She had been feeling lightheaded for days now. It was not sharp or sudden, just a persistent sensation that settled under her skin and refused to leave. A faint pull behind her eyes. A strange looseness in her limbs.
At times it felt like the floor had shifted without warning, like her body had forgotten where its center lived. The sensation came and went, quiet but insistent, impossible to fully ignore.
At first, she dismissed it without much thought. Long nights hunched over parchments had a way of catching up with her. So did missed meals, rushed mornings, and too much caffeine swallowed on an empty stomach. She told herself it was nothing more than exhaustion. She had pushed herself harder than this before and survived it just fine.
But the feeling stayed.
Then the nausea arrived.
At first it was easy to overlook, a fleeting discomfort that passed as quickly as it came. Over the next several days it grew bolder, more demanding.
The scent of coffee in the morning turned her stomach. Foods she once reached for without thinking suddenly felt unbearable. Eggs made her pale. Toast sat heavy in her mind before it ever reached her plate. Even the thought of certain meals made her swallow hard.
Something inside her was changing.
One morning, sunlight spilled through the curtains in soft golden streaks as she rose from the bed. The world tilted the moment she straightened. Her balance slipped. The room spun sharply, and her stomach turned with violent urgency. Panic sparked in her chest as her body reacted before her mind could catch up. Her hand flew to her mouth. Her breath came shallow and fast. Her vision narrowed as her heart thundered against her ribs.
She staggered toward the bathroom, each step unsteady, her legs trembling as though gravity had decided to test her limits. She barely made it inside before her knees hit the tile. The impact jarred through her, sharp and grounding, but the nausea surged anyway. She reached for the toilet, gripping the cool ceramic with shaking fingers as the room swayed around her.
The door shut behind her with a soft click. The air felt thick and warm. Her skin was clammy, her stomach roiling. She leaned back against the wood, eyes squeezed shut, trying to slow her breathing while her thoughts spiraled out of control.
A virus crossed her mind. Then a spell misfire. Some lingering side effect she had overlooked.
Then another possibility followed, quieter and heavier.
She pushed herself upright and moved to the sink, bracing her hands against the porcelain as she looked at her reflection. Her face stared back at her, pale and flushed at once, eyes too bright, lips parted in shallow breaths. Her throat tightened. She tried to speak, to give the fear a name, but the words refused to come.
Recognition settled in the silence.
She had heard the stories. Quiet ones, passed between witches in library corners and whispered late at night when the world felt too big and too fragile.
Stories about spells that did not simply provide answers. Spells that changed everything. Once cast, they pulled truths from places you could not hide and placed them directly in your hands. There was no pretending afterward.
The memory of those stories lingered as she gripped the edge of the sink, breathing through the nausea in shallow, careful exhales.
Her knuckles had gone white with the effort. She studied her reflection again, taking in every detail, the fear she had not allowed herself to name yet written plainly across her face.
Something in her gut had already been whispering the truth. It had been doing so for days. She was not ready to name it aloud, yet it pulsed beneath her skin, curled around her spine, and stirred with every beat of her heart.
Knowing something in your bones felt different from watching it be confirmed by magic, and that sense of finality was what made her pause, breath shallow, hands restless at her sides.
Her gaze drifted across the room until it caught on the familiar worn leather spine of her old spell book, tucked neatly on a shelf beside headache potions, jars of salt scrub, and lavender sachets she had not opened in months. It looked harmless there, softened by years of use, its pages thick with sprawling notes from professors, peers, and friends who now lived only in memory.
She reached for it with hands that trembled more than she wanted to acknowledge, held it briefly against her chest as if it might steady her, then laid it open on the counter. The pages fell naturally to a section she had not visited since school, one she had once skimmed with idle curiosity and the firm belief that it would never apply to her.
The Definitive Pregnancy Detection Spell.
The title sent a sharp ripple through her chest. Her finger hovered over the first line, then traced beneath the elegant script as she read it once, then again, then a third time, her lips shaping the words in silence as if repetition might change their meaning.
The spell itself was disarmingly simple. A handful of syllables, a wand motion similar to standard diagnostic charms, followed by color. Light. A clear magical response, as if the universe itself would offer confirmation without mercy or hesitation.
Her reflection wavered in the mirror, distorted slightly by the flickering bathroom light. She looked pale and tight with fear, eyes too wide, shoulders drawn high, mouth pressed into a line that trembled despite her control. "You are a grown witch," she whispered, voice barely carrying. "You can handle this. Alone, if you have to." The words settled around her like a fragile charm, offering comfort without certainty, and still she hesitated.
At last she lifted her wand. She held it steady in front of her chest, grip firm despite the faint tremor in her hand. The incantation left her lips softly, carefully spoken, each syllable shaped with reverence. She followed the motion as written, precise and deliberate, her heartbeat loud in her ears as the last word faded. Then she waited.
Nothing happened at first. The room remained still, silent, untouched by magic.
Light followed.
It began as a faint shimmer, then deepened into a steady glow that arced outward from her wand in soft gold, filling the air with warmth and clarity. The light held, unwavering, leaving no room for doubt. The magic did not rush or fade quickly. It simply existed, calm and certain, carrying a single answer.
Her breath caught as her hand lowered. The glow receded, leaving empty air behind it, and she found herself staring at the space where it had been, as though the truth might still linger there if she watched long enough.
She was pregnant.
The truth crashed through her in a visceral, overwhelming wave, stealing the breath from her lungs and driving her backward until her spine met the cool tile wall.
Her knees weakened and she slid down to the floor, wand slipping from her fingers and landing forgotten at her side. Tears surged without warning, hot and heavy, blurring her vision as her mind struggled to grasp the sheer magnitude of what this meant.
She was going to be a mother, she was going to bring a life into this world, and everything she knew was about to change in ways she could not yet imagine.
Thoughts collided inside her like a storm made of light and uncertainty. Questions tumbled over one another with dizzying speed. Was she ready for this. Would he be happy. What if he was not. What would this do to them, to the life they had so carefully built.
The fragile web of plans they had stitched together began to tremble, plans filled with quiet hopes, guarded secrets, late night whispers, and dreams neither of them had ever dared to say aloud. She clutched the edge of the porcelain basin, fingers digging into the smooth, cold surface until her knuckles ached, as though its solidity might anchor her to the earth while everything inside her spun wildly out of control.
The confusion of the past weeks fell into place with sudden, merciless clarity. The lightheadedness, the nausea, the strange way the world had begun to smell and feel different all aligned into a single undeniable truth. Understanding struck her hard, filling the room until it felt too small to contain it, until the familiar space pressed in on her from every side.
Tears slid down her cheeks in quiet streams, born from a collision of emotion that had no single name. Relief, disbelief, awe all tangled together as she lifted a trembling hand to wipe them away, only for more to follow.
For one fragile moment, she allowed herself to feel everything without restraint. Wonder took root beside terror, and beneath it all, a soft, radiant joy began to bloom.
A life was growing inside her. Small and hidden, fragile and real, a spark of magic not yet felt but already present. A future waiting to be written. A part of her, and a part of them.
Her thoughts turned to him, to his hands and his laughter, to the way his eyes softened when he looked at her as though she were the center of his world. She imagined telling him, imagined the way he might fall silent in reverent disbelief, or laugh in stunned joy before pulling her close, whispering her name as if it were a prayer. She could see his hands resting on her stomach, careful and awed, his voice breaking as he spoke to their child for the first time. The image struck her so deeply it felt as though her soul had leaned forward to meet it.
The next step waited for her whether she was ready or not. She would have to tell him, and the thought sent a fresh rush of nerves tightening in her throat.
Her gaze dropped to her stomach and her hand followed without conscious thought, resting there in a soft, protective gesture that felt both unfamiliar and profoundly right.
She had seen other witches do the same, instinctively guarding the life growing within them, and now she understood it fully. Something ancient and instinctive had awakened inside her, and it had already begun to claim what was hers to protect.
The room felt strange now, somehow smaller and impossibly vast at the same time, as though her universe had folded inward and expanded outward in a single breath.
Everything had changed, and yet nothing looked different at all. The glass of water she conjured trembled slightly in her grip, the cool liquid offering something solid to hold onto, a reminder to breathe and take this one step at a time.
Her free hand, still unsteady but calmer than before, drifted back to her stomach and rested there with more intention. She closed her eyes, and the feeling surged again, fierce and instinctive, a protectiveness that reached deep into her bones and asked nothing in return.
She burst out of the room like a spell gone delightfully wrong, magic and adrenaline crackling under her skin as her slippers skidded against the polished floors, as though even the house itself was struggling to keep up with the force of her joy.
The feeling was too big to sit with quietly, too bright and effervescent to stay contained behind closed doors. Her heart hammered against her ribs, wild and insistent, her breath catching in a way that felt closer to awe than panic, and she needed something outside herself to witness it.
Someone. Anyone. Anything that could share the weight of this moment before it burst her open from the inside.
Her gaze flew down the corridor, searching with almost feral urgency, until fate or sheer comedic timing delivered exactly what she needed. Lady lay sprawled in a sunlit patch beside one of their obscenely expensive imported rugs, perfectly round, perfectly peaceful, and utterly unaware that her life was about to change.
"LADY!" Pansy shouted, already lunging.
The dog barely had time to register danger before she was scooped up in one sweeping motion and lifted into the air. A startled yip escaped her as her legs flailed uselessly, ears flapping while Pansy spun in place, laughing so hard it echoed off the walls. Satin swirled, slippers slipped, and Lady became an unwilling ballroom partner in a dance powered entirely by unfiltered joy.
Did Pansy stop? Absolutely not.
Her laughter spilled freely, bright and unrestrained, ricocheting down the hall with enough force to make a nearby house elf peek out from behind a tapestry in alarm.
Lady, resigned to her fate, adopted the long suffering expression of a creature who knew she was deeply loved and deeply inconvenienced, her face pinched in dignified protest as she was twirled like a pug shaped baton.
After several dramatic spins, one of which nearly ended in a collision with an antique umbrella stand, Pansy finally slowed, breath hitching, cheeks flushed and warm. She lowered Lady carefully to the floor, crouching to steady her as the dog staggered sideways and shook herself with great offense.
The moment Pansy straightened, her eyes landed on Princess.
Princess sat perched on a velvet ottoman further down the hall, regal and unmoved, watching the chaos with the cool disdain of a Victorian heiress who had survived one scandal too many. Her posture was immaculate. Her judgment was palpable.
"Princess," Pansy said softly, delight curling through every syllable. "Come here, my love. It's your turn."
Princess did not move. One ear twitched. Her eyes narrowed. She understood perfectly.
Then she ran.
She launched herself off the ottoman and bolted down the corridor, paws skidding against marble as she fled like a missile of aristocratic indignation. Pansy took off after her instantly, skirts flying, bare feet slipping as she laughed breathlessly and gave chase with manic determination.
"You will never outrun me, darling," she called, triumphant, as Princess zigzagged beneath tables and dodged a decorative vase with expert precision. Chairs shifted. A runner nearly went down. Somewhere in the manor, a house elf shrieked.
Pansy finally cornered her quarry near the towering bookshelf, breath heaving, grin victorious, and swooped down to scoop up the protesting dog. Princess responded with a dramatic tantrum, legs flailing, ears pinned, growl emerging more like an aggressive sneeze than a threat.
"Oh hush," Pansy murmured, hugging her close despite the wriggling. "You adore the drama."
She spun once more, slower this time, laughter still bubbling out of her as Princess seethed in outraged betrayal. When she finally set the dog down with exaggerated ceremony and a whispered apology, Princess strutted away without a backward glance, nose high, dignity reclaimed, tail flicking like a judgment passed.
Lady, seated in the center of the hall like a small gremlin, tilted her head as if quietly questioning every life choice that had led her here.
Pansy leaned back against the wall, one hand pressed to her racing heart, the other smoothing a loose strand of hair from her flushed face as her breathing finally slowed. She looked at the two of them, one sulking, one blinking in confusion, and something soft and sacred settled deep in her chest.
"You put up with so much," she whispered, crouching to run her fingers over their heads. "I do not deserve either of you."
Lady snorted in agreement. Princess pretended she did not hear.
With a steadying breath, Pansy pressed a kiss to each of their foreheads. "Fresh pastries," she promised solemnly. "Imported."
And with a heart so full it felt ridiculous and wonderful all at once, Pansy Parkinson Longbottom turned back down the corridor, her pugs following like tiny, squishy queens returning from battle.
Because sometimes joy did not ask for permission or reason or explanation. Sometimes it simply demanded an outlet.
And sometimes that outlet had four legs and infinite patience.
~~~~~~
Pansy wanted tonight to be unforgettable—not in the polished, predictable way society deemed appropriate, but in the delightfully subversive, perfectly curated chaos only she could orchestrate.
She wanted Neville to remember it not for the perfect wine pairing or the flawlessly plated entrées, but for the tiny, reckless rebellions she had planted between each course like little ticking time bombs of affection. It reminded her of their first dinner together.
She stood in the cavernous, chandelier-lit foyer of Parkinson Manor, arms crossed, her perfectly manicured nails tapping out a sharp rhythm against her bare skin.
Her Valentinoheel echoed pointedly against the polished marble, each staccato tap a punctuation mark to her rapidly thinning patience.
But her mind wasn't on the silence or the delay—it was on Neville.
More specifically, on the expression she imagined blooming across his face when the first bite landed on his tongue and the realization unfurled in his chest. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, sly and indulgent, the kind that spoke volumes about the mischief to come. Oh, it would be brilliant. And it would be so Pansy.
Inside the kitchen, the head house elf, Merrybean, was orchestrating the rest of the staff. Pots bubbled on the expansive stove, and the warm aroma of roasting vegetables hung in the air.
Pansy inhaled, relishing the comfort of those scents—savory, sweet, and full of promise. Usually, she savored the idea of a perfect meal. Tonight, though, she wanted something else altogether.
"Merrybean," she called, summoning the elf with a regal tilt of her chin. The tiny figure appeared at once and bowed low, ears trembling as the kitchen hummed around them with motion. Elves hurried past carrying bowls of chopped vegetables, simmering sauces, and armfuls of fresh herbs, and Pansy took it all in with a sharp, appraising gaze.
"Yes, Mistress?" Merrybean squeaked, peering up at her with nervous devotion.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice so it slipped beneath the clatter and steam. "I need a special arrangement for tonight's dinner," she said, purposeful and precise. "On the surface it should look flawless. Romantic. Impressive. But a few dishes need to go slightly wrong. Something under seasoned, something overcooked, perhaps a sauce that carries a bit too much heat. Nothing obvious. Just enough that Neville notices and starts questioning himself."
Merrybean's eyes widened. "Mistress wishes to… ruin dinner?" he whispered, glancing around in alarm.
Pansy laughed softly and set a calming hand on his shoulder. "Ruin is dramatic. Think of it as controlled chaos. Tasteful disaster. You understand me perfectly."
He swallowed, nodded, and straightened with resolve. "Merrybean will see it done."
"I knew I could trust you," she said, offering a conspiratorial wink before turning away, the hem of her Valentino dress whispering against the floor as she left the kitchen.
Back in the foyer, she paused before a gilded mirror and studied her reflection. For a moment, memory took hold of her. Their first dinner rose vividly in her mind, the awkward silences, the burned roast, the way Neville's shy smile had chipped away at her defenses without even trying. That night had been imperfect and honest, and somehow it had mattered more than any polished affair since.
Tonight, she wanted that same magic, only sharpened with humor and intention, because love was not built on perfection alone. It lived in laughter, in missteps, in the moments that caught you off guard.
She drifted into the dining room and surveyed the final preparations. Fine linens draped the table, crystal caught the glow of floating candles, and lush floral arrangements perfumed the air. It was beautiful, a flawless stage for the mischief she had set in motion. Her fingers traced the edge of the table as she imagined Neville's expression when a bite surprised him, when a familiar dish tasted just wrong enough to make him frown and laugh in confusion. The thought made her smile.
Minutes slipped by and her anticipation sharpened. She paced the length of the room, heels clicking against the marble, smoothing her dress as she went. She adjusted the neckline, checked the fall of the slit, ensured every detail was exactly as she wanted it to be. Everything needed to feel deliberate. Everything needed to feel like her.
Especially the parts that were about to go wrong.
Finally, she heard the main Floo flare and fade, followed by the familiar echo of footsteps moving through the house. Her heart skittered with excitement. She hurried toward the entryway, schooling her face into something calm and composed, though the bright, barely contained sparkle in her eyes betrayed her instantly.
There he stood. The one man who could frustrate her beyond reason and soften her down to her bones in the same breath. He held a small wrapped package in his arms, careful with it in that way of his that always made her chest ache, and the gentle smile on his face stole what little air she had left.
She took him in without apology, the slightly rumpled hair, the quiet confidence in the way he stood now, earned through years of surviving and choosing and loving. Perfect, she thought, the affection blooming sharp and sudden alongside her nerves.
She led him toward the dining room, the soft click of her heels echoing against the marble as candlelight caught the lines of her gown. Neville was already watching her, rising to his feet as she approached, his expression warming as if the sight of her alone had shifted the whole evening into place.
"Good evening, my love," she said, her voice low and intimate, meant only for him.
"Hello, darling," he replied, taking her hand with easy familiarity. There was something playful in his eyes, something held just behind his smile. "I brought you something."
Her brow lifted, curiosity lighting her face. "Did you?" she said lightly. "How intriguing. I might have a surprise for you as well, but since you are so eager, you may go first."
He cleared his throat, a faint flush rising along his cheekbones. "I found a dress. I saw it and thought of you immediately. I thought you might want to save it for a special day." He offered the box with quiet reverence. "I wanted you to have it."
Her smile softened, genuine and touched. She traced her fingers along the edge of the wrapping, feeling the care behind the gesture. "That is incredibly thoughtful, Nevie," she murmured. "Perhaps tonight is the right day after all."
He studied her with interest, a crease forming between his brows. "Is it? And what makes tonight special?"
Her lips curved into something knowingly coy, but she only said, "Come. Let us eat first."
They took their seats at the table, candlelight glinting off crystal and silver as the scents of rosemary and thyme drifted in from the kitchen. Conversation came easily, laughter slipping between them in gentle bursts, each shared glance carrying more weight than the words themselves. Beneath the warmth and familiarity, something waited, humming quietly, as though the evening itself were holding its breath.
After the final course, a decadent chocolate mousse she had barely tasted, Pansy rose from her chair. The silk of her dress whispered as she moved around the table, unhurried, deliberate. She stopped beside him and, with practiced ease, settled onto his lap, facing him.
The closeness shifted the air between them. Their knees touched, their breath mingled, their gazes locked like gravity had finally decided to stop pretending it was optional.
"My love," she said softly. Her voice carried warmth, but there was a tremor beneath it now, something fragile and real. "Do you know that you are the axis my whole world turns on? You. This maddening, gentle, steady man with dirt under his fingernails and stars tucked behind his eyes. You were the first thing that ever made me feel safe. Cherished."
Her hand slid up to his collar, fingers resting there as if anchoring herself. "You never asked me to soften. Never recoiled from my sharp edges. You just loved me. Faithfully. Quietly. Like it was the simplest thing in the world. And I have spent my entire life bracing for abandonment, building walls tall enough to keep everyone out. Everyone except you." Her breath wavered. "You climbed them without asking. You brought light into places I thought were long dead. You hold every broken piece of me like it is something precious. You remind me every day that love does not have to hurt to be real."
He smiled, slow and warm, the kind of smile that always made her feel like the world had paused out of respect. He lifted a hand and brushed a loose curl away from her cheek, his touch gentle, familiar. "I know," he murmured, fondness threaded through his voice. "You tell me. And I never get tired of hearing it."
She laughed quietly, a breathless sound, and leaned in until her forehead rested against his. Her hands curled into the fabric of his shirt as she inhaled him, earth and warmth and home. "But tonight," she said, softer now, "I need to tell you something else. Something that might change everything. Something that makes our world bigger."
The room felt suddenly still. His arms wrapped around her waist, instinctive and grounding, and she could feel his heart beneath her palms. Strong. Steady. Waiting.
"Is this," he asked carefully, reverently, "something you have been carrying alone?"
She nodded once. Her eyes shone, fixed on his as if she were trying to memorize every detail of him in this moment. "Nevie," she whispered, the name leaving her lips like both a prayer and a risk, "we are having a baby."
Time seemed to stop.
His hands tightened at her waist, not hard, just enough to hold himself in place. His expression shifted through disbelief, awe, something dangerously close to wonder. For a heartbeat, she resented how beautiful he looked like this, undone and radiant with it.
"A baby?" he breathed, the word catching in his throat. "You are…?"
"Yes," she said, this time laughing through tears she did not bother to hide. Her hands fisted in his shirt. "I am pregnant. With your child. It is terrifying. And Merlin help me, it is the most certain I have ever been about anything."
He moved before she could react. One second she was speaking, the next she was lifted clean off the floor, his arms locked around her as he buried his face against her neck. She felt everything at once. His laugh, his tears, his heart breaking open against her skin.
"Thank you," he kept saying, over and over, like the words were all he had. "Thank you."
When he finally set her down, his hands did not still. They moved over her face, her shoulders, her stomach, as if touch were the only way to make it real. She let him. She wanted him to feel it. Wanted him to believe it.
"You are going to be incredible," he whispered against her temple, his voice rough with emotion. "Terrifying. Brilliant. The most extraordinary mother this child could ever hope for. And I swear, I am going to love this baby so fiercely it might undo me."
She laughed again, wild and shaky, and drew him closer until their foreheads touched. "You gave me a home, Neville," she said quietly. "And now we get to build something inside it."
He did not answer with a speech. He answered with certainty, with fire in his eyes and steadiness in his voice.
"Then let us build everything."
And in that soft, golden moment, with tears on their faces and their future humming between them like new magic, they did. Not perfectly. Not gently. But wholly.
And it was everything.
~~~~~~
Neville stood in the sitting room as the last light of day slanted through the tall windows, painting the walls in soft amber. He paced once, then again, before stopping to check the clock on the mantel. His breath left him in a slow exhale as he dragged a hand through his hair. The day had been long, but the evening felt heavier. Pansy was late, and he already knew why.
She was lost in one of her grand visions. Another plan. Another cascade of ideas spiraling outward from the simple truth that she was going to be a mother.
The door finally opened.
Pansy swept in like a living spark, wrapped in a flowing emerald robe that caught the light and reflected it back through her eyes. Excitement clung to her, threaded through with visible irritation, as though she had argued with the universe on her way home and lost patience halfway through. Neville stopped pacing and folded his arms, bracing himself.
"My love," he said gently, the smile he offered careful and measured, "please do not take this too far."
Her reaction was immediate. Her lips parted, eyes flashing as she threw her arms wide in outrage. "How could I not?" she demanded. "This is my baby. Our baby. Do you have any idea what that means? I have every right to make sure they arrive into this world with the kind of welcome wizarding history will never forget."
Neville sighed quietly. He had expected this. "I do understand," he said. "But Luna is overwhelmed. I do not want you stressing her with your plans."
Pansy's jaw dropped. "I am not stressing her out. Who said that?" Her voice rang with conviction, even as her gaze slid briefly away.
"According to Theo," Neville replied, choosing calm over amusement, "you were advised to let his wife enjoy motherhood or else he would kill you. His words, not mine."
Color bloomed across her cheeks. She straightened, shoulders snapping back. "I will have Nott know that he is not in charge of me," she snapped. "And frankly, he is nothing."
Neville closed his eyes for a heartbeat, pressing his lips together to hold back a smile. When he opened them again, his voice softened. "Darling, are you absolutely certain you are not pushing Luna just a little?"
She faltered. Her arms crossed, posture folding in on itself. "Fine," she muttered. "Maybe I am." The admission came quietly. "Just a bit."
He stepped closer. "Can you slow down, Bloom? I am worried about you. You barely sleep. Every time I see you, you are drafting another elaborate plan."
Her bravado thinned. She toyed with the cuff of her robe, eyes lowered. "I am scared," she admitted. "I am terrified of not doing enough. I want everything to be perfect."
His chest tightened. He placed a hand on her shoulder, warm and steady. "Babies do not care about perfection," he said. "They care about being loved. About being safe. About us."
They stood there, close enough to feel each other's breath, the silence holding weight rather than tension. Her eyes shimmered. Then she nodded.
"All right," she said. "I will slow down. For tonight. Do not expect me to abandon my big ideas completely."
A hint of a smile curved her mouth.
He cupped her cheek, thumb brushing her skin. "They will have something extraordinary no matter what," he said. "They will have you. And me, doing my best to keep up."
Her smile turned real this time. "You do more than you know," she whispered. "And I will apologize to Luna. I promise I will try not to overwhelm her."
He laughed quietly. "That would be appreciated."
He kissed her forehead and drew her toward the chairs by the fire. She curled her legs beneath her as they settled in, the crackle of flames filling the room with warmth.
The urgency ebbed. The plans loosened their grip. Outside, moonlight crept across the glass.
Pansy rested her hand against his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath her palm. For once, she let the future wait. Tonight, she had him. Tonight, that was enough.
~~~~~~
Pansy had always maintained that she trusted no one but herself and her husband. It was a rule etched into her bones, an unmovable truth she had lived by for years. Rules, however, had a way of bending when faced with the right person.
Luna Lovegood was that exception.
Their friendship baffled nearly everyone who witnessed it. Two women who, on paper, should have existed in entirely different universes.
One sharp-edged and volatile, the other serene and unshakable. And yet they had found each other anyway, drawn together by something quieter and far more enduring than logic. Their bond did not require explanation or constant reassurance.
It simply existed. Solid. Certain. Untouchable.
If anyone deserved to be the first to hear this news, it was Luna.
So Pansy did what Pansy always did when emotion outweighed reason. She acted immediately and with dramatic excess.
She arrived at Nott Manor without warning, barreling through the gates with reckless intent and a pug tucked firmly under each arm.
Lady squirmed indignantly, stubby legs flailing as though she had been personally betrayed by the concept of momentum.
Princess, meanwhile, wore the expression of a noblewoman enduring an unforgivable humiliation, her face pinched with offense as if she were being paraded through the streets as a cautionary tale.
Pansy hit the front steps at a near run, sending the unfortunate butler stumbling back in alarm. Without pausing for pleasantries or sanity, she shoved the massive oak doors open. They groaned loudly as they swung wide, protesting the violence done to both tradition and hinges.
The grand foyer stretched out before her in all its towering, opulent excess. Gilded portraits of severe-faced Notts stared down from the walls, radiating centuries of disapproval. Pansy ignored them completely.
She took off.
Her heels struck the marble with sharp, frantic clicks, silk skirts flying as she charged through the manor like a woman possessed. House-elves scattered in her wake, eyes wide. A maid dropped a neat stack of linens, frozen in disbelief as Pansy tore past like a beautifully dressed natural disaster.
"Lady Parkinson!" an elf wheezed from somewhere behind her. "If you would kindly announce yourself before storming through the house—"
"No time, Bobsy!" Pansy shouted back, never slowing.
She had three objectives and no patience left.
Luna. Lysander. And Seline.
Nothing short of bodily restraint was going to stop her.
She burst into the drawing room in a whirl of breathless urgency and barely contained emotion, pugs still clutched under her arms like furious accessories. The chaos of her entrance collided violently with the calm of the scene before her.
Lysander lay on the floor, utterly absorbed in scribbling something incomprehensible onto parchment. Luna sat curled into the sofa, humming softly as she cradled Seline against her chest. The baby slept peacefully, oblivious to the storm that had just entered her orbit.
The moment Pansy appeared, the room erupted.
Lysander let out a delighted squeal and abandoned his very serious artistic efforts without hesitation, scrambling to his feet and charging straight at her. "Pee Pee!" he shrieked, arms outstretched, enthusiasm vibrating through every inch of him.
Pansy reacted instantly, setting the pugs down and clutching her chest in mock agony. "My little love," she declared dramatically, scooping him up as if he weighed nothing at all. "How I have suffered without you." She spun him in an indulgent circle, once, twice, until his laughter dissolved into bright, breathless giggles.
Lady and Princess bounced around his feet like enthusiastic spectators, tails whipping back and forth as they tried to wedge themselves into the chaos.
Luna tightened her hold on Seline slightly and sighed, though her eyes shone with unmistakable fondness. "Pansy," she said, exasperation threaded through amusement, "are you ever capable of entering my home like a normal person."
"Absolutely not," Pansy replied at once, settling Lysander on her hip as if he belonged there. "And frankly I am offended you would even suggest it."
Luna huffed out a laugh and shook her head, watching her friend with the indulgent expression of someone who knew resistance was futile.
Pansy's attention shifted the moment her eyes landed on Seline. The baby was tucked against Luna's chest, small and warm, fingers curled into tiny fists. Something in Pansy softened immediately, her bravado easing into something quieter. She reached out carefully, brushing a fingertip over the fine curls at the baby's crown.
"How is my darling little princess," she murmured, her voice gentler now, touched with reverence.
Seline blinked up at her, impossibly blue eyes bright with curiosity, and made a soft gurgling sound as she reached for the gold charm at Pansy's throat. Her tiny fingers closed around it with surprising determination.
Luna noticed at once.
"Would you like to hold her," Luna asked, already shifting forward.
Pansy transferred Lysander to the floor without ceremony and sat beside Luna, accepting Seline with painstaking care. She adjusted her grip instinctively, supporting the baby's head, drawing her closer until Seline settled against her chest. The moment that weight rested in her arms, something inside her loosened.
Luna studied her, eyes bright with knowing warmth. "You look good like that."
Pansy scoffed, rolling her eyes even as her finger traced the curve of Seline's cheek. "Do not start."
Luna leaned back, smiling to herself, twirling a loose curl around her finger. She waited only a beat before asking, "So what brings you crashing into my home at full speed today."
Pansy hesitated.
For the first time since her arrival, uncertainty flickered across her face. She glanced down at Seline, at the way the baby trusted her completely, and drew in a slow breath.
"I have something to tell you," she said quietly.
Luna's brows lifted. "Oh."
The shift in Pansy's tone was enough to sharpen her attention. "Are you about to drop another bombshell on me."
Luna reached for a slender, hand rolled spliff and lit it with practiced ease, inhaling once before offering it toward Pansy with a teasing tilt of her head. "Want some."
Pansy shook her head, one hand settling protectively over Seline. A small, secretive smile curved her lips. "We might need to skip that particular hobby for about ten months," she said lightly, anticipation threading her voice.
Luna went still. Her eyes narrowed just enough to focus. "Are you."
"I am," Pansy said, voice wavering despite herself. "I am pregnant."
The spliff slipped from Luna's fingers and landed harmlessly on the thick carpet. A heartbeat later, she let out a joyful shriek that startled both children into wide eyed fascination.
She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around Pansy, squashing Seline between them in her enthusiasm. The baby responded with delighted noises, utterly unfazed.
"Oh my gods," Luna crowed, laughing and nearly bouncing where she sat. Tears shimmered in her eyes as she pulled back to look at Pansy properly. "I am so happy for you."
She cupped Pansy's face, emotion spilling over freely. "This is wonderful. Truly wonderful." She fumbled for her wand, cast a gentle calming charm over the room, and then returned her attention to Pansy with renewed warmth. "No more smoking for you, and you need to eat properly, and rest, and."
Pansy smiled back, excitement and nerves tangled together in her expression. "It is terrifying," she admitted softly. "But I am ready. Or at least as ready as I will ever be."
Luna squeezed her arm. "It will change everything," she said, "and that is exactly why it will be beautiful."
Lysander edged closer, curiosity winning out over caution. Lady and Princess lounged near the sofa, tails swishing lazily as if they too sensed the shift in the room. The air felt brighter somehow, charged with warmth and possibility.
Pansy looked down at Seline, who was now tugging experimentally at her bracelet. "In a few months," she murmured, awe thick in her voice, "I will be holding one of my own." She lifted her gaze to Luna. "I want them to grow up together."
"They will," Luna said without hesitation. "Just like us."
Pansy exhaled slowly, tension easing from her shoulders as the truth settled into place. Fear still lingered, but it no longer felt overwhelming. With Luna beside her, with Lysander peeking closer, with the familiar weight of small lives pressed into her arms, she felt steady.
Luna noticed the way Lysander hovered and spoke gently. "You can kiss her if you want."
He nodded solemnly, stepping forward with exaggerated care. He leaned in and pressed the lightest kiss to Seline's forehead, barely touching her hair.
Pansy gasped theatrically, hand flying to her chest. "And what about me," she lamented. "Cast aside already."
Lysander rolled his eyes with a long suffering sigh, darted forward to plant a quick kiss on her cheek, and immediately fled the scene before she could escalate things further.
Luna shook her head, watching the exchange with open amusement as she adjusted Seline in her arms. "I swear, this child is more possessive than his father. He guards her crib like a tiny soldier and tracks every single thing she does. Theo is not even allowed to kiss Seline unless Lysander is in the room supervising the entire operation. It is becoming absurd."
Pansy smirked as she smoothed the front of her robes and stretched, basking in the warmth of the moment. "Must be genetic. It is exhausting, being descended from a Nott." She shot Luna a knowing look, which earned her a resigned sigh in return.
She handed Seline back with deliberate care, reluctant but steady, as though passing along something sacred. Luna received her effortlessly, the practiced ease. As Pansy shifted to stand, Luna reached out and caught her fingers, holding them tight. Their eyes met, and the depth of Luna's happiness for her was unmistakable.
"I am truly over the moon for you," Luna whispered, her voice thick with feeling, her blue eyes bright with tears she did not bother to hide.
The words struck deep. Pansy's throat tightened, emotion swelling dangerously close to the surface. "Thank you," she said quietly, squeezing Luna's hand just as firmly. "I am going to need you more than ever. To teach me how to do this, to remind me how to breathe when I inevitably spiral."
Luna smiled, something steady and unshakeable settling into her expression. "You can count on me," she said without hesitation. She nodded gently toward Pansy's stomach. "And so can that little one, whenever they decide to arrive."
She exhaled, lighter, and bent to stroke Lady and Princess. "Looks like we are adding another member to the pack," she murmured. "At least this one will not chew the furniture."
Luna laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained, echoing through the room. Lady and Princess barked as if in agreement, tails wagging with renewed enthusiasm. Lysander clapped his hands and bounced on his feet, swept up in the excitement, and even Seline offered a pleased little gurgle, contributing her own voice to the celebration.
And in that moment, Pansy felt it clearly. This was happiness. Real, unfiltered, and hers.
"So obviously this is going to be the event of the century," she announced without pausing for breath. Her excitement spilled over as she began pacing the length of the living room, her movements as dramatic as the swish of her designer dress.
Luna remained seated, attempting to focus on her half finished tea while Pansy's energy filled the room. Memories of Pansy's wedding planning surfaced uninvited.
Months of relentless preparation. Imported flowers enchanted to glow at sunset. Color coordinated dress codes. Illusions of stardust clinging to guests' sleeves. Every detail had been orchestrated with tireless precision. And now it seemed that same intensity had found a new target.
Luna set her cup down and inhaled slowly, bracing herself. She had expected excitement. She had not expected a full scale production. The resemblance to the wedding days was uncanny, only now the subject was childbirth.
As Pansy circled the living room, her voice grew more animated. "Live performers. Illusions to represent each stage of pregnancy. Custom potions for the guests so nobody gets bored. A curated playlist. Possibly a veela choir." She paused, placing a hand over her abdomen with theatrical reverence. "It must be meaningful."
Luna rubbed her temples, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. She remembered Neville during the wedding madness, endlessly patient, nodding thoughtfully while Pansy debated napkin embroidery techniques at three in the morning. She wondered again how he managed it. Planning mode Pansy was not for the faint of heart.
Now she was planning to stage childbirth like a gala.
Watching Pansy now, Luna wondered if she truly understood how unpredictable and raw birth could be, regardless of how carefully it was dressed.
Exhaustion settled over her as she imagined future plans forming. Pre delivery schedules. Coordinated baby wardrobes. Perhaps even a themed cake. The image was so absurd that Luna choked on a laugh, coughing quickly and covering her mouth.
Pansy froze mid step and fixed her with a wounded look. "Luna, darling, do not laugh. I am serious." Her eyes gleamed. "This is my child's entrance into the world. It deserves elegance, intention, romance. It must be unforgettable."
Luna smiled carefully. "Of course. You do realize there is a fair amount of screaming and bodily fluids involved."
Pansy waved the concern aside with a flourish. "Minor details. Illusions will handle that. Pain dulling charms. Possibly a string quartet. Observers at a tasteful distance. Premium seating available."
She laughed, not entirely joking.
Luna sighed and stood, moving toward the fireplace as a familiar sense of déjà vu settled over her. She had tried many times to temper Pansy's grand ideas before, only to be proven wrong when the final result emerged spectacular despite the chaos. Perhaps this would be no different.
Still, the idea of childbirth as a public spectacle made her want to hide under a blanket until the baby arrived safely and quietly, wrapped in warmth, far away from chandeliers and guest lists.
Still, Pansy's excitement was impossible to resist. Luna could see the sincerity shining through her theatrics, clear as daylight. Beneath the dramatic gestures lived something soft and unwavering, Pansy's fierce devotion to the life growing inside her and her aching need to celebrate it in the grandest way she knew how. There was an earnestness there that tugged at Luna's heart despite herself.
She reached out and rested her hand lightly on Pansy's arm, careful and grounding. "I know you want this to be special," she said gently. "I am not asking you to abandon your vision. I just need you to remember that your body comes first, especially once the later months arrive. There is a reason you rarely see pregnant witches attempting acrobatics in public spaces." A faint smile curved her mouth, the humor deliberate, offered as a soft brake rather than a reprimand.
Pansy's eyes sparkled with defiance, playful and unrepentant. "I would attempt acrobatics if properly motivated," she said breezily, then softened with a huff of amusement. "Still, your concern has been logged. Neville has been hovering enough for an entire advisory board. If there were medals for supportive husbands, he would already be wearing several."
Luna laughed quietly. "I cannot argue with that. His patience borders on saintly," she replied, once again marveling at how Neville managed to match Pansy's relentless momentum without losing his gentleness in the process.
With a decisive breath, Pansy gathered her skirts and turned, already moving on to logistics. "Right. First we secure the location. Then we finalize the guest list. After that comes the illusion schedule, which will obviously run from dawn until midnight."
She paused and looked directly at Luna, expression calculating and hopeful all at once. "I will need you. I cannot very well be managing layered illusion work while actively giving birth."
Luna shook her head, equal parts amused and resigned. "I will help," she said, as calmly as if there had ever been another answer. "On the condition that at least one competent mediwizard remains nearby, just in case the illusions fail to soften the reality of screaming."
Pansy laughed, delighted, and promptly hooked her arm through Luna's, steering her toward the nearest desk where parchment and quills were already waiting. "You see? Perfect harmony. This is already working."
And so, Luna thought, they began another Pansy project, extravagant and inevitable. In her mind she could already picture it, a candlelit corridor leading to a room alive with shifting constellations, Neville hovering anxiously at the edges with devotion written into every movement. Against all reason, it might actually succeed.
The idea itself was overwhelming, turning something raw and visceral into something glittering and theatrical, yet Luna understood the truth beneath it. This was how Pansy loved. Loudly. Completely. Without restraint. If this child was to be the center of her world, then of course their arrival would be marked with spectacle.
With a quiet smile, Luna picked up a quill and set it to a clean sheet of parchment. She suspected the weeks ahead would be chaotic, exhausting, and oddly wonderful. Dipping the quill into ink, she began sketching out the first notes for illusion planning, reminding herself that some journeys began with calm intention, and others began with a slightly unhinged plan crafted by someone who loved too fiercely to do anything halfway.
~~~~~~
Pansy burst into the bedroom like a glittering storm of joy, her cheeks flushed and her heels clicking against the marble in a rhythm that could only be described as celebratory.
Her hair was slightly windblown from the floo trip across town, her eyes wide and bright, her lips curved into the kind of grin that always made Neville's chest ache with a fondness he never quite learned how to contain.
She did not announce herself because she never had to. Her presence arrived first, filling the room with warmth and motion, wrapping around him like a familiar scent before a single word was spoken.
Neville was already seated at the edge of the bed, barefoot, a book resting forgotten in his hands, and the moment he heard her come in it ceased to exist at all.
He looked up, his expression softening the instant his gaze found her, that familiar quiet awe settling into the lines around his eyes.
Even now there were moments when he looked at her like he could not quite believe she had chosen him, this sharp tongued, brilliant woman who turned every room into a stage and every sentence into something unforgettable.
"How did it go, bloom?" he asked gently, the nickname slipping from his lips with ease as he closed the book and stood to meet her, anticipation woven into his voice.
Pansy practically glowed as she flounced toward him, her hands fluttering dramatically as though the joy had nowhere else to go.
She bounced onto the bed with effortless grace and declared that Luna had been ecstatic, overjoyed to the point of physically tackling her in a full body embrace that involved shrieking into her hair and nearly sending her tumbling into a tea table.
She assured him that it had been loud, chaotic, and entirely sincere, and that yes, Luna had been absolutely thrilled.
Neville chuckled as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed a kiss to her temple, asking if that meant she had told Luna she would be a godmother.
Pansy leaned back just enough to give him a look that spoke volumes, brows arched and one hand pressed to her chest in theatrical disbelief as she addressed him by his full name and demanded to know why she would ever need to say such a thing aloud when it was painfully obvious. She pointed out that there was quite literally no one else on the planet who could possibly fill that role.
He laughed quietly, his fingers brushing down her spine as he conceded the point.
She went on with a satisfied hum, letting her head rest against his shoulder as she explained that Luna had known the moment she walked in, that some deeply unsettling intuition had kicked in before Pansy had said a single word.
She described the chain reaction that followed, Luna crying, which made her cry, which upset Seline, which in turn made Luna cry again, all culminating in a biscuit being pressed into her hand because it was apparently for the baby.
Pansy sighed into his neck and admitted that it had been wholesome, overwhelming, and emotionally destabilizing in a way she had both loathed and adored.
Neville held her closer, his thumb tracing slow circles over the back of her hand as he murmured that Luna was going to be a perfect godmother.
Pansy closed her eyes and let the quiet settle between them, her certainty immediate and unshakable as she replied that Luna already was.
After a beat, she spoke again, her voice lower now and gentler, asking if he had thought about a godfather yet, the question offered without pressure and allowed to hang between them like a note held just long enough to matter.
Neville stilled, the room seeming to hold its breath with him as he paused.
He sat at the edge of their bed with his shoulders curved inward, fingers laced together so tightly in his lap that his knuckles had gone pale, his gaze fixed on the carpet as though the answer he needed might be hidden somewhere in its pattern.
His brow was drawn, his eyes shadowed with something she could feel even before she understood it, a hesitation that lived just under the surface, a quiet ache shaped like words he could not bring himself to say.
"No… not yet," he admitted, and the way he said it mattered more than the words themselves. His voice was softer than usual, uncertain in a way that stripped him of his steady calm, and the sound of it twisted painfully in her chest.
Pansy moved toward him without haste, she sat beside him and left a sliver of space between them for just a moment, then lifted her hands and cupped his face with a reverence that made her touch feel like a promise.
Her thumbs traced the hollows of his cheeks, her palms cradled his jaw as though he were something precious and fragile, something that deserved to be handled with care.
The realization struck her all at once.
Neville did not have friends, not truly.
She looked at her husband, this beautiful man with his quiet strength and boundless kindness, and wondered how often she had missed the depth of his loneliness before her, how many times he had given himself freely to others, protecting and carrying burdens that were never meant to be his, only to be left standing alone when it mattered.
Her throat tightened as she brushed her thumbs gently along his cheekbones.
"Would you like more time to think about it?" she asked, her voice careful and low, her touch unbroken, as if she feared even kindness might bruise him.
"Yes," he breathed, the word barely audible, but she felt it settle between them. "Thank you."
She leaned in and kissed him, slow and soft, letting it linger without urgency or heat, offering only love, only comfort, only a quiet salve for a wound he had never named. When she drew back, her lips stayed close to his, her breath warm against his skin as she spoke again.
"When our baby is born, if you want to, we can take her to meet your parents. If it feels like too much, we can wait. There is no rush. We will do it your way."
His eyes lifted to hers, suddenly bright and overwhelmed, and he reached for her hand as though it were the only solid thing in the room. "Yes," he said, the word cracking under the weight of everything he carried. "Yes. They will be thrilled. I already told them, a few days ago. I visit sometimes. I talk to them."
Her smile was impossibly gentle. "I know, love," she said. "I visited them this morning."
Shock and confusion flickered across his face, followed by something deeper and more vulnerable. "You went to the asylum alone?"
"Of course I did," she replied, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. "I go sometimes. I sit with them in the garden. I tell them about you. They listen. I tell them how you are nesting like an overcaffeinated magpie, how you sing to my belly when you think I am asleep, how Lady keeps trying to claim the bassinet. They never speak, but they are there. I swear they see me."
His hand flew to his mouth as a sob tore free, sudden and raw, his shoulders shaking as he tried and failed to contain it. He turned slightly, instinctively trying to hide, but Pansy was already there, her arms around him, pulling him close, one hand firm at his back, the other threading through his hair.
"Do not hide from me," she whispered. "Cry, Nevie. You are safe. Let it out."
He clung to her, burying his face in her neck as the grief finally spilled free, years of quiet endurance breaking open all at once. Years of being strong for everyone else. Years of wondering what his parents would think if they could see the man he had become, if they could hold his child.
"I do not believe they are gone," she murmured against his temple. "Not the way people think. They are still there. I see it every time. Their eyes change when I talk about you. When I talk about our wedding. When I tell them I love you and that I am grateful to them for bringing you into this world, for giving me the man I never knew I needed. They are still there, love. I know it."
His grief deepened, ancient and uncontained, shaking him from the inside out, and she did not stop him or rush him or offer easy reassurances. She simply held him and let it pass through him, steady and unyielding.
"You are not alone anymore," she whispered. "You have me. You have our daughter. You have a family. And they are part of it too. Always."
The sound that broke from him then was old and heavy, buried beneath years of politeness and quiet dignity, and it left him trembling in her arms.
Because someone had seen him.
Finally.
The boy who memorized every crease in his mother's hand while waiting for her fingers to close around his. The teenager who trained harder than anyone else, convinced that if he became worthy enough, if he became exceptional, they might come back to him.
And the man who still visited them alone, who never quite found the courage to admit how deeply it wounded him that their eyes passed over him without recognition.
And now there was Pansy. Flawed and dramatic, sharp and radiant, loyal down to the marrow of her bones. She was telling him, without spectacle or demand, that she had gone to them too. That she had chosen them as her family. That she believed they were still there. That she spoke to them as though they mattered.
As though he mattered.
Neville broke harder then, gasping for breath as his hands trembled in his lap, his chest hitching with each sob. He clutched the edge of the bed as though it were the only thing keeping him anchored to the present.
Pansy moved at once, closing the space between them, wrapping herself around him with absolute certainty. Her arms circled his shoulders, her lips pressed to the crown of his head, her voice murmuring his name again and again, steady and sure, like a prayer she had always known by heart.
"You see me," he managed at last, the words torn from somewhere deep and unguarded, his voice raw with disbelief. "You see all of me, and you do not turn away. You stay."
She kissed the tears from his cheeks, salt and warmth and truth, her hands never stilling as they traced comfort into him. "Of course I stay," she whispered, fierce and unwavering, her own eyes bright now. "I chose you, Neville. Every part of you. The man you are, the boy you were, and the father you are going to be. There is nothing in you I would ever walk away from."
"No one has ever done that for me," he whispered, the admission trembling with everything he had never dared to hope for.
Pansy pulled him closer still. "Then they were all fools," she murmured. "Because loving you is the simplest thing I have ever known."
And in her arms, still shaking but no longer alone, Neville Longbottom finally broke in a way that did not destroy him, but began, at last, to mend him.
Notes:
Okay. Deep breaths. Is anyone else sobbing and also slightly sweating? Because same.
This chapter was… a lot. Pansy telling Neville she's pregnant was never going to be soft and serene and candlelit. No, no—this is PANSY PARKINSON, queen of emotional instability and couture-level dramatics. Of course she tells him she's pregnant like she's delivering a Shakespearean monologue at the edge of war. Of course Neville reacts like he's just been handed the moon and then immediately burst into tears because he doesn't know where to put it.
Anyway. Thank you for surviving this emotional rollercoaster with me. Please hydrate. Scream in the comments. Threaten Neville if he even thinks about messing this up again. And if you felt even one tear slide down your face, just know Pansy would call you weak—and then sob harder than you.
See you next chapter for more love, chaos, and emotional violence.
With devotion and dramatic flair,
— Sziyoncé 🥀✨