The house felt too quiet in the weeks that followed their return, as if the walls themselves had absorbed the weight of what almost happened and now refused to echo.
Pansy should have felt relief. She should have been able to breathe again, tucked safely into her own bed, surrounded by familiar comforts, with Neville in the garden and Seraphina toddling from room to room trailing soft toys behind her like a comet. But the quiet didn't soothe. It hollowed her out.
She moved through the house as if underwater, her limbs slow and heavy, every movement deliberate, rehearsed. Tea made carefully. Breakfast prepared and left half-eaten. Seraphina's curls brushed with mechanical precision as the child babbled and tugged at her sleeves.
Neville's voice drifting in from the garden, warm and low as he tended to the seedlings they'd planted just before the worst of it began. It all felt like a performance—a fragile replica of the life they were meant to return to, constructed too quickly, as if by pretending everything was normal, it would be.
But it wasn't.
In the quiet spaces between tasks, in the soft silences when Seraphina was down for a nap and Neville's footsteps retreated outside, the weight would press in. Pansy would sit at the kitchen table, staring down at her untouched tea, her fingers curled tightly around the handle as if it could anchor her. The images rose unbidden every time her gaze unfocused—the pale line of Blaise's throat where he had almost bled out, Theo's limp hand covered in soot and blood, Hermione's face too still, her curls shorn away, her breath rattling beneath too many healing charms.
She almost lost them.
She almost lost all of them.
And every time that thought twisted through her, it was like something sharp carving lines beneath her ribs, shallow but unrelenting.
Neville didn't say anything, not at first. He watched her from the garden path, through the kitchen window, his expression unreadable but never unkind, and he let her keep moving through the motions as if she were fine. Until she wasn't.
It happened on a Thursday. Seraphina asleep upstairs. Neville outside staking a stubborn rosebush. Pansy standing at the sink with a chipped mug in her hands, the same one Theo had used the morning before everything shattered, the one that still bore the faint stain from a potion he had brewed too quickly, the one that shouldn't matter but suddenly mattered more than anything in the world.
Her fingers trembled. She set the mug down gently at first, then less gently, then with a force that startled even her, and before she could stop herself, she was emptying the dish rack with a violence she hadn't known she was holding back—plates and cups and cutlery crashing against the stone floor, a cacophony that filled the kitchen and drowned out the noise in her head for only a moment.
When the last plate splintered, she slumped against the counter, breath coming too fast, fingers curling into her palms so tightly her nails bit into her skin.
She couldn't stop seeing it.
Blaise gasping. Theo pale and still.
Her friends, her family, almost gone.
Her throat burned, her chest tight, and when Neville's arms slid around her from behind, she didn't resist. She sank into him as if his embrace was the only thing holding her upright, his hands steady and warm against her trembling frame.
"You're allowed to fall apart, Parky," he murmured, his voice so gentle it nearly undid her completely. "You don't have to hold it all together just because we're home."
She shook her head, unable to speak, her tears hot and silent against the collar of his shirt.
"I thought I'd lost you too," he said, pressing his lips to her temple, his own breath uneven, his arms tightening around her as if he could hold the pieces of her together by sheer will. "You think I wasn't terrified? That I didn't replay every second? We're all still here. Even when you feel like you can't be."
She clung to him then, everything polished and sharp inside her finally breaking open, every careful defense she had constructed over weeks and months giving way to something messy and trembling, something achingly human and exposed, her fingers curling in his shirt as though anchoring herself to him was the only thing preventing her from being torn apart entirely, and when she finally spoke, her voice cracked under the weight of all that fury and grief.
"This is not fair," she said, her breath catching, the words escaping like a sob she refused to allow.
"I know, my love," Neville whispered, his arms still tight around her, his voice as steady as he could manage despite the strain that bled into every syllable.
"Our family," she gasped out, shaking her head with a kind of desperate helplessness she almost never allowed herself to feel, "they cannot die like this, we are supposed to grow old together, we are supposed to laugh at each other's grey hair and wrinkled hands, we are supposed to bury each other gently, not like this, not bleeding out in some dark alley or lying helpless in a hospital bed while we all pretend we're fine."
He kept holding her but he didn't argue, didn't try to soothe her with platitudes, his voice soft and low as he reminded her quietly, "Everyone is doing a highly dangerous job, Pansy, we all knew the risks when we chose this life."
Her breath hitched again, sharper this time, anger curling around the grief in her chest as she pulled back just enough to glare at him. "Well, I'm not," she snapped, her voice rising, "I'm not doing any of that reckless hero nonsense, I'm not the one out there getting shot at or hexed, I'm careful, I'm smart."
He met her gaze without flinching, a tired smile ghosting across his lips, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Are you tho?" he asked gently, almost too gently, "Did it ever cross your mind, love, that someone might talk? That someone might snitch on you?"
Her mouth twisted, defiance sparking bright and bitter in her expression as she spat, "Dead men can't talk, Neville."
His smile faded entirely, something heavier taking its place, something sadder, quieter, more frightening in its certainty. "And what happens when someone slips up?" he asked, and his voice was so soft she almost didn't hear it, so soft it felt like it carried more weight than a shout ever could.
"That is not an option," she hissed, shaking her head again, refusing even to entertain the thought.
He didn't move for a moment, just stood there watching her, until finally he spoke again, his voice still quiet but no less firm. "Can you look at me, please."
It wasn't really a question and somehow it wasn't a demand either but a plea woven in love and exhaustion, and after a long breath, she turned slowly, her face tight with the effort of holding herself together, her heart racing beneath her ribs like a trapped bird, and she met his eyes.
"I was never a demanding husband to you, was I?" he asked quietly, something so steady and deliberate in the way he said it that it cut right through her defenses, "But I am going to ask you this just once, and I need you to hear me: stop making poison."
Her breath stalled, her mouth open as though she couldn't quite form the right words fast enough, and when they did come they burst out rough and furious and trembling. "No! Those women need me, Neville, they come to me because no one else will help them, because I know how to help them, because I'm the only one willing to do what needs to be done, and I won't stop just because it scares you."
His expression didn't shift, his tone unwavering as he met her gaze, his next words slicing through the air between them without hesitation. "Your family needs you more."
Her composure snapped at that, rage spilling over where grief had lived only moments before, and she shoved him hard, her hands flat against his chest as she tried to put space between them, her voice sharp and raw and furious. "Don't pull that card on me! Don't you dare stand there and make this about family when you know exactly why I do what I do, when you know exactly why I can't walk away from the women who come to me with nowhere else to go."
Before she could push him again, he caught her, fast and without hesitation, his hands gripping her face with a gentleness that didn't quite hide the strength beneath it, and he tilted her chin so she had no choice but to meet his eyes, his thumbs brushing against her tear-streaked skin as he spoke low and firm and certain, the kind of certainty that terrified her because it was so rare to hear from him.
"That is enough," he said quietly, the words final in a way that left no room for argument. "You are going to stop."
Her breath caught in her throat again but this time it wasn't grief or rage or helplessness, it was the sharp sting of fear that he might actually be serious, that he might not let this go, that he might force her to choose between him and the work that had kept her from falling apart all these years and with all the venom she could muster, she spat the only thing she could think of, the one thing she knew would hurt him back, would give her some ground to stand on even if it was fragile and crumbling.
"Over my dead body."
For a long breath, Neville said nothing, his fingers still cupping her face but his grip tightening ever so slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to hold her there, to keep her gaze locked with his as the words she had just hurled at him settled heavy between them, and when he finally spoke his voice was lower than before, quieter but sharper too, each word deliberate and edged in a pain he didn't bother to soften.
"Over your dead body?" he repeated, and he let the phrase twist in his mouth like it tasted bitter, like he couldn't believe she had thrown it at him so carelessly after everything, after the nights he sat beside her hospital bed, after the long dark weeks of wondering if he would have to raise their daughter alone, after the way his heart still seized every time she left the house without saying exactly where she was going.
"Don't you dare," he murmured, and though his voice never rose, it cut deeper than any shout could have. "Don't you dare say that to me after what we've just been through."
His grip slackened but he didn't step back, didn't give her the space she was silently begging for, and Pansy's chest heaved as she tried to speak, tried to argue, but he kept going, the words tumbling out now, tangled and raw and sharp around the edges.
"You think you're the only one carrying weight in this house? You think I don't lie awake every damn night wondering if you're out there risking your life for people who will never even thank you, while your daughter waits for you to come home, while I have to pretend to her that I'm not terrified every single time you walk out that door?"
She tried to shove him again but he caught her wrists this time, held them firm, and her voice rose, shaking with fury and frustration and the deep, aching need to make him understand. "I'm not the one who goes looking for danger, Neville! You think I haven't watched you run headfirst into chaos every time someone whispers about a rare plant or a cursed herb? You think your work is so much safer? You think you're not risking your life every time you go crawling around some crumbling greenhouse for the Ministry while I sit at home wondering if today's the day someone calls to say you've been buried alive under your precious roses?"
His jaw tightened, his knuckles white where he still gripped her wrists, and when he spoke next his words were quieter but crueler for it. "At least my work doesn't involve poisoning husbands and pretending it's charity," he said, and the instant the words left his mouth he regretted them but he didn't take them back, just held her gaze as they hit their mark, watched the way her face froze and then crumpled, just slightly, before she set her jaw again.
Her voice dropped low, her breath shaking with the effort of keeping herself together, and when she spoke there was steel beneath the heartbreak. "You don't get to judge me, not after everything we've been through, not after all the nights you sat beside me and told me you understood why I did this, why I helped them when no one else would, why I brewed the poisons they needed to survive, you sat there and nodded and said you loved me anyway, and now you throw that in my face because you're scared?"
He didn't deny it. Didn't soften. "Yes," he admitted, and the honesty in that single word was devastating, because it wasn't an excuse, it wasn't an apology—it was the truth, bare and aching. "I am scared. I am terrified every single day and I can't keep doing this, I can't keep living with the thought that one day Seraphina is going to ask where you are and I won't have an answer except that you chose other people's families over your own."
The silence that followed was brutal, thick with everything neither of them knew how to say, everything too cruel or too tender to voice.
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft but laced with poison. "Then maybe you shouldn't have married me," she said, and though she hated herself the moment the words left her mouth, she didn't take them back either.
His expression shattered and he let go of her wrists so suddenly she almost fell forward, the absence of his touch more violent than any argument they'd ever had before.
He took a single step back, then another, his hands trembling at his sides as if he didn't know what to do with them now that they weren't holding her.
"You are correct, maybe I shouldn't have," he said, and this time his voice was so soft, so broken, it barely reached her.
He didn't leave the room, but he turned away from her, shoulders tight, head bowed, and the distance between them felt far greater than the kitchen floor.
And Pansy, who could always find the sharpest word in any room, who could always command the last line in every argument, said nothing at all.
Hours later, the house had fallen into a suffocating, brittle quiet, the kind of silence that didn't soothe but sat heavy and sharp in every corner, and when Neville finally found her, it was long past midnight, the shadows stretched long across their bedroom floor, and there she was, standing stiffly by the wardrobe, a half-packed trunk open at her feet, her hands moving with cold, mechanical precision as she folded blouses and tucked potion vials between layers of silk as though this were an ordinary departure, a holiday, an act of efficiency rather than desperation.
For a moment he just watched her, his breath tight in his chest, his arms heavy at his sides as he tried to reconcile the sight before him with the woman he loved, the woman who had fallen apart in his arms only hours ago, and he finally spoke, his voice raw and roughened by everything they hadn't yet said.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going," he asked, not quite a question, more accusation than inquiry, his tone low but trembling at the edges.
Her back stiffened at the sound of his voice but she didn't turn, didn't hesitate, just kept folding a nightdress with steady, infuriating calm. "Away," she said simply, as if that was explanation enough.
With a flick of his wand, wordless and sharp, the trunk snapped shut with a loud, final clap, the latch locking itself in place, the trunk's edges sealed tight by magic.
She froze, her fingers curling into fists at her sides, and when she finally turned to face him her expression was stone-cold fury, her mouth twisting around the words before she even spoke them. "I do whatever I please."
His gaze didn't soften, didn't shift, didn't waver. "This is a forced marriage, Pansy," he said, his voice steady but dangerous, "You cannot run."
Her lip curled, a bitter laugh spilling from her throat even as her eyes gleamed with unshed tears, the cruelty in her next words deliberate and honed. "You should be careful, Longbottom," she said coldly.
He took a single step forward, his voice dropping even lower. "Why?" he asked, though the answer burned already between them. "You'd poison me too?"
That one hit. Hard. Her whole body jolted as though he had struck her, her hands trembling now but still clenched tight, her breath coming faster as she took a step back, her voice rising to match the rawness in his. "What the fuck is your problem?" she demanded, her voice breaking as the anger spilled over. "Leave me alone, Neville, just leave me alone."
But he didn't. He couldn't.
"I'd rather burn the world down than leave you alone," he shot back immediately, his voice cracking under the force of the confession, the desperation so naked it hurt, his words almost a plea, almost a prayer, almost too late.
She let out a choked, bitter laugh, shaking her head violently. "Too late now, isn't it?" she said, and the fury in her voice was matched only by the heartbreak written plain across her face, her defenses splintering even as she spoke. "If you don't want to be with me and you think our real marriage was a mistake, then let me set you free."
His eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he stared at her, the distance between them both insurmountable and paper-thin. "You cannot unbind anything that's between us," he said, his voice low but sure, aching in its certainty.
She stepped forward now, reckless and furious, her hands shaking as she jabbed a finger into his chest. "What's between us is some fucking paperwork," she hissed, her voice ragged. "That's all, Neville. Paperwork."
His breath caught, and for a moment his expression flickered, something soft and wounded flashing across his face before it hardened again, before his mouth twisted into something cold. "Have it your way then," he said, and the ice in his voice cut sharper than any blade, "But if you take my daughter away from me, I'll be the one ratting you out."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to shatter.
Her face drained of color, her mouth falling open in shock before twisting into something feral. "How dare you," she whispered, and then louder, the fury rising and spilling out of her unchecked, "HOW DARE YOU DRAG SIA INTO THIS."
Her voice cracked as she said their daughter's name, her entire body trembling now, grief and rage tangled so tightly that she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began, and for a breathless, brutal moment they simply stood there, staring at each other across the wreckage of everything they had tried to build, their love still burning beneath the anger but warped now, poisoned by fear and resentment and the desperate need to win, even if winning meant ruining everything.
And neither of them moved.
Neither of them backed down.
His voice broke the silence first, rough and biting, words sharp enough to sting but not sharp enough to cut through the storm already twisting inside her. "You need a fucking exorcist," he spat, and it should have sounded cruel but instead it came out low, desperate, thick with love twisted into something ugly.
Her heart cracked open, fury and heartbreak tangled together so tightly she couldn't separate one from the other, and without thinking she snapped back, "Pack your shit," the words sharp and final, her voice shaking with the force of holding back everything else she wanted to say, everything she would not let herself beg for.
He didn't move, just stood there, still and defiant, and when he finally spoke his voice was steady, quiet, and absolutely immovable. "No."
Something inside her snapped, fully and completely, and she turned her attention to the closet without another word, her movements fast and reckless as if speed alone could keep the grief at bay, as if emptying the wardrobe could empty her chest of everything breaking inside it.
She lunged forward, yanked open the doors with shaking hands, began grabbing his shirts, his jackets, shoving them into the nearest bag without folding, without care, as if punishing the clothes themselves might somehow punish him too.
He followed, slow and deliberate, the sound of his footsteps too measured, too calm, sending fresh rage spiraling through her already fraying nerves. He didn't stop her. He didn't speak. He just moved closer, stalking after her with the quiet patience of a predator who knew exactly how this would end.
When he reached her, he didn't hesitate. He caught her wrists and spun her around so fast the breath punched out of her, pressing her back against the wall, his body crowding hers completely, caging her in without violence but with a force that was no less overwhelming for its lack of cruelty. His chest rose and fell hard, his breath brushing warm and rough against her cheek as she froze for a single heartbeat, then reacted.
Her palm connected with his face, the crack of it sharp and immediate, the sting blooming bright across his cheek. She hit him with every ounce of fury, betrayal, and heartbreak she hadn't let herself speak aloud.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't let go.
His grip on her wrists only tightened, his fingers pressing into her skin as if grounding himself as much as restraining her, and then his hand shifted, slid up to her throat, his thumb brushing the fragile line of her jaw as he leaned in so close she could feel the heat of him everywhere at once.
His lips dragged slowly along her jawline, his breath warm and unsteady, words spilling rough and hoarse against her skin. "I love you more than anything in this world," he murmured, and there was no artifice left, no armor, nothing between them now but honesty and agony and the ugly, desperate ache of two people who didn't know how to stop colliding.
Her body trembled in his hold but her voice cut back sharp and defiant. "I hate you," she spat, and the words tasted bitter and bright on her tongue, but they felt good because they felt powerful, because she needed to wound him the way he had wounded her.
He didn't recoil.
He didn't even blink.
"It's a lie," he whispered, his voice softer now, almost gentle, and that gentleness was more devastating than his earlier fury. "We both know it."
And then his hand left her throat and slid lower, his touch slow and deliberate now, no longer angry but aching, fingers dragging along the curve of her hip, her waist, her thigh, claiming her the only way he still knew how. His fingers slipped beneath the edge of her nightdress, skimming the skin there like a promise and a threat all at once.
His voice cut through the tension first, low and dark and curling around her like a net, the kind of tone that made her pulse quicken even as her jaw set with defiance. "Are you going to be wet when I touch you?" he asked, almost a whisper, but there was nothing gentle in it, nothing soft in the way he stepped closer, his gaze locked on her with a dangerous, intimate knowing that scraped right under her skin.
Her breath hitched, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as if she could hold onto the last shred of composure she had left. "N-no," she breathed, and even she could hear the tremor in her voice, the lie too fragile to survive the space between them.
His smile was sharp and cruel and devastating all at once, not because he wanted to hurt her, but because he knew her, because he could read her body better than she could hide it. "Lying little whore," he murmured, every word coiled tight with hunger and fury and aching affection, "You love this. We haven't argued in a long time and you haven't had the chance to come on my cock in weeks. I know you're aching for it."
Her lips parted as if to deny it again, as if she could maintain the fiction that she wasn't already shaking with anticipation, but the words faltered on her tongue, the lie too weak now, too transparent.
"I'm not," she whispered, but it was nothing more than a breath, a half-hearted protest that even she didn't believe.
He didn't wait for permission. Didn't wait for her to lie again. His hands moved fast, furious, tearing the dress from her shoulders in one smooth, merciless motion, the fabric ripping beneath his fingers as he stripped it from her body, leaving her breathless and bare in the low light.
"Nevie!" she gasped, a frantic edge to her voice, half a plea, half a scolding, her hands instinctively flying up to cover herself as her mind spun, "Sia—"
"She's sleeping," he said, his voice rough and sure and final, his fingers already threading through her hair, already tilting her chin up so he could claim her mouth.
His lips crashed against hers in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation and bruising affection, hard and unrelenting, stealing the breath from her lungs, his hands firm on her hips, dragging her closer until there was no space left between them, until there was nothing left to hold onto except each other and this furious, spiraling intimacy.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, his breath hot and uneven, he didn't loosen his hold. His fingers stroked down her jaw, tender even now, even after everything they had thrown at each other tonight.
"Our marriage," he said, his voice lower now, almost reverent but no less intense, "was never a mistake and it never will be. My heart stopped searching for anything else the moment I found you ."
His words seared through her defenses, burned past her anger and pride and fear, and even though she wanted to shove him away, even though her hands still trembled with the force of everything they hadn't resolved, she couldn't stop leaning into him, couldn't stop craving the heat of him, couldn't stop the way her body betrayed her with every shiver and quickened breath.
And he knew it.
He knew every inch of her, every weakness, every wound, every secret she never spoke aloud—and right now he was wielding that knowledge like a weapon, like a lover, like a promise she couldn't bear to refuse.
Her breath hitched again, her throat tight as the heat of his words burned right through every defense she had so carefully rebuilt since this argument began. She could still feel the torn remnants of her dress falling from her shoulders, the chill in the air at odds with the fever running beneath her skin. His breath was hot against her mouth, his fingers firm on her jaw, but it was his words that undid her most of all, because she wanted to believe them. Desperately.
But she couldn't let herself fall so easily. Not tonight. Not like this. Even as her breath hitched, even as her pulse quickened beneath his touch, she still needed him to say it, needed the words to ground her even while every part of her body was already betraying the stubbornness in her mind.
Her voice was tight, small, almost breaking. "Do you mean it?" she whispered, her fingers curling against his chest as if she could hold back the tide rising inside her.
He didn't answer. Instead, he lowered his mouth to her jaw, trailing slow, deliberate kisses along the fragile line of her throat and down the curve of her neck, his lips brushing her skin in a way that made her shiver even as she stiffened, desperate not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how easily she unraveled for him.
The heat of his breath was unbearable, and she crossed her legs instinctively, tightly, because the ache was already there, deep and pulsing, humiliating in its immediacy, inescapable no matter how hard she fought it. She was wet—she knew it, and worse, he knew it too. Dripping, aching, desperate, even though her mind screamed that she shouldn't be.
He chuckled low against her throat, a dark, knowing sound that sent another shiver through her already trembling frame. "Hmm," he murmured, his voice rich with wicked affection, soft and devastating, "Open your legs, bloom, and you'll see exactly what I mean."
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her breath sharp and uneven as she fought to keep her voice steady. "I—just answer me," she said, and this time the desperation was raw, almost childlike, breaking through her pride as she tilted her face toward his, needing the words as much as she feared them.
He paused for a breath, his gaze searching hers with an intensity that made her knees weak, and when he spoke, his voice was low and steady, almost reverent. "I would never, ever leave you," he said simply, the truth in those words hitting her harder than any argument they had thrown at each other tonight, harder than any insult or accusation or cruel barb.
Before she could speak, before she could process the tremble in her chest at hearing it, he moved—fast, spinning her around so that her back met his chest, his arm sliding around her waist as he pressed her forward until her palms met the cold, unforgiving surface of the mirror.
The shock of cool glass against her skin made her gasp, the chill racing up her spine and settling into her shoulders, grounding her just enough to keep from drowning in the heat of him completely. The press of her bare breast against the cold surface sent another shiver through her body, sharp and fleeting, a moment of clarity amid the fever building between them.
Her breath fogged the mirror, her reflection a blur of flushed skin and wild hair and wide, vulnerable eyes, and for a single, fragile heartbeat she felt almost steady again, but then he leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear, and all that fragile steadiness dissolved once more into aching want.
His hand didn't hesitate.
It slipped between her thighs, possessive and precise, as if it belonged there, like he'd memorized every inch of her already. She gasped when his fingers parted her, slick and hot and utterly exposed, the cool air brushing against her swollen folds as he dragged two fingers through her wetness.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word reverent. "You're soaked, bloom."
Pansy tried to turn her face away, to hide from her own reflection, but he caught her chin and angled it forward, forcing her gaze to stay locked on the mirror. Her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide with helpless need.
"Don't look away," he murmured against her ear. "I want you to see how fucking beautiful you are when you come for me."
His fingers found her clit with maddening slowness, circling it gently, then more firmly as her body reacted without permission, hips bucking back against him, thighs trembling as she bit her lip to keep from crying out.
"You hate how much you need this, don't you?" he whispered, his breath hot against her neck. "You hate how easily I can make you fall apart."
"Nevie," she moaned, voice breaking as his fingers slipped lower, finding her entrance and sinking in, slow and smooth, the stretch making her breath catch in her throat. "Please—"
"Please what?" he asked, pumping his fingers in a torturously slow rhythm, his palm grinding against her clit just enough to make her shudder. "Say it. Use that brilliant mouth."
Her eyes fluttered closed, but he stilled completely—hand buried between her thighs, body pressed against hers. "Eyes open," he growled, quiet but firm.
She obeyed.
In the mirror, she could see everything: the way her back arched, her nipples brushing the cold glass, the hungry, feral look in Neville's eyes as he watched her fall apart from behind. His fingers began to move again—faster now, curling just right, stroking her inside while his thumb circled her clit with devastating skill.
Her moans grew louder, needier. Her nails scratched at the glass. "I—I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he said, kissing her shoulder. "Look at yourself. Look at what I do to you."
That was it. That did it.
Her body seized around his fingers, pleasure crashing over her like a wave. She cried out, raw and open, the mirror fogging from her panting breaths as she watched herself fall to pieces in his arms. His free hand held her tight as she rode the high, trembling, helpless, completely his.
As she came down, she sagged against him, eyes still locked on the mirror, her body limp but humming. He slowly withdrew his fingers, dragging them up to her lips.
"Taste it," he said softly, brushing them over her mouth.
She didn't hesitate. She sucked them into her mouth, eyes fluttering closed with a soft moan, and he looked like he might lose control right then and there.
She was still flushed from the orgasm he'd just coaxed out of her minutes earlier, skin dewy, thighs slick. And yet, she was already kneeling again, hunger written across every line of her body.
Her eyes locked on his as she licked her lips.
"You have something that I want," Pansy murmured, her voice honeyed and low.
Neville raised an eyebrow, arms folding loosely as he looked down at her. His smile was slow, teasing. "Princess… you're very, very needy tonight. Didn't I just make you come?"
Her response was a smirk that bordered on bratty. "Now, Nevie."
He chuckled, then reached down and gave her the lightest slap—just a whisper of contact across her cheek. The sound was more shocking than the touch, and she gasped, thighs pressing together involuntarily. Her pupils dilated instantly.
He caught it. Of course he did.
Without a word, he vanished his own clothes with a flick of his wand, and her gaze dropped instantly, lips parting as he stepped close enough for the tip of his cock to rest lightly on her tongue.
He brushed a hand through her hair, tilting her face up gently.
"Be a good girl for me, love," he said, his voice rough with affection and something darker beneath.
She moaned softly in response, eyes fluttering shut as she wrapped her lips around him, letting herself fall into the rhythm of obedience, of worship, of them.
Her lips parted with a quiet, eager breath as he rested the head of his cock on her tongue. Her lashes fluttered as she looked up at him, not for approval, but to show him that she wanted this, wanted him, in every possible way.
Neville's hand stayed in her hair, his fingers threading gently through the strands. His touch wasn't rough. It was steady. Possessive. Protective in a way that made her stomach twist with heat.
He didn't need to guide her. Pansy knew exactly what she was doing.
She eased forward, taking him into her mouth inch by inch, the warmth of her lips wrapping around him with exquisite care. Her tongue pressed flat beneath him as she swallowed deeper, pausing just long enough to adjust, then pulling back slowly so her lips slid against his skin in a way that made his hips twitch.
Neville exhaled sharply, his other hand gripping the edge of the dresser behind him as he looked down at her. The sight of her, on her knees, flushed and focused, her mouth wrapped around him with that dangerous little sparkle in her eyes, made his heart pound just as hard as his pulse did below the waist.
She moaned around him, the sound low and sinful, and he felt the vibration all the way through him. Her hands slid to his thighs, holding him steady as she found her rhythm. Slow at first. Purposeful. This wasn't about power anymore. This was about them. About making the space between their bodies feel whole again.
Her lips glided smoothly over him as she took him deep again, deeper this time, her throat relaxing with practiced ease. A flick of her tongue under the ridge made him groan, his knees weakening slightly. He let his head fall back for a moment, eyes closed, letting her take control.
Pansy was relentless now. Not rough. But thorough. Every pass of her mouth was a promise, every swirl of her tongue a plea for closeness. She pulled back just enough to kiss the head, soft and deliberate, before taking him back in with a low hum of satisfaction.
Spit slicked her lips, a thin line of it connecting her mouth to him when she briefly pulled off to catch her breath.
"Look at you," Neville murmured, voice thick and ragged. "You're… fuck, you're so good at this."
She looked up, her lips curved around him in the ghost of a smile, then took him back in deeper than before. Her throat worked around him, and his grip in her hair tightened, just enough to make her whimper in response.
He was close. Too close. But he didn't want it to end. Not like this. Not yet.
"Wait," he said suddenly, his voice hoarse as he pulled her back gently. "Come here."
Pansy blinked, her lips swollen, chin damp, pupils blown wide. Her breath came in short gasps as she stood, and Neville caught her around the waist, pulling her into him so fast her knees nearly gave out.
He kissed her, deeply, messily—tasting himself on her tongue, not caring in the slightest. His hands roamed over her body like he was rediscovering her, anchoring her to him again after hours of distance.
His hands moved slowly up her legs, fingertips whispering over her bare thighs, thumbs brushing the tender hollows near her hips. He looked up at her for a moment, not to ask permission, but to see her. To feel that old ache between them flicker into something softer, something whole.
Without a word, he dipped forward and pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh, right where the skin was thinnest and most sensitive.
He kissed her like she was something delicate and sacred, like her body was a language he had learned long ago and still never got tired of reading. The moment his lips moved higher and his breath passed over her, she gripped the edge of a shelf behind her for balance, her knuckles going white.
Neville's mouth found her with purpose. He licked her slowly, taking his time, letting her feel every motion of his tongue, every careful flick and slow swirl. His hands gripped her hips, anchoring her as his mouth moved lower, then higher, teasing her until she was trembling. He knew exactly where she needed him. He always did.
He found her clit with the flat of his tongue and stroked her in long, firm motions until her thighs tightened around his shoulders.
She gasped, her breath catching in her throat as her hips bucked forward. One hand dropped into his hair, fingers twisting, not to pull him away, but to keep him there. He moaned into her, the sound vibrating against her in a way that made her curse under her breath.
"Gods, Nevie," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Please. Please don't stop."
He didn't stop. He licked her like he had all night to stay buried between her legs, like the taste of her was the only thing that could ground him. He sucked gently, then licked again, his tongue moving in slow, expert circles.
When she began to rock against his mouth, grinding forward helplessly, he slid one hand down and eased a finger inside her, then another, curling just right.
Her legs trembled. Her whole body arched. She was panting now, flushed and open and raw, every nerve lit up from his mouth and his fingers and the way he groaned low against her with each wave of pleasure that rolled through her.
She came hard, sharp and sudden, her moan caught between his name and a half-sob as her head dropped back against the wall. He held her through it, his fingers still working her gently, his mouth kissing her softly, riding out every shiver that rippled through her limbs.
When she finally opened her eyes, he was still kneeling, lips glistening, gaze full of heat and something devastatingly tender.
"You always taste like coming home," he said quietly.
Pansy let out a breathless laugh, still recovering, her chest rising and falling.
Neville lifted her effortlessly, his hands firm at the curve of her thighs, pressing her against the wall so there was no space left between them. The coolness of the wood behind her made her skin feel hotter, more alive under his touch.
She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, feeling the solid strength of him holding her up, and her fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders as she pulled him closer.
He kissed her with desperate hunger, teeth grazing over her bottom lip, his tongue slipping in to explore as their mouths moved in a frantic rhythm. His hands slid beneath her, one pressing low on her back to keep her steady, the other tracing every inch of her bare skin, memorizing the softness and heat and shivers he could coax out with just a touch.
Neville didn't wait. He pushed inside her with slow, sure force that stole her breath away. She gasped, legs tightening instinctively around him, the way he filled her both physically and emotionally leaving her raw and trembling.
His body pressed against hers, chest flush with her own, their heartbeats hammering in tandem as he set a pace that was relentless but not cruel. A reckoning born from everything they'd fought through.
Her nails dragged down his back, leaving red streaks she would later kiss, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The mix of pain and pleasure, anger and longing, spilled over until her entire being was consumed by him, by the way he held her, by the sound of his ragged breathing in her ear.
"Parky," Neville growled, voice thick with emotion and need. "I love you."
Her body clenched around him at the sound of her name, the tenderness in his tone cracking through the roughness between them. She whispered back, breathless and fierce, "I love you too, Nevie.
He kissed the side of her neck, then her jaw, trailing down to her collarbone, marking her with lips and teeth in a way that was possessive and tender all at once. His hands gripped her hips tightly as he thrust deeper, each movement rougher, more urgent, as if they were trying to make up for lost time, for the harsh words, the silences, the distance.
She pressed her forehead against his, matching his pace with her own, the heat between them a fierce blaze that swallowed everything else. Her voice was raw when she spoke again, "You're mine. Forever."
Neville smiled against her skin, the barest hint of a grin before his lips moved lower, capturing one breast with his mouth, sucking and teasing until she moaned loud and deep, her fingers tangling in his hair.
The way he worshipped her, knew her body so intimately, made her ache in places she hadn't even realized were empty.
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, dark and glistening with desire. "You drive me insane, Parky."
"And you love me anyway," she breathed.
"Yes," he said simply. "With everything I have."
Their bodies moved together like a storm, chaotic and wild and perfectly in sync. He kissed, bit, whispered her name over and over, each word a promise and a plea. She clung to him, her nails digging in deeper, matching his intensity, refusing to let go.
The world around them disappeared until there was nothing but the heat between their skin, the frantic rhythm of their breathing, and the fierce beat of two hearts desperate to connect. Every motion was electric, every glance a declaration. Neither held back. Neither wanted to.
As they reached the peak together, trembling and gasping, their voices mingling in whispered confessions and desperate pleas, they found not just release but a profound affirmation of everything that tied them, love, trust, and the fierce certainty that they belonged to each other, no matter what storms came their way.
~~~~~~
Pansy didn't knock.
She never did with Theo, not really, not even before the war, not even when they were children sneaking secrets and stolen sweets. The heavy oak door to his study was already cracked open, a faint golden glow spilling into the darkened hall beyond, and she let herself slip inside, quiet but unhurried, her fingers brushing the doorframe as if the wood itself might steady her nerves.
She told herself she was here for something simple. Just a visit. Just to ask how he was. To ask how they were—because she hadn't seen Luna in days, and Luna's absence always left a particular ache in Pansy's chest, one that felt suspiciously like love disguised as irritation.
But the moment her eyes adjusted to the warm dimness of the study, her breath caught.
Theo sat in one of the oversized leather armchairs, all dark lines and stillness, but what stopped her cold was Luna, curled neatly across his lap like she belonged there, her bare feet tucked beneath her, her pale hair falling over one shoulder in a silver cascade. She was humming softly, absently tracing lazy shapes on the back of Theo's hand with one slender finger, and for all the world she looked as if she had always been there, as if she had grown roots in that chair, in him .
Neither of them looked surprised to see her.
Theo's gaze lifted slowly to meet hers, dark and unreadable, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, and Luna didn't even pause her humming, her head resting lightly against his shoulder as though she couldn't imagine a world in which Pansy might interrupt whatever this was.
Pansy swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, and managed a sharp, clipped, "How are you?"
It wasn't what she wanted to say. She wanted to say what is this? She wanted to say where the hell have you been? She wanted to say I almost lost everyone I love and now you're here acting like nothing ever happened .
But all that came out was that simple question—how are you—as if it were enough.
Theo smiled then, slow and sharp, the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes, the kind of smile that promised something darker than reassurance.
"We're very well," he said, his voice smooth and quiet, but weighted, deliberate, almost like a warning.
Luna's gaze lifted, pale blue eyes meeting Pansy's with that unsettling serenity she wore like armor, and she added softly, "Better than you might think, really."
Pansy's eyes narrowed. "You look comfortable," she said coolly, refusing to sit, arms crossed, her heart thudding harder than she wanted it to.
Theo's fingers stroked lazily along Luna's bare arm, and his tone was light, conversational, but Pansy could feel the steel beneath it even before the words landed.
"We should be," he said calmly. "We've just finished tying up a very old, very troublesome loose end."
Pansy froze completely, her fingers curling into the edge of the table as the weight of their words sank into her chest. She could feel her pulse in her throat, sharp and fast, and for a long breath she couldn't seem to move, couldn't seem to think beyond the shock wrapping tight around her ribs.
When she finally found her voice, it was quiet but edged with something sharp, something that felt too much like vindication to be entirely decent. "Who?" she asked simply, her gaze flicking between them, even though she already knew the answer.
Luna didn't hesitate, her voice soft but clear, almost casual in its delivery. "Titus."
Pansy exhaled all at once, a rush of air leaving her lungs like she had been holding it in for weeks, and without thinking she muttered under her breath, "Thank god."
Theo's smile didn't reach his eyes as he leaned forward slightly, one hand still wrapped lazily around Luna's waist as though she were simply a beloved ornament draped across him, something to be cherished and touched but never questioned. His voice was low, bitter, and cold. "God wasn't there, Pansy," he said, and the weight in those four words made her chest ache. "That son of a bitch… my own blood… he was fucking some young girl who resembled Luna—"
Luna's voice cut in before he could finish, quiet and dreamlike, but her words held a steel edge that made Pansy's skin prickle. "Or Seline," she murmured, her fingers brushing idly along Theo's collar. "So he's gone now. It's done."
Pansy shivered at the simple finality of it. There was no regret in their voices, no hesitation. Only truth. Only the cool aftermath of something monstrous and necessary.
"That man had the devil in him," Pansy whispered, her voice suddenly raw, fierce, burning with old instincts and old suspicions, her eyes stinging as she shook her head. "I fucking knew. I always knew."
Theo's gaze didn't waver, and neither did Luna's soft, eerie smile. They didn't flinch, didn't argue, didn't justify. They didn't have to. There was no apology in this room. No guilt. Only a quiet, unspoken understanding among them all that Titus's death wasn't a tragedy. It was a correction.
And somewhere deep inside her, beneath the shock, the horror, and the strange wave of relief, Pansy realized that this—this odd, quiet aftermath, this shared darkness between them—was the closest they had all come to peace in a very long time. There was no hysteria here, no regret, just a grim sort of acceptance and understanding.
She took a breath, finally steadying enough to ask what mattered most. "How's my babies?" she murmured, her voice softening, her arms folding tightly across her chest as though she could hold the weight of that question physically.
Luna's smile shifted, turning warmer, her gaze softening around the edges even as she remained curled in Theo's lap like she belonged there completely. "Your gorgeous godchild doesn't know a thing," she said gently, her fingers tracing slow circles on the back of Theo's hand. "And I would very much like to keep it that way."
Pansy straightened a little, bristling at the suggestion even though she knew it wasn't an accusation. "I would never…" she started, but Theo's voice cut smoothly across hers, low and assured.
"Neither would Neville," he said, his eyes meeting hers steadily, no heat behind the words, just calm certainty.
Pansy let out a breath, her fingers tightening slightly around her elbows. "Of course," she said quietly, nodding, as though she needed to remind herself she was still part of this strange little circle, still trusted, still understood.
But then her expression twisted, a shadow passing across her face as she hesitated for a beat longer before admitting, "But he… he wants me to stop making… you know… to stop working."
Theo didn't blink. "But you won't," he said simply, his voice flat but not cold, just stating it as fact, as though they had all known this would be the answer from the moment Neville asked.
Pansy's chin lifted immediately, her spine straightening with something dangerously close to pride. "Of course I won't," she said firmly, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. "Those women need me."
Luna nodded then, her smile never faltering, her fingers still ghosting soft little patterns on Theo's hand, her gaze unwavering. "I know, love," she murmured, and there was something achingly genuine in her tone, something that made Pansy feel seen in a way that left her breathless.
And for a moment, despite everything, here was nothing but quiet, nothing but the soft hum of shared loyalty and the strange, terrible kind of love that existed between them.
~~~~~~
Pansy didn't even bother knocking. She never did here either, but for entirely different reasons—because Blaise Zabini would make a production of answering the door if she gave him the chance, and she didn't have the patience for that today.
Knocking was for guests. Pansy had decided she owned all their houses now.
The sitting room was its usual disaster: a half-played chess game abandoned on the low table, Ginny's boots kicked off near the fireplace, Blaise's favorite glass decanter sitting suspiciously empty on the sideboard. Ginny was curled on one end of the sofa with a book balanced precariously on one knee and a mug of tea she clearly hadn't touched in hours. Blaise sprawled at the other end, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes, as if posing for a portrait of despair.
Neither of them looked particularly worse for wear.
"You're alive, I see," Pansy drawled from the doorway, arching a brow as she slipped her gloves off and dropped them onto the table without asking.
Blaise didn't move, didn't even lower his arm. "Barely," he said, his voice low and mournful, but there was a smile ghosting at the corners of his mouth that gave him away immediately.
Ginny didn't look up from her book, just sipped her tea and smirked. "Ignore him, Pans. He's milking it."
"Milking what exactly?" Pansy asked dryly, perching herself on the arm of a chair. "Your brush with death? I thought you'd at least have the decency to look pale and haunted. You look… well-fed."
Blaise let out an exaggerated sigh, finally lowering his arm so he could fix her with a mock-wounded stare. "I nearly died, darling," he said dramatically. "Where's your compassion? Where's your concern for my fragile, heroic constitution?"
Pansy rolled her eyes but couldn't stop the smile tugging at her mouth. "I came here to ask how you're feeling, Zabini, but it seems you're back to being utterly insufferable, so I assume recovery is going well."
Blaise stretched lazily, his long legs taking up far too much of the floor, and smirked. "Physically? Excellent. Emotionally? Scarred for life. Ginny refused to smuggle in a decent bottle of firewhisky during my recovery. Imagine the cruelty."
Ginny tossed a cushion at him without looking up from her book. "You weren't supposed to be drinking, idiot."
"And yet I suffered so," he murmured, clutching the cushion dramatically to his chest.
Pansy turned to Ginny, arching an eyebrow. "And you? How are you tolerating this martyrdom?"
Ginny finally set her book aside, her grin wide and wicked. "Oh, he's a nightmare, Pans. I've been tempting him with all sorts of vices just to watch him sulk when he can't indulge. I took him to a pub last night just to wave a pint in front of his face."
"You're evil," Blaise said, looking genuinely impressed.
"You married me," Ginny shot back sweetly.
"And I regret nothing," Blaise replied, grinning as he reached out and tugged a lock of her hair playfully.
Pansy watched the whole exchange with a mixture of amusement and reluctant affection. They were ridiculous—utterly unserious, shameless, loud—and yet there was something deeply comforting about it. After the cold, eerie quiet of Theo and Luna's house, this messy warmth was exactly what she hadn't realized she needed.
She crossed her legs elegantly, leaning back in the chair. "So you're both fine, then? No lingering trauma, no dark brooding phases I should prepare for?"
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm brooding. Deeply. But only when Ginny leaves the room so I can stare at the fire and pretend I'm terribly tragic."
"Honestly," Ginny said with a smirk, "he spent two whole days asking me if I'd weep prettily at his funeral."
"Did she promise she would?" Pansy asked, intrigued.
"She said she'd trip over her robes and fall into the grave out of spite," Blaise said mournfully, but the gleam in his eye betrayed the fondness beneath the words.
Pansy let out a laugh that surprised even herself—a real laugh, bright and loud, shaking some of the tension she'd carried into the room. "Well. At least you two haven't lost your charm."
Ginny winked at her, rising to fetch more tea. "Charm, no. Sanity? Debatable."
And as Blaise stretched out on the sofa again, grinning like the devil himself, Pansy felt a warmth settle into her chest that she hadn't felt in days. They were alive, still joking, still ridiculous, and for the first time since everything fell apart, it felt like something was beginning to stitch itself back together.