Hermione had known for a little while now that she was pregnant.
Long enough for the panic to soften at the edges. Long enough for the joy to arrive slowly and stay, settling into her chest like a second heartbeat that no longer startled her when she noticed it.
Long enough to let the truth exist without rushing it, without explaining it, without letting anyone else touch it before she was ready.
She had needed time. Time to sit with it in silence. Time to let the meaning unfold without commentary or reassurance. Time to feel it grow into something solid and unmistakable on its own terms.
There was something almost sacred about those first few days, when it was only hers. Just the quiet hum of beginnings. Just the slow awareness of something changing inside her. Her babies. Hers and Draco's.
Even thinking the words made her breath hitch. Her hand drifted to her stomach instinctively, as if the contact might anchor the thought in something physical. It still felt abstract, distant in places, but it was becoming real in small, undeniable ways.
And once it began to feel real, once the fear loosened its grip and her thoughts stopped spiralling with every unfamiliar sensation, she found herself planning. Not only what to say, but how to say it.
This was the beginning of everything.
And she knew exactly who she wanted to tell first.
The three women who had seen her in every version of herself. Who had loved her when she was insufferable and held her steady when she felt unrecognisable even to herself. The ones who had stayed when staying had not been easy.
The problem was how.
Each of them was so different. Each of them mattered in ways Hermione could never fully articulate, not without losing her voice in the attempt.
Luna would already know. Hermione could picture it perfectly. That gentle smile, the calm certainty in her eyes. She would say something strange and luminous, something about cycles or moonlight or beginnings that did not need names. Then she would sit back, serene, like she had simply been waiting for Hermione to catch up.
Pansy and Luna would scream. There was no avoiding that. They would clutch her chest, declare catastrophe, and immediately begin planning. There would be opinions. There would be demands. Proper tailoring. Mandatory rest. At least two spa days before Hermione was allowed to make a single decision for herself.
And Ginny. Sweet, fierce Ginny.
She would go very still. Her eyes would shine before she realised they were filling with tears. She would attempt a joke, fail halfway through it, and then cry openly. And when she hugged Hermione, she would mean it with everything she had, like love was something you wrapped around someone and refused to loosen.
It was not just about saying the words. It was about the moment itself.
A memory they would carry forward. Something they would look back on years later, long after the details blurred, remembering only the feeling. The warmth. The disbelief. The way the room had felt too full of love to contain it.
Hermione did not want it to be simple. She wanted it to be theirs.
Because this was not only her pregnancy. It was their joy. Their miracle. Something shared and held together.
She wanted to tell them in a way they would remember.
She wanted to get it right.
It was one of those nights that came together without planning, the kind that always ended up meaning the most. Ginny showed up first, barefoot, hair still damp from a shower, holding a half finished bottle of wine and a bag of salted caramel popcorn like an offering meant to buy forgiveness in advance. She did not knock. She simply shouted up the stairs until Hermione appeared in pyjamas, already smiling like she had been waiting for the sound of her voice.
Pansy arrived ten minutes later, sweeping in as though the flat belonged to her by divine right, wrapped in silk loungewear and judgment. Her gaze flicked immediately to Ginny's oversized Harpies shirt and lingered with visible concern.
"You have a hole under the arm," she announced, handing over a bottle of champagne. "I sincerely hope that was a deliberate choice."
Luna came last, as she always did. She wore what might once have been a ballgown, soft grey tulle layered over leggings, paired with a cardigan missing several buttons. In her arms was a bundle of crystals wrapped in gauze and an unlabeled tin of tea.
"I brought grounding things," she said calmly, before moving through the room and placing the crystals around the space as though setting wards.
By the time the fire was burning properly, every cushion and blanket had been dragged from the furniture and piled onto the floor in an untidy nest. The wine was open. The popcorn had already spilled once. A scratchy jazz record played softly, old and imperfect and exactly right.
Pansy had painted her nails a dramatic blood red and was waving her hands under Hermione's nose, demanding admiration. Ginny cradled the popcorn bowl like it might try to escape. Luna sat close to the fire, knees tucked to her chest, toes angled toward the warmth.
Hermione had been waiting.
Not just for them, but for the right moment. For the right breath.
Luna spoke without lifting her gaze.
"You are glowing," she said quietly. "More than usual."
Hermione stilled. She had imagined doing this with a toast, or after the second glass of wine, or when someone finally asked the right question. Instead the truth sat there between them, quiet and undeniable.
She skipped the buildup.
"Well," she said, her fingers brushing her stomach, "that is because I am growing actual people."
The room froze.
Ginny shot upright, eyes wide. "Sorry, what?"
"I'm pregnant," Hermione said, steady and clear. "It's early, but I'm sure."
Silence stretched, thick and stunned.
Then Pansy made a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a shriek and launched herself forward.
"No. You are lying. You are absolutely joking. You would never be this casual. Merlin's tits, you are serious."
Ginny laughed once, sharp and startled, and then burst into tears. "You are having a baby. A real one. Inside you."
Hermione nodded, her smile wobbling. "Twins, actually."
That broke whatever restraint remained. Ginny screamed. Pansy screamed louder. Luna clapped her hands once and murmured, "Of course," like this had been obvious for ages and everyone else was simply late.
Ginny flung herself across the blankets and wrapped Hermione up completely, arms tight and fierce. "You angel," she sniffed. "I love you so much."
Pansy did not cry, but her hands shook as she grabbed Hermione's foot, grounding herself through touch. "I am designing the nursery. No one else. I want mood boards. I want layered textures. I want something whimsical but expensive. And if anyone gives you baby clothes with frogs on them, I will commit arson."
"Pansy," Hermione groaned, laughing. "Please. I am begging you. No drama. I already have Draco."
Luna smiled from her place by the fire. "You are going to have a peaceful, grounded pregnancy"
She turned her head slowly and looked directly at Pansy, who met her stare with open defiance.
"Fine," Pansy muttered, folding her arms. "But I am still vetoing the mobile."
Ginny had settled back into the cushions, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.
"You are going to be an incredible mum," she said softly. "And I cannot wait to watch the ferret panic about hormones and bra sizes."
"Do not say bra sizes," Hermione laughed. "He is already researching breast pumps like it is a dissertation."
Pansy cackled. "We are absolutely babysitting."
"No," Hermione said immediately.
"Yes," all three replied together.
And that was it.
The fire crackled. The popcorn went cold. Someone poured more wine. Someone added another pillow. Hermione sat there in the middle of it all, the noise and the laughter and the chaos wrapping around her, and felt something settle deep in her chest.
This was what she had wanted.
The love. The madness. The joy of being fully known and still completely adored.
~~~~~~
The front door creaked open as softly as it could manage, but even that small sound made Pansy wince, like it was louder than it had any right to be in a house that had finally gone still for the night.
She eased off her heels with the tired, careful grace that only came from surviving too much emotion in too few hours, then slipped into the dim hallway on quiet feet. The familiar scent wrapped around her immediately. Lavender, faint traces of baby shampoo, the lingering warmth of something safe and lived in. It felt like a memory.
The fire in the sitting room had burned itself down to a bed of glowing embers. A single lamp remained on, casting soft light across the couch where Neville sat slouched to one side, shirt wrinkled beyond saving, hair mussed from running his hands through it too many times, socks spectacularly mismatched. He looked exhausted, half asleep but stubbornly upright, the picture of a man staying awake on nothing but devotion and sheer will.
The second she stepped into view, his eyes lifted to hers, heavy with sleep but clear enough to recognise her instantly.
"You're late," he murmured, his voice rough from waiting.
Pansy let her bag slide off her shoulder and land on the nearest armchair with theatrical flair, already sighing like the night had personally wronged her.
"I was emotionally ambushed," she said, stepping into the light. "By two emotionally unhinged women and one ginger menace who cried into the popcorn and nearly dragged me down with her."
Neville pushed himself up and moved toward her with that steady calm she trusted more than her own pulse. Before she could collapse gracelessly onto the cushions, his arms came around her waist, drawing her in with a familiarity that asked nothing and offered everything.
"Everything alright?" he asked, his voice lower now, softened by concern.
She did not answer at once. She pressed her face into his chest instead, as though it were the only solid thing left in the world, like she needed to feel his heartbeat to anchor herself. When she finally spoke, her words were muffled against him.
"Hermione's pregnant."
There was a brief pause, the kind where the air itself seemed to stop and recalibrate.
Then Neville spoke, stunned.
"Wait. What?"
Pansy pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes wide and sincere.
"Twins," she said, the word still carrying disbelief. "Actual, tiny humans. Inside her. Right now. Multiplying."
Neville stared for a moment, as if his mind needed to check the maths twice. Then he blinked.
"Bloody hell."
"I know," she said quietly, still shaking her head.
A slow grin tugged at his mouth.
"Did you cry?"
She scoffed immediately, nose wrinkling in offence.
"Obviously not."
"Ginny?"
"She wept like the popcorn personally delivered the news."
He swallowed a laugh, lowering his voice instinctively.
"Luna?"
"Luna," Pansy said flatly, "acted like she found out last week in a dream and had simply been waiting for the rest of us to catch up."
His fingers brushed her cheek, warm and grounding.
"And you? Are you alright?"
Her nod came slower this time, the weight of the evening finally settling into her bones.
"Yeah. I just needed to come home. To you. And to her."
Together, they glanced up toward the ceiling, where the faint hum of breathing carried softly through the charm ward. The sound tugged something tight inside Pansy's chest and eased it open.
She exhaled at last, letting go of the final frayed thread she had been carrying since she left.
Neville leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, gentle enough to undo her completely.
"Come on then," he whispered. "Let's go stare at her for a bit and get emotional about how small her socks are."
Her fingers slid into his without hesitation.
"Obviously," she murmured.
Side by side, they crept up the stairs like children sneaking into a sacred place, hearts already too full.
The hallway held a hush that only arrived after everything else had settled. The world beyond the windows was asleep, the night air damp and still, whispering through the cracks like it was trying not to wake the house. Pansy moved quietly, her dressing gown trailing behind her, soft cotton brushing the polished floor as she padded barefoot through the space she now called home. She did not speak. Neville did not either, because they did not need to.
The charm above the staircase shimmered faintly as they passed beneath it, the echo of baby breath lingering like a memory suspended in the air. Seraphina was asleep, properly asleep, the kind of deep, warm surrender only children managed. The quiet here was not empty. It was sacred.
Pansy hesitated outside the nursery, her hand resting lightly on the doorframe, fingers curling around the wood as though she needed to anchor herself before stepping inside. Neville stood behind her, solid and warm, the familiar scent of him wrapping around her like a blanket. He did not rush her. He waited, because he knew this part belonged to her.
She pushed the door open slowly, the hinge giving only the faintest sound. The nursery had always been her favourite room, not because it was perfect, because it was not. The curtains were too long, the rug frayed at the corners, the wallpaper seam stubborn despite every charm she had thrown at it. But it was warm. It was safe. The cot sat beneath the window, draped in a canopy that caught the moonlight like lace. Stars covered the ceiling, her stars, uneven and hand painted because she had refused every spell Neville offered. This way they were messy and real, like everything else they had built together.
The room felt warmer than the rest of the house, as though it remembered their daughter better than any magic ever could. It smelled faintly of baby lotion and lavender, sachets tucked into the corners beneath the windowsill, wrapped in silk pouches threaded with silver. Not for protection. Not for magic. Just because it made the room feel like an exhale.
Seraphina slept curled on her side, one tiny hand escaped from the blanket and resting near her face. Her mouth was parted slightly, breath soft and steady. Damp curls clung to her forehead, the back of her neck flushed pink with sleep.
Pansy crossed the room first, as she always did. Her steps were careful, reverent, a tenderness she never allowed herself in public. She leaned over the cot, one hand resting on the edge while the other brushed a curl away from Seraphina's cheek. Her fingers hovered before settling, featherlight.
"She's warm," she whispered, not to Neville, not even to herself, but to the room. "Too warm. She kicked the blanket off again."
Neville stepped up behind her, his gaze soft as he looked down at the little girl they had made. His hand settled at the small of Pansy's back, quiet and grounding. He brushed his lips just above her temple.
"She does that when she's dreaming," he said gently. "Kicks. Throws punches. Like her mum."
Pansy did not look away. "You're not still calling her that, are you."
"Only sometimes."
"You'll give her a complex."
"She's a baby, Pans."
"She's our baby."
He did not argue.
She reached in and pulled the blanket back into place, careful not to wake her. The fabric caught on a tiny toe, Seraphina twitching once before settling again. Pansy's shoulders loosened.
"She's getting so big," she murmured, disbelief thinning her voice. "She couldn't even roll over not long ago. Now she's pulling herself up and screaming when I try to cut her nails."
Neville chuckled quietly. "It's because you act like you're performing surgery."
"I'm trying not to draw blood."
"She's got my skin. She'll survive."
"She's got your temper too."
They both looked at her then, at the small fists, the stubborn little mouth, the curls already unruly even in sleep.
"She's going to destroy us when she figures out she can talk," Pansy said.
"I'll go first," Neville replied. "You'll last longer. Not by much."
Pansy let out a tired laugh, more breath than sound, then leaned back until her shoulders rested against his chest. He adjusted without thinking, arms wrapping around her from behind.
"Do you think she'll remember this," she asked softly.
Neville lowered his head to hers. "Not this moment. But she'll remember how it felt. She'll grow up knowing what safety is."
"She'll remember how it smells in here," Pansy said. "Lavender. Baby soap. That awful Muggle cream you insist on."
"She'll remember the warmth."
"She'll remember you," Pansy whispered. "You kneeling by her cot. You holding her hand after nightmares. You making those ridiculous animal noises when you change her."
He smiled against her hair. "And she'll remember you. The silk dressing gowns. The lullabies with words you invent. The way you let her fall asleep on your chest even when your back hurts."
Pansy closed her eyes and let it settle.
"She's going to grow up too fast."
"Maybe," Neville said. "But we'll be right here."
They stayed like that, bodies pressed together, watching the steady rise and fall of their daughter's chest, wrapped in a silence that did not need to be broken.
Seraphina was asleep in the cot by the window, her body curled on its side, hands tucked beneath her chin like a little thinker lost in a private dream. One foot had slipped free of the blanket, toes twitching now and then as if she were chasing something just out of reach. A faint smile lingered at the corner of her mouth, easy and unbothered.
Pansy moved closer, her steps instinctively light, as though her body still remembered how fragile those newborn nights had felt. She leaned forward, resting her hand on the edge of the cot as she looked down.
Her daughter's curls formed a wild halo, sticking to her forehead and ears, sweet and slightly sticky with sleep. Her cheeks were flushed pink with heat, the kind that came from a day spent shrieking about frogs or dragging a blanket behind her like a queen in exile.
"She's growing too fast," Pansy whispered, her voice barely more than breath.
Neville joined her at the cot, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed. "She's still so little," he said, though there was uncertainty in it.
Pansy reached down and brushed a curl away from Seraphina's temple. "She doesn't feel little. Look at her. That foot is practically adult sized. She has ankles now. She did not used to have ankles."
Neville made a soft sound that might have been a laugh if it had not caught in his throat. "I think the ankles are from you."
Pansy glanced at him with a sideways smile. "My ankles are excellent, thank you."
"They are. That's why she got them," he said, and he meant it.
The enchanted lamp cast a gentle glow across the cot, shadows pooling softly along the floor. Painted stars shimmered faintly on the ceiling above them, still glowing months later, though the spell flickered near one corner. Neville had promised to fix it weeks ago. Pansy had never reminded him.
She liked the way it blinked sometimes, as if the stars were winking.
"I still don't know how we ended up here," Pansy said quietly.
Neville touched the back of her hand. "I do."
Her throat tightened. "Do you remember what I was like the day she was born?"
He nodded at once. "You yelled at three medics. You were sick into a bowl shaped like a duck. And then you held her like your hands had always known how."
Pansy let out a sound caught between laughter and tears. "I was terrified."
"You were brilliant."
"I was loud."
"You were magic."
She rested her head against his shoulder and let the silence return.
Seraphina shifted in her sleep, arms stretching above her head like a cat. Her lips parted and a tiny snore escaped. Pansy's chest ached at the sound.
"She has your mouth," Neville said, his hand warm at her back.
Pansy smirked. "That poor child."
"She'll grow into it."
Neville lingered behind her for a moment, arms folded, leaning against the doorway as if his legs had suddenly remembered the day. The light caught the corner of his smile. He did not need to speak. She could feel the way his gaze settled on their daughter, the quiet pride and softness rolling off him.
"She smells like milk and mischief," Pansy whispered, her voice almost lost to the shadows.
Neville chuckled softly. "That's because you gave her a biscuit before bed again."
"She asked."
"She does not speak yet."
"She asked."
He stepped beside her and reached into the cot to straighten the blanket she had already tucked. His knuckles brushed hers. "You spoil her."
"I earned that right," Pansy said, lifting her chin.
"Yes," he replied. "You did."
They watched her sleep a while longer, both of them breathing slower, the day's noise easing out of their bodies. The house held its quiet the way only a house with a sleeping child could, every beam and board aware of the cost of disturbance.
"I don't know how to do this," Pansy admitted after a moment. "This whole forever thing. This family thing. I keep thinking someone will show up and tell me it's a mistake. That I am pretending. That one day I will wake up and it will be gone."
"You won't," Neville said gently. "It won't disappear. This is real."
"I have never been this scared," she said.
"That means you care."
"I have cared before. It never felt like this."
Neville turned to her fully. "That's because you did not build those things. You built this. With me. With her. It belongs to you."
Pansy pressed her lips together, breathing through the tightness under her ribs. Her hand curled around the edge of the cot. "She's so small."
"She will not be forever."
"That's what scares me."
"She will grow," Neville said. "But she will grow up knowing she is loved. Fiercely. That counts for more than most people ever get."
Pansy nodded once, sharp and quick. Then she leaned down and kissed Seraphina's forehead with the care she reserved for ancient spellbooks, like the act itself was sacred.
"We should go to bed," Neville murmured after a long while.
"I know."
They stayed there, warmed by the small life they had made, suspended in that brief, impossible stillness where nothing needed fixing and no one was crying.
Then Seraphina sighed again, her fingers curling as if around an invisible thread, and Pansy closed her eyes.
~~~~~~
The fire in the hearth had settled into a low, steady glow, the logs reduced to coals that shimmered with a soft warmth that never demanded attention yet always held it. Golden light stretched across the bedroom walls, casting gentle shadows that shifted slowly, rising and falling like breath. Their bed was a quiet wreck, sheets tangled from earlier, still holding the heat of bodies that had clung together with the kind of closeness that did not need words. Pansy's silk robe lay draped over the arm of the velvet chair in the corner, one sleeve brushing the floor as if it had slipped there without asking permission. On the nightstand sat an unfinished glass of red wine, the rim smudged with lipstick, the colour dark enough to feel intentional rather than abandoned.
Outside, rain had started again, not loud, just a steady, rhythmic tapping against the window, like a lullaby made of weather and time. It was the sort of night that asked for softness. For skin against skin and truths too fragile to survive daylight.
Pansy lay on her stomach, her spine curved in comfort, one leg tangled in the sheet that had long since stopped pretending to cover her properly. Her dark hair spilled across both pillows like ink across parchment, and the bare curve of her shoulder caught the last flickers of firelight in a way that made Neville's breath hitch for reasons he no longer tried to explain to himself. He sat behind her, cross legged on the mattress, one hand tracing the line of her back from the base of her neck down to the gentle dip above her hips. It was not a touch meant to tempt. It was something older than desire, reverence disguised as habit. He did this when she was quiet, as though grounding himself in the knowledge of her, as though touching her was the only way to remind himself that this life, this love, was real.
"Tell me something," she murmured, her voice stretched thin with heat and wine and the softness that only came when she felt safe. She did not look at him. She let the words drift up like a breath.
Neville leaned down and brushed his lips against her bare shoulder. "What kind of something?"
She exhaled slowly, her fingers tracing the edge of the sheet. "Something honest."
He paused, then rested his chin between her shoulder blades, letting his weight settle there, quiet and certain. "You're the only woman who's ever made me believe in silk sheets and candlelight and those ridiculous rose petal baths you keep threatening to draw."
She snorted, the sound warm and lazy. "That's not what I meant."
"I know," he said, his voice low and unhurried, a tone that only existed on nights like this.
They stayed like that for a while, not rushing to fill the silence. Her fingers kept worrying the sheet, not fidgeting so much as thinking through it. Her breathing slowed, steadying, as though she were gathering the courage to say something that mattered. When she spoke again, her voice had changed. It was quieter, rounder at the edges, and it carried weight.
"I want another baby."
Neville's hand stilled.
She stared at the ceiling instead, at the stubborn crack in the paint above the wardrobe. The same one she had pointed out for months, always saying she would fix it, always forgetting or choosing not to, because some part of her had grown fond of it.
"I know it's early. I know she's still small and this is probably the worst time to bring it up. But I can't help it. It's been on my mind more and more lately, and no matter how hard I try to push it away, it keeps coming back. The thought of giving her a sibling. Someone to grow up with. Someone to share the world with when we're not around to explain it all anymore."
She paused, breath hitching, still staring upward as if the ceiling might offer reassurance if she waited long enough.
"I keep seeing this little girl in my head. Messy hair like yours. That kind of smile that gets him out of trouble before she's old enough to understand why it works. Or another boy. Wild and sharp and brilliant. I think about it more than I probably should. More than I ever thought I would."
When she finally turned to look at him, there was nothing guarded left in her expression. Not desperation. Just longing, threaded through with a quiet fear she had not said out loud.
Neville shifted beside her, propping himself up on one elbow. His hand stayed on her back, but the touch had changed. Slower now. Intentional. Not soothing, not deflecting. Listening.
"I want that too," he said after a moment. "Pans, I want that more than I can put into words. Truly. Just not right now."
She turned fully toward him, brows drawing together, not sharp with anger but pulled tight with disbelief.
"Why not?" she asked softly. "What are we waiting for?"
He met her gaze without wavering. "Because we're still learning how to feel like people again. Because she's not even walking yet and she still wakes us up twice a night. Because your back has been hurting for weeks and you keep pretending it isn't. Because I miss you. I miss touching you without one of us falling asleep five minutes in. I miss waking up and hearing you laugh about nothing. I miss us. Not just the part of us that loves Seraphina more than life, but the part that existed before her."
He leaned closer and brushed his mouth against the corner of hers, gentle and unhurried.
"I want more babies with you. I do. But I want them when we're rested enough to enjoy it. When your body feels like yours again. When we've had time to be together like this, without rushing, without guilt, without listening for the monitor every time the house creaks."
Pansy watched him, eyes wide, lips parted. No argument came. Just a small nod as she swallowed and turned her cheek into the pillow.
"I don't want to wait so long that we forget to come back to it," she said, her voice catching at the end despite her effort to keep it steady.
Neville cupped her face with both hands, warm and solid and reverent. His thumb traced the curve of her cheek as he looked at her, not with patience or pity, but with certainty that held fast.
"We won't," he said quietly. "We'll come back to it. When we're ready. When it feels right. I promise."
She blinked hard, swallowed again, and then reached for him without another word. Just to hold him. Just to feel him there.
He followed her pull easily, pressing his forehead to hers, and their kiss began slowly, like a promise spoken without sound.
"Nevie," Pansy whispered against his lips. "I need you."
Neville groaned, his hands sliding down to grip her hips. "I'm yours," he said, his voice rough with desire. "Always."
Pansy smiled, her fingers curling into his hair. "Then take me," she said, her voice a purr. "Take me hard."
Neville obliged, his hands tightening on her hips as he guided her onto his lap. She straddled him, her body pressing against his, her heat searing him through his clothes.
"Fuck," he gasped, his head falling back as she rocked against him. "Pansy, you feel so good."
She hummed, her hands sliding under his shirt to touch his skin. "I need more," she said, her voice a whimper. "I need you inside me."
Neville groaned, his hands sliding down to grip her ass. He lifted her, his cock sliding against her heat. "Then take me," he said, his voice a growl. "Take what you need."
Pansy reached down, guiding him to her entrance. She sank down onto him slowly, her body trembling with need. Neville's head fell back, his eyes closing as he felt her tight heat engulf him.
"Fuck," he gasped, his hands tightening on her hips. "Pansy, you're so tight. So fucking perfect."
She whimpered, her body moving on his, her hips rolling as she took him deep. They moved together, their bodies in perfect sync, their breath mingling as they panted with need.
"Nevie," Pansy gasped, her hands clutching at his shoulders. "I need more. Give me more."
Neville groaned, his hands sliding down to grip her ass. He lifted her, his cock sliding out of her heat before slamming back in. The sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the room, mixing with their moans and panting breaths.
"Fuck," Neville gasped, his head falling back as he felt her walls flutter around him. "Pansy, you feel so good. So fucking good."
Pansy whimpered, her nails digging into his shoulders as she moved on his cock. "Nevie," she gasped, her voice breaking. "I'm close. I'm so close."
Neville groaned, his hand sliding between their bodies to rub her clit. "Come for me," he said, his voice rough with need. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you."
Pansy screamed, her body convulsing as she came undone. Her walls clamped down on him, milking him as she came hard.
The feeling of her coming undone sent Neville over the edge. He came with a shout, his cock pulsing inside her, filling her with his release. He collapsed back against the bed, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat.
Pansy slumped against him, her head on his shoulder, her body trembling. He held her close, his hand stroking her back, his lips pressing kisses to her hair.
"I love you," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "God, Pansy, I love you so much."
She hummed, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. "I love you too, Nevie. More than anything."
They stayed like that for long moments, catching their breath, basking in the afterglow. Finally, Pansy lifted her head, her eyes soft and sated.
It was different this time, less urgent, more intimate. They moved together, their bodies in perfect sync, their eyes locked on each other.
"I love you," he said again, his voice a vow. "I will never stop loving you."
"Always," she promised, her hand stroking his cheek. "I'm yours, always."
They made love until the sun came up, until their bodies were sore and their hearts were full. And when they finally drifted off to sleep, tangled together in a mess of limbs and sheets, they both knew they had found their forever.
For the rest of their lives, they would look back on this night as the moment everything changed. The moment they finally let go of their fears and embraced what they had always known.
They were meant for each other. Two halves of the same soul, joined together by fate and love.
And nothing, not their pasts, not their fears, not anything, would ever tear them apart
They stayed like that for long moments, catching their breath, basking in the afterglow. Finally, Pansy lifted her head, her eyes soft and sated.
For the rest of their lives, they would look back on this night as the moment everything changed. The moment they finally let go of their fears and embraced what they had always known.
They were meant for each other. Two halves of the same soul, joined together by fate and love.
And nothing, not their pasts, not their fears, not anything, would ever tear them apart again.