Leash Lessons

Pansy moved through her morning routine with practiced ease, a symphony of habitual motions that made up the first hour of her day. She had long since accepted that the dogs came first—Lady and Princess required food, fresh water, and their morning cuddles before she was allowed to so much as think about her own needs. That was the natural order of things, and she would never dare upset it. Anyone who thought otherwise could take their logic and shove it.

Once the pugs were content, stretched lazily on their overindulgent velvet cushions as if they owned the bloody house, she finally turned her attention to herself. Slipping into her favorite pair of lace-trimmed knickers, she savored the feeling of the soft fabric against her skin, the way it made her feel both comfortable and a little indulgent, as if she had a secret no one else knew.

And then, just as she was about to reach for the rest of her clothing, she felt him—large, warm hands ghosting over her hips, fingers pressing into her skin with a firm, possessive grip that sent a delicious shiver up her spine.

"Hm," she hummed, tilting her head just slightly to acknowledge his presence without breaking the moment. "What is it, love?"

His voice was low, thick with that slow-burning hunger that made her pulse quicken. "I love that one on you."

She smirked, already sensing where this was going. "Nevie, you like all of them."

"I like taking them off," he corrected, his breath warm against the shell of her ear as he trailed his fingers along the delicate lace at her hip, teasing. "But this one…" His voice dipped lower, sending a ripple of heat down her spine. "…This one, I like when it stays on."

Before she could form a response, he guided her backward, pulling her down onto his lap, spreading her legs with deliberate ease.

Her breath hitched, her body already anticipating him, the familiar thrill of his touch unraveling her composure.

"And why, exactly, do you like this one so much?" she asked, her voice a teasing lilt, though it was already breathier than she would have liked.

He chuckled, dark and knowing, as he slipped his fingers between her legs, pressing against the damp heat that had gathered there. "Because I can do this," he murmured, pushing the thin fabric of her knickers aside, exposing her just enough for his fingers to slide against her slick, aching center.

Her head fell to his shoulder, a quiet moan slipping from her lips as he traced lazy circles over her clit, slow, torturous, his touch maddeningly light.

"You're already so wet," he whispered, his voice laced with satisfaction. "You like it, don't you? The idea of me keeping them on while I fuck you."

Pansy bit her lip, her hips shifting instinctively, chasing more friction, more pressure, more of him. "You already know the answer to that," she murmured, but her breath hitched again when he pressed down, harder this time, drawing a sharp gasp from her.

"Oh, but I want to hear you say it," he said, his free hand gripping her thigh, holding her still even as she trembled.

"Fuck, Nevie," she breathed, half-laughing, half-melting in his arms. "You're insufferable."

"And yet, you're still falling apart for me," he pointed out, nipping at her neck before soothing the spot with his tongue. "Still letting me ruin you before you've even had your morning tea."

She opened her mouth to retort, but the words died on her lips as he slid two fingers inside her, stretching her slowly, purposefully, his thumb still working relentless, torturous circles over her clit.

She whimpered, her fingers tangling in his hair as she arched against him.

"That's it," he murmured, watching her fall apart in his arms, his own breath uneven now, the heat between them crackling like wildfire. "Just like that, love. Let me feel you."

She clenched around his fingers, her body responding to him as it always did—eager, desperate, utterly his.

And when he finally withdrew, his fingers glistening with her arousal, he brought them to his lips, eyes locked onto hers as he licked them clean with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue.

Pansy shivered, her whole body aching, needing more.

Neville grinned, his gaze dark with promise. "Get on the bed," he said, his voice firm, commanding.

She hesitated just a beat, her lips curling into a smirk. "And if I don't?"

His hands were on her in an instant, flipping her onto her stomach over the arm of the chaise, his body pressing flush against hers as he leaned in close, his voice a whisper of heat against her ear.

"Then I'll just have to remind you who's in charge."

And Merlin, did she love when he did.

Pansy barely had a second to catch her breath before she felt the weight of him pressing her into the chaise, his large hands splaying over her hips, pulling her back into him. Her skin burned where he touched her, her body already primed and aching, her breath shaky with anticipation.

"Nevie…" she managed, her voice a breathless plea, barely coherent as she shifted beneath him. "You… you need to leave for work."

She felt him chuckle against her spine, a dark, knowing sound that sent a shiver cascading down her back. His lips ghosted over her shoulder, his breath hot against her skin as he murmured, "And leave my princess unsatisfied? Never."

She barely had a moment to process the words before he pushed inside her in one swift, powerful motion, stretching her in the way only he could, filling her so completely that she screamed, her voice breaking on his name. The sudden, overwhelming fullness had her gripping onto the edge of the chaise for dear life, her nails digging into the fabric as he held her firmly in place.

"That's it," he growled, his voice thick with hunger, his fingers tightening their hold on her hips as he withdrew slowly before slamming into her again, drawing another choked gasp from her lips. "Let me hear you."

Pansy's entire body trembled beneath him, the feeling of him overwhelming in the best way. His thrusts were deep and deliberate, each one sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her veins, setting every nerve alight. She pushed back against him instinctively, desperate for more, for everything he was giving her and then some.

He let out a low groan, the sound of her pleasure spurring him on, driving him wilder. "Merlin, you're so fucking tight," he hissed, his grip on her hips bruising now as he picked up the pace, his hips snapping against her with relentless precision. "So perfect for me."

She tried to respond, but the only thing that came out was a whimper, a needy, desperate sound that only seemed to spur him on further.

He reached forward, tangling his fingers in her hair, tugging just enough to arch her back, pulling her against him. "I want to hear you say it," he murmured against her ear, his voice a dangerous mix of command and adoration. "Tell me who you belong to."

Pansy's eyes fluttered shut, her body wracked with pleasure as she barely managed to choke out, "You, Nevie… only you."

He rewarded her with a particularly deep thrust, one that had her seeing stars, her legs trembling beneath her. "Good girl," he praised, his tone softer now, reverent. "My good fucking girl."

She could feel herself coming undone, the pleasure building and building until it was unbearable, until she was nothing but sensation and heat, her body on the precipice of something utterly devastating.

And then his hand slipped between her legs, his fingers finding her clit with practiced ease, rubbing in tight, merciless circles that sent her spiraling over the edge with a scream, her body convulsing around him, her vision going white as she shattered completely.

Neville groaned as he felt her tighten around him, his pace faltering just slightly before he slammed into her one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he found his own release, his name a broken prayer on her lips.

They stayed like that for a long moment, tangled in each other, bodies trembling, breathless.

Finally, he eased out of her, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck as he murmured, "Now you're satisfied, my love."

Pansy, still struggling to catch her breath, let out a weak laugh. "You're insufferable," she mumbled, her voice hoarse.

He grinned, pulling her into his arms as he kissed the top of her head. "And yet, you still let me ruin you before breakfast."

She hummed contentedly against his chest, feeling utterly spent, utterly satisfied.

And as he finally pulled away, reluctantly reaching for his clothes, she smirked.

"Oh, love," she purred, stretching lazily across the chaise, the picture of post-coital bliss, "you're going to be late."

Hegroaned, already dreading the day ahead. But as he looked at her—flushed, sated, glowing—he decided it had been more than worth it.

~~~~~~

Neville Longbottom was a patient man. A man who had survived war, endured years of grueling Auror training, suffered through the constant scrutiny of unrelenting professors, and faced an actual homicidal Dark Lord before he was even of age. 

He had stood on the battlefield with blood on his hands and death in his wake, had fought for a world that seemed determined to break him before it ever embraced him. 

He had conquered the maddening bureaucracy of the Ministry, waded through the treacherous politics of the Wizengamot, and endured endless nights bent over his research, surrounded by volatile magical plants that could kill him with a single misstep.

And perhaps, most impressively, he had learned how to live with the absolute, unrelenting chaos that was being married to Pansy Parkinson.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for the sheer hell that was Pansy Parkinson and her newfound obsession with her bloody cellphone.

And the biggest issue? Pansy had recently discovered the joy of sending pictures.

What had once been an innocent means of communication—a tool for things like dinner plans and household reminders—had quickly spiraled into something much, much darker. It had started out harmless enough, a slow, torturous descent into madness.

The Love of My Life & My Eternal Headache ❤️🔥: Look at this new dress I bought!

The accompanying photo had been a mirror selfie of her in some obscenely expensive, scandalously fitted gown that barely qualified as clothing. Neville, naïve fool that he was, had complimented her with a distracted answer.

The Love of My Life & My Emotional Support Botanist 🌿💕: You look lovely, bloom.

That had been his first mistake.

Because then came:

The Love of My Life & My Eternal Headache ❤️🔥: Do you think this lipstick suits me?

A close-up of her pouted lips, glossy and red, looking entirely too kissable for his sanity. 

The Love of My Life & My Emotional Support Botanist 🌿💕 Yes, Pansy. It suits you.

But it wasn't until one fateful evening that she had officially crossed the threshold from mild distraction to outright menace.

The Love of My Life & My Eternal Headache ❤️🔥: This lingerie set is gorgeous, Nevie. Do you think I should get it in red too?

The image had taken him out at the knees.

There she was, reclining against their bed, draped in emerald-green lace so delicate it looked like it had been spun from sin itself. The tiny bralette barely covered anything at all, the matching silk garters hugging her thighs in a way that had nearly made him cancel every single responsibility in his life.

Neville had choked on his tea.

He had knocked over an entire stack of essays onto the floor.

And that had been before she discovered angles.

Before she figured out the perfect lighting.

Before she mastered the art of utilizing the massive, gilded mirror in their bedroom.

Now, he was a man on the edge. A man who lived in fear of his own damn phone.

Because it never stopped.

She escalated.

She found new ways to torment him, new ways to make his life infinitely more difficult.

The Love of My Life & My Eternal Headache ❤️🔥: Thinking about you, darling. Are you busy?

The text had seemed harmless enough—until he opened the image attached.

She was sprawled across their bed, fully nude, her legs just barely parted, her fingers curled into the sheets, her expression absolutely sinful.

Neville had dropped his wand.

He had nearly set an entire greenhouse on fire.

He had almost hexed an intern who had the misfortune of startling him mid-stare.

He had seriously considered quitting his job, apparating home, and taking the rest of the year off to remind his wife exactly what she was playing with.

And now, as he sat at his desk, glaring at the latest cursed message, he was faced with yet another decision.

His phone buzzed again.

The Love of My Life & My Eternal Headache ❤️🔥: "You looked so stressed this morning, love. Here's something to help you relax."

He swallowed hard.

He knew better. He knew what was waiting for him on that screen, and yet, like an absolute idiot, he looked anyway.

And instantly regretted it.

His head hit the desk with a quiet thud.

Pansy.

Naked.

Wearing nothing but a Slytherin tie loosely draped around her throat, looking at the camera like she wanted to swallow him whole.

Merlin, help him.

His jaw clenched as he locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket, as if that would somehow remove the image now permanently seared into his brain. His blood was running too hot, his trousers now uncomfortably tight, and he still had an entire meeting to sit through.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples.

She was going to be the death of him.

And the worst part?

He wasn't even mad about it.

And then, the absolute worst thing imaginable happened.

Videos.

A few days ago, Pansy had unlocked forbidden knowledge—the realization that she could send moving images. And Merlin help him, once she discovered this, she decided to wield this power without mercy.

It was relentless. At breakfast, she'd send a video of herself stretching in bed, arching her back like a lazy, satisfied cat, letting out a soft, absolutely sinful sigh as she whispered his name. While he was reviewing some incredibly dull financial reports, his pocket would buzz—an innocent-seeming message—only for him to check and find her in that ridiculous silk robe, letting it slip just enough off her shoulder before the video cut off, leaving him staring in horror (and, if he were being honest, absolute arousal) at his bloody phone in the middle of an office full of unsuspecting coworkers.

But today?

Today, she had gone too far.

He had been in a bloody board meeting.

A board meeting, discussing budget allocation and procurement of rare magical specimens with some of the most tedious bureaucrats in the Ministry. It had been two hours of absolute agony—listening to a senior official drone on about import taxes while the entire room collectively struggled to stay conscious—when his phone vibrated innocently in his pocket.

Out of pure instinct, he glanced down, expecting another one of her ridiculous pictures of Lady and Princess—their absurdly pampered pugs who somehow lived better lives than most wizards.

But no.

No, no, no.

Instead, what greeted him was a full-fledged video of his wife.

Naked.

On their bed.

Moaning his name.

Neville choked.

Not a polite, subtle cough.

A full-body reaction.

A violent, strangled noise that made every single person in the room stop talking.

The Head of Magical Regulations, an elderly wizard with half-moon spectacles and a permanently disapproving expression, slowly turned to stare at him.

The Undersecretary of Potion Research—who had been speaking about laboratory funding—looked at him as though he had just grown a second head.

His boss, a terrifyingly efficient woman with no patience for nonsense, stared at him over her files, eyes narrowing like a hawk ready to strike.

He felt the sheer force of death itself descend upon him.

And his brain short-circuited.

His lungs failed.

His entire existence imploded into one single catastrophic moment of realization.

This had to stop.

Immediately, without a single excuse, he shot up from his chair, muttered something about an urgent greenhouse emergency, and practically sprinted out of the boardroom, leaving behind a table of stunned, bewildered Ministry officials.

He barely made it to his office, slammed the door behind him, and immediately collapsed into his chair, rubbing his temples like a man on the verge of a complete and total breakdown.

She had won.

He was completely unhinged.

This needed to stop. Now.

With no other option, he yanked out a piece of parchment, enchanted it, and took a deep, deep breath before bellowing—bellowing—into the Howler charm with all the unhinged desperation of a man who had reached his absolute limit.

"WOMAN.

THIS. STOPS. IMMEDIATELY.

YOU CANNOT DO THIS TO ME.

I AM A RESPECTABLE MAN.

I HAVE A JOB.

I HAVE RESPONSIBILITIES.

I CANNOT SIT THROUGH A BOARD MEETING LISTENING TO FINANCIAL REPORTS WHILE MY WIFE IS SENDING ME VIDEOS OF HER FINGERS IN PLACES I WILL NOT MENTION—EVEN THOUGH I LOVE THEM, BUT THAT IS NOT THE POINT."

He inhaled, his heart pounding, his entire bloody soul teetering on the edge of oblivion.

"I LOVE YOU. BUT THIS HAS TO STOP.

MERLIN HELP ME, PANSY, IF YOU SEND ONE MORE VIDEO, I SWEAR TO MORGANA'S ROTTING CORPSE—"

He cut himself off.

Because he had no fucking idea what he would do.

"I LOVE YOU. GOODBYE."

And with that, he sent the Howler speeding off through the Floo, where it would hunt her down like a vengeful demon, ensuring she received every single furious, desperate word at maximum volume, in maximum dramatic impact.

He slumped in his chair, his entire body drained from sheer emotional destruction.

Five minutes later, his phone buzzed.

He shouldn't have looked.

He knew he shouldn't have looked.

But, like an absolute fucking idiot, he did anyway.

The Love of My Life & My Eternal Headache ❤️🔥: Okay, but do you want me to stop-stop, or just stop for today? Asking for a friend. 😘"

He slammed his head against his desk.

He was going to die.

~~~~~~

The first light of dawn crept through the curtains, slow and deliberate, casting golden ribbons across the room. The world was quiet, caught in the fragile stillness of morning, but inside her, a storm raged. Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, her hands curled into the sheets, her breath measured and even—but her mind? Her mind was anything but calm.

A Floo call with Pansy hadn't been a conversation.

No, it had been an ambush.

A masterclass in brutal honesty delivered with all the precision of a scalpel and the force of a goddamn hurricane.

Because Pansy Parkinson didn't do sugarcoating.

She didn't do gentle.

She carved through illusions like a blade through silk, slicing away self-pity and hesitation until all that remained was the raw, unvarnished truth.

And Hermione?

She had never needed it more.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Granger—are you seriously doing this right now?"

Hermione barely had time to part her lips before Pansy's voice cut through the Floo connection like a whip. Sharp, unforgiving, and laced with a kind of exasperation that only Pansy Parkinson could wield.

"Let me get this straight," Pansy continued, leaning closer into the green-tinged flames as if she could reach through the connection and shake Hermione herself. "You've spent years cleaning up that man's mess, enduring his brooding, navigating his emotional constipation like some tragic, self-sacrificing saint—"

She scoffed, tossing her perfectly curled hair over one shoulder. "And now, when he finally gets a taste of his own suffering, when he's actually marinating in his own self-inflicted bullshit, you're the one sitting there like some weepy, abandoned housewife? Do you hear yourself? Do you realize how fucking ridiculous you sound?"

Hermione exhaled, rubbing her temples. She should have known better than to reach out to Pansy for comfort. Comfort wasn't what Pansy did. Pansy didn't do soft reassurances or hand-holding. No, Pansy did war cries, verbal beatdowns, and high-heeled executions of bad decisions.

"Listen to me, and listen well, sweetheart," Pansy continued, her tone dangerously smooth now, like a snake circling its prey. "You are Hermione. Fucking. Granger. You are the woman who reduced the entire British Ministry of Magic to tears just by presenting a logical argument. You are the brightest witch of your goddamn age. A war heroine. A woman who literally outsmarted Voldemort and still had the time to read for fun. Do you understand how outrageous it is that you—of all people—are sitting there, mourning a man who is currently making his bed in a pile of whiskey bottles and self-pity?"

Pansy sighed dramatically, shaking her head. "I mean, really, babe—have some fucking dignity. If you're going to pine, at least do it fashionably."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Pansy steamrolled right over her, not having any of it.

"Oh, he's a mess right now? GOOD. Let him rot in it. Let him fucking choke on it. Let him wake up every morning with the taste of regret in his mouth like bile and the echo of your absence burning in his goddamn soul. But you? You do not sit around and wallow. You do not shrink yourself into something soft and palatable for a man who—let's be real—has spent the better part of your relationship giving you just enough to keep you hopeful but never enough to make you feel safe."

Pansy leaned in closer, her voice dipping into something lethal.

"You want him to wake the fuck up? You want him to beg? You want him on his goddamn knees? Then stop handing him the privilege of your patience. Make him earn it. Make him suffer the way you suffered. Let him ache for you. Let him wake up in a cold sweat at four in the morning, haunted by the ghost of you. Because men like Draco Malfoy? They don't respond to silence, and they sure as fuck don't respond to kindness. They respond to the fear of losing something they can't replace."

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat tight, but Pansy was relentless.

"You think he just gets to drink himself into oblivion and then scribble some half-romantic, poetic sob story of a letter and suddenly all is forgiven? No, Granger. That is not how this works. You are the prize. You are the loss he needs to feel down to his fucking bones."

Pansy tilted her head, eyes narrowing with the kind of feline amusement that usually preceded something dangerous. "Here's what you're going to do."

Hermione braced herself.

"You're going to stop crying. You're going to take a long, luxurious bath—use those stupidly expensive bath oils I know you have. You're going to do your hair, wear something that makes you feel like a goddess, and then you're going to walk into whatever room that man is in with your head held high and your eyes forward. And you? You do not flinch. You do not wilt. You remind him—without saying a single fucking word—that you do not need him. You choose him. And if he wants to keep that privilege? He better step the fuck up."

Hermione exhaled shakily, staring at the flames, at Pansy's sharp, unwavering expression.

"Because, babe?" Pansy's voice dropped to something almost gentle—if lethal could ever be described as gentle. "Nothing terrifies a man more than the realization that the one thing he wants most is slipping through his fingers. Let him feel it. Let him burn in it. And then—only then—does he earn the right to have a conversation about winning you back."

A beat of silence.

Then, Hermione inhaled deeply, something shifting inside her, something sharp and burning and undeniable.

"There she is," Pansy murmured approvingly. "That's my girl."

Then, with a final, wicked smirk, she cut the Floo connection—leaving Hermione in the dim glow of the embers, her heart pounding, her mind clearer than it had been in weeks.

Because Pansy was right.

If Draco Malfoy wanted her back, he was going to have to bleed for it.

~~~~~~

Neville was waiting for her outside after the Floo call, leaning against the wall with the quiet patience of a man who had long since accepted that his wife was an unstoppable force of nature. He had seen her in many states—calm, calculating, utterly ruthless—but nothing quite compared to the storm that was Pansy Parkinson after a particularly infuriating conversation. He watched as she practically stomped toward him, her heels clicking against the stone path with the kind of force that suggested she was mere seconds away from setting the entire world on fire.

Arms crossed over his chest, he regarded her with a mixture of amusement and affection, his lips quirking up at the edges. "You're giving leash lessons now, darling?" His voice was low, teasing, but there was a glint of something knowing in his eyes.

Wrong move.

Pansy threw her hands in the air so violently that Lady and Princess got startled and scampered out of her way, their stubby legs carrying them to the safety of the porch steps. "It's because of fucking Malfoy!" she exploded, her voice dripping with the kind of exasperation one reserved for truly insufferable men. "He's miserable, Nevie. Miserable. It's humiliating. He's out there, haunting penthouses like some tragic ghost of poor life choices, drinking himself stupid, tormenting my Hermione with his pathetic, pitiful existence. And for what?"

He arched a brow, biting back a knowing smile as she dramatically clutched at her chest, looking as though she was personally offended by Draco's continued existence. She wasn't even finished—he knew that much. She was only getting started.

"Because he's too much of a stubborn, self-loathing twat to grovel properly!" she snapped, pacing furiously now, gesturing wildly, her earrings catching the sunlight as she moved. "She's supposed to be the love of his life, Nevie. The woman he would crawl through fire for, swim across oceans for, lay down his life for. But no, no, instead of doing something remotely sane or rational, instead of proving himself, instead of pulling some grand romantic gesture out of his arse like a decent fucking Malfoy, he's—" she made a vague, disgusted motion with her hands—"drinking himself into oblivion and making Hermione sad. Hermione. My Hermione. And I cannot allow this madness to continue!"

Neville exhaled through his nose, fighting back a chuckle as she continued her tirade, the sheer righteous indignation vibrating off her in waves. He reached for her, grabbing her wrists mid-gesture, pulling her flush against him in one swift motion. She melted into his embrace—exactly three seconds of peace—before she stiffened again, her mind clearly not ready to move on.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," she huffed against his chest, her breath warm against his collarbone. "This is a disaster."

He sighed indulgently, pressing his lips against the top of her head. "Pans, you have to let them figure it out."

She pulled back instantly, scowling up at him. "Absolutely not. I will not stand idly by while Draco Malfoy rots in his own pathetic misery and Hermione—my Hermione—waits around like a fool. She's better than that. She deserves better than that."

He gave her a long, steady look, his fingers tracing soothing circles against her hip. "And by 'figure it out,' you mean you're going to orchestrate it, aren't you?"

Pansy scoffed, scandalized. "Me?" She pressed a hand to her chest as if the mere suggestion was offensive. "Nevie, love, are you implying that I would meddle?"

He blinked at her. Slowly. Like a man who had seen far too much and knew better than to entertain her theatrics.

She huffed. "Fine. A little bit. But for their own good! What kind of friend would I be if I just let Hermione waste her best years waiting for that overdramatic wreck of a man to pull his head out of his arse?"

He sighed. "So, what's the plan, then?"

Her eyes sparkled in a way that made him immediately regret asking.

"Oh, darling," she purred, straightening his tie before leaning up onto the tips of her Louboutins, pressing a kiss against his jaw. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He groaned, dropping his head back against the porch railing, already resigning himself to whatever chaos his wife was about to unleash on the world. He knew that look.

"What will happen if you leave me?" he murmured, his voice warm with amusement but laced with something deeper, something quiet and sincere.

The question hung in the air for a beat too long, and then, suddenly, Pansy gasped—a sharp, dramatic sound, as if he had just threatened to yeet Lady into the Thames. The sheer audacity of the mere suggestion had her recoiling as though personally wounded. She pulled back instantly, her hands flying to either side of his face, gripping him with the intensity of a woman who had just heard the world's most heinous crime spoken into existence.

"I would never!" she swore, her expression devastated, her voice trembling with the kind of conviction reserved for tragedies of Shakespearean proportions.

Neville, in all his patience, could only chuckle, brushing a stray strand of dark hair from her face with quiet affection. "We're talking logical strategies, love," he reminded her, but even as he said it, his lips quirked up because, sweet Merlin, he knew what was coming.

And he was not disappointed.

Pansy's face, still tragically wounded from the sheer absurdity of his question, suddenly shifted—her gaze sharpening, her spine straightening as she stepped back, lifting her chin like a queen preparing to address her court. Her mind had already spun into overdrive, launching into battle strategy mode like a general preparing for war.

"Well," she declared, her voice regal, her stance unwavering, "First of all, I am taking the dogs. All of them. That is non-negotiable."

Neville sighed. Of course. Of course, she was taking the damn dogs. "Not even one for me? Lady was my dog first" he asked, trying not to laugh at the severity of her expression.

Pansy scoffed, absolutely appalled. "Absolutely not. Don't be ridiculous." She waved a hand dismissively. "You can visit, obviously, but full custody? That's mine. I'm the mother. It would be cruel to separate them from me."

Neville bit the inside of his cheek. "Right. Obviously."

She nodded firmly, pleased that he saw sense. "Second, if we have a child, I am taking my baby girl."

He narrowed his eyes. "Absolutely not." He scoffed, crossing his arms. "And how do you even know we'll have a girl?" He sighed, already knowing exactly where this was going.

"Oh, please," she said, rolling her eyes so hard she practically saw another dimension. "We are obviously going to have a princess. This is a monarchy, Nevie, not some shoddy little democracy."

He groaned.

"She will be a vision, the epitome of perfection," Pansy continued, completely ignoring him. "She will have the most exquisite, over-the-top name that will demand respect the moment it graces a parchment. People will tremble in awe. Letters from Beauxbatons will arrive at her crib. The stars themselves will align when she takes her first breath. She will have a grand entrance into this world, surrounded by imported French lace and blessed by at least three seers."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling deeply. "Pansy."

"She," Pansy pressed on, undeterred by his blatant exhaustion, "will be best friends with Luna's children, obviously." She clasped her hands together, her eyes gleaming, voice hushed with prophecy-like intensity. "A chosen bond, stronger than fate, destined by the stars, their names written in the cosmos before they were even conceived."

He made the tactical mistake of groaning again.

"Pansy."

"And then," she continued, with all the enthusiasm of a Dark Lord crafting their grand vision, "she will marry Hermione's baby. It will be legendary, an unbreakable empire of wit and power."

He stared at her, horrified.

"But," Pansy said, lifting a single, ominous finger, "she will despise Red's child. Loathe them, Nevie. It will be the greatest family rivalry since the founding of Hogwarts itself."

His jaw dropped. "Pansy, that is horrible."

She grinned at him, eyes flashing with pure, unfiltered mischief. "Says you. Just watch me."

He ran a tired hand down his face, resigned, exhausted, and mildly concerned for any future Weasley offspring. But also—

He wasn't stupid.

Pansy Parkinson was never wrong.

~~~~~~

Luna waddled into the room with the air of a woman who had long since accepted that resistance was futile. She was a vision, really—glowing, ethereal, the picture of serene maternity. That was, of course, if one ignored the reality of her being heavily pregnant, exhausted beyond mortal comprehension, and saddled with a toddler who had all the chaotic energy of a miniature, unsupervised hurricane.

Lysander, ecstatic to be back at his second home, wasted absolutely no time before launching himself across the room at breakneck speed, shrieking with unfiltered joy. He was a boy on a mission, a child with purpose, and that purpose was terrorizing his mother's best friend's pugs.

Lady and Princess, who had been lounging in utter peace and ignorance mere moments ago, immediately sensed the incoming doom. Their eyes went wide, their tiny pug brains activating every single survival instinct they possessed. In perfect synchronization, they scrambled in opposite directions, launching themselves off their cushioned thrones with a speed rarely seen outside Quidditch matches.

Lysander screeched in delight, undeterred, his tiny legs pumping with determined fury as he pursued Princess under the dining table.

Pansy, wholly unfazed by the household terrorism unfolding before her, didn't even flinch. She had far more pressing concerns than the mental well-being of her perpetually traumatized pugs. She turned to Luna with an expression so grave, so intense, it could have been carved into marble.

"Listen here, woman. I have a plan."

Luna, already sighing in deep, bone-weary resignation, placed both hands on her belly as if to physically contain the sheer level of nonsense she was about to endure. She inhaled, closed her eyes, and muttered as if bracing for impact:

"Fuck me."

Pansy smirked, delighted. "I'd love to, darling, but unfortunately, I have to focus on the future of our entire bloodline."

Luna's eyes snapped open, filled with immediate regret. "Oh, here we go."

Pansy ignored her entirely, already in motion, pacing the room like a war general drafting the next great conquest.

"My children and yours?" she began, sweeping an imperial hand through the air. "Best friends. Unbreakable bond. Soulmates in platonic chaos. A force the world won't be able to contain."

Luna nodded absently, rubbing her belly. "Obviously." That was a given.

But then—then Pansy's eyes gleamed. The declaration came.

"But my baby girls will marry a Malfoy heir."

Luna paused mid-belly-rub, blinking at her as if she had just suggested sacrificing a goat in the middle of the room. "Why?"

Pansy huffed, scandalized by the question. "Legacy, darling. Legacy. A Parkinson-Longbottom-Malfoy union? The power. The drama. The fashion." She waved both hands dramatically, as if envisioning their yet-to-be-born children rising like a divine pantheon, ready to conquer wizarding high society with their unholy combination of inherited superiority complexes and devastating cheekbones.

Luna narrowed her eyes, completely unimpressed. "So you're willingly throwing your children into a lifetime of being married to a Malfoy? Have you met Draco?"

Pansy rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw another dimension. "First of all, my children will be superior enough to handle a Malfoy. Secondly, if I don't arrange their future, who will? I refuse to let fate have a say in this."

And then—then—she leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping into something hushed and dangerous.

"Also, my baby girls will hate Red's children."

Luna let out a long, exhausted breath through her nose. "Pansy. That is a horrible plan."

Pansy gasped—clutching at her nonexistent pearls like she had just been personally insulted by the entire British aristocracy. She took a staggered step back, as if physically wounded by Luna's lack of faith.

"Excuse me? How dare you? This is a brilliant plan. It's foolproof. It's a dynasty in the making!"

Luna, entirely unbothered, simply patted her belly with the unshakable wisdom of a woman who had seen too much and suffered enough. "This child hasn't even been born yet, and I already feel sorry for your future daughters."

Pansy, absolutely not having that, flipped her hair with all the indignation of a woman scorned.

"Jealousy doesn't look good on you, Lovegood."

Luna simply shook her head, watching without emotion as Lysander, in the background, managed to tackle Princess into submission under the dining table.

"It's not jealousy, darling. It's pity."

~~~~~~

Pansy and Luna's grand, spectacularly manipulative, and frankly brilliant plan to reunite the Malfoys had, of course, worked flawlessly—because, really, was there ever another outcome? No. Because Pansy was always right, and Luna had an uncanny ability to bend fate to her will like some ethereal puppet master. Together, they were unstoppable, a lethal cocktail of meddling, chaos, and sheer force of will.

There had been moments of doubt, a few near-catastrophic missteps, plenty of dramatic theatrics, and even a brief period where Hermione had actually considered homicide as a viable solution—but in the end? Victory.

And now, Pansy was on her well-earned victory tour, basking in the glow of her own success, thriving in the knowledge that she had once again single-handedly saved the world—or at least the very specific parts of it that mattered to her.

Which was why she had zero hesitation as she strutted directly into Hermione's penthouse, moving with the confidence of a woman who absolutely owned the place, despite not even technically living there.

She found Hermione exactly where she expected—lounging in her pristine, tastefully decorated living room, looking altogether too composed for a woman who had recently ripped a man's heart out, stomped on it, sewn it back together, and then politely handed it back.

She wasted no time. She flopped onto the couch without invitation, legs crossed elegantly, grin stretching wide across her face.

"Mrs. Malfoy," she purred, the title rolling off her tongue with excessive delight.

Hermione let out a long-suffering groan, rubbing her temples as if she already knew where this was going. "Pansy, please. Stop. We are not—not completely fine yet."

Pansy's brows knitted together immediately. "What happened?" Because this was supposed to be the part where Hermione gushed about her undying love, waxed poetic about how impeccable Her plan was, and detailed the exact moment Draco Malfoy had collapsed onto his knees, repenting for his sins, utterly ruined by love.

Instead, Hermione sighed, swirling her tea as if searching for divine guidance in the amber liquid. "Well," she admitted slowly, "I was wallowing—properly self-destructive, as one does—and then I told him to get his shit together."

Pansy blinked. "… Just like I told you to?"

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw another dimension, but a small smirk betrayed her amusement. "Yes, Ma'am. And, if my memory serves correctly—which it always does—I told him to kneel in front of me."

She gasped, clapping a hand over her heart as if she had just witnessed a divine miracle. "You made him kneel? Granger! That's my girl!"

Hermione smirked, deliberately taking a slow sip of tea, basking in the moment. "I did. I asked him if he was sorry. And he was. He apologized—profusely, actually." She set the cup down, tilting her head as if mentally replaying the moment in crisp, satisfying detail. "I told him to change, to be better, to fix his mess—and then I left." She snapped her fingers. "All of this? Five minutes."

She dramatically clutched at her own chest, positively glowing with pride. "Oh, my good girl. I am so proud of you!"

Hermione let out a soft laugh, shaking her head, but her voice carried genuine warmth when she murmured, "Thank you, love."

Pansy stretched out luxuriously, settling far too comfortably into Hermione's ridiculously expensive couch, tapping her manicured nails against the armrest. With a sigh so theatrical it belonged on a stage, she declared, "Now, where is your ugly-ass cat? I require snuggles. Also, bring me a whiskey. Neat. Chop chop."

Hermione barely looked up from her book, unimpressed. "Any particular occasion, or is this just Tuesday Pansy behavior?"

She grinned, propping her chin on her hand. "Oh, just the minor decision that my child is going to marry yours."

Hermione froze mid-page-turn, her eyes narrowing immediately. "I love your delusional little mind, babe, truly. It keeps me young."

Pansy waved a dismissive hand, entirely unbothered. "I'm serious. It's already decided. You keep saying we're practically family—so let's make it official. The next generation of Malfoy-Granger-Longbottom excellence. A dynasty. A legacy. An empire."

Hermione exhaled deeply, setting her book down to rub her temples as if warding off an incoming headache. "Merlin, save me. You just decided this, huh?"

She flipped her hair, inspecting her nails. "Minutes ago. Just now, actually. Oh! And also—I've decided I want a baby."

Hermione's eyebrow lifted, unimpressed. "Pansy, as much as I love you, I cannot personally provide that for you."

Pansy gasped dramatically, slapping a hand to her chest as if Hermione had just spat in her face. "STOP IT. This is serious. I need you to commit to the vision. My baby girl will marry your baby—boy, girl, magical creature, I don't care. Just keep the legacy going!"

Hermione blinked. Then again. "Pansy. What. The. Fuck."

She tilted her head, lips pursed, a dangerous gleam in her eyes. "You're not about to tell me you're a homophobe, are you?" she asked, voice low, lethal, like an aristocratic aunt about to destroy Christmas dinner.

Hermione gasped, looking deeply, profoundly offended. "WHAT?! NO. Jesus Christ, Pansy. HOW did we get here?!"

"You tell me!" she huffed, throwing her hands in the air. "You're the one refusing to let our children form an unbreakable, generational power couple. And for what? Do you hate love? Is that it?"

Hermione groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose as if physically holding herself together. "I need you to stop talking forever. Your child will not be betrothed to mine. I refuse."

Pansy stood abruptly, pointing a perfectly manicured finger. "Oh, you think you refuse. But I have time, Granger. Oh, I have time. And you will see reason."

Hermione sighed, sipping her tea, looking deeply, soul-crushingly tired. "Neville suffers."

Draco Malfoy arrived home at the worst possible moment. Not that he knew it yet, of course. No, the man had the absolute gall to step through the doors of his own home just as Hermione Granger-Malfoy was teetering on the fragile precipice of a full-blown, catastrophic, potentially furniture-destroying breakdown—her patience stretched thinner than a Veela's temper in the middle of a heatwave.

The air was thick with danger. The kind of tension that could shatter glass, split marble, send lesser men running for their lives. But Draco? Draco had never been known for his survival instincts.

And, because the universe had a truly sadistic sense of humor, Pansy fucking Parkinson was standing in the middle of the Malfoy living room, looking for all the world like she owned the damn place, exuding the same chaotic energy as a storm looming over the horizon, preparing to obliterate everything in its path.

Her smirk was slow, predatory, her dark eyes dragging over him with an almost bored amusement. She tilted her head, her expression hovering somewhere between mock sympathy and sheer delight as she let the moment stretch, letting the weight of her judgment sink deep into his miserable, unsuspecting soul.

"Ferret," she greeted, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

Draco's entire body tensed like a man preparing for battle.

"I see you're looking marginally better," she continued, circling him like a shark scenting blood in the water. "Not quite the tragic, alcoholic disgrace you were last time, but still… disappointing."

Draco's jaw clenched. Hard.

"Parkinson," he ground out, his voice low, dangerous, the kind of tone that should have made anyone else rethink their entire existence. But this was Pansy. She wasn't anyone else.

His glare narrowed, sharp enough to cut through steel. "I suggest you choose your next words very carefully."

She merely raised a brow, unimpressed. "Carefully?" she repeated, dragging out the syllables like she was contemplating something profoundly stupid. "Draco, the last time I saw you, you were face down on the floor, reeking of firewhiskey, sobbing like a bloody child, and calling me names that were neither original nor creative."

She folded her arms, tilting her chin with mock disappointment. "So pardon me if I don't roll out a red carpet and throw you a welcome-home party. The only thing I expect from you right now is a well-practiced, soul-crushing apology."

Draco's nostrils flared. His fingers twitched—like he was actively resisting the urge to strangle her.

"Parkinson," he said slowly, his voice like the calm before a truly catastrophic storm, "this is my house. I didn't come to see you. I came home."

Pansy gasped dramatically, pressing a hand over her heart as if personally offended. "Oh? And where, pray tell, have you been, dearest Malfoy?" she asked, cocking her head like a particularly amused vulture. "Out sulking in the shadows? Wandering the world in despair? Stalking Hermione from a dark alley like some tragic, love-sick stalker?"

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply through gritted teeth, his suffering immense.

"I was at work," he ground out.

She smirked, slow and smug. "Mmm. And who did you kill?"

Draco leveled her with a deadpan glare. "If you keep talking, you'll be next."

She clutched her chest in faux horror. "Oh, how terrifying," she drawled, blinking dramatically. "I suppose I should quiver in fear. Unfortunately, I don't have time for that because—important announcement! YOUR CHILD WILL MARRY MINE. Congratulations! You're welcome! Okay, bye, bitches!"

And with that, she spun on her ridiculously expensive, perfectly balanced heel, flipped her hair like an actual villainous queen, and disappeared into thin air—leaving behind an utterly stunned Hermione and an even more bewildered Draco.

A single heartbeat of stunned silence.

A sharp inhale.

A horrified, strangled sound.

And then—Draco Malfoy SHRIEKED.

Like a man whose entire life had just been upended. Like a dying banshee. Like someone had just delivered the single most shocking revelation in human history.

Pansy, already halfway through her Apparation, heard it—the unholy, glass-shattering sound of Draco Malfoy's entire existence collapsing in real-time.

The Malfoy heir. Pureblood aristocrat. Former Death Eater. Unapologetic menace to society.

And he was SHRIEKING.

She could practically see the headlines now: MALFOY LINEAGE ENDS IN HUMILIATING DISPLAY OF HYSTERIA.

"YOU'RE PREGNANT?!" His voice cracked so violently it was a miracle the walls remained standing.

And then, before Hermione could properly react—

He launched himself at her.

A blur of frantic movement. A hurricane of limbs.

And suddenly—

Hermione was OFF THE GROUND.

Spun. Around. The. Fucking. Room.

Like some deranged, deliriously ecstatic ballerina, Draco twisting in circles like a man possessed, gripping Hermione tightly, his entire existence imploding in real-time.

"DRACO, PUT ME DOWN THIS INSTANT OR I SWEAR TO GOD—"

Too late.

He was grinning like an absolute maniac.

Wild. Elated. Completely unhinged.

Pansy smirked to herself as she landed neatly in her own sitting room, casually dusting off her skirt.

Another mission accomplished. Another chaotic masterpiece successfully executed.

Because Pansy Parkinson didn't just exist in this world.

She orchestrated it.

And creating chaos? That was her fucking art.