Meeting

We are following paralell to my main fanfiction, ME AND THE DEVIL.

I hope you like a glipse of their own little bubble that they built.

**"The tower and the star"** tarot card.

The Tower and the Star together on a single card represent the powerful journey of destruction and renewal. The Tower symbolizes upheaval, sudden change, and the breaking down of old structures, while the Star represents hope, inspiration, and the guiding light that follows the storm. This card signifies a relationship built on the ashes of the past, where two people find strength and healing in each other, transforming chaos into a beacon of hope and new beginnings. Despite the turbulence, their bond is a testament to resilience and the beauty that emerges from overcoming adversity together.

Ministry of Magic

Department of Magical Unions

Forced Marriage Act Division

[Ashford, Kent

TN25 7LX

South East England]

Dear Ms. Parkinson,

It is with the utmost gravity that we inform you of your mandated participation in a binding magical union, as outlined in the Forced Marriage Act of 2002. This legislation, enacted for the preservation and stability of the wizarding community, requires the pairing of eligible individuals for the purpose of procreation, lineage preservation, and societal cohesion.

After a thorough review of magical aptitude, bloodline integrity, and familial alliances, the Ministry has determined that your designated partner in this union shall be Neville Longbottom.

A formal ceremony will be scheduled in accordance with Ministry protocol. Further details, including the date, time, and location, will be provided in due course. Noncompliance with this decree will result in severe penalties, as stipulated under the Act.

Your immediate cooperation is expected.

Yours sincerely,

Penelope Puffington-Plimpton

Head of the Forced Marriage Act Division

Ministry of Magic

Pansy stalked across the drawing room, her heeled boots clacking sharply against the marble floor, each step a testament to her growing fury. The room—once a sanctuary of her childhood, filled with gilded mirrors and silk-upholstered furniture—felt claustrophobic, the weight of its opulence pressing down on her like a vice.

She crumpled the offending letter in her fist, her jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Fucking fucks. Her fingers itched to set the damned thing on fire, but instead, she flung it across the room with a frustrated growl. It drifted to the floor far too delicately for something that had just upended her entire life.

The Ministry of Magic, in its infinite idiocy, had seen fit to reward her for surviving the war by shackling her to some absolute tosser in the name of "societal stability."

A forced marriage.

Her upper lip curled in disdain. Of all the eligible wizards in Britain, they had the audacity to pair her with him? Not that she would have accepted any of them, but still—Longbottom?

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she muttered, pressing her fingers to her temple as if that might ward off the headache brewing behind her eyes.

With a huff, she threw herself onto the chaise longue, the movement deliberate and theatrical, because if she was about to have a full-blown crisis, she might as well do it in style.

"I have spent years—years—clawing my way out of the mess that was Hogwarts," she seethed, as if the gilded ceiling cared. "I endured that wretched war, that trial-by-public-execution, that bloody exile from polite society—and for what? To be married off like some tragic Regency heroine?"

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped her.

"No. No, no, absolutely the fuck not."

She sat up abruptly, her nails digging into the velvet upholstery as her mind raced. She had options. She could flee, disappear into the Muggle world for a bit—though the thought of living without basic wizarding conveniences made her feel faintly ill. She could fight it, find some legal loophole, twist their precious little decree until it snapped.

Her gaze flicked to the fireplace, where the gilded mirror above the mantelpiece reflected back a woman who refused to be controlled. Dark eyes, burning with fury. Jaw set in defiance. Hair perfectly sleek despite her near-meltdown, because some things were sacred.

She exhaled slowly, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in her silk dressing gown.

"Fine," she murmured, lips curling into a wicked smirk. "Let them think they've won."

She would play along, for now. Let them believe she was compliant, let them think she was some docile little debutante.

But Pansy Parkinson had never been docile.

And if the Ministry thought they could force her into a marriage, they were about to learn just how much of a mistake they'd made.

"Let's see who they deem worthy of Pansy Parkinson," she murmured, her voice laced with venomous amusement. "Poor bastard. I pity him already."

With a huff, she sprang up from the chaise, snatching the crumpled letter off the floor. A flick of her wand smoothed out the creases, though her irritation remained very much intact. She scanned the parchment again, her dark eyes narrowing as they landed on the name of her so-called fiancé.

Neville Longbottom.

She stilled.

For a moment, all she could do was blink, as if by sheer force of will, the words might rearrange themselves into something less... preposterous.

"Neville Longbottom," she repeated, slow and deliberate, tasting the name like a particularly bitter potion.

Surely, they couldn't mean that Neville Longbottom.

The bumbling idiot from Hogwarts? The boy who couldn't brew a potion to save his life? The one forever misplacing his bloody toad?

Her mind conjured up a faintly ridiculous image—Neville, small and awkward, tripping over his own feet in the Hogwarts corridors, eyes wide with confusion, a disaster in motion.

But then, like a bolt of lightning, another image struck her.

Neville Longbottom, Battle of Hogwarts.

Not the shy, stumbling boy, but the man who had stood defiant, sword in hand, fire in his eyes. Taller. Broader. Rough around the edges in a way that was...

Well.

Pansy arched a perfectly shaped brow. Not so unfortunate-looking now.

In fact, quite handsome. Quite climbable.

She blinked, then scowled at herself, as if her own thoughts had personally betrayed her. Where the hell did that come from?

Still, she couldn't deny it. This version of Longbottom was nothing like the one she remembered. At the very least, he was tall. And—thank Merlin—he was pure-blood.

"See that, Granny?" she muttered to herself, a smirk playing at her lips. "You got your wish after all. I'll be marrying a pure-blooded war hero."

The thought nearly made her laugh out loud. The Ministry, in all its bureaucratic idiocy, had actually managed to pair her with someone... passable. Well, at least they had decent taste. Her mind drifted—unbidden—back to the memory of his broad shoulders, his sharp jawline, the intensity in his gaze as he faced down death itself.

She shook her head sharply.

Still, pity curled in her chest. Poor Neville. He had no idea what he was walking into, being forced to marry her.

But Pansy had survived far worse than an arranged marriage, and if there was one thing she excelled at, it was adapting. The Ministry wanted to upend her life? Fine. But she would control the outcome.

With a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and strode out of the room.

There was planning to be done.

And Neville Longbottom?

He didn't know it yet, but he was in for the ride of his life.

°°°°°°

Neville sank deeper into the worn comfort of his couch, eyes fixed on the fire crackling in the hearth. The flames flickered, sending shifting shadows dancing across the walls, but his thoughts were darker, heavier, impossible to settle. How had it come to this? How did a man who once stood defiant against the Dark Lord, who had fought with everything he had, end up here—tethered to a future that felt like a punishment rather than a path forward? How did a war hero become the husband of a Death Eater?

Ex-Death Eater, he reminded himself, though the distinction brought little comfort.

Pansy Parkinson.

He closed his eyes, letting the name settle on his tongue, unfamiliar in this context. She had been a constant in his school years, always there, always lurking in the background, trailing after Malfoy with that smug, self-satisfied smirk. He remembered her sneers, the sharp-edged words she had wielded so easily, the way she had made his already difficult school life just a little worse whenever the opportunity presented itself.

But that was years ago, and while the memories still carried the sting of childhood cruelty, they were just that—memories. Pansy had been a product of her time, a delicate flower growing in Slytherin's poisoned garden, too busy clinging to her place among the elite to be anything more than what was expected of her. He had never given her much thought beyond that, never cared enough to look deeper, because why would he? She was just another obstacle, another reminder of why keeping his head down had always seemed like the safest option.

And yet, when he had seen her recently, the change had been startling.

The girl he remembered, all sharp angles and cruel laughter, had bloomed into something else entirely. No longer just another face in the crowd of Slytherin aristocracy, she had become a woman who carried herself with a confidence that was impossible to ignore. Her black hair, once severe and pin-straight, now fell in glossy waves, framing high cheekbones and lips that had lost their habitual sneer. The pug-faced girl of his childhood had transformed into someone undeniably, unfairly beautiful.

And her body—Merlin, her body.

He clenched his jaw. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to acknowledge the way she had turned heads the last time he'd seen her, or the way his own gaze had lingered for too long, not just because of her looks but because there was something different about her now. A quiet confidence, a poise he wouldn't have associated with the girl who once hid behind Malfoy's bravado. People whispered that she was sharp, clever, even funny. The idea of Pansy Parkinson making him laugh felt like some kind of absurd fever dream.

But none of that was as absurd as this.

As the parchment in his hands, the ink that bound him to her in a way he hadn't thought possible. His wife.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face as if the simple motion might wipe away the reality of it all. The Ministry's decree felt like a cruel joke, one last twist of fate that he hadn't anticipated, and yet, the longer he thought about it, the less certain he was that it was the disaster he had originally assumed. Pansy was not the same girl who had once tormented him, just as he was no longer the awkward, fumbling boy she had laughed at in the halls of Hogwarts. They had both changed, grown into people they never could have predicted, and though the thought of being married to her still sat uneasily in his chest, there was something else there too—an odd sort of challenge, a quiet intrigue he hadn't expected.

Could this really work? Could they actually find some common ground in the wreckage of their pasts?

He sighed, shaking his head as he stared into the fire. This wasn't the life he had imagined for himself. He had pictured something quieter, simpler—maybe a small cottage in the countryside, surrounded by plants, free from the weight of the war and everything it had left behind. But life had never cared much for his plans, and if there was one thing he had learned from battle, it was how to adapt. Maybe this marriage would be another kind of war, one fought with patience and understanding instead of wands and spells, or maybe it would be something else entirely.

After all, he had never imagined that the girl who once seemed so small and insignificant could grow into someone so… captivating.

And if Pansy Parkinson had surprised him once, maybe she would surprise him again.

"Neville Longbottom," he murmured to himself, shaking his head as the weight of it settled. "Married to Pansy Parkinson."

The words felt strange, foreign, like they belonged in someone else's story. But they were his now, and there was no turning back.

Staring into the flames, he let out a slow breath. Whatever came next, he would face it the same way he always had. Head-on.

And maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't be so bad after all.

~~~~~~

The next morning, Neville stood at the foot of Parkinson Manor's grand steps, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The towering doors loomed before him, dark and foreboding, as if the very house itself disapproved of his presence. It was fitting, really—everything about this place was designed to intimidate, much like the woman who resided within.

He had been here once before, years ago, though under very different circumstances. Back then, he'd had the luxury of leaving without his entire future hanging in the balance. Today, there was no such escape.

Lifting his hand, he knocked for what felt like the hundredth time, the motion mechanical, his knuckles sore from the repeated impact. He was fairly certain he'd been standing here for eighteen minutes, but who was counting? Certainly not him.

The back of his shirt stuck to his skin, a clammy reminder of just how deeply out of his depth he was.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open, revealing Pansy standing in the doorway. She looked exactly as he remembered—sharp, poised, and entirely unimpressed—but there was something different about her now, something more self-assured, more deliberate in the way she regarded him.

Her dark eyes flicked over him, taking in the slightly rumpled clothes, the nervous set of his shoulders, the way he hesitated just a fraction too long before speaking.

"Longbottom," she said coolly, his name less a greeting and more of a challenge.

He swallowed hard, past the lump of nerves lodged in his throat, and forced a smile. "Pansy, it's… nice to see you again."

Her lips curled, though it was too sharp to be a smirk, too dry to be genuine. "Oh yes, I'm absolutely thrilled." She leaned lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, her expression one of casual disinterest. "What do you want?"

He inhaled slowly, trying to steady himself, trying to ignore the sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. He had faced worse than this, had stared death in the face, had fought battles he never thought he'd survive—and yet, standing in front of the Parkinson's front door, he felt alarmingly out of his depth.

"I'm here," he began, voice wavering slightly before he forced it into steadiness, "because I'm required to be here this morning… to offer my sympathy. And to have a conversation about our… marriage."

Her brow arched in a perfectly calculated display of skepticism. "Sympathy? For what, exactly?"

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, aware that one wrong step could send this entire conversation into a tailspin. "For… well, for the situation we've found ourselves in."

She laughed—a short, sharp sound, biting and humorless. "Sympathy, Longbottom? I don't need your pity." Her eyes glittered with something cold, something unreadable. "This isn't my bloody dream scenario either, but here we are."

The words landed harder than he expected, and though he felt them sting, he held his ground. "I'm not pitying you, Pansy. I just—" He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the weight of the moment. "I just want to make the best of this. We both know the Ministry's decree is out of our hands, but that doesn't mean we have to make this harder than it already is."

For a moment, he thought she might slam the door in his face. Her fingers twitched at her side, her jaw tightening as if she were waging an internal battle. But then, something shifted. A flicker of something he couldn't quite name passed across her face before she sighed—less sharp now, more resigned—and rolled her eyes.

"Fine," she muttered, stepping back and pulling the door open wider. "Come in, then. Let's get this over with."

Neville nodded, stepping into the cavernous entryway of Parkinson Manor. The house was just as grand and imposing as he remembered—high ceilings, dark wood paneling, gilded chandeliers that cast a dim glow over everything. The air smelled of aged parchment, polished mahogany, and something distinctly floral, like roses left too long in a vase.

He followed her through the foyer and into a drawing room that was almost too elegant—all rich upholstery, heavy velvet drapes that swallowed most of the morning light, and portraits of Parkinson ancestors who looked like they were deeply unimpressed by his presence.

She gestured vaguely toward a plush, overstuffed couch, and he sat, feeling distinctly out of place amidst the opulence. She remained standing, arms still crossed, her eyes sharp as she studied him.

"Alright, Longbottom," she said, her voice cool and clipped. "Let's talk. What exactly do you want from me?"

Neville shifted, trying to find the right words, trying not to let the weight of her stare unravel him. "I… I want us to be able to talk about this, to figure out how we're going to… make this work."

Pansy let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, shaking her head as if he had just suggested something completely idiotic. "Make this work?" she repeated, voice dripping with mockery. "You think there's something to be 'made to work' here? This isn't a bloody business arrangement, Longbottom. It's a life sentence."

The words landed like a slap, but he refused to let them rattle him. "I know it's not ideal," he admitted, keeping his tone level, "but we don't have a choice, do we? The Ministry made sure of that. So rather than spend the rest of our lives hating every second of it, why not try to find some kind of common ground?"

Pansy stared at him for a long moment, her gaze piercing, like she was trying to pick him apart, trying to find some crack in his resolve. He met her eyes and held his ground, refusing to be the first to break the silence.

Then, at last, she let out a breath—not quite exasperated, not quite surrendering—and uncrossed her arms.

"Fine," she muttered. "But don't think for a second that I'm going to make this easy for you."A small, uncertain smile tugged at Neville's lips. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Pansy rolled her eyes, but this time, there was no real bite to it. Instead, she sat across from him, posture as rigid as ever, arms folded like a shield. "So, what now?"

"Now," Neville said, feeling a little steadier, "we talk. About how this is going to work, about what we expect, and… about whatever else we need to figure out. We've got time, Pansy. Let's not waste it."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tensions and reluctant acceptance. It settled like a fog in the room, thick and suffocating. But then Pansy leaned back, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly, as if conceding that, whether she liked it or not, this conversation had to happen.

Neville exhaled. "Where are we going to live?"

"Here, of course," she said without hesitation, her tone making it clear there was no discussion to be had.

Neville blinked. "But I have a flat," he argued, caught off guard by how quickly she had dismissed the idea. The thought of leaving his small but comfortable home, filled with his books, his plants, his peace, made his stomach twist. That flat was his, the only place where he had ever truly felt settled.

"Then sell it," Pansy said, her voice flat, unyielding, as if the matter was already settled in her mind.

His brow furrowed, the creeping unease mixing with something more stubborn. "No."

That caught her off guard. Her brows lifted ever so slightly, clearly not expecting him to push back. "Then rent it out. Next question."

Neville opened his mouth to argue, to tell her that this wasn't how this was going to work, that she didn't get to just dictate everything. But then he stopped himself. There was no point in pushing this now. She wouldn't back down—not yet. And they had bigger battles to fight than whose name was on the bloody deed.

"Fine," he said, though the word felt heavy, begrudging. "We'll stay here."

Pansy's lips twitched, the barest hint of satisfaction flickering across her face. "Of course we will." Her gaze swept the lavish room, as if daring him to challenge her again. "This is my home, Longbottom. It's only fitting."

Neville met her stare, jaw set, reminding himself that this was just the beginning.

He had a feeling the real negotiations had only just begun.