Tip #3: Arguing over breakfast is an art form. Maintain perfect eyeliner while doing it.
Pansy was not a morning person on the best of days, and this was certainly not the best of days.
Her house, once a sanctuary of clean lines, polished floors, and the kind of soft silence that bespoke true elegance, now smelled faintly of damp soil and something green and aggressively wholesome.
The morning sun, usually a pleasant companion, streamed through the tall windows with an almost offensive brightness, illuminating what could only be described as an infestation of leafy monstrosities that seemed to multiply every time she dared look away.
She swept into the hall, robe cinched tightly around her waist, hair pinned back in an elegant twist that she had done herself, because appearances mattered, even when no one was watching. Especially then. She held her chin high as she moved, graceful despite the rising tension that simmered just beneath her carefully controlled exterior.
Her mind was already listing grievances before she even reached the stairs. The monstera in the corner that was now twice as large as it had been yesterday. The absurd number of clay pots that cluttered her sunroom. The subtle but unmistakable scent of rosemary hanging in the air, taunting her with its cheerful domesticity.
And then it happened.
Her slipper slid suddenly beneath her, catching on something small and loose. Her heart lurched as she wobbled, arms flailing with less grace than she would ever admit, and for one horrifying half-second she thought she was going to fall entirely, that she was going to land flat on the marble like some cautionary tale about hubris and houseplants.
But she caught herself. Just barely. Her fingers curled tight around the edge of the side table as she steadied herself, her breath sharp and fast, her pulse racing in her throat, dignity only just intact by sheer force of will.
When she finally dared to look down, she saw it.
Soil.
A smudge of it, right there on her marble floor, dark and damp and defiantly out of place, a rude blot on the perfection she had cultivated so carefully over the years. It was not just a stain. It was a statement. A reminder that her sanctuary had been invaded, that the chaos Longbottom had dragged in with him was taking root, quite literally, under her feet.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table, and she exhaled slowly through her nose, willing herself not to scream outright. Instead, she crouched just slightly, inspecting the smudge with the same disdainful curiosity she might show an insect that had wandered into her bedroom.
It was not just a single patch, she realized with growing horror. There was a faint trail leading further down the hall, tiny flecks of earth scattered carelessly across the polished marble, like breadcrumbs marking the path of her undoing.
Of course it would come to this, she thought bitterly. First the plants. Then the books. Then the hammock in her solarium. And now this. Soil. Soil on her pristine floors.
Her rage was instant and spectacular, blooming in her chest like wildfire, immediate and consuming.
"Longbottom!" she called, her voice sharp enough to cut glass, slicing through the morning silence that had, moments before, been filled only with the gentle rustle of leaves and the faint chirp of birds outside the window.
For a moment there was no reply. Just silence, as if even the house-elves had learned to retreat before the full force of a Parkinson fury. But then, from the far end of the hall, he appeared.
Calm as ever.
Fuck him.
Sleeves rolled to his elbows, carrying a watering can as though he were the embodiment of peace itself, looking irritatingly content with the state of things.
His hair was tousled in that careless way that suggested he had run a hand through it exactly once and then given up, and the sight of him only made it worse.
"Yes?" he asked, his voice calm, warm even, as if nothing at all was amiss.
She turned on him with all the force of a woman deeply wronged, gesturing with dramatic precision at the offending smudge of soil, her robe swishing around her as she pivoted to face him completely.
"This," she declared, her tone dripping with offense, "is unacceptable. I nearly died."
Neville set the watering can down gently on a nearby console table, then glanced at the small patch of soil with what could only be described as mild curiosity.
His gaze flicked to her, far too steady for her liking, the faintest spark of amusement dancing behind it. "You seem fine to me," he said evenly, no hint of apology in his voice, no urgency, just that same infuriating steadiness.
"I could have broken something," she continued, undeterred. "A hip. An ankle. My reputation. All because you have brought the outdoors into my house. Soil. On my floors."
He bent slightly, brushing a fingertip through the dirt as if inspecting it, then straightened with a casual grace that made her want to throttle him. "Just a bit of soil," he said mildly. "It happens when you care for plants."
Her hands flew to her hips, silk robe cinching tight as she straightened her spine and glared at him. "This is not a greenhouse," she snapped, her voice rising, sharp and precise. "This is my home. A place of refinement. It was not designed to accommodate… soil."
Neville's mouth twitched, the barest suggestion of a suppressed smile threatening to appear, and that nearly undid her. The fury she felt in that moment was exquisite and total.
He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed, utterly relaxed as he watched her spiral. "I can clean it up," he offered gently, as though that solved everything.
"That is not the point," Pansy shot back immediately, pacing now, her silk robe trailing behind her like the train of a battle-worn general. "The point is that it should not have been there at all. The point is that I should not have to see soil in my house. The point is that I should not have to question whether the next step I take will lead me to a tragic accident and the ignoble end of my life."
Neville didn't interrupt. He never interrupted. He simply watched, calm and infuriatingly composed, the faintest glint of amusement still tucked at the corner of his mouth, saying nothing, letting her rant unfold exactly as she needed it to.
That, more than anything, drove her mad.
His refusal to rise to her bait. His utter patience. His maddening, infuriating steadiness in the face of what was clearly a crisis.
Her pacing grew faster, silk hem brushing against her ankles with each turn as she let the words pour out unchecked. "I spent years perfecting this house," she went on, voice sharp with frustration. "Years without so much as a speck of dirt on these floors, and now, because you have filled this house with monstera and rosemary and Merlin knows what else, I am expected to live like this. Soil on the floor. Herbs in my dining room. Muddy boots by the door."
She stopped suddenly, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "You brought chaos into this house, Longbottom."
Neville tilted his head slightly, leaning there with that maddening calm, his arms still crossed, entirely too comfortable in her home, as if he had always belonged there. "I brought plants," he corrected softly, that almost-smile playing at the edges of his lips.
Pansy could not breathe properly. Her chest felt tight, not just from fury, but from something deeper, something she refused to name.
"This is a violation," she declared, arms sweeping around the hall as if to indicate every single offending plant and pot and leaf. "An outright violation of the contract."
Neville raised one brow, his expression infuriatingly mild. "Which clause would that be?"
Her mouth opened and then closed again, because unfortunately, she could not cite an exact clause about soil or fig trees or hammocks.
That did not stop her.
She drew herself up taller, lifted her chin with practiced disdain, and said with cold precision, "The spirit of the contract."
He chuckled quietly, a warm, low sound that sent an entirely unwelcome shiver down her spine.
"You're making this difficult on purpose," she accused, but even as she spoke, her voice softened, an edge of something else creeping in, something almost resigned.
Neville straightened, finally pushing himself away from the doorframe, closing the small distance between them. He crouched down easily, sweeping the soil into his palm without hesitation, then rose again, utterly unbothered. "All clean," he said simply, meeting her gaze without a hint of irony.
Pansy narrowed her eyes. "You'r annoying."
His smile softened further, warmth radiating from it now. "And you're delightful when you're annoyed."
Her breath hitched just slightly, so slight that no one but Neville would have noticed.
Without another word, she turned on her heel, sweeping away from him, muttering to herself as she went. "Delightful. We will see how delightful I am when I remove every last one of these bloody plants."
Behind her, she could hear the quiet clatter of the watering can as Neville returned to his work, humming softly again, that infuriating little tune that she was beginning to loathe and, even worse, notice.
~
The next afternoon brought exactly what Pansy both wanted and dreaded. Visitors.
It had been Luna's idea, of course, sweet and treacherous as always, suggesting that a "small, informal gathering" would help them adjust, that it would offer everyone a chance to see how well this new arrangement was going.
And Pansy, because pride was a dangerous thing, had agreed.
By three o'clock, the drawing room was immaculate.
At least, it appeared that way from a distance.
To Pansy's practiced eye, it was an uneasy compromise between elegance and the creeping chaos that had begun to infiltrate her home. There were still too many plants, even if she had shoved several of them into corners. There were still a few muddy boots visible in the front hall despite her repeated threats to hex them into oblivion.
But it would have to do.
Her friends arrived promptly, as if choreographed: Luna, serene and glowing with her usual infuriating calm; Red, loud and laughing before she even crossed the threshold; Blaise, slouching in his chair like he owned the place; Theo, trailing behind them, already half-distracted by some conversation Luna had started on the way over.
They settled in easily, as if this was still her house, as if everything was perfectly ordinary.
And then there was Longbottom.
He appeared from somewhere near the solarium, rolling up his sleeves as he dried his hands on a tea towel, looking perfectly calm and infuriatingly at ease in his own skin, as if he belonged here too.
Pansy stayed perched on her favorite chair, back straight, head high, every inch the picture of cool disdain. She watched her friends settle into the space, watched their gazes flick toward Longbottom as he moved effortlessly through her house.
It was Red who noticed first.
"Pans," she said with a sly grin, "you didn't mention he was... domestic."
Pansy's eyes narrowed immediately. "He is invasive," she corrected smoothly. "Not domestic. There is a difference."
Blaise chuckled lowly from where he sat sprawled across the settee. "Invasive, huh? He looks perfectly comfortable to me."
Luna tilted her head, smiling faintly. "He seems very settled."
Pansy made a sharp, dismissive noise. "Longbottom is many things, but settled is not one of them. He has been here for five minutes and already ruined the balance of this house. I nearly broke my neck on a patch of soil just this morning. And the plants. Merlin's beard, the plants. They are multiplying. I cannot turn around without brushing against some leaf or another."
Theo, who had been unusually quiet so far, leaned forward slightly, surveying Longbottom with mild curiosity. "He does look like he's thriving, though," he observed. "And you, Pansy dear... you seem rather fascinated."
That earned a ripple of laughter from the group.
Pansy's spine stiffened. "Fascinated?" she echoed, her tone arctic. "Hardly. I am enduring."
"Enduring what exactly?" Red asked, eyes dancing with amusement. "Your new husband's... presence? Or his plants?"
"Both," Pansy snapped, tossing her hair over one shoulder with theatrical flair. "Longbottom is a menace. He hums. Constantly. He moves things. He has displaced at least three of my prized possessions with... herbs."
Blaise laughed again. "I don't think I've ever heard anyone say herbs with that much venom."
Longbottom chose that exact moment to reenter the room, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits, utterly unbothered by the fact that he was being dissected just a few feet away.
"Tea?" he asked simply, offering the tray first to Luna, who accepted with a warm smile.
Pansy watched, almost horrified, as he moved around the room with that maddening steadiness, pouring tea as if this was his role, as if he had always served tea in her drawing room.
When he reached her, she fixed him with a glare, though her fingers closed reflexively around the cup he offered her.
She sipped it almost immediately, just to mask her confusion at the fact that, somehow, it was exactly how she liked it.
Longbottom met her gaze without a flicker of discomfort. "Anything else you need, Pans?" he asked, voice soft and infuriatingly polite.
She straightened slightly, chin tilted, determined to regain her footing. "Yes. I need my house back. I need fewer plants. I need your boots kept out of sight. And I need you to stop humming."
His lips quirked, that same faint, infuriatingly patient smile. "Duly noted."
Ginny, who had been watching the entire exchange with open delight, leaned toward Luna and whispered "She's obsessed."
"I am not obsessed," Pansy snapped, whipping her gaze toward Ginny.
Blaise raised his brows, lazily tipping his teacup toward her. "You sound a little obsessed."
Theo gave her an innocent smile. "A healthy obsession, perhaps."
Even Luna, serene and unshakable, gave a soft, amused hum. "You do seem very... aware of him."
Pansy's mouth opened to retort but no words emerged, which only made the group laugh louder.
Longbottom, infuriatingly, said nothing at all. He just served the last cup of tea, set the tray aside, and disappeared back toward the kitchen, leaving her with the uncomfortable sensation that somehow, he was winning.
Just as the laughter around the tea table was beginning to die down, the front door opened again, this time without so much as a knock, which could only mean one thing.
Malfoy.
Pansy barely had time to sit straighter and adjust her expression before he appeared in the doorway, perfectly pressed in expensive robes, pale hair immaculate, one arm wrapped possessively around Hermione's waist as if she might disappear at any moment if he loosened his grip.
And Granger walked calmly beside him, hand resting lightly on his chest as if this sort of dramatic, all-consuming attention was simply part of her day now.
Pansy's lips curved into a sharp smile as she took them in, filing away every detail for later commentary.
"Oh look," she drawled, tilting her head toward Ginny with mock delight, "it's Hades and Persephone , right on schedule."
Hermione gave her a tight but amused smile as Draco's gaze swept over the room, cool and assessing as ever, before settling immediately on Hermione again, his entire focus narrowing until he seemed barely aware anyone else was present.
Blaise, slouched comfortably in the corner with a smirk already blooming across his face, was the first to break the brief silence.
"Ah," he said with exaggerated fondness, lifting his teacup in an informal toast. "The golden couple arrives. Tell me, Malfoy, do you ever let her breathe without hovering two inches behind her at all times?"
Draco's eyes flashed, not with irritation but with a possessive satisfaction that bordered on smugness. "Why would I?"
Hermione rolled her eyes, though the faint flush in her cheeks betrayed that she was not nearly as unaffected as she pretended.
Blaise leaned forward just enough to let his grin widen. "You're obsessed," he declared, his voice low and gleeful. "Utterly obsessed. I bet you count the seconds she's not in the room."
Ginny laughed aloud, clapping a hand over her mouth as if that would contain the sound, while Theo nodded solemnly as if Blaise had just spoken an undeniable truth.
Draco's expression did not shift, but the way his arm tightened almost imperceptibly around Hermione's waist said everything.
"I don't see the problem," he said smoothly, cool and unapologetic.
Hermione sighed, resigned and yet unmistakably fond, slipping her hand into Draco's as if this entire performance was inevitable.
Blaise let out a quiet chuckle, lifting his cup again toward Pansy. "And you think you're subtle, darling," he added, voice dripping with amusement. "At least Malfoy's honest about his obsession."
That earned another round of laughter from the entire room, leaving Pansy no choice but to tilt her chin and offer her sharpest, most unbothered smile.
"Longbottom is nothing like Malfoy," she said firmly, though her gaze flicked involuntarily toward the doorway where Longbottom had disappeared a few minutes ago.
Her friends just laughed louder.
And deep down , even she could hear the hollowness in her own denial.
But that mental state didn't last long, because the moment Hermione and Draco settled in and the conversation threatened to veer back toward teasing her about Longbottom, Pansy made a decision. She rose swiftly, catching Luna's arm in a perfectly casual yet utterly commanding grip, and yanked her unceremoniously toward the far side of the room, out of earshot of the others.
"Luna," she said, her voice low and urgent, though the gleam in her eyes was unmistakably mischievous. "Gossiping sesh. Now."
Luna blinked at her, serene as ever, but there was a familiar sparkle of amusement beneath that dreamy expression. "Right now?"
Pansy gave her an exaggerated look of exasperation, as if the urgency of this situation should have been obvious. "Yes. Obviously right now. Do you want me to be forced to endure Blaise dissecting my nonexistent feelings for Longbottom while Malfoy clings to Granger like a cursed locket? I need a distraction. And you, my dear, are the distraction."
Luna laughed softly but allowed herself to be steered into the corner, resting one hand lightly on the back of a chair. "Fine. What would you like to gossip about?"
Pansy wasted no time, leaning in conspiratorially, lowering her voice into a stage whisper that was just loud enough to sound dangerous. "So... how is everything with Nott?"
Luna tilted her head slightly, pale hair falling over one shoulder, and smiled in that maddeningly serene way of hers. "He's absolutely wonderful," she said simply, voice light, "and I like him very much."
Pansy waved a hand impatiently, cutting her off before she could get too wholesome. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm not here for a Hallmark summary. I want the juicy gossip. I want details. Give me something scandalous, Luna."
But Luna just smiled, infuriatingly calm, her expression betraying nothing. "I am not talking about my private life," she said gently, as if that settled the matter entirely.
Pansy groaned dramatically, flopping back against the arm of a nearby chair, one hand pressed theatrically to her temple. "Why must all my friends become so infuriatingly wholesome the moment they get shagged properly?"
Luna's lips twitched, the closest she ever came to smirking. "It's peace, Pansy. You should try it."
Pansy narrowed her eyes. "I prefer chaos, thank you very much. Peace sounds boring."
Luna hummed thoughtfully, tilting her head again. "Then you must be very entertained these days. Your house seems quite... lively."
That earned a sharp look, but Luna's innocent expression didn't waver.
Pansy straightened, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve. "If you're implying that Longbottom is my entertainment, I can assure you he is not. He is an irritation. A very... well-organized irritation."
Luna only smiled again, entirely too knowing for someone so quiet. "If you say so."
Pansy lifted her chin, determined to regain control of the conversation. "I do say so. Now enough about me. Back to you. I expect a full report on Nott next time we meet, Luna, and I want scandal."
Luna gave a small bow of her head. "I will consider it."
"That is not a no," Pansy said brightly, already feeling slightly better.
"Not quite a yes either," Luna replied, her smile widening just a fraction as she turned back toward the others, leaving Pansy standing there, arms crossed, lips pursed, trying very hard not to admit to herself that she enjoyed this ridiculous little distraction far more than she should have.
~
By the time the last guest had departed the house was blessedly quiet again.
Pansy stood in the hall for a long moment after the door shut, her arms crossed tightly, exhaling sharply as if she could force the remnants of their teasing from the air. She refused to acknowledge the warmth in her cheeks or the way Blaise's final, parting comment about "her fascination" still rang in her ears.
She needed air.
The literal kind. And for all her complaints, the greenhouse, now half taken over by Longbottom's ridiculous collection of herbs and leafy monstrosities, was quiet and warm and smelled faintly of rosemary and damp soil. So she went there, barefoot, her silk robe trailing softly behind her, every step carefully measured as she made her way through the house and pushed open the glass door.
The air inside was different, somehow softer than the rest of the house. The temperature was a few degrees warmer, the scent lush and green, and the only sound was the occasional creak of wood or rustle of leaves. It should have annoyed her, she told herself. All these plants pressing too close together, cluttering her once immaculate space.
But tonight, it felt... peaceful.
Of course, Longbottom was there too.
He sat on the low wooden bench at the far end of the greenhouse, legs stretched out in front of him, shirt sleeves rolled, a book resting lazily in his lap, one hand absently trailing along the leaves of a nearby fern. He looked perfectly content, as always, infuriatingly at ease, like this was exactly where he belonged.
She didn't announce her presence. She simply moved to the opposite end of the greenhouse and lowered herself onto the wide chaise near the window, tucking her legs beneath her, leaning her head back against the cushion.
She told herself she would stay only a few minutes. Just long enough to reclaim some quiet before bed.
But something about the warmth of the room, the soft hum of the air, the subtle rustling of leaves as a breeze whispered through the enchanted glass walls… it was soothing. Too soothing.
Her gaze drifted lazily toward Longbottom. He hadn't looked up from his book but there was no doubt he knew she was there. She could sense it in the easy set of his shoulders, the slight softening at the corner of his mouth, as if her presence was as natural as the air itself.
Annoying, really.
She let her eyes close, just for a moment.
That was the mistake.
The next thing she knew, she was blinking awake, the light in the greenhouse dimmer now, the sun fully set beyond the glass, a soft glow from enchanted lamps illuminating the space. Her robe was tucked gently around her, her bare feet covered with a light wool blanket that absolutely had not been there earlier.
For a second she lay perfectly still, heart beating a little too fast, mind catching up slowly.
She hadn't meant to fall asleep.
And she certainly hadn't meant for Longbottom to notice.
But when she turned her head slightly, she saw him still seated exactly where he had been, his book resting quietly on the bench beside him, his gaze not on the pages but on her.
Steady. Warm. Patient.
The silence between them felt... different now.
It wasn't awkward. It wasn't charged with annoyance or petty irritation. It was just... quiet. Real.
Pansy sat up slowly, adjusting her dress with careful fingers, smoothing her hair even though she could feel that it was probably in disarray. She cleared her throat, lifting her chin slightly.
"You didn't need to stay," she said, her voice lower than usual, softer around the edges.
Longbottom smiled faintly, that maddeningly gentle smile that she was beginning to recognize as entirely his own. "You looked comfortable," he replied simply.
She could think of no immediate response to that.
Comfortable.
She hated that word. And hated that it was true.
She rose gracefully, shaking off the lingering drowsiness, gathering the robe around her shoulders like armor again.
"Well," she said finally, her tone sharper now, more herself again, "I'm going to bed."
Longbottom inclined his head, completely unbothered. "Goodnight, bloom."
She paused at the door for a fraction of a second too long, one hand resting lightly on the glass frame, before pulling it open and slipping quietly back into the house.
Her pulse was still too fast.
And though she would never, ever admit it, her mind was still full of that moment, the soft hush of the greenhouse, the warmth of the blanket over her feet, the quiet sound of his breathing in the background, steady and calm.
It was only later, when she reached her bedroom and caught her reflection in the mirror, that she allowed herself to whisper aloud, very quietly, as if admitting it to herself might summon him from the next room:
"One year. I can endure this for one year."
But even she didn't entirely believe it anymore.
~
Pansy had gone to bed determined to reclaim her composure.
And with sleep came the dream.
It was absurd, honestly.
The kind of dream she would laugh at over cocktails with Luna and Granger if it had involved anyone else. But it didn't. It involved him.
It began softly, almost innocently, the way dreams always seem to lull before they strike at the heart of you.
Longbottom stood in her greenhouse, barefoot, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows, sunlight threading through his curls, glinting off the sweat at his temples. There was dirt smudged along the inside of his wrist, a sprig of rosemary tucked behind one ear in a way that would have made her scoff if it were not for the way he was looking at her.
He was humming, that same quiet, tuneless melody that had become an almost constant presence in her house, but this time it was different. This time he was looking directly at her, eyes warm and steady, that maddening almost-smile playing at the corner of his lips, soft but sure, as if he had already decided exactly how this would go.
He took a step forward, then another, and she felt it immediately — the heat rolling off his skin, the subtle weight of his presence settling into the air around her, wrapping her up in it.
He reached out, slowly, without hurry, as though he had all the time in the world, and when his fingers finally touched her skin, they were rough from tending plants but impossibly gentle. Gentle in a way that felt deliberate. Gentle in a way that made her breath stutter, her pulse quicken, her spine straighten even as it melted under the sensation.
His fingertips skimmed along the edge of her jaw, then traced lightly down the column of her throat, pausing at the hollow between her collarbones where they hovered for just a moment before slipping beneath the silk of her robe.
He moved slowly, as if savoring every inch, every heartbeat, every tiny shiver he drew from her without even trying. His palm settled at the curve of her waist, thumb brushing small, reverent circles just above the knot of her sash, and everywhere he touched seemed to glow with heat.
His other hand came up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, lingering there, fingers trailing down the line of her neck to her shoulder. His touch was steady, patient, devastating.
And then he spoke.
Not "Parkinson." Not "darling." But her name. Her name alone, low and rough and almost reverent, curling into the air between them like a spell. It did not sound like a tease or a challenge or a joke. It sounded like a promise.
Her body betrayed her completely, arching into his touch before she could stop herself, as though the dream itself was drawing her forward. Heat bloomed everywhere, slow and aching and exquisite, making her gasp softly as his breath warmed the shell of her ear, lips brushing against it, barely grazing but enough to unravel her.
His hand slid lower then, moving carefully but with intention, trailing over her hip, fingers curving to guide her closer, drawing her flush against him until there was no space left to pretend. Her heart thundered in her chest, every nerve alive, every breath caught somewhere between surrender and disbelief.
She felt his lips trace a path down her neck, slow and deliberate, pressing kisses at the base of her throat, over the sensitive spot just above her pulse, pausing there as if he could feel it racing beneath his mouth. And all the while, his fingers skimmed beneath the silk, stroking over the curve of her thigh, his touch featherlight but purposeful, as though he knew exactly how to unravel her, exactly how to take her apart with nothing but patience and care.
And just when she thought it could not get worse, his voice returned, rougher now, almost hoarse, right at her ear.
"Let me," he murmured, words soft but full of weight, full of certainty.
In the dream she had no pride left. No armor, no disdain, no icy detachment to hide behind. She was pliant beneath him, aching and helpless and desperate in the most delicious way, her fingers curling into his shirt, dragging him impossibly closer as his hand finally slid exactly where she wanted him, exactly how she had imagined that night on the couch but never allowed herself to admit aloud.
Her breath hitched again, sharp and high, her hips rolling helplessly against his palm as his name formed on her lips for the first time.
When she woke, it was sudden and breathless.
Her eyes flew open, the dim light of dawn just beginning to creep through the curtains, her sheets twisted around her legs, skin flushed and damp.
Her heart was racing, her pulse pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat, and worst of all — far worse than the vivid memory of the dream itself — was the undeniable, humiliating truth of what had just happened.
She was soaked.
Utterly, completely soaked.
Her nightgown clung to her thighs, her body still aching from a climax she had never actually reached but had felt so vividly that for a few dizzy moments she wasn't entirely sure she had only dreamed it.
She sat up slowly, dragging her fingers through her hair, pressing the heels of her hands against her burning cheeks as the reality sank in.
Neville bloody Longbottom.
Her body was betraying her and she hated it.
Hated him.
Hated herself.
It was unbearable.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, standing quickly, pacing to the mirror as if she might catch some glimpse of her foolishness in her own reflection. Her hair was a mess, cheeks flushed, lips parted as she struggled to steady her breath.
This was unacceptable.
Absolutely unacceptable.
And yet, when she caught herself in the glass, she froze.
Because there it was: that softness she had seen creeping into her expression after falling asleep in the greenhouse, back again. A softness that had no place here. A softness that was dangerous.
Her thighs pressed together involuntarily and she cursed under her breath, dragging her robe tighter around herself.
She needed cold water. She needed distraction. She needed to pretend this had not happened.
But the worst part was that she could still feel the ghost of his hands on her skin. Still hear his voice, soft and low and saying her name like it was precious.
And somewhere in the house, just beyond her bedroom door, Longbottom was probably humming to himself as he tended his bloody plants, completely unaware that he had invaded her dreams as thoroughly as he had invaded her home.
"One year," she whispered to her reflection, almost desperately. "One year. I can survive this."
But even she no longer sounded convinced.