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

She marched up to where he sat. Then she was standing between his legs, fussing with his pocket square. He ran his hands up the backs of her thighs. She was half naked. The dress was indecent. (An intrusive thought: her on all fours on the bench.)

He looked down to where the hem hit her legs. “This is—pretty.”

She said, “I have it in silver for the reception after the bond. Tonight is the trial run. If I get fewer than fifty howlers calling me a whore, I’ll find something shorter.”

Neville nodded slowly, his fingertips traveling over the discs. So this was Pansy’s response to her mother calling her a slut. “All right,” he said. “I can fight.”

“Chin up.”

He obeyed as she reached for his bowtie.

“Witch Weekly is coming tomorrow,” she said, her hands moving at his throat.

“I don’t—”

“Talk to the media. Which is why I’ve told them you can’t take time out of your busy schedule. We’re branding you as the strong, silent, successful type.”

Neville hummed. He’d noticed this was important to Pansy.

“At the five-minute mark, you’ll come in and I will be very surprised—”

Neville’s mouth quirked.

“And you will say, ‘I can’t stay,’ and kiss me on the cheek. And then you’ll turn to the reporter and say, ‘I’m lucky to have Pansy.’”

Neville was smiling a little, looking up at the ceiling as she worked on his tie. “That’s all I have to do?”

“That’s all you have to do,” she said. “And then, as soon as you leave, I’ll tell the reporter you have the biggest cock I’ve ever seen—”

“Oh my Merlin,” he sighed. “I wish I thought you were taking the piss.”

“I’m not,” she said. “They won’t print it but they will hang on my every word.”

“Oh my word—”

“And take a second look at the photo I’m providing—”

“Oh my giddy aunt,” he muttered. He was going to pretend she hadn’t told him this.

“There,” she said, brushing down his lapels. He dropped his chin, and she leaned in for a kiss. He could smell the coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms. “I’ll handle the press,” she said, “and there are some trademarks I’m filing. But you needn’t be fussed.”

“All right,” he murmured against her mouth. “I’m lucky to have you, Pansy.”

She pecked his lips and pulled back. “Very natural delivery. Full marks.”

He looked up at her. Her green eyes. Her complicated makeup. Her Cupid’s bow upper lip. Mean, stubborn, never-satisfied Pansy—fighting for her life in a family that wanted to crush her. He understood a little better now, why she was the way she was.

Her eyes were moving over his face.

“I take it back,” she said. “You need loads of practice. We’ll have to role play—”

Neville laughed and pulled at her thighs so she fell into him. She jostled against him, her arms around his neck. He said, “I’m lucky to have you, Pansy.”

“Almost. Try again.”

He was smiling as he said it: “I’m lucky to have you, Pansy.”

“You’re getting there. We need to block out some time—”

“I’m lucky to have you, Pansy.”

“No, Nev.” She was smiling back, kissing his face with her smudge-proof mouth. “I’m lucky to have you.”





They got to St. Mungo’s in time to be photographed going in, which was what Pansy had wanted. Neville didn’t smile. He imagined Violet Parkinson seeing the pictures: her vapid slut daughter on the arm of an impoverished blood traitor.

That was one interpretation.

Or maybe Violet knew Pansy was smart. Maybe that’s why she was afraid of Pansy. Maybe everything she said to Pansy was a lie.

“Mr. Longbottom, have you spoken to the Golden Trio?”

“Pansy, have you been in contact with Draco Malfoy since last night?”

“Pansy, Pansy—who are you wearing?”

“Paco Rabanne,” called out Pansy, and the quick-quotes quills took down the unfamiliar name.

“Neville! Over here! Are you looking forward to your bond?”

“Miss Parkinson, what are your thoughts on the Malfoy match being revoked?”

Neville looked to the reporter. What?

The woman had sidled up to Pansy, pacing them. “Miss Parkinson, was Draco Malfoy abusive during your relationship?”

“No comment,” snapped Neville with a hard look for the woman, and he steered Pansy away. That was nothow Pansy was going to be portrayed. When they’d got through the scrum, he lowered his head to hers. “Have you spoken to Malfoy?”

She shook her head, tense.

She’d been busy, Neville knew. They’d left the Manor before the evening post had been delivered. Neville looked over the heads of the people around them. They were on the fifth floor, moving with the crowd toward the ballroom. The gift shop was coming up on their right. When they came abreast it, the late edition was on display: MALFOY MATCH TO BE REVOKED???

Neville scanned the front page: Ron making the argument that a marked Death Eater should never have been eligible. Anonymous sources saying Hermione was living in fear, afraid to speak freely to her Ministry colleagues.

Neville turned away. He could feel his frustration like a suffocating pressure in his chest. He didn’t need this. He needed Malfoy to stay focused on Avery and deliver. Balmaceda and Estrada had been to Bariloche. They’d found a large supremacist contingent that had confunded its way into luxury lakefront property and was training in the foothills. The logistics were a nightmare. The other side always had an advantage when you went to them—they could apparate anywhere; you could only apparate to the locations you’d scouted. Alicia and Estrada wanted to go in. Neville and Seamus wanted to trap them on a ship, between continents—use their plan against them. But that meant knowing which ship. And that meant Malfoy.

The ballroom was spelled to look like a clearing in the woods—the tables lit by tiny, charmed bonfires surrounded by pumpkins, Rowan berries, pomegranates, marigolds. Their table was at the far end, dark trees just beyond. They were making their way slowly past other tables and clusters of people. Pansy was drawing looks in her skimpy dress. The older men were openly ogling her. Neville’s hand was on the back of her neck. If she was going to go out half-naked, he was going to make it clear she wasn’t available to be harassed. Neville felt nervy, on edge.

By now, Padgett would be feeling the effects of the abrin. He was already dead—he just had to do the work of dying.

They got to their table—and there were Harry and Ginny and Susan and Ron one table over, with two couples Neville didn’t recognize. Susan’s and Ron’s heads were close together as they talked. They both looked to be in a foul mood.

“Oh.”

He looked down at Pansy.

“Neville—”

He glanced over at Ginny. She was heading toward him in her spangly gold robes.

“There’s Daph—”

Neville looked over to see Greengrass in an updo and emeralds—widening her eyes at Pansy, jerking her head. Come here.

“I’ll just pop over,” said Pansy, turning to face him. Her fingertips at his waistband. She was gazing up at him.

“Stay where I can see you,” said Neville.

A little wiggle as she said, “Yes, sir.”

Neville inhaled, a flush of warmth down the back of his neck. She was eyefucking him. He was caught.

Ginny cleared her throat.

Pansy smirked and walked off.

Neville watched her go.

The dress wouldn’t cover anything if he had her on all fours.

Merlin, what was wrong with him? Neville turned to see Ginny’s raised eyebrow.

“Need a minute?”

Neville was going to ignore that. “What happened with Malfoy?”

“Godric, it was just so weird.” Ginny’s shoulders had slumped. “He’s really done a number on her.”

Neville felt a jolt as he realized he hadn’t asked about Hermione. Hadn’t been thinking of her at all—

“You know Ron and Susan were going to tell her about the baby. And of course Susan didn’t want Malfoy there. I mean, obviously. He wasn’t invited. But then he showed up anyway, acting like Hermione’s not allowed out—just being a knob. And instead of telling him off, she told him to sit down! So Ron said something, and then she and Malfoy got into it, and Malfoy threatened her—”

“With what?”

“She wouldn’t say—we couldn’t hear. But then Malfoy said we wouldn’t do anything about it. So, of course—”

“Right,” said Neville. If Malfoy had wanted a fight, that would do it.

“And then, just between us—” Ginny had shifted closer as she’d lowered her voice.

Neville bent his head to hear her.

“—Susan said something about Ron fighting over Hermione like he’d forgotten she was there—”

Neville’s eyebrows shot up as Ginny spoke faster.

“—which is just a little unfair when he was telling him to leave. And what’s he meant to do with Malfoy threatening her? But that’s when it came out that Susan’s pregnant and Malfoy said he’s been trying to get Hermione pregnant—”

Against her will? Pansy had said five years.

“Which is mental. I mean, he’s gone full Death Eater so why would he. He just wants us to know he’s shagged her—”

Right, thought Neville. It’s going to make him mental, watching everyone lap him.

“But she’s still wearing the ring, so is she letting him? But Ron says she’s sleeping with him for the votes he gets her—that’s the rumor, anyway.”

“To pass her legislation.”

“Right,” said Ginny. She’d shifted back and Neville had straightened. “But her legislation’s not going to matter when he starts a war.”

Neville nodded. Pansy had predicted this. Hermione appeared myopic, hypocritical, in over her head. He said, “Maybe she thinks he won’t get anywhere—with this business with Avery.”

“I suppose.” Ginny looked unsure. “But now Avery’s saying the Wizengamot is going to take up her appeal—after what Ron said to the Prophet.”

Neville frowned. This had to be a loyalty test. Avery thought Malfoy was too attached to Hermione. A good purist should be petitioning the Wizengamot to void the marriage. Malfoy wasn’t going to do that.

Neville sighed. He didn’t need this. He needed a time and place.

“When?” said Neville.

“I don’t know,” said Ginny. “They haven’t announced it yet.” She shook her head. “All I know is I’ve got two hours—tops—in me.”

Neville looked to her, concerned.

She said, “Don’t ever get pregnant, Neville. It’s exhausting.”

Neville gave her a sad smile and saw her to her table. Harry looked up as Neville pulled out her chair.

“All right, then?” asked Harry.

Neville clapped him on the shoulder as he turned to Ginny. Ron and Susan weren’t making eye contact.

Neville looked around from the edge of the ballroom. Everyone had taken their seats. Pansy was crouched to talk to Greengrass, her hands at the back of her too-short skirt. Neville was about to go get her when he saw Malfoy and Hermione, walking in late.

They were making their way to the middle of the room. Their chins were lifted. Hermione was on his arm. The firelight from the centerpieces played off his white-blond hair, her jet-black earrings, the diamonds on his left hand. Hermione was swathed in funereal black silk with lace sleeves. They reached their table, and Malfoy pulled out her chair. He turned to say something to someone, and when he turned back—Hermione slapped him. Right across the face.

Malfoy’s platinum hair went flying as his head whipped to the side. Neville could hear the gasps rippling across the tables.

Then Malfoy tossed his head back, and his hair fell into place.

He looked to her—he was licking the blood off his split lip. Smiling like he wanted to fuck her.

Then he seated her and sat down, disappearing from view as the idle chatter of the room became a dull roar.

Neville could only surmise this was the Malfoys’ public rebuttal to the claims she was cowed by him.

Neville’s chest and jaw were tight. He could feel the sore spots on his back. He was chewing it over. Malfoy had to be telling Avery it was a fetish. That he got off on dressing Hermione like a Malfoy wife and toying with her. That he’d goaded her into a punch when he was thirteen and he’d never stopped wanking to it. (Neville closed his eyes—he didn’t need that mental image. Why had he done this to himself?) How would Malfoy explain it to the Wizengamot?

Neville went to collect his intended.

“Pansy,” he said, standing at a remove from the Pucey table, his voice sharper than usual. She stood up immediately. Greengrass and Pucey glared but Pansy only touched Greengrass’s forearm and came to join him and he ushered her away, his hand on her shoulder blade. He stood over her as he seated her and made sure her napkin covered her lap. Then he nudged his chair closer to hers—so he didn’t elbow the woman on his left and because he wanted Pansy near. His back was to the rest of the room. He couldn’t see the ways out, only the spelled trees. He hated this seat.

They said their hullos, which was as much conversation as Neville was in the mood to make. Under the table, Pansy squeezed his thigh. She tilted her chin up and he hunched down so she could speak into his ear.

“Marcus is dead—”

Neville didn’t react.

“They dumped him on his estate grounds and didn’t tell Millie a thing. But Bole told Adrian it was Draco in a duel at Avery’s. They’re putting it around that it was muggle violence but Daphne says Draco cut him to ribbons. Millie is beside herself. Avery and Montague haven’t even tried to contact her. Draco must be in a state.”

Neville nodded, his eyes on the table. It wasn’t a loyalty test, it was revenge. Malfoy had gone straight from drawing on Ron to killing Flint. Maybe it had been unavoidable—maybe Flint had challenged him. Or maybe Malfoy was losing it.

Either way, he’d hacked off Avery.

“What’re you two lovebirds whispering about?” One of the older men, his tone mocking to Neville’s ear.

“You caught us,” said Pansy, facing the table. “I was just telling Mr. Longbottom I want to take another look at my stock to bond ratio. He’s not to let me forget.”

“Who’s your broker?” asked one of the witches.

The man looked annoyed as Pansy turned away from him to answer.

Neville ate his dinner and let the women talk. He’d worked his right hand under Pansy’s napkin, and he held onto her inner thigh, his thumb stroking the smooth skin of her leg, as he kept an eye on Harry and Ron. He saw the moment they got the news—Smith bending to Harry’s ear, Ron glancing over. Harry got up and then Ron did too and they moved away from the table to stand huddled with Smith amid the dark trees at the edge of the room. Ginny and Susan were sitting together, watching over their shoulders.

Neville had been thinking about Azkaban. It could take several days for Padgett’s organs to fail. Tonight was a good night to die if he could manage it. The veil thinner on Samhain. The passage easier. If you believed in that sort of thing. If you believed in building bonfires and making sacrifices and communing with the dead when the world was in a liminal state. Neville wasn’t religious but he didn’t not believe. He had pulled a sword from an empty hat. He knew all sorts of things were possible. At the same time, Neville had been to this building, year after year—his mother in her room on the floor below them at this very moment—and had learned each time that the possibilities were not infinite. They were quite finite indeed when it came to the question of whether his parents would ever get better, whether they would ever regain what they’d lost, whether they would ever know who he was. Everyone told you anything was possible—until it was the thing you wanted most, and then they told you life wasn’t fair.

If Neville had believed the world was fair, he’d be up and telling Harry and Ron that Malfoy had killed Flint and should go back to Azkaban. But Neville had committed to a different understanding of the world—one in which he didn’t matter but what he did might, one in which people weren’t good but could do hard things—and so it mattered less that Malfoy was an irredeemable prick who deserved what he got and more that Malfoy might be of huge use if he weren’t in a cell. Neville had been to Azkaban now, and he didn’t want Malfoy there.

Dinner was coming to a close. Harry went back to the table to kiss Ginny, and then he and Smith were striding off. Ron was sitting back down—leaned in to talk to Susan and Ginny. Neville’s tablemates were starting to stand. The elves were resetting the floor for dancing. Neville reluctantly let go of Pansy’s leg. It was soothing, touching her. Pansy didn’t prod him to talk or tell jokes at his expense or push his hand away. She let him sit—silent, brooding, driven mad by the war—and grip and stroke her thigh as much as he liked while she carried the conversation. A united front.

She was looking around now. Ginny and Susan were there, their little bags in hand, Ginny touching his shoulder.

“Harry and Ron are being called into the Department,” said Ginny. “We’re going to go.”

Neville nodded and then Ginny and Susan were headed for the floos.

“Let’s look for Nott,” said Pansy. “He usually skips dinner but he might be here now.”

Neville had his hand on Pansy’s neck, steering her toward Theodore Nott.

Pansy had stopped to talk to Greengrass—telling her she’d owl Bulstrode—while Neville had scanned the crowd. He’d paused on Wood with Chang. Cho’s marriage to the footballer hadn’t worked out; she was back, working in Games and Sports, and matched to Wood. Wood had been staring fixedly as she’d made maneuvering gestures with her hands; then he’d broken into a smile as she’d laughed. He’d put his arm around her—looking, in that moment, more relaxed than Neville had ever seen him. Then Neville had found Nott’s head of wavy brown hair.

He hadn’t expected to find wild ginger curls as well.

Nott was lounged on Charlie—his lanky forearm on Charlie’s shoulder, Charlie’s hand light on his back—and reaching for Malfoy’s chin. Malfoy and Hermione were standing close together, but she hadn’t healed his bloodied lip. Now Nott tilted Malfoy’s head this way and that, examining it. Neville could see the Azkaban tattoo on Malfoy’s neck. He looked rough—like he’d recently been cruciated. Neville knew that look from school.

Nott slapped Malfoy on the cheek, saucy. Malfoy took it, his expression put-upon. Hermione was saying something to Nott. Malfoy gave her a dirty look. Neville imagined him narrowing his eyes at her in the Leaky. Picking a fight after gatecrashing. Before killing Flint.

Neville wondered what the threat had been—the one Hermione wouldn’t repeat.

Now Charlie poked Nott in the ribs, and Nott turned to him—he looked caught out.

Charlie shrugged a little and pulled Nott in by the shirtfront.

Malfoy rolled his eyes as he turned away.

Then Hermione was staring, transfixed, as Charlie and Nott kissed with a lot more tongue than Neville usually saw at formal events. Nott’s hand was in Charlie’s hair. Charlie had hold of his hip. Their heads were tilted, Charlie’s square jaw in sharp relief. They were really going at it. Neville heard someone say, “Oh my Merlin.”

“Oi, we’re in public!”

A cluster of men shifted, and Neville realized Ron was just ahead of them.

Pansy gave a determined little gasp. Sometimes Neville forgot she couldn’t see over everyone’s shoulders.

Charlie was shooting Ron a two-fingered salute as Nott leaned into the kiss. Pansy had sped up.

“Oh good, you’re here, Weasley—”

Neville let her pull away.

“—not you,” she said as she passed Ron.

Ron had stopped with some distance between him and a glaring Malfoy.

“Weasley!” called Pansy. “We need to discuss your suit!”

Ron said, “Mione, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“No,” barked Malfoy.

Pansy was smacking Charlie on the arm.

“Malfoy, get down here,” snapped Hermione, turning and reaching for his earlobe.

Neville thought for a second she wasn’t wearing the ring. But then she’d jerked Malfoy’s head toward hers and he couldn’t see her hand. She was whispering in Malfoy’s ear. Malfoy sucked in a breath. His face was awful—stupid with hope.

Charlie was grinning, holding Nott to him as Pansy explained what would happen if she didn’t get his measurements.

Malfoy had gone still. He nodded, and Hermione released his ear.

Another exchange, his face close to hers. Then Malfoy straightened, staring at Ron, his fingertips at her waist.

“I will do,” said Charlie. He chucked his chin at Neville. “Longbottom.”

Neville was shaking his hand as Hermione marched over to speak with Ron and Nott slipped away to stand with Malfoy. Pansy began to talk to Charlie about portkeys. Neville turned to see what was happening. Nott and Malfoy were shoulder to shoulder in their tightly fitted tuxedos, watching Hermione with Ron.

Ron rubbed at the back of his neck and peered at Hermione. His hangdog look from when they were younger. But now she’d said something and his eyes were wide, he was gesturing—they were already fighting. Just like back at school—Ron had been the first to defend Hermione and the first to get defensive when anything she’d said had sounded like criticism. He’d made her laugh—Neville had always envied that. But they’d bickered constantly.

They were bickering now.

Ron’s eyes fell to her hand, and he grabbed her wrist. Neville had been right—she wasn’t wearing the ring.

She pulled her hand away.

Neville’s mind was spinning. Malfoy was still wearing his—Neville was sure of it. The dark circles under his eyes, the gray cast to his pale skin—had he taken hers off after threatening her? Had the magic retaliated?

Neville looked to Malfoy, fixated on her. Had he been angry she was making him wait for an heir?

Or Malfoy looked rough because of the duel with Flint. He’d taken off the ring because the curse was hurting Hermione. She’d agreed to take his off first, and then he’d put his back on—to prove his loyalty.

Neville didn’t know.

They were in a fight. She hadn’t healed his lip.

They’d still been standing close together, though, bantering with Nott. Hermione had said something to make Malfoy nod.

Neville looked back to Hermione and Ron. Ron’s expression was incredulous. Hermione was defending Malfoy—that had to be it.

Her head was jerking as she tore into Ron.

Ron was leaning over her, his eyebrows raised.

She jolted toward him, her fists clenched at her sides.

Neville saw Nott straighten from his slouch.

Then Hermione’s hand pulled back and Nott and Malfoy split apart like struck billiards balls, instantly in motion.

Hermione slapped Ron—

Nott was already to her—

His arm was wrapping round her waist—

Nott was dragging her back—

Malfoy was stepping in front of her as smoothly as if it’d been choreographed.

Neville felt his jaw tense. This was a fight Malfoy had been itching to have. Neville heard him say, “What did you say to her, Weasley?” Malfoy’s wand was in hand.

Ron sounded disgusted. “What did you say, to get her to even touch you?”

“I couldn’t say anything with her holding my head down.”

Ron hexed him, just like Malfoy had wanted.

Then they were stepping back to cast, the floor clearing.

Nott had his chin over Hermione’s shoulder as he hauled her back to where the rest of them stood. He was grinning, a dark glint in his eye.

Neville’s face felt heavy as he looked back to the duel.

“Fair fight,” called Nott.

Neville eyed Nott. This duel would be over if Neville and Charlie stepped in for Ron—Nott knew that. But why would a herbologist step in for an auror? Ron was a war hero with combat training—he didn’t need a friend or his older brother to save him.

Malfoy was spitting out stingers, Ron forced to protego. Malfoy had just killed Flint dueling. But stingers weren’t fatal.

Malfoy stepped into Ron’s stinger, absorbing it with narrowed eyes.

Nott was holding Hermione back. Pansy was gripping his arm. She was intent on Malfoy, muttering encouragement. Neville watched her. This was Malfoy’s Parkinson.

Malfoy pressed forward with another bombardment.

Ron was maintaining his position.

Then Neville felt his whole face harden as Malfoy lashed out with a vicious diffindo.

This was how they had killed Greyback. This was how Malfoy had killed Flint. Torn to ribbons, Greengrass had said.

Ron had deflected but he was bleeding.

Next to Neville, Charlie shifted his weight.

Partygoers were scrambling, casting shields as spells ricocheted.

Aurors were moving through the crowd.

“Expelliarmus!” shouted Ron, and Malfoy’s wand flew toward him.

This should be the end of it.

But no—Malfoy had huffed out a wandless langlock. He was charging Ron—

He swiped Ron’s wand arm aside and punched him in the jaw—

A punch to the gut—

Someone was screaming—

Malfoy threw Ron to the ground—

He was roaring in pain as Ron cast at close range—

Petrify him, Ron.

Malfoy was kicking Ron, platinum hair flying, as Ron hexed him repeatedly, his voice hoarse—

Charlie’s hands were on his hips. He was shaking his head.

Neville took a deep breath.

Get up, Ron. Incarcerous him.

Malfoy dropped, snarling, onto Ron, punching him in the face—

Ron threw aside his wand to swing wildly at his head—

Malfoy punched Ron, his knuckles bloody—

Neville sighed out all the air in his lungs as his perfect mole tried to kill Ron Weasley—auror, son, soon-to-be-father, Harry Potter’s best mate, and the most popular member of the Golden Trio—in a ballroom full of witnesses, with his bare hands.

This stupid fucking shithead.

Malfoy had come to him and whinged and moaned, and Neville had let himself believe this could work. He’d based everything on Malfoy getting him certain key pieces of information. Now Malfoy had spiraled out of control, lost the plot.

He spends all his time at Avery’s drinking or fighting—

They’re saying he went spare over Bellatrix—

Malfoy threatened her—

Malfoy said we wouldn’t do anything about it—

Draco cut him to ribbons—

He’d got away with that diffindo. The fight had been over. Now Neville could see the aurors closing in.

Neville’s jaw was set. He could feel himself glaring. The tightness in his chest was turning into something else—

He could kill Malfoy for this, but he wouldn’t get the chance. Malfoy would be in a holding cell, and Neville would be standing with his dick in his hand when Avery’s plan went off. Avery would kill Shacklebolt and take the Ministry and they’d fight another war because Malfoy couldn’t keep his eye on the snitch. Couldn’t stop antagonizing his own contacts and trying to get sent to Azkaban. The anger was hot in Neville’s chest. He could feel it hardening. A bomb, ready to explode.

Ron’s fist connected, rocking Malfoy’s head back—

Good. Neville needed this fight to end. Neville looked to Charlie. Charlie chucked his chin. Yeah, that’s enough.

“Granger!” Nott was lunging for her—she’d slipped his hold.

She’d raised her wand—

For fuck’s sake.

The spell hit her—

Her head went loose on her neck—

Malfoy’s face jerked toward her—

Malfoy had stopped fighting—

She crumpled to the floor—

Malfoy screamed it, his voice breaking: “HERMIONE.”

Ron punched him square in the head.

Malfoy went down.

Ron slumped to the floor.

The aurors were on them—

Neville’s chest was so tight it felt like he wasn’t breathing.

Nott was arguing with the auror who’d stupefied Hermione, his hands reaching out as the man pushed him back. “She’s with me, mate. Misunderstanding, mate. Let me get her. I’ll take her home!”

Neville had Pansy by the bicep, pulling her to him—

Charlie was already to Ron—

Malfoy was pushing up, his face bloody and swelling, his chin lifted as he looked for Hermione—

He was staring at her, collapsed on the floor, as they jerked him to his feet.

An auror began to levitate her—

Her head hanging limp on her neck—

Neville felt a plunging nausea—

Malfoy’s eyes were wide and unwavering. His jaw set. They were wrenching his wrists behind his back but his eyes never left her.

Nott was muttering “fuck fuck fuck” as he ran his hands through his hair. “I bollocksed it.”

Charlie was crouched at Ron’s shoulder, his hand at his head—

Blood was running down Malfoy’s temple. His eyes were haunted as they tugged him toward an apparition point. He’d turned his head to watch Hermione over his shoulder as he was marched away.

Charlie was back, telling Nott, “They’re taking him to the fourth floor—”

“I have to go with Granger. I have to wait for her to be released.” Nott ducked his head. His eyes were locked on Charlie’s face. “Change your mind about me?”

Charlie cocked his chin. Nott was a few inches taller. He looked up at Nott, his expression serious, but he only said, “It’s fine, sweetheart. It was a fair fight.”

Nott nodded quickly, his lips compressed.

Charlie’s fingertips were spread on Nott’s stomach. “I’ll see you next time,” he said.

Nott nodded again, and then they were going their separate ways—Charlie joining the knot of aurors taking Ron to the healers and Nott chasing after the aurors who had taken Hermione.

Neville looked down at Pansy. Her expression was haughty—she knew he was displeased. “I’m taking you home,” he said. “Then I’m coming back to talk to Bill and George.”

She looked down. Not quite sulky.

Neville didn’t tell her it was fine. Malfoy couldn’t just keep his head down, and Nott and Pansy had been egging him on when he’d needed to lose this fight. Neville had accepted she was attached to Malfoy. He knew how the snakes were. Malfoy was responsible for his own actions.

But Neville was too angry to be around her right now.

64%

Then Dean was up and moving about and back with his coat on. “I’m off to the studio,” he said as he dropped his hand onto Seamus’s shoulder. Neville watched as Seamus turned his head and kissed it. Dean bent over him then and they kissed and Dean left.

“What’s that look for, then?” said Seamus. “You here hiding from your missus?”

Neville’s eyes fell to the Patek Philippe on his wrist. He’d taken her up to the bedroom, and when he’d turned to go, she’d said, “Neville.”

He’d turned back, and she’d said, “Don’t take off your watch.”

He’d stepped to her, and she’d said, “Please.” She’d been looking up at him with those eyes.

He’d bent and kissed her cheek. “I won’t,” he’d promised. Then he’d walked out.

Now he said, “I suppose. How do couples who stay together resolve issues?”

“Fecked if I know,” said Seamus. “Me mam and da have been having the same fight for twenty years.”

“What about you and Dean?”

Seamus shrugged. “He goes to his studio till he’s done being cross with me.”

“What if you’re cross?” asked Neville.

“I’m never cross with anybody,” barked Seamus, and Neville laughed.

“I’ve parked a car at the distillery,” said Neville. “We can’t open the boot if you’ve got a tour going.”

“Jaysus,” said Seamus. “Is it under a stasis charm at least?”