Chapter 4: If You're Going to Ruin Me, Do It Properly
The house was quiet, for once. Morning light filtered in through the tall windows, soft and golden, illuminating the clean lines of her carefully curated home, but the air smelled faintly of damp earth and green things she had not invited here. There were no guests today, no Ginny cackling in the drawing room, no Blaise draped languidly over her chaise, no Theo distractedly half-listening while Luna hummed something infuriatingly serene.
Just quiet.
And Pansy, in a rare moment of near-peace, intended to claim it. She moved down the corridor with perfect grace, robe cinched tightly at the waist, hair pinned back flawlessly, slippered feet soundless on the marble floors. Her mind was already set on reclaiming her solarium, the same space Longbottom had defiled by stringing up that wretched hammock.
Then she heard it.
A voice from the greenhouse, soft and low but unmistakable.
His voice.
At first she ignored it, assuming he was lecturing a house-elf about the soil composition of some insufferable plant or another. She was practiced at tuning him out lately. But as she passed the open door, one sentence cut through the still air and made her stop cold.
"She's not nearly as terrifying as she thinks."
His tone was casual. Light. Friendly. And that was what made it worse.
Pansy froze, stopping mid-step so suddenly that the hem of her robe brushed over her feet in an inelegant sweep she would have found intolerable under any other circumstances. Her spine went ramrod straight, every muscle tight, every inch of her radiating affront.
Excuse me?
She stood perfectly still, back straight, lips parting as her mind scrambled to process what she had just heard, as if the very air itself had betrayed her by carrying that sentence to her ears.
Not terrifying.
Her.
Not terrifying.
Her heart began to race almost instantly, blood rushing hot and sharp under her skin. Heat rose from her chest all the way up to her cheeks, a flush of fury that she would never allow him to see, not for anything, but that burned regardless. Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of her robe, nails digging into the fine silk as her entire sense of dignity trembled on the brink.
How dare he. How utterly dare he. The absolute audacity.
Here she was, practically the patron saint of polished disdain, the very embodiment of cool, sharp elegance, a woman who could silence an entire dining hall with nothing more than the tilt of her head and one perfectly arched brow. Terrifying was practically her brand.
And he was barefoot probably, sleeves rolled, smelling faintly of soil and smug self-assurance, dared to suggest she was not nearly as terrifying as she thought?
The fuck she wasn't.
Her fury was immediate and spectacular, a rush of indignant adrenaline that filled her chest until she thought she might actually combust from the injustice of it.
This was not a man who should feel so comfortable dismissing her with a single offhand joke to a house-elf. He, who had wandered into her life and cluttered her pristine home with his pots and herbs and muddy boots. He, who hummed tunelessly around her corridors like this was all perfectly normal.
She drew in a sharp breath, nostrils flaring, dark eyes narrowing into slits as she turned slightly, enough to peer into the greenhouse just long enough to confirm what she already knew.
There he was, exactly as she had imagined.
Calm. Relaxed. His posture easy, his expression soft, as though he had not just committed the gravest social crime imaginable. His hair was messy, curls falling loose around his forehead, his shirt sleeves rolled lazily to reveal strong forearms that made her teeth clench in further annoyance.
His audacity was almost impressive.
Almost.
Her rage sharpened. Her pulse refused to slow. A whole speech bloomed in her head immediately — a scathing, devastating rebuke that she would never deliver aloud, because she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing she had even heard him.
No. She would not storm into the greenhouse and shriek. She would not throw a vase at his feet, even though the idea briefly appealed. She would not let him see that he had gotten under her skin.
But he had.
And that made it worse.
How utterly dare he.
Fine.
If Longbottom thought she was not terrifying, she would remind him exactly what terrifying looked like.
She had made her reputation out of being precisely as terrifying as she intended to be. She was sharp glances and cooler smiles. She was precision and control and polished disdain. Her very presence in a room was enough to silence entire conversations. She could reduce a man to rubble with a single arch of her brow.
Her stomach twisted, but she turned slowly away from the greenhouse door, moving back down the hall with a kind of careful, graceful fury that only deepened as she walked.
She did not need to confront him outright. That would be too obvious. Too reactive. No, she needed something better. Something worthy of her.
A plan began forming almost immediately, as sharp and glittering as the glint of silver in her dressing table mirror.
Fine. If he thought she was not terrifying, she would show him how wrong he was. But she would not yell. She would not snap. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her unravel.
No. She would seduce him.
Not because she wanted to. Absolutely not. Because it was strategic. Because it would restore the power imbalance exactly where it belonged.
She would make him want her, make him desperate and undone and utterly at her mercy, and then she would walk away, leaving him breathless and wrecked.
Let him learn the hard way that Pansy Parkinson was terrifying in ways he had not even begun to imagine. Terrifying not because of sharp words or cold stares or pointed remarks, but because she could dismantle a man with something far more effective. Desire.
By the time she reached the base of the staircase, her pulse had steadied into something slow and deliberate, almost triumphant. The fury that had lit her up only moments ago was already refining itself into precision. This would be no clumsy tantrum. She would not lower herself to shrieking accusations or petty hexes in the hallway.
She would orchestrate his undoing with elegance. With charm. With devastating grace.
Her mind raced through every detail as her slippered feet ascended the steps, gliding smoothly as though she were simply preparing for another peaceful afternoon. The wardrobe. The lighting. The scent in the room. The way she would tilt her chin just so, letting her hair spill perfectly down one shoulder, casual in a way that was nothing of the sort.
Her fingers would brush his wrist lightly, her gaze soft but knowing. She would laugh in that low, honeyed way she knew could leave men absolutely speechless. Every move would seem effortless, as if she had not spent hours preparing for it.
And when he finally leaned in, when his composure cracked and he was utterly at her mercy, she would withdraw.
She would leave him standing there, breathless and undone, wondering what exactly had happened and how she had managed to steal every shred of control from him without lifting a wand.
A small, wicked smile curved her lips, one that no one was there to see, but that she wore for herself anyway.
Not terrifying?
He would see.
He would learn.
He would regret ever opening his perfectly shaped, irritatingly polite mouth and daring to suggest she was anything less than formidable.
And when he did, when he finally realized that she had been terrifying all along, she would savor every delicious second of it.
~
Pansy's dressing room was, under normal circumstances, a sanctuary. A place of silks and velvets, of perfect order and taste. Every gown arranged by color, every drawer scented faintly of lavender and lined with the softest tissue, every pair of heels displayed as if they were art.
Not today.
Today it was chaos.
Absolute, unmitigated chaos.
Clothing flew in every direction as she rummaged furiously through one wardrobe after another, tossing garments onto the chaise, rejecting each one with sharp, muttered commentary that grew louder and more theatrical by the minute.
"Too obvious," she said, flinging a daring red slip across the room without a second thought. "Too subtle," she muttered, tossing aside a pale, ethereal nightgown that was all delicate lace and nothing else.
She pulled out a dark green satin chemise, held it up critically, narrowed her eyes, and scoffed. "Too desperate."
A sheer black robe with feathered sleeves went sailing over her shoulder a moment later. "Too dramatic. Even for me. And what is this trim? Who bought this? I didn't buy this."
She spun toward the mirror, holding a corset up to her chest, twisting this way and that, considering. "Maybe… no. No, too cliché. He would expect this. Predictable. I am not predictable."
Her hair was falling out of its pins already, dark curls spilling wildly around her shoulders, but she did not stop. Her dressing gown was slipping, revealing one bare shoulder as she rifled through a drawer full of silks, pulling out a gauzy pink negligee and shaking it with visible disgust.
"Too virginal," she snapped aloud, glaring at the garment as if it had personally offended her.
A pair of lace stockings caught her eye next. She picked them up, ran her fingers thoughtfully over the delicate fabric, then tossed them decisively onto the growing pile. "He doesn't strike me as a stocking man. No, not the point. Not tonight."
She paused then, placing one hand dramatically on her hip, surveying the utter destruction she had wrought. Her dressing room, her sanctuary of calm, now looked like the aftermath of a duel between a lingerie shop and her own pride.
She let out a frustrated little groan, dragging a hand through her hair, scattering the last of the pins as curls tumbled freely down her back. "This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself. "I have seduced men far more interesting than Longbottom without all this trouble. Why am I standing here debating between silk and lace like it matters? It does not matter. He is a man. Men are simple creatures. Simple and weak."
But even as she said it, she kept pacing, kept muttering under her breath, kept rejecting garment after garment.
Nothing felt quite right.
Her fury had made this personal, and now it had to be perfect.
"Maybe I should just wear nothing," she snapped, pacing back to the mirror. "Walk right downstairs and lounge on that damn hammock completely naked. That would show him. That would be terrifying."
But she didn't actually want to look desperate. She wanted to look effortless. Perfectly undone, like she just happened to look devastating while doing absolutely nothing at all.
She crossed to her shoe rack, then stopped short and laughed aloud at herself. "Shoes. As if he would even notice my shoes."
A second later she shook her head, fingers brushing over a velvet robe that caught her eye and was promptly discarded. "Too witchy. And he already thinks I'm dramatic."
Finally she turned, slowly, surveying the wreckage she had created.
Lace and satin draped across every chair, stockings hanging from the edge of the vanity, a red slip pooled on the floor like spilled wine. Her reflection caught her eye in the mirror, her hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with annoyance and something else she refused to name.
And in that moment, she knew exactly what to wear.
What exactly was Neville Longbottom's weak point?
That was the question.
Did he like soft and subtle? No. Impossible. She would not stoop to subtlety for a man who had mocked her dignity that morning. Subtlety would suggest she cared whether he noticed, and she was absolutely not giving him that satisfaction.
Did he prefer bold? Confident? Likely, given how infuriatingly unbothered he always seemed to be. But too bold and it would seem as though she was trying too hard, and she could not have that either.
The balance had to be perfect. The impression effortless.
She muttered under her breath as she paced barefoot across the thick rug, her dressing gown now completely abandoned somewhere on the floor. "He likes plants. Maybe something... botanical?" The words left her lips before she could stop herself, and she froze mid-step, horror dawning instantly.
"Merlin help me," she whispered, closing her eyes for a moment as if that might erase what she had just thought. "Am I seriously considering theme dressing for this man?"
Another corset was yanked from the rack with unnecessary force. Black, structured, satin panels with tiny hooks she could fasten easily with a flick of her wand. She held it up, studied it, tilted her head critically. "Too Victorian," she declared with a scoff, tossing it aside without ceremony. "Do I look like I want to seduce him in mourning attire? I am not some tragic widow in a Gothic novel."
Her frustration mounted by the second, her movements growing increasingly erratic, hair falling fully loose now, curls tumbling over her bare shoulders as she whirled from one side of the dressing room to the other.
She stopped in front of her jewelry case, flung it open, and glared at the neat rows of shining pieces that usually brought her so much pleasure.
Emerald earrings? No. Too matchy. Too predictable.
Pearls? No. Too sweet. She did not want to look innocent.
Gold? She considered it for a beat longer, turning a delicate gold bracelet between her fingers. Gold would catch the candlelight beautifully but felt far too celebratory.
This was not a celebration.
This was war.
She slammed the jewelry case shut with a sharp snap, catching her own reflection in the glass as she did. Her flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted, hair wild and falling in dark waves around her face.
She looked... almost unhinged.
Good.
She could work with that.
Finally, with a determination that felt almost dangerous, she marched to the very back of the wardrobe, pushing aside a row of robes she never wore anymore, letting the fabric rustle and sway as she searched.
And then she saw it.
Tucked away, hidden like a secret weapon she had forgotten she possessed.
The perfect choice.
A silk slip in the deepest emerald green, scandalously low-cut in front, draping sinfully low in the back, the kind of garment that did not require accessories because it was a statement all on its own. The fabric was soft and fluid enough to cling to every inch of her, skimming over curves in a way that would suggest she had simply slipped into it without a thought.
Decadent but not desperate.
Dangerous but not obvious.
Effortless seduction distilled into silk.
She held it up to her body in the mirror, angling her shoulders just so, letting one strap slip slightly as she assessed the effect. A small, satisfied smile began to spread across her lips, a glint of mischief sparking in her dark eyes.
Yes.
Perfect.
This would do exactly what she needed it to do.
Longbottom would not know what hit him.
And when he finally realized he had been outplayed, she would smile just like this, all soft lips and wicked eyes, before walking away without a backward glance.
Let him think she was not terrifying.
By the end of tonight, she would make him reconsider every smug word.
~
The evening could not have set itself up better if Pansy had charmed the atmosphere herself.
The dining room glowed with soft golden light, flickering gently from enchanted candles that hovered just above the table. A warm breeze stirred the air, carrying the faintest hint of jasmine from the garden. The meal had been simple, quiet, and infuriatingly pleasant, with Longbottom's usual calm presence only making her more determined.
She had barely listened as he spoke about some herb that "thrives in shade" and something about soil acidity. She didn't care. She wasn't here to care.
Tonight was about execution.
Tonight was about winning.
She waited until after the plates had vanished and the wine had worked its way gently through her veins, warming her limbs just enough to ease her into exactly the mood she wanted him to see.
When they moved into the sitting room, she chose her place carefully.
Not the chair across from him where she would normally sit, not the chaise where she could sprawl elegantly but distantly. No, tonight she sat beside him, far too close on the settee, silk slip catching the candlelight with every small shift of her body.
Her knee brushed his.
Not by accident.
Her shoulder angled just slightly toward him, a strand of hair falling forward to catch his eye.
Longbottom seemed as relaxed as ever, settling back with a glass of whiskey in one hand, legs stretched out comfortably, utterly unaware — or worse, entirely aware and pretending not to notice.
That would make it even more satisfying when she dismantled that calm tonight.
She crossed one leg over the other slowly, allowing the hem of her silk slip to ride a fraction higher on her thigh. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the faintest flicker of movement as his gaze tracked the motion. Good.
Her lips curved in a slow smile, and she leaned in, letting her shoulder brush against his arm lightly as she reached for her glass.
"You seem very quiet tonight, Longbottom," she said, her voice soft, carefully pitched just above a whisper. "Something on your mind?"
His head tilted slightly toward her, his expression mild, pleasant, exactly as irritatingly composed as ever. "Not particularly," he replied, meeting her gaze without hesitation. "Just enjoying the evening."
Enjoying the evening.
The audacity.
Her fingers brushed against his forearm deliberately, featherlight, letting her nails trail slowly down to his wrist, lingering there as she lifted her wineglass again. She watched him over the rim as she took a slow sip, allowing a lock of hair to slip over her shoulder and graze the bare skin of her chest.
He was looking at her now, properly looking, and there it was.
His breath hitched.
It was subtle, but she caught it.
And his gaze had darkened, no longer polite and mild but something more. Something heated. Something interested.
Yes.
Her heart began to pound, but she kept her outward composure, turning just slightly, angling her body toward his so that the silk of her slip brushed against his sleeve. Her foot shifted, toes grazing lightly along the outside of his ankle.
Casual. Effortless. Perfect.
She let out a quiet laugh, rich and smooth, eyes sparkling as she leaned in even closer, close enough to let her breath warm the side of his neck. "Are you sure?" she murmured, her fingers still grazing along his wrist. "You seem distracted."
His gaze dropped briefly, lingering where her slip dipped low over her collarbone. When he lifted his eyes to hers again, she swore she saw something flicker there. Hunger. Want.
Victory was close.
So close.
And then... he did it.
Neville Longbottom set his glass down gently on the table, turned toward her fully, and he reached out and very carefully took her hand in his.
His thumb brushed across her knuckles, slow and steady, while his gaze remained perfectly calm, perfectly patient.
He smiled.
That quiet, soft smile that made her want to both slap him and kiss him.
And then, without a single word, he gently set her hand down in her lap and shifted away. Not far, just enough that her carefully orchestrated closeness was ruined completely. The warmth of his body, the brush of his knee against hers, gone in an instant.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her mind spun, completely blank for a second.
What the hell just happened?
He was supposed to break first. He was supposed to fall apart under the weight of her charm, her perfect silk slip and studied glances and languid touches. He was supposed to want.
Instead, he sat there, utterly unbothered, utterly infuriating, leaning back slightly as he picked up his glass again as if she had not spent the last ten minutes all but draping herself over him.
He took a slow sip of whiskey, then set it back down and turned his head just enough to meet her gaze again.
His expression was... pleased.
Smug.
Quietly triumphant.
And worst of all, he said absolutely nothing.
Pansy felt her pulse pounding in her temples, her skin hot, her thoughts racing and jumbled.
She had almost succeeded.
Almost.
But he had stolen it from her at the last second with nothing more than gentle fingers and infuriating calm.
Her composure cracked just slightly as she uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, reaching for her wineglass even though she barely trusted herself to hold it.
Inside, she was spiraling.
How had this man so easily turned her careful seduction into this?
How had he managed to pull away without rejecting her exactly, leaving her sitting there, breathless and flushed and very much aware of every inch of her exposed skin?
She took a too-large sip of wine, swallowing hard, determined to regain control of herself even though she felt... undone.
And the worst part was that he knew.
He knew exactly what he had done.
And he looked entirely too satisfied about it.
~
Pansy was still reeling, her wineglass trembling just slightly in her hand as she tried to keep her breathing even, her heart pounding so furiously she could feel it in her throat, in her fingertips, as if her entire body had decided to betray her at once.
Heat lingered on her cheeks, a telltale flush she could not will away, the tension low in her stomach curling tighter with every passing second. Every nerve felt raw and electric, sparking under her skin. Her carefully constructed plan, so precise and deliciously petty when she had first imagined it, now lay in irreparable pieces at her feet.
And the worst part was that Longbottom was still sitting there beside her. Calm. Quiet. Completely unruffled.
His expression gave nothing away. That infuriating steadiness remained, as though he had not just dismantled her entire seduction without breaking a sweat.
He finished his whiskey slowly, not a single movement rushed, then set the glass aside with quiet precision. His head turned toward her, and the subtle shift in his posture made her breath catch before she could stop herself.
He was leaning in.
Her pulse spiked again, wild and immediate, sending another flush of heat straight to her face. She felt lightheaded suddenly, her lips parting slightly as anticipation collided with panic. Her mind, normally quick and sharp, scrambled to keep up, darting through half-formed thoughts and furious triumph.
This was it.
He was about to admit defeat.
He was about to finally, gloriously, crack.
His body shifted closer still, leaning into her space, the air between them going warmer, thicker. She could smell him now, the faint trace of whiskey on his breath mingling with that earthy scent he always seemed to carry with him — rosemary and damp soil and something else she could not quite define but that made her stomach flutter despite herself.
And then, right at the moment when she thought he would close the distance, when her nerves were pulled taut and her chest felt tight from holding her breath, he did something unexpected.
He did not kiss her lips.
He tilted his head just slightly, his gaze still locked with hers, and moved with devastating slowness, angling himself perfectly so that his lips met the very center of her forehead instead.
A kiss.
Soft.
Warm.
Infuriatingly tender.
Her eyes fluttered shut instinctively, and for that one unbearable moment, she felt entirely unmoored. Breathless not because he had finally succumbed, but because he had not.
He had chosen restraint, chosen control, chosen that maddening softness that felt far more devastating than any hungry kiss could have been.
When he pulled back, he lingered, hovering just long enough to meet her gaze, and there it was — a small, warm smile curling at the corners of his mouth, deceptively tender but with a glint of quiet triumph beneath it that made her want to throw her glass at his retreating back.
And then he said it.
Softly. Kindly. With exactly the right amount of smugness to make her throat tighten with frustration.
"Goodnight, bloom."
Not "Pansy." Not anything else. Just that cool, polite surname that felt suddenly unbearable.
Without waiting for a single word of reply, he rose smoothly to his feet, every movement slow and precise, calm and irritatingly elegant. He turned without so much as a backward glance and walked away, steady and deliberate, disappearing into the dimly lit corridor.
No hesitation. No explanation. No acknowledgment that he had just won a battle she had thought she was orchestrating from the beginning.
Just a perfectly calm retreat, leaving her sitting there alone, flushed and undone, her body still thrumming, every carefully laid plan unraveled by a single, maddeningly chaste kiss.
The sound of his soft humming drifted back to her from somewhere down the hall, casual and easy, as if this entire evening had not just been a war she had very clearly lost.
Pansy remained frozen for a long moment, still and silent, staring at the empty space where he had been, her pulse still racing wildly, her breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a growl.
The silk of her slip clung to her skin, her chest tight, her mind spinning and looping back again and again to the way his thumb had brushed over her knuckles, the way his lips had pressed so gently to her forehead, the way he had robbed her of the victory she had been certain was hers.
When she finally set her wineglass down, the sound was sharp against the tabletop, breaking the silence around her like a curse.
She swallowed hard, eyes narrowing, her lips curling into something dangerously close to a smile but edged with fury.
And then, very quietly, voice low and vicious, she whispered to no one at all.
"Bastard."