The invitation

Pansy woke to the soft glow of dawn creeping through the gaps in her heavy velvet curtains, casting slanted golden lines across her bedroom walls. For a fleeting moment, wrapped in the warmth of her silk sheets, she allowed herself the indulgence of peace, of believing it was just another morning.

And then, reality came crashing down.

With an irritated sigh, she stretched, arching her back and flexing her toes against the cool sheets before rolling onto her side. Marriage. The word alone made her scowl. To Neville bloody Longbottom. The Ministry had effectively signed away her future with a single decree, and no matter how much she loathed it, there was no escaping it.

A Parkinson does not sulk.

The words of her grandmother echoed in her head, as sharp as ever. Fine. If she had to endure this fate, she would do so on her terms—head held high, perfectly composed, and with just enough venom to make it clear she wasn't going quietly.

With a huff, she threw back the covers and rose, the chill of the floor biting at her bare feet as she padded toward her dressing table. She reached for her wand, flicking it toward the curtains with a lazy, well-practiced movement. They swept open at once, flooding the room with pale morning light, illuminating the rich mahogany furniture and deep emerald accents of her private sanctuary.

And that's when she saw it.

A letter, neatly placed atop the rest of her correspondence, the parchment thick and pristine, the wax seal bearing the unmistakable crest of the Longbottom family.

Pansy frowned, irritation prickling at the edges of her sleep-fogged mind. What now? She reached for the letter, breaking the seal with a sharp flick of her fingernail, and unfolded the parchment.

Dear Pansy,

I would like to invite you to dinner tomorrow evening at the Malfoy penthouse, where we can have a casual meal and discuss how everyone feels about our impending match.

In attendance will be:

Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy

Ginny Weasley and Blaise Zabini

Luna Lovegood and Theodore Nott

I hope that you can find the time to join us.

Your soon-to-be husband,

Neville

Pansy read the letter twice, her eyes narrowing as she took in the offensively polite wording and the list of names that might as well have been a death sentence. A casual dinner? Casual, her arse.

This wasn't an invitation—it was an ambush.

Her grip on the letter tightened, knuckles whitening as she tossed it onto the desk, watching it land amidst her meticulously arranged papers. The mere audacity of it made her blood simmer. A dinner with three Gryffindor sweethearts, their self-righteous war hero husbands, and her oldest, most complicated friend?

Absolutely fucking not.

She exhaled sharply, pressing her fingertips to her temples. This was damage control. A carefully orchestrated attempt to make everyone feel better about something they had no control over, as if gathering around a dinner table and playing nice would somehow erase the absurdity of this entire situation.

She could already picture it—the awkward silences, the forced smiles, the tension thick enough to slice with a cursed blade. Golden girl would undoubtedly try to find some rational, insufferably noble way to frame this as an opportunity for growth. Red, with her sharp eyes and quick tongue, would be watching, assessing, no doubt waiting for Pansy to snap. Loony would probably say something bizarrely insightful that would somehow, annoyingly, make sense.

Pansy clenched her jaw, willing herself to stay calm, but the frustration gnawed at her, hot and relentless.

The only shred of solace was that Blaise would be there. At least she wouldn't be entirely outnumbered by Gryffindors and their perfect, happily-ever-after nonsense. But even that was a cold comfort.

Because at the end of the night, she would still walk away as the future Mrs. Longbottom.

A slow, bitter smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she stared at the letter, resisting the urge to set it on fire.

Casual dinner, indeed.

She sank back onto her bed, staring at the ceiling, fingers drumming idly against the silk sheets as her mind churned through the mess of her situation. She didn't want to go. She didn't want to sit there, surrounded by people she barely knew—or worse, people she knew far too well—while they dissected her life over wine and polite conversation.

And yet… something stopped her from dismissing the idea outright.

Maybe it was the fact that this ridiculous dinner was being hosted by Draco and Hermione, of all people—a couple who would somehow manage to make their own impossible relationship work. Maybe it was the guest list, a carefully curated selection of people who had all ended up in unconventional relationships, just like she had. Or maybe—and she hated admitting this most of all—it was the simple fact that Neville had asked her.

Not demanded. Not insisted. Just asked.

There was something so infuriatingly straightforward about him, something that made her feel strangely obligated to respond in kind.

With a sigh, she pressed her fingers to her temples. It wasn't as if she had much of a choice. This was her life now, whether she liked it or not, and if she was going to survive it, she needed to start somewhere. If that meant enduring an evening of forced civility and barely concealed tension, then so be it.

Better to face the storm head-on than pretend it wasn't coming.

With a resigned exhale, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room, her gaze falling to the letter still lying on her desk. She studied it for a moment, as if expecting the words to rewrite themselves, to suddenly make more sense.

They didn't.

Reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment and a quill, she hesitated only briefly before pressing the nib to the page.

Longbottom,

Pick me up at seven.

Your not-so-eager soon-to-be wife,

Pansy

She sat back, considering the words. Short. To the point. There was no point pretending to be enthusiastic about this, but she also didn't want to start this mess by being needlessly difficult.

Folding the parchment with neat precision, she sealed it with a flick of her wand and sent it off with her owl, watching as it soared through the open window, disappearing into the morning sky.

She stayed there for a moment, arms crossed, eyes lingering on the horizon, as if expecting some immediate revelation to strike her now that the letter was gone.

It didn't come.

Instead, what settled in its place was a strange mix of emotions—resentment, resignation, and, buried beneath it all, something else. Not quite anticipation. Not quite dread. Something… curious.

How, exactly, did he think this evening was going to go? And more importantly—how the hell was she going to navigate the tangled web of relationships she was about to walk into?

A soft, bitter chuckle escaped her lips. This was going to be a disaster.

Or—a night to remember.

Either way, she had already taken the first step. And like it or not, there was no turning back now.

~~~~~~

Ms. Parkinson spent the entire day convincing herself that this dinner was nothing more than a mild inconvenience, just another box to tick in the tedious bureaucratic nightmare that was now her life. It was about tolerating Neville Longbottom, about enduring an evening of polite conversation while playing her part in the Ministry's absurd game.

And yet—deep down, beneath all her carefully crafted indifference—she knew that was a lie.

She was looking forward to it.

Not just because of the dinner, or even the prospect of navigating the delicate social battlefield that awaited her. No, it was because of him.

She was attracted to Neville Longbottom in a way she hadn't anticipated, and the realization both fascinated and infuriated her.

As the clock crept closer to seven, she focused on her preparations, willing herself to treat them as routine rather than anything significant. She selected a sleek, dark dress, one that hugged her curves just right, effortlessly elegant yet designed to make an impression. Her makeup was applied with the same meticulous precision she applied to her poisons—flawless, deliberate, meant to leave an effect.

Every glance in the mirror, however, only amplified the nervous energy bubbling beneath her skin. She wasn't just dressing for herself tonight.

At precisely 18:45, a knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts.

Pansy took a breath, steadying herself, determined to maintain some semblance of control over her reactions. This time, it only took her eight minutes to answer—a noticeable improvement from the eighteen it had taken earlier.

With a quick exhale, she yanked open the door.

And there stood Neville Longbottom.

His face was flushed, as if he had run the entire way here, a mixture of nerves and something else—something she couldn't quite place—written across his features.

But it wasn't just his expression that caught her off guard.

In his hands, he held a massive bouquet of flowers—Pansies, of course, along with an assortment of other blooms. It was clichéd, over-the-top romantic, the kind of gesture that should have made her roll her eyes and scoff.

Instead, she felt her lips curve into a smile, genuine and unbidden.

He caught the look on her face and shifted awkwardly, as if unsure whether the flowers had been a brilliant idea or an absolute disaster.

"I, uh… thought you might like them," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, his confidence faltering.

She reached for the bouquet, brushing her fingers against the petals before lifting her gaze to his.

"Thank you," she said, her voice softer than she intended, betraying just how much she actually meant it.

His eyes widened, and for a moment, he just stared at her, as if seeing her for the first time. Then, clearing his throat, he managed, "You look stunning."

She tilted her head, her smirk returning. "Just tonight?"

His mouth opened, then closed, his expression shifting rapidly from startled to flustered to utterly wrecked as his cheeks deepened to a spectacular shade of red.

"No! I mean—of course not just tonight. You always look—" He stopped, running a hand over his face. "Breathtaking. I mean—fuck."

She laughed, the sound genuine, bright, surprising even to herself. "Merlin, Longbottom, if I'd known how easy you were to fluster, I'd have tried this years ago."

He groaned, looking both mortified and completely charmed all at once.

Pansy took pity on him—just a little. "Thank you for the flowers," she said, placing them on a nearby table before reaching for her coat. "I'll grab this, and then we can Apparate."

He nodded, but his gaze lingered as she slipped into the fabric, as if watching her do something as simple as putting on a coat was somehow entirely too fascinating for him to handle.

For a brief moment, the air between them shifted, something unspoken but charged settling in the space they shared. It made Pansy feel strangely self-conscious, but not in a way she disliked. If anything, it was the opposite.

She turned back to him, finding him still waiting at the door, a shy, hesitant smile tugging at his lips.

"Ready?" he asked, voice softer this time, almost as if he was giving her the chance to say no.

She held his gaze, and for the first time since this entire ridiculous mess had begun, she felt something unexpected—not resignation, not frustration, but something dangerously close to hope.

"Ready," she said.

And as they stepped into the cool evening air, Neville's presence beside her was unexpectedly steadying.

As they prepared to disappear into the night, Pansy couldn't help but wonder if, just maybe, this dinner wasn't about surviving the evening.

With a swirl of green light and a soft pop, they vanished from the doorstep, heading toward the Malfoy penthouse and the unpredictable night that awaited them.

~~~~~~

As they arrived at the Malfoy penthouse, the evening was already in full swing. The space was bathed in soft, golden light, casting a warm glow over the meticulously arranged dining area, the elegance unmistakably Draco's doing. Pansy's gaze flickered over the lavish decor, taking it in with a critical eye, but her focus quickly shifted to the couple already seated nearby.

Theo and Luna.

They were in their own little world, oblivious to the atmosphere around them. Theo, usually so composed, so carefully detached, was visibly at ease, his sharp edges dulled into something softer, something unguarded. His attention lingered on Luna in a way that made it painfully obvious—he was completely gone for her.

And Luna, in turn, seemed entirely unaffected by the weight of the world, her usual dreamy expression unwavering as she said something that made Theo's mouth twitch into a rare, reluctant smile. The sight of it was almost jarring—Theo Nott, a man who had spent his school years cloaked in Slytherin indifference, looking at Luna Lovegood as if she held the secrets of the universe.

Pansy smirked.

She had been here yesterday, sitting in this very penthouse, listening to Draco's thinly veiled panic over hosting this dinner. She knew the truth—both Theo and Draco had been in love with their so-called 'forced brides' for years, too proud or too cowardly to admit it when it mattered.

Draco, having caught sight of their arrival, pushed off from where he had been leaning and strode toward them, his expression the perfect balance of nonchalance and intrigue. His gaze flicked over Pansy—calculating, assessing—before shifting to Neville with something almost resembling amusement.

"Longbottom, Parkinson," Draco greeted smoothly, his voice dripping with its usual blend of charm and detachment. "Glad you could make it. Luna and Theo have been here for a bit—utterly useless to the rest of us, of course, lost in their own little world. We mere mortals simply don't exist to them."

He huffed a quiet laugh, while Pansy arched an eyebrow at Draco's effortless arrogance, though she had to admit—his bluntness was refreshing.

"How tragic for you," she drawled, lips curling into a wry smirk. "Where's the rest of the gang?"

Draco exhaled, glancing toward the entrance. "Blaise and Ginevra should be here soon," he said, though there was the faintest trace of apprehension in his voice. "Red is fashionably late, as always. And Granger's coming after work."

At that, she couldn't help but notice the way Draco's fingers twitched at his side, the subtle way his posture stiffened as he mentioned Granger's name.

Interesting.

She flicked a glance toward Theo—who, to his credit, was still completely absorbed in Luna—and smirked to herself.

It seemed she wasn't the only one whose match was proving to be more complicated than expected.

Neville offered a polite nod, but there was a tightness to his posture, a stiffness that betrayed his discomfort. Pansy, ever perceptive, caught the tension in his shoulders and shot him a reassuring smile, a small, silent reminder that he wasn't alone in this absurd social experiment. Without another word, they followed Draco into the heart of the penthouse.

At the table, Theo's hand rested lightly over Luna's, his thumb absently tracing idle patterns against her skin. Their quiet, unhurried affection was a stark contrast to the carefully measured interactions Pansy had been anticipating tonight.

When Luna looked up, her expression was as ethereal as ever, her dreamy gaze carrying that otherworldly quality that had once made people dismiss her as odd. But as Pansy took her in—the soft waves of her golden hair, the effortless elegance of her flowing dress, the way Theo watched her as if she were something sacred—she had to admit, if only to herself, that Luna was absolutely gorgeous.

Not the weird girl anymore. Just… hot.

She suddenly understood why Theo was completely gone for her.

Theo greeted Pansy with a small nod, warmer than usual, as if some of his usual icy detachment had thawed in Luna's presence.

"Hello, Pansy. Neville," Luna said, her voice soft but bright, like she was genuinely pleased to see them. "We were just discussing the phases of the moon. It's quite fascinating how they influence our emotions, don't you think?"

Pansy raised a skeptical brow, but her lips curved into a small, amused smile. "I suppose it is. It's lovely to see you both so… at ease."

Theo's gaze flickered toward Luna, the edges of his expression softening in a way that was so uncharacteristic it was almost jarring.

"We're just trying to make the best of things," he murmured, but there was something unspoken in his words, something only someone who had known him for years would catch.

Pansy did.

She met his eyes for a brief moment before offering him a small, knowing nod.

It seemed that, despite the Ministry's interference, some of them were managing to find their own ways to adapt.

The evening unfolded in a blur of nervous laughter and carefully measured pleasantries as the remaining guests trickled in. Ginny and Blaise arrived next, Ginny looking every inch the polished socialite, her confidence practically radiating off her. Blaise, ever the smooth talker, sauntered in with his signature smirk, the kind that made it impossible to tell whether he was amused, unimpressed, or simply enjoying the chaos.

Finally, Granger made her entrance.

And fuck, she looked stunning.

Pansy had no better word for it—irritatingly, breathtakingly fuckable as she breezed into the room, completely unaware of the way Draco's posture shifted at the sight of her. Pansy smirked, her gaze flicking between the two of them. She was going to have so much fun watching this play out.

As everyone settled around the elegantly set dining table, Pansy observed the group dynamics with mild amusement.

Theo and Luna were unmistakably in love, in their own quiet, almost reverent way—a sharp contrast to the more precarious relationships forming around them. Blaise, usually so detached and playful, had his gaze locked on Ginny, and for the first time, Pansy noticed an intensity in his expression that hinted at something more than his usual flippant interest.

And then there was Neville.

Seated beside her, looking out of place but making a valiant effort to navigate this tangled social web, his nervous energy was palpable. Despite herself, Pansy felt a flicker of sympathy, recognizing that this night was probably even more foreign to him than it was to her.

The wine flowed freely, the conversations loosened with each glass, and by the time dessert was served, Pansy was feeling the effects a little more than she had intended.

Which explained why she was currently talking to Neville about Fanged Geraniums.

"The Fanged Geranium can be quite dangerous if you're not careful," Pansy murmured, swirling the deep red wine in her glass, the motion lazy, unbothered, her words slightly looser than usual.

Neville blinked, clearly trying to keep up with her train of thought. "Uh… can't say I've ever tried to harvest its seeds."

She let out a quiet giggle, not bothering to hide the amusement in her voice. "One wrong move, and those fangs can leave quite a nasty bite."

Neville shifted uncomfortably, suddenly all too aware of the way Pansy's hand had casually found its way onto his thigh.

"Uh, Pansy, you really shouldn't—"

She tilted her head, gaze half-lidded, teasing, and oh, she was enjoying this.

"Oh, don't worry, Neville," she purred, her tipsy amusement curling around every word. "I've handled far worse than this."

~~~~~~

As they left the Malfoy penthouse, the cool night air did little to steady Neville's racing thoughts. Pansy was tipsy, playful, and entirely too enticing, her fingers constantly brushing against his, her laugh a low, warm hum that sent shivers down his spine.

"Nevie," she murmured, her words slightly slurred but filled with unmistakable warmth, "I had too much fun tonight."

He let out a soft chuckle, wrapping an arm around her to steady her swaying form. "Miss Sassy, let's get you home. You need to rest."

"Okay," she giggled, leaning against him without hesitation, her head resting against his shoulder as if it belonged there.

He couldn't deny how natural it felt—how she fit against him, how his body reacted to the warmth of hers, how the scent of her vanilla and jasmine perfume curled around him like something intoxicating.

The pull of Apparation was brief, and the moment her feet touched the marble floors of Parkinson Manor, Pansy turned toward him, her dark eyes glazed but alight with mischief.

She didn't speak.

She just leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first, a whisper of warmth against his lips, but it wasn't hesitant—it was intentional. Deliberate. A kiss that wasn't just an effect of too much wine but something real, something she had been holding back.

He stiffened for just a moment, caught off guard by the suddenness of it, but the sweetness of her lips, the way she molded against him so easily unraveled him instantly.

His hands found her waist, steadying her, but she had no interest in being steadied. She pressed closer, her body molding into his, her fingers tangling into his hair as she deepened the kiss, slow and teasing, testing the waters of something new.

Neville's restraint snapped like a thread.

His lips moved to her jaw, then her neck, trailing heated kisses along the soft skin of her throat, tasting the hint of wine and something unmistakably her.

She let out a soft moan, her head tilting back, granting him more access, and Neville took it as permission to keep going.

His hands roamed lower, fingers brushing over the curves of her body, until they found the dip of her waist, the swell of her breasts. When his thumb grazed over her hardened nipple through the fabric of her dress, she arched into his touch, a shiver rolling through her.

"Nevie," she whispered, her voice husky, filled with something deeper than intoxication.

He groaned in response, pulling her closer, his hands sliding down to the heat of her thighs, the silk of her dress pooling higher as he explored the soft skin beneath.

Her breathing hitched as his fingers brushed against the most sensitive part of her, teasing, exploring, learning exactly how to unravel her.

She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in lightly, her moans turning breathless, desperate.

"Don't stop," she gasped, rocking against his touch, craving more, more, more.

And Neville, ever the fearless Gryffindor, had no intention of stopping.

His touch grew more deliberate, more confident, drawing soft gasps from her as he worked her toward the edge. She was coming undone beneath him, her body arching, trembling, her breaths shallow and uneven as pleasure coiled tight within her.

Just as she was about to fall apart, Neville slid his fingers inside her, slow at first, letting her feel every inch, every movement before curling them just right.

She cried out, her pleasure spilling into the air like a prayer, a plea, a command all at once.

And Merlin, he could listen to that sound forever.

~~~~~~

Pansy woke the next morning with a strange mix of confusion and satisfaction. Her body ached in places she wasn't used to, a pleasant but unfamiliar soreness that sent a slow flush creeping up her neck. Memories flickered back in hazy flashes—his hands, his mouth, the way he made her unravel with nothing but a touch.

She groaned, flopping back against the pillows. "Stupid man." The words left her lips in a muttered breath, caught somewhere between embarrassment and frustration.

The scent of his cologne still clung to the sheets, mingling with the faint traces of wine and warmth, and it made something in her stomach twist in a way she didn't appreciate.

Without giving herself time to overthink, she snatched her wand off the bedside table, parchment flying toward her as she scrawled a furious, unfiltered message.

I HOPE YOU DIDN'T FUCK ME WHEN I WAS DRUNK! WHY THE HELL IS YOUR CHEAP-ASS COLOGNE STILL LINGERING IN MY ROOM? WHAT EXACTLY DID YOU DO LAST NIGHT? YOU BETTER ANSWER QUICKLY, LONGBOTTOM, OR I SWEAR ON MERLIN'S GRAVE—

She sealed the Howler with a furious flick, sending it off before she could second-guess herself.

As soon as it was gone, she sat back, exhaling sharply.

It was infuriating—the way his scent was still on her skin, the way his voice had rumbled against her throat, the way she could still feel the ghost of his hands even now.

And worse?

Neville Longbottom—intelligent, frustratingly sexy, effortlessly confident—was starting to consume her thoughts in a way that felt entirely too dangerous.

Merlin help her. She actually liked him .

~~~~~~

Unfortunately, the Howler found him in his office, its shrill, furious voice ricocheting off the walls like a curse.

He barely had time to brace himself before Pansy's outrage erupted in full force, echoing through the room in a tirade so loud and explicit it felt like a personal attack on his dignity, his sanity, and his eardrums all at once.

The only other person in the office—a junior colleague who had been peacefully sorting through reports—froze mid-motion, eyes wide with a mixture of fascination and horror.

His face turned an alarming shade of red, his mortification deepening with every word that blasted through the air. The accusations. The fury. The absolute lack of discretion.

And then, with a dramatic, final burst of flames, the Howler incinerated itself, leaving behind only a stunned silence and the faint scent of burnt parchment.

His colleague cleared his throat, awkwardly adjusting his glasses. "So… uh. That sounded serious."

He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply through his nose before exhaling with slow, measured control. Serious? That didn't even begin to cover it.

Without another word, he stood, straightened his robes, and promptly Disapparated.

She heard the crack of Apparition from the foyer.

Frowning, she descended the grand staircase, her steps quick, irritation curling in her chest as she rounded the corner—only to find Neville standing in the middle of her entrance hall, looking every bit like a man on a mission.

Her heart stuttered before she could stop it, but she masked the reaction with a sharp glare, crossing her arms in defensive defiance.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Neville stepped forward, his expression unwavering, his presence unexpectedly commanding. "Do not put me in an uncomfortable situation like that ever again, Parky."

Pansy blinked.

It wasn't just the words—it was the tone. The unshaken authority in his voice. The unmistakable edge of frustration beneath it.

And Parky? What the fuck?

She opened her mouth, but Neville didn't give her the chance to retort.

His voice was sharp, unwavering, edged with something dangerously close to anger.

"Do you honestly think I would stoop that low?" His words cut through the air like a blade, and for the first time in years, shr felt truly caught off guard.

"Sending that Howler, accusing me of something so vile—you crossed a line. You've known me for years, Pansy. And yet you accused me of something I would never, ever do. It's insulting—not just to me, but to yourself, thinking I would take advantage of you like that."

He took a step closer, his jaw tight, eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch.

"I touched you last night, yes. I rubbed your tiny little clit until you came apart under my fingers. That. Is. It."

Pansy stared, momentarily stunned by the sheer heat in his voice, the rawness of his words.

Before she could even think to recover, Neville wasn't finished.

"You need to start taking responsibility for your actions." His voice was calmer now, but no less firm, no less resolute.

"If you're going to drink yourself into a state where you can't remember what happened, then don't wake up the next morning and throw accusations around like a spoiled child. And sending a Howler to my office? In front of my colleagues? That wasn't just embarrassing for me, Pansy. It was immature. Reckless."

The weight of his words hung between them, and for the first time in a long time, Pansy had no immediate comeback.

He exhaled, shaking his head, his frustration bleeding into something almost resigned.

"You need to grow up, Sassy. We both do. We're not kids anymore, and this—this petty, childish behavior—it needs to stop."

And just like that, he stepped back, leaving her reeling in the wake of his words, her pulse thrumming with something she didn't quite know how to name.

For the first time in her life, a man had the audacity to put her in her place. The absolute nerve of him—speaking to her like she was some unruly child, holding her accountable with that unshakable, steady confidence.

And yet, to her utter shock, she liked it.

She swallowed, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "Okay," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Neville's frown deepened, unimpressed. "Parky, 'okay' is not enough." His voice was firm but not unkind, his expectation clear.

She hesitated, her pride warring with the unfamiliar sensation of guilt. Apologies weren't in her repertoire—at least, not sincere ones. But the weight of what she had done, the realization of just how unfair she had been, settled uncomfortably in her chest.

She exhaled, her arms crossing as if to shield herself from the vulnerability of the moment.

"I would like to apologize for my behavior this morning," she said, the words feeling unnatural on her tongue, like a language she had never spoken before.

He studied her for a moment, his gaze searching, as if he could see right through her bravado. And then, just as she braced herself for some smug remark, he stepped closer, his expression softening.

His arms wrapped around her, warm and grounding, pulling her into an embrace that was neither demanding nor dismissive—just steady, just present.

And then, to her absolute fucking bewilderment, he pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to her forehead.

She froze, caught between melting into him and pushing him away just to regain some semblance of control.

His voice, low and soothing yet unmistakably firm, curled around her like velvet.

"Be a good girl for me and dress up nicely," he murmured, his lips still close enough that she could feel the ghost of his breath.

"I have a surprise for you this evening."

Her cheeks burned, not just from the remnants of morning humiliation, but from the strange, treacherous thrill curling in her stomach at his words.

She tilted her chin up, masking her intrigue with a half-hearted scowl, but the small, traitorous smile tugging at the corner of her lips betrayed her.

"Okay," she murmured again, softer this time.

A good girl?! What the fuck.

Heat pooled low in her stomach, and just like that, she was wet. Instantly.

Before she could fully process the way her body betrayed her, his voice dipped into something softer, something meant just for her.

"Come here and give me a kiss."

It wasn't a request.

He pulled her closer, his grip firm but unhurried, giving her the space to resist if she wanted to.

She didn't.

Without hesitation, she leaned in, closing the distance between them, her lips pressing against his in a kiss that was tender at first, almost hesitant, as if testing the weight of something new.

But the connection between them was undeniable.

The kiss lingered, stretching into something warmer, deeper, the kind of kiss that left an imprint long after it ended.

When they finally pulled apart, he smiled down at her, his hands still resting on her waist, grounding her.

"I'll see you after work, okay?" His voice was steady, as if he hadn't just flipped her entire world upside down.

Pansy, her lips still tingling, could only manage a soft, "Uh-huh."

Her brain felt like it had short-circuited, her usual sharp wit completely incapacitated by the sheer boldness of what had just happened.

By the way he had touched her without hesitation.

By the way he had kissed her like it was inevitable.

By the way she had wanted it to be.

A soft pop echoed through the room as Neville Disapparated back to work, leaving behind nothing but the ghost of his touch, the scent of his cologne, and the rapid pounding of her own heart.

She just stood there, utterly dumbfounded, her breath unsteady as her mind replayed the moment over and over again.

The kiss.

His warm embrace.

The way he had so effortlessly, confidently taken control of the situation—of her.

For the first time in her life, Pansy Parkinson was at a complete and utter loss for words.