average human’s Reviews > Dirty, Flirty, and Vindictive > Status Update

They were in an executive club lounge in Muggle London, in a hotel Pansy owned. All dark wood and brown leather and brass fixtures and frosted glass. Nott was slouched in his chair, his chin lowered so he could pout. He was looking up from under those dark lashes—equal parts seduction and menace.

Neville canted his head, considering him. They were nearly the same height, but Nott was thinner. Neville wasn’t afraid of him. By all accounts, Nott was actually insane. Capable of violence. Neville thought his magic was probably quite strong. But Neville was capable of violence too. And his magic was stronger than other people realized. He didn’t think Nott could overpower him. “I need you to do some forgery work for me,” said Neville.

Nott raised an eyebrow. He looked idly intrigued. His body conveyed not an ounce of urgency.

“What’s your price?” asked Neville.

Nott sat up abruptly. Spine straight. Shoulders square. Chin lifted. “I get to call you Daddy,” he said, his tone light and incredibly posh.

“No,” said Neville.

“I will forge anything you like—” That wide mouth had spread into a wicked grin. He was inordinately pleased with himself. “—for as long as you’re married to Pans, if I can call you Daddy.”

Neville looked levelly at Nott. He needed this forgery work done. Nott was clearly going to call him Daddy either way. Probably more often if he thought it got under Neville’s skin. There was no price. It was just a game.

“Once we’re bonded,” said Neville, taking his turn.

Nott squeezed his shoulders up, his eyes closed. “Ooh, I can’t wait.” Very gay, very camp. Then he dropped his shoulders and his face fell flat, his eyes going heavy-lidded. “So what do you need done?” His voice low. Here was the real Nott—or one of them.

Neville didn’t know if Nott unmasking was another intimidation tactic or Nott rewarding him for faithfully playing his game. It could be a bid for trust or it could be unconscious as Nott cycled through his personas. He would have to get to know Nott better. Nott and Pansy were close. He would no doubt be getting to know Nott whether he liked it or not.

“I need you to forge the Minister of Magic’s signature,” said Neville.

Nott’s face broke into a naughty grin. His eyes were sparkling. He did a little shoulder wiggle—just like Pansy. “Tell me all about it,” he said.





Neville had told Pansy he wanted to meet with Nott that morning, before he’d left Parkinson Manor.

“You’re going to see me without my makeup,” Pansy had fretted the night before.

They’d been in her en suite, sticky with sweat and cake filling—Fennel no doubt changing the sheets behind them while the bath ran. Neville had been drinking water from the sink.

“Does anyone else see you without your makeup?” Neville had asked, putting down the glass.

“Only if I run across Nott after he slept in one of the spare rooms,” Pansy had said.

Neville had raised an eyebrow.

“He doesn’t like to go home, because it’s—”

“Cursed,” Neville had said, surprising himself. His heart rate had kicked up a notch, an old instinct saying he’d miss-stepped. He was meant to be collecting information, not sharing it. “I’ve heard about that,” he’d admitted. The Nott elves didn’t talk to Alicia but other manor elves spoke of trading with them.

“So you know the elves have gone feral—”

“Unaffiliated,” he’d said, and she’d squinted at him. “Feral implies they’re uncivilized when their culture predates ours.”

She’d tilted her chin. “Is that true?”

“There’s never been a time in wizarding history without them.” Neville had shrugged. “I think they discovered us, not the other way round.”

Pansy had pursed her lips. “Fen does treat me like a misbehaving pet—”

“Well, you are,” he’d said, smiling as he kissed her. He’d still been leaning over her when he’d murmured, “If Fennel and Nott get to see you without your makeup, I want to see you too.”

He’d straightened and she’d gazed up at him. “What if you don’t like me when I’m not pretty?” she’d asked. She hadn’t been joking. She’d looked so sad.

“Pansy,” Neville had said, taking hold of her, his hands on her ribs, “I like you, not your makeup.” He’d canted his head, considering her. “But you don’t have to show me—”

“No,” she’d said. “I will.”

He’d sat on the lip of the cast iron tub then and pulled her in. “Thank you,” he’d said, looking her in the eye. “For the birthday. And for trusting me.”

Pansy had heaved a sigh. Her shoulders had been slumped, her hands hanging at her sides. “I hate trusting people,” she’d said.

Neville had barked a laugh, unable to contain his smile. “Oh, Pansy.” Warmth had flooded his chest as he’d taken in her sulky face. He’d felt so happy he could’ve cried. “So do I.”

He’d pulled her closer and she’d put her arms around his neck and he’d kissed her mouth. Then they’d bathed and she’d taken off all her makeup and spent half an hour putting potions on her face and, after, he’d lain naked in the clean white sheets and kissed her cheeks while she said, “Stop, stop—I’ve done my skincare regimen.” He’d slept with her smaller body held to his and woken early and fucked her again, her wrists pinned above her head, her breath against his chest.

Then he’d kissed her goodbye and left.

He’d taken a slice of cake to his mother—Anise had readied it for him—and sat with her while she ate it. “I turned twenty-three, Mum,” he’d told her. “I have a fiancée called Pansy. She gave me a watch and this cake.”

His mother had been focused on her next bite. She liked sweets.

Neville had taken a deep breath—his chest had felt too tight. He’d thought back to Pansy without her makeup. She’d looked younger. The last time he’d seen her without eyeliner, she’d been twelve.

If Neville hated trusting people, he certainly hated trusting fate. Something terrible would probably happen to even out these twelve perfect hours in Parkinson Manor when he had enjoyed his birthday. He’d already started coming back to reality, sitting there, listening to the scrape of his mother’s fork against her plate. The healer’s assistant had come in the room then and looked sharply over. “Didn’t recognize you,” she’d said, “in that suit.”

Now Nott eyed the Patek Philippe on Neville’s wrist, his gaze playing over Neville’s scarred hands as Neville signed for the tab. Nott’s lips were parted. His tongue was in his cheek. His eyes lifted to Neville’s, and he smiled. “Just daydreaming,” he said.

“I heard you’ve been busy in Knockturn,” said Neville neutrally.

Nott shrugged one shoulder. “Reminding people not to bother Granger.”

“Why?” asked Neville.

Nott feigned shock, his hand flapping to his sternum. “She’s my best mate’s better half! I’m pledged in service.”

“Though she was on the other side?”

Nott was shaking his head, amused. “Longbottom, there’s not a thought in this pretty head. Draco says get an enemies list and go down it, then that’s what I do.” He cocked his chin, his head loose on his neck. “Of course, if someone hurt Pans, I’d just kill him.”

“Good,” said Neville. “So would I.”

Nott’s smile was wide and delighted. He said it deliberately, with full eye contact: “You and Pans are perfect for each other.”

Neville didn’t react, but he felt his heart jump in his chest.

32% love love love 🤭

FRIDAY AUGUST 8, 2003

Neville was on an armless black leather loveseat in Pansy’s sitting room, flipping through a seed catalogue. They were meant to have dinner in the lesser dining room—Anise was making coq au vin—but he’d got here well early. It was Friday and he’d been ready for a change of scenery.

“Longbottom—”

He looked up. Pansy had marched in wearing—a very short pleated skirt. It was black, longer on the sides, with two big silver buckles in front. He raised an eyebrow.

“We’ve had a breakthrough—”

He refocused. She was holding a tube of lipstick. She had a team of chemists working under NDAs.

“It’s currently stable for seventy-two hours—”

She’d conjured a mirrored compact and now she was holding it up, the tube’s lid pinched between two fingers, as she applied a coat of lipstick. Neville shifted on the loveseat as he watched the bright red cylinder dragging across her plump lower lip.

“But it’s meant to be smudge-proof. So, while I have you—”

She dropped the compact and lipstick onto a side table and picked up a large brocade pillow from the chaise. Then she tossed it down, at Neville’s feet.

Neville stared at her. Then he unbuttoned his trousers.

“Take off your top,” he said.

He stood and stripped off. She was down to her bra and skirt. He gestured with his finger, nodding at the bra. She reached back to unhook it.

Then he was sitting, his clothes in a pile on the rug, watching her bare breasts sway as she kneeled on the pillow between his legs. She reached up—her black-lacquered nails stark against her pale hand, his pink skin—and grasped his bollocks (Neville inhaled) and then she was taking the head of his cock into her mouth. (Neville was holding his breath.) Her tongue laved over him (Neville exhaled) and pleasure seeped through him. Pansy Parkinson was on her knees, sucking his cock.

Neville had been much too afraid of her at school to have ever considered this scenario. Neville watched her, his eyes heavy-lidded, as she tongued the head. He’d fucked her mouth before, but there was something about this position . . . Pansy on her knees . . .

She looked up at him—

Fuck.

Those big, kohl-rimmed eyes—

Her cheeks hollowed—

Her lips around his cock—

The lipstick was already smudging. He didn’t tell her. He was breathing harder. Just watching her—

Pansy leaned in and then she was sucking his cock diligently, her tongue swirling, her hand at the base of the shaft. She was taking him deeper. Pulling back to work over the head. Taking him deeper again. She’d gagged a little—her mouth was full of spit. Her hand was squeezing. Pleasure was rolling through him. Saliva was building up. His cock and her hand wet with it. Spit running down his bollocks.

She looked up—

It was shameful, how much he liked this—Pansy on her knees. Him lorded over her. Being serviced. Usually he was working hard to distract her, overstimulate her so she could let go. He wasn’t doing anything now. Just watching while she worked to please him. It felt dirty—

Pansy pulled back—strands of spit stretching between them—and began aggressively wanking him off, her head tilted to the side to take in the lipstick smeared with saliva along his cock.

“This isn’t staying put at all,” she said, her grip tightening.

Merlin. Her mouth was messy—

Lips wet, tint and spit streaked to her chin—

She licked her lips—

Neville was breathing hard, staring at the smeared lipstick—

Her hand was moving fast and tight on him, everything slick with her spit—

Her breasts were jiggling with the motion of her arm—

Her breasts, her mouth, the smeared red, her face wet and sloppy from sucking his cock—

She tightened her grip—

Neville came all over her chest.

She sat back on her heels.

He was breathing hard, the aftershocks rippling through him—

His semen was painted across her sternum, her breasts—

He shuddered—

“I need to start over in the lab,” she said, and she absently wiped her chin on the back of her hand. “I’m sacking everyone.”

“Pansy—” He was panting, reaching for her. “Get up here.”

She looked up at him then, and then she scrambled up onto the loveseat to straddle him on her knees in her short skirt, and he held on to her thighs and licked her sternum clean, his tongue broad and flat against her skin. He licked her breasts as her fingers played through the hair at the nape of his neck. His hands were roaming over her. He licked her left nipple and began to suck. He was kneading her arse, his hands squeezing and squeezing as he took her breast into his mouth.

He was sucking as she stroked his hair, his fingers gripping her flesh—so dense and full and satisfying, so plush and yielding. He tongued her nipple and let go, tilted his head to suck on the other one. He couldn’t get enough of her body, pale and soft and unmarked, so different from his own. He sucked until he was hard again.

“Pansy,” he said, “get on my cock.”

She did. She reached under her skirt, pushed her knickers to the side, used her hand to position him and spread herself open as she shifted her hips. She was wet but he murmured the lubrication charm as she bore down and he worked his way into her. Go slow and use lots of lube—it had proved to be all-purpose advice.

Then she was seated on him, her breasts pressed to him. Merlin, he could live like this. He wiped her chin. Kissed her messy mouth.

She put her hands on his shoulders and moved on him. He had hold of her ribs, lifting her as she pushed up. He was snapping his hips up as she dropped onto him, his hands pulling her down. He was fucking her hard, her breasts bouncing. The loveseat was creaking. She was making those breathy noises. He could do this forever.

Finally she sighed and rocked forward on him. She was grinding against him. He had his hands up the skirt, her knickers pulled to the side. He was palming her ass, squeezing. He shifted his hand. Her noises went higher pitched. His finger was at her arsehole—he concentrated on the lubrication charm and pushed the very tip of the top joint in and she whined, grinding harder on him, pressing into him. He didn’t go deeper. He kept hold of her arse as she worked her clit against him and tightened on his cock. “You’re perfect, Pansy.”

I love having sex with you. He didn’t say it. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say. She’d think he was saying—

She was grinding against him, her hand gripping his shoulder. Then she gasped and held her breath and her cunt was clenching and spasming on him and she was rocking slowly, her mouth open, her eyes closed. Oh my Godric, she was beautiful. He could say that—

“You’re beautiful, Pansy. You’re beautiful—”

She sucked in a breath—

He pulled his hands from her arse and grabbed her ribs, and then he held her there as he thrust up into her until he came with a groan. He held her on him, everything pulsing. He shivered with the chills running down his neck—

He was breathing hard—

He kissed her, panting when he pulled away—

He was coming back to himself. He blinked, taking it in—

She was smeared with lipstick and saliva. He’d licked his own come off her breasts. She was still half dressed, her skirt hiked up—he’d ruined her knickers. He’d fingered her arsehole. They’d probably damaged the loveseat. Did she mind—that he was like this? That this got him off? That he always had to be weird about something? Had he forced this on her?

She took a deep breath and shook her hair into place. She sat up a little straighter, still on his cock.

“Thank you, Longbottom,” she said, her voice breathy. “For helping test that lipstick.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Anytime.”

“There are going to be quite a few iterations going forward. Loads of testing to be done. I’m going to need a lot of help—”

“I understand.” He was nodding, his heart racing, sick relief twisting in his chest. “I’m your man.”

SUNDAY AUGUST 10, 2003

Neville was on a rocky cliff in Ireland, a mist blowing up from the sea below, laughing women spilling out of Dean’s art studio. The sky stretched out before him, bright blue against the clouds. The green of the earth was dotted with yellow gorse, sea pink thrift, purple heather, wild daffodils. Wild pansies.

Seamus and Dean had been bonded inside the gallery—standing on the bare oak planks, Dean’s paintings on the white walls around them—surrounded by family and close friends. Now Dean’s muggle stepfather and Seamus’s muggle father were talking about cricket while Dean’s younger half-siblings milled awkwardly in their good clothes. There would be an early dinner at the distillery after this.

Neville moseyed back inside. Dean’s aunts were there, taking pictures with muggle cameras. They were tall and lean, with dark brown skin, like Dean. He’d painted them—a semi-abstract style, the canvas alive with bright colors—and they were posing together in front of the group portrait.

Neville looked over—Seamus had come to stand beside him.

“They won’t let him put them in any paintings with magic,” explained Seamus. “They’re good Christians—don’t hold with witchcraft. Till the neighbor lady steals the rhubarb out of the allotment. Then they love me, soon as they need a wee hex done.”

“They don’t ask Dean?” asked Neville.

“No! It’s me soul that can go to hell.” But he was smiling like he was proud of them. “Ach, there’s me mam talking to his mam—they’re thick as thieves. Up to no good, I’ll warrant you. I’ve got to break this up.”

Neville watched as he strolled over and then Dean’s mother was patting Seamus’s cheek while his mother straightened his lapels, Seamus’s face going a blotchy red as he soaked up their attention. Neville found himself smiling a little, his heart in his throat. He could hear Pansy saying, I quite need a mother. He’d never had one. Not like this. Now Dean’s aunts were there, fussing over Seamus. He grinned as they scolded him, their thin hands gripping his arm, holding his chin. His mother was laughing. Neville swallowed hard, the pain in his heart choking him.

Pansy. Neville had a mother, even if she couldn’t be here for him. Maybe it was his wife he wanted. He’d like her here, so he could take her hand. And then she could look up at him—like he mattered.

Selfish, to want her here to make him feel better. He was meant to take care of her.

She had refused to come because she didn’t think Seamus and Dean would want her here. Neville had asked her.

Neville had said, “Seamus and Dean are getting bonded on Sunday—”

And she’d said, “Have a nice time.”

“I thought you might come with me.”

Pansy had pursed her lips. “I don’t think so, Longbottom. I don’t go where I’m not wanted.”

“You’d be with me,” he’d said.

“Neville.” She’d fixed him with a look. “It’s Finnigan and Thomas’s bonding. That’s not the time—”

“We’re going to be bonded—”

“It’s their day,” she’d said firmly. “I won’t be a fly in the ointment.”

Neville didn’t control where Pansy went. But next time he’d argue. Next time he’d make it clear he wanted her there. Why hadn’t he said that? He should have said, You’re wanted. I want you there.

He hadn’t realized it until now—how much he wanted her here.

Now Seamus’s mam was waving him over. “Neville, look at you—”

He let Mrs. Finnigan take his hands as she gazed up at him. “You’ve grown up, you have. If you fell, you’d be halfway home.”

Neville laughed—he didn’t mind it, coming from her.

“And look at this suit. Are you getting married, then?”

“I am—this autumn.”

“And is she a nice girl?”

“No,” said Neville. “But she’s nice to me.”

Mrs. Finnigan threw back her head and laughed. “Ah, lad. That’s all that matters, then.”





Neville found a moment—before dinner started and they all got too drunk—to pull Seamus and Dean and Alicia and Katie aside. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and withdrew the envelopes.

“These are copies,” he said, handing them out. “Percy filed the originals.”

Katie had hers out and unfolded. “An exemption—”

“Shacklebolt signed this?” Alicia looked up at him, her tone sharp. “I don’t want to be beholden—"

“No,” said Neville. “They’re forged. I had Nott do them—”

“Theodore Nott,” said Dean, eyebrows raised.

“What about—”

“Percy had Penelope pull all the original match paperwork and the appeals. Officially, there will be no evidence they ever happened. If anyone goes looking, they’ll find the exemptions—backdated and filed as though they were there all along. Your matches will get something on Ministry letterhead saying the previous paperwork was in error.”

“I don’t have to marry that creepy Ravenclaw?” asked Katie. And then she was hugging him and not letting go.

Seamus’s brow was furrowed. “Will this fool—”

“Nott modeled it on his own exemption,” said Neville over Katie’s head. Her arms were tight around him. “His is for criminal insanity, but I reckon the format is the same—”

“You mad bastard—” Dean was jostling his shoulder as Katie began rocking him side to side.

“What do we owe Nott?” asked Alicia. Her arms were crossed. “The snakes don’t do anything for free.”

“Nothing,” said Neville.

“Bullshit.”

Neville huffed a laugh, his head thrown back as he avoided her eyes. His gaze skittered over the rafters and stills as he swayed with Katie. This was embarrassing. “It’s a favor because I’m with Pansy. I just have to let him—”

Godric—he was smiling, fighting a laugh. He couldn’t say it.

“What,” said Alicia.

“He gets to call me Daddy.”

“Daddy!” yelped Katie, pulling back to peer up at him. “Oh my Merlin—”

“Please get too pissed to remember I told you that,” sighed Neville, his eyes closed.

But he could hear Alicia sniggering. “I’m never forgetting that—”

“That’s what you get,” said Seamus—

Neville looked to him—

“Galloping in on your white horse, waving your sword around—”

“Playing the big man,” said Neville, his smile wry now. “I know.”

“Well, from what I’ve heard—” said Alicia.

“All right,” said Neville, “time for dinner.”

“Here—” Katie had slotted her copy back into its envelope and was collecting the others. “I’m putting these in my office before you lose them.”

She marched off, her heels clicking against the flooring. Neville thought of Pansy.

“Thanks, Nev,” said Dean, and Neville nodded as Seamus shook his hand, clapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re a good man, Neville,” said Seamus, and Neville felt his eyes prickle, wishing it were so.

“Oi,” said Alicia. “This means Katie and I don’t have to get bonded—”

“I heard that!” called Katie over her shoulder. “You’re not getting out of it!”

Neville didn’t get pissed. He was still mostly sober when he stepped out of the main floo at Parkinson Manor. He scanned the black and white checkerboard marble and white pampas grass—familiar now—and then Pansy was there, in her dressing gown. She wasn’t wearing her makeup.

“Hiya,” said Neville, smiling a little. He held out the wild pansies he’d gathered on the cliff in Ireland.

She stepped forward and took them from him, looking down at the purple and white and yellow flowers.

“They were there but you weren’t,” said Neville. “I missed you.”

She looked up. He could see the hope and fear in her eyes.

“I’m not doing that again,” he told her. “You’re meant to be my wife, Pansy. I’m not going places without you.”