Tip #1: If you're going to be forced into marriage, at least demand champagne first. Lots of it.
The letter arrived at exactly ten-thirty, delivered by a smug-looking Ministry owl that dripped rainwater on Pansy's silk table runner.
She glared at it like it had personally insulted her before plucking up the envelope, careful not to chip her manicure.
"Luna, would you look at this bloody thing? Burgundy wax. Burgundy. Against silver china and white lilies. The Ministry has no respect for aesthetics."
Luna, sitting perfectly calm across the table, just stirred her tea. "They don't tend to prioritize decor, Pans."
Pansy broke the wax seal with a delicate but exaggerated sigh. "Well, let's see what fresh bureaucratic hell they've cooked up today."
She unfolded the parchment and began reading aloud, voice dripping with disdain.
"Dear Miss Parkinson,
In accordance with the Marriage Reintegration Act, subsection twelve, paragraph seven, and in pursuit of fostering unity between Wizarding families post-war..."
"Oh for fuck's sake, Luna. 'Fostering unity'? They think throwing me into some archaic marriage contract is going to heal the wizarding world? You know what else fosters unity? Champagne. Not forced marriage. Bloody champagne."
Luna didn't look up. "Champagne probably wouldn't meet their legal standards."
Pansy pressed on, eyes narrowing.
"—the Ministry hereby confirms the arrangement of a legal marital contract between Miss Pansy E. Parkinson and Mr. Neville F. Longbottom, effective immediately upon signing."
She froze. Blinked. Read it again. Then slammed the letter down on her pristine plate where it immediately soaked up hollandaise sauce.
"Longbottom," she hissed, horrified.
Luna finally lifted her gaze, placid as ever. "Neville?"
"Longbottom, Luna. Neville bloody Longbottom. The man practically lives in dirt. He probably thinks linen napkins are frivolous. He spends hours talking to plants. Plants."
Luna tilted her head. "He is very kind, though. And rather handsome."
Pansy shot her a look of sheer betrayal. "Kind? Handsome? He wears cardigans that smell like mulch. Mulch. He owns wellies. Actual wellies. I am a Parkinson. I don't marry men who garden for fun."
Luna sipped her tea without a hint of concern. "Perhaps this is an opportunity for you to... grow."
Pansy gave an incredulous laugh. "Grow? I have staff for that."
She snatched the letter back up, scanning the next line before reading it aloud in a tone dripping with venom.
"—the marital union will be conducted under full magical contract and monitored for compliance for the duration of one year, or until such time as the Ministry deems the partnership satisfactory."
Her jaw dropped. "Monitored for compliance. Luna. Compliance. What the fuck does that mean? Are they going to check if I'm pruning roses on schedule? Will I have to compost things? Merlin's saggy pants, am I going to have to pretend to care about bloody... bees?"
Luna's lips curved into a dreamy little smile. "You might like bees. They're very community-oriented."
Pansy stared at her for a long beat, utterly appalled. Then she poured herself an entirely unnecessary glass of champagne and topped it with orange juice like it was medicine.
"This is unacceptable," she muttered into the rim of her glass. "Future ruined. Breakfast ruined. All I have left is this mimosa and a shred of dignity, which I fully intend to cling to until this entire disaster implodes."
Luna placed her teacup down with deliberate care and gave her a serene look. "You could refuse."
"Refuse? Refuse?" Pansy's voice pitched up in horror. "And give up before the sabotage even begins? Absolutely not. I will marry Neville Longbottom, and I will win."
Luna's gaze softened in that far-too-knowing way she had. "You know, he's quite good with his hands."
Pansy choked on her mimosa and pointed furiously across the table. "Get out of my house."
Luna didn't even flinch. "I'm not going anywhere. This will be good for you, love."
"Oh, right, sure," Pansy snapped. "Just because huge-cocked Theodore is your future husband doesn't mean this will be good for me too."
Luna's expression turned faintly wounded. "Please don't say anything mean about Theodore. He's lovely. He bought me a pixie last week and he's—"
"Oh, spare me the virginal devotion," Pansy cut in, waving a hand dramatically. "I'm sure he'll be a decent fuck eventually, but men are trash. All of them. Longbottom included. I highly doubt he's even handsome. Rustic, maybe, but not handsome."
Luna set her cup down carefully. "Do not bring my virginity into this conversation. Neville is good for you. He's exactly the balance you need."
Her goddess of a best friend was pissed. And Pansy felt a flicker of guilt because, honestly, she was terrified too.
"And on that note," Luna said, spinning around to face her, eyes bright and burning now, "I like Theodore, okay? And what about it? Do not act like he's not perfect for me, because he is. And maybe I like him too. Maybe I like him a lot."
Pansy froze, all her practiced snark softening at the edges.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, love. It's just... he's a man, babes. And men are trash. That's their whole brand."
Luna crossed her arms and shook her head. "But he's not! His aura is perfect. He smells nice too, you know, and—"
Pansy didn't let her finish. She moved across the room fast, wrapping her arms around Luna in a tight hug, burying her face in her friend's shoulder with a sigh.
"I know you're nervous," Pansy murmured, voice soft now. "It's okay. He is very much perfect for you. You know that. I know that."
Luna relaxed just a little, fingers curling in the back of Pansy's dress. "I'm scared."
Pansy closed her eyes and squeezed her tighter. "Me too, love."
~
Pansy was still in her dressing gown when the knock came at the door. She didn't move at first, sipping her champagne as if ignoring it would make the whole problem disappear.
But then a house-elf popped its head into the parlor. "There's a visitor, Miss Parkinson," it squeaked. "A Mr. Longbottom."
Pansy nearly dropped her glass. "Absolutely not. Tell him I've died. Tell him I've been taken by a rare illness. No, wait, tell him—"
It was too late. The elf had already opened the door and there he stood.
Neville Longbottom.
He looked like he had dressed in the dark and then lost a fight with his wardrobe on the way over. His jumper was a hideous oatmeal color, rumpled and oversized, with little flecks of what she could only assume was actual dirt clinging to the sleeves. His trousers were brown. Brown. As if he was actively trying to offend her entire aesthetic sensibility.
And his boots… wellies. Actual wellies. Indoors.
"Good morning, Pansy," he said politely, giving her a small, shy smile that made her want to throw her champagne flute at the nearest wall.
She rose from her chair slowly, clutching her silk robe around her as if it could protect her from his sheer… rustic presence.
"You're early," she snapped. "And you're wearing mud in my entrance hall."
Neville glanced down at his boots. "Ah. Sorry. I didn't think—"
"No, you didn't think, clearly," Pansy cut in, stalking toward him with all the grace of a woman used to commanding rooms far more elegant than this disaster currently unfolding in her foyer. "You thought you'd just stroll in here, tracking dirt all over my marble floors, looking like you've wrestled a sheep this morning, and what? Charm me with your... rustic charm?"
Neville scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "I wasn't trying to charm you. I just thought we should talk."
Pansy laughed, sharp and biting. "Talk? About what exactly? The virtues of compost? The price of bloody fertilizer? Do you want to discuss root rot, Longbottom? Shall we bond over your impressive collection of wellies?"
He stood there, still calm, still maddeningly polite. "Look, Pansy... I know this is awkward."
"Astoundingly awkward," she interrupted. "Utterly tragic, in fact."
"But we're going to be married," Neville said, shrugging slightly. "At least for a year."
Pansy narrowed her eyes. "Married is a strong word. Legally obligated to tolerate each other is more accurate."
Neville just smiled, as if her venom didn't touch him at all, and glanced around the parlor, taking in her meticulously arranged flowers, polished silver, and spotless white upholstery.
"This is nice," he said mildly. "Very... elegant."
Pansy crossed her arms. "Yes, it is. And you will keep your muddy boots far from it."
"Right," Neville said, his smile tipping into something that almost looked like amusement. "Noted."
He shifted his weight slightly and she realized, to her absolute horror, that he was carrying a pot. A plant.
"What is that," she demanded.
Neville held it up as if it were a perfectly reasonable gift. "A peace lily. I thought... well, you could use one."
Pansy stared at him, speechless for one long moment before she finally found her voice again. "Get out. Get out right now before I hex you."
Neville's smile widened just a fraction. "I'll leave the lily here then," he said, gently setting it down on her pristine side table. "It likes indirect light."
And then, just like that, he turned and walked back out the door, leaving a trail of damp footprints and earthy calm in his wake.
Pansy stared after him, utterly outraged, and then turned to Luna, who had appeared silently in the doorway.
"Do you see this?" Pansy hissed. "He brought me a plant. A plant, Luna."
Luna only smiled, eyes bright. "That was very thoughtful."
"With peace and love," Pansy growled, "get out too."
~
The peace, with little love and less dignity, was short lived because the very next day, Neville was back.
Pansy didn't even try to hide her horror. She opened the door herself this time, still in a silk dressing gown, her hair twisted up artfully, face already set in a scowl. She took one look at him and felt a fresh wave of indignation roll through her.
He looked like absolute shit, to be honest. His jumper was too big again, an ugly muddy green that did nothing for him, and his boots — were they the same muddy boots as yesterday? Did he own no other shoes? The man looked like he had been digging holes in the ground since dawn and thought he could just show up on her doorstep as if that was normal behavior.
"What do you want?" she snapped, crossing her arms, leaning against the doorframe as if it might protect her from the sheer rustic tragedy standing in front of her.
Neville didn't seem fazed. He never seemed fazed, which was almost worse than if he'd been nervous. He gave her a small, awkward smile and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.
"Come with me to dinner, perhaps?" he asked gently.
Pansy let out a short, sharp laugh. "With you? Looking like this? Absolutely not."
His mouth twitched at that, and for a second she wondered if he was genuinely amused or just too patient for his own good.
"I mean... I have a suit," he said, as if that solved everything. "And others will be there as well."
"Others," she echoed flatly. "Who exactly counts as 'others' in this sad, muddy equation of yours?"
Neville cleared his throat, clearly trying to sound casual. "Ginny... and—"
"I don't like redheads with hand-me-downs," Pansy cut in before he could finish. "You must know that about me by now. I have standards. She wears jumpers knitted by her mother. She will judge my wine collection and think I'm excessive."
Neville's lips curved into that small, maddening smile again. "Draco and Hermione will be there too."
Pansy raised a brow, genuinely horrified now. "Hermione Granger and the devil himself, walking side by side. What a tragedy for the magical world. The Ministry should be intervening. Honestly, we should alert the Prophet and stage a rescue mission."
Neville didn't even blink. "Can you be a little bit positive?" he asked, sounding both hopeful and resigned at the same time.
"No!" Pansy shot back instantly, with far too much satisfaction. "Absolutely not. Positivity is not in my skillset. You knew this when you showed up in that... outfit."
He sighed but kept his ground. "Luna will be there as well."
That gave her pause. Pansy's mind immediately jumped to Luna's patient, dreamy face, probably already planning on turning up in something vaguely floral and inappropriate for dinner. And truthfully, she did feel a stab of guilt for snapping at Luna that morning, even if Luna had deserved it with all her smug commentary about "balance" and "growth."
"She better be there," Pansy muttered, glowering at Neville's jumper again, "or else."
She didn't specify what 'or else' meant, and Neville, to his credit, didn't ask. He just tilted his head slightly, as if this was perfectly reasonable, and then said quietly, "Well... shall I wait while you get ready?"
Pansy gave him a long, scathing look, eyes trailing from the sad state of his hair — was that a twig stuck in it? — to his muddy boots again.
"You're not going anywhere near me looking like that," she said firmly. "Go and change before I change my mind."
Neville's smile finally widened, and it was so gentle, so infuriatingly soft, that Pansy nearly slammed the door on him just to escape it. But instead she stood there, arms crossed, mimosa still in hand, glaring at him as he turned to leave.
He paused at the end of her path and called over his shoulder, "I'll wear the suit then."
"You'd better!" Pansy shouted after him. "And polish your shoes! I expect leather! Shiny leather, Longbottom!"
She slammed the door shut with a huff, then immediately turned and caught her own reflection in the hallway mirror. Her hair was perfect, her robe impeccable, but her cheeks were flushed and her heart was pounding for absolutely no good reason whatsoever.
"This is war," she muttered, taking a large gulp of her drink and stomping toward her wardrobe.
But even as she rifled through her closet for something that screamed "effortless elegance" without suggesting she cared too much, she couldn't help but hear Luna's voice in her head, soft and far too knowing.
"He's exactly the balance you need."
"Oh, shut up, Luna," Pansy muttered aloud, yanking a silk slip off a hanger with unnecessary force. "Balance. Honestly. The only thing I need balancing right now is this bloody mimosa."
She drained her glass and set it down with a clink, then glanced back at the door as if she could still sense Neville standing on the other side, smiling quietly in his oversized jumper and looking every inch the walking disaster she would soon have to endure at dinner.
"Leather shoes," she muttered again, pointing at the door for emphasis even though he couldn't see her. "Or I swear to Merlin I'm hexing you."
~
Pansy attended the dinner. Against her better judgment. Against her dignity. Against every part of her soul that screamed she should stay home with a bottle of champagne and judge Neville Longbottom from a safe, comfortable distance.
But here she was anyway.
And she looked fabulous, of course. Naturally. Her silk dress clung in all the right places, her hair was artfully arranged to suggest effortless perfection even though it had taken her an hour, and her heels were sharp enough to kill a man.
She stepped into the dining room like she owned it — which, frankly, she should — and paused just long enough to drink it all in. The soft lighting. The elegantly set table. The small, slightly confused gathering of people who were clearly wondering what she was doing there looking like a goddess descended to ruin their evening.
And then there was Luna.
Luna looked absolutely fuckable. That was Pansy's own doing, of course. She had dressed Luna herself, selecting the silk slip that draped just right, coaxing her hair into soft waves, adding a touch of lipstick that Luna had protested but ultimately accepted.
Pansy was proud. Very proud.
She leaned in close when she spotted her, whispering with a wicked smile, "You're welcome, darling."
Luna only smiled serenely, as if she hadn't just walked in looking like an ethereal dream because of Pansy's intervention.
Pansy was about to bask fully in her triumph when her gaze caught on Neville.
Neville Longbottom.
And to her horror… he looked presentable.
Finally.
No mud. No jumper. No ill-fitting trousers. No trace of that earthy disaster aesthetic he usually dragged around with him like a badge of honor.
He was in a suit. A proper, fitted, shockingly expensive-looking suit. His boots had been replaced with polished leather shoes — exactly as she had demanded — and there was even the faintest trace of cologne, something warm and clean that she could not identify and absolutely did not approve of.
And he looked… good.
Which was a problem.
A problem because he was standing there, leaning against the far wall, looking calm and self-assured, his hair tidy but still a little tousled in that infuriating way that suggested he hadn't tried at all.
A problem because he met her gaze across the room and gave her that same small, mild smile that made her want to simultaneously throw her clutch at his head and climb him like a tree.
She hated him for that smile.
And for the fact that he clearly knew she was noticing.
She tilted her chin, plastered a smile on her face, and sauntered forward with every ounce of grace she had cultivated since childhood.
"Well, at least you don't look like a gardening accident tonight," she murmured as she passed him, letting her fingers ghost along the lapel of his jacket before turning toward the table as if he were already beneath her notice.
Neville chuckled softly behind her. "You clean up beautifully too, Pansy."
The gall.
She shot a look over her shoulder. "I always look beautiful, Longbottom. You're late to that realization."
He didn't rise to the bait, of course. He never did. He just smiled in that infuriatingly quiet way of his and gestured to her chair like a gentleman.
Red was there, of course. Looking ginger as ever. AHH. As if. Pansy hated it. She hated the whole redhead aesthetic on principle, hated that Weasley confidence, hated that hand-me-down smugness that clung to Ginny like an old dated dress that somehow still fit perfectly.
Red even had the audacity to look comfortable, perched next to Blaise like this dinner was some perfectly pleasant gathering and not an active insult to Pansy's peace of mind.
And Zabini looked like the proper fuckboy he absolutely was.
Open collar, effortless charm oozing from every careless lean of his body, glass of wine held loosely between his fingers, already halfway through seducing someone who hadn't even arrived yet.
Pathetic, really.
Pansy narrowed her eyes at him, watching as he laughed at some dumb joke Red made, flashing that smile that had ruined a scandalous number of women in this very city.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. And exactly on brand.
Then there was Theodore.
Theodore Nott, who was utterly, completely, gloriously lost in Luna's eyes. And that… that Pansy had to admit was very good.
As he should be.
Pansy felt a stab of pride in that moment — after all, she had dressed Luna, styled her hair, picked that lipstick shade, and here was Theodore Nott, war-hardened Slytherin, hopelessly transfixed like a lovesick poet.
Excellent work, Parkinson.
But then, at the other end of the table…
Granger and Malfoy.
Pansy's lips curled into a delighted little smirk. They looked exactly as they always did — like a myth waiting to happen. Like Hades and Persephone in couture.
Granger was all sharp edges softened by elegance, looking more polished than she had any right to, with that clever little look in her eyes that promised absolutely no one was safe tonight.
And Malfoy…
Malfoy looked cold and expensive, leaning back in his chair with that trademark sneer, watching everyone like he was counting the ways they disappointed him. Which, honestly, he probably was.
Interesting, Pansy thought, very interesting indeed.
She couldn't wait for them to start fighting. It was inevitable, really. They would pretend civility for approximately ten more minutes before some tiny comment from Granger would detonate the entire fragile truce.
Pansy was practically salivating at the thought.
A screaming match was coming. She could feel it in the air. It was going to be delicious.
Honestly, this dinner might turn out to be entertaining after all… if she didn't die of secondhand embarrassment from Neville trying to act like a functioning member of polite society first.
She glanced sideways at him.
Presentable.
Infuriatingly presentable.
She hated that he had listened to her instructions. Hated that he had polished his shoes, that his hair was neatly combed but still fell into his eyes in an annoyingly attractive way, that he was sitting there calmly sipping his wine like he belonged at this table full of beautiful, dangerous people.
She hated it.
And somewhere in that hate was a tiny thread of curiosity she refused to acknowledge.
Not tonight. Not yet.
She leaned toward Luna and whispered, "This table is a collection of disasters waiting to happen."
Luna smiled serenely, her gaze still locked on Theo like he hung the stars.
Pansy sighed dramatically, picked up her glass, and drained half of it in one go.
"Well," she muttered to herself, "at least everyone looks fuckable."
Pansy was so over this evening.
It had begun with her surrounded by people she only barely tolerated and ended with her feeling far too warm, far too tipsy, and far too aware of how presentable Neville bloody Longbottom had looked all night.
By the time dessert appeared, she had stopped even pretending to engage in polite conversation. She simply sat there, swirling wine in her glass and glaring at Neville whenever he glanced her way.
And then she kept drinking.
And drinking.
And by the time the party wound down, Pansy Parkinson was, without question, very drunk.
Not gently tipsy. Not pleasantly relaxed. No, she was properly gone — slurring her words and leaning too hard on the back of her chair as she tried to stand.
Neville appeared at her elbow before she could topple.
"Let's get you home, okay?" he said softly, slipping an arm around her waist, steady and maddeningly competent as ever.
Pansy squinted at him, her lipstick a little smudged now, her hair slipping loose from its artful twist. "Not with you," she slurred. "I want Luna. Immediately. Where is my Luna?"
Her speech was so sloppy he was honestly impressed he could understand a word.
"You're getting home safely," Neville said firmly, guiding her toward the floo with quiet determination.
Pansy tried to protest — she even managed a half-hearted, "No—" — but it was too late.
In seconds, she was deposited gently into the familiar plushness of her own living room couch, firelight flickering in the grate, champagne flutes still on the sideboard from the morning's drama.
Neville crouched beside her, helping her sit properly, gently smoothing the skirt of her dress so she didn't wrinkle it too badly.
"Do you need water?" he asked, his voice warm, his touch careful.
But before he could stand, Pansy moved.
One moment she was perched primly on the edge of the couch and the next… she was straddling him.
Her silk dress slid smoothly over her thighs as she swung one leg over his lap, settling herself firmly in place without a trace of hesitation.
Neville froze.
His hands immediately lifted as if surrendering, palms open beside her hips, careful not to touch her.
"Pans—" he started, his voice rougher now, surprise curling around her name.
"Shut up," Pansy murmured, leaning in close, her nose brushing his jaw as she breathed in that infuriatingly pleasant cologne she hadn't wanted to notice earlier. "You look… decent," she added, her words slurring softly, lips grazing his cheek.
Neville let out a slow, shaky breath. "You are drunk, bloom," he said gently, one hand hovering near her waist but still refusing to touch her. "Let's get you to bed. Properly. To sleep."
But Pansy was in no mood for patience. Or refusal.
Her gaze dropped lazily to his hands, strong and warm, hovering uselessly in the air.
Without a word, she took his right hand in both of hers, small fingers wrapping around his wrist as she guided him down, lower, until his palm pressed exactly where she wanted him.
Between her thighs.
Right there.
Her breath hitched and she tilted her face closer to his ear, voice low and needy as she whispered, "Touch me. Immediately."
For one agonizing second, Neville didn't move.
His breath hitched audibly, fingers curling instinctively where she had placed them, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost hoarse, but still annoyingly kind.
"Pansy," he murmured, eyes dark and searching, "you need to sleep."
She tightened her grip on his wrist, rolling her hips shamelessly against his hand. "You're the one keeping me up, Longbottom."
His restraint was slipping — she could feel it, in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his other hand twitched before curling into a fist to stop himself from reaching for her fully.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, and for the first time all evening, she felt the balance tip between them.
Good.
Exactly what she wanted.
"Touch me," she whispered again, slower this time, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she rocked against his still, trembling hand.
And for a moment, it looked like he was about to give in, really give in, until he took a deep breath, gently moved her hands away, and eased her off his lap with agonizing care.
"I'm going to help you to bed," Neville said softly, his voice so steady it made her ache even more. "And then I'm going to leave. Because you deserve better than this, bloom. Better than tonight."
He guided her back onto the couch, tucking a blanket around her with maddening gentleness, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead with fingers that lingered far too long.
Then he rose, pausing at the floo.
His last words before he disappeared were soft but certain.
"When you're sober, Bloom. When you mean it."
And then he was gone.
Pansy lay there in the silence of her living room, drunk and frustrated and furious, staring at the spot where he'd vanished.
She didn't suffer in silence.
Oh no.
Pansy Parkinson suffered in 4K, full blast, with surround sound and a performance level worthy of a standing ovation.
Her head hurt. Her limbs hurt. Her pride hurt. Most of all, her ego was in absolute shambles, lying crumpled somewhere between her dressing table and the floo grate where Neville bloody Longbottom had vanished into the night like some patient, frustrating ghost.
She groaned loudly, burying her face into her pillow, then rolling dramatically onto her back so she could sigh again — louder this time, in case anyone nearby might mistake her for someone quietly dealing with their hangover like a reasonable person.
Absolutely not.
No one was safe from this performance.
The house-elf appeared with tea and she waved it away dramatically, declaring, "I need something stronger. Bring me… something that doesn't taste like regret and poor choices."
The elf scurried out without a word.
She flopped back into her sheets and glared at the ceiling.
Coward.
That's what he was.
Neville bloody Longbottom.
Coward.
He could polish his shoes, wear a decent suit, look like he belonged at a table with Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger — honestly, he had no business looking that put together — but when she straddled him, begged him with her whole drunken, needy body, he had chosen... restraint.
Pansy groaned again, throwing an arm across her eyes.
Why? Why did he have to be decent? Why did he have to show "self-control" and "respect" when all she wanted — needed — was for him to drop that insufferable patience for one second and touch her like he meant it?
Coward.
A complete and utter coward.
And she hated him for it.
Proper, healthy hatred. The kind that fuelled entire bottles of champagne and several very pointed letters she would never send.
She sat up suddenly, hair a disaster, mascara smudged perfectly into a smoky mess that would have looked chic if she hadn't also looked like death.
With a hoarse voice, she said out loud, "He is a coward and a menace, and this is an act of war."
No one was there to hear her.
Didn't matter. She heard herself and that was enough.
She slid out of bed, muttering under her breath about cowardice and wasted opportunity, and stormed into her dressing room like a woman with a mission.
He had chosen patience? Fine.
She would choose revenge.
Beautiful, sophisticated, petty revenge.
She rifled through her wardrobe, grabbing the shortest slip dress she owned, something completely inappropriate for daylight hours, something that said "I am thriving" when really, she was barely upright.
"Coward," she hissed again to her reflection, spritzing herself with an expensive perfume she didn't even like, just for the sheer aggression of it.
Luna would probably come over later, all calm and full of infuriating empathy. She would tell Pansy that Neville was "respectful" and "kind" and "not taking advantage."
Blah, blah, blah.
Pansy didn't want respectful. She didn't want kind.
She wanted ruined.
She wanted Neville Longbottom ruined.
And if he wouldn't ruin her, then she would ruin him first.
Think of this fic as the unhinged little sister of Tower and the Star — still full of arranged marriage nonsense, just with fewer felonies, zero murders (so far), and way more aggressively sexual brunches.