The house felt too quiet in the weeks that followed their return, as though the walls themselves had absorbed the violence of what nearly happened and now refused to give anything back. Sound did not linger. Footsteps vanished too quickly.
Even laughter seemed to thin the air rather than fill it, leaving behind a stillness that pressed instead of soothed.
Pansy knew she should have felt relief. She was home, after all, tucked back into familiar rooms with Neville's presence steady and warm, Seraphina giggling happily from corner to corner with soft toys trailing behind her like bright little promises.
The garden was alive again, seedlings pushing up through the soil under Neville's careful hands, his voice drifting in through the open windows as he spoke to the plants the way he always had. It should have been enough to anchor her.
Instead, the quiet hollowed her out, leaving her feeling scraped thin, like something essential had been peeled away and not yet replaced.
She moved through the days as if underwater, her body heavy and resistant, every task slowed by an invisible drag.
Tea brewed with meticulous care and left to go cold. Breakfast prepared and abandoned after a few distracted bites. Seraphina's curls brushed with precise, practiced strokes while the child babbled happily, tugging at her sleeves, blissfully unaware of the tension coiled just beneath her mother's skin.
From the outside it must have looked like routine settling back into place, a family resuming its shape. From the inside it felt like a performance, a delicate reconstruction of normalcy assembled too quickly, as if acting the part might convince the world that nothing had splintered.
In the spaces between tasks, when Seraphina finally slept and Neville's footsteps faded back into the garden, the weight pressed in harder, Pansy would sit at the kitchen table, fingers curled tight around the handle of her untouched cup, gripping it like an anchor, and let her gaze slip just enough for the images to surface.
She was thinking about the horror.
Blaise's throat, pale and slick with blood where it should never have been.
Theo's hand limp in the dirt, smeared with soot and red.
Hermione's face gone frighteningly still beneath too many charms, her breath rattling in a way that still made Pansy's chest seize.
The truth circled endlessly in her mind, sharp and unforgiving. She had almost lost them. She had almost lost her family. Each time the thought returned, it carved another shallow line beneath her ribs, never deep enough to bleed, never gentle enough to fade.
Neville noticed. At first he said nothing, watching her quietly from the garden path through the kitchen window, his expression steady and open, never pressing, never looking away.
He let her move through the motions, let her pretend she was fine, let the days pass in careful silence. He gave her that grace until the moment came when she could no longer hold herself together, and the performance finally cracked.
It happened on a Thursday. Seraphina was asleep upstairs, her small chest rising and falling in soft, untroubled rhythm.
Neville was outside wrestling with a stubborn rosebush, muttering to the soil as he drove the stake deeper into the ground.
Pansy stood at the sink with a chipped mug in her hands, the same one Theo had used the morning before everything shattered, the one still marked by a faint potion stain from something he had brewed too quickly, carelessly, alive. It should not have mattered. It did.
Her fingers began to shake. At first she set the mug down gently, then less so, then with a sharp clack that echoed too loudly in the quiet kitchen. Something snapped loose.
She turned without thinking and swept her arm through the dish rack, sending plates, cups, and cutlery crashing to the stone floor. The noise was violent and chaotic, porcelain splintering, metal ringing, sound swallowing thought for a fleeting, merciful second.
When the last plate broke, she sagged against the counter, breath coming too fast, too shallow. Her hands curled into her palms until her nails bit into skin, grounding herself in pain because it was easier than memory.
She could not stop seeing it.
Blaise gasping.
Theo pale and unmoving.
Her friends, her family, nearly gone.
Her throat burned. Her chest felt too tight, like it had forgotten how to expand properly. When Neville's arms slid around her from behind, steady and warm, she did not pull away.
She folded into him instead, as though his body was the only thing keeping her upright, his presence the only thing anchoring her to the room.
"You are allowed to fall apart, Parky," he murmured, his voice gentle enough to crack something open inside her. "You do not have to hold everything together just because we are home."
She shook her head, unable to form words, tears slipping hot and silent into the fabric of his shirt.
"I thought I lost you too," he went on, lips brushing her temple, his breath uneven despite the calm he tried to project. His arms tightened like he could physically keep her from breaking. "You think I was not terrified? I replayed every second. We are still here. Even when it does not feel like it."
That was when she truly clung to him, all the sharp composure and practiced control finally collapsing. Weeks of restraint gave way to something raw and shaking, something deeply human.
Her fingers twisted in his shirt like letting go might split her apart entirely, and when she finally spoke, the words tore out of her under the weight of fury and grief.
"This is not fair," she said, breath hitching, the sentence escaping like a sob she refused to soften.
"I know, my love," Neville whispered, his voice steady by effort alone.
"Our family," she gasped, shaking her head, vulnerability cracking through her armor in a way she rarely allowed. "They cannot die like this. We are meant to grow old together. We are meant to laugh at grey hair and wrinkled hands. We are meant to bury each other gently. Not like this. Not bleeding in some alley or lying helpless in a hospital bed while we all pretend it is fine."
He held her without interruption, without denial, his voice low and careful when he finally answered. "Everyone is doing a dangerous job, Pansy. We knew the risks when we chose this life."
Her breath caught again, sharper now, anger threading through the grief as she pulled back enough to look at him. "Well, I am not," she snapped. "I am not out there playing reckless hero. I am careful. I am smart."
He met her gaze without turning away, a tired smile flickering across his mouth before fading. "Are you, though?" he asked softly. "Did it ever cross your mind that someone might talk? That someone might snitch?"
Her lips twisted, defiance flaring bright and bitter. "Dead men cannot talk, Neville."
His expression shifted, the last trace of softness draining away into something quieter and heavier. "And what happens when someone slips?" he asked, his voice so low it carried more weight than a raised one ever could.
"That is not an option," she hissed, shaking her head, refusing to let the thought root.
He watched her in silence for a long moment, then spoke again, still gentle, still firm. "Can you look at me, please."
After a long, shuddering breath, she turned, her face tight with the effort of holding herself together, her heart hammering beneath her ribs as she finally met his eyes.
"I was never a demanding husband to you, was I?" he asked quietly, the steadiness of his voice deliberate enough to cut straight through her defenses. "But I am going to ask you this once, and I need you to hear me. Stop making poison."
Her breath stalled. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again, like her body could not decide which reaction to commit to.
When the words finally came, they burst out rough and shaking, carried on fury and fear all at once. "No. Those women need me, Neville. They come to me because no one else will help them, because I know how to help them, because I am the only one willing to do what needs to be done. I am not stopping just because it scares you."
His expression stayed level, his gaze steady on hers as if he had braced himself for this exact answer. "Your family needs you more."
Something inside her fractured at that. Rage surged where grief had been festering, and she shoved him hard, palms flat against his chest, trying to force space between them, trying to breathe again.
"Do not pull that on me," she snapped, her voice sharp and raw. "Do not stand there and make this about family when you know exactly why I do what I do, when you know why I cannot walk away from women who have nowhere else to go."
Before she could shove him again, he caught her, fast and unyielding. His hands came up to her face, strong beneath a gentleness that only made her chest ache harder.
He tilted her chin, leaving her no choice but to meet his eyes, his thumbs brushing the wet tracks on her cheeks as he spoke, low and certain, with a conviction that terrified her because she almost never heard it from him.
"That is enough," he said quietly. "You are going to stop."
Her breath caught again, but this time it was not grief or anger clawing at her. It was fear. Real, sharp fear that he meant it, that he would not back down, that he might force her to choose between him and the work that had kept her upright for years.
Desperation lashed out, venomous and reckless, and she hurled the one thing she knew would wound him, the one phrase that would give her ground even if it crumbled beneath her feet.
"Over my dead body."
For a long breath, Neville said nothing, his fingers still cupping her face but his grip tightening ever so slightly, to keep her gaze locked with his as the words she had just hurled at him settled heavy between them, and when he finally spoke his voice was lower than before, quieter but sharper too, each word deliberate and edged in a pain he didn't bother to soften.
"Over your dead body?" he repeated, letting the words turn slow and bitter in his mouth, as if he could not believe she had thrown them at him so carelessly after everything.
After the nights he sat beside her hospital bed. After the long, dark weeks when he lay awake wondering if he would have to raise their daughter alone.
After the way his heart still clenched every time she left the house without saying exactly where she was going.
"Don't you dare," he murmured, and though his voice never rose, it cut deeper than any shout ever could. "Do not you dare say that to me after what we have just been through."
His grip loosened, but he did not step back, did not give her the space she was silently begging for. Pansy's chest heaved as she tried to speak, tried to argue, but he kept going, the words spilling out now, raw and tangled, stripped of polish.
"You think you are the only one carrying weight in this house?" he asked, his voice tight. "You think I do not lie awake every night wondering if you are out there risking your life for people who will never even thank you, while your daughter waits for you to come home, while I smile for her and pretend I am not terrified every single time you walk out that door?"
She tried to shove him again, but this time he caught her wrists, holding them firm.
Her voice rose, shaking with fury and frustration and the desperate need to make him understand. "I am not the one who goes looking for danger, Neville. You think I have not watched you run headfirst into chaos every time someone whispers about a rare plant or a cursed herb? You think your work is so much safer? You think you are not risking your life every time you crawl through some collapsing greenhouse for the Ministry while I sit at home wondering if today is the day someone calls to tell me you have been buried alive under your precious roses?"
His jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening around her wrists. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, and crueler for it. "At least my work does not involve poisoning husbands and calling it charity."
The moment the words left him, regret flickered across his face, but he did not take them back. He held her gaze and watched as they landed. Watched the way her expression froze, then cracked, just slightly, before she set her jaw again.
Her voice dropped low, trembling with the effort of holding herself together, and when she spoke there was steel threaded through the heartbreak.
"You do not get to judge me. Not after everything we have been through. You said you loved me anyway. And now you throw it back at me because you are scared?"
He did not deny it. He did not soften it. "Yes," he said, and the honesty of that single word was devastating because it was not an excuse and it was not an apology. It was simply the truth. "I am scared. I am terrified every single day, and I cannot keep doing this. I cannot live with the thought that one day Seraphina will ask where you are and I will have no answer except that you chose other people's families over your own."
The silence that followed was brutal, thick with everything neither of them knew how to say, with everything too sharp or too tender to voice.
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, edged with poison. "Then maybe you should not have married me."
She hated herself the moment the words left her mouth, but she did not take them back.
His expression shattered. He let go of her wrists so suddenly she nearly stumbled forward, the absence of his touch more violent than any blow.
He took a step back, then another, his hands trembling at his sides as if he no longer knew what to do with them.
"You are right," he said, and this time his voice was so quiet, so broken, it barely reached her. "Maybe I should not have."
He did not leave the room, but he turned away from her, shoulders drawn tight, head bowed. The space between them felt wider than the length of the kitchen.
And Pansy, who could always find the sharpest word in any room, who always claimed the final line in every argument, said nothing at all.
°°°
Hours later, the house had settled into a suffocating, brittle quiet. It was the kind of silence that did not comfort but pressed in from every corner, sharp and unrelenting. When Neville finally found her, it was well past midnight.
Shadows stretched long across the bedroom floor, warped by moonlight, and there she was, standing rigid by the wardrobe. A half packed trunk lay open at her feet. Her hands moved with cold, mechanical precision as she folded blouses, tucked potion vials between layers of silk, and smoothed fabric flat as though this were an ordinary departure.
A trip. A matter of efficiency. Anything but what it really was.
For a long moment, he simply watched her. His breath sat tight in his chest, his arms heavy at his sides as he tried to reconcile the sight in front of him with the woman he loved. The woman who had broken in his arms only hours ago. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, scraped raw by everything left unsaid.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going," he asked. It was not really a question. It landed more like an accusation, low and trembling at the edges.
Her back stiffened at the sound of his voice, but she did not turn. She did not pause. She kept folding a nightdress with infuriating calm. "Away," she said, as if that single word was explanation enough.
His wand flicked up before he thought better of it. Wordless and sharp, the trunk snapped shut with a loud, final crack. The latch sealed itself, magic locking it tight.
She froze. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. When she finally turned to face him, her expression was pure, stone cold fury, her mouth already shaping the words. "I do whatever I please."
His gaze did not soften. It did not waver. "This is a forced marriage, Pansy," he said, his voice steady but dangerous. "You cannot run."
Her lip curled. A bitter laugh tore from her throat, even as her eyes shone with unshed tears. The cruelty in her next words was deliberate, sharpened to wound. "You should be careful, Longbottom," she said coldly.
He took one step toward her, his voice dropping even lower. "Why?" he asked, though the answer already burned between them. "You would poison me too?"
That one struck deep.
Her whole body jolted as if he had slapped her. Her hands trembled now, still clenched tight, her breath coming faster as she stumbled back a step. Her voice rose, raw and cracking. "What the fuck is your problem?" she demanded. "Leave me alone, Neville. Just leave me alone."
But he did not.
"I would rather burn the world down than leave you alone," he shot back immediately. His voice broke under the weight of it, the desperation laid bare, his words teetering between confession and plea, between prayer and something already slipping too late.
She let out a choked, bitter laugh, shaking her head hard. "Too late now, isn't it?" she said, fury and heartbreak tangled together on her face, her defenses splintering even as she spoke. "If you do not want to be with me, and you think our real marriage was a mistake, then let me set you free."
His eyes darkened. His jaw tightened as he stared at her, the space between them both paper thin and impossibly wide. "You cannot unbind what is between us," he said quietly. The certainty in his voice ached.
She stepped forward then, reckless and shaking, and jabbed a finger into his chest. "What is between us is some fucking paperwork," she hissed. "That is all it is, Neville. Paperwork."
For a split second, something soft and wounded flickered across his face. Then it vanished. His expression hardened, his mouth twisting into something cold as the words settled between them, heavy and irreversible.
"Have it your way then," he said, and the ice in his voice cut sharper than any blade. "But if you take my daughter away from me, I will be the one who rats you out."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to splinter bone.
The color drained from her face. Her mouth fell open in shock before twisting into something feral. "How dare you," she whispered. Then her voice rose, fury breaking loose without restraint. "How dare you drag Sia into this."
Her voice cracked on their daughter's name. Her whole body shook now, grief and rage wound so tightly together she could not tell where one ended and the other began. For a breathless, brutal moment they simply stood there, staring at each other across the wreckage of everything they had tried to build. Love still burned between them, undeniable and furious, but it was warped now, poisoned by fear and resentment and the desperate need to win, even if winning meant destroying everything.
Neither of them moved.
His voice broke the silence first, rough and biting, the words sharp enough to wound even if they could not pierce the storm already tearing through her. "You need a fucking exorcist," he spat, and it should have sounded cruel, but instead it came out low and desperate, love twisted into something ugly and panicked.
Something in her chest gave way. Fury and heartbreak crashed together so violently she could not separate them. Without thinking, she snapped back, "Pack your shit," the words sharp and final, her voice shaking with the effort of holding back everything else, everything she refused to beg for.
He did not move. He did not blink. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, steady, and utterly unmovable. "No."
That was it. Whatever fragile restraint she had left shattered completely. She turned toward the closet without another word, her movements fast and reckless, as if speed alone could outrun the grief clawing at her chest. As if emptying the wardrobe could empty her heart.
She yanked the doors open with shaking hands and began tearing his clothes free. Shirts. Jackets. Anything she could grab. She shoved them into the nearest bag without folding, without care, as if punishing the fabric might somehow punish him too.
He followed her. Slow. Measured. The sound of his footsteps was infuriatingly calm, feeding fresh rage into nerves already stripped raw. He did not stop her. He did not speak. He simply closed the distance, patient and relentless, like someone who knew exactly how this would end.
When he reached her, he did not hesitate. He caught her wrists and spun her around so hard the breath slammed out of her lungs. Her back hit the wall, his body pressing in, caging her there without cruelty but with a force that was no less overwhelming for its restraint.
His chest rose and fell heavily. His breath brushed hot and rough against her cheek. She froze for a single heartbeat.
Then she reacted.
Her palm struck his face with a sharp crack, the sting blooming bright across his cheek. She hit him with every ounce of fury, betrayal, and heartbreak she had swallowed instead of screaming.
He absorbed the blow without recoiling. He did not release her.
His grip tightened, fingers digging into her wrists as though anchoring himself as much as holding her still. Then one hand shifted, sliding upward. His fingers wrapped around her throat, not squeezing, not hurting, just there. His thumb traced the fragile line of her jaw as he leaned in close enough that she could feel the heat of him everywhere at once.
His lips dragged slowly along her jawline, his breath warm and unsteady, words spilling rough and hoarse against her skin. "I love you more than anything in this world," he murmured, and there was no artifice left, no armor, nothing between them now but honesty and agony and the ugly, desperate ache of two people who didn't know how to stop colliding.
Her body trembled in his hold but her voice cut back sharp and defiant. "I hate you," she spat, and the words tasted bitter and bright on her tongue, but they felt good because they felt powerful, because she needed to wound him the way he had wounded her.
"It's a lie," he whispered, his voice softer now, almost gentle, and that gentleness was more devastating than his earlier fury. "We both know it."
And then his hand left her throat and slid lower, his touch slow and deliberate now, no longer angry but aching, fingers dragging along the curve of her hip, her waist, her thigh, claiming her the only way he still knew how.
His fingers slipped beneath the edge of her nightdress, skimming the skin there like a promise and a threat all at once.
His voice cut through the tension first, low and dark and curling around her like a net, the kind of tone that made her pulse quicken even as her jaw set with defiance.
"Are you going to be wet when I touch you?" he asked, almost a whisper, but there was nothing gentle in it, nothing soft in the way he stepped closer, his gaze locked on her with a dangerous, intimate knowing that scraped right under her skin.
Her breath hitched, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as if she could hold onto the last shred of composure she had left. "N-no," she breathed, and even she could hear the tremor in her voice, the lie too fragile to survive the space between them.
His smile was sharp and cruel and devastating all at once, not because he wanted to hurt her, but because he knew her, because he could read her body better than she could hide it.
"Lying little whore," he murmured, every word coiled tight with hunger and fury and aching affection, "You love this. We haven't argued in a long time and you haven't had the chance to come on my cock in weeks. I know you're aching for it."
Her lips parted as if to deny it again, as if she could maintain the fiction that she wasn't already shaking with anticipation, but the words faltered on her tongue, the lie too weak now, too transparent.
"I'm not," she whispered, but it was nothing more than a breath, a half-hearted protest that even she didn't believe.
He didn't wait for her to lie again. His hands moved fast, furious, tearing the dress from her shoulders in one smooth, merciless motion, the fabric ripping beneath his fingers as he stripped it from her body, leaving her breathless and bare in the low light.
"Nevie!" she gasped, a frantic edge to her voice, half a plea, half a scolding, her hands instinctively flying up to cover herself as her mind spun, "Sia—"
"She's sleeping," he said, his voice rough and sure and final, his fingers already threading through her hair, already tilting her chin up so he could claim her mouth.
His lips crashed against hers in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation and bruising affection, hard and unrelenting, stealing the breath from her lungs, his hands firm on her hips, dragging her closer until there was no space left between them, until there was nothing left to hold onto except each other and this furious, spiraling intimacy.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, his breath hot and uneven, he didn't loosen his hold. His fingers stroked down her jaw, tender even now, even after everything they had thrown at each other tonight.
"Our marriage," he said, his voice lower now, almost reverent but no less intense, "was never a mistake and it never will be. My heart stopped searching for anything else the moment I found you."
His words seared through her defenses, burned past her anger and pride and fear, and even though she wanted to shove him away, even though her hands still trembled with the force of everything they hadn't resolved, she couldn't stop leaning into him, couldn't stop craving the heat of him, couldn't stop the way her body betrayed her with every shiver and quickened breath.
And he knew it.
He knew every inch of her, every weakness, every wound, every secret she never spoke aloud—and right now he was wielding that knowledge like a weapon, like a lover, like a promise she couldn't bear to refuse.
Her breath hitched again, her throat tight as the heat of his words burned right through every defense she had so carefully rebuilt since this argument began.
She could still feel the torn remnants of her dress falling from her shoulders, the chill in the air at odds with the fever running beneath her skin.
His breath was hot against her mouth, his fingers firm on her jaw, but it was his words that undid her most of all, because she wanted to believe them. Desperately.
But she couldn't let herself fall so easily. Even as her breath hitched, even as her pulse quickened beneath his touch, she still needed him to say it, needed the words to ground her even while every part of her body was already betraying the stubbornness in her mind.
Her voice was tight, small, almost breaking. "Do you mean it?" she whispered, her fingers curling against his chest as if she could hold back the tide rising inside her.
He didn't answer. Instead, he lowered his mouth to her jaw, trailing slow, deliberate kisses along the fragile line of her throat and down the curve of her neck, his lips brushing her skin in a way that made her shiver even as she stiffened, desperate not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how easily she unraveled for him.
The heat of his breath was unbearable, and she crossed her legs instinctively, tightly, because the ache was already there, deep and pulsing, humiliating in its immediacy, inescapable no matter how hard she fought it.
She was wet—she knew it, and worse, he knew it too. Dripping, aching, desperate, even though her mind screamed that she shouldn't be.
He chuckled low against her throat, a dark, knowing sound that sent another shiver through her already trembling frame. "Hmm," he murmured, his voice rich with wicked affection, soft and devastating, "Open your legs, Bloom, and you'll see exactly what I mean."
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her breath sharp and uneven as she fought to keep her voice steady. "I—just answer me," she said, and this time the desperation was raw, almost childlike, breaking through her pride as she tilted her face toward his, needing the words as much as she feared them.
He paused for a breath, his gaze searching hers with an intensity that made her knees weak, and when he spoke, his voice was low and steady, almost reverent.
"I would never, ever leave you," he said simply, the truth in those words hitting her harder than any argument they had thrown at each other tonight, harder than any insult or accusation or cruel barb.
Before she could speak, before she could process the tremble in her chest at hearing it, he moved—fast, spinning her around so that her back met his chest, his arm sliding around her waist as he pressed her forward until her palms met the cold, unforgiving surface of the mirror.
The shock of cool glass against her skin made her gasp, the chill racing up her spine and settling into her shoulders, grounding her just enough to keep from drowning in the heat of him completely. The press of her bare breast against the cold surface sent another shiver through her body, sharp and fleeting, a moment of clarity amid the fever building between them.
Her breath fogged the mirror, her reflection a blur of flushed skin and wild hair and wide, vulnerable eyes, and for a single, fragile heartbeat she felt almost steady again, but then he leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear, and all that fragile steadiness dissolved once more into aching want.
His hand didn't hesitate.
It slipped between her thighs, possessive and precise, as if it belonged there, like he'd memorized every inch of her already. She gasped when his fingers parted her, slick and hot and utterly exposed, the cool air brushing against her swollen folds as he dragged two fingers through her wetness.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word reverent. "You're soaked, bloom."
Pansy tried to turn her face away, to hide from her own reflection, but he caught her chin and angled it forward, forcing her gaze to stay locked on the mirror. Her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide with helpless need.
"Don't look away," he murmured against her ear. "I want you to see how fucking beautiful you are when you come for me."
His fingers found her clit with maddening slowness, circling it gently, then more firmly as her body reacted without permission, hips bucking back against him, thighs trembling as she bit her lip to keep from crying out.
"You hate how much you need this, don't you?" he whispered, his breath hot against her neck. "You hate how easily I can make you fall apart."
"Nevie," she moaned, voice breaking as his fingers slipped lower, finding her entrance and sinking in, slow and smooth, the stretch making her breath catch in her throat. "Please—"
"Please what?" he asked, pumping his fingers in a torturously slow rhythm, his palm grinding against her clit just enough to make her shudder. "Say it. Use that brilliant mouth."
Her eyes fluttered closed, but he stilled completely—hand buried between her thighs, body pressed against hers.
"Eyes open," he growled, quiet but firm.
She obeyed.
In the mirror, she could see everything: the way her back arched, her nipples brushing the cold glass, the hungry, feral look in Neville's eyes as he watched her fall apart from behind.
His fingers began to move again—faster now, curling just right, stroking her inside while his thumb circled her clit with devastating skill.
Her moans grew louder, needier. Her nails scratched at the glass. "I—I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he said, kissing her shoulder. "Look at yourself. Look at what I do to you."
That was it. That did it.
Her body seized around his fingers, pleasure crashing over her like a wave. She cried out, raw and open, the mirror fogging from her panting breaths as she watched herself fall to pieces in his arms. His free hand held her tight as she rode the high, trembling, helpless, completely his.
As she came down, she sagged against him, eyes still locked on the mirror, her body limp but humming. He slowly withdrew his fingers, dragging them up to her lips.
"Taste it," he said softly, brushing them over her mouth.
She sucked them into her mouth, eyes fluttering closed with a soft moan, and he looked like he might lose control right then and there.
She was still flushed from the orgasm he'd just coaxed out of her minutes earlier, skin dewy, thighs slick. And yet, she was already kneeling again, hunger written across every line of her body.
Her eyes locked on his as she licked her lips.
"You have something that I want," Pansy murmured, her voice honeyed and low.
Neville raised an eyebrow, arms folding loosely as he looked down at her. His smile was slow, teasing. "Princess… you're very, very needy tonight. Didn't I just make you come?"
Her response was a smirk that bordered on bratty. "Now, Nevie."
He chuckled, then reached down and gave her the lightest slap—just a whisper of contact across her cheek. The sound was more shocking than the touch, and she gasped, thighs pressing together involuntarily. Her pupils dilated instantly.
Without a word, he vanished his own clothes with a flick of his wand, and her gaze dropped instantly, lips parting as he stepped close enough for the tip of his cock to rest lightly on her tongue.
He brushed a hand through her hair, tilting her face up gently.
"Be a good girl for me, love," he said, his voice rough with affection and something darker beneath.
She moaned softly in response, eyes fluttering shut as she wrapped her lips around him, letting herself fall into the rhythm of obedience, of worship, of them.
Her lips parted with a quiet, eager breath as he rested the head of his cock on her tongue. Her lashes fluttered as she looked up at him, not for approval, but to show him that she wanted this, wanted him, in every possible way.
Neville's hand stayed in her hair, his fingers threading gently through the strands. His touch wasn't rough. It was steady. Possessive. Protective in a way that made her stomach twist with heat.
He didn't need to guide her. Pansy knew exactly what she was doing.
She eased forward, taking him into her mouth inch by inch, the warmth of her lips wrapping around him with exquisite care. Her tongue pressed flat beneath him as she swallowed deeper, pausing just long enough to adjust, then pulling back slowly so her lips slid against his skin in a way that made his hips twitch.
Neville exhaled sharply, his other hand gripping the edge of the dresser behind him as he looked down at her. The sight of her, on her knees, flushed and focused, her mouth wrapped around him with that dangerous little sparkle in her eyes, made his heart pound just as hard as his pulse did below the waist.
She moaned around him, the sound low and sinful, and he felt the vibration all the way through him.
Her hands slid to his thighs, holding him steady as she found her rhythm. Slow at first. Purposeful. This wasn't about power anymore. This was about them. About making the space between their bodies feel whole again.
Her lips glided smoothly over him as she took him deep again, deeper this time, her throat relaxing with practiced ease. A flick of her tongue under the ridge made him groan, his knees weakening slightly. He let his head fall back for a moment, eyes closed, letting her take control.
Pansy was relentless now. Not rough. But thorough. Every pass of her mouth was a promise, every swirl of her tongue a plea for closeness. She pulled back just enough to kiss the head, soft and deliberate, before taking him back in with a low hum of satisfaction.
Spit slicked her lips, a thin line of it connecting her mouth to him when she briefly pulled off to catch her breath.
"Look at you," Neville murmured, voice thick and ragged. "You're… fuck, you're so good at this."
She looked up, her lips curved around him in the ghost of a smile, then took him back in deeper than before. Her throat worked around him, and his grip in her hair tightened, just enough to make her whimper in response.
He was close. Too close. But he didn't want it to end.
"Wait," he said suddenly, his voice hoarse as he pulled her back gently. "Come here."
Pansy blinked, her lips swollen, chin damp, pupils blown wide. Her breath came in short gasps as she stood, and Neville caught her around the waist, pulling her into him so fast her knees nearly gave out.
He kissed her, deeply, messily tasting himself on her tongue, not caring in the slightest. His hands roamed over her body like he was rediscovering her, anchoring her to him again after hours of distance.
His hands moved slowly up her legs, fingertips whispering over her bare thighs, thumbs brushing the tender hollows near her hips. He looked up at her for a moment, not to ask permission, but to see her. To feel that old ache between them flicker into something softer, something whole.
Without a word, he dipped forward and pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh, right where the skin was thinnest and most sensitive.
He kissed her like she was something delicate and sacred, like her body was a language he had learned long ago and still never got tired of reading. The moment his lips moved higher and his breath passed over her, she gripped the edge of a shelf behind her for balance, her knuckles going white.
Neville's mouth found her with purpose. He licked her slowly, taking his time, letting her feel every motion of his tongue, every careful flick and slow swirl. His hands gripped her hips, anchoring her as his mouth moved lower, then higher, teasing her until she was trembling. He knew exactly where she needed him. He always did.
He found her clit with the flat of his tongue and stroked her in long, firm motions until her thighs tightened around his shoulders.
She gasped, her breath catching in her throat as her hips bucked forward. One hand dropped into his hair, fingers twisting, not to pull him away, but to keep him there. He moaned into her, the sound vibrating against her in a way that made her curse under her breath.
"Gods, Nevie," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Please. Please don't stop."
He didn't stop. He licked her like he had all night to stay buried between her legs, like the taste of her was the only thing that could ground him. He sucked gently, then licked again, his tongue moving in slow, expert circles.
When she began to rock against his mouth, grinding forward helplessly, he slid one hand down and eased a finger inside her, then another, curling just right.
Her legs trembled. Her whole body arched. She was panting now, flushed and open and raw, every nerve lit up from his mouth and his fingers and the way he groaned low against her with each wave of pleasure that rolled through her.
She came hard, sharp and sudden, her moan caught between his name and a half-sob as her head dropped back against the wall. He held her through it, his fingers still working her gently, his mouth kissing her softly, riding out every shiver that rippled through her limbs.
When she finally opened her eyes, he was still kneeling, lips glistening, gaze full of heat and something devastatingly tender.
"You always taste like coming home," he said quietly.
Pansy let out a breathless laugh, still recovering, her chest rising and falling.
Neville lifted her effortlessly, his hands firm at the curve of her thighs, pressing her against the wall so there was no space left between them. The coolness of the wood behind her made her skin feel hotter, more alive under his touch.
She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, feeling the solid strength of him holding her up, and her fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders as she pulled him closer.
He kissed her with desperate hunger, teeth grazing over her bottom lip, his tongue slipping in to explore as their mouths moved in a frantic rhythm. His hands slid beneath her, one pressing low on her back to keep her steady, the other tracing every inch of her bare skin, memorizing the softness and heat and shivers he could coax out with just a touch.
Neville didn't wait. He pushed inside her with slow, sure force that stole her breath away. She gasped, legs tightening instinctively around him, the way he filled her both physically and emotionally leaving her raw and trembling.
His body pressed against hers, chest flush with her own, their heartbeats hammering in tandem as he set a pace that was relentless but not cruel. A reckoning born from everything they'd fought through.
Her nails dragged down his back, leaving red streaks she would later kiss, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The mix of pain and pleasure, anger and longing, spilled over until her entire being was consumed by him, by the way he held her, by the sound of his ragged breathing in her ear.
"Parky," Neville growled, voice thick with emotion and need. "I love you."
Her body clenched around him at the sound of her name, the tenderness in his tone cracking through the roughness between them. She whispered back, breathless and fierce, "I love you more."
He kissed the side of her neck, then her jaw, trailing down to her collarbone, marking her with lips and teeth in a way that was possessive and tender all at once.
His hands gripped her hips tightly as he thrust deeper, each movement rougher, more urgent, as if they were trying to make up for lost time, for the harsh words, the silences, the distance.
She pressed her forehead against his, matching his pace with her own, the heat between them a fierce blaze that swallowed everything else. Her voice was raw when she spoke again, "You're mine. Forever."
Neville smiled against her skin, the barest hint of a grin before his lips moved lower, capturing one breast with his mouth, sucking and teasing until she moaned loud and deep, her fingers tangling in his hair.
The way he worshipped her, knew her body so intimately, made her ache in places she hadn't even realized were empty.
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, dark and glistening with desire. "You drive me insane, Bloom."
"And you love me anyway," she breathed.
"Yes," he said simply. "With everything I have."
Their bodies moved together like a storm, chaotic and wild and perfectly in sync. He kissed, bit, whispered her name over and over, each word a promise and a plea. She clung to him, her nails digging in deeper, matching his intensity, refusing to let go.
The world around them disappeared until there was nothing but the heat between their skin, the frantic rhythm of their breathing, and the fierce beat of two hearts desperate to connect. Every motion was electric, every glance a declaration. Neither held back. Neither wanted to.
As they reached the peak together, trembling and gasping, their voices mingling in whispered confessions and desperate pleas, they found not just release but a profound affirmation of everything that tied them, love, trust, and the fierce certainty that they belonged to each other, no matter what storms came their way.
~~~~~~
Pansy did not knock when she entered Nott Manor. She never did. Why would she?
The heavy oak door to Theo's study stood slightly ajar, a spill of warm golden light bleeding into the shadowed corridor. She slipped inside without hurry, her fingers brushing the doorframe as though the familiar wood might steady the restless knot in her chest.
She told herself she was here for something simple. Just a visit. Just to see how he was. How they were. She had not seen Luna in days, and Luna's absence always left a particular ache behind, one that felt suspiciously like love disguised as irritation.
Then her eyes adjusted.
Theo sat deep in one of the leather armchairs, all sharp lines and stillness, but Luna was there too, curled across his lap as if the chair had been made for the two of them together.
Her bare feet were tucked beneath her, pale hair spilling over one shoulder in a soft silver fall. She hummed quietly, almost absently, tracing slow shapes across the back of Theo's hand with one slender finger. She looked rooted there, settled, as though she had always belonged in that place, in him.
Neither of them seemed surprised to see her.
Theo lifted his gaze at last, dark and unreadable, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Luna did not even pause her humming. Her head rested lightly against his shoulder, as if the idea of interruption simply did not exist.
Pansy swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "How are you?" she asked, the words sharp and clipped despite herself.
It was not what she wanted to say.
She wanted to demand an explanation.
She wanted to ask where the hell they had been.
She wanted to scream that she had almost lost everyone she loved while they sat here like this.
Instead, all that escaped was that one question. How are you.
Theo smiled slowly. It was a thin smile, sharp at the edges, the kind that never reached his eyes.
"We're very well," he said, his voice smooth and quiet, weighted with something deliberate. It sounded almost like a warning.
Luna lifted her gaze then, pale blue eyes meeting Pansy's with that unnerving calm she wore like armor. "Better than you might think," she added softly.
Pansy did not sit. She folded her arms across her chest. "You look comfortable," she said coolly, her heart beating harder than she cared to admit.
Theo's fingers drifted along Luna's bare arm, slow and unhurried. His tone remained conversational, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable. "We should be," he replied. "We've just finished dealing with a very odd problem."
Pansy froze. Her fingers dug into the edge of the table as the meaning settled in her chest. Her pulse thudded in her throat, fast and sharp. For a moment she could not move, could not think past the shock tightening around her ribs.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low and edged with something dangerously close to relief. "Who?"
Luna answered without hesitation, her voice gentle and clear, almost casual. "Titus."
Pansy let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. "Thank god," she muttered.
Theo leaned forward slightly, one arm still secure around Luna's waist as though she were something precious and unquestioned. His voice dropped, bitter and cold. "God was not there, Pansy," he said quietly. "That bastard was my blood, and he was chasing some girl who looked like Luna."
Luna spoke before he could continue, her tone soft, almost dreamy, though something unyielding ran beneath it. "Or Seline," she murmured, her fingers brushing Theo's collar. "So it is over now. It is done."
A shiver ran through Pansy at the simplicity of it, because there was no regret in their voices and no hesitation either, only truth and the heavy stillness that followed something necessary and irreversible.
"That man had the devil in him," Pansy whispered, her voice raw now, fierce with old instincts and long-held suspicions, her eyes stinging as she shook her head. "I fucking knew. I always knew."
Theo's gaze did not waver, and neither did Luna's soft, unsettling smile. They did not flinch or argue or attempt to justify what had been done, because there was nothing here that required apology.
There was no guilt hanging in the air, only a quiet understanding shared between the three of them that Titus's death was not a tragedy at all, but a correction long overdue.
Somewhere beneath the shock, the horror, and the strange wash of relief, Pansy felt it settle into place. This quiet aftermath, this shared darkness and calm acceptance, was the closest any of them had come to peace in a very long time.
She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself enough to ask the question that mattered most. "How are my Godbabies?" she murmured, her voice softening as her arms folded tight across her chest, as though she could physically hold the weight of that fear.
Luna's smile warmed, her gaze gentling even as she remained curled comfortably in Theo's lap, entirely at home there. "Your beautiful godchildren don't know a thing," she said gently, her fingers tracing slow circles across the back of Theo's hand. "And I would like it to stay that way."
Pansy straightened instinctively, bristling even though she knew the words were not an accusation. "I would never," she began, but Theo's voice slid calmly over hers, low and certain.
"Neither would Neville," he said, meeting her eyes without heat or challenge, only quiet conviction.
Pansy exhaled, her fingers tightening slightly around her elbows as she nodded. "Of course," she said softly, as if she needed the reminder that she was still trusted, still part of this strange and unspoken circle.
Her expression shifted then, a shadow crossing her face as she hesitated before admitting the truth. "He wants me to stop," she said, her voice dropping. "He wants me to stop working."
"But you will not," he replied, his tone flat and factual, as though this outcome had been inevitable from the moment Neville asked.
Pansy lifted her chin at once, her spine straightening with something close to pride. "Of course I will not," she said firmly, her voice strengthening as she spoke. "Those women need me."
Luna nodded, her smile unwavering, her fingers still moving in soft, absent patterns against Theo's hand as her gaze stayed locked on Pansy. "I know, love," she murmured, and the sincerity in her voice left Pansy momentarily breathless, truly seen.
For a brief moment, despite everything, there was only quiet between them, filled with shared loyalty and the strange, terrible, unbreakable kind of love that bound them together.
~~~~~~
Pansy did not usually bother knocking, but today she did, for entirely practical reasons.
Blaise Zabini would make a spectacle of answering the door if given the opportunity, and she did not have the patience for that. There was also the very real risk of seeing Ginny naked, which was not an experience she wished to collect.
The sitting room was its usual disaster. A half played chess game sat abandoned on the low table. Ginny's boots were kicked off near the fireplace. Blaise's favorite glass decanter rested on the sideboard, suspiciously empty.
Ginny was curled at one end of the sofa, a book balanced precariously on her knee and a mug of tea she clearly had not touched in hours. Blaise sprawled at the other end, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes like he was posing for a portrait titled Tragic Survivor.
Neither of them looked remotely worse for wear.
"You're alive, I see," Pansy drawled from the doorway, arching a brow as she slipped off her gloves and dropped them onto the table without asking.
Blaise did not move or lower his arm. "Barely," he said mournfully, though the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth ruined the performance.
Ginny did not look up from her book. She took a sip of tea and smirked. "Ignore him, Pans. He's milking it."
"Milking what, exactly?" Pansy asked dryly as she perched on the arm of a chair. "Your brush with death? I expected you to look pale and haunted. You look well fed."
Blaise sighed extravagantly and finally lowered his arm so he could fix her with a wounded stare. "I nearly died, darling," he said. "Where is your compassion? Your concern for my fragile, heroic constitution?"
Pansy rolled her eyes, though she could not quite suppress the smile. "I came to ask how you were feeling, Zabini, but you are already unbearable again, so I assume recovery is going splendidly."
He stretched lazily, long legs claiming far too much space, and smirked. "Physically, excellent. Emotionally, scarred for life. Ginny refused to smuggle in a decent bottle of firewhisky during my recovery. A cruelty I may never forgive."
Ginny tossed a cushion at him without lifting her gaze. "You were not supposed to be drinking, idiot."
"And yet I suffered," he murmured, clutching the cushion to his chest.
Pansy turned her attention to Ginny. "And you? How are you surviving this martyrdom?"
Ginny finally set her book aside, her grin wide and wicked. "Oh, he's a nightmare. I keep tempting him with all sorts of vices just to watch him sulk. Took him to a pub last night just to wave a pint in his face."
"You're evil," Blaise said, sounding genuinely impressed.
"You married me," Ginny replied sweetly.
"And I regret nothing," Blaise said, reaching out to tug a lock of her hair.
Pansy watched them with a mix of amusement and reluctant affection. They were ridiculous, completely unbearable, and somehow deeply comforting. After the cold, eerie quiet of Theo and Luna's house, this messy warmth felt like a balm she had not known she needed.
She crossed her legs elegantly and leaned back. "So you are both fine then? No lingering trauma, no dramatic brooding phases I need to prepare for?"
Blaise lifted a brow. "Oh, I brood. Deeply. But only when Ginny leaves the room so I can stare into the fire and pretend I am tragic."
"He spent two days asking if I would cry prettily at his funeral," Ginny added with a smirk.
"Did she promise?" Pansy asked, intrigued.
"She said she would trip over her robes and fall into the grave out of spite," Blaise replied mournfully, fondness shining through his eyes.
Pansy laughed, surprised by the sound of it. A real laugh, bright and unguarded, shaking loose some of the tension she had carried in with her. "Well. At least you two have not lost your charm."
Ginny winked as she stood to fetch more tea. "Charm, no. Sanity is still questionable."
Blaise stretched out again on the sofa, grinning like the devil himself, and Pansy felt a warmth settle in her chest that she had not felt in days. They were alive. Still joking. Still ridiculous. And for the first time since everything had fallen apart, it felt like something was finally beginning to stitch itself back together.