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

Now Nott tipped his wineglass toward Pansy. “Did you see the Skeeter piece saying Draco and I are in a love triangle with Granger? I’m really quite pleased with it. The photographer got my good side—”

“Your left?”

“My front,” said Nott. “Dray was actually jealous—”

“No.” Pansy’s eyes were wide.

Nott was nodding. “Got snippy about me taking her to mine while he was in jail. Just because she slept with me—”

Neville raised an eyebrow and took a bite of his duck a l’orange.

“Said I should’ve brought her here.”

“Well, we do have more than one bed,” said Pansy. “Though I’d have been a poor hostess. I’d popped out to Millie’s—”

Neville looked sidelong at her. So she hadn’t sat at home, waiting up, then.

“She was trying to raise Marcus, what with it being Samhain.”

“I hope to curse him one last time.”

“Yes, actually,” said Pansy, and then she and Nott were sniggering. “It didn’t work, but who doesn’t love a summoning circle.”

“Who else was at this circle jerk?”

“Davis, Daphne, Adrian—”

“Did anyone get naked?”

“No, it was all very staid.”

“Mine, too. Granger didn’t give me so much as a cuddle.”

“Then we’d be doing a summoning circle for you.”

“You don’t think Granger can keep a secret?”

“Granger, yes,” said Pansy.

“Speaking of,” said Nott. He’d pivoted to Neville. Neville could feel Nott’s foot against his under the table. “You didn’t tell me Bill and George were in on it.”

“I didn’t tell you anything,” said Neville dryly. “I can keep my mouth shut.”

“I can’t,” said Nott. He was making aggressive eye contact. “Not unless someone sticks something in it.”

Neville locked eyes with him.

A slow grin spread across Nott’s face. “But, alas!” He batted his lashes. “I am spoken for.” He turned to Pansy. “Did I tell you what Charlie said?”

“Several times—”

“He said he’s not sharing his things—”

“You owled—”

“He meant me.” He was tilting his shoulders back and forth.

Pansy hummed over her wineglass.

“That means we’re exclusive.”

Pansy nodded.

“I’m not allowed to fuck around anymore.”

“That’s nice, dear.”

“So I can’t unicorn for you—”

“Theo, I’m also not allowed to fuck around. Mr. Longbottom is quite strict—”

“I’m right here,” said Neville.

“Ew, I don’t want to sleep with you, Pans—”

“Then it’s not unicorning, is it? You just want to sleep with my man—”

“Thank you for offering, but I’m taken.”

Then Pansy and Nott were snickering and smacking at each other while Neville ate more duck.

Nott turned to Neville. “Draco met with Avery and now he needs to speak with you.”

Neville realized this was the purpose of Nott’s visit. He was Malfoy’s owl.

“It’s bad news, whatever it is,” said Nott. He took a drink. He hadn’t eaten any food that Neville had seen. “He’s asked me to look after Granger.” Nott’s expression was serious.

Neville nodded. So Malfoy knew he’d hacked off Avery. “Is he stable, after this business with Flint?”

Nott canted his head from side to side, considering. “Marcus bothered him. But he and Granger have made up. He’ll keep it together for her.”

Neville blinked at this straightforward answer. He said, “Thank you for negotiating the truce with the Weasleys.”

Nott grinned and his foot withdrew abruptly as he sat up. “You’re welcome,” he purred. He ducked his head as his eyes played over Neville. He looked to Pansy. “I can’t wait for you two to be bonded.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” said Pansy.

Nott’s eyes shifted to Neville, and he winked. “You’re welcome,” he murmured, almost to himself.

72%

THURSDAY NOVEMBER 6, 2003

“Seating arrangements,” said Pansy, the ballpoint of her pen at the bullet point labeled SEATING ARRANGEMENTS. They were in the lesser dining room. “Lovegood and Ginny Potter still get on, yes? With Nott and Weasley being a new relationship, I’m trying not to seat them with people they’ve had sex with.”

“How does that work with Nott?”

“Well, it’s difficult. I’ve decided Draco doesn’t count. But Nott and Weasley have both shagged Lovegood—”

“And Charlie has probably shagged Rolf,” said Neville, buttering his toast.

Pansy looked up. “Oh?”

“I’m guessing,” said Neville. “Rolf has visited Charlie at the preserve, and they would both be game.”

“All right,” said Pansy, making a note. “I’m seating the Scamanders with the Potters, across the courtyard from the Malfoys and the Nott Weasleys. The Scamanders can seduce the Potters instead.”

Neville snorted. Now he was picturing them all naked. Grand.

“Nott is feeling territorial about his Weasley. It’s really quite sweet.”

Neville remembered Nott wriggling with pleasure as he said, I’m spoken for. I’m taken. I’m not allowed.Bragging. Maybe Nott would be faithful after all. At least until the novelty wore off.

“So you know Rolf well enough to know he and Weasley are compatible,” said Pansy lightly, avoiding eye contact.

“Are you—”

“A messy bitch who lives for gossip?” Her eyes darted up as she fought a grin.

Neville huffed a laugh. He stared down at his toast. He’d set her up to ask, hadn’t he? He said, “Luna started seeing Rolf before I broke it off.” He risked a look at Pansy. “I knew about it.”

Pansy nodded. “You opened the relationship.”

Neville took a breath. “It was open. Which is how I found out that doesn’t suit me. I agreed to some things I didn’t like—”

Pansy’s expression had gone blandly neutral.

Neville paused. “I did some things I shouldn’t have done.”

Pansy shrugged slightly. “We’ve all been there.”

“We have?” said Neville slowly.

“I have,” said Pansy with a grimace. “And don’t ask. I’m not going to tell you.”

His heart kicked up. “Were you hurt? After your cousin?” His eyes searched her face. There were rumors about the Slytherin parties. He’d got the impression Pansy had slept with muggle men after her probation had ended. He hadn’t dwelled on it but—

“Not intentionally,” said Pansy. “I mean, yes, we all got hurt. I was young and stupid. I did stupid things. There’s no one to get revenge on—”

“Are you saying that because—”

“No. It was a bad time, that’s all. I’m only saying we’ve all done things we wouldn’t do again.”

Neville’s chin lifted as he inhaled. “Right,” he said. “I wouldn’t do it again.” Why did it feel easier, thinking of it that way? Not something he had to go back and change, just something he wouldn’t do again.

“There you go,” said Pansy, as if that settled it.

Neville frowned. Pansy wasn’t Hannah. She wouldn’t judge him for the same things. (Why had he worried about that?) The problem was he knew he’d acted badly with Rolf—the problem was him judging himself. Neville sighed. He owed Rolf an apology.

“I’ve hurt people intentionally, though,” said Neville. “It doesn’t bother you—that I’m a bad person?”

“What’s wrong with being a bad person?” asked Pansy, sharpish. “Everyone’s bad at being a person sometimes. Why shouldn’t you get a turn?”

Right, thought Neville. It was a sore subject for her. When they’d been sorted, the Hat had told them how they were. The Ravenclaws told themselves they were smart. The Puffs told themselves they were kind. The Gryffindors told themselves they were good. Then, when their actions didn’t match up, they felt defensive and ashamed. Maybe the snakes felt defensive and ashamed all the time after being told they were amoral schemers.

Yes, we all got hurt.

73%

Pansy shifted her hips. Neville had a feeling she wanted to touch her clit.

Neville concentrated on the essay. He lifted his hand to mark it and pick up the next one, and she huffed air through her nose.

He found her nipple. He could feel it, hard, through the fabric of her dress and bra. He pinched and teased it while he read. Her tongue was moving with more intention. Pleasure was rolling through him.

He took a breath and picked up the next essay, rested his hand on her hip while he read. He needed to focus to get through these. He was skimming for key words and phrases at this point.

He lifted his hand. Pansy was squirming, probably desperate to touch her clit.

He reached out and flipped up the hem of her dress.

He lifted his hand to mark the paper, and Pansy lay limp with her head in his lap, his cock in her mouth, her knickers exposed. He could feel the tension—her willing him to touch her.

He picked up the next essay and—he caved. He worked his hand into her knickers, wedged between her thighs, his fingers rubbing across her clit. She made a sound in the back of her throat.

He should have held out longer. Now he’d have to do everything one-handed. But Pansy was so sweet and needy and helpless like this, and the urge to give her what she wanted was so strong—

He pressed more firmly on her clit. She squeezed her thighs on his hand, humming on his cock. Neville felt a flush of pleasure. She was moving her tongue on him. She was sucking enough to edge him but not enough to get him off.

It was more than distracting.

Neville worked through several essays as it built.

It was a problem.

“Merlin,” he muttered. His cock was throbbing.

He looked to the stack of essays.

He exhaled heavily.

He couldn’t concentrate.

He muttered, “Fuck it.”

He set his pen aside.

“Pansy, I’m going to prop you over the back of the sofa and fuck the hell out of you.”

The noise she made sounded grateful—a pure boost to his ego—and then she was pulling back from his cock, looking up at him.

Fuck.

She rolled onto her elbow behind her. She winced. It looked like this was painful. He sat up and got hold of her, helped her up to sitting. She couldn’t get her knees under her. She was tilting forward against the sofa. He was up and bodily moving her—there. She was on her knees, arse out, wrists stuck at her lower back, the side of her face resting on the sofa’s back.

Neville’s heart was racing. All she had to do was tell him to unstick her. But she didn’t. She played this out with him. Putting herself at his mercy. All she had to do was tell him to stop.

He pushed up her skirt. He vanished her knickers. He’d hear about that later, but it couldn’t be helped. He stared at her cunt as he stripped off.

Neville palmed her arse on either side. He lowered his head and licked her arsehole and she squeaked and squirmed. Irresistible. He tongued it more, circling, and lifted his head, concentrated on the lubrication charm, and slowly pushed the tip of his thumb into her. She exhaled, and he pushed his thumb further in. He held her there, his fingers interlocking with hers over wadded up fabric, and lubricated her cunt, lined himself up, pushed his cock into her. She whined and he reached around to her clit.

He had her wet and worked up. He kept her doubly penetrated, full of him, while he rubbed her slick clit. She was already making impatient noises and clenching on him. He rolled his hips a little, letting her feel him pushed against her. She huffed, and he kept at it.

“You like sucking my cock?” he asked, his voice low and neutral. He wasn’t taunting—he didn’t like that. He kept his hand moving on her.

“Mm-hm.” Breathy. He did like that.

“You’ll do it whenever I want?”

“Mm-hm.”

“For as long as I want?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Whenever I tell you?”

“Mm.” Her tone had gone higher.

“Anywhere?”

“Mm-hm.”

“On demand?”

“Mm.” High-pitched.

He kept his hand steady. He could feel her tightening on him.

“You like my cock in you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“You like knowing you’re taken?”

She was making a breathy sound—

“Spoken for?”

In the back of her throat—

“Not allowed to fuck around?”

Impatient and needy—

“You like knowing I’m strict with you?”

“Mm.”

“Because I want you to myself?”

She gave a little gasp.

“I’ve decided—”

She was clenching on him.

“Just now—”

Making that breathy, high-pitched noise.

“I’m not going to come in your mouth anymore—”

Another little gasp.

“—only this cunt.”

He touched her and she came, hard.

He clamped down on her and her cunt clenched and spasmed on him and he breathed through it, focused on the feel of her on his cock. Godric, he never got enough of this.

She was panting. He could feel her pulsing.

He moved his hand on her clit and she shivered, oversensitive. He took his hand away. She was limp against the sofa. He rolled his hips, stroking into her, slowly picking up speed. He pulled his thumb from her and fucked her. She was languid and humming as he held her in place. He was fucking her faster, getting closer. She had him worked up too.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Please—”

Godric.

“Nev—”

This was getting to him.

“Nev—”

She sounded so helpless.

“You feel—so good.”

His breath caught—

“Nev—”

He slammed into her, and he came.

It ripped through him.

He was erupting—

Pulsing—

Twitching—

Shuddering.

What was it about—

Hearing her say that—

Merlin.

It felt so simple with her.

He stayed there for a moment, just breathing.

Breathing.

Breathing.

He pulled in a deep breath.

Exhaled.

He finited the sticking charms. She didn’t move her hands right away.

He took his time pulling out.

(He’d never asked—whether she was on the potion. She was full of his semen. He could see it leaking out of her. He felt a twist of—something—in his chest.)

He scourgified everything.

His hands were on her, helping her to turn on the sofa.

Then he was holding her to him, kissing her face, massaging her jaw. You like sucking my cock? Why did they both get off on that? It felt good to be wanted. It felt good to have someone who wanted to do things for you. Neville felt like he’d do anything for her. It was easy to feel that way when she never asked anything of him—only little, inconsequential things that were easy to do. I’m not going to come in your mouth anymore. He got to feel like he was in control. Like he made the rules. She gave him that. All she had to do was say no—but she didn’t.

(He should tell her what he’d done to her parents. But it would be upsetting, and she might blame herself—might spend years thinking she’d set him on them. When, really, it was like Padgett. He’d done it for himself, because he was angry. Because he could now. Anyway, he couldn’t undo it. He couldn’t undo anything.)

Neville kissed along her cheekbone.

“I can’t wait for the wedding,” he murmured. “You’re going to look so good.”

“I am, aren’t I?”

He smiled, his mouth against her.

“How many essays do you have left to mark?” she asked.

Merlin. She was going to make him say it. “One,” he said.

She was grinning, starting to laugh. “You couldn’t hold out for one more essay?”

He breathed in the smell of her. Felt her, soft and bony in his arms. His person. His. “I really couldn’t, Pansy.”

78%

“She mostly moves things around the room and sleeps,” said Neville.

“Then Card will put everything back so she can move it again,” said Pansy. She widened her eyes at him. “Do you know how hard it is to get a house elf to retire? This will be perfect for her. And your mother won’t be as lonely.”

“You think my mother’s lonely?” asked Neville. A sickening twist in his chest because of course she was. His father was gone. He didn’t visit often enough.

“Everyone’s lonely,” said Pansy. Her expression held no judgment. She wasn’t blaming Neville for living his own life while his mother lived here.

Neville looked at Pansy. He’d been angry with her just a moment ago. Now—

Now his throat was tight.

His throat was aching—

His ears hurt—

All the guilt he had shoved down—

All the guilt was rising in his gorge—

It was choking him.

There was a pressure in his chest, in his throat, in his head—

Like he was going to implode—

Like the pressure of keeping all this guilt shoved down was killing him.

Neville looked at Pansy.

And he burst into tears.

A broken sound escaped him—

His mouth was open, his eyes squeezing closed—

He could feel his face crumple as the tears wet his cheeks—

He could feel Pansy’s fingers gripping his knee—

“It’s not fair that I lived when she didn’t get to—”

His voice was strained and splintered. He sucked in a ragged breath. He believed this, he realized. He believed this. There was something wrong with him. He shouldn’t have been the one to live while his mother was sacrificed. She should have got to live her life. It should have been him who didn’t make it past that night. That was why his grandmother had always hated him. Bellatrix had destroyed Frank and then Alice, and the world had been left with him. He was such a disappointment.

Pansy had stood and now she pulled his head to her chest—

He was sobbing against her—

He was such a disappointment. She didn’t even know—

It hurt—in his throat and in his chest—

Her palm was pressed hard to his skull, her fingers in his hair.

Her other hand was flat on his back, her thumb along his shoulder blade as she held him to her.

He was crying against her—

He was crying and crying—

He couldn’t stop.

He could feel her breath moving through her, her breasts firm against his face, rising and falling with her ribcage.

He couldn’t stop crying.

He sucked in a deep breath. He couldn’t get enough air—

His heart was racing as he held it—

He exhaled—

He took a breath—

He was breathing with her now.

He was sniffing—snotty now.

The tears ran down his face.

She held him to her.

He was breathing.

She hadn’t said anything.

He could smell her perfume—coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms. He was distracted now. His mind a blank.

He was breathing with her, his heart rate slowing down.

What had just happened? He felt light-headed. She’d been casually slandering a whole profession and two genders—Pansy being Pansy—and then she’d decided his mother was lonely and she was going to fix it, and it was like she’d cracked open his chest.

Now she was running her fingers through his hair. His eyelashes were wet. His nose was congested. He was breathing through his mouth. He felt slow and dumb, like he was very young and had just been woken from a nap.

She slid her hand down from his head and gripped the back of his neck, her fingertips hard against the corded muscle there, and Neville felt his brain turn off.

He bowed his head and she squeezed the back of his neck, her fingers working down the muscle and tendon. Everything was hard and tense. It felt good to be touched. No one else touched him there.

She hadn’t said anything.

Finally, he lifted his head.

She dropped her hand to his slumped shoulder.

He looked up at her.

He must look like an idiot.

His cheeks pink and wet, his eyes swollen.

He felt exhausted. He was too tired to hide how exhausted he was.

He tried so hard not to think about so many things—his parents, Hogwarts, Lavender and Colin Creevey and Luna and Rolf and Hannah and what a disappointment he was. He tried to do enough things for enough other people to justify his existence. He could do what had to be done because what happened to him didn’t matter. He wasn’t the Chosen One—he wasn’t good or necessary or irreplaceable. He was the spare—the boy no one needed. The boy no one wanted. Anyone could have killed Nagini.

He’d tried to be a man without needs to make up for still being here.

It was exhausting.

Neville gazed into Pansy’s big, kohl-lined eyes. They were so green. Gentle despite all the makeup she put around them to try to scare people off.

She looked down at him, her head tilted, her expression neutral. She sighed and wiped the tears off his cheek with the edge of her thumb.

“I love you,” she said. “I’m glad you lived.”

And then Neville was sobbing again.





Neville was in his greenhouse. It was night—he had the place lumosed. He’d got himself together at St. Mungo’s and they’d left, his eyes downcast. He supposed the staff was used to crying coming from the rooms. Neville couldn’t hang on to a single thought or feeling. He felt drained. He felt blank.

(Pansy loved him.)

“I need to see to the plants before we leave for France,” he’d told Pansy.

“All right,” she’d said, and she’d angled her head up for a kiss—her hand at his chest when he'd bent over her. She’d watched him carefully, but her expression had been calm.

(She loved him.)

Now Neville had looked in on all the outbuildings and locked them, seen to the oleander and the rhododendrons, fed the pitcher plants. He was working his way down the venomous tentaculas. (Pansy saying, Let me guess—you like venomous plants because they’re unappreciated and tragically misunderstood.) The sun set a little after 4 p.m. this time of year. The evening was pitch black on the other side of the glass.

He heard hard-soled footsteps and raised his head from the soil he was checking. It was Percy Weasley walking toward him. He was in a pinstriped suit and a Gryffindor red tie, holding a file folder.

He came to a stop on the tile. “Longbottom.”

Neville jerked his chin in greeting as he scourgified his hands.

“You’d asked about your match,” said Percy. “Penelope was able to pull the record.”

Neville’s eyes dropped to the folder in Percy’s hand.

“Thought I’d come out,” said Percy. “In case you want to know before you’re bonded.”

Neville pulled in a breath. “The record shows the original match?” he asked.

“Correct,” said Percy. “It lists the Hat’s selection and any alterations.”

Neville looked at the file folder—light brown and ordinary—that might ruin his life.

What if the Hat hadn’t chosen Pansy? What if, every time they fought, he thought I’m not even meant to be here—you’re not my person. What if he looked at her and knew he could have been with his soulmate? What if he knew exactly who that person was?

Does that matter? Neville remembered Narcissa Malfoy asking this. He had heard the real question: Was he keeping something from Pansy? Something that would change how she felt?

Neville was keeping something from everyone, one way or another.

Mostly, he knew, he was hiding this feeling—which felt like a fact—that he wasn’t good enough. Everyone had known it when he was young. They hadn’t been shy about telling him. Then he’d run the D.A. He’d fought in the Battle. He’d established his business. He’d learned to extract poison and shoot guns and go to a strange place and meet new people and not back down. He’d started acting as though he were acceptable. Maybe he’d fooled some people into thinking he was. But he wasn’t. He was still the scared and lonely little boy who’d gone to Hogwarts with no friends and a wand that didn’t listen to him. And he kept waiting for everyone to look at him—to really see him—and say it out loud: that no matter how much he changed, he was still not enough.

He’d stopped hiding that feeling this afternoon with Pansy—he’d let it out.

He could still feel her holding his head to her chest.

(I love you. I’m glad you lived.)

Neville eyed the file folder. The Ministry ring on Percy’s hand. He imagined going to Shacklebolt’s office. Tossing down the paperwork. Telling the Minister he had a demand. Something like what Harry had been about to suggest the night before in Grimmauld Place.

If Neville opened that file folder now—before he was bonded—he would still have that choice.

He would know, one way or another.

He could insist Shacklebolt give him his soulmate.

Neville looked up and met Percy’s hazel eyes. His expression was businesslike. Self-possessed. It gave nothing away.

Neville took a deep breath. His heart was pounding. “Thank you for coming all the way out here,” he said.

Percy nodded.

“But I don’t want the record after all,” said Neville. “I know how I feel.”