When the news of Lucius Malfoy's death reached her, it struck with the strange heaviness of a storm breaking in the distance. Not close enough to drench her, not far enough to ignore. Just close enough to stir something deep inside her.
Relief came first.
It washed over her in a warm rush, like stepping into sunlight after days of rain. She let out a slow breath she had not even realized she was holding. The thought that Draco was finally free loosened something inside her chest, a quiet uncoiling of tension she had carried for him for years.
But the moment the relief settled, guilt followed.
It was not loud or dramatic. It simply crept in, curling itself around her ribs until the two emotions sat side by side, neither willing to move, both demanding to be felt.
Lucius had been many things.
Cold. Calculated. Brilliant in ways that had terrified those who understood him. His presence filled any room, commanding obedience through sharp glances and measured words. A man like that left a mark on the world, even when the world wished he had not.
Yet he had also been a father.
Not a good one, perhaps not even a loving one, but a father nonetheless. A man whose approval had shaped Draco's childhood more than any charm or spell. A man whose disappointment had left bruises that no one could see. A man whose shadow had taken Draco years to crawl out from under.
She turned toward the window, watching the dim light settle over the manor grounds. Draco would be doing the same somewhere, staring into a space that no longer held the man who had confined him, shaped him, damaged him.
He would not cry. She doubted he even could.
But she knew him well enough to understand that something inside him would shift. Not grief, exactly. More like a quiet reckoning. A recognition that a chapter had closed without ever giving him what he needed from it.
A small, aching sound formed in the back of her throat.
He would feel unsteady. Not broken, just adrift. The kind of adrift that came from realizing that the conflict you had spent your whole life fighting was suddenly gone, leaving behind an emptiness you had never prepared for.
He would need someone to anchor him.
She rose from her chair with purpose settling into her bones. Whatever he felt, however complicated and tangled and difficult it became, she would not let him stand in it alone.
He deserved steadiness. He deserved to be understood.
He deserved to feel something other than the cold echo his father had left behind.
The past had held him hostage for far too long.
Maybe this was the moment he finally stepped out of its shadow.
And maybe she could be the one waiting for him there, steady and certain, ready to walk beside him as he learned what a life without fear might look like.
~~~~~~
Twenty eight hours later, Draco stood beside Hermione at the gravesite, their fingers interlaced in a grip that felt steady and sure. Neither had released the other since the moment they arrived. The connection between their hands spoke for them, a wordless promise that whatever this day stirred, whatever it failed to stir, they would face it as one.
Their attention remained fixed on the open grave. Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. A man who had once shaped the world around him with the sharp tilt of his voice, who had held power so tightly it carved deep lines into the lives of everyone who crossed him. Now he was nothing more than a polished coffin settling into the ground, a wound in the earth waiting to be closed.
Draco searched himself for grief and found only stillness. Not numbness, not denial, just a quiet space where emotion should have sat. It felt almost strange, standing at the edge of his father's final resting place and feeling no ache, no inner crack, no longing for what had never been. There was only the sense of a story ending long after he had stopped reading it.
Hermione felt the tension ease through his palm. She did not comment on it. She kept her gaze on the grave and her hand in his, steady as a heartbeat.
A small cluster of familiar figures stood nearby. Theo watched the proceedings with a calm, unreadable expression, Pansy with a sharp gaze softened by a hint of reflection, Blaise with his hands tucked into his pockets as if he were observing the closing act of a play he had never truly enjoyed.
None of them were grieving. Their faces carried the same quiet recognition of a man who had influenced their lives in ways they had never welcomed. A man whose death marked the end of an era they had long outgrown.
The first shovels of dirt fell onto the coffin, the sound muted against the cold morning. Draco had expected it to hit him with some kind of force, to crack something open, to stir guilt or anger or sorrow. Instead, the sound brought a sharp clarity. It echoed with finality, a soft rhythm that whispered a truth he had not allowed himself to accept.
This is over.
This is done.
You owe him nothing now.
A weight he had carried since childhood loosened, its absence so unfamiliar that he drew in a deeper breath without meaning to. The man beneath the soil had once towered over him like a living monument. Now that monument had fallen, and Draco was still standing.
A short distance away, Narcissa held herself with the flawless composure the world expected of her. Her silk gloves were folded neatly at her waist, her chin lifted, her posture elegant. Anyone looking at her would have seen a grieving widow. But Draco saw the truth in her eyes, faint and unmistakable.
She was not grieving her husband.
She was grieving the years she had lost to him.
A single tear slipped down her cheek. Just a quiet acknowledgement that something long and painful had finally ended. Draco caught her gaze. For a moment they stood still, mother and son, linked by a history that had shaped them both in ways they never asked for. She gave him the smallest nod before turning away. The line of her shoulders softened as she stepped back from the grave. She looked lighter. Freer.
The minister continued with the formalities, each word drifting into the gray sky with little meaning. The crowd murmured their condolences, offered polite bows of the head, and slipped away one by one. The ceremony dwindled until only a few stragglers remained, then even they faded into the mist.
Draco and Hermione did not move.
They stayed where they were, hands joined, neither speaking. The silence wrapped around them in a way that felt almost protective. Draco let his eyes rest on the mound of soil growing slowly over the coffin. His memories flickered in short, sharp flashes. Lessons barked across polished floors. Expectations carved into him like inscriptions. The coldness. The pressure. The long years spent trying to become a son his father might have approved of, followed by the years spent trying to undo the harm of being that son.
Hermione shifted closer, the faint brush of her shoulder grounding him.
She did not fill the moment with comforting words he was not ready for. She did not try to explain his father or romanticize the past or force any neat lesson into the space where grief should have been. She simply stayed. Present and warm and steady beside him.
He breathed out slowly, the cold air catching in the back of his throat.
Lucius Malfoy was gone.
The shadow he cast would take time to fade, but the man himself was gone.
Draco tightened his hold on Hermione's hand, not in desperation, but in something closer to quiet certainty. He did not know what he would feel later. He did not know if emotions would return in fragments or if the hollow stillness would remain untouched.
Pansy sank into her seat beside the boys, exhaling slowly as she stretched out her legs beneath the table. The weight of the funeral, of everything that had led to this moment, sat heavily on her chest, yet beneath it, there was something else, something lighter. A quiet defiance hummed beneath her skin, an unshackling of a burden she had carried for far too long.
She let her gaze sweep over the faces around her, faces she had known since childhood, faces etched with the same blend of weariness and hard-won resilience that only those who had been raised in the same gilded cages could understand. This wasn't mourning.
This was something closer to a collective exhale, an acknowledgment of the ghosts that no longer held power over them.
"Good riddance," she declared, the words spilling from her lips with a finality that left no room for regret.
The response was immediate.
"Amen."
The boys' voices echoed in unison, a chorus of agreement that reverberated through the room, sealing the sentiment like a spoken spell, one meant to banish the past, to sever its lingering grip on their present.
Blaise leaned back, stretching lazily as he laced his fingers behind his head, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "None of us cried when our parents died or went to Azkaban," he mused, his tone deceptively light, but there was an edge beneath it—a quiet, bitter truth that needed no elaboration.
Theo let out a short chuckle, tipping his glass toward Blaise in a mock toast. "Why would we?" he drawled. "I was quite happy, actually." There was no hesitation in his voice, no attempt to feign sorrow where none existed.
Pansy leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her fingers tracing absent patterns against the wood. "Me too." The admission left her lips before she had fully processed it, but it rang true. "It's like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders."
And it had.
For so long, she had carried the expectations, the guilt, the legacy of a family that had dictated every step she took. The fear of disappointing them had been a constant presence, a shadow lurking just behind her, whispering that she would never be enough. But now? Now there was nothing left to disappoint.
The realization was liberating.
The air between them shifted, not heavy with grief but charged with something else, something almost intoxicating. It wasn't just relief. It was the quiet thrill of possibility.
The tension broke when Blaise smirked, tipping his chair back at a precarious angle. "Remember when we tried sneaking into the Forbidden Forest?" he asked, laughter dancing in his dark eyes. "We thought we were so damn clever until Hagrid found us and dragged us back like a couple of stray Kneazles."
Pansy rolled her eyes but couldn't fight the smile that tugged at her lips. "Oh, please," she scoffed. "You were the one who nearly tripped over a bloody boggart. I thought I was going to die from laughter."
Theo burst into laughter, shaking his head. "She's right, Blaise. You shrieked like a banshee and nearly fell into a nest of, what was it again?"
"I was not shrieking," Blaise argued, but the smirk on his lips betrayed him.
"A giant snake," Theo answered his own question, grinning wickedly. "Pansy damn near hexed herself into next week trying to get away. You should've seen Hagrid's face, he thought he was about to drop dead on the spot."
Laughter erupted between them, rich and unrestrained, filling the space between them like a balm against the heaviness of the past few days. It felt good, to slip into these memories, to let themselves exist outside of the expectations that had weighed them down for years.
And then Blaise sobered slightly, the humor still lingering in his expression but something softer settling in his eyes.
"But really," he said, tapping his fingers against the rim of his glass, "this is a new beginning for us." His gaze flickered between them, measuring their reactions. "We can finally break free from the shadows our families cast over us. No more guilt, no more obligations. We get to decide who we are now."
A slow smile spread across her lips, something bold and untamed curling in her chest.
"Yes," she agreed, the word tasting like freedom on her tongue. "We can define our own lives now. This is our chance to build something that's ours."
Theo leaned back in his chair, a glint of mischief flashing in his eyes. "We should throw a party, celebrate our newfound freedom." He made a grand gesture with his hands. "Invite everyone who's ever been suffocated by their family's expectations and tell them to drink, dance, and kiss whoever the hell they want without worrying about propriety."
Blaise arched a brow, intrigued. "I like that idea. A real bash to kick off our rebellion against the past."
Pansy grinned, already envisioning it. "Count me in," she said, her voice dripping with excitement. "We should make it extravagant, something outrageous, something that would make our ancestors roll in their graves."
Theo smirked. "Now that sounds like a proper Slytherin rebellion."
And just like that, ideas began flying between them—themes, venues, guest lists, enchantments that would make the night unforgettable. The air around them buzzed with energy, a tangible sense of momentum, of something changing.
And as she sat there, feeding off the thrill of their excitement, she felt something warm settle deep in her chest.
This. This was what she had always wanted.
A family of her own making.
She lifted an imaginary glass, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "Here's to new beginnings."
The boys mirrored her, lifting their hands in mock toasts, their grins wide, their voices rich with something that felt dangerously close to hope.
"To new beginnings," they echoed, the words thick with promise, their pasts finally slipping from their shoulders like a discarded cloak.
Whatever came next, it was theirs to shape.
~~~~~~
That Sunday, the brunch was nothing short of a spectacle, a carefully curated affair where every detail, from the table settings to the designer-clad attendees, exuded an air of effortless wealth and prestige. The pureblood elite had mastered the art of turning social gatherings into power plays, and today was no exception.
Pansy and Neville arrived arm in arm, the very picture of sophistication. Both were impeccably dressed in Valentino, a brand that had, over time, become more than just a designer label, it was a pureblood statement, a subtle display of old money and aristocratic standing.
She wore a stunning crimson dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, the bold color an unapologetic contrast to the dark waves cascading down her back. The gold cuff adorning her wrist shimmered under the morning light, a silent testament to her status.
Beside her, Neville stood tall, his presence a quiet yet undeniable force. His tailored suit, charcoal with subtle maroon accents, complemented her ensemble in a way that was almost poetic, strength and refinement woven into a perfect balance.
There was something commanding about them together, a partnership built on equal footing, a blend of fire and earth. They looked like the kind of couple that could shatter expectations and rewrite legacies with a single, well-placed glance.
Meanwhile, Hermione was the embodiment of modern regality. She had traded her usual academic practicality for something far more daring—a rich velvet mini dress, deep burgundy in color, fresh from the latest collection, hugging her figure in a way that made it clear she belonged among them.
The gold jewelry adorning her collarbones and wrists gleamed under the sunlight, each piece deliberately chosen, not for excess, but for power. She was not simply wearing wealth, she was commanding it.
And then there was Draco, standing beside her like a living embodiment of dark nobility. His black suit, cut to perfection, framed his sharp features with the kind of effortless sophistication that came from generations of grooming.
There was something almost mythological about the way he carried himself—Hades reborn, all brooding intensity and unshaken confidence, standing at the side of a woman who, in every way, had transformed into her own kind of goddess.
Together, they were magnetic. The moment they stepped into the room, all eyes turned to them, as if drawn by some unseen force, a mixture of admiration and reluctant acceptance filling the space. For all the whispers and raised brows their union had once provoked, it was clear now, they belonged here.
The gathered purebloods, ever the gatekeepers of tradition, exchanged glances before offering small, approving nods. There was power in presentation, and today, Draco and Hermione were the epitome of it.
His arm curled around her waist in a way that was both protective and possessive, an unspoken message to anyone foolish enough to question their place. Together, they embodied a new kind of power couple—an unshakable union forged from defiance, ambition, and a quiet sort of devotion that needed no grand declarations.
"Hello, lovebirds!" Ginny's voice cut through the weight of the moment, bright and teasing, a deliberate contrast to the air of poised aristocracy surrounding them. Dressed in an ensemble that mirrored her fiery personality, she approached with an easy confidence, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips. "You both look disgustingly good."
Blaise, never one to miss a chance to stir the pot, followed closely behind. "Finally, some pureblood influence has rubbed off on Granger," he drawled, his smirk sharp as ever.
Draco arched a brow, a slow smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. "Positive influence?" His voice was smooth, teasing, the kind of arrogance that was more charm than challenge. "Perhaps some credit is due to my impeccable taste."
Hermione rolled her eyes, though amusement flickered behind them. "Oh, please. You and your 'impeccable taste.' More likely, some poor intern at Valentino picked this out, and you're taking credit for it."
Blaise chuckled, shaking his head. "Regardless of the origin, the results are undeniable. You both look like you waltzed straight out of a magical fashion editorial."
Ginny nodded, her eyes twinkling. "Absolutely. You two are the definition of power couple energy."
Draco glanced down at Hermione, something unreadable flickering in his gaze before he smirked. "See? Even Blaise and Ginny approve."
Hermione let out a dramatic sigh, feigning resignation. "I suppose I'll take that as a compliment."
"It absolutely is," Blaise added, his voice carrying a rare note of sincerity. "You two command attention without even trying. It's almost sickening."
Draco inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, a hint of satisfaction evident in his expression. "Thank you, Blaise. We're just trying to keep up with you and Ginny."
Ginny let out a laugh, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, please. You two have that whole enigmatic, untouchable couple thing going on. It's like you were made for this."
Before another retort could be made, Pansy and Neville arrived, their entrance just as commanding, though with an air of warmth that made it clear they weren't here to simply observe.
"What are we talking about?" she inquired, her voice carrying that signature blend of curiosity and effortless authority.
Ginny grinned. "Just admiring Draco and Hermione's impeccable style."
Pansy's gaze flickered toward them, amusement twinkling behind dark lashes. "Good luck topping that," she mused, lips curling into a smirk. "I mean, how does anyone compete with the ethereal beauty of Persephone and her brooding Hades?"
Neville, ever the grounding presence, offered a warm smile. "You both look fantastic. Really. It's great to see everyone looking so happy."
A flicker of warmth settled in Hermione's chest at the unexpected kindness. She turned to Pansy, sincerity threading through her voice. "Thank you, Pans. You look absolutely stunning too."
Pansy, ever one to deflect sentimentality with sharp wit, merely smirked. "Obviously."
"Cheers to that!" Blaise declared, raising his glass with an exaggerated flourish. "Here's to friends who look absolutely fabulous."
Glasses clinked in agreement, laughter rippling through the intimate circle as conversation resumed effortlessly, weaving between teasing jabs and genuine camaraderie.
Hermione felt herself relax, her nerves dissolving like sugar in warm tea. She hadn't been sure how today would unfold but here, surrounded by voices that had shaped her past and were becoming part of her present, she felt a rare and precious sense of belonging.
"So," she mused, turning toward Ginny with a raised brow. "Who made the guest list today?"
Ginny, scanning the opulent brunch setting with an expert eye, tossed her hair over one shoulder, the auburn strands catching in the golden light. "The usual suspects, really. Harry and Cho should be here any minute, and Luna and Theo sent word they'd be fashionably late."
Hermione's lips quirked into a smile, relief softening her expression. "It'll be good to see them."
"They'll be here soon," Ginny confirmed, glancing at her watch before adding with a knowing smirk, "Theo said something about a minor delay, but Luna's already here. She just got… distracted."
Draco's gaze swept across the room, his usual cool detachment tempered by something quieter, more reflective. "It's good to see familiar faces again," he admitted, though his voice carried no sentimentality—just fact.
Hermione nodded, fingers absently smoothing over the emerald folds of her dress. "It has been a while."
Ginny grinned, her gaze bouncing between the two of them, a hint of mischief in her expression. "Don't worry, Hermione. They'll be thrilled to see you." Then, with a conspiratorial wink, she added, "And seeing you two together? Well, let's just say it's bound to be the highlight of their day."
An unspoken energy crackled between Hermione and Draco. A glance passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of the moment.
As if on cue, the grand double doors swung open with a flourish, allowing a rush of crisp autumn air to swirl into the room.
Luna entered first, radiant as always, her signature radish earrings swaying as she moved. The sunlight caught the soft waves of her blonde hair, making her seem almost ethereal, like something conjured from the morning mist. "Hello, everyone!" she sang, her voice light and full of wonder, as if she had just stepped into a world brimming with possibility.
Trailing behind her, Harry entered with his usual ease, his trademark unruly hair slightly tousled as though he had just come from battle rather than brunch. Cho walked beside him, her dark waves sleek against the elegant drape of her robes, her smile small but sincere.
The tension that Hermione hadn't realized she was still holding dissipated the moment she saw them. They were here. That was enough.
She rose from her seat, a genuine smile breaking across her face as Harry pulled her into a fierce, familiar embrace.
"Hermione!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with something real—warm, steady, unchanged. "It's been too long."
"Far too long," she agreed, gripping him just as tightly. For all the wars, the distances, the changes, they were still them.
Draco, watching the interaction, straightened slightly as Harry turned toward him. The moment stretched between them, heavy with history yet absent of hostility.
Harry extended a hand. "Draco." A nod. Not cold, not warm—just... neutral.
Draco regarded him for a fraction of a second before clasping the offered hand in a firm shake. "Potter."
And somehow, that was enough.
Luna clapped her hands together, her eyes alight with delight. "Oh, I do love seeing all of you together." She beamed, her expression utterly sincere. "It feels like a storybook reunion. Now! Who wants to hear about the Wrackspurts that have taken up residence in my attic?"
Laughter bubbled up from the group, light and unrestrained, breaking apart any lingering awkwardness.
As everyone found their seats, the warmth of familiarity wrapped around them like a well-worn cloak. Pansy settled comfortably next to Neville, her fingers brushing absentmindedly against his, a gesture that spoke of quiet understanding. Across the table, Hermione eased into the space beside Draco, the edges of her nerves smoothing with each shared glance, each exchanged word.
Conversations flowed seamlessly, stories winding between nostalgia and the present, between battles fought and new beginnings forged.
Neville and Theo, two vastly different yet strangely aligned minds, fell into an enthusiastic discussion about experimental herbology.
"Have you worked with the new hybrid plants?" Theo asked, his usual cynicism momentarily replaced by curiosity. "I heard they have extraordinary magical properties."
Neville, ever the passionate academic when it came to plants, lit up. "I have! They're fascinating—highly reactive, but if we can stabilize them, they could revolutionize healing potions."
Hermione, sipping her drink, watched the exchange with quiet amusement. Who would have thought that Theo Nott and Neville Longbottom would ever engage in an intense discussion about botany? Hogwarts really had been one long fever dream.
Across the table, Theo suddenly leaned back, surveying the group with an impish grin. "Ah," he drawled, swirling his drink lazily. "So the eagle's nest, the lion's den, and the snake's pit all under one roof, huh?"
Draco smirked, a rare chuckle slipping past his lips. "Looks like we've almost got all the Hogwarts houses covered, wouldn't you say, Potter?"
Harry, ever the Gryffindor, met his gaze with a dry smile. "Just missing a loyal Hufflepuff, Malfoy."
Hermione, amused by the exchange, tapped her glass thoughtfully. "Perhaps next time."
Ginny, watching the group with a rare softness, sighed dramatically. "Look at you lot. A proper Hogwarts reunion, wouldn't you say?"
Theo, never one for sentimentality but appreciating theatrics, raised his glass with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "To Hogwarts, surviving the trials it threw our way, and to the unexpected friendships forged in the fire."
The clink of glasses echoed through the grand dining hall, sealing something unspoken yet deeply understood.
Maybe things weren't perfect.
Maybe the ghosts of the past still lingered in the corners of their hearts.
But here, now, they were trying.
And for now, that was enough.
Yet, as the laughter swirled around the table, Pansy couldn't shake the uneasy feeling gnawing at her gut.
Across the room, Harry and Ginny exchanged glances—quick, fleeting, but charged with something unspoken.
The kind of look that spoke of memories half-buried but never quite forgotten.
The kind of look that whispered of lost love, of something that once burned brightly but had since dimmed.
Their love was gone.
But the longing remained.
~~~~~~
The moment the front door clicked shut, Pansy was already in motion. She swept into the living room with a restless intensity that made the air feel charged, as though a storm had slipped in behind her. Her heels struck the floor in quick, uneven taps, each step sharp enough to echo through the quiet of their home. The skirt of her dress flared around her legs with every turn, dark fabric catching the light like rolling thunder.
Neville barely had time to remove one glove. He watched her pace, watched the tension build in her shoulders, watched the way she kept pulling in shallow breaths as if trying to keep something from breaking loose.
"My love," he said gently, cautious as if approaching a wounded creature. "What's wrong?"
That was the wrong question.
She froze mid-step and spun so quickly her hair whipped over one shoulder. Her arms crossed in a tight, defensive line. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes burned with something hot and sharp, but beneath the fire there was a tremor, a flicker of something she was trying desperately to hide.
"What's wrong," she repeated, almost laughing but with no humor at all. "Are you actually asking me that right now, Nevie?"
He took a slow, steady breath, trying to read her, trying to pinpoint the exact moment he had stepped into quicksand. "I don't understand. What happened?"
Another scoff burst from her. She shook her head, eyes flashing. Then she started pacing again, faster, her hands gripping her own arms as if they were the only thing keeping her grounded.
"You. And her."
Neville blinked. "What? Pansy, who are you talking about?"
She stopped again. Stilled completely this time. Shoulders drawn tight, body coiled like she might shatter if he touched her.
"That bitch, Hannah."
The name came out low, almost whispered, but it landed between them with the weight of a spell thrown in anger.
Neville stared at her, stunned. "Hannah?"
Her name felt out of place. Outdated. Like a remnant of a life he no longer remembered living.
"Yes, Hannah," Pansy said, the sharpness returning, though her voice wavered at the edges. "Do not play dumb with me. You think I didn't see it today? Ginny and Harry standing there, looking at each other like they lost something. Like something was missing. And then you standing beside me, watching them. The look on your face. And it just… it hit me."
Her breath caught. Just for a moment. Barely there, but enough for him to see the crack in her armor.
"What if you still miss her," she finished softly. The softness cut deeper than any shout she had ever thrown at him.
Neville felt something drop inside him, a slow, sinking weight that lodged in his chest.
This was jealousy, but not the kind she wielded like a weapon. This was the kind she tried to hide. A fear she did not know how to voice without coating it in claws. A fear wrapped in sharp edges because softness frightened her more than anything else.
A fear that had nothing to do with Ginny and Harry at all.
The words poured out of her before she could stop them, like she was terrified of what they meant if she let them sit too long. "Do you ever think about her? About what you had? Do you ever wish it was different?"
Her eyes searched his face, tense, hopeful, frightened. His heart ached at the sight.
"No." The answer came without hesitation, solid and immediate.
She did not move.
Her gaze dragged over him, studying, waiting, searching for the smallest tremor that would prove him false.
"I don't believe you."
The words chilled him.
He stepped closer, careful, but she snapped backward as if the air between them had burned her. Her arms wrapped tighter around herself, guarding something he could not see but could feel.
"Pansy," he said quietly.
"Do not lie to me."
Her voice shook. Only slightly, but enough to make his chest tighten with helplessness.
This was not rage.
This was fear that she was temporary. Fear that she meant less than she believed. Fear that he would wake up one morning and decide that the life he could have had was better than the life he chose.
She drew a shaky breath, forcing her voice to sound sharper than she felt. "You loved her once. And she…" She swallowed like the words tasted bitter. "She is your type, isn't she?"
He stared at her, jaw tightening with something close to pain. "No. You are my type."
She let out a slow exhale, her eyes flickering as if a crack of relief slipped through, but the fear underneath did not loosen.
He stepped closer again, softer this time, his hands raised slightly, a silent offering. "I don't miss her. I don't think about her. Not in the way you are afraid I do."
Silence stretched between them.
Then, so soft he almost missed it, "I don't want to be a consolation prize, Nevie."
His heart cracked. Utterly and completely.
He reached for her, even knowing she might pull away. Her body went tense when their hands met, but she did not retreat this time. Her fingers trembled as they curled around his.
"You are not," he whispered. "You never were."
Her eyes lifted to his. Vulnerable. Scared. Fiercely hopeful.
"Promise me."
"I swear it."
A shaky breath escaped her. And finally, she let him pull her into his arms.
She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, her hands fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt. He held her tight, anchoring her, letting her feel each slow, steady beat of his heart.
Pansy drew in a breath as if gathering herself. "I saw it, Nevie," she murmured. "It was there. And Blaise…" She shook her head, her voice twisting with something more complicated. "Blaise deserves better than being a stand-in for a love Ginny never let go of."
Neville inhaled slowly, choosing his next words with care. "Is this about Blaise, or is this about us?"
Her entire body stilled.
No glare. No snark. No sharp retort. Just a sudden, fragile silence.
He stepped closer until their foreheads touched. "Are you afraid that what you think is happening with Ginny and Harry could happen with us?"
Her chin lifted slightly, that small, proud gesture she made whenever she felt cornered. "I just…" The words tangled in her throat. "I do not want us to end up like them. Pretending everything is perfect while cracks form underneath our feet."
He felt the truth of it hit him. Because beneath all her fire, beneath the jealousy and the spirals she wrapped herself in, she was simply afraid.
Afraid of losing the one thing in her life she had chosen freely.
He cupped her hands gently, thumbs brushing over her knuckles, grounding her with each slow movement. She did not pull away this time. She clung to him as if something inside her needed the contact.
"Pansy," he murmured, voice steady as stone, "we are not like them."
Her eyes lifted again, searching him as if she wanted to believe but did not know how.
"We are honest with each other," he continued, "even when it scares us. Even when it hurts. And you can tell me anything. Anything at all. But you have to trust that we are different. That we work because we love each other. Not because someone at the Ministry ordered it."
Yeah…honest…with eachother…
Her throat tightened. Then, barely above a whisper, "I do not want to lose you."
It slipped out before she could cage it, fragile and painful and honest in a way that unmade him.
He wrapped his arms around her again, strong and sure, holding her as if he could shield her from everything she feared. "You will not," he promised. "You will never lose me."
The room went quiet. Heavy with emotion yet soft in the way only love could be. Her cheek rested against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat slowly calming the tremor in her breathing.
She shifted slightly against him, her fingers curling into the front of his shirt as if anchoring herself. "Nevie?"
"Yes, darling?"
His hand slid gently into her hair, stroking it in slow, calming lines. She breathed in, steadying herself in a way he could feel rather than hear.
"If this whole… situation had never happened," she whispered, "would we ever have fallen in love?"
The question hit him with the same quiet force it had taken her to say it. It took him a moment to understand the truth behind it. She was not asking about fate or chance. She was asking if what they had was real or just the result of circumstance, a coincidence of timing and pressure.
He pulled back slightly so he could see her face, brow folding in thoughtful concentration.
"I highly doubt that."
She blinked, taken aback. "Wow. Thank you, Nevie. I feel very cherished."
He let out a small breath, the kind that held a smile. "I mean it in a good way. I saw you at school, at the events, but I never would have had the courage to speak to you. You were untouchable."
A soft laugh escaped her, though it carried a hint of bitterness. "I wasn't untouchable. I was just unpleasant."
"You were not just unpleasant," he said warmly. "You were intimidating."
Her lips curved into a familiar smirk. "So you were paying attention to me."
"How could I not?" His hand moved in slow circles on her back, gentle and grounding. "You were impossible to ignore."
The spark of humor in her eyes dimmed slightly. Something more fragile surfaced, something raw and uneasy.
"But honestly, Nevie," she said, quieter now, "if the Ministry had not forced us together… if none of this had happened… would we have just walked past each other forever?"
His gaze softened. He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, thumb brushing lightly across her skin.
"I do not know," he answered, voice touched with something like regret. "Maybe we would have. Maybe you would have stayed in your circle and I would have stayed in mine. But I do not like to imagine that."
Her lashes flickered as she looked away for a moment. "Why not?"
"Because we ended up here," he murmured, leaning his forehead against hers. "And I think it was meant to unfold this way."
She searched his face again, her eyes moving slowly, as if she were tracing something hidden beneath the surface.
"I hated you at first."
Neville laughed softly. "Yes. I remember."
"I thought the whole thing was a joke." She exhaled a humourless breath. "Us. Married. It felt ridiculous. But then…" Her voice faltered. Her fingers curled into his shirt again. "You were different. You made me feel safe. You made me feel seen."
His breath caught. He drew her closer, pressing a tender kiss to her temple. "You do the same for me," he said, voice thick with feeling. "I never expected to find someone who understands me the way you do. Someone who sees the worst and still stays."
She tucked her face against his chest, her voice muffled when she spoke again. "I do not know how to do this. I do not know how to be in love. I am not used to feeling this much."
He smiled into her hair, smoothing slow patterns along her spine.
"That is alright," he whispered. "We are learning together. Neither of us had an easy road. But we found our way through."
A small, shaky breath escaped her.
"I just keep wondering," she murmured. "What if one day it becomes too much? What if we turn into one of those couples who pretend everything is fine while everything crumbles underneath? I could not bear that."
She lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes, her voice trembling in a way that unmade him.
"I cannot lose you, Nevie."
He cupped her face with both hands, gentle yet sure, easing her chin up so she could see the sincerity in his eyes.
"You will not lose me," he said simply.
She stared at him, searching for any crack, any false note.
"Promise me."
He brushed away the tear that slid down her cheek, the movement slow and tender.
"I promise."
A heavy silence settled around them, not ominous but full. Thick with the weight of everything they had just spoken into existence.
Slowly, she sank into him again. He folded his arms around her, fitting her close, holding her as though she belonged there. Her breath steadied against his chest.
"I love you so much," she whispered. The words trembled. They felt like a confession. A surrender. A truth too big for her to hold alone.
Neville tightened his embrace, his lips brushing the crown of her head.
"I love you too, Parky," he murmured. "More than I ever thought possible."
She exhaled, long and unsteady, but softer than before. The tension left her shoulders. Her grip on his shirt loosened until her hands simply rested there, open and trusting.
In that moment, nothing outside their living room mattered.
Their love was not flawless. It was not polished or simple or easy. It came with jagged edges and old wounds and stubborn hearts that had never expected to be held gently.
Notes:
Well. That got dangerously close to emotional maturity, didn't it?