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

Neville was in his T&T tuxedo, his bow tie hanging undone. It was the night of the Ministry’s Summer Solstice gala. Pansy was excited to go. She was coming out of her dressing room—

Neville sat up a little straighter. She was in green—the dress matched the diamond snake’s emerald eyes and clung to her breasts and rounded belly.

She marched up to stand between his legs and Neville rolled his shoulders back as she took hold of his bow tie. His hands had gone to her stomach—it was swollen and symmetrical and irresistible. It was impossible for him not to touch it.

Neville had been braced for Pansy to be miserable, but she liked being pregnant. She spent a lot of time talking to Anise about protein and folic acid and making lists. She’d started to have Katie, Alicia, Padma, Hermione, Ginny, and Angelina over once a month to try on makeup and do lunch. (Alicia complained but still came.) She’d renovated the wing and sat down with Witch Weekly. She’d made Neville take more pictures with her. Now she wanted to get to the ballroom early, so the media would get them coming in.

Neville would have kept it all private. He had to stop himself, sometimes, from saying something. She was proud of him and their home and the baby. He didn’t need to complain about that.

“There,” she said, with a final tug at his bow tie. She kissed him, and he could smell her perfume—coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms. Safe. Familiar. “You look handsome.”

Neville smiled up at her. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad you’re happy.”





It was a lovely, temperate morning and Neville was at breakfast in the patio seating of a restaurant in the interior garden space between canal houses on the Keizersgracht and the Prinsengracht. The canal houses had been private homes in the 17th and 18th century and were now part of a five-star hotel.

Pansy had sent Neville to Amsterdam for his birthday, on a boys’ trip with Seamus, Dean, George, Balmaceda, Estrada, Dionisio, Nott, Charlie, and Malfoy. Malfoy had been told not to fight with Seamus. Balmaceda had been reminded not to hit on Charlie. George had been preemptively threatened on general principle. And they’d all been warned away from the red-light district. They’d visited the Hortus Botanicus and then gone drinking.

Neville was now massively hung over after a tour of high-end lounges and gay dive bars. There had been one small melee (someone had started something with Dean, and they’d finished it) but no one had been arrested or gone into a canal.

Malfoy groaned and put on black Ray Bans. His shirt was crisp but he was sitting very still.

“I’m still pissed,” said Nott.

“Shhh,” said Malfoy.

Balmaceda had got hold of the waiter. “Bloody Mary,” he said gently.

Estrada circled his finger to include the table.

Charlie plucked the bacon off Nott’s plate and ate it, looking around. “Right. What’s on for today, then?”





Pansy licked her lips and Neville pushed his cock down so she could lean forward and take him into her mouth. She was on the rug, between his legs, wearing only the snake necklace. Her could see her hand at her belly. He couldn’t see her other hand, under her belly, at her clit. Neville felt very, very dirty letting his pregnant wife sit on her heels on the floor and suck his cock while he looked down at her, his lips parted, breathing shallowly. She took him deeper, swirling her tongue, and the pleasure raced through him. After this, he’d help her up and kiss her face and rub aloe vera on her stomach but, for now, he let her do this for him.





Neville was sitting on a peacock blue settee in Nott’s father’s study on the ground floor of Nott Manor. Nott was leaned back in his chair, his feet on the desk in front of him, the shelves behind him empty. The rotting books and black mold were gone. The stained rug had been replaced. The lamps were blazing. More boys had come to live here—from Avery’s ranks, from the doorways in Knockturn—in a guest wing that made the Hogwarts boys’ rooms look glamorous. The Nott elves seemed happy to have new pets. The boys seemed willing to make their way in the world by spying for Malfoy.

Neville was drinking whiskey and telling Nott about the dune buggies in Algeria. The buggies were like muggle cars but they were stripped down to the frame. They were low to the ground. The seats were low. You got in them, and you felt like you were flying around on your arse—they were fast, and you felt every dip and bump and piece of gravel.

Neville remembered being out on a hard-packed dirt road in one. His hand had been up to grip the frame. He’d been wearing goggles. He’d been riding with Balmaceda—the Americans all knew how to drive. Balmaceda’s hair had been blowing into his eyes, whipping around his head. He’d looked over at Neville and grinned, and then he’d spun the wheel and the dune buggy had spun out. They’d been spinning and spinning and Balmaceda had been laughing and Neville had been laughing too.

It had felt like being a boy again if being a boy had been fun. It had felt like freedom.

Neville had been alone back then. He could go out and act stupid. Pansy didn’t tell him what to do now. But he was less willing to get himself killed these days. He wanted to meet his child.

The door to the study opened, and Neville looked over at the same time Nott did—to see Bill pressed back to allow Alicia through first.

Nott grinned and lifted his chin in greeting.

“Who’s Malfoy ferreted out now?” asked Alicia.





Neville stopped in the doorway of his mother’s room when he saw that Pansy was already there.

Card was setting out chrysanthemums and dried apples.

His mother picked up a dried apple and turned with it.

Card replaced the dried apple with a second dried apple.

His mother moved the dried apple to her bedside table. She turned back and retrieved the new dried apple. Card replaced it with a third dried apple.

Pansy was cutting out a paper chain in the shape of a bonfire. She was wearing the snake necklace and a tight black dress stretched over her round stomach.

His mother came to a rest on the edge of her bed. She set down the dried apple she was holding.

She frowned and reached out her hand.

Pansy turned toward her, hands full of folded paper. “Go on, Alice,” she said.

Neville watched as his mother touched her hand to Pansy’s belly.

“That’s your grandchild,” said Pansy. Her tone was light and matter of fact. Pansy didn’t pine for Alice’s understanding. She told Alice things without expecting a response.

Alice was staring at Pansy’s stomach. Neville’s chest felt tight and aching.

“Oh! She kicked.” Pansy smiled at his mother. “Did you feel that?”

His mother’s brow furrowed. She brought up her other hand. Then she slowly turned her head and cautiously tilted forward to put her ear to Pansy’s belly.

Pansy stood and watched her, smiling.

Neville was swallowing hard, the pain shooting through him.

Pansy was still smiling when she looked over at Neville. “Hiya,” she said. “We’re decorating for Samhain.”

Neville stepped into the room and watched while Pansy spelled the paper chain to burn with bluebell flames. The paper bonfire garland flared to life, and his mother’s face lit up.

Card clapped and Alice smiled. Pansy straightened, pleased.





Pansy was vomiting from the pain. The room smelled like vomit and shit and sweat and fear—because Neville was afraid. When he’d unrolled that Ministry scroll—it felt like ages ago—he’d wondered if he would kill her. And now he had done. She’d die giving birth to his child.

They were in her childhood bedroom, and Neville was swallowing hard, gripping her hand, trying not to cry in front of her—he didn’t want her to be scared. He regretted it—everything he’d ever done. Pansy didn’t deserve this. He’d never be able to make this right—her in this much pain.

“It’s normal, dear,” said the midwife, rubbing Pansy’s leg.

“How can this be normal?” hissed Neville. His head had whipped toward her. “She’s vomiting and—” He gestured. Shitting herself.

“Most women do!” said the midwife cheerily.

Neville stared at her.

“I don’t want to tear,” said Pansy, and Neville took a deep breath.

“We won’t rush you,” said the midwife. “You have time.”

It took all day. Neville held her hand and then didn’t hold her hand when she shook him off. She didn’t want anything he offered her. Then she wanted to move to the bathtub. Narcissa came, and Pansy cried. Pansy pushed so hard she pulled a ligament in her pelvis and was in too much pain to move. Neville cried while Pansy held the baby, who was bright red and very angry. Then Neville held the baby while the midwife healed Pansy.

Pansy was naked. Neville had his shirt off. His trousers were wet. Narcissa’s sleeves were soaked through, but she hadn’t rolled them up. Neville held the baby to his chest, to Pansy’s name there, his scarred fingers splayed on the tiny body.

Narcissa placed her hand lightly on his arm and said, “Congratulations, dear. You’re a father,” and Neville cried again, unable to wipe his eyes because he was afraid to take his hand off his daughter.





Neville and Hermione watched as Malfoy smacked Pansy’s hand away.

“Draco, that’s my baby—”

“And I’m holding her,” said Malfoy, glaring. They were sitting close together, trading elbows on the settee.

Hermione said something but Neville didn’t catch it. He’d never been this tired in his life.

“More tea?” he asked, blinking.

Gran had been the day before but hadn’t stayed long.

The Malfoys had given them very little notice this morning before stepping out of the floo, Malfoy in the lead.

“Stop being a prat,” said Pansy.

“You get her all the time.” He looked incredibly affronted. He was rocking side to side with Posey as he fought with Pansy. “I’m the godfather, right? Nott’s not to be trusted.”

Neville slid the D.A. coin from his pocket.

He messaged Seamus: HELP





Seamus had Posey held to his shoulder, his hand spanning her head. He was walking slowly back and forth, singing, “Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é, mo leanbh” in his high, clear perfect pitch. She’d stopped crying for him.

Neville and Dean and Pansy watched from the settee. Dean and Pansy were drinking tea. Neville was sitting slumped, exhausted and teary. It would be fine. It would be fine. So long as Posey’s godfathers weren’t in the same room as each other.

Narcissa was back, staying in a room down the hall, in and out of their rooms with Fennel and Saffron. Pansy had said she needed a mother.

Now Narcissa was putting a tightly swaddled Posey into Neville’s arms.

Neville stared down at the baby’s face. They said she looked like him. “That’s your mouth,” Pansy had said.

“I think it’s yours,” he’d said.

He stared at the tiny, pink mouth and the little snub nose and the long, dark lashes. She didn’t look like him. She looked perfect.

He glanced up. Narcissa and Pansy were slipping out through the double doors. They were going to the sitting room to write up the announcement for the press. Narcissa had told Pansy she would write to Violet.

Pansy’s lips had compressed. “I know I should,” she’d said, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “But I just—can’t handle her right now.”

“It’s all right, dear,” Narcissa had said. “I’ll send her a note, and you can write her in your own time.”

Pansy had nodded, her expression like it wasn’t all right but she was trying to be all right with that. Later, Neville had said, “You don’t have to write her,” and she’d said, “I know.”





It was Christmas Day. They were at St. Mungo’s. Gran had told Neville that the great aunts wanted to meet Posey, and Neville had told her that he would be with Alice for three hours this afternoon and that was their chance. Neville wasn’t traipsing to and fro with his wife and new baby—they could come to him for once. (And visit his mother while they were at it.)

Pansy had asked, “Won’t they be upset?”

And Neville had said, “I don’t care.”

Card had put varnish on his mother’s nails and done her hair. Pansy had brought Christmas crackers and cider and mince pies and Anise’s individual trifles for his mother and the healers’ aides. They were all wearing their paper crowns. His mother was sitting in a chair, holding Posey. Neville was hovering over her, his heart in his throat. But both Pansy and Alice seemed confident that Alice could do this.

Flossie came in with a camera—Neville hadn’t even thought to bring one.

“Oh, good,” said Flossie. “We’ll get grandmum, dad, and granddaughter together.”

Neville looked up, his hand on his mother’s shoulder, as Flossie took the picture.

“All right. Shift over, Dad, and we’ll get grandmum, mum, and granddaughter. Three generations of witches—”

Neville’s breath caught, watching them. Maybe they were going through the motions. Maybe his mother didn’t understand what was happening. But Pansy was nestled in close to her, her arm around his mother’s shoulders. Alice’s hold on Posey looked instinctive. They were all in green—Pansy wearing the snake necklace.

Pansy smiled for the camera.

Alice lifted her head.

“Say coven on three.”

Pansy said it for the three of them.

“There we have it—crone, mother, and maiden,” said Flossie. “Lucky to get all three.”

Neville blinked. It was the holidays. He was short on sleep. He was feeling emotional. Lucky. Some part of his mother lived on in Posey. Whoever Alice had been before Bellatrix—maybe he would see it, whether he knew it or not, in his daughter.

Neville ducked his head. He was glad the great aunts weren’t coming—he knew they weren’t. He didn’t want to share this with them.

Pansy took a picture of Alice with Flossie and Card for Alice’s wall.

When it was time, they packed up and Neville kissed his mother’s cheek and told her Happy Christmas.

They got home to find Charlie and Nott drunk on the front lawn in their paper crowns, with a goat eating one of the rose bushes.

“Daddy!” yelled Nott. “We come bearing gifts!”

“We don’t have gifts,” said Charlie.

Nott gestured emphatically toward the goat.

Neville laughed, too tired to fight it, and let them in.





2005

Neville was in George’s office above the shop. George had his feet on his desk. He was wearing purple and red.

Behind him, in a shadowbox on the wall, was the Elder Wand. It was encased in cheap plastic packaging. Splashed across the top, in neon font, was THE MOST POWERFUL WAND IN THE WORLD! GENUINE REPLICA ELDER WAND ™ ONE OF A KIND! (Made in China).

George set what appeared to be a tube of muggle lip balm on the desk. “Flash bang,” he said. “I gave a few to the snakes.”

Neville raised an eyebrow.

“I told them it’s for last resorts, not dramatic exits—”

“Which means Nott will use it every time,” said Neville.

“I mean, I would,” said George.

Neville snorted.

Nott rarely went in deep, the way Malfoy did. They used Nott to get Malfoy out. Nott had a reputation for popping up in odd places, uninvited. Malfoy had a reputation for being attached to Nott. Nott didn’t need a flash bang—he could just throw his arm around Malfoy’s neck and say, “All right, lover, we need to talk,” and he’d have Malfoy out in the hall by the time Alicia’s team moved in.

“The last meeting fell through but Malfoy’s getting close,” said Neville.





Neville was in the conservatory. He and Pansy were in a fight.

She’d said it was time to start trying for their second. She wanted them close in age, so they’d always have each other.

He’d said one was enough. He didn’t want to see Pansy in pain like that again.

She’d said she didn’t remember it being that bad.

He’d said he did! Didn’t she remember vomiting? Not being able to get out of the bathtub?

“But now I have this baby.” That was her answer no matter what he said.

Neville was holding the baby now. He ducked his head to breathe her in. She was warm and heavy, and she smelled so good. That was the problem with smelling a baby—it made you want a second baby. Neville did want a second baby but it felt selfish—it meant putting Pansy through that again.

Neville felt like an arsehole. Pansy was topless all the time now. The baby nursed constantly. He saw them together, Pansy stroking Posey’s downy hair, and he wanted to knock Pansy up again. Some base instinct he ought to control. They had a baby—it was enough.

But now Pansy was after him. He’d told her no but it was futile. Children were the witch’s decision. He was fooling himself if he thought he had any say in Pansy’s plans.

Neville held the baby up to face him. “Do you want a sister or brother?” he asked her.

She curled her lip—a look of utter disgust.





Pansy was pregnant again.





Malfoy had messaged the D.A. coin, which he normally didn’t do. Neville had brought Seamus. Seamus was in the lead. Neville watched over his head as Malfoy tapped his fingers on his whiskey glass and glared out at the muggle patrons in the gastropub.

“Finnigan,” he said as Seamus took the chair across from him.

“Malfoy.” Seamus crossed his arms.

Neville nodded as he took his seat.

Then the waitress was there and Seamus was wincing over the whiskey selection.

Malfoy was in his usual suit, a lock of white-blond hair fallen over his forehead. Neville had recently seen him lying on the rug with Posey, his shoes off, his shirtsleeves rolled above his wrists. Malfoy never allowed the Dark Mark to show. Which was smart—Neville would have kicked him out if he’d let the Dark Mark touch the baby.

Now Malfoy swept his hair into place, and said, “It’s to do with Potter’s son.”

He told them.

“Harry needs to know,” said Neville.

Malfoy said, “I’ve already sent Nott.”

Seamus nodded. Malfoy had done the right thing.





George threw himself into the club chair in Seamus’s tasting room and ran his hand through his hair. He said to Alicia, “Ron’s hacked off about that DMLE gear we took—”

“He’s not going to—”

“No, he’s going to find the incident report.” George was slouched down, his tumbler on the chair’s arm. “He’s just moaning about it. Tell me next time—”

“Like he would’ve—”

“I know. He would’ve told us not to.” George chucked his chin. “Told him that’s what he gets for getting promoted. With more power comes more shit to cover up.”

Alicia snorted.

“As if we didn’t design half of it,” said George, and Neville knew he meant him and Fred.

“Yeah?” said Alicia lightly. “The jacket’s a bit flash. I might just start wearing it—”

And George was grinning again.

Malfoy had tipped them off to a gathering in Muggle London. The Ministry didn’t want Neville operating inside the country—so Alicia’s team was going in dressed as Ministry personnel. It was petty, which meant George and Alicia loved it.

Neville should have a drink with Harry and Ron, make sure they were all on the same page. He would do. It was just that Harry had the job at Hogwarts and Ginny and Ron and Susan were so often at the Burrow with the babies and Neville had his own baby and it was hard to find a time.





“These people always use the same playbook,” said Neville, gazing at the map behind Seamus’s desk.

Alicia and Seamus had their arms crossed. Everyone was in a bad mood.

The group in France had started taking muggle girls. It didn’t matter the country—muggle authorities would let young women disappear without doing anything. She met a boy and ran off—that was always the story. And, sure, a man had been involved.

“I think we should do it,” said Neville. He looked to the others. “Tell Dionisio to put together a team, and I’ll pay for it.”





Malfoy had met with Saiph—in the back of a pub.

Now he was at Nott Manor, telling Neville about it.

Malfoy cocked his head and said, “It’s not ideal,” which meant Saiph had been antagonistic and Malfoy had killed the intermediary afterward and left his body on the pavement in Muggle London.

Neville nodded.

His eyes traveled over the books behind Nott’s new desk.

He reckoned it was a start.

Malfoy wasn’t only a high-profile sympathizer with deep pockets and government influence—he was, forever, one of Voldemort’s Death Eaters. Anyone serious came his way eventually. He hadn’t tipped his hand with Saiph. He’d been dismissive and disinterested until the intermediary had set it up.

Neville wasn’t fussed about a frosty introduction. He didn’t think Saiph would be able to stay away. He thought Saiph envied and resented Malfoy too much. He thought Saiph wanted too badly for Malfoy to acknowledge him.

The intermediary worried Neville, though. The man had noticed how many of Malfoy’s contacts had been killed. Neville didn’t like Malfoy—he held onto this fact—but he didn’t want Malfoy assassinated. And he didn’t want people putting it together that he was the one killing the contacts. Neville had been operating in plain sight. People had a way of overlooking him. But, eventually, someone would see him.

Neville was pacing in the nursery, desperate to sit down. On the wall, the leaves fell from the trees and a squirrel buried an acorn and the venomous tentaculas whipped their vines in agitation. Posey was screaming in his arms. Neville was doing everything she liked, walking and singing and soothing, but she was unpleasable. He was spent. His arms were tired. He had a headache. If he sat, she’d only scream louder.

He looked over as the door opened and Pansy came in, still in her heels. She’d told him she needed a morning out of the house. The pregnancy had been harder this time. Everything turned her stomach. She was weepy and fatigued and filled with rage.

“It’s Mummy,” said Neville, but Posey was already reaching for her.

“Hullo, darling. One moment.” Pansy had begun to unbutton her top. “Nott called it. Granger’s pregnant.”

Neville nodded, swaying and bouncing while Posey cried. He’d seen Hermione eyeing Malfoy as Malfoy held Posey and murmured Slytherin endearments. You’re a terror, aren’t you? A menace. Yes, you are.

Pansy was stepping out of her shoes. She was fiddling with her nursing bra. “Just a moment, darling.” Her voice was raised to be heard over the screaming. “Visiting us must have tempted her,” she said. “I’m coming, darling.”

Neville glanced at Posey, tear-streaked and red-faced. Crying so hard it looked like she was hurting herself.

Pansy said, “She saw this and wanted her own.”

Neville winced as Posey’s wail reached a brain-splitting pitch. “Obviously.”

“Mummy’s here,” said Pansy, holding out her hands.

Neville passed Posey off to her mother and slumped into the rocking chair.





It was a cloudy, breezy afternoon and Neville was in the conservatory, which was full of butterflies and floating fairy lights and paper bunting for Posey’s first birthday. There were fairy cakes and scones with jam and salmon-and-cucumber finger sandwiches and mini sausage rolls and scotch eggs and financiers and strawberries cut to look like roses and more fairy cakes and tea and champagne.

Right now, Seamus and Dean and Katie and Alicia were standing with Padma and Davis—Padma and Davis there on their own now that the marriage mandate had been struck and they’d hired oathbreakers. They were drinking the champagne and toasting not having children while the toddlers shrieked all around them.

Daphne Greengrass and Pucey were side-by-side, looking disturbed by the number of gingers present.

They’d brought their son, Dorian. Angelina and George had brought Roxanne. Harry and Ginny were there with James. Ron and Susan had brought Molly. (Neville was surprised Susan had come.) Nott had brought Charlie and sparklers and more champagne. (George and Nott had already disappeared to set up fireworks.) Bulstrode had declined after learning Malfoy would be there. Malfoy was indeed there, his hand at Hermione’s stomach—bursting at the seams to tell everyone.

Pansy was crouched to take pictures of Posey hugging Fennel. Posey kissed Fennel’s cheek, and Fennel laughed. They were wearing matching party hats.

“Neville.” Ginny was gesturing him over to where she was standing with Harry under a palm. She was pregnant again. Neville thought of all the drama two years ago. The Malfoys and Potters would have children in the same year at Hogwarts after all.

Neville clapped Harry on the shoulder, and then Harry was saying, “Erm, with Ron and Susan being James’s, we thought we might ask you and Hermione to be godparents this time round.”

Neville took a breath—he hadn’t expected this.

Ginny gripped his arm. She’d seen him hesitate. “I hope Pansy doesn’t mind. It’s just—we would have asked Hermione to be James’s godmother but, you know, with Susan . . .”

“No, of course,” said Neville. He was nodding, looking down. “I’m honored. Of course.”

He shook Harry’s hand. He gave Ginny an awkward, one-armed hug.

Pansy wouldn’t care. She included Ginny in her cosmetics luncheons but she wouldn’t expect to be the Potters’ godparent. For some reason, though, Neville wasn’t sure how he felt.





Neville was propped against the pillows, holding Posey while Pansy nursed Primrose beside him. Posey was clingy and pensive. Neville was rubbing her back and murmuring encouraging things about Mummy and Prim and being a big sister, but Posey remained unpersuaded.

Pansy had said it was good Prim had been born a week later so they weren’t both Scorpios. (Neville didn’t know what that meant.)

Childbirth had been shorter the second time round but still terrifying and terrible. Afterward, the midwife had healed Pansy, and Pansy had said, “I’m done now. You can sterilize him.” And Neville had looked up from kissing Prim’s head and said, “What?”

Now he kissed Posey’s cheek and breathed in her scent and thought about the future.

Neville had agreed to the Parkinson grounds elves doing more maintenance at the greenhouse, since he was needed at home. He’d taken Mace and Basil and Sage out to meet the venomous tentaculas and walk the fields and tour the outbuildings, and the elves had heard the crocodiles bellowing in the swamp and turned to one another with widened eyes and grins that Neville had decided were none of his business. (Either the elves were going to befriend the crocs or hunt them—he didn’t want to know.)

Someday, when the girls were old enough to follow directions, he’d take them to the greenhouse. Until then, they’d stay on the Manor grounds. He’d spend more time on the butterfly garden and koi pond—things they might enjoy. They’d add Primrose to the blood wards at the center of the yew maze, just like they’d added Posey.

He glanced over at Pansy and Primrose.

Pansy had been clingy and pensive herself when they’d learned the second baby would be a girl. She’d said, “I haven’t given you a son.”

Neville had kissed her head. “You have no control over that. It’s me who supplies that chromosome.”

Pansy had squinted up at him. “It is?”

Neville had looked at her. “You didn’t do the Herbology extra credit on Gregor Mendel, did you?”

She’d laughed and shaken her head.

“My chromosomes wanted daughters,” he’d told her.

Pansy was afraid of being a mother to daughters because of her mother, but daughters felt easier to Neville. He knew how to love Pansy—he could love different versions of her. It was bringing up a son that Neville didn’t know how to do—he didn’t have a model. He thought of Seamus and Dean and Charlie—men with fathers or stepfathers they got on with, who knew what they were about and didn’t seem to worry about it. The opposite of how he’d been as a boy.

Was he—now—a man who knew what he was about? Neville liked to think so. He remembered the boy he’d been. But as he built this life with Pansy, he tried to think of that boy as a lifetime ago instead of a feeling he could never escape.





It was Christmastime. Pansy had been on a tear. They were doing a garden tour and an open house—with a one-year-old and a month-old baby. She had been bossing him and the elves and Malfoy and Nott and, when she got the chance, she bossed Charlie too. (There had been a lecture about goats.) She was trying to control everything and everyone, all at once.

“I know everyone thinks this is stupid,” she’d said, “but it matters to me.”

Neville wasn’t sleeping more than two hours at a time. He’d taken a deep breath and reminded himself that he didn’t control other people. He only controlled himself. He could have a fight with Pansy—which wouldn’t change how she felt—or he could accept that this was important to her.

“You’re in charge of the outside, and the elves are in charge of the inside,” she’d told him.

Neville had kissed her and said, “I can do that,” and then taken Posey with him to meet with Fennel and Mace and Basil and Sage.

The elves loved the holidays. Traditional Yule decorations were holly and mistletoe and pine garlands with pinecones and cloves and cranberries and dried orange slices. Holly was poisonous. So was mistletoe. Cranberries and cloves were choking hazards. Neville and the elves decided they would keep the holly and mistletoe outside and out of reach, secure all the cranberries and cloves with sticking charms, and concentrate on loads of pine garlands, pinecones, dried orange slices, silver ribbons, and charmed candles indoors.

Later Pansy had seen the decorations and said, “Is it too simple? Should we—”

“Pansy,” Neville had said. “I’m in charge of the outside, and the elves are in charge of the inside.”

“But—”

He’d raised his eyebrows at her. It was his I won’t say it again look.

She’d closed her mouth and turned on her heel and gone to bother Anise in the kitchens. She’d been planning to visit Alice on Christmas morning and wanted to bring breakfast.

Now the guests were arriving and telling Pansy they adored traditional Yule decorations, and Pansy was saying, “That was all Neville and the elves. I didn’t do a thing,” and the guests were telling her this couldn’t be true and they knew it was all down to her.

Pansy looked over at him, and he smirked. She was wearing the snake necklace and a green chiffon cocktail dress with a V neck and a full skirt. She looked good. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he smiled.

Then Nott was there, in velvet, handing him a flagon.

Neville lifted it toward his mouth. It smelled like— “Do I want to drink this?” he asked.

Nott nodded rapidly.

Neville took a sip and coughed. “Good Godric—”

“Charlie’s rum eggnog,” said Nott, grinning wildly. “Disgusting, isn’t it? Where’s Finnigan? I want to try it on him.”

Nott went to find Seamus, and Neville blinked and drank the rest of the flagon. He was tipsy by the time Gran and the great aunts got there.

The open house wound down, and George and Charlie and Nott set off drunk fireworks.

2006

Neville was in the greenhouse. It was a cold, gray day outside. He and Pansy had decided to skip the Greengrasses’ Valentine’s Day gala. They’d had enough after their anniversary and Posey’s birthday and Prim’s birth and Christmas and New Year’s and Pansy’s birthday. It was a lot, and they were exhausted.

Maybe that was why Neville was having a hard time with this.

He’d been to visit Ginny and the new baby—his godson.

They’d been propped up on the settee in the drawing room at Grimmauld Place, under the Black tapestry. Harry had been in the kitchen with James when Ginny had told Neville the baby’s name.

Albus Severus.

Neville had taken a breath and tried to nod, but his face had felt like a slab of meat.

Ginny had been saying something about it being important to Harry, Harry being set on both names. Neville had been squinting at her. He’d heard Ron saying, Don’t you make any of the decisions?

Albus Severus.

A headmaster who had left Harry to be abused and then groomed him to die. A Death Eater who had tormented them for years and overseen their torture.

Was there anything that would disqualify a man from Harry’s need for one more father figure?

What about Fred? What about Arthur? What about literally any other—

Neville had had to stop himself. He’d had to work to tamp down the anger. He didn’t control other people. He and Hary didn’t think the same way. It wasn’t his business.

He’d looked at the baby. He’d told himself he wouldn’t take it out on this boy the way things had been taken out on him. He’d asked to hold his godson.

Harry had come upstairs with James. Unshaven. His hair disheveled. “You’ve met Albus,” he’d said.

Neville had said, “Albus Severus.”

“Yeah,” Harry had said. “You know—”

He’d shrugged a little. A tentative smile—waiting for Neville to say he did know. He understood.

Neville had looked at him and hadn’t answered.

Now Neville plucked the dead leaves from the venomous tentaculas and they smiled at him. He could smell the damp loam in the humid warmth of the greenhouse. It was familiar. Comforting. He needed to be here right now.

He shook his head and the venomous tentaculas mimicked him.

Harry wanted Neville to say he understood. But he would never understand Harry. Or maybe the things he understood weren’t things Harry wanted to hear.





“You’ve protected Hermione,” said Seamus. “Why’s Saiph so certain you hold a grudge after Harry testified for you?”

Malfoy scoffed. “Because it’s me. Also—” He looked wryly chagrined. “Some of the boys have seen the sectumsempra scars. They’ve, ah, told tales.”

Neville and Seamus exchanged a sidelong look. How bad were they?

“So he thinks you’re onboard,” said Neville.

Malfoy nodded, dead-eyed. “Which thrills me to no end,” he said.





Neville was in the lesser dining room with Pansy. It was gray and raining outdoors and on the painted walls above the wainscotting. She’d been absently shuffling through the evening post with one hand, and then she’d paused over a letter and asked Fennel to take the girls up for their baths.

Neville glanced up at her as he scourgified sweet potato off his fingers.

Her eyes tracked Fennel and Saffron while they took the girls out, and when the door had closed, she said, “Father’s hanged himself.”

Neville nodded, watching her face.

Her eyes had fallen to the parchment beside her plate. “It doesn’t seem like him,” she said. Her mouth was tight. Then: “You never met him.”

Neville said, “I met him once.”

She looked up from the letter.

“Before we were married,” said Neville.

“You went to Azkaban,” she said. She’d gone still.

He nodded. He’d worn the watch. He hadn’t hidden it.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I told him I didn’t agree with his choices,” said Neville. His chest was tight but his heart rate was steady. He didn’t feel sorry for Rhodes—he felt sorry for Pansy.

Pansy studied him. “Did you, now?”

Neville nodded. Then he stood and picked up his chair and set it down beside hers. He put his arm around her. “I told him he should have chosen you over Padgett.”

Pansy leaned against him. “Did he feel bad,” she asked, “after you said that?”

“I think so,” said Neville.

Pansy nodded. Her head was against his chest. “Good,” she said. She sounded sad.

He sat with his arm around her.





“You’re sending the disaster twins?” Alicia looked truly put out.

“We don’t have a choice—”

“Send me and Dionisio—”

“He’s too paranoid,” said Neville.

Seamus was sitting silently behind his desk, arms crossed. She looked to him and he raised his eyebrows. Don’t look at me.

Alicia huffed.

“It’s not going to be fun,” said Neville.

“Not when they bollocks it—”

“If they bollocks it, I’ll admit you were right,” said Neville.

Alicia paused and then snorted. “Yeah, all right.”





Neville strode down the center aisle of his greenhouse, his cloak billowing, his plants reaching out for him. He was staring at the wizard lying incarceroused on his tile—the man he’d been looking for since he’d heard the name Saiph three years ago in Seamus’s office.

Nott and Malfoy were in three-piece suits, standing hunched over him like they’d just side-alonged in. Malfoy looked out of breath. Nott was pulling at his bloody collar.

Nott saw Neville first. He said, “Daddy’s home” as he grinned down at the man.

The venomous tentaculas were rattling. Turning their eyeless heads to smile at Neville as he passed.

Malfoy blew the hair off his forehead, throwing back his head.

Nott looked back up. “Oh my Merlin,” he said. “And he’s brought the Saint.”

Malfoy glanced sharply over, his hand raised to smooth his hair into place.

Neville had gone to Hogwarts. He’d told Harry, standing in his office, “Nott and Malfoy are bringing him in.”

Harry was still in his professor robes.

Nott was laughing, nudging the man with the pointy toe of his shoe. “What did you do, boyo?”

Neville reached them, coming to a stop with Harry. He looked down at the man, already silencioed by the snakes. There was a puckered scar slashed across his face. Like someone had cut him open in a Knockturn inn and it’d been a funny angle when he’d tried to heal himself. He’d been good-looking—maybe he still was, when he wasn’t screaming.

Neville shucked off his cloak and threw it onto the table. Harry shed his robes and rolled up his sleeves.

They got Saiph up and into a chair. He had dark, curly hair—like Bellatrix.

Neville got into the cupboard to get Malfoy’s veritaserum.

“Come here often?” asked Nott. He was lounged against the old wooden table, looking Harry up and down. “Wanna tie me up next?”

Harry sighed loudly. “I thought Charlie had you locked down.”

“Are you saying you wish he didn’t?” Nott was grinning darkly.

“Nott,” said Neville, looking over his shoulder. “Leave Harry alone.”

“But, Daddy, I love him.” Now Nott was eyefucking Neville.

Neville snorted, and Nott laughed and jumped up to throw his arm across Malfoy’s shoulders. “All right, lover?”

“Fucked up my finger,” muttered Malfoy.

“Ooh, let me see.”

Malfoy held up his left hand—his little finger jutting out, broken.

“Was this when he tried to run?”

“When he threw that bombarda at me.”

Nott was holding Malfoy’s hand, his arm still across Malfoy’s shoulders. “Let me make it all better,” he murmured as Malfoy smirked.

“Your shirt’s in a state—”

“You gonna clean me up?”

“Are they always like this?” asked Harry.

“Yes,” said Neville.

They’d moved to the other end of the table so Nott could brackium emendo Malfoy’s finger while Malfoy tergeod the blood out of his collar. Neville still wasn’t sure whose blood it was.

Harry said, sotto voce, “Nott flirts with everyone, right?”

Neville glanced at Harry’s furrowed brow. “He doesn’t flirt with Seamus or Dean.”

Harry squinted at him. “What does that mean?”

Neville looked at Harry sidelong. “He likes flirting with straight men?”

“Oh,” said Harry. “Right.”

Neville had the oral syringe out and was filling it with veritaserum. Harry looked less uncomfortable with this than Neville might have thought. But, then, he’d heard some things about Auror Department interrogations. Malfoy claimed he’d been tortured in the Department before his trial.

Now Malfoy’s lips were pursed as he tugged Nott’s collar into place. Nott reached up and brushed back a strand of Malfoy’s hair. Neville remembered them before his wedding, straightening each other’s ties but also his. Nott sticking the boutonniere to his lapel.

The snakes moved to face Saiph in the chair. Neville watched Malfoy over the man’s head. He looked cooly aristocratic—slightly slouched in his suit, his hands in his trouser pockets, a whiff of disdain as his eyes traveled over Saiph. Neville thought the disdain was partly for himself. Each time Malfoy presented the worst version of himself to someone and they believed it, Malfoy faced everything he’d done to earn his reputation.

Neville had seen Malfoy smiling faintly as he held Posey—and then the helpless need in his eyes when Hermione touched him gently and said something nice. Neville thought Malfoy liked babies because his past didn’t exist for them, but he adored Hermione because she’d never excused it. The past wasn’t past—it was still playing out. Neville knew—when you lived with one foot there, you couldn’t be with someone who pretended part of you didn’t exist.

Now Malfoy straightened to his full height and rolled back his shoulders, allowing the Azkaban tattoo to show above his collar.

Neville was rounding the table with the oral syringe.

Malfoy looked to Nott, who said, “Go on, lover. We’ll be here for hours.”

Neville saw Saiph’s shoulders twitch.

Malfoy jerked his chin in farewell to Neville and Harry. Then he turned and strode away, down the aisle lined by venomous tentaculas. His shoulders back. His head held high. The hard soles of his shoes sounding on the tile.

The plants turned their eyeless heads as he passed, and then he disapparated and the plants turned back to the scene at the rear of the greenhouse.

Nott was smiling a little as he looked down at Saiph. “Draco’s a delicate flower,” said Nott, tilting his head. “Doesn’t have the stomach for real torture.”

Neville saw Saiph’s eyes dilate.

98%

2008

Neville could hear screaming and crying. The girls were fighting.

Neville heard Pansy call, “Father’s home,” and Posey shot out into the hall.

Neville bent down and reached out his hands to her. He could see she was in a state.

She trotted up to him and held out her arms, and Neville picked her up and stood. Her little arm was on his shoulder. She was warm and damp. She looked sad and angry. She scrubbed her hand at her tear-streaked face.

She said, “I’m mean today.” She seemed frustrated with herself. Fennel had probably told her she was being mean to Prim.

Neville kissed Posey’s wet cheek and breathed her in. His daughter. He pulled back to look at her. He said, “I love you anyway.”





Neville was at Hogwarts, in the Great Hall, looking out from the dais. It was the ten-year anniversary of the Battle. He didn’t want to be here.

Neither did the snakes. The Prophet had run retrospectives with pictures of their fathers in chains, Malfoy gaunt and sneering on the front page. Now Malfoy sat straight-backed, letting the Azkaban tattoo show above his collar. His face was grim. Nott looked sullen. Pansy had worn the snake necklace and dressed the girls in Slytherin green. Neville hadn’t tried to stop her.

He focused on the children. Prim was on Pansy’s lap. Posey was on Nott’s. Pansy had forced him to come as Prim’s godfather. Malfoy was holding Scorp, Albie at his knee. He’d conjured a daisy for Molly. She and James were hanging on their mothers. Susan and Ginny were both pregnant again. So was Hermione, here on stage with Neville. Neville was in the professor robes he never wore. Harry was wearing his own, his tie askew.

It had been two years since Neville had force-fed Saiph more veritaserum and Harry had asked him, “If we let you go, will you leave my family alone?”

And Saiph had nodded and said, “For a little while. But I’m jealous of you and I think destroying your life would make me feel better, so probably not for long. I’m already thinking I want revenge on all of you.”

The thing about veritaserum was, if you let people talk, they would talk you into killing them. Saiph had convinced Harry.

Neville and Harry had spent the rest of the year on clean-up. It had turned out Harry was willing to get his hands dirty when it came to his children. Neville thought he and Harry had grown up taking it for granted that they had to suffer. They’d been told that was just the way it was. Now they had their own children, and they thought, What the fuck? It didn’t have to be like that.

They were being honored now for being child soldiers. None of it had had to happen. The adults around them hadn’t wanted to do hard things. They’d had a shoddy prophesy that would let them off the hook, and they’d held onto it with both hands while they left Harry to run wild—trusting he would die at the right time.

Anyway.

The hall was stuffy. The children were making noise. Being here brought it all back. Neville didn’t need to go down that rabbit hole. He’d spent the last year moving forward. Putting out the odd hotspot but spending more time in the lab with Pansy. Working less on poisons. More on cosmetics and apothecary potions.

Now Hermione was standing at the podium to announce the Hermione Granger Endowed Chair for Muggle Studies, funded with Malfoy gold. Malfoy’s eyes were locked on her.

Neville had spent the last ten years trying to dismantle parts of their world. Maybe Hermione would build some parts of it back up.





It was a hot, sunny day at Parkbottom. Neville had his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He was sitting on a bench, reading his messages. Seamus had made him get a muggle BlackBerry. He wanted to talk about partnering on brandy when he came out. Neville had met with the vigneron and the vineyard elves that morning.

Pansy was in the chateau, going over labels and marketing copy.

The girls were nearby, in the hedge maze with Fennel and Saffron, making a racket. Neville had an ear cocked for crying or, worse, silence.

He scrolled through the messages on the BlackBerry. The news was good. Quiet. It had been getting quieter for a while now. The demands of his own life had been getting louder.

“Stop yelling!” yelled Pansy.

Neville looked up to find her there in her black linen dress and the snake necklace, a glass of wine in hand.

“Uncle Theo and Uncle Charlie will be here soon with Teddie,” she shouted toward the hedges, “and we’re all going to have a nice time!”

Neville snorted and tucked the BlackBerry into his pocket.

He reached out and pulled her onto his lap.

She held her glass out as she settled against him, her arm around his neck, his hand on her thigh. “Hiya,” she said, and kissed him.

“Hiya,” he said, his mouth near hers.

The weight of her was comforting. He could smell the wine and coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms. She’d tried to change her perfume last year and he’d told her he wanted her to go back to Black Opium. She was wearing it for him.

He pulled back. “I’ve decided,” he said, his eyes moving over her face.

“What have you decided?” She tilted her head, studying him.

“I’m retiring the side project.” His chest was tight. He felt terrible.

“That’s good, Nev,” she said. Her expression had softened. “You’ve done enough.”

He nodded once. Then he sighed and took the wineglass from her. She leaned into him as he took a drink.

“You’re allowed to move on,” she told him.

“I know,” he said. He did know. It just didn’t feel that way—even when he could tell it was time.

“I love you,” she said, low—just for him. “I’m glad you lived.”

He looked back to her, their faces close together. “I’m glad I lived too,” he said.

He kissed her and held the kiss, his eyes closed, alone with her for just this moment—no other obligations.





Neville heard a whistle and looked up. The Nott Weasleys were here.

They were walking over, Charlie still carrying Teddie and holding Nott’s hand from the portkey. Nott was in thin white linen and dark trousers and Charlie’s gold watch. Charlie was in chambray, Teddie’s periwinkle skirt frothed over his arm.

Teddie had been unexpected.

Pansy had come home and said, “You won’t believe it.”

Neville had raised his eyebrows. He’d been watching her take off her shoes after following her into the dressing room.

“Nott has a four-year-old daughter,” she’d said.

“Only one?”

“With Lovegood.”

He’d felt his face go slack. “What.”

“Did she say anything to you at the wedding—”

“No.” He’d thought back to Luna watching Charlie and Nott. “She’s not Charlie’s?”

“No.” Pansy had been laughing as she shook her head. “She’s Nott’s.”

Now Teddie was hugging Charlie’s neck—getting shyer as they got closer. But there was no mistaking it. She had Nott’s thick lashes and wide mouth. A wave to her long, light brown hair. She looked just like him.

Now Prim was running to meet them with Posey following. Pansy had the girls in toile dresses, green and white.

Charlie and Nott crouched down to say hullo. Teddie was leaning against Charlie while Nott did the talking. Then Teddie was allowing Prim to drag her toward the elves and the hedge maze.

Pansy had told Neville that Teddie’s speech was delayed, but that worked out, since it was hard for anyone near Prim to get a word in edgewise.

Pansy had said, “Nott says she knows the words. She just doesn’t feel the need to say them.”

Neville had nodded, remembering Luna’s long silences.

“I think Lovegood must have doted on her.”

Neville had looked to her, surprised. “You said she came without a change of clothes.”

Pansy had been shaking her head. “Something must have happened there. She doesn’t look neglected. I think she hasn’t had to speak because she already had Lovegood’s attention.”

Neville had nodded, frowning. He’d been worried—no, disturbed. He’d been disturbed. Luna dropping off her daughter at Nott Manor with only a note. He’d wondered what had happened. Had Rolf mistreated Teddie because she was Nott’s? Had he held it against Luna? Or had he got off on it. Luna had named the girl Theodora—she hadn’t been hiding it.

Rolf and Luna were deep in the rain forest. No one could reach them to ask questions.

Now Nott was face to face with Charlie—he kissed Charlie, clingy. Then Charlie was kissing Pansy on the cheek, and Pansy and Nott were jostling each other. Charlie was coming over to shake Neville’s hand.

“Longbottom,” he said, grinning. “Happy birthday, mate.”

Then Nott was hugging Neville, which didn’t usually happen this early. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered. He smelled like sandalwood.

Neville patted him on the back and glanced at Charlie.

Charlie was looking around. “Right,” he said, chipper. “Who else is coming?”

More Weasleys.

George and Angelina and Ron arrived with Molly and Roxy and Fred. Ron told Neville Susan had decided she was too pregnant to travel. The baby was late.

“Move—get out of my way,” said Ginny, hip-checking Harry as she dropped heavily into a chair. “Don’t mind me,” she said to Neville. “It’s false labor.”

Neville raised his eyebrows at Harry, who shrugged helplessly. “She wanted to get out of the house.” He put a thrashing Albie on the grass and leaned over James. “Look, there’s Molly—”

“I don’t like Molly—”

“Oh, good grief,” said Harry, straightening.

Ron snorted and handed Harry a glass of wine. Harry raised it to Neville. “Cheers.”

“Angie!” Charlie was leaned back in his chair to peer up at her. “Been following the Summer League?”

“I’ve been a bit busy!” She was nodding toward Fred.

“Here, let me hold him.” Charlie had set down his wineglass and jumped up.

Angelina passed the baby over and said, “There’s Spinnet and Bell. Laters.”

Katie was waving as they crossed the grass. “Johnson!”

“She can see us,” said Alicia.

Neville watched as George let Roxy loose and then leaned in toward Charlie. “Mum’s had a right mare.”

Charlie looked up from Fred’s mass of tight ginger curls.

“You didn’t tell her?” George tilted his head toward Nott, collapsed in a chair as he talked at Pansy.

Katie was plucking at the skirt of Angelina’s maxi dress, patterned in orange palms and bordered in blue and white.

Charlie shrugged. “Still sorting it.”

“She heard from Bill,” said George. “Ron said she lost it.”

“Oi, she did.” Ron turned from the fruit and cut vegetables.

“What’s the fuss?” said Charlie, looking between them. “She wanted grandchildren.”

George burst into snickering laughter.

“Said you’ve got too involved,” said Ron. He jerked his chin toward Nott. “She thinks the situation’s going to change—”

“It won’t,” said Charlie.

“You going to tell Mum she could have been yours?” George’s eyes were alight.

Neville felt his jaw clench. George always had to stir the cauldron.

“She is mine,” said Charlie. “Now.”

“George Weasley!” called Angelina. “Where is your daughter?”

“Shit,” said George, looking around. Then he was headed toward the topiary.

“Blimey, that smug bastard.”

Neville followed Ron’s gaze.

It was Malfoy and Hermione, coming from the direction of the Malfoy chateau. Hermione had Scorp on her hip. Malfoy was holding Ara Rose. He and the baby were both in pink shirts. Malfoy was smirking like he was the first Malfoy heir to father a second child in three hundred years.

“Don’t mind him,” said Hermione preemptively. “He’s showing off.”

“I have a baby,” said Malfoy.

“We all have a baby,” muttered Ron.

“Look who I found!” called George. He was hauling Roxy under his arm, chucking a thumb toward Balmaceda and Estrada.

Alicia shot Estrada a two-fingered salute.

“Hey, there’s my favorite,” said Estrada.

Then he and Alicia were doing a complicated handshake while Balmaceda cuffed Neville on the shoulder.

Hermione had set Scorp down. He and Albie were hugging.

“Stop throwing gravel!” yelled Harry.

“She started it!” yelled James.

Then Padma and Seamus and Dean and Dionisio and his daughter arrived in quick succession.

Pansy hurried over to welcome the girl—it was the first time anyone had seen her.

“Hello,” said Balmaceda. He was standing close to Padma, offering his hand. His shirt was unbuttoned at the chest, the sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms. His hair was curling around his ears. He was grinning at her.

Padma looked up at him and tucked her glossy black hair behind her ear. She was in a simple shift and flat leather sandals. She took his hand.

Seamus’s eyes narrowed.

Pansy’s head whipped toward him. “Don’t you dare cockblock,” she hissed. “Let Patil have some fun.”





Dionisio’s daughter was thin and dark-haired. She’d played with the younger children before dinner, but now the table was covered with the remains of olive tapenade and couscous taboulé and seared scallops and leeks and poulet rôti and a fig and goat cheese tart, and she slumped in her chair, bored.

Neville was nodding and listening with one ear while Harry and Ron compared Hogwarts and Auror Department politics. He watched as George leaned forward.

“Psst. Luz—”

She looked up at him.

“Do you like puzzles?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“Do you like explosives?”

She nodded again.

“Then I might have just the thing for you.” George was twisting to retrieve his red seersucker suit jacket from the back of his chair. He reached into the breast pocket and produced what looked to be an enchanted puzzle box, too large for the pocket.

Luz had sat forward to watch.

He began to hold it out to her across the table, then jerked his hand back. “You’re seventeen, right? It’s too dangerous for children.”

“I’m seven,” she said, annoyed now.

“Close enough!” said George happily, fighting a grin as he passed it over.

She took it quickly and set it on the table in front of her. It was covered in runes and gears and had a little crank handle. She paused with her fingertips on the crank. She glanced at him.

He shrugged. Let’s see what happens.

She turned the crank—

The crackling lights of a sparkler burst out of a little hole in the lid.

She’d pulled back but she watched the tiny explosions, smiling.

George was grinning.

She turned the box over, beginning to examine it.

“Father—”

Neville glanced over reflexively—it was Teddie. The younger children had been with the elves for dinner but they were drifting back. Now Teddie was at Nott’s side, her long, unbrushed hair reminding Neville of Luna. He could see Luna’s mannerisms—the tilt of her chin, how she held her hands. He’d thought, once, he’d have children with Luna. Now he looked at Luna’s daughter and didn’t see any part of his life.

He’d been surprised—how readily Charlie had taken responsibility for her. Nott still lived at Nott Manor. Charlie still had his cottage at the preserve. They weren’t bonded. But they were together, and Neville could see it—on Charlie’s face now when he looked over as Nott lifted Teddie onto his lap—how he loved Nott, so he loved the girl, too. Teddie settled against Nott and his shoulders dropped and everything fell from his face, so that—for just a moment—he was unmasked and defenseless as he kissed the crown of her head.

Pansy had told Neville that Luna’s note said Nott needed Teddie’s help more than she did. No one knew what Luna meant by that.

Charlie was back to talking quidditch with Malfoy. Neville knew Charlie had gone to Nott Manor and organized the lads there into quidditch teams. Malfoy had been captaining one of them. He and Charlie supported rival clubs and could talk rubbish for hours.

Ginny leaned forward to take the piss out of the Falcons. Malfoy was getting it from both sides. Now Katie and Alicia and Angelina were involved.

Seamus was talking to Dionisio. Dean and Estrada were deep in conversation.

Balmaceda had his head ducked toward Padma. “Where do you live?” he asked.

“In Muggle London,” she said.

“Do you like it?”

“Well . . .”

“Tell me,” said Balmaceda.

“It’s a bad neighborhood,” said Padma, who did not live in a bad neighborhood.

“Oh?”

“Quite dangerous,” said Padma.

“Oh,” said Balmaceda.

“Especially at night.”

“I should go with you, then. Make sure you get home.”

“No, I’m sure I’ll be fine—”

“Sure,” said Balmaceda. “But just in case.”

“Well,” said Padma. “It couldn’t hurt.”

Pansy was watching them with a smirk. She’d been talking to Katie and George about marketing. She had Parkbottom cosmetics counter displays at T&T and Madam Malkin’s and a section in Madam Primpernelle’s.

Now Hermione was coming back to the table with Scorpius. He had Malfoy’s white-blond hair and pointy chin and an unaccountably sweet disposition. It looked like Rosie would have white-blond curls. Malfoy had held her throughout dinner. Neville had caught himself checking Malfoy’s arm. The fabric of the pink shirt was thick enough to hide the Mark. Someday it would have to be explained to the children. Not just Malfoy’s children—Posey and Prim, too.

Posey and Prim were here now, pulling at him. Neville hoisted them up, tilting his head back to avoid a flailing hand.

The day before, Flossie and Card had brought his mother out to Parkinson Manor. Pansy had started doing this—arranging for Alice to visit for a few hours when the weather was nice. “She needs out of that room,” Pansy had muttered. They would go to the butterfly garden or the rose bowers with the girls, and Mace and Basil and Sage would gather—because they liked seeing people on the grounds and, also, to keep anyone from falling into the koi pond. Yesterday, Pansy had hired a photographer, and Neville had sat on a bench with the girls and Pansy and Alice while they had family pictures taken. Pansy had had some done with just his mother and the girls. Neville knew Pansy would go through them and select the best ones and have them framed. She would do this briskly, without crying over them, because she had decided it should be done. Neville would cry over them later, when he found them in his dressing room.

Now the girls were climbing on him, and Neville was extending the chair. Prim wanted cake. It was coming out—Pansy had the platter in her hands.

The children were swarming. They’d heard cake was in the offing.

Pansy was setting it on the table in front of him. It was a black forest gateau with a modern look—shards of chocolate bark and fresh, pitted cherries on the whipped cream frosting. The table was singing for him—he could hear Seamus’s perfect pitch. The children were clamoring for the chocolate.

Pansy leaned over him and kissed him, and then she fed him a cherry.

He was chewing it, smiling, looking up at her—his wife, the mother of his children, the love of his life. And then Luz got the puzzle box open, and all the fireworks went off.





The sun had set at Parkbottom. Malfoy and Hermione had carried Scorp and Rosie back to the Malfoy chateau to spend the rest of the week with Narcissa. The Potters and Weasleys with small children had begun the floo journey home. The rest of the party guests had portkeyed out. The elves had taken the girls to the nursery. Neville and Pansy might have a few hours alone.

Neville was in bed with Pansy.

He’d turned twenty-eight. He had his wife and his daughters and his greenhouse and his vineyard. A business. Friends. People he trusted. People he could ask for help. It was more than Neville had ever thought he’d have.

It was hard sometimes. Sometimes he had to stop and remind himself that he didn’t have to be so angry anymore. He didn’t have to feel alone. It got easier, being happy. It was hard, but it got easier.

He kissed Pansy and touched her body.

A gift.

So much of his life with her and the girls was a gift she’d given him.

“Thank you for the birthday,” he murmured, his mouth near hers.

“I only—”

“Pansy,” he said. “Let me say thank you.”





Neville was asleep on the night of his birthday. Pansy was next to him. The house was quiet.

Neville was dreaming.

He was in the Great Hall. He was covered in grit and ash. The air reeked of smoke and sweat and dark magic. The bodies smelled like piss and shit and fear. Neville’s nostrils were full of the copper tang of blood and the acrid scent of his own burned hair.

He was carrying Lavender Brown, his arms under her knees and around her shoulders. His back was aching. He was trying to be gentle with her, but people were so heavy when they were dead, and he’d already carried so many of them.

He stumbled a little and her head fell back, blood gouted all down her front from where her neck was torn open. Her hair streamed over his arm and dripped red onto his trousers.

Neville hoisted her up against him and her head rolled toward him. He gripped her a little tighter. His fingertips pressed into her cool, still flesh.

And then she blinked.

Neville sucked in a breath. He could feel his chest move against her.

She blinked and blinked.

Her hand went to her neck.

“Oh,” she said.

Her head rolled away as she looked around. He could see her eyes moving—over the debris-strewn hall. Over the line of waiting dead.

“Oh,” she said.

Her hand moved to his chest.

He looked down at it—her blood-streaked fingers. The purple varnish on her fingernails.

“Neville,” she said, and he looked to her face.

Her expression was calm.

Her eyes were wide and earnest.

“Put me down, Neville,” she said. “I can walk from here.”





THE END