Echoes of Elegance: Mourning and Mimosas

When news of Lucius Malfoy's death reached her, she found herself caught in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. At first, a wave of relief swept through, sharp and unexpected, stealing her breath before she could even process it. It felt almost wrong—to find comfort in the passing of a man who had once commanded such power, to feel a quiet gladness at the thought that Draco was finally free.

For years, his father had been a shadow looming over his life, expectations pressing so heavily that even after the war, even after he had carved out his own place in the world, the specter of that legacy still haunted him. And now, just like that, the chain had snapped.

Yet, relief was not the only emotion stirring within her. Guilt followed swiftly, coiling itself around her ribs like a vice. The man had been many things—ruthless, cunning, dangerous. He had built an empire on manipulation and fear, commanding the respect of both allies and enemies alike. His legacy was tangled with darkness, with decisions that had shaped not only his son's life but the course of the wizarding world itself. And yet… he had also been a father, in his own way. His absence would leave a void, whether Draco wanted to admit it or not.

Fingers traced the rim of her glass as memories drifted through her mind. Their interactions had been limited—formal dinners at the Manor, fleeting exchanges at galas where those cold, assessing eyes had measured her with the same precision he applied to everything in his life. He had never truly seen her, only what she represented: a pureblood heiress, a potential ally, a piece on the board.

But she had seen him. The way his presence shaped his son, the way approval had been a prize Draco spent his entire childhood chasing, only to realize too late that he was running after something that had never truly existed.

How does one grieve for a father who was never quite a father?

A slow exhale left her lips as she stared into the dim light of the sitting room. She knew him well enough to understand that his emotions would be tangled, a chaotic mix of resentment, relief, and reluctant sorrow. He had spent years unraveling himself from his father's influence, forging a path of his own while still bearing the weight of his family name. And now, that battle was over—not because he had won, but because there was no longer anyone left to fight against.

That thought made her chest tighten. He might not mourn the man, but he would mourn the possibility of who his father could have been.

And that was something she understood all too well.

Pushing herself to her feet, determination settled into her bones. He would not go through this alone.

He would need time to process this loss, and she would give him that, but she would also make sure that when he was ready to speak, to feel, he wouldn't have to do it alone.

Because in the wake of loss, there was always a choice—to let it break you or to use it to build something new.

And perhaps, just perhaps, this was the moment they both shed the last remnants of their past and stepped fully into the future—one of their own making, no longer dictated by the ghosts of those who had come before.

~~~~~~

Twenty-eight hours later, Draco stood beside Hermione at the gravesite, their fingers intertwined in a grip that spoke of silent understanding. Neither of them had loosened their hold since the moment they arrived, each grounding the other, drawing strength from the shared acknowledgment that this moment—this burial—was not just the end of a life but the closing of a chapter that had long overstayed its welcome.

Their gazes remained fixed on the open grave of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, a freshly disturbed wound in the earth, waiting to swallow the man who had once wielded power like a weapon, who had commanded both fear and respect with a single glance. The air was eerily still, as if the world itself was waiting, holding its breath, allowing them the space to reconcile what this meant—if it meant anything at all.

Yet, sorrow did not come.

There was no crushing grief, no unbearable weight of loss pressing down on their chests. Just silence. A profound, detached stillness that settled into their bones, filling the space where anguish was expected to reside. It was not relief, not exactly—more like the cold finality of watching the last page of a book turn, knowing you had stopped caring about the story long ago.

A quiet trio stood nearby, each lost in their own reflections. Theo, Pansy, and Blaise—figures from a past laced with expectations and gilded cages, each of them marked, in some way, by the man being lowered into the ground. They were not grieving either. Instead, their expressions mirrored something closer to contemplation, to quiet closure. This was not just a funeral—it was a farewell to a legacy that had dictated their lives in ways none of them had ever truly consented to.

The first shovelfuls of earth struck the coffin, the muted thud breaking the unnatural stillness. Draco expected to feel something then, a pang, an ache, anything—but instead, there was only an unfamiliar lightness in his chest. The man disappearing beneath the soil had once been a titan in his life, a force that had dictated the course of his childhood, a shadow that had stretched across every decision he had ever made. But now? Now, Lucius Malfoy was just a name, a relic of a world long gone.

And that world was not coming back.

The rhythmic sound of soil being cast down was almost soothing in its repetition, each shovel a lullaby of finality. This is done. He is gone. You are free.

Not far from him, Narcissa stood motionless, her face composed, her spine as straight as ever, the perfect portrait of dignified mourning. To an outsider, she appeared grief-stricken, but Draco saw the truth in her eyes. She did not weep for her husband. Her lips did not tremble with unspeakable sorrow. There was only stillness, a quiet observation of the inevitable.

But then, a single tear fell—not in mourning, but in quiet acknowledgment.

Because she, more than anyone, understood that the weight of her husband's name had finally been laid to rest with him.

Their gazes met across the grave, mother and son, a silent exchange passing between them. No words needed to be spoken—there was nothing left to say. A small, almost imperceptible nod, and then she turned away, the faintest breath of relief in her movement, as if she were walking lighter than she had in years.

And maybe she was.

The minister's voice droned on, words of ceremony floating through the gray morning, but they felt hollow, like echoes of a past none of them belonged to anymore. No one wept openly. No one clutched at their chest in anguish. The funeral was more formality than farewell, a final obligation before they could all step forward into whatever came next.

As the ceremony ended, the crowd began to disperse, quiet figures slipping away, lost in their own thoughts.

Draco and Hermione remained.

They stood side by side, hands still clasped, their breaths steady, their thoughts intertwined yet distinctly separate. His mind was a labyrinth of memories—flashes of childhood moments long buried, the weight of expectation, the moments of silent defiance, the slow unraveling of who he had been and who he had become.

He could feel her presence beside him—solid, unwavering, unafraid. She did not fill the silence with empty words, did not ask him to speak before he was ready. She simply existed beside him, steady and sure, as she always had.

And maybe, just maybe, that was all he needed.

Pansy sank into her seat beside the boys, exhaling slowly as she stretched out her legs beneath the table. The weight of the funeral, of everything that had led to this moment, sat heavily on her chest, yet beneath it, there was something else—something lighter. A quiet defiance hummed beneath her skin, an unshackling of a burden she had carried for far too long.

She let her gaze sweep over the faces around her, faces she had known since childhood, faces etched with the same blend of weariness and hard-won resilience that only those who had been raised in the same gilded cages could understand. This wasn't mourning. Not really. This was something closer to a collective exhale, an acknowledgment of the ghosts that no longer held power over them.

"Good riddance," she declared, the words spilling from her lips with a finality that left no room for regret.

The response was immediate.

"Amen."

The boys' voices echoed in unison, a chorus of agreement that reverberated through the room, sealing the sentiment like a spoken spell—one meant to banish the past, to sever its lingering grip on their present.

Blaise leaned back, stretching lazily as he laced his fingers behind his head, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "None of us cried when our parents died or went to Azkaban," he mused, his tone deceptively light, but there was an edge beneath it—a quiet, bitter truth that needed no elaboration.

Theo let out a short chuckle, tipping his glass toward Blaise in a mock toast. "Why would we?" he drawled. "I was quite happy, actually." There was no hesitation in his voice, no attempt to feign sorrow where none existed.

Pansy leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her fingers tracing absent patterns against the wood. "Me too." The admission left her lips before she had fully processed it, but it rang true. "It's like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders."

And it had.

For so long, she had carried the expectations, the guilt, the legacy of a family that had dictated every step she took. The fear of disappointing them had been a constant presence, a shadow lurking just behind her, whispering that she would never be enough. But now? Now there was nothing left to disappoint.

The realization was liberating.

The air between them shifted, not heavy with grief but charged with something else—something almost intoxicating. It wasn't just relief. It was the quiet thrill of possibility.

The tension broke when Blaise smirked, tipping his chair back at a precarious angle. "Remember when we tried sneaking into the Forbidden Forest?" he asked, laughter dancing in his dark eyes. "We thought we were so damn clever until Hagrid found us and dragged us back like a couple of stray Kneazles."

Pansy rolled her eyes but couldn't fight the smile that tugged at her lips. "Oh, please," she scoffed. "You were the one who nearly tripped over a bloody boggart. I thought I was going to die from laughter."

Theo burst into laughter, shaking his head. "She's right, Blaise. You shrieked like a banshee and nearly fell into a nest of—what was it again?"

"I was not shrieking," Blaise argued, but the smirk on his lips betrayed him.

"A giant snake," Theo answered his own question, grinning wickedly. "Pansy damn near hexed herself into next week trying to get away. You should've seen Hagrid's face—he thought he was about to drop dead on the spot."

Laughter erupted between them, rich and unrestrained, filling the space between them like a balm against the heaviness of the past few days. It felt good, to slip into these memories, to let themselves exist outside of the expectations that had weighed them down for years.

And then Blaise sobered slightly, the humor still lingering in his expression but something softer settling in his eyes. "But really," he said, tapping his fingers against the rim of his glass, "this is a new beginning for us." His gaze flickered between them, measuring their reactions. "We can finally break free from the shadows our families cast over us. No more guilt, no more obligations. We get to decide who we are now."

A slow smile spread across her lips, something bold and untamed curling in her chest.

"Yes," she agreed, the word tasting like freedom on her tongue. "We can define our own lives now. This is our chance to build something that's ours."

Theo leaned back in his chair, a glint of mischief flashing in his eyes. "We should throw a party—celebrate our newfound freedom." He made a grand gesture with his hands. "Invite everyone who's ever been suffocated by their family's expectations and tell them to drink, dance, and kiss whoever the hell they want without worrying about propriety."

Blaise arched a brow, intrigued. "I like that idea. A real bash to kick off our rebellion against the past."

Pansy grinned, already envisioning it. "Count me in," she said, her voice dripping with excitement. "We should make it extravagant—something outrageous, something that would make our ancestors roll in their graves."

Theo smirked. "Now that sounds like a proper Slytherin rebellion."

And just like that, ideas began flying between them—themes, venues, guest lists, enchantments that would make the night unforgettable. The air around them buzzed with energy, a tangible sense of momentum, of something changing.

And as she sat there, feeding off the thrill of their excitement, she felt something warm settle deep in her chest.

This. This was what she had always wanted.

Not approval. Not obligation.

A family of her own making.

Not bound by blood, but by choice.

By experience. By understanding.

She lifted an imaginary glass, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "Here's to new beginnings."

The boys mirrored her, lifting their hands in mock toasts, their grins wide, their voices rich with something that felt dangerously close to hope.

"To new beginnings," they echoed, the words thick with promise, their pasts finally slipping from their shoulders like a discarded cloak.

Whatever came next, it was theirs to shape.

~~~~~~

That Sunday, the brunch was nothing short of a spectacle, a carefully curated affair where every detail, from the table settings to the designer-clad attendees, exuded an air of effortless wealth and prestige. The pureblood elite had mastered the art of turning social gatherings into power plays, and today was no exception.

Pansy and Neville arrived arm in arm, the very picture of sophistication. Both were impeccably dressed in Valentino, a brand that had, over time, become more than just a designer label—it was a pureblood statement, a subtle display of old money and aristocratic standing. She, ever the embodiment of sharp wit and effortless elegance, wore a stunning crimson dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, the bold color an unapologetic contrast to the dark waves cascading down her back. The gold cuff adorning her wrist shimmered under the morning light, a silent testament to her status.

Beside her, Neville stood tall, his presence a quiet yet undeniable force. His tailored suit, charcoal with subtle maroon accents, complemented her ensemble in a way that was almost poetic—strength and refinement woven into a perfect balance. There was something commanding about them together, a partnership built on equal footing, a blend of fire and earth. They looked like the kind of couple that could shatter expectations and rewrite legacies with a single, well-placed glance.

Meanwhile, Hermione was the embodiment of modern regality. She had traded her usual academic practicality for something far more daring—a rich velvet mini dress, deep burgundy in color, fresh from the latest collection, hugging her figure in a way that made it clear she belonged among them. The gold jewelry adorning her collarbones and wrists gleamed under the sunlight, each piece deliberately chosen, not for excess, but for power. She was not simply wearing wealth—she was commanding it.

And then there was Draco, standing beside her like a living embodiment of dark nobility. His black suit, cut to perfection, framed his sharp features with the kind of effortless sophistication that came from generations of grooming. There was something almost mythological about the way he carried himself—Hades reborn, all brooding intensity and unshaken confidence, standing at the side of a woman who, in every way, had transformed into her own kind of goddess.

Together, they were magnetic. The moment they stepped into the room, all eyes turned to them, as if drawn by some unseen force, a mixture of admiration and reluctant acceptance filling the space. For all the whispers and raised brows their union had once provoked, it was clear now—they belonged here.

The gathered purebloods, ever the gatekeepers of tradition, exchanged glances before offering small, approving nods. There was power in presentation, and today, Draco and Hermione were the epitome of it. His arm curled around her waist in a way that was both protective and possessive, an unspoken message to anyone foolish enough to question their place. Together, they embodied a new kind of power couple—an unshakable union forged from defiance, ambition, and a quiet sort of devotion that needed no grand declarations.

"Hello, lovebirds!" Ginny's voice cut through the weight of the moment, bright and teasing, a deliberate contrast to the air of poised aristocracy surrounding them. Dressed in an ensemble that mirrored her fiery personality, she approached with an easy confidence, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips. "You both look disgustingly good."

Blaise, never one to miss a chance to stir the pot, followed closely behind. "Finally, some pureblood influence has rubbed off on Granger," he drawled, his smirk sharp as ever.

Draco arched a brow, a slow smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. "Positive influence?" His voice was smooth, teasing, the kind of arrogance that was more charm than challenge. "Perhaps some credit is due to my impeccable taste."

Hermione rolled her eyes, though amusement flickered behind them. "Oh, please. You and your 'impeccable taste.' More likely, some poor intern at Valentino picked this out, and you're taking credit for it."

Blaise chuckled, shaking his head. "Regardless of the origin, the results are undeniable. You both look like you waltzed straight out of a magical fashion editorial."

Ginny nodded, her eyes twinkling. "Absolutely. You two are the definition of power couple energy."

Draco glanced down at Hermione, something unreadable flickering in his gaze before he smirked. "See? Even Blaise and Ginny approve."

Hermione let out a dramatic sigh, feigning resignation. "I suppose I'll take that as a compliment."

"It absolutely is," Blaise added, his voice carrying a rare note of sincerity. "You two command attention without even trying. It's almost sickening."

Draco inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, a hint of satisfaction evident in his expression. "Thank you, Blaise. We're just trying to keep up with you and Ginny."

Ginny let out a laugh, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, please. You two have that whole enigmatic, untouchable couple thing going on. It's like you were made for this."

Before another retort could be made, Pansy and Neville arrived, their entrance just as commanding, though with an air of warmth that made it clear they weren't here to simply observe.

"What are we talking about?" she inquired, her voice carrying that signature blend of curiosity and effortless authority.

Ginny grinned. "Just admiring Draco and Hermione's impeccable style."

Pansy's gaze flickered toward them, amusement twinkling behind dark lashes. "Good luck topping that," she mused, lips curling into a smirk. "I mean, how does anyone compete with the ethereal beauty of Persephone and her brooding Hades?"

Neville, ever the grounding presence, offered a warm smile. "You both look fantastic. Really. It's great to see everyone looking so happy."

A flicker of warmth settled in Hermione's chest at the unexpected kindness. She turned to Pansy, sincerity threading through her voice. "Thank you, Pans. You look absolutely stunning too."

Pansy, ever one to deflect sentimentality with sharp wit, merely smirked. "Obviously."

"Cheers to that!" Blaise declared, raising his glass with an exaggerated flourish. "Here's to friends who look absolutely fabulous."

Glasses clinked in agreement, laughter rippling through the intimate circle as conversation resumed effortlessly, weaving between teasing jabs and genuine camaraderie. Hermione felt herself relax, her nerves dissolving like sugar in warm tea. She hadn't been sure how today would unfold—how she and Draco would be received, how old friends and new allegiances would blend—but here, surrounded by voices that had shaped her past and were becoming part of her present, she felt a rare and precious sense of belonging.

"So," she mused, turning toward Ginny with a raised brow. "Who made the guest list today?"

Ginny, scanning the opulent brunch setting with an expert eye, tossed her hair over one shoulder, the auburn strands catching in the golden light. "The usual suspects, really. Harry and Cho should be here any minute, and Luna and Theo sent word they'd be fashionably late."

Hermione's lips quirked into a smile, relief softening her expression. "It'll be good to see them."

"They'll be here soon," Ginny confirmed, glancing at her watch before adding with a knowing smirk, "Theo said something about a minor delay, but Luna's already here. She just got… distracted."

Draco's gaze swept across the room, his usual cool detachment tempered by something quieter, more reflective. "It's good to see familiar faces again," he admitted, though his voice carried no sentimentality—just fact.

Hermione nodded, fingers absently smoothing over the emerald folds of her dress. "It has been a while."

Ginny grinned, her gaze bouncing between the two of them, a hint of mischief in her expression. "Don't worry, Hermione. They'll be thrilled to see you." Then, with a conspiratorial wink, she added, "And seeing you two together? Well, let's just say it's bound to be the highlight of their day."

An unspoken energy crackled between Hermione and Draco. A glance—brief, yet layered—passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of the moment.

As if on cue, the grand double doors swung open with a flourish, allowing a rush of crisp autumn air to swirl into the room.

Luna entered first, radiant as always, her signature radish earrings swaying as she moved. The sunlight caught the soft waves of her blonde hair, making her seem almost ethereal, like something conjured from the morning mist. "Hello, everyone!" she sang, her voice light and full of wonder, as if she had just stepped into a world brimming with possibility.

Trailing behind her, Harry entered with his usual ease, his trademark unruly hair slightly tousled as though he had just come from battle rather than brunch. Cho walked beside him, her dark waves sleek against the elegant drape of her robes, her smile small but sincere.

The tension that Hermione hadn't realized she was still holding dissipated the moment she saw them. They were here. That was enough.

She rose from her seat, a genuine smile breaking across her face as Harry pulled her into a fierce, familiar embrace.

"Hermione!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with something real—warm, steady, unchanged. "It's been too long."

"Far too long," she agreed, gripping him just as tightly. For all the wars, the distances, the changes—they were still them.

Draco, watching the interaction, straightened slightly as Harry turned toward him. The moment stretched between them, heavy with history yet absent of hostility.

Harry extended a hand. "Draco." A nod. Not cold, not warm—just... neutral.

Draco regarded him for a fraction of a second before clasping the offered hand in a firm shake. "Potter."

And somehow, that was enough.

Luna clapped her hands together, her eyes alight with delight. "Oh, I do love seeing all of you together." She beamed, her expression utterly sincere. "It feels like a storybook reunion. Now! Who wants to hear about the Wrackspurts that have taken up residence in my attic?"

Laughter bubbled up from the group, light and unrestrained, breaking apart any lingering awkwardness.

As everyone found their seats, the warmth of familiarity wrapped around them like a well-worn cloak. Pansy settled comfortably next to Neville, her fingers brushing absentmindedly against his, a gesture that spoke of quiet understanding. Across the table, Hermione eased into the space beside Draco, the edges of her nerves smoothing with each shared glance, each exchanged word.

Conversations flowed seamlessly, stories winding between nostalgia and the present, between battles fought and new beginnings forged.

Neville and Theo, two vastly different yet strangely aligned minds, fell into an enthusiastic discussion about experimental herbology.

"Have you worked with the new hybrid plants?" Theo asked, his usual cynicism momentarily replaced by curiosity. "I heard they have extraordinary magical properties."

Neville, ever the passionate academic when it came to plants, lit up. "I have! They're fascinating—highly reactive, but if we can stabilize them, they could revolutionize healing potions."

Hermione, sipping her drink, watched the exchange with quiet amusement. Who would have thought that Theo Nott and Neville Longbottom would ever engage in an intense discussion about botany? Hogwarts really had been one long fever dream.

Across the table, Theo suddenly leaned back, surveying the group with an impish grin. "Ah," he drawled, swirling his drink lazily. "So the eagle's nest, the lion's den, and the snake's pit all under one roof, huh?"

Draco smirked, a rare chuckle slipping past his lips. "Looks like we've almost got all the Hogwarts houses covered, wouldn't you say, Potter?"

Harry, ever the Gryffindor, met his gaze with a dry smile. "Just missing a loyal Hufflepuff, Malfoy."

Hermione, amused by the exchange, tapped her glass thoughtfully. "Perhaps next time."

Ginny, watching the group with a rare softness, sighed dramatically. "Look at you lot. A proper Hogwarts reunion, wouldn't you say?"

Theo, never one for sentimentality but appreciating theatrics, raised his glass with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "To Hogwarts, surviving the trials it threw our way, and to the unexpected friendships forged in the fire."

The clink of glasses echoed through the grand dining hall, sealing something unspoken yet deeply understood.

Maybe things weren't perfect.

Maybe the ghosts of the past still lingered in the corners of their hearts.

But here, now, they were trying.

And for now, that was enough.

Yet, as the laughter swirled around the table, Pansy couldn't shake the uneasy feeling gnawing at her gut.

Across the room, Harry and Ginny exchanged glances—quick, fleeting, but charged with something unspoken.

The kind of look that spoke of memories half-buried but never quite forgotten.

The kind of look that whispered of lost love, of something that once burned brightly but had since dimmed.

Their love was gone.

But the longing remained.

~~~~~~

The moment the front door clicked shut, Pansy was already moving—pacing the living room with a restless, agitated energy that sent her dress swaying around her legs like a storm cloud. Her heels struck the floor in sharp, erratic clicks, each step charged with frustration, with something too wild, too dangerous to name.

He barely had time to pull off a glove before the scoff came—sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

"My love," he started carefully, voice soft, measured, a healer trying to soothe an unseen wound. "What's wrong?"

Wrong question.

She stopped mid-step, whipping around so fast that dark hair spilled over one shoulder. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes blazing with something that wasn't just anger, but fear.

"What's wrong?" she repeated, voice sharp, incredulous, already on the edge of snapping. "Are you seriously asking me that right now, Nevie?"

He took a slow breath, steadying, grounding, trying to anticipate the storm before it hit. "I don't understand. What are you talking about?"

Another scoff. A bitter shake of the head. Then, pacing again—faster this time, fingers gripping at her own arms like she was trying to physically hold herself together.

"You. And her."

Neville frowned. "What?"

She stilled, shoulders tense like a bowstring about to snap. "That bitch, Hannah."

It was barely more than a breath, but it slammed into him like a curse.

A beat of silence. Then— "Hannah?"

Her name felt foreign, unfamiliar, like something that belonged to a past life.

"Yes, Hannah." her voice was sharp, but there was something fragile beneath it, something she was trying to hide. "You think I didn't see it? The way you looked at Ginny and Harry today? How they looked at each other? Like something they lost? And then it hit me. What if you—" Her breath hitched, just for a second. "What if you still miss her?"

His stomach dropped.

Pansy was jealous—but this wasn't about Ginny.

This was about fear. A fear she would never say out loud.

The words rushed out of her, like she was afraid of what they meant if she let them sit too long. "Do you ever think about her? About what you had? Do you ever—" She paused, swallowing hard. "Do you ever wish it was different?"

His heart ached at the look in her eyes.

"No." The answer came immediately, firm, true.

She didn't move.

She was searching hiss face, looking for something—for a lie.

"I don't believe you."

The words hit him like ice water.

Neville stepped closer, but she took a sharp step back, arms wrapping tighter around herself, like she was bracing for impact.

"Pans—"

"Don't lie to me."

Her voice wavered—just slightly—but it was enough to make his chest tighten.

This wasn't just jealousy.

This was fear.

Fear that she was just another placeholder.

That, one day, he would wake up and realize he wanted something else—something softer, something simpler. Someone not Pansy Parkinson.

Her hands shook as she took another breath, forcing steel into her voice. "You loved her once. And she—" She swallowed like the words were poison. "She's your type, isn't she?"

He stared at her, jaw clenching. "No, Pansy. You're my type."

She exhaled, eyes flickering—but the fear didn't fade.

He stepped closer, carefully this time, hands raised, soft, waiting. "I don't miss her. I don't think about her. Not the way you're afraid I do."

Silence.

Then— "I don't want to be a consolation prize, Nevie."

And there it was.

His heart cracked open.

Neville reached for her, ignoring the way she tensed as their hands met. "You're not."

Fingers curled tightly around his. "Promise me."

"I swear it."

A shaky breath.

Then, finally—finally—she let him pull her in.

Pansy ran a hand through her dark hair, exhaling sharply. "I saw it, Nevie. It was there. And Blaise—" She shook her head, her expression twisting. "Blaise deserves better than to be some... replacement for a love Ginny never truly let go of."

He inhaled slowly, trying to piece together what was really at the heart of this. "Is this about Blaise, or is this about us?"

Her entire body went still.

For the first time since they'd walked through the door, she didn't have an immediate retort.

He stepped forward, closing the space between them, his voice quieter now. "Are you afraid that what you think is happening with Ginny and Harry could happen with us?"

She swallowed hard, her chin tilting up in that defiant way she always did when she felt cornered. "I just—" Her voice faltered. "I don't want us to become... like them. Caught up in old ghosts, pretending everything's perfect while cracks start forming under our feet."

The words hit him—because he realized, suddenly, that beneath all of this, beneath the fire and the jealousy and the sharp-edged words, was fear.

Fear that love, real love, could still be fragile.

He let out a slow breath, reaching for her hands, and this time, she didn't pull away. He held them gently, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles, grounding her in the way he always did.

"Pansy," he murmured, voice steady, "we are not like them."

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her eyes searching his face like she wanted to believe him, but something inside her wouldn't let her.

"We are honest with each other, even when it's hard," he continued, squeezing her hands. "Even when it hurts. And you can tell me anything—anything—and I will always listen. But you have to trust that we are different. That we work because we love each other, not because some Ministry document told us to."

Yeah….honest...with each other .

"I don't want to lose you."

The words slipped out, barely more than a breath, but they carried a weight that made his heart clench. That voice—the one she only used in moments like this, stripped of all bravado and sharp wit—was so unlike the Pansy the world saw, the Pansy who could command a room with a single glare.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her in, holding on tightly, protectively, like he could shield her from the thoughts tearing through her mind.

"You won't," he promised, his voice low but unwavering. "You won't lose me. Ever."

The weight of the moment pressed down on them, thick and unrelenting, but the warmth of their embrace held them together. The earlier tension had eased, but something still lingered in the air—unspoken words, unvoiced fears that neither knew how to tame.

She shifted slightly against him, her cheek resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"Nevie?"

"Yes, darling?"

His fingers tangled gently into her hair, soothing, grounding.

A deep breath. Then—

"If this whole... shit show hadn't happened, would we ever have fallen in love?"

The question came so softly, so hesitantly, that it took him a moment to realize what she was really asking.

Not just about fate, or chance, but about them—about whether what they had was real or just a consequence of circumstance.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to see her face, brow furrowing in quiet contemplation.

"I highly doubt that."

She blinked up at him, lips parting slightly in surprise. "Wow. Thanks, Nevie. Way to make a girl feel special."

He huffed out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "No, I mean it. I saw you at Hogwarts, at events, but... I don't think I ever would've had the courage to actually talk to you. You were untouchable."

A small, bitter laugh slipped past her lips. "I wasn't untouchable. I was just mean."

He smiled, the corners of his mouth tilting up in quiet amusement. "You weren't just mean."

She tilted her head, arching a brow. "No?"

"No." His voice softened. "You were intimidating."

Pansy smirked, her usual sass creeping back in. "So you were paying attention."

"How could I not?" He traced slow circles against her back, his touch light but unwavering. "You were impossible to ignore, Sassy. You always have been."

The teasing glint in her eyes faded slightly as she searched his face, something more uncertain, unsteady lingering in the space between them.

"But seriously, Nevie." Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper now. "If the Ministry hadn't forced us together... If this whole mess never happened... would we have just passed each other forever?"

He exhaled, his gaze warm, unwavering, as he cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing across her skin with an almost reverent softness.

"I don't know," he admitted, voice tinged with something close to regret. "Maybe we wouldn't have. Maybe we would've just gone on with our lives. But I don't like to think about that."

Her lashes fluttered, and she glanced away for a second before looking back at him. "Why not?"

"Because somehow, we're here. And I think..." He let out a slow breath, his forehead gently resting against hers. "I think maybe it was always supposed to happen this way."

She bit her lip, eyes flickering over his face like she was trying to read something in his expression.

"I hated you at first."

Neville let out a laugh. "Yeah. I remember."

"I thought it was a joke." A wry smile ghosted across her lips. "Us? Together? It didn't make sense. But then..."

She hesitated, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt a little tighter.

"But then, I don't know. You just... you're different, Nevie. You made me feel safe. Seen."

His breath caught, and before he could stop himself, he pulled her in even closer, pressing a kiss to her temple.

"You make me feel the same way," he murmured. "I never thought I'd find someone who understands me like you do. Who sees me—the real me—and still stays."

Her arms tightened around him, her face buried against his chest, her voice muffled but raw with emotion.

"I don't know how to do this sometimes. Love. I'm not used to... feeling this much."

He smiled against her hair, fingers stroking slow, comforting circles along her back.

"That's okay. We're learning together, aren't we?" He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. "We've both been through hell, but we came out the other side. And that counts for something."

A shaky breath. A pause.

Then—

"I just—" She swallowed hard. "I wonder... what if one day it's too much? What if we become like them? The couples who fall apart?"

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her voice breaking on the last words.

"I can't lose you, Nevie."

He exhaled slowly, cupping her face gently, firmly, forcing her to see the truth in his eyes.

"You won't lose me."

She searched his face, as if waiting for a lie, for something fragile to break beneath his words.

"Promise me."

His thumb brushed along her cheek, catching the single tear that escaped.

"I promise."

A silence stretched between them, heavy, unbreakable.

Then—finally—she let out a slow breath, closing her eyes as she leaned into him.

"I love you so much," she whispered, the words trembling on her lips.

He smiled, pulling her even closer. "I love you too, Parky." His voice was warm, steady, unshakable. "Always."

And in that moment, wrapped in each other's arms, the world outside their little bubble of peace didn't matter.

Their love wasn't perfect. It wasn't clean, or easy, or the kind of romance found in fairy tales.

It was messy. It was complicated. It was real.

And it was theirs.