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

She pushed back her chair and stood, and Neville moved to the sofa so he wouldn’t be in her way. Maybe he could explain—though he didn’t know what he would say. He couldn’t talk to her, though, with that desk between them.

It was a black leather sofa. He sat at the far end so he wouldn’t crowd her. She’d skirted her desk, and he watched as she made her way to him. She was wearing a clingy black knit dress with long sleeves and a high neck. All covered up.

Neville played it out. She’d sit with an uncomfortable space between them and tug her hemline lower. She’d tell him she was fine but refuse to make eye contact.

Neville sat still and tried not to sigh or look frustrated. He could feel the anger and shame building, a tension in his chest.

She was to him now.

Neville looked up at her.

She wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Her hand reached out—

She was leaning over him—

Her hand was on his shoulder, her knee on the sofa between his legs—

Neville sucked in a breath—

She was climbing onto his lap.

Neville was holding his breath.

Her arms were round his neck—

She was knocking against him as she settled in—

His arms were wrapping round her—

She was curled up against him, her knees tucked up, and he was holding her there as tightly as he could.

Neville exhaled and she sank into him.

Pansy was warm and alive and breathing against him. She smelled like ink and perfume. He could feel her sadness. She was trusting him with this.

It would be so easy to turn this on her. Neville could blame her for claiming Malfoy was a friend after he’d mistreated her. He could demand she cut off Malfoy. He could tell her she should have done it a long time ago, and he didn’t want to hear her moaning about another man.

Then she could tell him he was the one obsessing over her past, stirring it up, demanding apologies she’d never asked for. She could tell him she’d known Nott and Malfoy her whole life and he was the newcomer—she’d do as she pleased and he could fuck off.

Or she’d do as he told her and share less and less with him.

She still trusted him—and he could still ruin that.

Neville held her and she didn’t say anything and he tried to push it all down. His heart was beating too hard. The tension in his chest felt hot and nauseating. He did what he thought was right and what he thought needed to be done. But he didn’t control other people. He didn’t always know what they wanted, or what was best for them. He couldn’t fix Pansy. He couldn’t rescue her. She was a person—not a plant.

“Pansy,” he murmured, “what do you need?”

Her ribcage rose and fell against him. “A drink,” she said.

Neville huffed a laugh. But she was right—he wanted to get her out of the house. If they stayed here, they’d brood. “We’ll go to your hotel and get you a martini,” he said. He knew she liked that bar. They’d been before.

She sat up and pulled back to look at him. “And then what?” she said. She was meeting his gaze. Her eyes were so green. Her eyeliner was thick and precise. She had on her daytime eyeshadow.

“We’ll eat dinner at the bar,” said Neville. “I’ll get the salmon, and you’ll have your rare steak.”

“And you’ll get the salad, and I’ll get the chips,” said Pansy.

“And you’ll eat half my salad,” said Neville. “And offer me two chips in exchange.”

Pansy laughed. “A bargain,” she said. “All right. You’ve convinced me.”

She has been better to me than I deserve. Loyal, determined, resilient Pansy. Maybe he didn’t need to fix her. Maybe he just needed to be here for her. “Good,” said Neville.

“Let me put on better shoes,” she said softly. Her eyes were playing over his face.

She kissed him then, and Neville closed his eyes and focused on the feel of her mouth, the comfort of her weight on him, the texture of her dress under his fingertips. He’d take her to dinner and let her decide if she wanted to talk about it. But, just in this moment, he didn’t want to let go of her.

“Thank you, Nev,” she said. “For sticking up for me.”

“Thank you for letting me,” said Neville.

51%
THEODORE NOTT THE MAN U ARE

“Suspicions are confirmed,” announced George. He threw himself into the club chair in Seamus’s tasting room, tumbler in hand. “Brewed with Malfoy and Nott—”

“Did you, now?” Seamus was giving him a squinty-eyed look.

“Intel is intel! And I wanted to see his set-up—”

“How was it?” asked Seamus.

“Cherry,” said George. “For home use. He can bulk brew a case. Nothing like what you have here.”

Seamus nodded, mollified.

“But he could not stop yammering about Granger. Let the cauldron boil over ‘cause he was watching the door—”

“Was she there?” asked Neville.

“Came to check on us. He acted the prat till she left and then it was back to Mrs. Malfoy likes this, Mrs. Malfoy says that—”

“How’s he keeping that from Avery?” asked Seamus.

“Oh, he’s not,” laughed George. “C’mon, those pictures of him licking her arm? But who cares. They don’t kick you out of Club Coup D’état for being a kinky little freak—”

“Jaysus—”

“Speaking of freaks—” George rolled his head toward Neville—he looked like Ron in the moment. “Nott may have stolen Charlie’s watch.”

“What?” Neville felt his brow furrow.

“His seventeenth birthday watch. Pretty sure Nott was wearing it the whole time.”

“Why would—did Charlie give it to him?”

“Charlie?” George was shaking his head. “It’s even odds he’s even noticed it’s gone.”

“You going to tell him?” asked Neville.

“No, mate.” George was grinning. “I’m gonna sit back and watch what happens when an unstable object meets an oblivious force.”

52%

Neville was in the conservatory, having tea with Pansy and—through no fault of his own—Theodore Nott. Nott was slouched, loose-limbed, on his wrought iron chair, his head seemingly too heavy for his neck. It was tilted nearly to his shoulder now as, his lips parted, he idly gazed at Neville’s chest.

Nott’s eyes shifted to Pansy and he sat up. “Granger’s making me take a job—did I tell you?”

“No,” said Pansy. “What kind of job?”

“With the Department of Mysteries.” Nott had plucked the watercress finger sandwich from his plate. “I had to apply.”

“Is this to keep you out of Draco’s hair?” asked Pansy.

“Whaaaat,” whined Nott. “I’ve been good. And I have so many suggestions, too, if they’d just take off those rings.”

“Well, they won’t,” said Pansy. “You know how Draco feels about marriage—”

“But they should. Instead, Draco just bleeds all over her.”

What? Neville’s eyes had narrowed.

“You don’t know about that?” Nott was grinning at Neville, still holding the sandwich. “The ring fucks with the curse in Granger’s arm but Draco’s blood is the cure. So it’s bloodletting day and night over there—just rubbing it in—”

“Ick,” said Pansy.

“You know he loves it.” Nott had dropped the sandwich back onto his plate.

Neville was distracted—imagining Malfoy rubbing his blood into Hermione’s arm. Was she afraid to take off the ring? Or was he refusing, to keep her dependent?

“And, no, it’s not to keep me out of his hair.” Nott had raised his eyebrows, the face of innocence. “It’s because Saint Granger noticed I’m going to waste—that’s what she said.” His chin was jutted forward, his hand flapped to his sternum. “Draco is letting me go to waste. I have talents, you know.”

Neville remembered Nott drawing up the exemptions.

Nott had made Neville come to Nott Manor. If he’d thought that would scare Neville off, he’d been wrong—Neville wanted a look inside every Death Eater manor, and Nott Manor had been a notorious one. Nott had had to come out to the gates to unlock them in person—his wandwork fast and intricate and, Neville suspected, studded with decoy movements. Then they’d walked in together. Nott had easily paced him—they had the same stride length, and Nott was much less frenetic on his own property. Nott Manor had been in worse shape than Neville had expected. Mildew, rot, the smell of decomposition. Stained wainscotting. Soiled floor runners. The paintings turned to face the wall. Nott had taken him to a study with ruined books on the shelves and black mold spreading across the wallpaper. Then he’d thrown himself into the chair behind the desk, looked up at Neville, and said, “Show me what you’ve got.”

Neville had pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and placed the paperwork that had accompanied his Order of Merlin onto Nott’s father’s desk.

When Nott had sat forward to study Shacklebolt’s signature, Neville had thought of himself getting to know a new plant. Nott had worked efficiently, with little flourishes that seemed habitual. He was very much in control of his magic. Neville’s wariness had notched up as Nott had relaxed.

Now Nott added an egg salad finger sandwich to his plate, lined up beside the watercress. “I’m hoping I get the time room but maybe I’ll get death—though they’re the same thing, really, aren’t they? I won’t be able to tell you, but there will be signs. Portents, actually, if I’m raising the dead.”

Pansy was grinning at him.

“Maybe I’ll talk to Mum through the veil. I always wanted her to haunt the Manor so she’d talk to me.”

“I know, darling.”

Pansy was still smiling but Neville felt his throat tighten as despair washed through him. Nott was just another boy missing his mother. Neville missed his mother even as he visited her. Someday she’d die, and he’d miss her all over again.

“I won’t get love. Can you imagine?”

Pansy laughed with him.

Nott had stacked a cucumber finger sandwich across the egg salad and watercress. “Unless it’s really just sex. Do you reckon? Does the Ministry have a secret sex dungeon? That’s why no one’s allowed to talk about it. It’s wall-to-wall cock down there. But then how’s Granger to be my reference? She hasn’t fucked me once—”

Neville sighed.

“And it’s no use asking—”

“I thought you were seeing Charlie,” said Neville.

Nott’s eyes flicked to him. He was sitting slightly hunched. “Who said that?”

“Charlie,” said Neville, annoyed enough to answer.

Nott went eerily still. He said, “He mentioned me?”

Neville didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to repeat what had been said in private.

Nott tilted his head. He thickly lashed eyes were downcast as he shifted his jaw. “What’d he say—I’ve been annoying him?”

“Has he given you his measurements?” asked Pansy. “When am I getting them?”

Nott’s tongue was in his cheek.

Neville studied Nott, breathing shallowly across from him. Looking like a dog who expected a kick.

“I need his and Potter’s and Scamander’s soon,” said Pansy. Her eyes moved between Nott and Neville. “Or I’m going to be cross.”

“Pans—” Nott had slumped theatrically. “I haven’t told him—ow! Ow!”

“Theo, he’s your plus-one!” Pansy was smacking Nott on the shoulder as he curled in on himself, starting to laugh. “I am going to beat you to death! I am on a schedule!”

“Pans, Pans—”

“I mean it!”

“But what if he doesn’t want to be seen with me?” Nott was laughing as if it were a joke. “What if he won’t come?”

“You haven’t even invited him?” shrieked Pansy. She’d stood up—

Neville reached out—

—and grabbed her arm.

Nott’s hands were shielding his head—the gold watch on his left wrist.

Neville said it for Pansy’s sake: “Invite Charlie, Nott. The Weasleys already know.”

Pansy shot him a look as she took her seat and Nott cautiously sat up. “All of them?” he asked.

“Bill and Percy and George,” said Neville.

Nott was sitting slouched, his eyes playing over Neville. “He tell them it’s just a bit of sport?”

Neville sighed. Pansy was looking to him, her eyes hopeful. And maybe Nott deserved to know. Neville said it: “Charlie told them he likes you.”

Nott took a deep breath. His eyes had fallen to his plate. He frowned and knocked the top off the cucumber sandwich.

54%

Neville had nodded. He’d thought back to the solstice gala—the resentful glares. But Flint had tried to extort him because the greenhouse was lucrative, not because he knew about the side project. “And Bulstrode doesn’t mind telling you this—”

“She’s so fed up with Marcus, I could be a gatepost. And you know I’ve told her what a brute you are—”

“Oh my giddy aunt—”

“Silent. Brooding. Driven mad by the war. No use for me but sex—”

Neville had massaged the space between his eyes while she’d laughed her evil little laugh.

“You don’t want to hear a word out of me, that’s what I told her. She doesn’t know you’re a messy bitch who lives for gossip—”

He’d laughed then, shaking his head, and she’d grinned at him in the mirror.

“I told you mine. You tell me yours.”

“Ginny and Susan are both pregnant,” he’d said.

“So they’ll have a cousin the same age to play with,” she’d said lightly. She’d been leaned in toward her reflection. Neville’s gaze had slid to her arse. “Makes sense.”

Neville hadn’t thought of it that way. “Who did you play with?” he’d asked, his eyes back to her face.

“Fen,” she’d said. “You?”

“By myself,” he’d said.

Pansy had nodded, matter of fact. “We’ll have two,” she’d said. “So they’ll have each other.”

Neville had stood up.

In two steps, he’d been behind her. She’d looked up at him in the mirror.

“I’ll take as many as you’ll give me, Pansy.” His voice had been rough. His heart racing, the blood rushing to his cock. One was obligatory. Anything more was her choosing—

“Two,” Pansy had said, still watching him. His hands had moved to the counter on either side of her. She’d been right up against him in thin silk and lace. “I’ve decided.”

“Two, then.” He’d put his weight on his hands, bent to touch his lips to the crook of her neck. He’d felt her hair against his face. He’d breathed in her scent. Pansy. She’d give him a family, and he’d take care of it. His own family. His children wouldn’t grow up thinking they were a burden.

The warmth had spread through him as he’d kissed her neck. “Are you done with your skincare regimen?” he’d murmured.

He’d heard the smirk in her voice when she’d said, “Close enough.”

He’d pushed the straps of her nightdress down and kissed her shoulders and taken her to bed, being gentle with her until she’d rolled him over and climbed on top of him. He’d fallen asleep with her head on his chest, imagining dark-haired children—chasing them through the hedge maze while they laughed.

Now Neville thought of his father as he walked down the slick cobblestones of Diagon. Gran had always told him Frank was a good man who did the right thing. Would his father be proud of him? No. Neville hadn’t fought the good fight. He’d fought dirty.

Neville found George scourgifying a streaky BLOOD TRAITOR off his brickwork.

“So this has started up again,” said George.

Neville nodded. “See the picture of Malfoy in the Prophet?”

“With the blood all over his face?” George raised an eyebrow. “Knockturn’s been yapping—enough for the rumors to make their way here. They’re saying he went spare over Bellatrix.”

Neville’s face felt heavy. His feet rooted to the ground.

George had leaned inside the doorway to the shop to yell a name. Now he was back. “Word is Rookwood told Malfoy he’d never measure up. Said the Malfoys should recognize her son—”

“There is no son,” ground out Neville.

“He says he is.” It was the new shop clerk coming out.

Neville and George looked at each other. “Go on,” said George, his eyes not leaving Neville’s.

“Oh, erm.” George’s clerk was weedy and spotty. He ran a hand through his hair and it fell back into his eyes. “Like I said before, some of the lads have been talking about—there’s this wizard, Saiph, and apparently Bellatrix is his mum—but he’s not political, not like that. It’s more like he knows what it’s like to be on your own, with everyone against you. But he says we should think of it like we’re rare, so we’re high-value—”

“Godric’s hot steamy hollow, mate.” George had turned to him. “You’re about to get some assigned reading—”

“I’ve read the pamphlets going round, about how we should be proud of our heritage—”

“Well, he’s lying about his,” said George. “You know the Sacred 28 all have family trees, right? They update automatically?”

“What? No, I don’t reckon I knew that.” The boy was scratching the back of his head. “But some of the lads say they’ve seen him and he looks the spitting image—”

“Where?” snapped Neville. “Where have they seen him?”

“Oh, erm. Bert said he was hosting, like, dialogue sessions? He’s in that manky inn above the fight club. You know the secret one? Where they ha—ow! What was that for?”

“You didn’t think to mention that!” George’s hand was still raised from cuffing him. Neville had pulled his wand.

“Let’s go,” said Neville.

And then George was turning with him, headed for Knockturn.

56%

Pansy had convinced Neville to sit for pictures beforehand by telling him it was smarter to provide their own than to trust the WWN photographer. After his experiences with Rita Skeeter and the tabloids, this argument had worked. Somehow this had turned into two shoots because Pansy wanted to audition wedding photographers. She’d leaned over him in bed, her breasts in his face, and let him latch on to a nipple before she’d told him. “But you don’t mind, Nev—do you?” Her voice low and cajoling. Her fingertips trailing along his neck. He’d been rock hard, sucking greedily. He’d caved.

The first photographer had come out to the Manor. The pictures had been exactly what Neville had expected. Sitting with Pansy in the drawing room. Standing together on the grounds, the Manor looming in the distance, as the peacocks strolled past. Neville had worn the black three-piece suit and white shirt and black tie Pansy had picked out and had faced where he’d been told to face, and the pictures were good. The grounds were beautiful. Pansy’s décor was striking. She looked satisfied. He looked fine.

Well, no, he looked good. It was embarrassing—he wouldn’t admit to it—but he liked the way Pansy made him look. She’d had Saffron taper his hair shorter on the sides and at his nape—it accentuated his jaw. The suit emphasized his shoulders. The uninterrupted line of the black trousers and black jacket made him seem towering with Pansy next to him, she was so short. It wasn’t how Neville was used to seeing himself. Somehow, he always expected to see his sixth-year self—his teeth crowding his mouth, his hair curling because he didn’t have the money to get it cut. Hunching because he felt too big. He studied these photos and he heard Pansy saying, There, you look handsome before she went on tiptoe and pecked him on the lips. She said it enough he'd told himself she believed it even if it wasn’t true. But maybe it was true, at least in these pictures.

The second photographer had met them at the greenhouse. She’d kept Neville in the suit but taken off the tie. The point, Pansy had said, was the juxtaposition. It wasn’t meant to look realistic. It was meant to look like a muggle magazine spread. The photographer had taken pictures of Neville walking down the center aisle in the suit and his dragonskin shoes, the shirt open at the collar, and then standing with his hands in his pockets, looking away and then looking back to her, looking down and then up, unsmiling, while the venomous tentaculas rattled and reached for him.

Pansy had been nestled in among the plants, waiting her turn. She’d been in a sleeveless column of black sequins with a deep V neck. The photographer had said, “I think we got it,” releasing him, and he’d turned to see Pansy stroking one of the tentacula’s leaves. It had tilted its eyeless head toward her shoulder, its vines wrapping round her waist. Neville had ambled over and rapped the pot with his knuckle.

“Hey,” he’d said. “That’s mine.”

The tentacula had swayed closer to Pansy and tightened its grip. Pansy had smirked up at him and he’d smirked back—she’d looked so good in her slinky dress, with his plants, gazing up at him in his greenhouse. The photographer had caught it all. Later, sitting in her office, Neville had lingered on these pictures. Him and Pansy smiling unself-consciously at each other, the black formalwear stark against the red and green leaves, the vines encircling Pansy and creeping round his left wrist, the Patek Philippe on his right, a glimpse of the Parkinson cufflinks. His life and her life mixed together.

“We can’t give these to the press,” he’d told her. “They’re pornographic.”

“We’re fully clothed,” she’d said.

“Pansy, you’re eyefucking me—”

“That’s what you get for looking fuckable. Women are visual creatures—”

He’d scoffed. “I don’t think—”

“Don’t think, Longbottom. Just take off your shirt.”

He’d been fighting a laugh as she’d straddled him on the black leather sofa and tugged at his collar button.

“See?” she’d said. “I can’t help myself.”

“You’re objectifying me,” he’d said.

“Yes, I am,” she’d murmured, her lips at his ear, and he’d felt his cock get harder. Her voice had been breathy: “Tell me when to stop.”

Then she’d started kissing his neck and his brain had turned off. He hadn’t stopped her at all. She’d unbuttoned his shirt and kissed his chest and got his cock out and he’d fucked her on the sofa, just like she’d wanted.

She’d met with the reporter alone—Neville had refused. (Pansy had gone squinty-eyed at the breakfast table, and he’d watched over the rim of his teacup as she’d decided not to push it.)

She’d been vibrating with energy when the finished piece had arrived—owled over by Wizarding World Newsthe night before it hit stands. Neville had watched from the sofa as she’d torn off the wrapper. Then she’d paused and looked to him. “What if they made us sound awful?”

Neville had canted his head. “We are awful, Pansy. We’re rich and privileged, and we’ve both broken the law—”

“Oh.” She’d sat up straighter. “I suppose that’s fine, then.” She’d pulled a face and begun flipping pages. Then she’d looked up, grimacing. “Do you want to read it first and tell me how bad it is?”

Neville had raised his eyebrows. “This was your idea—”

“I know! I know. I want to capitalize on the interest in us to launch my cosmetics line. But I’ve just remembered that everyone hates me—”

Neville had huffed something like a laugh. “Come here,” he’d said, and she’d got up from her desk. He’d set aside the post he’d been sorting through and held out his hand for the magazine. It was slick and glossy.

“Just tell me whether I sound stupid. And if they do those snide little asides. And if I—”

“Are you going to talk the whole time I’m reading?” he’d asked.

“Yes,” she’d said decisively.

Neville had sighed and unbuttoned his trousers, and she’d bitten her lip.

“Get on the rug,” he’d said, and he’d stood and wrenched off his shoes and stripped off while she’d waited, looking up at him with those kohl-lined green eyes. Neville’s stomach had been tight. He liked it when she waited patiently—he couldn’t help it—but he’d been dreading this article from the start.

He’d sat on the edge of the sofa, his elbow on his knee as he paged through, and she’d scooted forward and leaned her head on his inner thigh. The room had felt tense but she’d been so sweet—he couldn’t resist her when she got like this, like she needed him—and then the pages had fallen open to a picture she hadn’t shown him. Neville’s breath had caught. It’d been her against his venomous tentaculas. Their vines had been criss-crossed up and down her torso—the bound damsel in distress. But she hadn’t been wide-eyed. She’d shifted her shoulders, tilted her head, and smiled coyly at the camera. The caption read: A PANSY AT HOME IN THE LONGBOTTOM GREENHOUSE.

“Oh,” she’d said, and Neville had felt her take his stiffening cock into her warm mouth.

He’d pulled in a breath, and then they’d both sighed.

He’d gazed at her smiling coyly at him, surrounded by his favorite plants, while the real Pansy sucked his cock.

Then he’d blinked and flipped back to the beginning of the article. “They’ve used the picture of us standing on the grounds.”

Pansy had hummed, her tongue moving lazily against the shaft.

“Pansy Parkinson is feeling optimistic,” Neville had read aloud. “When your intrepid reporter recently caught up with the Slytherin heiress, she was sitting in her minimalist drawing room at her ancestral estate—”

“Hmm—”

“—surrounded by the spreadsheets that will ensure her guests portkey in seamlessly—just one detail in her meticulous planning for what promises to be the pureblood society wedding of the year. As anyone not living under a rock knows by now, Parkinson has been matched since July to Battle of Hogwarts hero Neville Longbottom as part of Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt’s controversial Reconciliation Act. When asked about the unusual circumstances of her engagement, though, Parkinson only laughs. ‘I stay out of politics, as I’ve no head for it at all—’ So there’s your first lie.”

She’d inhaled and started to pull back and he’d moved the magazine aside—

“I’ll stop reading if you take your mouth off my cock.”

She’d made a high-pitched noise of protest and leaned in to take him deeper. Neville had paused while she’d swirled her tongue and pleasure had seeped through him, warmth spreading down the back of his neck. If he had to read about himself, maybe this made it bearable. He’d forced himself to return to the text.

“‘But I can scarcely complain when I’ve been given the wizarding world’s most eligible bachelor.’ Hmph—”

Pansy’d hummed—

“Indeed, the reclusive Gryffindor has been turning heads—hmm—with his brooding good looks—good Godric—and classic yet cutting-edge red-carpet ensembles. Parkinson says she can take no credit, since Longbottom’s work as a respected herbologist and rare plant expert has given him a natural eye for detail that extends to his sartorial choices.”

Neville had been shaking his head but Pansy had settled into a slow, steady rhythm, seemingly at ease with this blatant falsehood.

“But when asked if her fiancé will be applying this eye for detail to her party planning, Parkinson laughs again. ‘Mr. Longbottom’s time is much too valuable. I wouldn’t dream of frittering it away on my foolishness.’ There’s little frivolity, however, in the meaning behind the Parkinson Longbottom nuptials or the work that will go into making them happen. Intended to bridge the post-war ideological divide, Miss Parkinson’s celebration will include a veritable who’s who of society scions, with Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott II, Luna Lovegood Scamander, and Ginevra Weasley Potter expected to appear as members of the wedding party. To dress them, Parkinson has looked toward muggle designers currently in style.”

Neville had read the rest of the article to Pansy while she’d sat on the rug with her legs tucked under her and sucked his cock. Neville had understood less and less of what he’d been reading as the article had delved into fashion trends and his heart had beat harder. She’d hummed at certain details and the pleasure had rolled through him—too much to concentrate but not enough. He’d wanted to pull her up and strip off her sartorial choices and fuck her.

The feature had ended with a picture of them in the greenhouse. Neville had squinted stupidly at it. He’d remembered feeling silly in the moment—but in the photo, his glower and flexing jaw looked dangerous. They’d been posed at the scarred wooden table in back—Neville seated on the chair, Pansy on the table, her forearm on his suited shoulder, her legs crossed in the sequined dress so that one high-heeled foot rested lightly on his thigh. On the magazine’s glossy paper, he stared down the camera and absently took hold of her ankle. His fingers circled the bare skin above the shoe’s strap, and her mouth quirked as she draped herself on him. It made him look possessive. Controlling. Pansy looked both sharp and lush, all hips and breasts and the precise edges of her hair and eyeliner.

He’d paused, watching the photo, remembering fucking her on that table when she’d first come to him.

Shall we see if we’re compatible?

He’d read aloud: “‘Mr. Longbottom and I are so well matched because we’re both quite traditional. There’s no need to fuss and fight when we both understand he’s the man of the house and it’s my job to keep him happy.’ Pansy, you didn’t say that—”

She’d made a questioning noise as she’d taken him deeper—

Neville had groaned. “I sound like such an arsehole.”

He’d moved the magazine aside and she’d looked up at him, her big eyes innocent, his cock in her mouth. He’d sucked in a breath—

She’d pulled back. “Let me see it.”

And then she’d scrambled up to standing, and with a quick flip of her skirt, she’d been shimmying out of her knickers. She’d stepped out of them and turned her back to him, and then he’d been lifting her skirt to watch her sit on his cock. She’d been wet as the head pushed into her—a spike of ego at the proof that she liked this—and then he’d focused on the charm and she’d wiggled and borne down on him and he’d been in, enveloped by warmth. She’d taken the magazine from him and he’d rolled his hips, pushing further in, wanting more.

She’d sat on his lap, his cock in her, and paged to the start of the article. “Oh, Nev,” she’d said. “You look so good here. Look at that.”

“You supplied the picture—”

“But it’s different, seeing it in the magazine. Don’t we look good together?”

“You look good—”

“No, you’re handsome.”

His chin had been over her shoulder—she’d arched her back and reached back to palm his head. He’d rocked his hips, thrusting into her, and she’d clenched her cunt on him.

She’d said, “Everyone is going to be so jealous when they see you.”

He’d gripped her waist and she’d tightened on him and he’d made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “You are making me mental,” he’d muttered.

She’d hummed unsympathetically and taken her hand back to turn the page. “It’s a nice write-up after all. I’d been so worried.”

He’d held onto her waist, rolling his hips.

She’d flipped a page.

He’d been sliding his hand toward her clit when realization had dawned. “Pansy,” he’d said, “are you training me to get off on press coverage?”

“Training—”

She’d said it like she’d never heard of such a thing.

“—like a dog?”

She’d been fighting a laugh, he’d heard it—he’d squeezed her waist and she’d squirmed on him. “Pansy—”

“Why?” She’d been laughing her evil little laugh. “Are you getting off?”

“Not like this. I need to fuck you properly—”

“But I’m reading this—”

“What happened to making me happy?”

“Don’t believe everything you read, Longbottom—”

And then she’d shrieked, laughing, as he’d stood up—

She was too short. He’d wanted a bed. He’d pulled out and hefted her up and carried her to the bedroom. He’d tossed her down onto the pillows as she’d yelped gleefully. He’d fucked her properly and kissed her face and told her she was beautiful and he was proud of her. She’d got very quiet and limpet-like then and he’d worried he’d said the wrong thing. He’d said it without thinking.

Now Neville took a breath and shook it off. He needed to concentrate on floral arrangements for the wedding. But the table made him think of Pansy, and he looked around the greenhouse and imagined her there.

Neville got up to go check on the fields and outbuildings. He had too much on his mind. He needed to do something physical.





Neville was eating dinner with Pansy in the lesser dining room, the table shrunk down, the fire going. His hair was still wet from the bath.

“You have a letter,” she said, holding it out. “I’ve been getting loads of notes. I told you the witches would be jealous.”

“They aren’t taking the piss?”

“That’s how you know someone’s jealous.”

“Alicia is green with envy, then.”

“Astoria says she’d climb you like a tree, and Davis wants to know if you’re for hire.”

Neville’s eyebrows were raised.

“Nott asked for nudes but he says that every time I see him.”

Neville sighed.

“It’s just girl-talk.” She looked up from the envelope she’d slit open. “You know how women are.”

Neville thought of Ginny. He’d heard her get raunchy. Just never about him. (What had Hannah shared with Susan?) He was afraid to ask what Pansy told Nott.

He looked to the letter. A postmark from a Canadian owlery. Glittery blue wax and the Lovegood seal. Pansy was frowning over her own letter as he broke the wax.

Luna wrote that she’d received the notice from the Ministry as well as his letter, which was good timing because she’d been thinking of him after seeing a purple pitcher plant. They were native to the acid bogs of Canada—the only pitcher plant to live in cold climates—and ate juvenile spotted salamanders. Luna included several sketches of the purple pitcher plant and the juvenile spotted salamanders, which Neville spent some time examining, and then went into a long digression on Nargle-hunting. This segued into Luna assuring Neville that she and Rolf would make the trip to support his bond. She’d thought about it, and she had a good feeling about his match with Pansy. Also, Rolf’s measurements were on file with Twilfitt & Tattings, and he’d sent the shop a note. Rolf said hullo. They were both looking forward to seeing Neville again.

Neville read the letter and then silently passed it to Pansy.

She looked over and plucked it from between his fingers without bothering to feign disinterest. Neville watched as her eyes narrowed. She scanned to the bottom of the page and turned it over.

“Salazar,” she said, “is this all about plants and lizards?”

“Till page four,” said Neville.

“Merlin,” she muttered, but she didn’t skip ahead—Neville could see she was skimming. Then she looked up and said, “Are you and Rolf friendly?”

“No,” said Neville. Then: “He thinks we are.”

“Ah,” said Pansy.

“Actually,” said Neville, “I don’t know what he thinks.”

“All right,” said Pansy neutrally.

Neville sighed. “Does girl-talk mean Hannah told Susan every time I fucked up and now Susan and Ron and Harry and Ginny all talk behind my back—the way they talk about Hermione?”

“Probably,” said Pansy.

Neville imagined them in the kitchen at Grimmauld, making jokes about him and Rolf.

“But everyone does that,” said Pansy. “What are they saying about Granger?”

“Worrying about Malfoy—”

“There you go. It’d be odd if they didn’t.”

“Right.” Neville went ahead and said it—talking behind her back now: “Susan brings her up a lot. I don’t think she’s ever got over everyone saying Hermione and Ron were meant to be.”

“So she’s insecure.” Pansy pulled a face. “Makes sense.”

Neville thought of everyone saying Luna was made for him. How it had got in his head. “I think they’re feeling guilty they didn’t include Hermione in their plans. Susan keeps justifying it. Ron says Hermione doesn’t want children—”

“Not for five years,” said Pansy.

Neville faltered. “How—”

“Nott talks behind Draco’s back,” said Pansy. “So I know she’s making him wait.”

“He wants a baby—”

“Course.” Pansy shrugged. “It’s not like he’ll have to do any work. It’s going to make him mental, watching everyone lap him. I just don’t know how she can stand not knowing. But I know muggles all breed like Prewetts, so I suppose she doesn’t worry.”

Neville felt his brow furrow—he’d missed something.

Pansy’s shoulders slumped and she picked up the stationery beside her place setting. “Mother has sent me a horrible letter.”

Neville took it from her, his eye flicking between her slack expression and Violet’s old-fashioned, private-tutor handwriting.

Pansy pursed her lips. “I’ve really done it this time. She’s being just horrid.”

Neville felt a sickening spike of adrenaline. Gran had owled to tell him the Parkbottom piece was gauche, but he was used to that. What had Violet said to upset Pansy? Neville scanned:

Pansy was a stupid little cow who needed a good slap for encouraging the press to mar the Parkinson name with this vulgar Parkbottom portmanteau. Maybe Pansy was so desperate for attention she’d play the laughingstock, but the estate had already found its heir and she was only convincing Padgett to rethink his generosity in allowing her to continue on at the Manor while he awaited release. Violet knew Pansy was a vapid little slut who would spread her legs for anyone but if she thought polluting herself with the seed of an impoverished blood traitor would help her to supersede her cousin’s claim, then she should remember that Padgett women had difficulty conceiving—punishment for the family’s past lapses. The bones and tea leaves were in agreement: Pansy would not be continuing the Parkinson bloodline. Padgett was within his rights to cut Pansy off when he was no longer inconvenienced and Violet, for one, would not be taking her in after Longbottom realized he couldn’t rut his way to the Parkinson fortune. It was Pansy’s stubborn refusal to recognize her place that had always made her such a burden—

The letter went on but Neville could not. He dropped it to the table, blinking. His chest was heavy, his jaw tight. “Does she always speak to you this way?” he asked.

Pansy huffed. She wasn’t meeting his stare. “When I annoy her. It took Mother and Father ages to have a baby, and then they got me.”

“Pansy, come here.”

She did it. The table was quite small that night, and she was up and throwing her arms round his neck in a step. He pulled her onto his lap and held her to him. He could smell coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms. He could feel her, warm and soft with sharp elbows and shoulder blades, as he cinched his arms tighter around her. He was trying to breathe out his anger as he concentrated on these things. The anger was hot and heavy and nauseating—in his chest, across his shoulders.

“Maybe Mother and Father were right to skip over me,” she said. He couldn’t see her face. “Maybe the Ministry will give you a new match—”

“You’re mine, Pansy. It doesn’t work that way—”

“But what if Mother’s divinations are right and—”

“Then you’ll be enough for me.” Neville felt a pang. He wanted those dark-haired children he’d seen running through the maze. But that didn’t matter now. “You’re enough, Pansy.”

She cried then, and Neville held her and rubbed her back as his thigh went numb under her and his jaw ached. He could feel her tears wetting his collar, drying itchy on his neck. He kept trying to breathe out the anger but it was a stone in his chest he could only breathe around.

Neville took her upstairs and toed off his shoes and stripped off her dress and lay in bed with her while she cried until she fell asleep. She was damp and clingy. Neville had a headache. When she stirred, he murmured, “C’mon. Let’s do your skincare regimen.”

She nodded and got up and he followed her into the en suite and waited while she peed and then he pissed and washed his hands while she put on her nightdress. Then he sat and watched her push back her fringe under her headband and wash her face and pat it dry. She looked sad and tired. Her jaw flexed as she swallowed and then she took a deep breath and faced herself in the mirror. Neville could see her expression go sullen and resolute. She took the lid off one of her pots and began dabbing cream on the puffy pink skin around her bloodshot eyes.

She glanced to him in the mirror. “I’ve got mascara on your shirt.”

Neville looked down at the black marks over his heart.

“I’m going to develop a tear-proof mascara,” she said.

“One that doesn’t smudge if you cry,” said Neville.

“One that doesn’t let you cry at all,” said Pansy.

Neville went to bed early with her. She fell asleep easily, exhausted. Neville lay and listened to the quiet noises of the house. And then, when he was sure she was asleep, he slipped out of bed and slipped on his clothes and made his way to the double doors that led to the master suites.

Padgett Parkinson wasn’t going to claim Pansy’s estate, not unless Neville made some mistakes. But Neville wasn’t the Chosen One. He wasn’t a good person doing the right thing. He was an expendable person doing bad things because someone had to do something. So Neville didn’t think he was going to make those mistakes. Because he’d had a lot of practice now, doing terrible things to people who deserved it.

Neville let himself into the wing Pansy hadn’t yet renovated, and then he was striding down the hall with only the light from his wand, headed toward Violet Parkinson’s abandoned rooms.