Pansy moved through her morning routine with practiced ease, a symphony of habitual motions that made up the first hour of her day. She had long since accepted that the dogs came first—Lady and Princess required food, fresh water, and their morning cuddles before she was allowed to so much as think about her own needs. That was the natural order of things, and she would never dare upset it. Anyone who thought otherwise could take their logic and shove it.
Once the pugs were content, stretched lazily on their overindulgent velvet cushions as if they owned the bloody house, she finally turned her attention to herself. Slipping into her favorite pair of lace-trimmed knickers, she savored the feeling of the soft fabric against her skin, the way it made her feel both comfortable and a little indulgent, as if she had a secret no one else knew.
And then, just as she was about to reach for the rest of her clothing, she felt him—large, warm hands ghosting over her hips, fingers pressing into her skin with a firm, possessive grip that sent a delicious shiver up her spine.
"Hm," she hummed, tilting her head just slightly to acknowledge his presence without breaking the moment. "What is it, love?"
His voice was low, thick with that slow-burning hunger that made her pulse quicken. "I love that one on you."
She smirked, already sensing where this was going. "Nevie, you like all of them."
"I like taking them off," he corrected, his breath warm against the shell of her ear as he trailed his fingers along the delicate lace at her hip, teasing. "But this one…" His voice dipped lower, sending a ripple of heat down her spine. "…This one, I like when it stays on."
Before she could form a response, he guided her backward, pulling her down onto his lap, spreading her legs with deliberate ease.
Her breath hitched, her body already anticipating him, the familiar thrill of his touch unraveling her composure.
"And why, exactly, do you like this one so much?" she asked, her voice a teasing lilt, though it was already breathier than she would have liked.
He chuckled, dark and knowing, as he slipped his fingers between her legs, pressing against the damp heat that had gathered there. "Because I can do this," he murmured, pushing the thin fabric of her knickers aside, exposing her just enough for his fingers to slide against her slick, aching center.
Her head fell to his shoulder, a quiet moan slipping from her lips as he traced lazy circles over her clit, slow, torturous, his touch maddeningly light.
"You're already so wet," he whispered, his voice laced with satisfaction. "You like it, don't you? The idea of me keeping them on while I fuck you."
Pansy bit her lip, her hips shifting instinctively, chasing more friction, more pressure, more of him. "You already know the answer to that," she murmured, but her breath hitched again when he pressed down, harder this time, drawing a sharp gasp from her.
"Oh, but I want to hear you say it," he said, his free hand gripping her thigh, holding her still even as she trembled.
"Fuck, Nevie," she breathed, half-laughing, half-melting in his arms. "You're insufferable."
"And yet, you're still falling apart for me," he pointed out, nipping at her neck before soothing the spot with his tongue. "Still letting me ruin you before you've even had your morning tea."
She opened her mouth to retort, but the words died on her lips as he slid two fingers inside her, stretching her slowly, purposefully, his thumb still working relentless, torturous circles over her clit.
She whimpered, her fingers tangling in his hair as she arched against him.
"That's it," he murmured, watching her fall apart in his arms, his own breath uneven now, the heat between them crackling like wildfire. "Just like that, love. Let me feel you."
She clenched around his fingers, her body responding to him as it always did—eager, desperate, utterly his.
And when he finally withdrew, his fingers glistening with her arousal, he brought them to his lips, eyes locked onto hers as he licked them clean with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue.
Pansy shivered, her whole body aching, needing more.
Neville grinned, his gaze dark with promise. "Get on the bed," he said, his voice firm, commanding.
She hesitated just a beat, her lips curling into a smirk. "And if I don't?"
His hands were on her in an instant, flipping her onto her stomach over the arm of the chaise, his body pressing flush against hers as he leaned in close, his voice a whisper of heat against her ear.
"Then I'll just have to remind you who's in charge."
And Merlin, did she love when he did.
Pansy barely had a second to catch her breath before she felt the weight of him pressing her into the chaise, his large hands splaying over her hips, pulling her back into him. Her skin burned where he touched her, her body already primed and aching, her breath shaky with anticipation.
"Nevie…" she managed, her voice a breathless plea, barely coherent as she shifted beneath him. "You… you need to leave for work."
She felt him chuckle against her spine, a dark, knowing sound that sent a shiver cascading down her back. His lips ghosted over her shoulder, his breath hot against her skin as he murmured, "And leave my princess unsatisfied? Never."
She barely had a moment to process the words before he pushed inside her in one swift, powerful motion, stretching her in the way only he could, filling her so completely that she screamed, her voice breaking on his name. The sudden, overwhelming fullness had her gripping onto the edge of the chaise for dear life, her nails digging into the fabric as he held her firmly in place.
"That's it," he growled, his voice thick with hunger, his fingers tightening their hold on her hips as he withdrew slowly before slamming into her again, drawing another choked gasp from her lips. "Let me hear you."
Pansy's entire body trembled beneath him, the feeling of him overwhelming in the best way. His thrusts were deep and deliberate, each one sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her veins, setting every nerve alight. She pushed back against him instinctively, desperate for more, for everything he was giving her and then some.
He let out a low groan, the sound of her pleasure spurring him on, driving him wilder. "Merlin, you're so fucking tight," he hissed, his grip on her hips bruising now as he picked up the pace, his hips snapping against her with relentless precision. "So perfect for me."
She tried to respond, but the only thing that came out was a whimper, a needy, desperate sound that only seemed to spur him on further.
He reached forward, tangling his fingers in her hair, tugging just enough to arch her back, pulling her against him. "I want to hear you say it," he murmured against her ear, his voice a dangerous mix of command and adoration. "Tell me who you belong to."
Pansy's eyes fluttered shut, her body wracked with pleasure as she barely managed to choke out, "You, Nevie… only you."
He rewarded her with a particularly deep thrust, one that had her seeing stars, her legs trembling beneath her. "Good girl," he praised, his tone softer now, reverent. "My good fucking girl."
She could feel herself coming undone, the pleasure building and building until it was unbearable, until she was nothing but sensation and heat, her body on the precipice of something utterly devastating.
And then his hand slipped between her legs, his fingers finding her clit with practiced ease, rubbing in tight, merciless circles that sent her spiraling over the edge with a scream, her body convulsing around him, her vision going white as she shattered completely.
Neville groaned as he felt her tighten around him, his pace faltering just slightly before he slammed into her one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he found his own release, his name a broken prayer on her lips.
They stayed like that for a long moment, tangled in each other, bodies trembling, breathless.
Finally, he eased out of her, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck as he murmured, "Now you're satisfied, my love."
Pansy, still struggling to catch her breath, let out a weak laugh. "You're impossible," she mumbled, her voice hoarse.
He grinned, pulling her into his arms as he kissed the top of her head. "And yet, you still let me ruin you before breakfast."
She hummed contentedly against his chest, feeling utterly spent, utterly satisfied.
And as he finally pulled away, reluctantly reaching for his clothes, she smirked.
"Oh, love," she purred, stretching lazily across the chaise, the picture of post-coital bliss, "you're going to be late."
Hegroaned, already dreading the day ahead. But as he looked at her, he decided it had been more than worth it.
~~~~~~
Neville Longbottom was a patient man. A man forged by war, by grief, by years of surviving things that should have broken him clean in half. He had endured relentless Auror training, lived under the sharp eyes of professors who never expected much from him, and faced a homicidal Dark Lord before he had even finished growing into his bones.
He had stood on battlefields with blood on his hands and loss stitched into his memory, fighting for a world that seemed determined to test how much he could endure before offering him peace.
He had survived the Ministry. He had survived the Wizengamot. He had survived endless nights hunched over dangerous research, surrounded by magical plants that could maim or kill him if he lost focus for even a second.
And perhaps most impressively of all, he had learned how to live with the beautiful, volatile chaos that was being married to Pansy Parkinson.
But nothing, truly nothing, had prepared him for the fresh hell that was Pansy Parkinson and her newfound obsession with her bloody mobile phone.
More specifically, Pansy Parkinson and her discovery of sending pictures.
What had once been a perfectly reasonable tool for household logistics and dinner plans had devolved into something far more dangerous. It had started innocently enough, in a way that now felt deeply deceptive.
The Love of My Life & My Eternal Headache ❤️🔥:
Look at this new dress I bought!
The photo had been a mirror selfie. Pansy, of course, standing just slightly angled, wearing a scandalously expensive gown that clung to her like it had been sewn onto her body. Neville, distracted and foolishly unguarded, had replied without thinking.
The Love of My Life & My Emotional Support Botanist 🌿💕:
You look lovely, Bloom.
That had been his first and gravest mistake.
Because then came:
The Love of My Life & My Eternal Headache ❤️🔥:
Do you think this lipstick suits me?
The image that followed was a close-up of her mouth, lips glossy and red, parted just enough to make his thoughts derail completely. He had swallowed, shifted in his chair, and typed back with what little composure he had left.
The Love of My Life & My Emotional Support Botanist 🌿💕:
Yes, my love. It suits you.
Things escalated rapidly after that.
The turning point came one evening when he was checking papers and drinking tea, blissfully unaware of the danger lurking in his pocket.
The Love of My Life & My Eternal Headache ❤️🔥:
This lingerie set is gorgeous, Nevie. Do you think I should get it in red too?
The photo had nearly ended him.
Pansy was stretched across their bed, emerald lace barely qualifying as fabric, silk garters hugging her thighs like a personal vendetta.
Neville had choked on his tea, knocked an entire stack of essays onto the floor, and stared at the screen in stunned silence, heart racing like he was back in a duel.
That had been before she learned about angles. Before she mastered lighting. Before she realized just how much damage could be done with the massive gilded mirror in their bedroom.
Now he lived in fear of his phone.
Because it never stopped.
She escalated with purpose. With creativity. With malice disguised as affection.
The Love of My Life & My Eternal Headache ❤️🔥:
Thinking about you, love. Are you busy?
The message alone would have been manageable. The image attached was not.
She was nude, sprawled across the bed, legs just barely parted, fingers twisted into the sheets, looking at the camera like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
Neville dropped his wand. He nearly set a greenhouse on fire.
He almost hexed an intern who startled him mid spiral.
He had very seriously considered quitting his job, apparating home, and spending the rest of the year reminding his wife exactly what kind of man she had married.
And now here he was again, sitting at his desk, staring at his phone like it was a cursed artifact.
It buzzed.
The Love of My Life & My Eternal Headache ❤️🔥:
You looked so stressed this morning, love. Here's something to help you relax.
He closed his eyes. He knew better. He absolutely knew better. And yet, like a fool, he opened it anyway.
Instant regret.
Pansy was naked. Completely. Except for a Slytherin tie loosely wrapped around her throat, her head tilted slightly, eyes dark and knowing, looking at the camera like she intended to ruin him.
Neville's head hit the desk with a quiet, defeated thud.
Merlin help him.
He locked the phone and shoved it into his pocket, as if that could erase the image now permanently carved into his mind. His blood was roaring, his trousers uncomfortably tight, and he still had an entire meeting to survive without combusting.
He rubbed his temples and exhaled slowly.
She was going to be the death of him.
And the worst part was that he loved every second of it.
And then the absolute worst thing imaginable happened.
Videos.
A few days earlier, Pansy had uncovered forbidden knowledge. Moving images. Sound. Motion. Proof of life.
And once she realized what that meant, once she understood the sheer destructive potential now sitting in the palm of her perfectly manicured hand, she wielded it with zero mercy and an alarming amount of enthusiasm.
It was relentless.
At breakfast in the cafeteria, while he was halfway through toast and trying to read the Prophet, she would send a short video of herself stretching in bed, slow and indulgent, arching her back like a creature entirely too pleased with herself, letting out a soft sigh as she murmured his name like it belonged in her mouth.
When he was buried under the most mind numbing financial reports imaginable, his pocket would buzz with an innocent notification. He would check it, foolishly hopeful, only to find her standing in that absurd silk robe, letting it slip off one shoulder with deliberate care before the video cut out, leaving him staring at his phone in a room full of colleagues who absolutely did not need to witness the internal crisis currently destroying him.
But today was different.
Today, she had crossed into open warfare.
He had been in a board meeting.
A board meeting.
Two full hours of budget allocations, procurement of rare magical specimens, and Ministry officials who seemed to take personal pleasure in speaking for extended periods without saying anything of value. The room smelled faintly of stale parchment and desperation. He had been barely conscious, nodding at appropriate intervals, when his phone vibrated in his pocket.
Out of habit, out of sheer muscle memory, he glanced down.
He expected pugs. Lady. Princess. Something harmless. Something safe.
Instead, his entire life detonated.
It was a video.
Of Pansy.
Naked.
On their bed.
Moaning his name. Fingering herself. Touching herself.
Neville choked.
It was violent, abrupt, a sound that ripped itself out of his chest without permission. Every voice in the room stopped mid sentence. Papers rustled. Chairs creaked. Silence crashed down like a guillotine.
The Head of Magical Regulations slowly turned to stare at him over half moon spectacles, disappointment already locked and loaded. The Undersecretary of Potion Research froze, mouth still open from whatever sentence had just been murdered. His boss looked up from her files with the expression of a woman who tolerated exactly zero nonsense and was already deciding how much trouble he was in.
Neville felt death descend.
His lungs forgot how to function. His brain short circuited. His entire existence collapsed into one singular, catastrophic realization.
This had to stop.
Immediately.
He shot up from his chair, muttered something incoherent about an urgent greenhouse situation, and fled. There was no dignity. No recovery. He practically ran, leaving behind a table of stunned Ministry officials who would absolutely be talking about this for years.
He barely made it back to his office. The door slammed shut behind him, and he collapsed into his chair, hands dragging down his face as he stared at the wall like a man contemplating every choice that had ever led him here.
She had won.
He was completely unhinged.
And this needed to stop.
Now.
With no other option left to him, Neville snatched a piece of parchment from his desk, slapped an enchantment onto it, and sucked in a deep, steadying breath that did absolutely nothing to calm the chaos roaring through his system. Then he leaned forward and bellowed into the Howler charm with the full, unfiltered desperation of a man who had reached the end of his sanity.
"WOMAN.
THIS STOPS IMMEDIATELY.
YOU CANNOT DO THIS TO ME.
I AM A RESPECTABLE MAN.
I HAVE A JOB.
I HAVE RESPONSIBILITIES.
I CANNOT SIT THROUGH A BOARD MEETING LISTENING TO FINANCIAL REPORTS WHILE MY WIFE IS SENDING ME VIDEOS OF HER FINGERS IN PLACES I WILL NOT MENTION. EVEN THOUGH I LOVE THEM. THAT IS NOT THE POINT."
He paused, chest heaving, pulse racing, the edges of his vision still slightly white from the adrenaline.
"I LOVE YOU. BUT THIS HAS TO STOP.
MERLIN HELP ME, PANSY, IF YOU SEND ONE MORE VIDEO, I SWEAR TO MORGANA'S ROTTING CORPSE…"
His voice trailed off, fury collapsing into exhausted defeat, because he genuinely had no idea what threat he could possibly finish that sentence with.
"I LOVE YOU. GOODBYE."
He sealed the Howler and sent it through the Floo without another second of hesitation, where it would hunt her down with surgical precision and deliver every frantic syllable at full volume, maximum drama, and zero mercy.
Neville slumped back into his chair, utterly spent. His body felt hollowed out, like he had survived a small war and lost most of the battle.
Five minutes later, his phone buzzed.
He stared at it.
He absolutely should not have looked.
He knew this. He understood this. He was a grown man with self control and common sense.
And yet, like a complete and utter fool, he picked it up anyway.
The Love of My Life & My Eternal Headache ❤️🔥:
Okay, but do you want me to stop-stop, or just stop for today? Asking for a friend. 😘
Neville dropped his phone, leaned forward, and slammed his forehead gently but decisively against his desk.
He was going to die.
~~~~~~
The first light of dawn crept through the curtains, slow and deliberate, laying ribbons of gold across the bedroom floor. The world outside was hushed, suspended in that fragile, early-morning stillness where nothing had quite decided to wake yet. Inside Hermione, there was no such peace. She sat on the edge of the bed with her fingers twisted into the sheets, her breathing careful and even, as if control alone could keep everything from spilling apart. Her thoughts refused to settle. They paced. They circled. They burned.
This particular Floo call with Pansy had not been comforting. It had been an ambush.
A surgical strike of truth delivered with perfect aim and absolutely no mercy.
Because Pansy Parkinson did not soothe. She did not cradle feelings or soften blows. She cut. Cleanly. Precisely. She carved through denial and self-pity until there was nothing left to hide behind.
And Hermione, whether she liked it or not, had needed every word.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, love. Are you actually doing this?"
Hermione had barely opened her mouth before Pansy's voice snapped through the Floo flames, sharp enough to sting. It carried that familiar blend of irritation and brutal affection that made escape impossible.
"Let me see if I've got this right," Pansy went on, leaning closer into the green fire like she might physically reach through it. "You spent years cleaning up that man's emotional disasters, translating his silences, surviving his brooding like it was a second war, and now that he's finally choking on the consequences of his own choices, you're sitting there crying like some abandoned Victorian widow. Do you hear yourself? Do you understand how absurd that sounds?"
Hermione rubbed at her temples, already regretting reaching out. Pansy was not comfort. Pansy was impact. She was confrontation in heels, and Hermione had walked straight into it.
"Listen to me," Pansy continued, her voice smoothing into something dangerous. "You are Hermione fucking Granger. You reduced the Ministry to rubble with facts and footnotes. You are a war heroine. The brightest witch of our generation. You outplayed Voldemort and still managed to read recreationally. And you are mourning a man who is currently living inside a bottle of whiskey and his own self-inflicted misery. It's offensive, honestly."
She sighed, tossing her hair back with theatrical disgust. "If you're going to pine, at least do it attractively."
Hermione tried to speak, but Pansy steamrolled right over her.
"Oh, he's suffering right now? Good. Let him suffer. Let him wake up every morning tasting regret like bile. Let your absence echo through that house until it drives him mad. But you do not shrink yourself into something quiet and convenient for a man who spent years giving you just enough love to keep you hoping and never enough to make you feel secure."
Pansy leaned closer, her eyes sharp and knowing.
"You want him to wake up? You want him desperate? Then stop giving him the privilege of your patience. Men like Draco Malfoy do not respond to kindness when they are like this. They respond to fear. Fear of loss. Fear of realizing they destroyed the one thing they cannot replace."
Hermione swallowed, her throat tight, but Pansy pressed on without hesitation.
"He does not get to drink himself into oblivion, scribble a tragic little apology, and have everything forgiven. That is not how this works. You are the prize. You are the loss. He needs to feel it in his bones."
Pansy tilted her head slightly, lips curving in something predatory. "Here's what you're going to do."
Hermione straightened without meaning to.
"You are going to stop crying. You are going to take an obscenely indulgent bath with those ridiculous oils you hoard. You are going to dress like a woman who knows her worth. And when you walk into a room with him in it, you will not flinch. You will not plead. You will remind him, without saying a word, that you do not need him. You choose him. And if he wants that choice again, he earns it."
Hermione stared into the flames, her pulse loud in her ears, something hot and steady unfurling in her chest.
"Nothing terrifies a man," Pansy said more quietly now, "like realizing the thing he wants most is slipping away. Let him feel it. Let him burn. Then, and only then, does he get to fight for you."
There was a pause. Long enough for Hermione to breathe properly for the first time in days.
Pansy's mouth curved in approval. "There you are. That's my girl."
The Floo connection snapped shut, leaving the room dim and silent, embers glowing faintly in the hearth.
Hermione sat there, heart racing, spine straighter, resolve settling into place with quiet certainty.
Pansy was right.
If Draco Malfoy wanted her back, he was going to have to earn every inch of her.
~~~~~~
Neville was waiting for her outside after the Floo call, leaning against the wall with the quiet patience of a man who had long since accepted that his wife was an unstoppable force of nature.
He had seen her calm, calculating, and devastatingly ruthless, but nothing compared to Pansy's immediately after an infuriating conversation. He watched her storm toward him, heels striking the stone path with enough force to suggest she was moments away from setting the entire estate on fire.
Arms crossed, he regarded her with open amusement and familiar affection, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You're giving leash lessons now, darling?"
Wrong. Move.
Pansy threw her hands into the air so violently that Lady and Princess startled and fled for the safety of the porch, their short legs working overtime. "It's because of fucking Malfoy," she snapped, voice sharp with righteous fury. "He's miserable, Nevie. Miserable. It's humiliating. He's haunting penthouses like some tragic ghost of bad decisions, drinking himself into stupidity, tormenting my Hermione with his pathetic existence. And for what?"
Neville raised a brow, barely suppressing a smile as she clutched her chest like Draco's continued breathing was a personal insult. She was only warming up. He knew better than to interrupt.
"Because he's too much of a stubborn, self-loathing twat to grovel properly," she continued, pacing in tight circles, hands flying as sunlight caught on her earrings. "She's meant to be the love of his life. The woman he would crawl through fire for. Swim oceans for. Instead of proving himself like a sane person, instead of some grand romantic gesture pulled directly out of his arse like a proper Malfoy, he's drinking himself into oblivion and making Hermione sad. Hermione. My Hermione. I will not allow this."
Neville exhaled through his nose, finally stepping forward and catching her wrists mid-gesture, pulling her against him in one smooth motion. She melted into his chest for exactly three seconds before stiffening again, mind still racing.
"Oh, Merlin," she muttered into his shirt. "This is a disaster."
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Pans, you have to let them figure it out."
She pulled back instantly, scowling. "Absolutely not. I will not stand by while Malfoy wallows and Hermione waits around like a fool. She deserves better than that."
His fingers traced slow, calming circles at her hip. "And by 'let them figure it out,' you mean you're going to orchestrate it."
She gasped, scandalized, pressing a hand to her chest. "Me? Nevie, are you accusing me of meddling?"
He blinked at her slowly. Patiently. Like a man who knew exactly who he had married.
She huffed. "Fine. A little. But for their own good. What kind of friend would I be if I let Hermione waste her best years waiting for that overdramatic wreck to grow a spine?"
He sighed. "So what's the plan?"
Her eyes lit up in a way that made immediate regret bloom in his chest.
"Oh, darling," she purred, straightening his tie before rising onto her heels to kiss his jaw. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Neville groaned, tipping his head back against the porch railing. He knew that look. Chaos was already sharpening its knives.
"What happens if you leave me?" he asked lightly, warmth and something quieter woven into his voice.
The reaction was instant.
Pansy gasped like he had suggested punting Lady into traffic. She grabbed his face with both hands, horror-stricken. "I would never," she swore, voice shaking with dramatic conviction.
He laughed softly, brushing her hair from her face. "We're talking logic, love."
Her wounded expression vanished in a blink. Her spine straightened. Her chin lifted. Strategy snapped into place behind her eyes with the unmistakable precision of a blade being locked and loaded.
"Well," she announced, voice regal and utterly immovable, "first of all, I am taking the dogs. All of them. That is non-negotiable."
Neville sighed. Of course she was taking the dogs. Of course. "Not even one for me? Lady was my dog first," he said, doing his best not to laugh at how seriously she was taking this imaginary separation.
Pansy scoffed, genuinely offended. "Absolutely not. Don't be ridiculous." She flicked her wrist dismissively. "You can visit, obviously. But full custody is mine. I'm the mother. It would be cruel to separate them from me."
Neville bit the inside of his cheek. "Right. Obviously."
She nodded, satisfied. "Second, if we have a child, I am taking my baby girl."
He stiffened instantly. "Absolutely not," he said, crossing his arms. "And how do you even know we'll have a girl?" He already knew he was losing this argument.
"Oh, please," she replied, rolling her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn't see into another realm. "We are obviously having a princess. This is a monarchy, Nevie. Not some shoddy little democracy."
He groaned.
"She will be flawless," Pansy continued, undeterred. "An icon from birth. She will have an absurdly long, magnificent name that commands respect the moment it's written down. Professors will fear her. Beauxbatons will send letters to her cradle. The stars will realign when she's born. There will be imported French lace and at least three seers in attendance."
"Neville," he tried again, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"She will, of course, be best friends with Luna's children," Pansy went on, clasping her hands together, eyes shining with prophetic fervor. "A sacred bond. Destined. Written into the universe before conception."
He made the fatal mistake of groaning again.
"And then," she added brightly, as if discussing flower arrangements, "she will marry Hermione's baby. A union of unparalleled brilliance. An empire of intellect and power."
He stared at her in horror.
"But," Pansy said, lifting one finger with ominous delight, "she will absolutely despise Red's child. Utter loathing. The greatest rivalry since Hogwarts was founded."
"Pansy," he said flatly, "that's horrible."
She grinned, eyes sparkling with unrepentant mischief. "According to you. Just wait."
Neville dragged a hand down his face, exhausted, resigned, and suddenly very concerned for the future of the Weasley bloodline.
Still, he knew better than to argue the final point.
Pansy Parkinson was never wrong.
~~~~~~
Luna waddled into the room with the air of a woman who had long ago accepted that resistance was pointless. She was, objectively, a vision. Softly glowing, serene, radiant in that infuriating way pregnant women sometimes were. This was, of course, only true if one ignored the reality of her being heavily pregnant, bone-tired, and accompanied by a toddler who possessed the unchecked energy of a small, feral deity.
Lysander, thrilled to be back in what he clearly considered his second home, wasted no time at all. He launched himself across the room at full speed, shrieking with unfiltered joy. He was not wandering. He was not exploring. He was hunting.
Lady and Princess, who had been reclining in absolute comfort mere seconds earlier, felt the shift in the universe immediately. Their eyes widened. Their tiny pug brains activated every remaining survival instinct. In flawless coordination, they bolted in opposite directions, abandoning their cushions with a speed no one had ever seen from creatures with legs that short.
Lysander screamed with delight, completely undeterred, his little feet pounding the floor as he chased Princess straight under the dining table.
Pansy did not flinch.
The active destruction of her household did not so much as earn a glance. She turned to Luna with an expression so serious it could have been etched into stone.
"Listen to me," she said gravely. "I have a plan."
Luna sighed, deeply and from somewhere near her soul. She braced both hands on her belly like she was anchoring herself to the earth, closed her eyes, and muttered, fully resigned, "Fuck me."
Pansy's lips curved into a pleased smirk. "Tempting, darling, but unfortunately I must focus on the future of our bloodlines."
Luna's eyes snapped open. Regret filled them instantly. "Oh no."
Pansy was already pacing, hands moving like a general mapping out a siege.
"My children and yours," she began grandly, sweeping her arm through the air, "will be best friends. Inseparable. A sacred bond of chaos and brilliance that no one will be able to stop."
Luna nodded vaguely, rubbing her stomach. "Obviously."
Then Pansy stopped. Turned. Smiled.
"But my baby girls will marry a Malfoy heir."
Luna froze mid-motion, staring at her like she had just suggested lighting the house on fire for ambience. "Why."
"Legacy," Pansy replied at once, scandalized that this even needed explaining. "Legacy, Luna. Think about it. A Parkinson Longbottom Malfoy alliance. The power. The drama. The fashion."
She gestured wildly, clearly envisioning a future ruled by devastating cheekbones and terrifying confidence.
Luna squinted. "You are voluntarily sentencing your children to a lifetime of marriage to a Malfoy. Have you met Draco."
Pansy rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she did not collapse. "First of all, my children will be more than capable of handling a Malfoy. Second, if I do not arrange their futures, who will. I refuse to leave this to fate."
Then she leaned in, lowering her voice like she was sharing classified information.
"Also, my baby girls will despise Red's children."
Luna let out a long, exhausted breath through her nose. "Pansy. That is a horrible plan."
Pansy gasped and clutched her chest as though personally wounded by the statement. She staggered back a step, affronted beyond reason.
"How dare you. This plan is flawless. It is visionary. It is a dynasty."
Luna, entirely unmoved, patted her belly with the calm of someone who had reached spiritual acceptance. "This child is not even born yet, and I already feel sorry for your future daughters."
Pansy flipped her hair with theatrical disdain. "Jealousy does not suit you, Lovegood."
Luna merely watched as, in the background, Lysander successfully tackled Princess beneath the dining table.
"It is not jealousy," she said mildly. "It is pity."
~~~~~~
Pansy and Luna's grand, spectacularly manipulative, and frankly brilliant plan to reunite the Malfoys had worked exactly as it should have. There had never really been any doubt.
Pansy was always right, and Luna had a quiet, unsettling talent for nudging fate until it folded. Together they were unstoppable, a dangerous blend of meddling, intuition, and sheer, unapologetic will.
There had been moments of chaos, of course. A few near disasters. Several dramatic overreactions. At least one point where Hermione had seriously weighed homicide as a valid coping mechanism. But in the end, everything had aligned.
Victory.
Which was why Pansy was now doing a well deserved victory lap, thriving in the warm glow of success, secure in the knowledge that she had once again saved the world. Or at least the parts of it that mattered.
She did not hesitate before striding straight into Hermione's penthouse like she owned the place, moving with the confidence of a woman who considered property ownership more of a suggestion than a rule.
Hermione was exactly where Pansy expected her to be, stretched out in her pristine living room, calm, composed, and entirely too serene for someone who had recently emotionally eviscerated a Malfoy and then walked away with dignity intact.
Pansy dropped onto the couch without invitation, crossed her legs, and smiled like a cat who had swallowed the canary.
"Mrs. Malfoy," she purred.
Hermione groaned and rubbed her temples. "Pansy, please. Stop. We are not completely fine."
Pansy's smile vanished. "What happened."
Because this was supposed to be the part where Hermione confessed her undying love, praised the brilliance of the plan, and described in detail the exact moment Draco Malfoy collapsed in repentance.
Instead, Hermione sighed and stirred her tea like the answers might rise from the bottom of the cup. "I was wallowing," she admitted. "Properly. Unhealthily. And then I told him to get his shit together."
Pansy blinked. "Like I told you to."
Hermione rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched. "Yes. And I told him to kneel."
Pansy gasped and clutched her chest. "You made him kneel. Granger. That is my girl."
Hermione took a slow sip of tea. "I asked him if he was sorry. He was. Very. I told him to change, to fix his mess. And then I left. Five minutes."
Pansy beamed. "I am so proud I might cry."
Hermione laughed softly. "Thank you, love."
Pansy stretched out on the couch like she lived there. "Now bring me whiskey. Neat. And your ugly cat. I require cuddles."
Hermione barely looked up from her book. "Is there an occasion or is this just you."
Pansy smiled sweetly. "I decided my child is going to marry yours."
Hermione froze mid page turn. "Your delusion is impressive."
Pansy waved her off. "It is already settled. A dynasty. A legacy. An empire."
Hermione set the book aside and rubbed her temples. "Merlin help me."
"Oh and I want a baby," Pansy added.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I cannot assist with that."
Pansy gasped. "This is serious. My baby girl will marry your baby. Boy, girl, creature, I am flexible."
Hermione stared. "Pansy. What the fuck."
Pansy tilted her head dangerously. "You are not a homophobe, are you?"
Hermione spluttered. "Absolutely not! How did we get here."
"You are resisting destiny," Pansy snapped. "Do you hate love."
Hermione closed her eyes. "Please stop speaking."
Pansy stood and pointed at her. "You think you refuse. But I have time."
Hermione sipped her tea, exhausted. "Neville suffers."
Draco Malfoy arrived home at the worst possible moment. Not that he knew it yet. The man had the sheer audacity to step through the doors of his own house just as Hermione Granger-Malfoy was balancing on the edge of a full catastrophic breakdown.
The air was wrong. Heavy. Charged. Dangerous in the way that made sensible people turn around and leave.
Draco Malfoy had never been sensible.
And because the universe clearly hated him, Pansy Parkinson was standing in the middle of the Malfoy living room like she paid the mortgage. She looked delighted. Calm. Predatory. The sort of calm that came right before destruction.
Her smirk unfolded slowly as her eyes slid over him, judgmental and bored all at once.
"Ferret," she said sweetly.
Draco froze.
"I see you're looking marginally better," she continued, circling him at an unhurried pace. "Not quite the tragic firewhiskey-soaked disaster you were last time, but still deeply disappointing."
His jaw locked.
"Parkinson," he said low, sharp, dangerous. "I suggest you choose your next words very carefully."
She raised an eyebrow. Unimpressed. "Carefully? Draco, the last time I saw you, you were face down on the floor, crying, drunk, and calling me names that lacked both creativity and effort."
She folded her arms, clicking her tongue. "So forgive me if I don't throw you a parade. Frankly, the only thing I'm expecting from you is a sincere, soul-destroying apology."
His fingers twitched.
"Parkinson," he said through clenched teeth, "this is my house. I came home."
She gasped theatrically. "Oh? And where exactly have you been, Malfoy?" Her head tilted. "Sulking dramatically? Wandering the earth like a cursed romantic hero? Lurking outside Hermione's windows like a deeply unsettling stalker?"
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. Slowly. Painfully.
"I was at work."
"Mmm," she hummed. "And who did you kill?"
"If you keep talking," he said flatly, "you'll be next."
She clutched her chest. "How terrifying. I would quiver, truly, but I have an announcement."
Hermione inhaled sharply.
Pansy smiled wider. "Your child will marry mine. Congratulations. You're welcome. Goodbye."
She turned, hair flipping with lethal precision, and vanished.
Silence slammed into the room.
Draco inhaled.
Then he made a sound that did not belong to a grown man. It was sharp, cracked, horrified.
A raw, feral sound ripped from his chest as if reality itself had personally betrayed him.
"YOU'RE PREGNANT?"
Hermione barely had time to react.
Draco lunged.
Suddenly she was off the ground, spun around the room, feet dangling as he laughed and shouted and lost his entire mind, clutching her like the world had just ended and begun again all at once.
"DRACO PUT ME DOWN RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR TO GOD—"
Too late.
He was grinning. Wild. Bright. Completely unhinged.
Pansy landed neatly in her own sitting room moments later, smoothing her skirt with satisfaction.
Another crisis resolved. Another future rearranged.
Pansy Parkinson did not simply exist in the world.
She directed it.
And chaos was her masterpiece.