin me," she breathed, her voice broken and soft. "Right now. Right here. Make me yours again."
Something inside him gave way.
He did not hesitate. He never did when it came to her.
In one swift motion, he crushed his lips to hers, the kiss bruising in its intensity, his hands tangling in her hair, his body pressing her back against the mattress. She gasped against his lips, and he took advantage, his tongue sweeping inside, claiming her in a way that left no room for doubt, no space for anything but this.
He kissed her like he was trying to consume her, to devour every inch of her, to make sure she felt him in her bones, in her soul.
His hands moved with purpose, ripping at the silk robe she had wrapped around herself, tearing it from her body and throwing it aside like it was nothing. His lips left hers only to trail down her jaw, her throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, making her shudder beneath him.
"You drive me insane, Pansy," he growled against her skin, his voice thick with emotion and hunger. "You make me fucking crazy. But you are mine. You will remember that."
She arched into him, desperate for more, her hands already working to undo the buttons of his shirt, her nails scraping lightly over his skin.
"Show me," she pleaded.
He didn't need to be asked twice.
He pulled away just long enough to strip himself bare before settling between her thighs, his hands gripping them tightly, spreading her open for him.
He drank in the sight of her, bare and vulnerable beneath him, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her lips red and swollen from his kisses, her skin his to mark.
"Look at me," he ordered, voice rough, commanding.
She did.
"Say it," he demanded.
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her eyes locked onto his, her voice barely above a breath.
"I'm yours, Nevie."
A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest, and then he was moving, claiming her in the only way he knew how, his name falling from her lips like a prayer, like a curse, like a confession.
And as they moved together, as the world outside disappeared, as the past and the pain and the games they played melted away into something raw and real and theirs—
His hand slid between her thighs, teasing her soaked folds before his fingers found her aching clit. But instead of the soft caress she expected, he slapped it—sharp, precise.
She screamed, the unexpected jolt of pleasure-pain sending her spiraling. The sound echoed off the walls, loud enough that their dogs bolted from the room, paws scrambling against the floor.
Neville smirked. "Sensitive tonight, aren't you, love?"
Before she could answer, he did it again, reveling in the way she gasped, her body convulsing against the mattress.
"Neville," she choked out, but there was no protest in her voice, only unrestrained need.
"On your hands and knees," he ordered, voice firm, dripping with command.
She obeyed instantly, spine arching as she pressed her chest into the mattress, her bare back exposed to him, vulnerable and beautiful in the dim candlelight.
"Good girl," he murmured, trailing a hand up her trembling thigh, his fingers gliding over the curve of her ass before parting her.
The first intrusion was slow—two fingers, sliding inside the tight, forbidden place he knew she loved, even when she pretended otherwise. She gasped, arching deeper, her moan raw and breathless.
He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "This is going to hurt, love. Just as much as my heart fucking hurt for you."
"Yes," she whimpered, voice breaking. "I—I deserve it."
Neville's grip on her tightened. "You are such a good girl. Even when you break my heart."
He murmured a quick charm against her skin, and then, without warning, he thrust inside, slow but unrelenting.
Pansy keened, her fingers fisting the sheets as she tried to adjust, her body stretching to take him. It was too much, the delicious burn, the overwhelming fullness, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
"Neville," she sobbed, her voice a mix of pain and unbearable pleasure.
He groaned, his own control slipping as he sank deeper, his fingers digging into her hips. "Fuck, you feel perfect."
He set a ruthless pace, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back inside, dragging another scream from her lips. Each thrust sent her forward, her body rocking with the force of him.
She could feel every inch of him, every possessive stroke claiming her, wrecking her in the way only he could.
And then he reached around, fingers finding her clit again, circling it in maddeningly slow strokes.
"Nevie, please—please," she sobbed, her body already teetering on the edge.
"Please what, love?" he taunted, his voice ragged as he fought to hold himself together. "You want to come, don't you? You want to make a mess on my good sheets."
She whimpered, barely able to form words.
"Say it," he demanded, fingers moving faster. "Tell me what you need."
"I'm—I'm so sorry," she gasped. "Sir, please—let me—"
"Do it," he growled, giving her one last punishing thrust.
Her body shattered. The climax hit her like a violent storm, crashing through her in relentless waves, leaving her shaking, ruined. She screamed his name, her voice hoarse, her vision blurring as pleasure consumed her.
For a long moment, neither of them moved, their bodies entwined, their breath mingling in the heavy silence.
Finally, he pulled her up, pressing soft kisses along the back of her neck, his hands roaming over her trembling frame, soothing where he had been rough.
"Touch yourself for me," he murmured, his fingers tracing her inner thigh.
She let out a broken whimper, shaking her head, but he wasn't having it.
"Again, darling," he whispered against her ear, his teeth grazing her skin. "I want to feel you come apart one more time."
And as she obeyed, as she let herself unravel in his arms, she realized—this was them.
No matter what they did to each other, no matter how far they pushed, no matter how many times they burned, they would always, always return to this. To each other. To the wreckage and the ruin and the love that survived it all.
~~~~~~
And as if watching the love of Theo's life endure the most agonizing pain known to wizardkind was not already splintering him apart second by second, he also had to deal with fucking Parkinson, who had somehow convinced herself that she too was in labor.
This was particularly impressive considering she was not pregnant and did not currently possess a uterus hosting a human being. None of that mattered.
If Luna was pushing a child into the world, then Pansy Parkinson was clearly obligated to push alongside her on an emotional, theatrical, and cosmic level.
It did not matter that Pansy was in flawless physical condition. It did not matter that she was not carrying a baby. It did not even matter that she was wearing a perfectly tailored jumpsuit paired with heels that screamed fashion week rather than maternity ward.
None of those facts stopped her from barging into the birthing room like the deranged lovechild of a midwife, a drill sergeant, and a couture icon having a breakdown.
Theo had barely processed the reality that Luna's water had broken, on the bed of course because fate despised him personally, before Pansy stormed in like a queen arriving on a battlefield.
Her presence alone was enough to make three mediwitches retreat on instinct. She did not knock. She did not ask permission.
She simply appeared at Luna's side and announced, with a level of conviction that bordered on divine madness, "Move aside. The goddess of birth has arrived."
From that moment onward, chaos reigned.
Within minutes, Pansy had evolved into a terrifying hybrid of birthing coach, protective auntie, and unhinged avenging spirit. She barked orders at mediwitches, rubbed Luna's back like she was trying to start a fire, and snapped at Theo every single time he did something wrong, which apparently included breathing.
If he shifted in his seat, she snapped, "Stop fidgeting, you're making the contractions worse."
If he opened his mouth, she cut in immediately. "Do not speak unless you've invented a spell that stops time and spares her this agony."
If he so much as glanced in her direction, she hissed, "I swear to Merlin, Nott, if you blink like a man, I will curse you into infertility."
And Theo, who had spent the last nine months balanced on the knife edge of panic, monitoring Luna's sleep cycles, potion intake, blood pressure, and bowel movements like a man possessed, truly tried to keep himself together. He did. He had survived assassinations, betrayals, and cursed forests. He could survive this.
Then Pansy crossed the line.
She yelled at him.
Actually yelled, as if he were a wandless intern who had spilled coffee on the wrong person. "Stop hovering like a constipated ghost and PUT THAT BLOODY GUN DOWN BEFORE YOU SHOOT YOUR OWN BALLS OFF!"
That was the exact moment Theo sincerely considered throwing himself into the fireplace.
Because yes, he was armed. He was always armed. And yes, it was their house. Yes, it was warded within an inch of its life. He did not care.
This was Luna. His Luna. His entire world was currently being torn open from the inside out, and he was not taking chances. Not for a second.
But Pansy, his eternal tormentor, his living migraine, his personal trial personally assigned by the gods, had decided that his entirely reasonable anxiety and precautionary weaponry were an aesthetic crime.
She screamed at him like he was attempting to hex the baby out of Luna using a wand forged from bad decisions and unresolved trauma.
And maybe, just maybe, Theo stared her down with a murderous glint that suggested he was actively weighing the pros and cons of defenestration. Did Pansy back down. Of course she did not.
Instead, she went full Shakespearean banshee.
She launched into an uninterrupted monologue of insults that somehow flowed without breath or mercy. Emotionally stunted hit wizard. Wand happy trauma case. Dementor in Gucci. Each one landed with surgical precision, like she had been saving them for years and this was her moment.
Theo was this close to losing it. He could feel it in his temples, in the tight coil of rage winding through his spine. He would have snapped. He absolutely would have. A blood vessel was moments from surrender.
And then Luna did something terrifying.
His glowing, radiant, suffering wife reached out and grabbed his wrist with the strength of ten Basilisks and the authority of a god who had decided patience was over.
"Theodore," she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut stone, "if you do not put that gun down and get over here right now, I swear to every ancient rune ever written, you will never be allowed near this cunt ever again."
Theo did not argue.
He holstered the gun.
Not because Pansy had won. Absolutely not. But because Luna had spoken. Luna, who was in pain. Luna, who was radiant. Luna, who currently controlled every nerve ending he possessed and was not afraid to weaponize that fact.
So he stood there unarmed, vibrating with barely contained fury, while Pansy smirked like a woman who had just conquered Rome in heels and lipstick that refused to smudge.
She acted like she was also giving birth. Like she was the axis upon which the universe turned. Like she was moments away from demanding a crown, a foot massage, and a commemorative plaque.
Theo loathed her.
Luna, of course, simply grit her teeth through another contraction and, between sharp breaths, reached out and squeezed Pansy's hand with something dangerously close to affection.
Theo watched that moment, his wife in agony, his mortal enemy being thanked, and understood something deeply tragic and profoundly unfair.
This was going to be the longest, most exhausting, most emotionally derailing day of his entire life.
And he was not even the one giving birth.
°°°°°°
Neville needed to come and get Pansy urgently, immediately, before someone filed a formal complaint or cast a Silencing Charm on her permanently. Because by the end of it, even Luna had reached her limit.
And that alone should have terrified everyone.
Luna, who possessed the serene patience of a celestial being.
Luna, who endured Theo's worst moods with grace.
Luna, who once held a full tea-time conversation with a confessed assassin without blinking.
Luna, who could find inner peace in a room full of chaos and still offer a smile that made people rethink their crimes.
Even Luna Lovegood had finally, definitively had enough.
When Luna lost her temper, when that ethereal composure fractured and something sharp and wrathful surfaced beneath it, the effect was biblical.
Grown men went quiet. Birds outside the windows fell silent mid-song. Time itself seemed to hesitate, as if unsure whether it was safe to keep moving forward.
Theo included took several instinctive steps back, like he was watching a dormant volcano wake up and stretch.
It had not happened all at once. It built slowly, insidiously, the way disasters always do. First came the sighs, soft but frequent, each one a little tighter than the last. Then the looks, those pointed, measuring glances in Pansy's direction that suggested Luna was actively tallying her remaining nerves. After that came the clenched jaw, every contraction sharpening her expression until she looked like a woman capable of biting through iron.
And then came the moment.
Right as Pansy leaned in a little too close, voice syrupy and dramatic, launching into yet another unsolicited monologue about womanhood and the divine agony of creation, one hand pressed to her chest like she was delivering the final number of Les Misérables, Luna snapped.
Her voice, usually soft and dreamlike, cut cleanly through the room.
"For the love of God, Pansy, get out before I kill you."
No shouting. Just a calm, crystal-clear statement threaded with celestial fury.
That was when everyone in the room understood, with a chill sliding down their spines, that this was it. The Queen of Drama had finally met her equal.
Neville was summoned instantly. Whether it was divine intervention, the desperate prayers of exhausted house-elves, or the fact that his name had been shouted into the ether by three different people at once, no one could say.
What mattered was that within seconds of Luna threatening homicide, he appeared in the birthing room with the eerie precision of a man who had developed a sixth sense for Pansy-related emergencies.
Neville entered with bone-deep, soul-weary resignation, the posture of a man who had been dragged into this exact circus too many times and had accepted his fate.
There was no greeting. No speech. No attempt to soften the moment.
Just a heavy sigh.
Then, with smooth familiarity, he reached for Pansy's elbow, one hand steady and practiced, the other hovering near his wand purely out of habit, in case she decided to hex him on the way out.
His grip was not cruel or forceful. It carried the calm authority of a husband who had spent seven years perfecting the art of removing his wife from situations she had absolutely no business being in.
A glorified, emotionally entangled bouncer.
And frankly, he was very tired.
He did not speak right away because he did not need to. Pansy, naturally, filled the silence for him, stomping beside him with the righteous indignation of a royal who had just been denied her throne.
"I wasn't finished," she declared, nose tipped skyward, Louboutin heels snapping against the polished floor like a ticking bomb of theatrical outrage. "Luna needs me, Nevie. I was helping."
The word helping was delivered with such dramatic conviction that Neville had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing and getting murdered on hospital grounds.
"Helping," Neville echoed, flat as day old tea, his voice so dry it could have cured parchment.
He adjusted his grip on her elbow as she twisted theatrically, every inch of her posture screaming misunderstood heroine dragged from the battlefield. "Bloom, you were five seconds away from being killed by a woman in active labor. A woman who speaks to thestrals and once hexed a Death Eater with a lily. You are not irreplaceable in this scenario."
"She wouldn't dare," Pansy sniffed, chin lifting with regal confidence that completely ignored the very real fact that Luna absolutely had dared. "I'm her best friend. She adores me."
Neville arched a brow, unimpressed and entirely unbothered. "Is that so?" he asked, steering her down the corridor like a man escorting a drunk banshee out of a high society gala. "Because I am fairly certain she threatened to put a wand somewhere extremely unpleasant if you did not leave her birthing suite."
"She was venting," Pansy insisted, as though this were a perfectly ordinary Tuesday and not a diplomatic incident. "She appreciates my presence."
"Luna appreciates your presence when you are not acting like you are the one crowning," Neville replied, deadpan, as they entered the manor's lavish sitting room, a space clearly designed for polite tea conversations and not marital hostage negotiations. He gestured toward a velvet armchair like he was offering her a throne, though his tone made it painfully clear this was a holding cell. "Now sit. Be a good girl. And wait."
The gasp Pansy let out could have powered a small wind turbine. Her mouth fell open in slow motion, scandal pooling across her face like spilled vintage perfume. She spun on him, hands slamming to her hips, every inch the affronted noblewoman.
"Did you just command me like I am some tragic extra in your provincial fantasy about obedience?"
Neville sighed. Deep. Long suffering. Spiritual. He rubbed the bridge of his nose like he was actively praying for Merlin to intervene.
"No, Pansy. I did not command you. I asked you politely to sit your overbearing arse down before Luna comes back in here and murders you with her mind."
She staggered back, clutching her chest like he had struck her with a fish. Her eyes blazed with righteous fury, the outrage of a woman who had been insulted and denied the spotlight simultaneously.
Neville simply stood there. Blank. Empty. The physical manifestation of a man teetering on the edge of collapse, begging the universe for one moment of peace.
They stared at each other in silence, two generals locked in a standoff neither of them wanted but neither willing to lose.
Finally, Pansy scoffed. She flipped her hair over her shoulder in a dramatic show of false nonchalance. "Fine," she snapped, flouncing toward the armchair like this was entirely her decision and not the result of a full room staging a mutiny.
She dropped into the seat, crossing her legs with the sort of haughty defiance that suggested legal action was forthcoming.
"Good," Neville said, clipped, his shoulders loosening now that she was safely removed from the birthing room.
Pansy lifted her chin. "I will be having words with Luna when this is over."
"I am sure you will," Neville replied, not even pretending to care.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "And you will be apologizing for that tone."
Neville snorted, rubbing his temples, then looked at her with the expression of a man who had long since accepted that some battles were unwinnable.
"Sure, Bloom. Immediately."
Pansy gasped, clutching imaginary pearls, vibrating with indignation.
Neville turned and walked away.
Because fuck that.
~~~~~~
The baby shower was here.
The arrival of Pansy and Neville, fashionably late as always, was marked by the kind of effortless presence only Pansy Parkinson could command. She did not simply walk into a room. She arrived, with a flair that turned heads and demanded attention without so much as a single word.
Draped in a flowing emerald gown that clung in all the right places and flared at the hem with easy grace, she looked less like a woman attending a baby shower and more like a goddess descending from Olympus, prepared to preside over whatever mortals dared exist in her orbit.
Neville stayed close at her side, as he always did, a quiet and steady counterweight to her brilliance. His hand rested at the small of her back, grounding her even as she swept into the room like a force of nature. Her dark eyes skimmed the opulent decor with a knowing smirk that suggested she had expected nothing less.
She took it all in. The careful symmetry. The absurd abundance of pink and gold. The obsessive detail Theo had poured into every surface. Then she sighed, long and dramatic.
"Merlin's tits," she drawled, one perfectly manicured hand settling over her belly as if to underscore the absurdity of it all. "Nott really did lose his mind over this, didn't he? I mean, we knew he was obsessed, but this is a different level of insanity."
Neville chuckled softly beside her, though his gaze flicked between Pansy and Luna with a quiet concern only he seemed capable of holding without comment. "You say that like you wouldn't demand the exact same thing for our son," he murmured.
Pansy shot him a glare that dissolved instantly under the weight of the amusement sparkling in her eyes.
Ginny, still cradling Valerius against her shoulder, laughed under her breath. "If you think this is extreme, just wait until the christening. Theo might actually commission a temple."
Blaise smirked, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored robes. "You underestimate him, love. He's probably already done it."
Luna lounged on one of the plush settees, serene and radiant, sipping her tea as if none of this excess registered as anything out of the ordinary. "You all act as if this is a surprise," she said mildly. "You do realize he would burn the world down if I asked him to, right?"
Pansy shook her head, lips curving into a fond smirk as she settled beside Luna with the ease of someone long accustomed to chaos. "Honestly, that's what makes it so entertaining to watch."
And with that, the celebration took on a life of its own. Each new arrival layered energy upon energy, laughter weaving through the manor, magic humming beneath every conversation. This was not just a baby shower. It was a declaration. A beginning. A promise being celebrated out loud.
At the very center of the room stood the crib.
It was a masterpiece, carved from pale ashwood and inlaid with mother of pearl. Phoenixes rose along its sides, wings spread among etched constellations, their forms caught forever in motion and light. Inside, wrapped in blush pink silk, lay the heart of it all.
Seline Nott.
She was impossibly small, impossibly perfect. Wisps of silvery blonde hair curled against her tiny forehead, dark lashes resting on skin soft as petals. She slept peacefully, unaware of the gravity surrounding her, oblivious to the way every adult in the room seemed to orbit her without meaning to.
She looked less like a newborn and more like something conjured. Something dreamed into existence.
A future queen, already rewriting the world simply by breathing.
Hermione drew in a quiet breath, the sheer innocence of the moment settling over her like a benediction. "She's perfect," she whispered, leaning forward just slightly, as if raising her voice might disturb whatever fragile magic had gathered in the room.
Draco tilted his head, his gaze lingering on the infant with an expression that resisted easy interpretation. "Perfect," he agreed softly, "and aptly named." His lips curved faintly. "Seline. The moon goddess. Theo must be over the moon."
Luna, seated nearby with her habitual calm, smiled with gentle certainty. "He's completely smitten," she said. "He's already planning her first stargazing trip. I reminded him she can't even hold her head up yet, but he insists it's never too early."
The sharp, unmistakable click of heels against polished wood announced Pansy Parkinson before she even spoke. She swept into the nursery with theatrical precision, equal parts dramatic complaint and unfiltered affection. At five months pregnant, she still carried herself like royalty, her emerald silk dress draped and fitted with deliberate elegance.
"This child is going to be spoiled beyond measure," Pansy declared, leaning over the crib. Her dark eyes softened as she extended one manicured finger, allowing Seline's tiny hand to curl around it. For a heartbeat, her usual sharpness fell away. "She's magic," she murmured, quieter now. "Truly magic."
Draco caught the fleeting longing in her gaze and said nothing. Instead, he brushed his fingers lightly along her forearm, a silent exchange that needed no explanation.
The nursery filled with low conversation and easy laughter. Blaise launched into an exaggerated retelling of Theo's first attempt at changing a nappy, dramatizing every moment until even Luna dabbed at her eyes, laughing. Ginny added her own commentary, teasing about how the once formidable wizard now hovered every five minutes, convinced his daughter might vanish if he looked away.
Draco and Hermione drifted toward the window, the golden light of early evening spilling across the floor and wrapping the room in warmth. They watched their friends gathered around the crib, voices overlapping in fond chaos.
"She makes you think," Draco said quietly.
Hermione glanced at him. "About what?"
"The future," he replied. "After everything we've endured, there's still this. Still something gentle. Still hope."
Her expression softened. Without thinking, she reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. "Moments like this remind us what we're fighting for," she said.
He exhaled, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in an unconscious, grounding motion. "It's easy to forget."
She smiled, gentle and certain. "Then we remind each other."
They stood there a moment longer, the past loosening its grip, the future hovering just close enough to feel possible.
The living room of Nott Manor felt like a world folded in on itself, warm and glowing, a place where time softened and stretched until nothing sharp could survive inside it. Firelight spilled across the polished wood floors, shadows drifting lazily along the walls as candles flickered in their sconces. The shelves of well loved books seemed to breathe with quiet history, the kind built from shared evenings and voices murmuring long into the night. Heavy emerald curtains framed the tall windows, holding back the winter wind howling beyond the glass, and inside there was only peace. Crackling flames, porcelain touching saucers, low laughter weaving through the air like a charm cast deep into the bones of the house.
The scent of mulled wine and cinnamon curled through the room, mingling with chamomile steeping nearby and the faint trace of lavender Luna had tied above the hearth. It smelled like safety. Like home. House elves moved softly in the background, refilling cups and tending candles with a presence that was nearly invisible and yet completely essential.
Hermione sat curled into one of the armchairs by the fire, a woolen throw tucked around her legs, both hands wrapped around a china teacup. The warmth seeped into her palms as her gaze drifted to the bassinet nestled in the corner, where a tiny miracle slept beneath blush colored blankets. Seline was impossibly small, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that felt almost sacred. Hermione smiled without meaning to, her heart swelling at the sight of her friends' child, a girl who already felt like she belonged to the stars.
Across the room, Theo and Luna sat together on the velvet loveseat, close enough that there was no space left between them. His arm rested along the back, fingers tracing slow, absent lines along her shoulder in a touch that spoke of familiarity and devotion. Luna leaned into him with effortless ease, silvery hair spilling over his forearm like captured moonlight. They looked timeless, like figures lifted from an ancient painting, orbiting one another as though the world had been built with this balance in mind.
"Seline and Lysander," Hermione said softly, the names settling into the room like something precious. "They sound like they belong in a story. Something that lasts."
Luna's eyes brightened, silver blue and boundless, and she reached for Theo's hand without looking, their fingers fitting together as naturally as breath. She spoke quietly, her voice carrying the calm of the tide. "We wanted names with meaning. Names that would remind them of who they are and where they come from. Names that would keep them close to the stars."
Theo watched her, firelight catching in his grey eyes, and his thumb brushed over her knuckles with reverent care. "Seline is our moon," he murmured, emotion thickening his voice. His gaze flicked to the bassinet, grounding himself in the reality of their daughter, before returning to Luna as if nothing else could compete. "And Lysander is our bright star. Curious. Always reaching. They've brought more light into my life than I thought I could hold."
He paused, the weight of it settling between them, then drew her attention back with a gentle squeeze of her hand. "But you," he said quietly, "you are still my greatest treasure. My Moon."
Warmth rose in Luna's cheeks, a glow born of love rather than shyness, and she tilted her head toward him, hair catching the light. Her smile held quiet certainty, and for a moment the rest of the room ceased to exist. Theo leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to her cheek, lingering, a promise written in motion rather than words. She turned toward him until their foreheads nearly touched, eyes shining, and the world seemed to pause around them.
Hermione watched, her chest full, soothed by the sight of something so steady and unbroken. She lifted her cup and sipped, letting the moment settle into her like warmth from the fire.
A soft sound from the bassinet broke the stillness, a tiny sigh followed by the faint creak of wood as Seline stirred. Her small fingers unfurled from the blanket as if reaching for something unseen. Luna was already rising, movements smooth and instinctive, crossing the room with quiet grace as she leaned over the cradle. Her touch was feather light when her fingers brushed her daughter's cheek, her expression reverent and unguarded.
"She's magic," Luna whispered.
Theo joined her, folding close, his arm wrapping around her waist as they looked down at the life they had made together. When he spoke, his voice was low and certain, filled with devotion strong enough to move worlds.
"She is," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of Luna's head. "She's everything."
Across the room, perched with casual elegance on the armrest of a plush chair, Ginny arched a knowing brow. Her voice cut neatly through the tenderness, sharp and playful, the way only affection ever managed to be. "Well," she said lightly, "that was sweet enough to put Honeydukes out of business." She cast Theo a mockingly appraising look, arms folding over her chest. "Honestly, you're setting the bar so high I might need to start checking Blaise for memory charms, because he still can't remember to water the plants."
Blaise, sprawled comfortably beneath her with one arm hooked over the chair and the other swirling a glass of red wine, looked deeply wounded. The offense was theatrical, practiced, and entirely insincere. "I beg your pardon," he replied smoothly. "That philodendron is thriving. And more importantly, I never forget to water you. With champagne and compliments, naturally."
Ginny laughed despite herself and grabbed a nearby throw pillow, hurling it straight at his head. Blaise caught it with irritating ease, his grin widening like he had just proven a point. "You are absolutely impossible," she said, though the amusement in her voice ruined any attempt at severity.
"And yet," he countered, unbothered and devastatingly smug, "you adore me. Admit it. I've grown on you. Like the aforementioned philodendron. Only better dressed."
She scoffed, lips betraying her with a reluctant smile. "Keep talking, Zabini, and you'll be growing on the couch tonight."
He tilted his head, considering this thoughtfully. "If that comes with more space and fewer dogs stealing my pillows, I might take you up on it."
Across the room, Draco let out a long, weary exhale. "It's like this every single time," he muttered, lifting his glass with resigned familiarity.
Luna turned her luminous gaze toward them, serene as ever, her voice drifting through the room like a gentle current. "Ginny and Blaise's banter is simply how they express devotion," she said calmly, as though explaining something obvious. "Some constellations shine quietly, while others burn brightly and refuse to be ignored."
Blaise glanced at her, brow lifting, caught between curiosity and amusement. Before he could respond, Luna continued with the same tranquil seriousness. "That said, you really should water your plants more often. They are living beings. They feel things."
For a heartbeat, Blaise only stared at her, clearly unsure whether he had just been sincerely advised or expertly outplayed. Then he laughed, rich and genuine, the sound filling the room. "Well," he said, lifting his glass in her direction, "if you insist, I'll add plant caretaker to my already impressive list of talents."
Ginny nudged him with her elbow, victorious. "See? She's always right."
Luna smiled softly and lifted her teacup, the gesture small but deliberate. "To new beginnings," she said, her words carrying something deeper, something that felt like a quiet blessing.
"To magic, family, and the moments that remind us what matters," Hermione added, her eyes moving over them all with warmth that needed no explanation.
Glasses rose, voices echoed the toast, and laughter settled gently into the space. Firelight danced across familiar faces, and for one perfect moment, the room seemed to breathe as one, wrapped in peace, love, and the rare gift of simply being together.