Hermione swirled her wine slowly, eyes fixed on the dark red liquid as though it might hold answers to the thoughts that had been weighing on her heart for months. Firelight flickered across her face, catching on the tension she had been carrying all evening. When she set the glass down, her hand trembled, the soft clink against the table cutting through the easy silence between them.
She drew in a breath and looked up, her gaze moving between the two women before settling on Luna. "Babes," she said quietly, her voice unsteady, rippling like the untouched surface of her wine.
Luna looked up at once, calm and attentive, the glow of the fire reflecting softly in her blue grey eyes. "Yes, Mimi?" she asked, her voice gentle, her head tilting as though Hermione's words already mattered more than anything else in the room.
Hermione swallowed, blinking hard as emotion pressed up behind her eyes. "I do not think…" She paused, breath hitching. "I do not think I ever properly thanked you."
Pansy, stretched comfortably across the sofa with her glass balanced elegantly in hand, lifted a perfectly groomed brow. "Oh?" she drawled. "Is this a gratitude speech, Granger? Should I prepare myself for tears and dramatic declarations?"
Hermione shot her a look that was half fond, half exhausted. "Shut up, Pansy," she muttered, her voice wobbling between a laugh and a sob. Then she turned back to Luna, her gaze steady now even as tears slipped free.
"You saved my life," she said simply, the words heavy and bare. "I would not be here if it were not for you. You did not just heal my body. You gave me my life back."
Luna's expression softened, her composure touched by emotion. She set her glass aside and reached across the space between them, her hand resting over Hermione's with quiet certainty. "Mimi," she said softly, "you never needed to thank me for that. You are my family. I would do it again without thinking."
Hermione laughed weakly through her tears. "That is exactly why I have to say it," she replied. "You stayed when I was falling apart. You fought for me when I could not fight for myself." She tightened her grip on Luna's hand. "I will never forget that."
Pansy shifted, dabbing discreetly at her eyes with a napkin. "Absolutely vile," she muttered. "You are both destroying my carefully cultivated image."
Hermione turned to her, eyes still bright. "You too," she said. "I never thanked you properly. Not for what you did when Draco was taken."
Pansy waved it off, cheeks faintly pink. "Please. You would have done the same."
"That does not make it small," Hermione said. "You stormed in, demanded answers, broke things, terrified half the room, and you did not stop until he was safe."
"Well," Pansy replied with a crooked smile, eyes shining, "I do look excellent during a rescue."
Hermione laughed, the sound loosening something tight in her chest. "For a long time, I thought Draco was the only one who truly loved me," she admitted quietly. "The only one who would fight for me no matter what." She looked between them. "You proved me wrong. You showed me what it means to have people who stay."
Luna squeezed her hand again. "Always."
Pansy lifted her glass. "To us, then. The unlikeliest trio in the wizarding world."
"To us," Luna echoed warmly.
Hermione lifted her glass last, her voice steadier now. "To us."
Luna leaned back, studying Hermione with a thoughtful smile. "You do realise," she said gently, "that someone is missing from this conversation."
Pansy groaned loudly. "Please do not say Ginny."
Hermione's shoulders tightened. "Ginny and I…" she began, trailing off.
"Have you spoken properly?" Luna asked.
"We talked. At the baby shower."
Pansy snorted. "If polite small talk over cupcakes counts as talking, then I am Queen of France."
Luna ignored her. "I mean really talked."
Hermione shook her head. "No."
"You were inseparable once," Luna said softly. "Do not let fear keep you from fixing that."
Pansy sighed. "As much as it pains me to agree, grudges rot. And Ginny is stubborn, but she cares."
"What if I do not know how to fix it?" Hermione whispered.
"Start with honesty," Luna said. "That is enough."
Hermione straightened suddenly. "We should go. Now."
Pansy groaned. "Of course. We cannot enjoy a quiet evening without Weasley drama."
Hermione looked at her, eyes pleading. "I cannot do this alone."
Luna smiled gently. "You are not alone."
Pansy sighed, standing. "Fine. But if she hexes me, I am leaving."
Hermione smiled through her nerves. "Thank you."
Luna gathered her cloak. "Let us mend some bridges."
Pansy muttered darkly as she followed, "This better be worth it."
Hermione drew a shaky breath and nodded. "I think it will be."
~~~~~~
"And I love you too…" The words had barely left Ginny's lips when the fireplace flared and spat the four of them straight into the Zabini residence, hair singed, soot scattering across an obscenely expensive rug.
"Why does this always happen when I floo?" Hermione muttered, brushing ash from her sleeve.
No one answered.
Because Blaise Zabini was standing in the middle of the room, shirtless, wearing a violently neon green face mask that somehow only made his already offensive bone structure more pronounced. His hands were firmly on Ginny's hips as he kissed her with enough enthusiasm to make cauldrons nervous.
Pansy stared.
"This," she announced solemnly, "is now a permanent memory I will cherish forever."
Blaise froze. He broke the kiss, turned, and registered the three witches staring at him like they had walked in on a private Weird Sisters performance. His expression shifted from seductive confidence to absolute horror.
"What," he demanded, voice pitching dangerously high, "is happening? Get the fuck out of my house."
Ginny smiled brightly, completely unfazed. "Hello, girlies. What a surprise."
Blaise spun, pointing at each of them in turn, panic and fury blending into something feral. "You will never speak of this. You saw nothing. Nothing happened here. If you mention it, I swear on every ancient curse I know."
Luna waved a hand lazily. "Honestly, Blaise, no one cares about your ridiculous face mask."
Hermione had both hands over her mouth, shoulders shaking. "It is the colour," she wheezed. "The green is doing a lot."
Ginny patted Blaise's arm soothingly. "Don't worry, tesoro. I will handle them. Why don't you go check on the baby?"
He glared at her. "Fine," he snapped, scrubbing his hands down his sweatpants. "But next time, give me a warning before your friends burst in and see me like this."
Luna leaned against a velvet chair, smiling faintly. "You walked in on me naked with my husband. Let us not pretend modesty matters here."
Hermione had just started to breathe again when Ginny added casually, "Ferret saw me getting railed on that dining table."
Silence.
"What," Pansy breathed.
Hermione stared at the table. "On this table?"
Luna tilted her head thoughtfully. "That does happen in my household rather often."
Blaise turned on his heel, hands in the air. "Goodbye. I am done," he announced, stalking off toward the nursery while muttering about privacy and disrespect.
Ginny laughed, completely unbothered.
Pansy crossed her arms. "Ginny Weasley, there are boundaries."
Ginny grinned. "Where is the fun in that?"
Luna clapped softly. "Well. This has been enlightening."
"I am never sitting at that table again," Hermione said faintly.
"More room for us," Ginny replied with a wink.
Then her expression softened. "So. Why are you really here?"
Hermione shifted, glancing at Luna and Pansy. "We wanted to talk."
"I am just here for alcohol," Pansy muttered, already heading for the bar.
Ginny pointed toward the cabinet. "Help yourself."
Luna stepped forward, hands clasped. "We miss you. And we wanted to see Valerius. And we would like to make things right."
Hermione nodded quickly. "I want to make things right."
Ginny studied her for a long moment, then smiled. "That means a lot."
"And where is this baby?" Pansy called. "I came prepared to judge Zabini's parenting."
Ginny threw a pillow at her. "He is asleep. Do not traumatise my child."
"Give him time," Luna said lightly.
"Fine," Pansy said, pouring generously. "I miss you too, Red. I refuse to say it again."
Ginny laughed and pulled Hermione and Luna into a hug. "Sit. Talk. And bring that firewhisky."
They settled in, laughter easing the last of the tension.
"Blaise has been telling me to invite you for months," Ginny admitted.
Pansy gasped. "Zabini encouraged emotional growth?"
"He did," Ginny said smugly.
Luna smiled. "I will babysit."
Pansy groaned. "Absolutely not."
"You live at my house babysitting," Luna replied calmly.
Ginny crossed her arms. "Why are you drinking my alcohol?"
Pansy sighed. "Fine. I am pregnant. Get used to it."
Ginny blinked, then beamed. "Congratulations."
Hermione cleared her throat. "Draco and I are planning to start a family too."
Ginny smiled warmly. "You will be wonderful parents."
Luna grabbed Pansy's arm. "Come gossip."
"I want to stay," Pansy protested.
"No," Luna said serenely, dragging her away.
Pansy groaned. "I want to hear the shouting."
°°°
Luna shot her a sidelong glance, a knowing look tucked beneath the calm arch of her brow. "Oh, stop this nonsense," she said, her voice carrying the patience that only came from years of loving someone perpetually dramatic. "I know you are desperate to hear the shouting, but this is Hermione's moment. Give her some space before you wedge yourself into the chaos like the meddling gremlin you are."
Pansy sighed as though the weight of the world had settled squarely on her shoulders, flipping her hair back like a deeply wronged duchess whose favourite servant had just resigned. "Fine," she drawled, stretching the word until it sounded like a personal sacrifice. "But honestly, do you think there will be actual shouting? Because if Ferret finds out Hermione announced their baby plans without him, I want a front row seat for that tantrum. I live for that kind of drama. I thrive in it."
Luna did not bother replying at first. She simply rolled her eyes in a way that translated perfectly to you are unbearable but you are mine. "Definitely," she said at last. "But for now, let us give them some privacy. Maybe focus on something a little less explosive and a bit more grounded."
They started toward the next room, and the change in Pansy was subtle enough that it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. Her smirk softened. The sharp sparkle in her eyes dulled into something quieter, more uncertain. She paused at the doorway, confidence catching on the frame like it had snagged on something unseen.
"Luna," she said, and the name came out softer than usual, like she was holding onto it for balance. "Do you think we will ever have a fallout. A real one."
Luna stopped.
Pansy swallowed and pressed on, the words tumbling faster now. "Because you are my best friend. You are the best friend. And I genuinely do not know what I would do if you stopped loving me. I think I would combust. Or throw myself into a dragon's mouth. Something suitably dramatic. I know it sounds like a joke, but it is not. Gods, babes." Her voice cracked halfway through, betraying her, and her eyes filled with tears she was clearly trying not to shed.
Luna turned fully toward her, that soft, piercing focus settling in. The look that cut through performance and saw only the fragile truth underneath. She stepped forward and placed both hands on Pansy's shoulders, firm enough to steady her.
"Sassy," she said gently. "Do not cry. Come here."
She pulled her into a hug without hesitation, arms wrapping around her like something unbreakable. "We are never going to have a fallout. Not in this universe. Not in any other. You are my best friend. You are the storm to my starlight, and nothing is ever going to change that."
Pansy sniffed against her shoulder, voice muffled and absurd in that way only she could manage. "But what if one day you wake up and you do hate me. What if I am too much. What if you get tired of me and leave, and all I have left is Nevie, who is lovely obviously, but then what if he dies in some tragic greenhouse explosion and I am alone and miserable and trying to run from my grief and I fall off a cliff. Or worse, I think I can outrun a basilisk because I am wearing heels and feeling invincible, but I am not, and that is how I die. Hated. Ridiculous. Eaten by a magical lizard."
Luna pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, her hands still cupping Pansy's face with firm, unwavering tenderness.
"For Merlin's sake, Pans, stop being so dramatic," Luna said, letting out a quiet huff that carried more affection than frustration. It was the sound of someone who loved deeply and had no intention of going anywhere. "You are not going to die alone, and I am not going to wake up one day and hate you. You are you. Loud, infuriating, high-maintenance, morally flexible, and always dressed like the world is watching. And you are my person. You are the chaos I chose. Of everyone I could have walked away from, you were never one of them. I am not leaving."
"But what if—" Pansy started, her voice wobbling despite her effort to keep it sharp.
Luna cut her off without missing a beat, her tone dry and unimpressed. "If I did not hate you when I found out you were quietly making poison for a living, I am not about to start now just because you are spiralling."
Pansy froze.
Her eyes went wide, breath catching so sharply it almost hurt. "How do you know that?" she yelped, reaching out like she could physically grab the knowledge and shove it back where it came from.
Luna lifted one eyebrow, expression flat with mild offense. "Why does everyone assume I am oblivious?" she asked calmly. "It is honestly insulting. I can smell dark magic, Pansy. It lingers. And every time you brew one of your little secrets, your entire face changes. Your eyes go glassy, your jaw tightens, and you start radiating this tragic villain energy like you are rehearsing for a doomed romance." She paused, then added casually, "Also, Theo told me after I asked enough questions."
Pansy gasped. "That sneaky little shit!" she spluttered, equal parts outraged and betrayed. "I cannot believe he ratted me out. That was private."
"Do not call my husband a sneaky little shit," Luna replied primly, her eyes sparkling despite her tone. "Even if it happens to be accurate. Besides, you were not subtle. I let it go because it is you."
Pansy wiped at her eyes, scowling at the moisture gathering there. "Fine," she muttered. "But how long have you known?"
Luna shrugged. "Immediately. You forget that I know you. Not just your favourite champagne or how you take your eggs. I know you. I know the way your handwriting goes sloppy when you are bottling rage instead of letting yourself feel it."
Pansy stared at her for a long moment before muttering, "I need better friends. Ones who do not dissect my soul like it is a puzzle."
"You are stuck with me," Luna said cheerfully, looping their arms together. "And honestly, Poison-Making Sassy has a certain charm. Very dangerous. Very stylish. It says sparkle and possibly murder. I respect that."
"Oh, shut up," Pansy mumbled, though the bite was gone. A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "I deserve wine after this emotional ambush."
"I will get you some," Luna promised, already steering her toward the kitchen. "But only if you agree not to brew anything lethal for the next hour."
Pansy laughed softly, the sound tired but real. "No promises. You know I flourish in chaos." Then her voice dipped, uncertainty creeping in. "You are not angry with me for hiding it? For not telling you sooner?"
Luna stopped and looked at her, calm and steady. "We all have secrets," she said quietly. "Some darker than others. We all carry things we regret or do not yet know how to explain. I have my own. So no. I am not angry. I never was."
Pansy raised an eyebrow, slower than usual this time, caught off balance by the shift in Luna's tone. There was something threaded through it that did not belong there.
A heaviness beneath the calm, coiled tight and held for far too long. It lingered in the silence that followed, sharp and metallic, tasting of things left unnamed.
She crossed her arms in that practiced Pansy Parkinson way, posture composed, chin lifted, deflecting discomfort with elegance and control. Still, her voice slipped just enough to give her away.
"Darker things, huh?" she said lightly, eyes keen and searching. The smirk at her mouth carried a question she already suspected would not be answered. "Alright then, babe. What's yours?"
She expected whimsy. Some sideways confession about smuggling a rare creature or pocketing a cursed trinket for ethical reasons. That was their rhythm. Pansy poked. Luna drifted. They met somewhere safe and strange and familiar.
For the briefest moment, her eyes darkened into something deep and unreachable, like a well with no bottom. When she spoke, her voice was stripped of softness. It was low, quiet, and haunted.
"I killed my grandfather."
Pansy's breath stalled, her body locking as if it needed permission to react. The room seemed to pause with her. Her mind scrambled, trying to rearrange reality into something that made sense.
"I'm sorry, what?" she asked, leaning forward without realising it, as though closing the distance might undo the sentence. As though proximity could pull Luna back into the version of herself that spoke in metaphors instead of truths that split the air open.
Luna's gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the walls, on a memory only she could see. Her voice remained steady.
"Everyone has secrets," she said calmly. "I know I will be judged for mine when I die. When I stand in front of whoever is waiting. My mother. My maker. Whatever comes next. I will tell the truth. And I will carry it. I am at peace with that."
The air thickened, pressing in on Pansy's chest until breathing became deliberate. Nothing light survived the space between them now.
Luna Lovegood. Gentle. Kind. The one who believed in mercy as a way of living.
She had killed someone.
By choice.
And Pansy sat there, stunned, realising that the safest person she had ever known was also the one who carried the deepest shadow.
She swallowed and leaned closer, the teasing gone, the armour set aside. Her voice shook despite her best effort to keep it steady. Up close, she could see it clearly now. The rawness in Luna's face. The calm acceptance. The absence of remorse worn so naturally it was almost frightening.
"Oh, love," Pansy said quietly. "What happened?"
Luna closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if the act of saying it aloud had finally made it real. She let out a slow breath and opened them again, gaze dropping to the floor before lifting back to Pansy.
"It's complicated," she said softly. "I don't expect you to understand. Most people wouldn't." Her mouth curved into a small, joyless smile. "I just couldn't keep watching him hurt my nana. I couldn't live with the thought of him ever touching my mum or my grandmother again. After my mum died, something broke. I couldn't pretend anymore. I needed to protect what was left. I needed it to stop."
The words settled between them, heavy and immovable. Pansy felt her throat tighten, questions pressing at the back of her mind with nowhere to go. There was nothing clever to say. Nothing sharp or dramatic that could make this easier to hold. Nothing could undo what had already happened.
"Luna," she whispered, helplessness bleeding through her voice.
Luna shook her head gently. Her eyes shone, though whether it was regret or simply the weight of memory was impossible to tell. It felt more like the look of someone who had buried pain so deep it no longer surfaced in obvious ways.
"It's alright," Luna said. "I made peace with it. I did what I had to do. And I don't regret it."
They sat together in silence, the house around them distant and unreal. Time stretched without asking permission. Pansy had never felt so stripped of her usual defences.
At last, she spoke again, quietly and honestly. "If you ever want to talk about it, I'm here."
Luna smiled faintly, the expression barely touching her lips. "Thank you. That means a lot." She hesitated, something fragile flickering behind her eyes. "But I think that's the last time I'll say it out loud. It belongs to the past now. It's simply something I carry."
Pansy nodded and reached out, resting her hand on Luna's arm. The touch was gentle, deliberate. She knew she could not fix this. Luna did not want her to. But staying mattered.
Luna exhaled and stood, the familiar lightness slowly returning to her posture. "Anyway," she said, voice softening back into its usual cadence, "that's enough seriousness. There's a baby coming. We should focus on that."
Pansy let out a small laugh, relief threading through it as she caught the familiar glimmer in Luna's eyes. "Agreed. Let's stick to spoiling."
The moment eased, though it did not vanish. The truth remained between them, settled and unspoken. And Pansy knew it always would.
~~~~~~
The months dragged on with the kind of slow, punishing persistence usually reserved for Azkaban sentences and Ministry paperwork. Each new week arrived carrying a fresh layer of chaos, stranger and louder than the last, and it settled itself comfortably into their already unhinged household. Neville, bless him, was holding it together by a thread so thin it was practically theoretical. And Merlin help him, he still loved her more than life itself. Loved her in that foolish, all consuming way that made no sense unless you had been reckless enough to fall for Pansy Parkinson and survive it.
That love did not, however, mean he was coping.
Pansy in her usual state was already a full time occupation. She was sharp, dramatic, frighteningly intelligent, emotionally volatile, and capable of delivering a ten minute monologue about the moral failure of Parisian croissants with the gravity of someone testifying before the Wizengamot. Existing around her was a performance, and Neville had long accepted his role as stagehand, audience, and occasional victim.
But pregnant Pansy was something else entirely.
She was a phenomenon. A force of nature. A walking contradiction wrapped in silk robes and righteous fury. Her moods swung wildly, her cravings bordered on ritualistic, and she had developed an intense fixation on power naps, lemon tarts, and outrageously expensive throw pillows that no one was permitted to touch. Ever.
Hormonal did not begin to cover it. She was radiant one moment, devastated the next, oscillating between worshipping her own pregnant glow and sobbing about resembling a squashed troll in couture. One day she would drift into the kitchen draped in chiffon, belly cradled like a royal decree, declaring herself a fertility goddess deserving of jewels and offerings.
The next, she would be on the bathroom floor, crying over a broken nail and accusing Neville of ruining her life because he had gently suggested soup for dinner.
And she narrated all of it.
"There is a freckle on my boob, Neville," she had wailed one afternoon, glaring at herself in the mirror like she had uncovered a dark curse. "It was not there before. Is that a pregnancy freckle? Am I mutating? Be honest."
"You are glowing," he had said, kissing her shoulder and hoping the compliment would land safely.
"I LOOK LIKE A PUFFSKEIN WITH A BAD BLEACH JOB."
Each inch of belly growth seemed to arrive with its own catastrophe. At first, Neville had been genuinely alarmed. The kind of alarm that made his hands shake and his heart race as he dropped whatever he was holding to rush to her side, convinced something terrible had happened.
It never had.
The first true meltdown came when she could no longer fit into her favourite couture robe.
She had stared at her reflection like she was witnessing a crime unfold in slow motion. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Fingers clenched in the silk as if she might physically stop reality from advancing. Then she gasped. Sharp. Sudden. Terrifying.
Her hands flew to her belly.
"Neville," she whispered, hollow and wrecked.
He dropped his tea. His favourite mug shattered somewhere behind him as he sprinted down the hall, heart slamming against his ribs like a warning bell. "My love?" he gasped. "What is it? What happened?"
She turned slowly, eyes wild, lower lip trembling with the weight of betrayal. "It's bigger."
He blinked. Once. Twice. "Yes," he said carefully. "You are pregnant. That is generally the idea."
But she was already unraveling, stumbling backward as though struck, collapsing onto the bed in a heap of despair. "No," she moaned. "You do not understand. It is bigger." Her hands waved helplessly in the air, describing an invisible horror. "I have expanded. Like a transfigured teapot that never stops transfiguring. I am becoming my own gravitational field. I will have moons soon."
She paced the room after that, one hand braced against her aching back, the other slicing the air as she ranted.
"This baby has taken over everything. I cannot sleep. I cannot breathe. I cannot even see my own feet."
Neville watched from the armchair, eyes tracking her every move like a storm he would willingly step into, knowing full well he would never regret loving her, even if it killed him.
"Pansy," he said gently, "it's enough."
She spun around, eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare tell me how many times I can complain about being pregnant!"
Without a word, he reached out, caught her wrist, and tugged her into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. She gave a small huff but didn't resist.
"Are you finished?" he asked, voice low, teasing.
"No," she sniffed. "I have other things to wor—"
Before she could finish, Neville's hands slid up her thighs and gripped the hem of her dress. With one sharp motion, he tore it open, the fabric splitting down the middle with a soft rip. She gasped, clutching at his shoulders as the cool air kissed her bare skin.
"Hey!"
He pulled her flush against him, lips brushing her neck. "Are you finished now?"
Pansy tilted her head, trying not to smile. "Maaaybe."
He chuckled, a dark sound that made her toes curl. "Bratty today, I see."
"I'm pregnant, Neville. I'm always bratty."
"And still," he murmured, "you're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen."
With one hand supporting her back, he used the other to part her thighs wider over his lap, his touch reverent despite the hunger in his eyes. He trailed his fingers over the inside of her thigh, soft as a breath, until he found the swollen heat of her center.
She sucked in a breath as he drew a slow, lazy circle over her sensitive clit, the gentleness of it making her squirm.
"Neville…"
"Shh." He kissed the underside of her jaw, his fingers never rushing, just teasing, building her up inch by inch. "Let me take care of you. You carry our child every day. Let me carry you for a while."
Her breath hitched, body melting against him as he circled her again, a little firmer this time. The warmth between her legs was already growing slick, her body eager despite the heaviness she carried.
His other hand slid to cup the curve of her belly, thumb brushing over the soft skin there.
"You're fucking radiant," he whispered. "Full of life and still so goddamn needy."
"I hate how good your fingers feel right now," she whimpered, grinding down into his hand without meaning to.
"No you don't."
He pushed two fingers through her folds, slick with heat, before dipping one slowly inside her. She clenched around him with a breathy moan, hips tilting instinctively.
"You feel so tight," he murmured, watching her face. "So warm. And so fucking perfect."
She grabbed the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair as she dragged him into a kiss that was anything but delicate—deep, messy, and burning with need. Her mouth moved over his like she was trying to swallow him whole, like his lips were the only anchor she had left in a world spun off its axis. "Stop talking," she panted against his mouth, voice shaking with pleasure, "and—ah—keep doing that."
Neville obeyed without hesitation, sliding a second finger inside her, stretching her deliciously slow. He curled them just right, pressing into that tender spot that made her eyes flutter shut and her mouth fall open. His thumb moved in smooth, confident circles over her clit, coaxing sharp little gasps from her lips.
Her moans grew louder, less controlled, every sound pulled from deep within her chest. Her hips rolled against his hand like she couldn't get close enough, couldn't get full enough, her swollen belly lifting and falling with each ragged breath as she chased her pleasure like she was starving for it—like he was the only thing that could ever satisfy the ache.
"Good girl," he whispered against the shell of her ear, his breath warm and coaxing, the low timbre of his voice threading through her like a drug. "So fucking good for me." His fingers didn't stop—didn't dare stop—working inside her, slow and steady, pressing deep in that perfect rhythm that had her whole body trembling on the cusp.
She was panting now, her forehead pressed against his, lips parted, lashes fluttering with the effort to hold herself together. Every stroke of his thumb against her clit made her jolt, her body twitching like a live wire strung too tight. His other hand never left her belly, resting there possessively, reverently—grounding her even as he unraveled her.
"Come on, love," he murmured, voice thick with affection and heat. "Let go. Give it to me. I've got you."
Her breath caught in her throat as the pressure inside her crested, unbearable and blinding. "Nevie," she whimpered, voice cracking, "please…"
He stilled his fingers for just a heartbeat, forcing her to meet his eyes. They were molten—soft, intense, utterly locked on her.
"Please what, Bloom?" he asked, tone deceptively gentle. The nickname rolled off his tongue like silk. "You want to come on my fingers?" He gave her a slow thrust with those same fingers, making her gasp. "Or…" He kissed the corner of her mouth, then dragged his lips to her ear, his voice a warm growl now. "Or do you want to come on my cock? Stuffed full of me, stretched around me, while I fuck you slow and deep and don't let you come until I say you can?"
Pansy let out a broken, needy sound—half sob, half moan—and squirmed in his lap, trying to grind against his hand, against anything. "Oh gods," she cried, "both, please—I want both—I'm begging you—Neville, please…"
Her words were frantic, shameless, raw with desperation. She wasn't above begging, not with him—not when his touch lit her nerves on fire and her body felt like it belonged to him more than it ever had to herself. Her hands clutched at his shoulders like lifelines, nails digging in.
Neville's breath stuttered in his chest at the sight of her—so undone, so swollen and radiant and wrecked with need, sitting on his lap and begging for him like her world might end if he didn't give her what she wanted.
"I know you are, love," he whispered, kissing her softly, reverently, even as his fingers began to move again—slow, torturous strokes. "But begging doesn't mean I'll go easy on you."
Neville pulled his fingers from her slowly, deliberately, savoring the shudder that ran through her as her slick coated his hand. She whimpered at the loss, but before she could form the words to protest, he was already shifting beneath her.
"Hang on, Bloom," he murmured, pressing one last kiss to her temple. "I'm not finished with you yet."
Before she could ask what he meant, his arms were beneath her—one hooked around her back, the other cradling her under her thighs. He lifted her effortlessly, her pregnant belly nestled safely against him as though she weighed nothing at all.
"Neville!" she squeaked, gripping his shoulders instinctively.
He looked down at her with that maddening softness in his eyes—the one that said you're mine and I'll burn the world for you.
"You think I'm going to take you right there in that chair?" he asked, already walking toward the bedroom with careful, deliberate steps. "You think I'd fuck you like that—sloppy and fast—when you're carrying our baby and looking like the most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen?"
Pansy stared up at him, breathless, flushed, too turned on to even speak. Her heart thudded wildly beneath her ribs as he nudged the bedroom door open with his foot and crossed the threshold like a man on a mission.
He laid her down gently in the center of the bed, arranging her carefully like she was precious—because she was. He moved the pillows beneath her head, kissed her belly once with reverence, then knelt between her thighs and looked up at her like she was something holy.
"You asked for both," he said softly, voice gone dark and reverent. "You're going to get both."
He leaned down, brushing kisses along her inner thighs, one hand spreading her legs wider, the other splaying over her belly to keep her grounded.
"But first," he murmured, lips ghosting over her core, "I'm going to make you come on my tongue. And you're not going to hold back."
Her breath hitched, her fingers twisting into the sheets, anticipation blazing through her like wildfire.
"And after that," he added, meeting her eyes as he licked her—slow, filthy, adoring—"I'm going to fill you until you can't take another inch."
Neville didn't rush.
He stayed knelt between her thighs like a man before an altar, every motion unhurried, intentional. His hands—large, calloused, grounding—slid up the outside of her legs, pausing to trace the soft curve of her thighs before gently urging them wider.
"Look at you," he murmured, more to himself than to her, his voice a low rasp full of awe. "Dripping. Swollen. All of this for me?"
Pansy's breath stuttered, hips shifting restlessly against the sheets. She could feel how wet she was, how swollen her cunt had become with need—his words only made it worse. Made it better.
"Keep your legs open, love," he said, pressing his palms to the inside of her knees. "Don't close them. I want to see all of you."
She bit her lip, heat rushing to her cheeks and chest, but obeyed. Her body felt impossibly sensitive already, the air on her slick folds sending shivers across her skin. And then his mouth was there—not rushing, not lunging, just… tasting.
He started with soft kisses to her inner thighs, the kind that were maddening in their restraint. His lips brushed over her skin like he was memorizing it. He nuzzled her softly, let his breath dance over her, teasing her with what was coming without giving in.
"You're shaking," he murmured, his tongue flicking out to trace a slow, wet line along the crease where her thigh met her core. "You that worked up already?"
"Y-yes," she whispered, voice barely there. "Neville, please…"
He hummed like she'd just offered him the finest wine and finally, finally, he leaned in and flattened his tongue against her cunt. One slow, deliberate lick—from the bottom of her slit all the way up to her clit. Her whole body jerked in response.
"Oh my—fuck," she gasped, hands flying to his hair.
Neville licked her again. And again. Long, thorough strokes that had her toes curling in seconds. His tongue moved in slow, skillful patterns, exploring her like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else he'd rather be. Each pass built her higher, a steady, climbing heat that made her thighs tremble against his grip.
Then he latched onto her clit, lips sealing around it with practiced pressure, and sucked—soft, perfect, relentless.
Pansy cried out, one hand fisting the sheets, the other tightening in his hair. "Oh gods—Neville—I can't—"
"You can," he growled against her, tongue flicking fast now, back and forth, coaxing her toward that inevitable edge. "You will. Don't you dare run from it."
He slid one hand from her thigh to her entrance, teasing her with the tip of his finger, then sinking it inside—slow and deep. She was so wet he met no resistance, just tight heat clenching around him as he began to pump in sync with his mouth.
"Fuck, you're so perfect like this," he muttered, voice low and reverent. "Tasting you, feeling you—your cunt's gripping me like it needs me."
Pansy whimpered, the pressure building fast now, unbearable in the best way. He added a second finger, curling them just right, brushing her g-spot with every stroke while his tongue kept working her clit with single-minded focus.
"Let go," he commanded, pulling back for just a second to look up at her. His mouth and chin glistened with her slick. "I want you to come on my tongue. Now."
The sound of his voice—the sheer power in it—broke her. She cried out, high and sharp, her thighs clamping around his head as her orgasm crashed through her. Her entire body arched off the bed, and Neville didn't stop. He kept licking, kept fucking her with his fingers, dragging it out until she was shaking, sobbing, gasping his name like a prayer.
Only when her hips began to twitch from overstimulation did he slow his pace, easing her back down with soft kisses and shallow licks, drawing out the aftershocks like he wanted to savor them too.
He finally pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes blown wide with heat and devotion.
"You're still not done," he said, crawling up over her, his voice like velvet and smoke. "But you'll rest for a minute."
He kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips. One of his hands cradled her cheek while the other slid low, gripping his thick cock and dragging it along her soaked folds, not yet pushing in.
"I'm going to fuck you now, Bloom," he whispered, lining himself up. "Nice and slow. So deep you'll feel me for days."
Neville hovered over her, thick and hard in his hand, his cock slick with her arousal as he teased it along her folds, just barely brushing her clit. Pansy jerked under him, her hips rising instinctively, but he pressed a firm hand to her belly, pinning her down gently.
"Patience, love," he said, his voice infuriatingly calm, teasing. "You're too sensitive. You'll break."
"I want to break," she gasped, squirming under his weight. Her thighs were trembling, her skin hot and flushed. "Please, Nevie—please just put it in—"
He tsked softly, leaning down to kiss her collarbone, dragging his lips up her neck.
"That's not begging, sweetheart," he murmured, dragging his cock through her folds again, letting the head press against her clit before slipping lower. "You've done better than that. Don't get lazy on me now."
She let out a choked sound, somewhere between a whimper and a moan. Her hands fluttered uselessly at his shoulders, her eyes wide and glassy.
"Please," she whispered, and then again, louder, more desperate. "Neville, please—I need you—I need your cock. I want to feel it stretch me, fill me—please, I'll be good, I'll take all of it—"
He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her skin.
"That's it," he said, his hand tightening just slightly around his shaft as he guided it to her entrance. "That's my good girl. Look at you—so fucking polite when you're desperate for it."
She nodded frantically, her bottom lip trembling. "I'll be so good for you, Nevie, I swear—just fuck me, please, please—"
He leaned in close, forehead to hers, his cock poised right at her entrance, not yet pushing in.
"Say it," he whispered. "Tell me what you need. Say the words."
"I need your cock," she said, her voice cracking. "I need it inside me. I want you to fuck me, slow and deep—I want to come with you buried in me—I want to feel you claim me—"
Neville's control snapped with a groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Good. Fucking. Girl."
And then he pushed in.
Neville sank into her with one long, slow thrust, his breath hitching the moment her warmth closed around him. She gasped beneath him—her back arching, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he filled her inch by inch, stretching her so perfectly it stole every word from her mouth.
"Fuck," he groaned, stilling when he was buried to the hilt. "You feel so good, Bloom. So tight—like your body was made for me."
Her hands flew to his back, clutching at his shoulders, her nails leaving shallow marks as she adjusted to the thick, slow pressure of him inside her. She whimpered something incoherent, her brain too fogged with sensation to form words.
Neville leaned down and kissed her—slow and deep, full of everything he couldn't say all at once. Then he pulled back, just enough to look at her.
"You're beautiful," he said softly, one hand smoothing over her belly. "So fucking stunning like this. Round and glowing and mine."
Pansy let out a choked, emotional sound, her eyes fluttering as he cupped her belly with both hands, hips starting to move again in a deep, steady rhythm. Each stroke dragged along her walls with delicious precision, brushing the places inside her that made her legs tremble and her lips part in a moan.
"You've never looked more powerful," he whispered, kissing the swell of her stomach. "Carrying our baby like a goddess—so full, so strong. And still letting me have you like this."
Her breath hitched, and he kissed her again, all tongue and heat, swallowing the soft cry she gave when he shifted his angle just right, hitting the sweet spot that made her toes curl.
"You're doing so well for me," he murmured against her lips. "Taking me so deep. Look how your body welcomes me, Pans. Like it knows I belong here."
He slid one hand up from her belly to her breast, cupping the soft, heavy swell of it with reverence. His thumb brushed over her nipple, and she cried out, arching into his touch.
"These," he whispered, kissing just above her heart. "So full. So perfect. You've changed for us—for this life we made—and I swear to fucking Merlin, I've never wanted anyone more."
She moaned, her legs tightening around him as his thrusts stayed slow but got heavier, deeper—grinding his hips against hers, pressing every inch of him into her until they were skin to skin, breath to breath.
"You're everything," he breathed, forehead resting against hers again. "You hear me, Bloom? Everything. And I'm going to make you come like this—on my cock, with your belly swollen and your name on my lips."
Pansy's head fell back against the pillows, her breath coming in desperate little gasps, her body already trembling again as her climax began to build for the second time.
"Neville—Neville, I'm close, please—"
"I've got you," he said, one hand sliding between them to find her clit. "Let go for me. Come just like this—while I'm inside you, while I'm worshiping every inch of you."
Neville circled her clit with slow, practiced strokes, never rushing, never breaking that rhythm that had her unraveling beneath him. His thrusts stayed deep and steady, each one dragging against that perfect spot inside her, his cock thick and hot and pulsing with need.
"Come for me, love," he whispered, watching her face, her mouth slack and gasping, her eyes fluttering. "Let me feel you fall apart around me."
Her whole body tensed, thighs shaking, back arching as her orgasm surged through her like lightning. She cried out, clenching down on him so tightly he nearly lost his rhythm. Her cunt fluttered around him in pulses that dragged a groan from his throat, his hand never stopping its movement over her clit as he drew it out—long, long, until she was trembling and blinking through the stars behind her eyes.
"That's it," he murmured, mouth trailing kisses down her cheek, to her neck, to the swell of her breasts. "That's my good girl. You took all of it. Every inch."
She whimpered softly, overwhelmed, blissed-out and wrecked in the best way, her fingers still tangled in his curls.
Neville slowed his movements now, still buried deep inside her, his hips rocking just enough to keep them connected, to soothe her through the aftershocks. He smoothed his hands over her thighs, her sides, the curve of her belly.
"You're so beautiful like this," he whispered again, lips brushing over her damp temple. "So full of life. Of us. I could stay inside you forever."
She blinked up at him, hazy and flushed, a soft smile curving her lips despite how wrecked she felt. "You're so sweet when you're ruining me."
He chuckled, low and warm, and kissed her again—slow and lingering, his tongue coaxing hers in a kiss that was less about lust now, and more about love. Then, gently, he eased out of her, carefully so he didn't overstimulate her further.
"You okay?" he asked softly, brushing hair from her face.
"Mmm," she hummed, lazy and satisfied, her body melted into the sheets. "Better than okay."
Neville took his time cleaning her up—soft cloth, warm water, gentle touches that made her shiver. He whispered little nothings the entire time—how proud he was of her, how good she was, how stunning she looked carrying their child. Then he pulled her into his arms, settling the blankets over them and cradling her close against his chest, her belly snug between them.
She nestled into him, already halfway to sleep, but not before whispering, "You're mine, Longbottom."
"Always," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Yours, forever."
°°°
How many orgasms did it take to soothe a pregnant Pansy Parkinson?
More than any reasonable man would anticipate, and still not quite enough.
Neville learned this the hard way, because what followed was a two hour descent into emotional ruin that required every scrap of patience, tenderness, and physical stamina he possessed. There were back rubs and whispered reassurances. At one point she insisted only literature could save her, which resulted in an impromptu poetry reading delivered with trembling sincerity while she lay sprawled across the bed like a tragic heroine. He made tea. She cried into it. He told her she was radiant. She accused him of lying to spare her feelings. He doubled down and called her divine. She threatened to hex him into a womb so he could experience the injustice firsthand. He told her he would do it gladly. She sobbed harder.
Eventually, mercifully, she passed out on top of him, one leg slung over his hips, mascara smeared across his collarbone, snoring softly like an offended kitten.
The problem was that it did not stop there.
The next time it happened, and the time after that, Neville began to understand this was not an isolated disaster. It was a ritual. A recurring event. A cursed cycle that appeared every few weeks with increasing intensity, always striking just as his nerves had begun to recover.
There was a pattern to it. Pansy would catch sight of her reflection somewhere unexpected. A mirror. A window. The polished side of a kettle. Even the bathroom tiles. She would freeze. There would be silence. One slow breath. Then absolute chaos.
One episode unfolded in the greenhouse, his sacred space, when she became convinced the plants were judging her. She claimed their leaves were angled toward her like a council of rude old witches with no fashion sense and far too much time on their hands. She tried to hex a snargaluff root, shouting that it was mocking her ankles. The plant withered shortly after. Neville never quite forgave himself.
Then there was the Great Heel Incident, spoken of in hushed tones. She attempted to force her swollen feet into a pair of red stilettos she swore had fit only two weeks prior. When they refused, she screamed, kicked them off, and hurled them across the room with such force that one cracked the windowpane. She turned on him with eyes blazing.
"My own husband is plotting against my foot size," she accused. "You stood by and let this happen under your watch, Neville. Your watch."
He did not point out that it was her pregnancy, her feet, her shoes, and very much her idea. He nodded gravely instead, fetched her fuzzy slippers, produced a chocolate croissant, and quietly begged the universe for mercy.
It was a lot.
The worst of it, the absolute summit of her pregnancy spiral, the crown jewel in the shrine of hormonal madness, was the night she announced she was moving into a cave.
Not metaphorically.
Not as a joke.
Not with even a hint of exaggeration.
A real cave.
"That's it," Pansy declared, voice ringing with the kind of finality usually reserved for executions or royal abdications.
She stood in the middle of their bedroom like a conquering empress brought low by biology. A floor-length emerald silk nightgown clung to her belly as if it had been designed by an ancient deity with a personal vendetta. One bare foot was planted forward on the rug, spine straight, chin lifted. One hand cradled her bump with possessive fury. The other pointed dramatically toward the open window, as though the cave itself waited just beyond the hedges and she could march to it barefoot on principle alone.
Neville looked up from his book.
He had survived the day on caffeine, stubborn love, and sheer willpower. His eyes burned. His shoulders slumped. He sighed the slow, hollow sigh of a man who had already weathered three separate emotional apocalypses before dinner.
"What now?" he asked.
"I can't live like this," she whispered, as if delivering the final monologue of a doomed heroine. Her voice trembled with conviction as she began pacing, silk whispering around her legs like a cape. Her fingers traced deliberate circles over her stomach, slow and ritualistic. "I am too big for this house. Too big for this lifestyle. Too big for society."
She stopped abruptly and faced him, eyes shining with the solemnity of someone announcing their own funeral.
"I will be moving into a cave."
Neville pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough to consider whether it might dent. "You are not moving into a cave."
"You don't understand, Nevie," she said, immediately turning back to motion, fuelled now by righteous fury. "Caves don't have mirrors. Caves don't have scales. Caves don't have nosy neighbours or judgmental portraits or expectations about how much weight you should gain before you start resembling a severely overinflated dirigible."
"You are not a dirigible," he replied automatically, because this was no longer a conversation. It was a script. "You're pregnant."
She spun on him, eyes wild. "You don't know that. You've never been pregnant. Maybe I am a dirigible. Maybe I'm the first recorded witch to transfigure into a magical aircraft. Maybe I'll float by the end of the week. Maybe the Ministry will classify me as a hazard to aerial navigation."
Neville stared at her.
He blinked once. Then again.
He opened his mouth, closed it, and decided that survival outweighed reason.
Without a word, he crossed the room. He pressed a kiss to her overheated forehead. He guided her gently back into bed. He fluffed her pillows, adjusted her blanket, and murmured soft, nonsensical reassurances until her breathing slowed and her body relaxed against the mattress.
Then he lay awake beside her and prayed.
Not casually. Not metaphorically.
Genuinely prayed that by morning, the cave would be forgotten.
(She did forget. Mostly. Two days later, she asked if they could at least look into buying a yurt. Neville pretended not to hear a word.)
And yet, despite the absolute, glorious chaos that had dismantled their once orderly lives piece by piece, Neville knew one thing with complete certainty.
He would not trade it for anything.
Not for silence. Not for routine. Not for a perfectly planned day that ran on time and ended without incident. Not for the luxury of finishing a sentence without being interrupted by a sharp gasp, a sudden craving, or an urgent declaration that the nursery furniture had to be moved immediately because she had a vision at three in the morning.
His carefully scheduled world had been obliterated. Reduced to rubble beneath the weight of third trimester emotions and Pansy Parkinson's unwavering conviction that every thought she had was both urgent and life altering. He had been commanded to procure croissants from Paris on impossible timelines, scolded for breathing too loudly, accused of sabotage over pickles, pillows, and foot placement, and threatened with hexes more times than he could count.
And still, he loved her.
Because beneath the drama, the meltdowns, the theatrical despair delivered with the seriousness of a military briefing, it was her. It was always her. Exhausting, brilliant, impossible, devastatingly alive. The woman who had turned his quiet life into something loud and unpredictable and achingly full.
No matter how wild the day became, no matter how high the chaos climbed or how fiercely she declared the world was conspiring against her ankles, every night ended the same way.
She would curl into him like nothing had ever gone wrong.
Her body would fit against his with instinctive certainty, limbs tangling with his, breath warm against his skin. Her head would settle over his heart as though it had always belonged there, as though there was nowhere else it could possibly rest. And in that soft, sleepy voice that always undid him, she would murmur the same question, quiet and vulnerable beneath all the fire.
"You love me, right?"
Neville never hesitated.
"Of course I do, my bloom," he would say, pressing a kiss into her hair. "Always. Forever. In this life and every life after."
And in the stillness that followed, in the calm that came only once the storm had passed, everything made sense again.
~~~~~~
When the appointed day finally arrived, it was marked on every calendar in the Longbottom household with sparkly ink and dramatic flourishes. Pansy's personalised birth planner had been updated daily for months, complete with colour coded tabs, scented parchment, gold embossing, and handwritten notes threatening violence if anyone deviated from the schedule. By the time the date rolled around, the staff at St Mungo's were already bracing themselves.
Whispers had travelled between departments with the kind of reverence usually reserved for royal visits or incoming natural disasters. Pansy Parkinson was coming to give birth.
It was not going to be a birth. It was going to be an event.
Every Healer, Mediwitch, and unfortunate intern had been briefed in advance, clipboards clutched tightly, expressions solemn. There were checklists. There were contingency plans. There were emergency floo permissions prepared for Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood in case emotional defusion became medically necessary. This was not a quiet, candlelit moment of whispered encouragement and gentle breathing.
This was a full scale Pansy Parkinson production.
Weeks earlier, she had swept into St Mungo's like an executive inspecting a hostile takeover, heels sharp against the polished floors, a leather bound clipboard tucked under one arm, designers in tow, and two extremely unimpressed pugs trailing behind her. She toured the birthing suites the way one might tour seaside villas in the south of France, rejecting each room with mounting horror.
"This?" she had gasped in one particularly uninspired space. "You expect my daughter to be born under this lighting? Is this a hospital or a dungeon? I refuse to deliver a child of mine in a room that looks like it comes free with a medi insurance pamphlet."
Sterile white walls were unacceptable. Metal trays were offensive. Beige linens were an insult to motherhood itself. She demanded luxury. She demanded atmosphere. She demanded a birthing suite that did not make her feel like she was awaiting interrogation.
By the end of it, after an unreasonable number of alterations and a few discreet bribes, the final result barely resembled a medical facility at all. The suite looked more like an enchanted spa lounge designed by a wealthy, hormonal goddess with very strong opinions.
Floating candles drifted overhead, casting warm golden light across the room. An enchanted ceiling shimmered with a starlit sky, complete with slow moving constellations and the occasional passing comet. Soft harp music played in the background, composed by a French wizard Pansy had once hexed into lifelong compliance. Lavender air charms kept the room calm and dreamy, and silk pillows embroidered with phrases like "Born Divine" and "Heir to the Throne" were arranged with deliberate aesthetic precision around the delivery bed.
During her final inspection, one hand cradling her belly and the other gesturing like she was issuing a royal decree, Pansy had nodded approvingly.
"This," she announced, "is what my daughter deserves. Ambiance. Mood. A sense of occasion. She is not entering this world under fluorescent lighting like some common troll. She is making an entrance, and I will not have her first memory be beige."
And for a brief, almost sacred moment, it genuinely seemed like she had succeeded.
Everything was perfect. Carefully curated. Lavish. Unmistakably Pansy. For a heartbeat, it felt like perhaps this most ridiculous and tender day might unfold without catastrophe.
Of course, that illusion never stood a chance.
Because this was Pansy Parkinson.
And her daughter was not about to arrive quietly.
That beautiful illusion of serenity did not fade gently. It shattered.
One moment the room was glowing with candlelight, harp strings drifting lazily through lavender scented air, every surface arranged to honour the fantasy of graceful motherhood. The next, it was as if the universe itself had lost patience.
Labour did not arrive politely. It crashed into Pansy Parkinson with the force of a curse long overdue, violent and unapologetic. There was no quiet dignity, no tearful reverence, no whispered awe. This was not a miracle. It was an exorcism.
Her body turned traitor without warning. Each contraction felt like a personal insult, each wave of pain another crime she had not consented to. Whatever serene, goddesslike vision she had once entertained evaporated instantly.
There was only heat, pressure, fury, and the overwhelming sense that the universe had chosen this exact moment to punish her for every dramatic thought she had ever had.
The carefully curated calm collapsed under the sheer volume of her screaming. Floating candles flickered wildly, some dipping lower as if reconsidering their allegiance. The harp music stuttered, then cut out entirely. The lavender charm did its best before surrendering to the very real scent of primal chaos.
Gone were affirmations. Gone was tranquillity. In its place came language so inventive, so brutally expressive, that several members of staff would later admit they wrote some of it down.
The birthing suite no longer belonged to St Mungo's. It belonged to Pansy. To her rage. To her voice. To the undeniable fact that she was enduring the miracle of life and despising every second of it.
A young nurse, barely past her final training rotation, made the mistake of trying to help.
Her voice trembled as she leaned forward, clipboard clutched like a shield. "Deep breaths in, Lady Longbottom. In through the nose, out through the—"
"If you tell me to breathe one more time," Pansy snarled, teeth clenched, eyes blazing, "I will hex you so far into next Tuesday that you will wake up speaking Parseltongue and pissing rainbows. Do not test me."
The nurse vanished. No one questioned it.
Neville stayed.
Sweet, devoted, hopelessly in love Neville remained anchored at her side, hand locked in hers as if letting go might actually end the world. That same hand, once capable of delicate grafting spells and precise wandwork, was now being crushed with terrifying dedication. His knuckles went white. Then purple. Then numb.
But somewhere between the third and fourth contraction, as she bore down and roared like a force of nature, Neville Longbottom saw his entire life flash before his eyes.
"I CAN'T DO THIS!" Pansy bellowed.
Her voice was raw, scraped down to nothing, hair plastered to her face with sweat as she collapsed back into the obscene mountain of silk pillows like a queen struck down mid-battle. The sound hit the enchanted ceiling and made it flicker in alarm, the false stars above dimming and blinking as if even they were afraid of her now.
"You are," Neville said calmly, though his voice strained just slightly under the crushing grip she had around his wrist. "You are quite literally doing it."
He had chosen this woman. Chosen her knowing she was a storm pretending to be human. And even now, especially now, he was not letting go.
"THAT IS NOT THE POINT, NEVILLE!" she screamed, yanking him forward so hard he nearly fell on top of her. "I AM DYING. DO YOU HEAR ME? DYING. THIS CHILD IS DRAGGING ME INTO THE NINTH CIRCLE OF HELL WITH HER."
"Technically," a brave Healer murmured from the corner, voice thin with hope, "this is all quite normal—"
"SILENCE!" Pansy roared.
The Healer vanished from the room immediately. No one tried to stop her.
Pansy was incandescent. Sweat-slicked, furious, magnificent. A force that could not be reasoned with or soothed, only endured. A hurricane wrapped in silk. A goddess in open rebellion. Every curse she hurled was crafted like poetry. Every threat felt deliberate, sharp, and personal.
The staff of St Mungo's would speak of this day for years. In hushed tones. With awe. With fear. The Labour of Lady Longbottom. The Day the Candles Went Out. The Screaming Duchess of Ward Three. It would become legend, warning, and spectacle all at once.
And through every scream, every wall-shaking contraction, Neville stayed.
He held her hand even as his fingers went numb. He pressed kisses to her temple whenever she allowed it. He whispered reassurances he knew she would reject, because saying nothing felt worse. Because beneath the fire and fury, beneath the threats and the divine outrage, she was still his wife. Still his Pansy.
She was bringing their daughter into the world with the same ferocity she brought into everything she loved.
And even as the windows rattled, even as the candles guttered and the harp music surrendered completely, Neville realised something with absolute certainty. He had never loved her more.
°°°
"GET LUNA HERE. I REFUSE TO GIVE BIRTH WITHOUT HER."
Pansy's scream detonated across the suite, slamming into the enchanted ceiling hard enough to make the stars above flicker in alarm. A Mediwitch yelped and dove behind a trolley of sterile instruments, narrowly avoiding a flying pillow. This was not a request. It was a command. A royal decree issued by a woman in labour who had finally reached the end of her tolerance for existence itself.
Her voice cracked with pain and fury, sharpened by nine months of bodily betrayal. Stretch marks. Haemorrhoids. Strangers touching her stomach without permission. Someone calling her "mum" in a tone that suggested she should be grateful for it. And now this. Pain tearing through her like wildfire, stripping away every ounce of dignity she had left. She wanted one thing. Luna Lovegood. Her best friend. Her emotional support menace. Her calm in the middle of chaos.
Neville did not hesitate.
With the focused panic of a man who had stared down far worse than Dark wizards, he yanked out his wand and cast the spell with frightening precision. Silver light burst forward, and his Patronus took shape instantly. A broad badger launched itself through the wall like a missile with purpose. The message it carried was brief, frantic, and almost certainly screamed.
Get here now or she will kill us all.
Neville barely had time to brace himself for the next contraction before the air cracked sharply and a familiar shimmer rippled through the room.
Luna appeared.
She stood in the centre of the suite with her robes slightly crooked, hair braided in a way that suggested sleep and urgency had compromised the original plan. Baby Seline rested against her hip, calm and unbothered, as though arriving in the middle of chaos was simply part of the day. Luna took it all in with a single glance and moved forward without haste, as serene as a tide rolling in.
"I'm here, my love," she said gently. "We're both here."
Pansy turned toward her like a woman spotting land after weeks adrift at sea. Her face was flushed and blotchy, curls plastered to her skin with sweat, her whole body vibrating with divine outrage.
"DO SOMETHING," she screamed, crushing Neville's hand with renewed enthusiasm. "IT HURTS. I AM DYING. I AM NEVER HAVING SEX AGAIN. I SWEAR IT."
Luna tilted her head, thoughtful, examining Pansy the way one might observe a particularly aggressive magical creature.
"Yes," she said mildly. "That sounds correct."
Then she reached into her robes and withdrew a small vial filled with amber liquid that glittered faintly in the light.
"I brought this," she added. "It's experimental. Illegal in several countries. Very effective. Open your mouth."
By then, Pansy was sobbing in earnest. Loud, undignified sobs that shook her entire body. Neville hovered uselessly beside her, pale and drenched in secondhand sweat, his eyes carrying the thousand-yard stare of a man who had nearly witnessed a miracle turn into a crime scene.
Luna knelt at the bedside with quiet efficiency, brushing damp curls away from Pansy's face, her touch cool and steady.
"You're safe," she murmured. "You're magic. You're doing beautifully. Open up."
Pansy obeyed, gulping the potion down like salvation. For a moment, nothing changed. Then her shoulders slackened. Her breath eased. Her spine sank into the pillows with a shaky sigh.
"Oh fuck," she breathed. "That's good. Why was I not given this hours ago? What barbaric institution is this?"
"Because," Luna said calmly, patting her cheek, "no one else is allowed to drug you."
Neville sagged into the chair beside the bed, clutching his mangled hand to his chest and whispering reassurances through his relief, already aware that this was not the end of anything.
It was only the next phase.
"You're doing beautifully," he murmured, his voice thick with awe as he pressed a careful kiss to her trembling knuckles. That hand, once so sharp and precise, clung to him now like it was the only solid thing left in the world. "You're brave. You're strong. And I love you more than air, more than anything I've ever known."
Every word came from somewhere deep and unguarded. This was not reassurance for the sake of comfort. It was reverence. It was worship.
Pansy turned toward him, eyes glassy and wide, her lower lip wobbling with a sincerity so dramatic it could only belong to her. She tightened her grip on his forearm, fingers digging in with enough force to make him hiss, as though anchoring herself to him was the only way to survive what her body was doing. In a voice heavy with pain and confession, she gasped, "Neville, I am so sorry for the last nine months. I have been an absolute nightmare. I screamed at you over toast. I threw a teacup at your head. I might have hexed your favourite jumper. And still you stayed."
Her voice fractured. Sweat streaked her skin, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, hair clinging to her face in wild curls. She was a mess in every sense of the word. And she was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Neville shook his head gently, brushing damp strands away from her temple with careful fingers. "You nearly took my eye out with that cup," he said softly, leaning in to kiss just below her ear. "But I would let you do it again if it meant standing here with you now."
His voice caught as he cupped her cheek. "I would do all of it again. The mood swings. The cravings. The emotional terrorism. Every single bit. It was worth it."
He squeezed her hand, steady and grounding, and leaned close. "But right now, my bloom, we focus on pushing. We meet our baby. We meet the miracle we made together."
Pansy answered with a sound that was half sob and half feral growl as another contraction tore through her. Her back arched, her head fell against the pillows, and her voice rang through the wrecked elegance of the suite.
"OUR DAUGHTER. I AM BRINGING OUR DAUGHTER INTO THIS GODFORSAKEN WORLD AND SHE OWES ME FOR THIS TRAUMA."
Luna, entirely unshaken, smiled like sunlight given form. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to Pansy's forehead, gentle and knowing. "Yes, my darling. And she will be divine. Just like you. A sparkling little menace who announces herself properly the moment she arrives."
So there they were. Surrounded by candlelight and healing herbs, by devotion and fierce loyalty, by the steady presence of her husband and the quiet certainty of her best friend. Pansy Parkinson Longbottom lay there drenched in sweat and silk and sheer determination, braced for the final act of a journey that had tested every limit she possessed.
She was exhausted. She was furious. She was possibly seeing stars that did not exist.
Because queens do not birth quietly.
Not when they are Pansy bloody Parkinson.
Then, just when it felt like the pain might last forever, when the tension had climbed so high it seemed her body could not possibly hold together, it happened.
A cry.
Sharp and piercing and raw. A sound so new and fierce it sliced through the room like lightning, tearing apart the unbearable stillness in a single instant. It was impossibly small and impossibly loud all at once, and it struck straight through Pansy's chest, rooting her to something real before she had time to doubt it.
And then everything stopped.
A hush settled over the room, heavy and reverent, like the air itself had chosen silence. The kind of stillness that carried meaning. Holy and suspended. Time seemed to pause, unwilling to disturb what had just come into being. Not only a child, but a new world, a new version of herself.
Pansy lay there shaking, breath coming in uneven gasps, ribs rising and falling with exhaustion that went deeper than her bones. Beneath it stirred something else. Something vast and unfamiliar. Her heart thundered in her ears, drowning out every quiet voice until her vision fixed on soft fabric, impossibly small limbs, the gentle movement of a tiny chest.
And then she saw her.
The midwife stepped forward, careful and unhurried, as though handling something sacred. She placed the warm, wailing bundle into Pansy's arms, and instinct took over. Pansy folded around her daughter without thinking, body curving into a shield. Arms that had once thrown hexes and sharpened words now became a sanctuary. In the moment her baby settled against her chest, something inside her fractured and reformed all at once.
The world fell away.
The murmured voices, the glow of candles, the lavender in the air that had once felt so important all faded into nothing. There was only the weight in her arms. The unbearable, perfect weight of a life that was hers.
She stared down at her daughter, wonder burning hot behind her eyes. Her fingers trembled as they brushed soft cheeks still flushed from birth. She traced the slope of a tiny nose, the delicate sweep of lashes, the dark swirl of newborn hair. Pink and furious and loud, her baby protested the world with everything she had. Pansy had never seen anything so beautiful.
"She's…" The word caught in her throat. Tears spilled before she could stop them, and her breath broke into something close to a sob. "She's perfect."
And she was.
Seraphina.
Above them, the enchanted constellations shimmered, stars flickering like they knew something had changed. Warm gold light curved around the bed, wrapping the moment in quiet celebration.
Neville was right there. Always there. His face held so much awe it hurt to look at him. He kissed her damp forehead and whispered, voice unsteady, "You did it, my love." His fingers brushed their daughter's hand, and when her tiny fingers curled around his pinky, he exhaled like he had been holding his breath for months. "She's beautiful."
Pansy could barely speak. She pressed her lips to the crown of her daughter's head, breathing her in as tears soaked into fine hair. "I love you, Sia," she whispered. "Mommy and Daddy love you more than life."
Neville reached out, hesitant, reverent, as though afraid the moment might break. Pansy let him take her. He held their daughter like she was made of light, cradling her close as she settled against his neck with a small hiccup. Pansy watched love bloom across his face, raw and unfiltered, and it undid her completely.
Magic stirred.
Not spells or charms, something old and quiet and vast. It wrapped around them like a promise, golden light blooming softly through the room as Neville held his daughter for the first time.
Pansy cried freely then.
Because she had never felt so whole. Watching Neville with their child broke her heart open in the best way.
When he looked at her again, eyes shining, arms full of their future, no words were needed.
This was everything.
From the corner of the room, another presence eased quietly into focus, like moonlight brushing against velvet curtains. Luna stood there barefoot, calm and luminous in a way only she could manage.
Her silvery hair fell loose over her shoulders, and her face was lit not by candlelight or enchanted stars, but by something gentler and deeper. In her arms rested Seline, bundled in a blanket stitched with tiny constellations, her breathing slow and even. Her eyes, wide and bright, watched the room with solemn curiosity, as if she already understood that something in the world had shifted.
And it had.
Seline wriggled softly, restless in that instinctive way children had when they sensed change. The moment she spotted Pansy, her face transformed. There was no hesitation. She reached out at once, fingers stretching eagerly toward the woman who had been part of her life since her first days.
Pansy looked up through blurred vision, still trembling, still raw, motherhood cracking her open in ways she could not yet name. Mascara streaked her cheeks, but she did not care. She reached out with one unsteady hand, brushing her fingers through Seline's curls as Luna stepped forward and carefully placed the little girl into her arms. A wet, broken laugh escaped her, half sob and half breath.
"Do you see it, my Moonbeam?" she whispered, voice shaking. She kissed the top of Seline's head and held her close. "Auntie finally did it. I made your very best friend." Her voice wavered as she pulled back, pressing their noses together with a smile that felt both shattered and whole. "Do you want to meet her?"
Seline answered with an enthusiastic nod that sent her curls bouncing, followed by a delighted clap. Her eyes darted between Pansy and Neville, shining with curiosity.
Neville, still holding Seraphina as though she were made of glass and starlight, shifted carefully on the edge of the bed. He cradled his daughter close, arms forming a careful shelter around her, the blanket tucked snugly around her tiny body. His hands shook faintly, not from fear, but from the sheer enormity of loving something this much.
"Come here, sweetheart," he said softly, patting the space beside him.
Luna guided Seline forward, steady and patient, until the little girl climbed onto the mattress. The room grew quiet again, the kind of quiet that felt deliberate.
Seline scooted closer, movements slow and reverent. Her gaze stayed fixed on the tiny bundle in Neville's arms. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely more than a breath.
"Baby?"
Neville smiled, tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes as he looked between the two girls. His voice came out thick and unsteady. "Yes, my moon. This is Seraphina."
Pansy watched as Seline leaned in, small hands hovering uncertainly, afraid of touching something sacred. After a moment, she rested her palm lightly on the blanket. Her eyes widened when the newborn wriggled beneath her touch.
In that suspended instant, with the past behind them and the future unfolding quietly ahead, Pansy felt something settle deep inside her. A stillness. A certainty she had never known before.
She reached for Neville's hand, weaving her fingers through his as they looked at their daughters. And yes, they were both theirs. Seline as much as Luna's, Seraphina already claimed as her best friend, chosen before she had ever opened her eyes.
Pansy exhaled fully, her body sinking into the truth of it.
They were a family.
Strange, imperfect, brilliant. A constellation stitched together by fate and chaos and choice.
And their story had only just begun.