Friends, Foes, and Fiancés

Getting ready for the evening, Pansy found herself in unfamiliar territory—and she hated it.

Choosing an outfit, applying makeup, perfecting her appearance—these were things she could do blindfolded, in her sleep, with one hand tied behind her back. Normally, it was effortless, second nature. But tonight? Tonight was different.

This wasn't just another society dinner, another evening of empty conversation and well-rehearsed charm. This was the official dinner before her impending, forced marriage to Neville Longbottom.

The man who had entered her life like a quiet storm, upending everything she thought she knew.

She exhaled sharply, running her fingers over the endless rows of gowns in her wardrobe, suddenly indecisive in a way she never was. This wasn't about looking good—she could do that in her sleep.

This was about impressing someone who had unsettled her without even trying. And that fact bothered her more than she was willing to admit.

Neville. Of all people.

"Calm down, Parkinson," she muttered under her breath, holding up the last dress in her hand—a deep emerald green gown, elegant, but not overly revealing. Classic, but far from boring.

It would do.

She swept through her makeup routine with practiced ease, adding just enough rouge to highlight her cheekbones, a flick of liner to make her eyes sharp, piercing. Finally, she painted her lips a bold, unapologetic red—a reminder to herself of exactly who she was.

Someone unafraid. Someone in control.

At least, that's what she told herself.

But as she caught her own reflection in the mirror, taking in the way her hands lingered on the vanity, the way her pulse betrayed her calm exterior, she wondered—was she really?

By six o'clock, Neville stood nervously in front of Pansy's door, his fingers tightening around the large, ribbon-wrapped box in his hands. He had been pacing outside for at least five minutes, his mind spinning with questions he had no business worrying about.

Why was he so anxious? This dinner was just a formality, wasn't it? They were being forced into this marriage, weren't they?

And yet, the thought of seeing Pansy tonight made his stomach twist in a way he couldn't quite explain.

He raised a slightly unsteady hand and knocked once—then again—before glancing at his watch. The minutes stretched unbearably long.

Was he overdressed? Should he have gone for something more casual? Was the box too much?

Just as he lifted his hand to knock again, the door swung open.

And Neville forgot how to breathe.

Pansy stood before him, framed in the soft glow of the chandelier-lit hallway, and for the first time in his life, Neville understood why men made fools of themselves over women.

She was stunning.

The emerald dress hugged her body in ways that made rational thought difficult, the fabric catching the light just enough to hint at the smooth curves beneath. And her eyes—always sharp, always unreadable—softened, just slightly, as they met his.

For the first time in their strange, forced relationship, Neville saw Pansy as more than just the sharp-tongued girl from Slytherin.

And judging by the way her own gaze flickered over him, taking him in with something almost akin to surprise, she was seeing him differently too.

Pansy had always considered Neville unassuming, forgettable, the kind of man who faded into the background.

But tonight? Tonight was different.

The dark suit was simple, but well-tailored, fitting him in a way that made it impossible to ignore the strength in his frame. There was a quiet confidence about him tonight, something grounded, sure, completely unshaken by her presence.

And then her gaze landed on the box.

Large, wrapped in deep green ribbon, the box stood out against the warmth of Neville's hands, an unspoken invitation that immediately caught Pansy's attention.

"Good evening, Miss Parkinson," Neville greeted, his voice carrying a playful smirk, the usual shyness nowhere to be found. There was a new confidence in him tonight, something self-assured, teasing, effortlessly sure of itself.

Pansy arched a delicate brow, a smirk curling at the corner of her lips. "Good evening, husband," she replied, the word still strange on her tongue, but not as bitter as she once imagined it would be. There was something disarming about the way he looked at her, something that made her soften despite herself.

Without hesitation, Neville stepped closer, his presence steady, grounding, unwavering. He tilted his head slightly, brushing his lips against hers, the kiss tender but deliberate, a touch that lingered, unhurried.

"I brought you something very special," he murmured against her lips, his breath warm, his eyes glinting with something that made her stomach twist.

Pansy felt a flicker of curiosity as she glanced at the box. "Oh? You certainly know how to intrigue a girl," she mused, stepping aside to let him in. "Come in, then." Her voice was lighter than she intended, betraying more eagerness than she cared to admit.

Neville followed her through the grand foyer, his gaze briefly sweeping over the elegant decor before inevitably landing back on her. She moved with practiced grace, poised as ever, but tonight, there was something softer about her, something he wasn't sure she even realized.

As they stepped into the dining room, the soft glow of candlelight bathed the space in gold, the flickering flames casting long, lazy shadows across the walls. The scent of lavender and freshly baked bread filled the air, the unmistakable mark of house-elves who had gone to great lengths to prepare a perfect evening.

But it wasn't the decor, or the carefully curated atmosphere, or even the luxurious spread on the table that caught Neville's eye.

It was the dessert.

At the center of the table sat an elaborate cake, beautifully decorated with delicate sugared flowers, every detail meticulously crafted.

And he knew, instantly—this wasn't the work of house-elves.

This was Pansy.

Despite her sharp tongue, despite her biting sarcasm and effortless ability to cut a man down with a single glance, she had taken the time to create something beautiful.

His gaze flickered back to her, and he felt the shift between them—the subtle unraveling of walls neither of them had meant to let down.

"This looks amazing," he said, genuinely impressed as he took in the elegant dinner setup, though there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. "But first, I really need to give you this special present."

With an excited grin, he placed the large box on the floor, drawing out the moment with deliberate slowness. She crossed her arms, one eyebrow arching in intrigued impatience.

"Neville," she drawled, "if this is something ridiculous, I swear—"

"Darling," he interrupted, his tone suddenly almost reverent. "I want you to meet Lady Lemongrass."

With a flourish, he pulled back the lid to reveal a tiny, wriggling pug, her velvety ears flopping as she tried to scramble out of the box, her squished-up face full of curiosity and determination.

Pansy blinked, her usual sharp wit momentarily failing her.

"She's my dog," Neville explained, his voice soft with genuine affection. "She's family. And I figured… if we're starting this whole thing, you should meet her early on."

For a long moment, she just stared at the tiny creature, processing this completely unexpected turn of events. Then, something unexpected happened.

A smile—a real one, unguarded and unpracticed—tugged at her lips.

"Oh my god," she whispered, crouching down to peer into the box, her voice softer than she meant it to be. "She's so adorable. Look at her little face."

Her fingers grazed over Lady's tiny body, and the pug immediately wiggled closer, demanding affection. She caved instantly.

She lifted the dog into her arms, cradling her as if she'd been waiting to do this all her life, completely unaware of the way Neville was watching her with something dangerously close to fondness.

"Thank you so much, Nev," she murmured, her gaze still locked on the squirming bundle of joy in her arms.

Then, because she was Pansy Parkinson, she added, "She is… quite unique-looking, isn't she?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Parky, when we were kids, you used to tease me relentlessly. Called me all sorts of things—ugly included."

She looked up at him then, something shifting in her expression, something raw and unexpected.

"I know, Nev," she admitted quietly. "I remember."

A pause settled between them, thick with the weight of old words, childhood cruelty, and the way time had reshaped them both.

"But you're not ugly anymore," she finally said, her voice steadier now. "You've grown into yourself. You're… quite handsome now."

Her faint smile held something unreadable, a glimmer of sadness or maybe nostalgia, though she masked it quickly.

"And yes," she added lightly, motioning toward the pug in her arms, "I did tease you, but let's not forget—I was the 'pug-faced girl,' remember? So this?" She glanced down at Lady. "Feels a little bit… pointed."

His expression turned serious, and for a moment, she braced herself for something cutting.

Instead, he stepped closer, his voice lower, quieter—but no less firm.

"Pansy," he said, "she's my dog. I'm not giving her up, just like I'm not giving up my life, my apartment, or who I am."

Then, his lips curved into something softer, his gaze flicking between her and the tiny dog she was already half in love with.

"But," he continued, "seeing as you're practically kissing her right now, I think you two are going to be best friends before you know it."

Pansy shot him a mock glare, but the way she held Lady closer completely ruined the effect.

"Fine, fine," she sighed dramatically. "Of course, we'll be best friends. I mean, how could I resist her?"

Then, flashing him a sly wink, she added, "I'm not exactly easy to get along with, but I suppose I can make an exception for Lady Lemongrass."

The tiny pug snorted happily, settling against Pansy as if she'd always belonged there.

"Looks like she's already chosen you," he teased.

Pansy rolled her eyes but didn't argue.

He motioned toward the table, smirking. "Let's have dinner, Miss Sassy."

She let out a mock exasperated sigh, but as she followed him toward the candlelit meal, she realized something she hadn't expected.

She was actually looking forward to it.

Unfortunately for Neville, Pansy took to her new role as a dog mom with unhinged enthusiasm.

By the time they sat down to dinner, Lady had undergone a full-blown transformation. The once modest, wriggly pug was now an icon of aristocratic excess, draped in a frilly, hot-pink ensemble, complete with a real pearl necklace that shimmered under the candlelight.

Perched beside Pansy, her tiny head held high with unmistakable pride, Lady looked every bit the royal companion—pampered, dignified, and utterly above the common struggles of mere mortals.

Neville, trying to focus on his steak, glanced toward the pug—who was now being fed delicate bites of gourmet chicken off a silver fork.

He set down his knife and raised an eyebrow.

"Parky," he said, fighting back a grin, "you know you don't have to treat the dog like royalty, right?"

She gasped, clutching Lady to her chest as if Neville had just committed treason.

"How dare you!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with mock outrage. "Look at her! She's helpless without me, Neville. A delicate flower. A defenseless angel in need of constant care and devotion."

She stroked the pug's velvety head, her voice going full dramatic heroine as she cooed soft words of reassurance.

Neville leaned back in his chair, laughing. "She's a dog, not the heir to the throne."

She shot him a pointed look, her lips twitching into a smug smile.

"Says you. Lady is now a vital part of this household, and I won't have you questioning her status, Longbottom."

To prove her point, she kissed the pug's forehead—a formal seal on what was clearly now an unbreakable decree.

He sighed, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

She smirked, unbothered. "And you love it."

She winked, utterly triumphant.

Lady Lemongrass, pearls glinting in the candlelight, gave a satisfied snort, as if to say that yes—even she knew her new place in the hierarchy.

Neville sighed, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "What you need, Parky, are some friends."

Pansy immediately straightened, her posture going rigid, eyes narrowing in automatic defense. "I have friends, thank you very much," she replied, her tone laced with offended dignity.

"Girl friends," Neville clarified, completely undeterred. "Why don't you go see Luna?"

Pansy let out a dramatic scoff, waving her hand as though the very idea was beneath her. "Luna? That girl's always off in her own world, floating around like some ethereal fairy. And don't even get me started on her endless positivity! It's absolutely exhausting."

Neville chuckled, finding her frustration oddly endearing. "Alright, what about Ginny?"

Pansy's expression contorted into pure scandal. "Absolutely not! I do not associate with her kind."

He blinked, thrown off. "Her kind? Pansy, that's incredibly offensive. Ginny's a pureblood."

She huffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "She's a redhead, Neville. That's practically a crime. Not to mention she's always hexing someone. It's beneath me."

Neville stared at her, struggling to keep a straight face. "You do realize that's the most ridiculous thing you've said all day, right?"

Pansy waved him off dismissively. "Ridiculous or not, it stands."

Neville sighed, amused, and pressed on. "What about Hermione?"

Pansy exhaled dramatically, as if the mere mention of Granger was enough to drain the life out of her. "We'll get there." She waved a hand in the air with exaggerated flair. "She and Malfoy are practically dancing with the devil, and honestly, I have no desire to get entangled in that web of chaos. I prefer my sanity, thank you very much."

Neville, entirely accustomed to her theatrics, simply smiled. "So, you'll visit Luna, then?"

Pansy's eyes widened in pure, unfiltered horror. "Why on earth would I do that?" Her voice shot up an octave, as if he had suggested something truly outrageous. "We are nothing alike! She's all whimsical and odd, with her dreamy nonsense and strange trinkets. And I'm—well, I'm me!"

Neville laughed, his eyes twinkling with affectionate amusement. "You're more alike than you think, darling."

Then, with a soft yet commanding pat, he gestured to his lap. "Sit, princess."

Pansy hesitated, her instinctive sass warring with the undeniable pull she felt toward him. She raised an elegant brow, as if debating whether to resist or indulge.

And then, like a scene from one of her own grand dramas, her resolve weakened.

Slowly, deliberately, she glided toward him, every movement poised, deliberate, filled with theatrical grace.

As she settled onto his lap, her breath hitched, her body hyper-aware of the way his hands rested on her waist, steadying her with effortless confidence.

Their eyes locked, the air between them thick with something unspoken, something electric.

"Promise me you'll visit Luna," Neville whispered, his voice soft but firm, a quiet authority wrapped in tenderness.

Pansy gazed into his eyes, the tension between them humming like a live wire.

Her defiance flickered, threatening to surface—but something deeper, something more vulnerable, was pushing through.

In his presence, beneath the unwavering weight of his steady gaze, her usual armor cracked—just enough.

She nodded slowly, as though captivated by the raw sincerity in his request.

For a fleeting moment, it felt as if the world around them faded, leaving only the push and pull of them.

His calm, steady warmth against her sharp, untamed fire—opposing forces, yet somehow, perfectly balanced.

"I'll visit Luna," she murmured, her voice softer than she meant it to be, the words no longer just a concession, but something real.

And Neville, with that knowing, heart-melting smile, already knew she would.

~~~~~~

Pansy woke to the gentle warmth of sunlight streaming through her curtains, her lashes fluttering open to find Lady Lemongrass nestled beside her, snoring softly.

With a dramatic sigh worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, already dreading the day ahead.

And yet… today was different.

Today, she had resolved—against all logic, against all reason—to give this whole "friendship" thing a genuine shot.

Merlin help her.

With the same care she put into battle plans and social domination, she selected an outfit—something effortlessly stunning, equal parts fierce and intimidating. With one last glance in the mirror, she squared her shoulders, mentally fortifying herself for whatever awaited her.

Then, with a flick of her wand, she Apparated.

The moment she landed at the front of Nott Manor, she stared, wide-eyed, in theatrical disbelief.

It was as if she had stepped into another realm entirely.

Magical creatures flitted about, their delicate wings sparkling in the dappled sunlight, while fairies twirled lazily through the air, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the gardens.

It was like stepping into a whimsical bedtime story—all sweetness, all light, all completely unnatural.

Pansy placed a hand over her heart, gasping as she took in the sickeningly picturesque scene.

"Merlin's beard, what fresh hell is this?" she muttered under her breath, feigning a dizzy swoon, as though she were about to confront some great, unknown peril.

Friendship. With Luna Lovegood.

Surely, this was how she died.

With a deep, exasperated inhale, she braced herself and approached the grand entrance.

The manor loomed overhead, its elegant architecture contrasting sharply with the unsettling fairy-tale landscape surrounding it. It was as if the estate itself was challenging her to turn back.

But Pansy Parkinson was no coward.

She lifted a hand, hesitating just long enough to bask in the sheer drama of the moment before, with a final flourish, she knocked on the door.

The sound echoed through the stillness, a prelude to whatever awaited her inside.

Anticipation thickened in the air, curling around her like an unseen force, thrumming in time with the quiet tension coiling in her chest.

She was standing at the edge of an entirely new world—a world that felt too bright, too cheerful, too much.

But Pansy had spent years conquering hostile territories.

And if this was some ridiculous, whimsical kingdom of sunshine and kindness, then so be it.

She was determined to conquer it, too.

When Theo finally swung open the door, his expression was a curious blend of irritation and surprise, as if the mere sight of Pansy on his doorstep was personally offensive to him.

"What are you doing here, Parkinson?" he asked, his eyebrow lifting with a mix of suspicion and mild exasperation.

Pansy rolled her eyes, lifting her chin in that perfectly practiced, haughty way she had mastered by the age of five.

"I'm here to make friends, Theodore." She let out an exaggerated sigh, as though the very notion of socializing was the heaviest burden ever placed upon her delicate shoulders. "Apparently, that's what I've been lacking in my life."

Theo's brow furrowed, and his voice dripped with slow, deliberate sarcasm.

"Leave my wife alone. She's too sensitive for you."

Before Pansy could fire back a retort, a gentle, airy voice drifted in from inside the manor.

"Who is it, my Sun?"

Pansy turned, blinking in surprise.

Theo barely contained a smirk. "It's a spoiled brat."

Pansy gasped theatrically, clutching at her chest as if she had been mortally wounded.

"Draco's here?" she exclaimed, her voice a perfect mix of shock and faux concern.

Luna's voice, light and full of amusement, responded before Theo could.

"No, it's the other one."

And then, as if summoned by pure moonlight, Luna appeared.

She glided toward the door, her presence effortlessly serene, as if she had drifted here on a passing breeze rather than walked. Her soft smile lit up the entranceway, casting a warmth that stood in direct contrast to Pansy's dramatic arrival.

"Oh, hello, Pansy!" Luna greeted, her voice cheerful, sincere—completely without edge.

Pansy felt her defenses waver, momentarily caught off guard by Luna's unwavering warmth.

For a split second, she almost abandoned her usual theatrics.

Then she recovered.

With a sugary-sweet smile, she turned to Theo, her tone dripping with faux innocence.

"What's this about a 'spoiled brat,' Theodore?"

Her glare could have shattered glass.

Theo, the picture of indifference, merely shrugged. "Are you not?"

Pansy's eyes narrowed into slits, her hand flying to her hip as she tilted her head in an exaggerated pose, her entire body radiating offense.

"Oh, why don't you just fuck off, Theodore?" she snapped, though the playful lilt in her voice betrayed any real bite.

Luna giggled, clearly entertained by their back-and-forth, and sensing an opportunity to bond, Pansy turned to her with an exaggerated look of concern.

"Luna, darling, we simply must do something about your husband. He's far too cheeky for his own good!"

The words hung in the air, and then—the unexpected happened.

Laughter.

Warm, unrestrained, genuine laughter.

And as it filled the space between them, Pansy felt something unfamiliar, yet not entirely unwelcome settle in her chest.

Maybe this wasn't a social trial after all.

Maybe—just maybe—this was something she could get used to.

Luna's smile brightened, her eyes sparkling with affection as she turned to Pansy.

"I have no doubt you'll manage, Pansy. Theo can be quite the handful, but I believe you're more than equipped for the task."

Pansy huffed dramatically, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a practiced flourish.

"Oh, don't you fret, Luna. I have my methods for dealing with unruly men," she declared, her voice dripping with mock severity as she shot another pointed look at Theo.

He rolled his eyes, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him.

"You think you can handle me, Parkinson?" Theo quipped, crossing his arms, clearly enjoying the exchange.

Pansy's eyes gleamed mischievously as she turned to Luna, leaning in with a conspiratorial smirk.

"Let's just say I have a few tricks up my sleeve."

Her tone was light, teasing—but there was an undercurrent of challenge, a push and pull neither she nor Theo seemed particularly inclined to resist.

The air buzzed with something electric, something almost effortless, and for the first time in a long time, Pansy felt at ease.

As Luna laughed softly, as Theo shook his head in mock defeat, as the three of them stood there, something resembling camaraderie taking shape between them, Pansy realized something.

Maybe, just maybe—this whole friendship thing wouldn't be so bad after all.

Turns out, being friendly was a Herculean task for Pansy; every polite word felt as though it were being forcibly extracted from her lips against its will.

For Luna, however, it was effortless—as natural as breathing, as inevitable as the tide.

Pansy couldn't wrap her head around it.

Leaning in closer, her eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across her face as she scrutinized Luna's perpetual, infuriatingly serene demeanor.

"Luna, have you ever done any drugs? Be honest with me."

Luna blinked, her serene smile never faltering.

"I've experimented with a few things." She said it so casually that Pansy nearly choked on her tea. Then, with an almost conspiratorial tilt of her head, Luna added, "Why do you ask? Are you offering?"

Her eyes widened in scandalized disbelief, her teacup nearly slipping from her fingers.

"Merlin's beard, no! I mean, I wish I had something to offer, but—" She threw her hands up dramatically. "That's not the point! The point is, why are you always so infuriatingly cheerful? It's unnatural!"

Luna tilted her head, her gaze drifting off as if contemplating the great mysteries of the universe.

"It's just who I am, I suppose." She shrugged, her voice light, thoughtful. "Life is filled with strange and wonderful experiences. Why not embrace the joy?"

She stared at her, absolutely dumbfounded.

"Joy?" she echoed, incredulous. "Is that what you call this relentless, all-consuming sunshine and rainbows? You must have a secret stash of optimism somewhere, and I demand to know where you're hiding it."

Luna giggled, the sound as airy and whimsical as ever.

"Perhaps I do," she mused, her eyes twinkling. "Or maybe I just choose to see the beauty in things."

Pansy huffed, half-annoyed, half-impressed against her will.

"You're positively maddening, you know that?"

Yet, despite herself, there was something… unsettlingly warm about Luna's presence, something strange and foreign blooming within her.

She let out an exaggerated sigh, pressing a dramatic hand to her forehead as if Luna's boundless positivity was physically weighing her down.

"Well, that's one way to look at it, I suppose." She shook her head. "But honestly, Luna, there has to be more to it. No one can be that happy all the time without some sort of magical intervention."

Luna's tranquil smile never wavered, even as her frustration peaked.

Then, without warning, Luna tilted her head slightly and said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world—

"Maybe you should try shagging Neville."

Pansy froze.

Her brain short-circuited.

Her entire body seized up in sheer, unfiltered disbelief.

"Excuse me?"

Luna's gaze remained distant, dreamy, as if she were already floating off into another realm of thought.

"Pansy, don't be so uptight. Sometimes a little affection can do wonders."

Pansy's shock rapidly morphed into theatrical dismay.

"I am NOT uptight!" she declared, outraged.

Then, a mischievous smirk flickered across her lips.

"But wait—hold on—did you really manage to take the lover boy's virginity?"

Luna blinked slowly, as if the question required deep philosophical contemplation.

"He offered it very willingly."

Pansy's jaw dropped. Her hand flew to her mouth in mock horror.

"Oh, goodness! He was so obsessed with you! You have noooo idea!"

Luna's enigmatic smile never wavered.

"Was he?" she mused, as if she had never considered it before. Then, with a small, knowing nod, "Well, I suppose it's still true."

Her eyes gleamed with intrigue.

"Okay, you have to spill everything. I need all the juicy details."

And just like that, a friendship was born.

Fueled by shared amusement over Theo's unrequited crush, Luna's ethereal musings, and Pansy's dramatic flair, the two opposing forces found themselves unexpectedly drawn together—

A whimsical storm meeting an unstoppable hurricane .

~~~~~~

She felt as though her execution day had finally arrived.

It wasn't that she disliked Neville—in fact, his awkward charm was starting to grow on her like an unexpected but oddly delightful weed. But the sheer horror of the situation loomed large.

Here she was, draped in a last-minute wedding dress, shipped in a panic from Italy.

Italy.

The thought alone made her want to collapse onto a chaise lounge in despair, mourning the sheer humiliation her mother would feel.

The gown itself was undeniably beautiful—delicate lace, intricate beading, the finest silk money could buy. But it wasn't the dress.

It wasn't the gown she had envisioned since childhood, twirling in front of mirrors in her mother's ridiculously impractical high heels.

Walking down the aisle in anything less felt like she was being led to the gallows.

She narrowed her eyes at her own reflection.

"Honestly," she muttered, smoothing the fabric over her hips with a sigh so dramatic it could have won an award. "What a tragedy. My mother would simply faint."

She could practically see her mother now—lips pursed, hand over her chest, the scandal of it all enough to require immediate smelling salts.

"This is a catastrophe of epic proportions."

And yet…

Beneath the swirling doubts, beneath the urge to fling herself into an operatic tantrum, a small voice whispered that maybe it wasn't about the dress at all.

Maybe it was about the man waiting for her at the end of the aisle.

The thought unsettled her, sent a ripple of something unnamed and unfamiliar through her chest.

It didn't fully calm her, didn't stop the impending tantrum, but it was enough to keep her from launching herself into full-blown dramatics.

A gentle knock sounded at the door.

Pansy took a deep breath before pulling it open—only to be immediately met with Neville's unabashed stare.

His genuine smile bloomed across his face, eyes flickering with something she didn't quite know how to name.

"You look incredible, Parky."

She rolled her eyes, scoffing even as her heart betrayed her with a tiny, traitorous flutter.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous."

But he wasn't about to let her self-doubt creep in.

"You look absolutely breathtaking, darling."

She let out an exaggerated sigh, waving a dismissive hand as if swatting away his words.

"Thank you, but this isn't what I wanted."

His brow furrowed slightly. "Sorry to remind you, but I'm your husband now. I thought we were having a lovely time."

Pansy's eyes widened in alarm.

"Not you—the dress! Look at it!"

He followed her dramatic gesture, taking in the gown she had so adamantly declared a disaster.

"It's beautiful, darling."

"You're just saying that."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping into something softer, steadier.

"I am not." He took her hand, his thumb brushing over her fingers. "You are absolutely gorgeous—with or without the dress. Though, to be honest, I'd prefer you without it."

Her cheeks flushed a deep pink, her usual sharp wit momentarily failing her.

"Oh… well… thank you," she mumbled, her confidence wavering beneath the weight of his gaze.

Neville chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Anytime, Mrs. Longbottom."

And just like that, the dress didn't seem quite so tragic after all.

The Ministry of Magic's Grand Hall loomed large and unyielding, an imposing space filled with murmured conversations, the rustling of formal robes, and the weight of bureaucratic obligation.

Standing at the front, she felt every eye on her.

Clad in the elegant Italian gown, she looked stunning—but in the back of her mind, the nagging thought remained: this wasn't the dress she had always imagined.

The irony of it all cut deep—this was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. Instead, it felt like a courtroom sentencing.

And yet…

She glanced beside her.

He stood tall, exuding a quiet strength, his formal robes giving him an air of undeniable dignity.

He was still Neville, still the boy she had once scoffed at in school, but… there was something else there now.

Something unexpected. A steadiness. A warmth. A quiet devotion that made her pulse falter.

The Ministry official, a severe-looking witch with a tight bun and a voice like cold steel, began the ceremony.

"We are gathered here today under the authority of the Ministry of Magic to unite these two individuals in marriage, as per the new laws enacted for the preservation of our kind."

Her voice was clipped, efficient—as if she were reading from a dull legal contract rather than officiating a wedding.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.

This wasn't romantic.

There were no grand vows, no soft candlelight, no orchestras swelling in the background.

This was an obligation.

"Neville Longbottom, do you consent to take Pansy Parkinson as your lawfully wedded wife?"

He turned to her, their eyes meeting, and for the first time in her life, Pansy saw no doubt in his gaze.

Only certainty.

"I do."

The firmness in his voice sent a ripple of something unsettlingly warm through her chest.

The official's gaze shifted to her.

"Pansy Parkinson, do you consent to take Neville Longbottom as your lawfully wedded husband?"

For a fraction of a second, she hesitated.

But when she looked at him—really looked at him—she found something that quieted the storm inside her.

A grounded steadiness. A sense of safety she didn't want to acknowledge.

"I do."

Her voice was steady, despite the rapid beat of her heart.

The official nodded, tone brisk. "By the power vested in me by the Ministry of Magic, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

She exhaled sharply, something tight and unfamiliar pressing against her ribs.

No romantic vows. No grand declarations.

Just… paperwork. A checkbox ticked off.

Just as she prepared to step back, his hand found hers.

Startled, she looked up.

And then—without hesitation, without obligation—he leaned in.

And kissed her.

It was tender at first, hesitant—then deeper, more certain.

A promise, not a formality.

Her breath caught, her hands instinctively finding their way to his lapels, pulling him closer.

The room blurred around them, the voices fading into a distant hum.

When they finally pulled away, a stunned silence filled the hall.

The official cleared her throat, clearly flustered.

"Um… yes. You may sign the documents now."

But she barely heard her.

She was too caught in the quiet shift between them, the way something unspoken had changed.

~~~~~~

As soon as they stepped into Parkinson Manor, a hum of old magic rippled through the air. The walls seemed to shift, almost as if the house itself was adjusting to the new presence within it.

Pansy paused in the foyer, sensing the change. The Manor felt different—alive, watching, waiting.

Neville, meanwhile, noticed something else. His belongings—which had been neatly packed away in his flat that morning—were now perfectly arranged throughout the Manor. His clothes hung in the wardrobe, his books stacked on pristine shelves, and even his herbology tools had found a home in a small greenhouse tucked away in the east wing.

"It's like the house knew I was coming," he mused, glancing around in awe.

Pansy smirked. "The elves have been busy." Her tone was light, though something about seeing his things woven into her world made her chest tighten. "You're settled in now, whether you like it or not."

He turned to her, a slow smile playing at his lips. "Seems like I'm here to stay."

She raised a brow, sass returning in full force. "That was never in question, Nevie. This is your home now, too."

The words hung between them—your home.

He stepped closer, his hand brushing against hers, a fleeting touch that sent an unwelcome thrill up her spine.

"We'll make it work, won't we?" His voice was soft, steady.

She met his gaze, her lips curving into a smirk. "We don't really have a choice, do we?"

He chuckled, but there was something in his eyes—something solid, certain—that made her heart stutter.

As if the Manor itself was watching, waiting to see what they would make of this.

That night, Neville couldn't sleep.

The Manor was too grand, too quiet, too much.

His bedroom—lavish, antique, drowning in luxury—felt nothing like home. After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, he gave up, pulling on a sweater and wandering toward the kitchen in search of tea, or maybe just a moment to breathe.

To his surprise, the kitchen was already occupied.

Pansy sat at the marble island, nibbling on a biscuit, draped in a silken emerald robe that shimmered in the dim candlelight.

She barely glanced up as he entered, though the slight arch of her brow told him she wasn't entirely surprised to see him.

"Couldn't sleep either?" Her voice was mocking, but there was something like relief in it, too.

Neville sighed, moving toward the kettle. "This place is… overwhelming." He gestured vaguely. "It's like living in a museum."

She let out an exaggerated sigh, swirling the milk in her glass. "Tell me about it. I've lived here my whole life and still get lost."

He chuckled, the sound easing some of the tension between them.

"Mind if I join you?"

She gestured grandly. "Be my guest. Misery loves company, after all."

He poured their tea as she slid the plate of biscuits toward him. "They're still warm. The elves must have just made them."

Neville took a bite, eyes lighting up. "These are incredible."

She smirked, watching him. The silence between them wasn't awkward anymore. It was… easy.

After a moment, she spoke, her voice quieter, more contemplative. "I think we're in the same boat."

He met her gaze, sensing something unguarded in her expression. "Yes, we are."

She toyed with the edge of her robe, her fingers betraying a nervousness her face refused to show.

"Are we sinking?" she mused, voice laced with dramatic flair.

He considered her question, sipping his tea before responding. "Just adrift." His voice was steady. "But maybe we can find our way together."

Her lips curved into something small but real. "I suppose there are worse people to be lost at sea with."

"I could say the same."

The Manor, with all its intimidating grandeur, seemed a little less daunting in that moment.

They stayed there, talking about nothing and everything—Hogwarts, old rivalries, the absurdity of their situation.

By the time the first light of dawn crept through the windows, the distance between them had shrunk into something easier, warmer.

As they made their way back through the hushed corridors, side by side, the Manor's magic settled, as if it, too, recognized that something between them had shifted.

At her door, she hesitated. Then, almost shyly, she murmured, "Thank you for the company."

Neville smiled. "Anytime, Parky. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Neville."

And for the first time since arriving, Neville climbed into bed and felt at ease.

The Manor was still enormous and unfamiliar, but with her laughter lingering in his mind, he no longer felt quite so lost.