Serpent, Raven, and the Game of Queens

Pansy burst through the ornate penthouse door like a living tempest—her eyes alight with a fury so fierce it could ignite the very air. Each step she took resounded with pent-up desperation and raw emotion as she stormed through the silent corridor, determined to confront the source of her vexation. She had come to nag Hermione—her urgent exasperation a familiar refrain—but to her dismay, the one person she expected to find was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, as she raced past the grand hall, her gaze fell upon a startling tableau in the study. Amidst a chaotic scatter of overturned papers and half-opened books lay Draco Malfoy, once the epitome of controlled elegance, now reduced to a pitiful figure. His impeccably groomed appearance was in ruins, the remnants of a long, torrid night of drunken despair evident in the disarray of his disheveled hair and stained, crumpled garments. He was sprawled on the floor with his head bowed low, tears glistening on his cheeks like cruel pearls, and his normally commanding voice had withered into ragged, incoherent mutterings.

Pansy approached him with a mix of scorn and heartbreak blazing in her eyes. "Well, that's a new low," she declared, her voice echoing through the study with a potent blend of sarcasm and deep-seated disappointment. "Even for you, Draco. What on earth happened? Did you discover that Destiny's child split?" Her words, though laced with biting mockery, were underpinned by a genuine concern that belied her hardened exterior.

His red-rimmed eyes, glazed with the haze of alcohol and humiliation, flared with indignation as he glared up at her. "Get the fuck away from my face, whore," he snapped, his tone harsh and brittle—a damning retort that cut through the charged silence of the room. Yet, far from being intimidated, Pansy's resolve only grew stronger. She had long since learned that his vitriolic outbursts were not a reflection of her worth, but of his crumbling pride.

"Sometimes, you truly forget who you're talking to," she shot back, stepping closer with a fierce intensity that sent tremors through the air. "You might think you're my superior, that you're my boss, or even that I owe you a modicum of friendship—but let me be absolutely clear: I am not your obedient little dog to be barked at and ordered around. Who do you think you are, Draco?"

Her challenge echoed off the walls, reverberating in the silent room like a defiant battle cry. His face twisted in a contorted blend of anger and wounded vulnerability. For a moment, the imposing figure he once cut was completely unmoored, his drunken bravado dissolving into regret and bitter self-loathing. The corridors of the penthouse seemed to hold their breath, as though the very portraits that lined the walls mourned the loss of the man he had once been.

In that charged, excruciating moment, every unspoken grievance and every shattered dream lay bare between them—a tempest of hurt and defiance swirling in the space where Draco's authority had once reigned supreme. Pansy's words, laced with both scorn and a sad, resolute determination, cut through the lingering haze of intoxication, leaving behind only the raw truth of her unyielding spirit.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze, every heartbeat echoing in a charged silence that felt like an eternity. Draco now appeared reduced to a pitiful shadow of his former self. His usual composure, his well-practiced air of superiority—those were long gone. He hadn't even donned his dressing gown in years, and now his eyes, glazed with the haze of intoxication, blinked slowly as if struck by a force far beyond his control. His drunken bravado faltered spectacularly; the power he so desperately craved slipped from his grasp, leaving behind only the bitter tang of regret and sorrow.

"She—she left me," he mumbled, his voice cracking under the weight of his wounded pride, each syllable a pained whisper of defeat. In that fragile moment, his attempt to reassert authority fell flat, drowned out by the raw vulnerability in his tone.

Her lips curled into a scornful smile, one that danced with both biting humor and a dark, unyielding satisfaction. "Ah, finally Granger has come into her senses," she mused, her words dripping with an unmistakable edge. "Good for her—at least she isn't as brain-dead as you sometimes are." The sarcasm in her voice cut through the heavy atmosphere like a shard of ice, leaving no doubt as to the depth of her disdain.

His eyes flared with indignation, a flicker of anger igniting behind his tired gaze. "How could you—" he began, but Pansy, unrelenting, cut him off with a dismissive shake of her head. Her tone, now rising to a roar, brooked no argument.

"Oh, shut the fuck up, MALFOY," she snapped, each word laced with venom and raw emotion. "You dragged her through hell and back, and now you expect to stand there and pretend nothing ever happened? I know your version, Draco, and it's nothing short of a lie." Her voice was a relentless barrage, a litany of truth that pierced through the dim light of the room.

The impact of her words was visceral. His features twisted, the alcohol that had once masked his vulnerability now failing to cover the raw despair beneath. "You think I'm a liar now?" he spat, his tone desperate, each word echoing with the sorrow of his shattered pride. "If you need to vomit, do it on your side—so you won't choke. And if you want Hermione to be at peace, then don't turn, not even a fraction." His words, heavy with indignation, hung in the air like a final decree.

In that moment, the space between them became a battleground for every hidden resentment, every unspoken hurt. The air itself trembled with the intensity of their exchange—no one could ignore the brutal honesty, the searing truth that had been laid bare. Every syllable was a spark, and the silence that followed threatened to shatter what little remained of their fragile alliance.

Nothing was left unsaid in that charged, explosive moment. The truth, raw and unfiltered, hung like a dark cloud over them, a testament to the cost of betrayal and the price of pride. And as the echoes of their voices faded into the oppressive stillness, the room bore silent witness to the depths of pain and the fierce desire for redemption that simmered beneath the surface.

For a long, tense moment, neither spoke, the silence heavy with unsaid truths and wounded pride. Pansy's expression hardened as she took one last look at Draco, her eyes blazing with a mix of disappointment and a fierce resolve to protect what little integrity remained in their fractured world. Without another word, she turned and strode away, her footsteps echoing down the hall. The cold mask on her face belied the storm of emotions swirling inside—sorrow for Hermione's suffering, anger at Draco's recklessness, and a bitter, seething jealousy at how far he had fallen.

In that charged silence, Pansy knew one thing with unwavering clarity: she would do everything in her power to shield those she cared about from his destructive path. And as she left, the echo of her parting words lingered like a promise—a promise that, no matter how brutal or chaotic things became, she would stand as the last line of defense for her friends, for Hermione, and for the sanctity of their fragile, unspoken family.

~~~~~~

Pansy burst through the door with a dramatic flourish, her heart pounding with an insatiable need to share her latest artistic triumph. All she had wanted was to show off her brand-new portraits of Lady and Princess—two images so vivid and alive they practically sang of mischief and majesty. But fate, it seemed, had conspired against her: Malfoy had somehow managed to ruin her carefully curated vibe. Undeterred by his interference, her frustration quickly transformed into pure, unadulterated determination.

Without wasting a single second, she sprinted toward the Floo, practically shouting her plea into the crackling magical flames. "Lunaaaaa!" Her voice echoed down the corridors as she raced, her high heels clicking like the rapid beating of a war drum.

Moments later, Luna emerged, a look of exasperation mingled with amusement on her face. "Merlin, Pansy, can you shut up for once? Why would you scare away my capybaras?" Luna chided, her tone light even as she struggled to maintain her own fragile composure. The absurdity of the request—capybaras, of all creatures—made Pansy pause for a split second, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Oh, for the love of all things magical, how many animals do you need? Theo isn't enough?" Pansy quipped, her words dripping with playful sarcasm as she dodged Luna's incredulous glance. Luna arched an elegant brow. "What do you need?" she asked coolly, curiosity mingling with a trace of irritation.

She leaned in conspiratorially. "I have huuuge gossip," she declared, her voice barely containing the bubbling excitement beneath. "Come over then," Luna replied, a wry smile breaking through her exasperation.

The moment Pansy arrived at the sprawling Nott estate, she wasted no time—practically storming through its grand corridors and immaculately maintained gardens, her heels clicking against the stone paths with purpose. She had urgent business, and absolutely no patience for delays.

She found Luna outside, lounging on the grass with Lysander, a picture of ethereal serenity—until Pansy's whirlwind presence shattered the peaceful afternoon.

But it wasn't just Luna and Lysander who greeted her. No, there was… something else. Something scruffy, unfortunate, and entirely unappealing nestled beside the little boy as he giggled and patted its coarse fur. Pansy's nose scrunched in immediate disapproval.

"Ugh, what is that?" she muttered, recoiling slightly.

Lysander, blissfully unbothered by Pansy's dramatic distaste, beamed up at her, his small hands still buried in the animal's rough fur. With an enthusiasm only toddlers could muster, he lifted his arms toward her in an unmistakable demand. "Rocio!" he shouted gleefully, eyes sparkling.

Pansy sighed, utterly powerless against him, and scooped him into her arms. "Oh, pumpkin," she cooed, pressing a kiss to his messy curls. "She's quite… special, isn't she?" She forced a polite smile as she eyed the peculiar creature warily. Only Luna Lovegood would allow such an offensive-looking animal onto her property, let alone treat it like a beloved pet.

Lysander, utterly unconcerned with Pansy's obvious disdain, simply snuggled against her shoulder, babbling happily.

Luna, watching the exchange with thinly veiled amusement, finally exhaled and arched a brow. "Alright, Parkinson. You've clearly got something to say. Spill."

Pansy straightened, her mind snapping back to her mission. The Gossip. With Lysander still firmly attached to her hip, she turned her full attention to Luna, her expression morphing into one of pure theatrical flair.

"I have some juicy news," she declared, her voice practically dripping with intrigue.

Luna, who had spent far too much time dealing with Pansy's dramatics over the years, simply gave an indulgent nod. "Let me hear it," she encouraged, eyes twinkling with curiosity.

Pansy inhaled, ready to unleash her tale in all its riveting glory. "So today, I wanted to show off my new portrait of Lady and Princess—"

But before she could even finish the sentence, Lysander decided to interject.

"Pviness!" he shrieked, with the kind of uncontainable joy that only a toddler could summon.

Pansy groaned. This child. But she soldiered on. "—and I went over to Mimi so she could see Lady's new—"

"Ladii!" Lysander interrupted again, giggling as he swung his little legs in delight.

Pansy closed her eyes, took a slow breath, and counted to three. Then, she exhaled sharply and opened her eyes, glaring at the sky as if seeking divine intervention. "Oh, for fuck's sake, child."

With a swift flick of her wrist, she summoned her most loyal (and long-suffering) house-elf.

"NELLY!" she called, voice carrying through the estate.

With a small pop, Nelly appeared, looking exhausted before she had even been given a task.

"Please bring over the dogs for Master Lysander—I just need him to shut up for a moment."

Luna gasped, scandalized. "Pansy!" she admonished.

But Pansy simply waved her off.

Nelly bowed without question and, with another pop, disappeared to retrieve the very animals that had started this whole mess. Lysander, thrilled, clapped his tiny hands, already anticipating his beloved pets.

Luna crossed her arms, her expression a perfect mixture of amusement and resignation. "You are… impossible."

Pansy smirked, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I prefer relentlessly efficient."

Luna sighed, shaking her head, but she couldn't hide her grin. This was Pansy Parkinson—loud, dramatic, unapologetic… and, despite it all, completely and utterly irreplaceable.

"Pansy," Luna sighed, rubbing her temples, "I swear on Merlin's saggy balls, if you don't just say it—"

Pansy flicked her hair over her shoulder with an almost theatrical smirk, her entire posture exuding the satisfaction of someone about to drop a bombshell, the kind of news that would send ripples through their entire circle. She clapped her hands together as if announcing the final act of a grand performance, her voice dripping with amusement and triumph. "Hermione finally left Draco," she declared, savoring the words like the finest wine, stretching them out as if tasting their sweetness. "Can you believe it? Isn't it just—fabulous?"

Luna had been in the middle of an exaggerated eye-roll, no doubt prepared for whatever dramatic nonsense Pansy was about to spin, but at that moment, her face changed entirely. The usual lightness in her features dimmed, the dreamy quality vanished like mist under harsh sunlight, replaced by something sharp, something heavy. She exhaled, the sound edged with frustration as she fixed Pansy with an unreadable stare. "Pansy," she said, her voice carrying an uncharacteristic weight, slow and precise, as if measuring her words, ensuring they cut the way they were meant to. "It's not good. It's fucking sad."

Pansy scoffed, the sound dismissive, almost incredulous, like Luna had just insulted her impeccable taste in fashion. She waved a careless hand, swatting away the very notion of sympathy like an inconvenient gnat. "Sad? What's sad is that she didn't do it sooner. That woman has been through hell and back because of him. She endured everything. For what? Some fucked-up idea of love? She deserved better." Her voice was a sharp contrast to Luna's, brimming with self-assured finality, the kind of certainty that didn't leave room for arguments.

But Luna tilted her head slightly, watching Pansy in that unnervingly knowing way she had, like she was peeling back layers without Pansy's permission, prying into the spaces where Pansy didn't want anyone to look. "And Neville didn't?" she asked, and it wasn't a question so much as a quiet accusation, a truth wrapped in the softness of her voice, a blade hidden in silk.

The smirk that had been so smug just seconds ago faltered, a crack forming in the carefully curated facade. A slow, creeping chill spread through her chest, curling around her ribs, squeezing something tight inside her, something she didn't want to acknowledge. The words had landed somewhere deep, in a place Pansy didn't let people reach. "What?" The word barely made it past her lips, almost a whisper, almost nothing at all.

Luna's expression remained unchanged, serene yet merciless, as though she had all the time in the world to hold a mirror up to Pansy and let her see herself for what she was. "Neville didn't endure you? He didn't take everything you threw at him?" The way she said it was damning, not an accusation but a statement of fact, and the weight of it pressed down on Pansy's chest like a hand forcing her underwater.

Her nails dug into her palms, as if grounding herself in pain would somehow keep the emotions at bay, keep her from unraveling. "This is different," she bit out, stiff and controlled, clinging desperately to her sense of righteousness. "Neville chose this. He loves me."

Luna's voice softened, and somehow that made it worse, because there was no malice in it, no intention to wound—just an understanding so profound that it stripped Pansy bare. "Or do you just think the only way someone would love you is if they were forced to marry you?" The words landed like a physical blow, cutting through Pansy's bravado with ruthless precision, shattering every carefully placed defense.

The air between them went still, violently still, like the moment before a storm crashes down, like the exact second before a dam breaks. Pansy's breath hitched, and she was staring at Luna but not really seeing her, because suddenly there was too much, too much in her chest, too much pressing against her throat, too much of something she had spent years keeping buried. Her fists clenched so tightly that her knuckles turned white, her entire body trembling with something far uglier than anger, something unspoken, something raw and terrifying. Luna wasn't just attacking her, she was seeing her, and that was so much worse.

The silence stretched between them like a battlefield, neither willing to retreat nor advance. Pansy's chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths, her heart hammering as Luna's words sank deeper than she wanted to admit. The weight of them pressed against her ribs, wrapping around her lungs like an iron vice, suffocating her with the cold, unforgiving truth. She tried to swallow it down, but it clawed its way up, leaving behind the raw taste of something bitter, something ugly, something she refused to name.

Luna wasn't looking at her with anger, nor with the smug satisfaction of someone who had won an argument. That would have been easier. That would have given Pansy a reason to lash out, a reason to make it a fight rather than whatever this was. But no, Luna's face held something worse—understanding. Pity. As if she could see right through Pansy, as if she could peel back the layers of confidence, the arrogance, the sharp wit, and find something fragile underneath. It made Pansy feel exposed, raw in a way she hadn't been since she was a child clutching at her father's robes, desperately trying to be loved, to be noticed, to be something worth keeping.

She clenched her jaw so tightly she thought her teeth might crack. "You bitch," she hissed, voice trembling in a way that made her stomach turn. She needed to be angry, needed to hold onto it like a shield, because the alternative was worse. Because if she let go of the anger, all that would be left was the truth. And she wasn't ready for that.

Luna didn't react. She just watched, her gaze steady, her hands resting lightly on her lap as if she was waiting for Pansy to get whatever it was out of her system. It infuriated her. Made her want to scream, to throw something, to break something just to see if Luna would finally flinch. But she wouldn't. Because Luna Lovegood didn't say things she didn't mean.

Pansy had spent years perfecting the art of deflection, of turning every moment into something sharp and cruel before anyone could get too close, before anyone could see the cracks beneath the perfect, untouchable surface. But Luna had bypassed every defense with a single sentence, a casual remark that had gutted her more efficiently than any blade ever could.

"FUCK YOU," she spat, louder this time, but it still wasn't enough to shake Luna. "Fuck you and your perfect marriage. Fuck you and your perfect family. Fuck you for never having to wonder if you were enough."

Her hands were trembling, and that wasn't fair. Luna should have been the one breaking. Not her. Not Pansy Parkinson, who had built herself from the ground up into something untouchable, something invincible. But she wasn't invincible now. She felt like glass, like the pressure building inside her might finally crack through the surface and leave her in pieces.

Luna still didn't move. She just looked at her, not with pity, not with judgment, but with understanding. And that was the worst part. Because it meant Luna had seen right through her from the beginning. Had always seen her.

Pansy couldn't take it. Couldn't stand there for another second, waiting for Luna to say something else, something worse, something she wasn't prepared to hear. She turned on her heel and stormed out, her pulse hammering in her ears, drowning out everything but the echo of Luna's voice, the truth she couldn't run from, the words that would haunt her no matter how far she went.

Because Luna was right.

And that was unforgivable.

~~~~~~

Pansy stormed through the grand halls of the Nott estate like a woman possessed, her pulse roaring in her ears, her vision blurred at the edges. Every sharp, clipped step of her heeled boots echoed through the corridors, but she barely registered the sound, too consumed by the words that chased her down like a relentless specter, sinking their claws into the deepest parts of her mind.

Or do you just think the only way someone would love you is if they were forced to?

It clung to her skin, coiling around her ribcage like a serpent, constricting tighter with every breath. She had meant to leave with dignity. She had meant to walk out with her head high, as if Luna's words were nothing more than a fleeting breeze against her skin, an insignificant annoyance to be brushed aside.

But the moment she Apparated home, the weight of it crushed her.

Her knees hit the marble floor with a muted thud, her breath shattering into short, ragged gasps. The world tilted, and she clenched her fists against the cold, unforgiving tiles as if grounding herself could stop the spiral of thoughts that crashed into her like a tidal wave. Every muscle in her body trembled, her entire being rejecting the truth that had been laid bare before her.

She hated Luna for saying it.

She hated herself more for believing it.

This was a forced marriage. That had always been the truth, hadn't it? She had not been wooed with love letters and stolen kisses beneath moonlit skies. There had been no slow-burn romance, no grand declarations of love that defied all odds. No, she had been given to Neville, a strategic decision inked onto parchment, a tie between families written in a language older than love itself.

But the only thing—the only thing—that made it bearable, that made it beautiful, that made it everything—was that Neville loved her.

That had always been her anchor. The one unwavering truth in a world that had never been kind to her. He loved her. It wasn't duty, it wasn't obligation—it was him, choosing her, over and over again.

But what if one day he didn't?

What if one day he woke up, stretched his arms, breathed in the morning air, and realized he didn't have to love her?

What would be left?

The thought cracked something deep inside her, something she had spent years burying beneath layers of wit and cruelty and deflection. Her breathing hitched violently, and she barely made it to the nearest sofa before collapsing into it, pressing her hands to her face as the sobs tore through her like a wound being ripped open.

She never cried. Not in front of people. Not alone. She had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of indifference, forging a shield so impenetrable that no one—no one—had ever seen what lay beneath. But now, alone in the cavernous emptiness of their home, she wept like a child.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until—

She felt it before she heard him.

A shift in the air. A warmth, subtle but unmistakable. The way the weight of the world seemed to redistribute itself when he was near, as if the universe itself acknowledged that wherever she was, he would always be drawn to her. It was a whisper of their connection, a tether between them that had never frayed, no matter how much she tested it, no matter how much she feared its strength.

And then, his voice. Low. Steady. Unyielding.

Neville's voice was laced with something Pansy rarely heard from him—panic. It wasn't loud or desperate, but it was there, woven beneath his words, lurking in the way his breath quickened as he crossed the room in long, hurried strides. The moment he reached her, his hands cradled her face, thumbs brushing over damp, mascara-streaked skin, tilting her chin up so he could take her in properly. His dark eyes searched hers, cataloging every tear, every tremor, every piece of her that was fraying at the edges.

"My bloom," he whispered, his voice barely more than breath, rough with concern. "What's wrong?"

She wanted to deflect. To sneer, to push him away, to roll her eyes and tell him he was overreacting. She wanted to tell him it was nothing, to slap a joke over the wounds Luna had ripped open inside her. But her throat was tight, and her chest ached, and all she could manage was a broken, "Luna… she was… so cruel."

The change in Neville was immediate. His body tensed beneath his soft cotton shirt, every muscle in his arms tightening where they held her. His brows furrowed, but not in anger—not at her, at least. No, his expression was something deeper, something heavier. Worry. Hurt. A protective edge so sharp she could feel it in her bones.

Without a word, he pulled her in, crushing her against his chest. His arms were strong and unyielding, his scent—clean, woodsy, Neville—enveloping her like a shield. She squeezed her eyes shut against the fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over, pressing her face into his shoulder, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt as if he might slip away if she didn't hold tight enough.

And in that moment, just for that moment, she could breathe again.

Because if this marriage was built on anything, it was this. The way he held her when she felt like falling apart. The way he didn't ask for explanations she wasn't ready to give. The way he loved her, even when she didn't know how to be loved.

But even as she clung to him, the fear lurked beneath it all.

Because what if Luna was right?

Pansy had only ever truly, selflessly loved two people in her entire life.

Neville.

And Luna.

And if either of them ever left her—if either of them chose to walk away—she would burn the world down for them.

Not metaphorically. Not in some poetic, tragic, wistful way.

She would scorch the fucking earth. Tear apart the heavens, drown cities in ruin before she let them slip through her fingers.

Which is why she was now pacing the length of their sitting room like a caged animal, her hands shaking in barely-contained fury, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps that did nothing—nothing—to calm her the fuck down. Her thoughts twisted into knots, her skin too tight, her heart wrong inside her chest. Neville sat on the couch, his arms resting over the back of it, watching her with that look. That maddening patience, that infuriating quiet steadiness, that made her feel like a hurricane screaming into an immovable mountain.

"She was irritated that I offended her a fucking capybara," Pansy snapped, waving a hand dramatically. "Have you seen that animal? Weird-looking and—"

Neville raised an unimpressed brow.

"Pansy."

She ignored him, storming across the room. "And—"

"What was the real reason?"

She hesitated.

The tightness in her throat doubled. The churning in her stomach made her want to vomit.

Neville didn't press her. Didn't demand. Didn't push.

He just… waited.

And fuck, that was so much worse.

Her mouth twisted into something bitter, something close to a snarl. "I said it was a wonderful thing that Hermione finally left Malfoy," she admitted, crossing her arms, voice sharp with stubborn righteousness. "And she said it wasn't. And I said it was, and she said—"

She broke off.

Neville tilted his head slightly, his patience never wavering. "And she said what?"

She clenched her fists so tight her nails bit into her palms.

Her voice wavered when she screamed, "SHE SAID THAT YOU SHOULD LEAVE ME!"

Neville flinched.

Not at the volume. Not at the venom. But at what lay beneath it. The terror. The raw, gut-wrenching, soul-deep fear that trembled in her voice, in her shoulders, in the way she was looking at him like she was already bracing for the inevitable.

A slow inhale.

A deep exhale.

And then, his voice. Soft. Steady. Unshakable.

"She didn't say that."

Pansy's vision blurred again, her entire body vibrating with emotion she didn't know what to do with. "SHE DID!"

Neville stood.

In an instant, his hands were on her arms, pulling her close, grounding her, steadying her before she could spiral completely out of control. His thumbs brushed the bare skin of her shoulders, firm, reassuring, an anchor against the storm raging inside her.

"Pansy," he said gently, his voice the only thing that tethered her to reality. "What did Luna actually say that made you so upset?"

And that was the question, wasn't it?

Not what Luna had said.

But why it had shattered Pansy so completely.

She swallowed hard, shaking her head, the fight bleeding out of her all at once.

Because the truth was—

She already knew.

Luna apparated into the house with a soft crack, her arms full, cradling both pugs against her chest like a peace offering. The moment Pansy saw her standing there in the doorway, she froze, her entire body going rigid as if struck by an unseen force. Shock flickered across her tear-streaked face, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, the remnants of heartbreak still clinging to her like an unwanted second skin. She had been bracing for this moment, for the inevitable confrontation, but seeing Luna standing there, looking just as hesitant and burdened by their earlier fight, made everything inside her twist painfully.

Neville, who had been quietly watching from the other room, immediately stepped forward. He walked over to Luna, carefully taking the dogs from her arms with the same effortless grace in which he handled everything in life. He pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek—a silent expression of gratitude and quiet affection—before murmuring under his breath, "Good luck." His voice was low, knowing, a whisper between friends. Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving them alone in the thick, suffocating tension of everything unsaid.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence between them stretched long and taut, charged with the weight of their shared history, their pain, and their unbreakable bond that, despite its fractures, had never shattered completely. Pansy's breathing was still uneven from the aftermath of her earlier outburst, and Luna stood there with guilt carved into every soft feature, her lips parting slightly as if searching for the right words.

But, as always, it was Pansy who was the braver of the two when it came to emotional vulnerability.

"I would like to apologize," she said abruptly, her voice clipped, formal. It was the kind of apology that barely scraped the surface, the kind that was more about filling the silence than addressing the real wound. "That I offended Rocio."

Luna blinked, lips pressing into a thin line, clearly unimpressed. "It's not about the animal."

Pansy cleared her throat, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "I would also like to apologize for being snappy with Lysander."

"It's not about him either."

Pansy stilled.

The room suddenly felt too big, and she felt too small standing there, surrounded by the wreckage of one of the worst fights they had ever had.

Luna exhaled slowly, her gaze never leaving Pansy's as if she were holding something fragile, something sacred, in her hands. "Pansy… I'm pregnant."

For one agonizing heartbeat, the world seemed to stop.

Then—

"OH MY GOOOOOOOOD!"

The sheer force of Pansy's scream could have cracked glass. Before Luna could react, Pansy launched herself across the room with the speed and enthusiasm of a woman possessed. She crashed into Luna with an almost violent level of excitement, arms wrapping around her best friend as she spun her around wildly, laughter bubbling from her lips in pure, unfiltered joy.

She was kissing her cheeks, her mouth, anywhere she could reach, giddy and overwhelmed in a way she hadn't been in a long time. The fight, the pain, the guilt—it all faded for that brief, blissful moment.

Luna let out a breathless chuckle, squirming in Pansy's arms. "Girl, stop the kissing," she scolded playfully, her voice full of fond exasperation. "Take me on a date first or something."

Pansy grinned wickedly, pressing one last dramatic kiss to Luna's forehead before pulling back just enough to cup her face. "Sorry, love, can't. You're married."

The moment should have been nothing but pure happiness.

But then, just like that, reality crept back in. The joy dimmed slightly, giving way to the undercurrent of hurt that still lingered between them. The wounds weren't fully healed, not yet. The echoes of what had been said earlier still hung in the air like ghosts unwilling to be exorcized.

Luna took a deep breath, her expression shifting, growing more serious. "I would like to deeply apologize," she said softly. "For hurting your feelings."

Pansy felt something tighten in her throat, her grip on Luna's arms loosening slightly.

Luna swallowed, eyes filled with a remorse so heavy it nearly broke her. "I know I hit you where it hurts the most. And I have no excuse for that."

Pansy didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't trust herself to speak.

Then, without thinking, she was hugging Luna again, but this time it wasn't out of excitement or giddy happiness. It was something else. Something heavier. Something forgiving. Something healing.

Luna exhaled shakily, her entire body softening as she let herself be held. "Pansy, I feel terrible about what I said."

Pansy, ever the dramatist, clutched her chest as if she were on the verge of collapse. "Terrible? Luna, I almost died!" she declared, her voice dripping with theatrical agony. "You nearly snatched the very breath from my lungs! I perished!"

Luna let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head before cupping Pansy's face and pressing a warm, lingering kiss to her cheek. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice softer now, filled with sincerity.

Pansy hesitated for a beat, then sighed dramatically. "I think it's okay…" she muttered, but the wounded edge to her voice betrayed her.

Luna pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. "No. It's not okay," she insisted, her tone firm yet filled with love. "It was horrific, it was cruel, and I wish I could take it back. I love you, Pansy. And I promise you—I swear to you—I will never say anything like that again."

Pansy swallowed hard, her heart swelling with emotion, her walls cracking just enough to let the warmth back in. Then, with a shaky exhale, she pulled Luna into another fierce hug, burying her face into her shoulder.

"I love you too," she murmured, her voice thick, her heart finally at peace again.

~~~~~~

It started over tea—though calling it tea was a generous term when the room was filled with half-empty wine glasses and the remnants of a charcuterie board that had long since been abandoned. The bored housewives—as they had jokingly come to call themselves—sat in the lavish sunroom of the Nott estate, the afternoon light slanting through the tall windows, casting golden hues over their extravagant yet entirely unnecessary plotting.

But this? This wasn't just another afternoon of gossiping about their husbands' latest exploits or debating which wizarding designer had the best fall collection. No, this was serious.

The Malfoy situation was spiraling.

Hermione had left. Really left. And while both Luna and Pansy had been there to pick up the shattered pieces—comforting her, supporting her, getting drunk with her—there was no denying the fact that a Draco without Hermione was a danger to himself, to others, and most importantly, to their peace of mind.

"We have to fix this," Pansy had announced dramatically, sprawled on Luna's plush chaise lounge, a chilled flute of champagne balanced between her fingers.

Luna, who had been lazily twirling her fingers in Lysander's soft curls, hummed in agreement. "Mmm, it is getting tedious. He's been dramatically drinking himself into oblivion for weeks now. And Hermione? She's pretending she's fine, but I can see her aura. It's a mess. Too much dark blue."

Pansy flicked a grape off the table. "Well, obviously. She's miserable. He's miserable. We're miserable watching it. And frankly, I don't have time for Draco's self-inflicted tragic hero nonsense when I have an actual babies to raise." She straightened up, eyes gleaming with determination. "So, we're fixing it."

Luna nodded, as if that was the most obvious conclusion in the world. "Agreed."

Pansy slammed her glass down onto the table, leaning forward with the intensity of someone plotting a full-scale war campaign. "Master Plan: Operation Malfoy Reconciliation begins now."

Luna sighed, shaking her head. "You can't name it that."

"Fine. The Grand Malfoy Redemption Arc."

"…Still no."

" Dramione : The Sequel."

Luna shot her a look.

"Fine. The Plan," Pansy huffed, rolling her eyes.

"Better," Luna conceded with a small smirk.

Pansy stood, pacing now, her mind spinning with strategy. "Alright, here's what we're going to do. You, my ethereal little weirdo, are going to work on Granger."

Luna tilted her head in consideration. "Logical. She trusts me. But how?"

"You visit her," Pansy said as if it were obvious. "Find a reason. Drop in unannounced. Bring a sad-looking dessert—like a half-eaten treacle tart. Guilt her into talking. Make her feel the loneliness. Remind her that she wants him, despite how insufferable he is."

Luna sipped her wine thoughtfully. "And what will you do?"

Pansy grinned. Wickedly.

"I," she declared dramatically, "am going straight to the source of all Malfoy guilt and manipulation."

Luna blinked. "You mean—"

"Narcissa," Pansy purred. "I will handle her."

And just like that, the plan was set in motion. Two women, hell bent on forcing love back together through sheer force of will, armed with guilt, theatrics, and an unshakable belief in their own ability to meddle.

The Malfoys never stood a chance.

~~~~~~

Neville was already in the bedroom, waiting for her. His posture was relaxed, but there was something in his eyes—an amused curiosity as he leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed. He had been expecting her, and Pansy knew it.

"Well?" he prompted, tilting his head slightly.

Pansy scoffed dramatically, tossing her bag onto the chair and striding toward him with an exaggerated flourish. "Nothing well, sir!" she declared. "We made up because she loves me."

Neville smirked. "And you love her."

She rolled her eyes. "Why are you like this?"

"Because," he said, pushing off the bedpost and stepping closer, "after three years, it's still hard for you to say your emotions out loud. So I'm trying to push the button."

She gasped in faux offense, her hands on her hips. "That is not true! I tell you how much I adore you every single day! And if that's not enough, then I—"

"Hush, my love," he murmured, placing a finger gently against her lips. "I have something for you."

Her entire demeanor shifted in an instant. Her eyes lit up with childlike excitement. "A DOG?!?"

He groaned, rubbing his temples. "Pansy, we are not getting another dog."

"Yet," she muttered under her breath.

Ignoring her, he reached into his pocket. "I found something special while I was in the Muggle shops today."

She perked up, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. "Ohhhh, let me see!"

He raised a brow. "Will you be a good girl and wait patiently on your knees?"

And just like that, she felt it. A rush of heat pooled low in her stomach. The shift in tone. The way his voice dipped slightly. Her heartbeat stuttered, then sped up.

Oh.

So that's how tonight is going to go.

Her body responded before her mind even finished processing. Without hesitation, she reached for the hem of her dress, peeling it off in one fluid motion. Letting it drop to the floor, she stepped out of it with slow, deliberate movements—keeping her gaze locked on him the entire time.

Then, just as gracefully, she moved to the foot of the bed and sank to her knees.

Her pulse thrummed in anticipation. She could feel the cool air against her bare skin, could see the way Neville's jaw clenched, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her waiting there—obedient, eager, his.

He exhaled slowly, stepping forward. "Are you a brat tonight?"

Pansy swallowed, licking her lips. "No… no, sir. I'm a good girl. I'm sitting right here."

Pansy knelt at the foot of their bed, her back straight, thighs parted just enough to be enticing, hands resting delicately on them. The cool air of their bedroom sent a shiver up her spine as she watched Neville take his time—rolling up the sleeves of his button-down shirt, his movements slow and deliberate, the muscles in his forearms flexing slightly with each adjustment.

Her pulse quickened.

He was always composed, always steady. That was the thing about Neville—he never rushed. He savored. And right now, he was savoring the sight of her, kneeling before him, waiting for his next command.

The anticipation was maddening.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. Not a collar, then, she mused, her lips curling into the hint of a smirk.

"Take your knickers off," Neville said, his voice calm but firm.

A delicious chill ran down her spine at the authority in his tone. She obeyed immediately, lifting her hips slightly as she slid the lace down her thighs and let them pool at her knees before kicking them aside.

"I'm sorry, sir," she whispered, looking up at him through her lashes.

His lips twitched as he reached out, tracing the line of her jaw with his knuckles. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, tilting her chin up just enough to make her shiver. "You will be."

His eyes were dark, filled with something possessive, something hungry.

And Pansy—Merlin help her—lived for it.

He finally crouched down in front of her, placing the velvet box on the floor between them. His fingers brushed over her bare knee, the slow glide of his touch making her squirm.

"I picked up something special for you today," he said smoothly.

Her breath hitched. She ached for his touch, but she also knew better than to reach for it without permission.

Instead, she wet her lips and asked, "What is it, sir?"

He chuckled, his gaze flickering between her lips and her waiting hands. "Open it."

She hesitated for only a second before reaching out, her fingers trembling slightly as she lifted the lid of the small box. Inside, nestled against a bed of black satin, was a delicate, silver bracelet—thin, elegant, with a tiny charm hanging from the center.

Her brows furrowed in confusion. "A bracelet?"

He hummed. "Look closer."

She did, and that's when she saw it—the charm wasn't just any charm. It was a miniature snake, its body coiled elegantly, its tiny emerald eyes gleaming in the dim light.

Her breath caught.

It wasn't just jewelry. It was theirs. A symbol of her, of them. Of who she was—who she would always be.

Her gaze snapped up to meet his, and for a moment, her usual sharp tongue failed her.

"Nevie," she whispered, her voice softer than she intended.

His lips curved into that knowing smirk. "I know how much you hate talking about feelings, Sassy," he murmured, taking the bracelet from the box and unclasping it. "So I figured I'd give you something to wear instead."

She swallowed thickly, her eyes burning.

This wasn't just a gift. It was a promise. A silent acknowledgment that he saw her, knew her, accepted her. Every ruthless, dramatic, poison-making, dog-worshipping inch of her.

"Give me your wrist," he commanded gently.

Pansy obeyed without question.

As he fastened the bracelet around her wrist, his fingers lingering just a second too long against her skin, she exhaled shakily.

"I love you," she blurted out before she could stop herself.

Neville's gaze flicked to hers, something warm, something real settling in his chest.

"I know you do," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her palm. Then, with a teasing glint in his eye, he added, "Now, back on your knees, sweetheart. I'm not quite finished with you yet."

Her breath caught in her throat as he knelt before her, his touch reverent, as if she were something sacred. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path down her thighs, parting them with a gentle insistence that sent shivers coursing through her body.

He moved with quiet devotion, his lips pressing against her skin in a series of lingering kisses, each one a silent vow, a promise spoken through touch alone. He worshipped her with every brush of his mouth, every caress of his hands, as though she were the only thing that had ever mattered.

With exquisite patience, he laid her back against the soft sheets, his gaze locking onto hers, filled with something deeper than desire—something that spoke of love, of devotion, of absolute, unwavering adoration. And as he continued his slow, unhurried exploration, he whispered her name like a prayer, savoring the way she trembled beneath him, utterly his.

He leaned in, his tongue finding her clit and circling it slowly. Pansy gasped, her hips bucking against his face. Neville continued his relentless assault, his fingers joining his tongue in bringing her to the brink of orgasm.

Just as she was about to explode, he flipped her over, his hands gripping her hips. He positioned himself behind her, his cock rubbing against her bum. He leaned down, his voice a low growl in her ear. "I'm going to fuck you now, baby." 

She nodded, her breath coming in short gasps.

He guided the head of his cock to her ass, gently pressing against her tight hole. He reached for the lube on the coffee table, coating his cock generously. He rubbed the lube onto her bum, his fingers gently probing her entrance. 

She moaned, the sensation sending shivers down her spine.

He pushed his cock into her bum, inch by inch, allowing her to adjust to the intrusion. She cried out in pleasure, the sensation of being stretched and truly fucked sending waves of pleasure through her body. He groaned, feeling her ass clench around him, her moans driving him wild.

He started to thrust, slowly at first, but quickly building up speed. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts with her own. The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room, their moans and gasps creating a symphony of pleasure. "Faster, Nevie," she begged, her voice a desperate plea. "Please."

He complied, his thrusts becoming more forceful. He reached around, his fingers finding her clit and rubbing it in time with his thrusts. 

Her moans grew louder, her body tensing as she neared the edge. He felt his own orgasm building, his cock throbbing inside her bum.

As he reached his peak, he pulled out, his cock exploding with a loud groan. Ropes of cum shot out, landing on Pansy's ass and back. The sight of his cum dripping down her cheeks only added to her pleasure. She turned around, her eyes locked on his cock, still glistening with their combined juices. She leaned forward, her mouth capturing the head of his cock, sucking and licking every drop.

He watched in awe as she took him into her mouth, her eyes never leaving his. He ran his fingers through her hair, guiding her head as she took him deeper. Pansy moaned around his cock, the vibrations sending shivers through him.

After a while, he pulled her up, his arms wrapping around her. He kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth. "That was incredible," he whispered, a satisfied smile on his face. She smiled back, her body still tingling from the intense pleasure.

~~~~~~

Pansy strode through the grand entrance of Malfoy Manor with her usual confidence, the echo of her heels clicking against the polished marble floors. The towering walls of the estate, adorned with the kind of old-world opulence that only pureblood families could carry with effortless grace, felt heavier than usual. Perhaps it was the weight of what she had come here to discuss, or perhaps it was the knowledge that everything in this house, including the woman she was about to meet, was intricately tied to the disaster that was Draco Malfoy.

She found Narcissa in the sunroom, an elegant vision of poise as she poured herself a cup of Darjeeling. The older woman looked up at Pansy's entrance, a knowing smile already playing on her lips.

"Hello, dear," Narcissa greeted, setting down her cup with the kind of grace that made even the most menial actions seem regal.

Pansy, never one for subtlety when urgency clawed at her patience, waved her hand dismissively. "Narcissa, we have important things to discuss."

The sharpness in her tone made Narcissa's perfectly arched brows lift slightly. "Oh dear," she said, feigning distress with just enough amusement to make it clear she wasn't truly worried—yet. "What is it now?"

Pansy didn't hesitate. "I'm going to say it exactly as it is," she declared, settling into the chair across from her, leaning forward as if bracing for battle. "Your son is a piece of shit."

Narcissa gasped, placing a delicate hand on her chest as if Pansy had physically struck her. "Pansy!" she exclaimed, scandalized, but Pansy wasn't done. She held up a finger, silencing the matriarch before she could say another word.

"Oh, let me finish," she continued, unwavering. "Draco, in all his infinite wisdom, managed to drive Hermione away. She left him. Walked out. Packed her things, vanished like a ghost. And for once, I don't blame her."

Narcissa's expression shifted, the mock offense melting away into something far more real. Her lips parted slightly, the only visible crack in her otherwise composed demeanor. There was a moment—a heartbeat—where she simply sat there, absorbing Pansy's words as if they'd physically weighed her down. Then, barely above a whisper, she said, "Oh, my baby girl…"

The heartbreak in her voice made Pansy pause, just for a second. She had expected Narcissa to react, but not like this. The sorrow in her tone was raw, unguarded, maternal.

Pansy narrowed her eyes, watching the older woman carefully. "You actually like her?"

Narcissa let out a soft, almost incredulous laugh, shaking her head. "Like her?" she echoed, as if the word was too insignificant. "Pansy, I love her. She is my daughter-in-law. More than that, she is family. I have been so proud of her." Her voice thickened slightly, but she caught herself, drawing in a sharp breath. "She is—was—the best thing that ever happened to my son."

Pansy exhaled slowly, nodding once. That was something. That was important.

"Hm," she hummed, crossing one leg over the other. "That's interesting."

Narcissa studied her, eyes sharp as always. "And you, Queen of Slytherins? What is it you feel about Hermione?"

Pansy didn't hesitate. "I love her." The words came out firm, unshaken, a rare moment of pure honesty without her usual dramatics. "I have been with her through every step of this hell she's endured, and you have no idea how many tears I have shed because of her." 

She swallowed, the anger in her voice tempered by something deeper—something personal. "I have watched her suffer. I have listened to her break down. I have held her together when she couldn't do it herself. And I am so tired of watching her bleed for a man who doesn't know how to hold on to the best thing he's ever had."

Narcissa's face softened, her own mask slipping further. "So have I," she admitted, her voice quieter now, more pained. "And I am tired of seeing my son destroy the only love that ever mattered."

Pansy met her gaze, something unspoken passing between them.

"Then do something," she challenged. "Save their marriage. Or if you can't do that, then at least save Hermione from Draco's destructive life."

Narcissa sat back, exhaling deeply as she reached for her teacup. She took a slow sip, eyes drifting toward the sprawling gardens beyond the Narcissa's gaze lingered on the glass doors, her expression distant, as if she were gazing upon a battlefield she had once fought on and long since abandoned. The weight of history pressed against her delicate frame, the years of pureblood tradition, of expectations, of power plays that had shaped her into the formidable woman she was today. But now, with the remnants of an empire crumbling around her, she wasn't mourning the past—she was strategizing the future.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she reached for her teacup once more, lifting it with the same poise she had perfected over decades of Malfoy-hosted galas and aristocratic negotiations. She took a measured sip, savoring the floral notes of the blend as if it held the answers she sought. Then, with a quiet sort of finality, she placed the delicate porcelain back onto its saucer, the faint clink echoing through the opulent room.

"Very well, dear," she murmured at last, her voice silk over steel. "Let's get to work."

Pansy arched a perfectly sculpted brow, intrigued. "And what, exactly, does 'work' entail?" she asked, though her smirk was already curling at the edges, anticipating whatever madness Narcissa was about to unleash.

Narcissa, ever the epitome of control, leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap with practiced elegance. "I think I'm going to visit Jane," she said smoothly, as if discussing an afternoon tea rather than a mission of strategic intervention.

Pansy blinked, momentarily thrown. "Mrs. Granger?" she echoed, her voice betraying her disbelief. "I'm sorry, but what in Merlin's name did I just hear? Are you—are you saying you're about to casually pop in on Jane Granger?"

Narcissa lifted her chin slightly, a glimmer of amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. "Oh, do keep up, dear. We're besties now."

Pansy choked on nothing, gripping the arm of her chair as if reality itself had just tilted on its axis. "What the actual fuck—" she sputtered, eyes wide with incredulity. "Lucius is rolling in his grave."

Narcissa gave an elegant shrug, completely unbothered. "Well, I do hope so," she mused, taking another sip of tea as if she hadn't just uttered the most scandalous statement of the decade. "Frankly, it's about time something inconvenienced him."

Pansy let out a short, incredulous laugh. "I cannot believe this. Narcissa Malfoy, the last great socialite of the pureblood elite, is best friends with a muggle dentist."

"Not just a muggle dentist," Narcissa corrected, her tone teasing. "My only friend. And somehow, I must admit, I rather enjoy it. It's refreshing to speak to someone who doesn't measure every conversation by the weight of old bloodlines and social standing."

Pansy stared at her as if she had just grown another head. "Are you listening to yourself right now?" she demanded. "Since when did you become the ambassador of Muggle relations?"

Narcissa exhaled a long-suffering sigh, the kind only a mother could perfect. "Since Draco became an absolute idiot and ran his marriage into the ground. Honestly, someone had to take charge."

Pansy folded her arms, still clearly trying to process the absurdity of it all. "So what now? You and Janie—" she emphasized the name with exaggerated flair "—have weekly brunches where you sip mimosas and complain about your disaster children?"

"Oh, not weekly," Narcissa said airily. "More like daily. And we do more than complain—we strategize."

Pansy groaned, running a hand over her face. "This is insane. You have a mobile phone, don't you?"

"I do, actually," Narcissa admitted with an uncharacteristic note of pride. "It's rather fascinating technology. So efficient. The muggles are quite clever, you know."

Pansy scoffed, flipping her hair dramatically. "Oh, please. You're not that special, Cissa. I have one too."

"Yes, but mine's pink."

Pansy opened her mouth, then shut it again, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. "You chose that color, didn't you?"

Narcissa smirked. "I did."

"Well, good for you, I suppose," Pansy huffed, rolling her eyes but unable to hide her smirk. "Fine. So what's this grand plan of yours, oh wise and benevolent mother of the year?"

Narcissa set down her teacup with a decisive clink. "I will visit Jane, and I will talk to her," she declared with the kind of certainty that left no room for argument.

Pansy leaned forward, elbows on her knees, studying Narcissa as if she had just revealed the secrets of the universe. "And you really think that's going to work?" she asked slowly, skepticism laced in every syllable.

Narcissa lifted a single, perfectly manicured brow. "Oh, my dear girl," she murmured, her voice a purr of amusement and deadly confidence. "I know it will."