Chapter 1: MeetingSummary:
Chapter Text
Ministry of Magic
Department of Magical Unions
Forced Marriage Act Division
[Ashford, Kent
TN25 7LX
South East England]
Dear Ms. Parkinson,
It is with the utmost gravity that we inform you of your mandated participation in a binding magical union, as outlined in the Forced Marriage Act of 2002. This legislation, enacted for the preservation and stability of the wizarding community, requires the pairing of eligible individuals for the purpose of procreation, lineage preservation, and societal cohesion.
After a thorough review of magical aptitude, bloodline integrity, and familial alliances, the Ministry has determined that your designated partner in this union shall be Neville Longbottom.
A formal ceremony will be scheduled in accordance with Ministry protocol. Further details, including the date, time, and location, will be provided in due course. Noncompliance with this decree will result in severe penalties, as stipulated under the Act.
Your immediate cooperation is expected.
Yours sincerely,
Penelope Puffington-Plimpton
Head of the Forced Marriage Act Division
Ministry of Magic
Pansy burst into the drawing room like a storm wearing heels. The sharp click of each step ricocheted off the marble floor in a rhythm that sounded like trouble. Her expression carried the same energy as a beautifully wrapped curse. The house glittered around her with its usual smug shine, and for the first time she genuinely considered setting the curtains on fire for the drama of it.
The parchment in her hand crackled under the force of her grip. She looked down at it as though it had personally insulted her face. Her jaw tightened until her teeth ached.
She flung the letter across the room with the flourish of a woman who had perfected the art of dramatic exits. It drifted through the air in the most delicate way, as if the parchment had the sheer audacity to lighten itself for a softer landing. It settled on the rug like a spoiled cat stretching after a nap.
Pansy stared at it. Then rolled her eyes toward the heavens.
Then cursed in French, because English did not fully capture the scale of the offence.
The Ministry had apparently reached the conclusion that her life needed to be ruined in a fresh, innovative fashion.
After surviving a war. After enduring a trial where every single witness tried to sabotage her eyeliner by making her cry. After years of clawing back her reputation with tea parties, charity events, and endless apologies for things she did not even remember doing. After all that, they had decided she needed to be married.
Assigned.
A forced marriage.
Her breath hitched with indignation. She pressed her hand to her forehead like a tragic heroine in a painting, then immediately cursed again because her ring snagged a curl.
She swept across the room, velvet skirts swishing with the authority of someone whose family portraits had never known modesty. She dropped onto the chaise with something between a collapse and a royal descent. The velvet sighed under her, and she chose to believe it was sympathy.
Her voice rose in a sharp rant that bounced off the chandelier.
"I have rebuilt my name from the ashes. I have smiled at people who still whisper that I should have rotted in Azkaban. I have attended Ministry luncheons where half the table could not pronounce the words reconciliation process yet insisted they were experts. I have listened to lectures about duty from men who would faint at the sight of their own paperwork."
She grabbed a cushion and hugged it dramatically.
"And now this. This absolute masterpiece of idiocy. They pair me with someone they pulled out of a bloody hat."
Her gaze drifted toward the parchment again. Her mouth twisted in disgust.
Neville Longbottom.
She muttered the name like it tasted sour.
"Of all the options. Truly. Someone in that office is doing this on purpose. Someone thought it would be funny to match me with the nation's favourite herbology professor. Wonderful. Delightful. Next they will ask me to live in a greenhouse and knit sweaters from enchanted vines."
She pressed her hand to her chest in a gesture of noble horror.
"I refuse. I absolutely refuse. I did not survive adolescence without aging to be taken out by bureaucracy."
She stood and paced again, hands moving in sharp gestures as she ranted.
"I could run. Honestly, I could. I could dye my hair blond, call myself Patricia, and vanish into the Muggle world. I would be an icon. A legend. People would write books."
She paused, considering.
"Or I could stay. I could sue the Ministry, drag that ridiculous Act through every court in the country, and watch those pompous officials cower as I find loopholes they did not even know existed."
She cracked her knuckles like a villain in a family portrait.
"Oh, that feels tempting."
Her fury settled into something sharper and more controlled. Something that sparkled.
She walked toward the letter, picked it up with two dainty fingers, and smiled without a trace of warmth.
"This was a mistake," she told it. "And they are about to learn exactly why."
She folded it neatly, tucked it under her arm, and smoothed her hair with a regal touch.
Pansy Parkinson did not accept decrees. She authored her own fate.
And if the Ministry wanted a war, they had truly picked the perfect opponent.
Her eyes flicked toward the fireplace, catching the mirror above the mantel. The woman staring back at her did not waver. She looked every bit the polished heir of a proud old family, but beneath that flawless exterior something dangerous simmered.
Her gaze held a dark spark that promised ruin for anyone foolish enough to test her. Her jaw was set with the kind of iron resolve pure-blood mothers passed down like heirlooms. And her hair remained immaculate, unmoving, every strand a perfect threat. Some standards were sacred.
She released a long breath and smoothed her hands down her silk dressing gown, coaxing out imaginary creases because control was a performance and she excelled at it.
"Fine," she murmured, a slow smirk forming as her reflection sharpened. "Let them think they have won."
Let them think she was docile. Let them imagine she would follow orders. Let them believe she was the sort of girl who folded at the promise of authority. They knew nothing. They had never stood in her shoes. They had never gone toe to toe with a world determined to watch her crumble.
Pansy Parkinson had never been quiet. She had never been tame. From infancy, she had been encouraged to pout prettily, smile at the right moments, and remain agreeable. She had rejected all of it with enthusiasm.
If the Ministry thought she would behave like a puppet, then someone in that office had taken a hard blow to the head.
She tilted her chin, sugar spilling into her voice, all velvet and venom. "Let us see who they believe deserves me."
Poor sod. She hoped he had life insurance. She might need it for him.
With a soft huff, she crossed the room with the grace of a very irritated swan. She snatched the rumpled letter from the rug in one elegant swipe. Her wand twitched and the parchment straightened itself at once, obedient and pristine.
Too pristine. That name was still printed at the bottom like a cruel joke.
Her smile vanished. The room grew still. Even the fire behind her seemed to lean in.
Neville fucking Longbottom.
She stood perfectly still, parchment in hand, as her mind performed a full, silent scream. Shock met disgust, and neither won. Her breath caught in her chest, refusing to move. She blinked once. Then again. The name remained.
"Neville Longbottom," she repeated, each word clipped and sour, like she had been handed a drink containing far too much vinegar.
This had to be a mistake.
The Neville Longbottom she remembered had been a walking calamity. A boy who shrank under pressure. A boy who melted cauldrons with alarming regularity. A boy who cuddled a toad as though it were a rare treasure. He had been all wide eyes and trembling hands, a constant apology wrapped in Gryffindor colours.
She could still picture him, bless his soft little soul. That startled expression. That ridiculous energy of someone who expected disaster at any moment. That habit of misplacing his wand as though it were a sock he had dropped under the bed.
Her lip curled, prepared to reject this entire situation outright.
Then another image surfaced, uninvited.
Neville Longbottom during the Battle of Hogwarts.
Not the boy. A man. Standing tall. Standing firm. Covered in dirt and blood but unbroken. The fire in his eyes had stunned her at the time. His shoulders had squared. His jaw had tightened. He had held a sword like it belonged to him. A snake had died at his feet.
Pansy raised an eyebrow.
That version of Neville was not tragic at all.
In fact, he looked rather good.
Not her style. Not her taste. Not her aesthetic roadmap for life. But she was not blind. She had eyes and functioning standards. That man had possessed presence. And height. Quite a lot of height.
Her groan echoed off the ceiling. This was not the moment to evaluate his shoulders.
Still, she had to admit it. He was pure-blooded. Heroic. Respectable. And the sort of tall that mattered in photographs.
She lifted her gaze heavenward, addressing some distant ancestor with a long sigh.
"You happy now, Gran? I am marrying a pure-blooded national treasure. I hope the afterlife is enjoying this."
The absurdity nearly made her laugh. She trapped the sound behind her teeth and returned her attention to the parchment. There were worse names the Ministry could have thrown at her. Much worse. She could have ended up with a loud man. A greasy man. A man who wore sandals with socks.
Instead, she had been assigned the wizard who once beheaded a giant snake.
Not ideal, but not catastrophic.
Even so, a strange pinch settled behind her ribs. Poor Neville. He had no idea what disaster awaited him. No clue what sort of aristocratic tempest would be walking into his life without warning.
But she knew. And if she had to step into this mess, she would do it on her terms. Pansy Parkinson did not get dragged. She walked in with purpose and stole the narrative for herself.
With fresh resolve, she turned on her heel and strode toward the corridor. Her silk dressing gown trailed behind her like the train of a queen preparing for battle.
And Neville Longbottom? He had just been cast in the leading role of a story Pansy fully intended to dominate.
°°°°°°
Neville sank deeper into the old couch, the leather creaking beneath him as the fire cracked in the hearth. The flames shifted and curled in slow ribbons, and he tried to lose himself in their movement. The heat reached his skin but did nothing for the cold settling somewhere behind his ribs. His thoughts kept slipping beneath the light, into places he rarely allowed himself to wander.
So this was it.
This was the reward for everything that came before. After standing in the ruined halls of Hogwarts with blood drying on his collar and a sword slipping from his grip. After funerals where he spoke only when forced. After shaking hands with officials who praised him without ever meeting his eyes. After rebuilding greenhouses in silence because speaking felt like taking a step too close to shattering.
Now this. A letter. A seal. A name printed neatly in black ink.
Pansy Parkinson.
He leaned forward and dragged a hand across his face, fingertips pressing into the tired skin beneath his eyes. Her name clung to him like smoke, obnoxious and familiar. The whole thing felt like a joke crafted by the universe, as if fate had woken up and decided to entertain itself at his expense.
He had not thought about her in years, not beyond passing memories. She had once been background noise with sharp edges. Heels clicking down stone corridors. Laughter that sounded like broken glass. A girl who always lingered behind Malfoy, smirking at whatever misfortune the day handed out. He remembered her voice too. High. Cutting. A voice that knew its power and used it freely. She had mocked his robes. His plants. His handwriting. Anything she could reach.
That girl might as well have belonged to another lifetime.
He was not a boy anymore. And she was not that girl.
The last time he saw her had been at a fundraiser for post-war legislation. She had arrived late, which of course only made the room pay more attention to her entrance. She walked through the doorway like she owned every inch of the building. Maybe she did. The gown she wore shimmered like oil under candlelight. Her mouth was painted a shade of red that made fully grown men forget their own names. He remembered staring longer than he should have, mostly because she moved with a confidence he had never associated with her.
Say whatever you wanted about Pansy Parkinson. The woman knew how to make people watch.
She had spoken to him that evening. A quiet remark about the speeches dragging on. He had laughed without thinking, and only then realized who he was laughing with.
And then she smiled.
Not the cruel smirk he remembered from school. Something smoother. Controlled. Still dangerous. But no longer petty or childish. That smile had been carved with intention.
He sat very still now, the letter resting on his knee while the fire painted the room in warm, uneven light.
She was his wife. At least on paper.
He looked down at the parchment again, as if the words might shift into something else if he stared long enough. They did not. The ink held steady, cold and official. He exhaled slowly and rubbed the heel of his palm against his brow until the building pressure eased.
This was not the future he had pictured for himself.
The Ministry's decree had landed on his doorstep with all the subtlety of a curse. Too official. Too final. The seal had shimmered when he broke it, and for one strange moment he wondered if someone was playing a trick. It did not feel real. Yet here he sat, the proof in his hand. Legal. Binding. Pansy Parkinson. It should have been absurd. It was absurd. His stomach twisted at the thought of it.
And yet, as the minutes passed, the shape of his reaction blurred. It was not entirely horror. It was not completely anger. Something else lived in the space between.
She was not the same girl who sneered at him in Potions. He was not the awkward boy she once delighted in tormenting. They had grown into different people shaped by the same war. Scarred in their own ways. Hardened in places. Softened in others.
He realized something with quiet surprise.
He was not afraid of her.
If anything, he felt something closer to curiosity. A pull he did not want to name yet. There had always been something about her that pushed him, even when they were young. Something loud and impossible to ignore. And now she had become a woman with presence that could silence a room. It made him wonder if the irritation she once stirred in him had been hiding something else all along. Something he had never allowed himself to consider.
He sighed again and leaned back into the couch. The cushions sagged beneath him, familiar and worn. The fire warmed his legs and chased a little of the cold from the room.
He let his thoughts drift toward the future he once imagined. A small cottage tucked into rolling hills. Rows of greenhouses behind it. Soil beneath his fingernails every morning. Quiet evenings without interruption, without politics, without the heavy weight of expectation.
A simple life.
A peaceful one.
But peace was never simple, and it had never been promised. He learned that the hard way. Maybe this strange twist in his life was not meant to be a burden. Maybe it was only unfamiliar. Maybe even an opportunity. Something that could change shape with time.
He stared at the fire until the flames blurred. He did not know if any of this could work.
He only knew it was too early to decide that it could not.
The memory of her stayed with him, slipping in without permission. That look in her eyes had lodged itself somewhere he could not reach.
She had held her chin high, not in arrogance, but in defiance, as if daring the world to test her strength again. She had looked beautiful, yes, but beauty was only the surface of it.
There had been something fierce beneath that elegance, something alive and electric. A kind of power that did not come from lineage or money, but from surviving things that should have broken her.
It struck him that this marriage might not be a punishment after all. Maybe it was the start of something else. Something unexpected. Something he did not yet have the words for.
She had surprised him once.
There was every chance she would do it again.
He let the thought settle while he stared into the heart of the fire. The flames flickered and stretched in long ribbons of light, and the house around him creaked in its familiar way. The silence did not feel like emptiness tonight. It felt like a pause. Like the air itself had shifted into a kind of quiet anticipation.
"Neville Longbottom," he said softly, tasting the sound of it. "Married to Pansy Parkinson."
The words still felt absurd. They felt stitched together from two different worlds that should never have touched. And yet they were real. The parchment on the table proved it. The seal. The ink. All of it.
His future had been rewritten again without his say. It was not the first time his life had bent under forces he could not control. It probably would not be the last.
He had faced worse than this. Much worse.
He straightened a little, letting the warmth from the fire settle through him. Whatever came next, he would meet it the same way he had met everything else. With steady hands. With quiet resolve. With the stubborn belief that something meaningful could still be made from whatever chaos arrived at his door.
And if Pansy ended up standing beside him through all of it, he suspected one thing with absolute certainty.
His life would never be dull again.
~~~~~~
The next morning, Neville stood at the base of Parkinson Manor's grand stone steps with his pulse beating far too loudly in his chest. The towering doors rose above him like a judgment. The manor had a way of staring down at its visitors, and today it seemed to be taking its job very seriously. Even the windows felt disapproving. It suited the woman who lived inside. She had always carried that same air of polished intimidation.
He had been here once before, years ago, though the circumstances then had allowed him the comfort of an exit. Today, there was no easy path away. No option to turn around and pretend a Ministry decree had not turned his life inside out.
He lifted his hand and knocked again, the sound dull against the heavy wood. His knuckles throbbed from the repetition. He had stood here long enough to lose count of how many times he had knocked. Long enough for his shirt to cling to his back. Long enough for him to consider leaving, only to remind himself that leaving was not a choice anymore.
The manor remained silent.
At last, the door opened with a reluctant creak. Pansy stood framed in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the carved wood.
She looked exactly as his memory had preserved her. Elegant. Controlled. Entirely unimpressed. Yet something in her gaze held more weight now. A stronger spine. A steadier confidence. Years had sculpted her into someone who carried herself with purpose.
Her eyes travelled over him slowly, almost lazily, taking in every detail. The rumpled shirt. The uncertain posture. The slight hesitation before he spoke.
"Longbottom," she said, the word smooth and flat. It felt less like a greeting and more like the opening line of a duel.
He swallowed, forcing the edges of a smile that felt embarrassingly human. "Pansy. It is good to see you again."
Her lips curved, though not kindly. The shape of it was too sharp, too amused, too dry. "Yes. I can tell you are overwhelmed with joy." She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms with the practiced ease of someone who had perfected the art of disdain. "What do you want?"
He inhaled and tried to steady the nerves fluttering beneath his skin. He had faced Death Eaters. He had faced a giant snake. He had stood between children and danger more times than he could count. None of those moments had made his palms sweat the way her gaze did now.
"I am here because the Ministry instructed us to meet this morning," he said, doing his best to keep his voice even. "I thought I should offer my sympathy. And we should talk about our marriage."
Her eyebrow lifted with impressive precision. "Sympathy? For what?"
He paused, choosing his words with care. "For the situation we have been forced into."
Her laugh came quickly. A sharp snap of sound. No warmth. No humour. "I do not need your pity, Longbottom." Her eyes flashed, cool and unreadable. "This is not exactly the future I planned either, but apparently the universe is fond of cruelty."
The words hit him with more force than he expected. Still, he did not retreat. He straightened his shoulders a little, enough to hold his ground without challenging her.
"I am not pitying you, Pansy," he said quietly. "I only want to make the best of this. We cannot change the decree, but we do not have to tear each other to pieces over it."
She looked at him for several long seconds. Her jaw tightened. Her fingers shifted against the doorframe, restless.
He sensed the impulse to shut him out, to end the conversation before it even began. Then something flickered across her face. Not softness, exactly. Something quieter. A thought she did not want him to see.
She exhaled and rolled her eyes, the gesture dramatic and weary. "Fine. Come in. Let us get this over with."
Neville nodded and stepped inside. The entryway swallowed him at once. High ceilings towered overhead, the chandeliers glinting with cold light. The dark wood paneling seemed to rise in waves, as if designed to make anyone feel small.
The air held the scent of old books, polished furniture, and roses that had stayed in their vase long enough to slip toward decay.
He felt the weight of the manor settle on his shoulders as Pansy closed the door behind him.
For the first time since receiving the decree, the full reality of it pressed down on him.
He was in her world now.
He followed her through the foyer and into a drawing room that looked far too elegant for a conversation like this. Rich upholstery covered every surface. Heavy velvet drapes swallowed most of the morning light. Portraits of Parkinson ancestors lined the walls, their painted faces set in expressions that hovered between disdain and bored superiority. Every single one of them seemed to find Neville personally disappointing.
Pansy lifted one hand in a vague, uninterested gesture toward an overstuffed couch. He lowered himself onto it, sinking an inch too far into the cushions and fighting the impulse to bolt back out the door.
She remained standing, arms crossed, gaze sharp enough to slice through Victorian wallpaper.
"Alright, Longbottom," she said, cool and precise. "Let us talk. What exactly do you want from me?"
Neville shifted, trying to find words that did not sound completely idiotic. Her eyes were on him with such intensity that it felt like she was stripping him apart piece by piece.
"I want us to talk about this," he said at last. "To figure out how we are going to make this work."
Pansy laughed. It was short and cutting, like she had been waiting for an excuse to mock him. She shook her head slowly, amusement curling into something sharper.
"Make this work," she repeated, voice dripping with disdain. "You think that is even possible? This is not a negotiation, Longbottom. It is a life sentence."
The words stung. He felt them in his chest, but he refused to let them knock him off balance. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grounding himself.
"I know it is not ideal," he said. "But neither of us can change what the Ministry has done. We can tear chunks out of each other for the next decade or we can try to build something that does not make us miserable."
She stared at him with a look that could have curdled milk. Her gaze sifted through him like she was searching for weakness or incompetence or any excuse at all to dismiss him. For several long seconds, the room held its breath.
Then she let out a sigh, long and irritated.
"Fine," she muttered, uncrossing her arms. "But do not think for a moment that I plan on making this easy for you."
A small, unsure smile tugged at his mouth. "I would never expect that."
Her eyes rolled skyward. There was no venom this time, only weary annoyance. She crossed to a chair opposite him and sat with impeccable posture, arms folded across her chest like she was bracing for impact.
"So," she said. "What now?"
Neville took a breath. He felt steadier now, more anchored. "Now we talk. About how this is going to work. About what we expect. About everything the Ministry has dropped into our laps. We have time, Pansy. Let us not waste it."
Silence settled between them. Heavy. Reluctant. Necessary. It wrapped around the room like fog, filling all the space between their unspoken thoughts. Pansy leaned back slowly, a hint of tension easing from her shoulders. Not surrender, but acceptance.
Neville let the moment breathe, then asked the first question that mattered.
"Where are we going to live?"
"Here," she said at once. Her tone left no space for discussion. "Naturally."
Neville blinked. "I have a flat," he said, caught off guard. "A good one. It is small, but it is mine. I have my plants. My books. My routines."
"Then sell it," Pansy replied, her face unreadable.
A twist of irritation curled inside him. "No."
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. Not much, but enough to show she had not expected him to push back. "Then rent it out. You are not commuting from whatever little nest you have built. Next question."
He opened his mouth to argue. He wanted to tell her she did not get to steamroll him. He wanted to tell her that he mattered in this too. But he stopped himself. Not because she was right, but because this was not the argument that needed winning today. They had far more important battles waiting for them.
"Fine," he said at last. The word tasted reluctant. "We can stay here."
A flicker of satisfaction brushed across her face. Barely there. Gone in an instant.
"Of course we will," she said smoothly. She gestured around the room with a lazy sweep of her hand. "This is my home, Longbottom. It is only fitting."
Neville met her stare and held it, refusing to shrink away. This was only the first negotiation. The smallest one, in fact. The rest would come. And he had a feeling they would not be simple.
Somewhere inside him, despite everything, a spark of determination stirred.
This was only the beginning.
And he was not going to let her be the only one who set the rules.