Chapter 24 - Crib-Sized Chaos and Couture-Level Rage

She was tearing the house apart like it had wronged her personally, like every fragile thing in it had dared to witness her unraveling. The crystal glasses—hand-cut, imported, gifts from their wedding—lay in jagged ruins across the dining room floor, refracting light in cruel, fractured angles. Shards of porcelain crunched underfoot, remnants of her grandmother's china now reduced to dust and memory. A vase that once held fresh peonies had been knocked to its side, water bleeding across the hardwood like a spill of something sacred, petals torn and trampled as if love itself had died there.

And she was standing at the center of it all, a singular storm in silk and rage. Her chest rose and fell with ragged, uneven breaths, each inhale a silent scream, each exhale a curse barely restrained. Her hair was a wild halo, strands clinging to her damp cheeks, and her lipstick was a smudged crimson smear that trailed from her mouth like war paint. She looked as if she'd clawed her way out of some ancient battle—and in a way, she had.

When she turned to face him, time stilled.

And gods, he felt it—the sheer force of her. That sharp, trembling fury laced with something far more dangerous: heartbreak.

It was the look he had been waiting for. The look she had never given anyone else. Not Draco. Not Theo. Only him.

She looked unhinged. Untethered. Devastatingly beautiful in that raw, ruined way that only Pansy could be when pushed to the ragged edge of her soul. Her eyes—normally clever, calculating—were bottomless now, oceans of betrayal and longing and bone-deep fury.

"Did you enjoy yourself tonight?" she spat, voice jagged as broken glass, eyes locked on his with the precision of a curse. Her hands trembled at her sides, her fingers twitching like she was seconds away from grabbing the nearest object and hurling it at his head just to feel something shatter the way she had.

Neville didn't flinch. He just tilted his head slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world to watch her burn.

"Oh," he said, voice smooth, measured, cruel in its calm. "Immensely."

Her whole body reacted—shoulders snapping back, nostrils flaring, mouth parting like she couldn't decide whether to scream or sob.

"Go fuck yourself, Longbottom," she hissed, and it came out like a curse laced with heartbreak.

But he wasn't done.

He took a slow, deliberate step toward her, relishing the way her breath caught in her throat, the way her body leaned back instinctively even as her eyes held steady on his. She was shaking, vibrating with anger and something else—something hotter, more dangerous.

"You'd rather I fuck Daphne instead?" he asked, voice low, each word a knife.

Her eyes darkened. Her lips parted in a gasp she refused to let escape.

"Say that again," she dared, her voice barely above a whisper, but there was murder behind it.

He smiled—a slow, infuriating smirk, like he knew exactly which nerve to press to detonate her entirely.

"I said," he murmured, stepping closer until he could smell the wine on her breath and the fury beneath her skin, "do you want me to fuck—"

The wine glass flew like a curse, shattering against the wall inches from his head. Red splattered across the cream wallpaper like a bloodstain.

He didn't blink.

But gods, he wanted her.

This. This was the Pansy he knew. The one who didn't hide behind ice or artifice. The one who felt so fiercely it frightened even herself. The one who burned with jealousy because she loved him like she didn't know how not to. The one who could destroy a room and still look like the only thing in the world that mattered. The one who could destroy him, and always, always would.

And tonight? Tonight he wanted to burn with her.

She took a step forward, the sound of her heels echoing like a war drum across the ruined silence, then another, and another still—until she was standing toe-to-toe with him, her chin tilted up in defiance, her eyes wild with fury and something far more dangerous. Her hands were curled into trembling fists at her sides, her knuckles white, the tension vibrating through every inch of her. "You," she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice low and trembling with emotion she couldn't begin to name, "are such a fucking bastard."

Before she could take another breath, his hand moved—fast, instinctive, possessive—closing around the column of her throat, not in aggression, but in something far more intimate. His fingers pressed into her skin, not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to feel her heartbeat hammering like war drums beneath his palm. He stared at her like he was watching the only thing that had ever truly mattered in his life unravel in real time.

"You're still wearing my dress," he said, and his voice wasn't mocking—it was reverent, dark with need, tinged with something that almost sounded like regret. His thumb brushed slowly along the underside of her jaw, tracing the delicate curve like it belonged to him. "All of this," he whispered, gaze dropping to the crimson silk clinging to her body, "you got all dressed up for me, didn't you, love?"

Her breath came in short, furious bursts, her chest rising and falling so fast it looked like she might combust. "Fuck you," she spat, but even her voice betrayed her—quivering, aching, trembling on the edge of something she didn't want to name.

His grip on her neck tightened, just a fraction, just enough to make her breath catch, to remind her that he knew every inch of her—every pressure point, every reaction, every lie she told herself. And his voice was so low, so devastatingly calm when he murmured, "You already did."

That was her breaking point. A raw, guttural sound ripped from her throat—a sound that was not quite a scream, not quite a sob—and she shoved him, hard, palms slamming against his chest with all the force of her grief and rage and longing. But he caught her wrist before she could fully retreat, spun her with the kind of practiced ease that spoke of how often they'd danced this particular dance, and pinned her against the nearest wall.

She gasped—not in fear, but in shock, in adrenaline, in that sharp, breathless place where rage met lust and neither of them could tell which was which anymore.

His mouth was at her ear in an instant, his breath hot and fast against her skin, and he wasn't smiling anymore. He was staring down at her like she was the only god he'd ever believed in. "What's the matter, Parky?" he whispered, his voice a silken threat. "Didn't like seeing me with her?"

She wanted to scream. To hit him. To claw at the way he made her feel things she couldn't control. But instead, she dug her fingernails into her palms, held her chin high, and hissed, "Why should I care?"

He chuckled, dark and low and so infuriatingly sure of himself it made her stomach flip. "Oh, you care, darling," he said, and he dragged out the last word like it was a secret they'd been keeping from the world.

Then his hand moved—slow, confident, deliberate—gliding up the slit of her dress, fingertips ghosting over the warm, bare skin of her thigh, sending shivers across every nerve ending she possessed. She clenched her jaw, her entire body shaking with tension, the air between them electric with something she refused to name. She was trembling—not from fear, never from fear—but from the weight of wanting, of hating how much she wanted him even now.

"Admit it," he breathed, his voice that particular brand of low and dangerous that curled like smoke around her spine, threading itself through her veins and lighting her up from the inside.

She said nothing.

Her teeth ground together, her throat worked against the scream she swallowed whole, and her entire body burned with the desire to hit him, kiss him, destroy him. She would not give him the satisfaction. She would rather claw out her own tongue than say the words she knew he wanted to hear.

But Neville—her fucking Nevie—had always known exactly how to unravel her. Always knew which threads to pull, which lies to wait out. And gods help her, he wasn't done yet.

With a slow, deliberate motion that spoke of muscle memory and muscle control, Pansy's hand slid beneath the heavy silk of her dress, her fingers expertly finding the familiar leather strap just above her garter, curling tight around the hilt of the blade she kept there—not out of fear, but out of principle. The cold kiss of the metal against her thigh grounded her, a sharp, steadying presence that reminded her who she was. What she was. She pulled it free without hesitation, with the grace of someone who had drawn this blade a hundred times before—not to wound, but to remind the world not to mistake beauty for fragility.

In one fluid movement, she stepped into his space—dangerously close—and pressed the tip of the blade against the smooth line of his throat, right beneath his jaw where the skin was thinnest and the blood ran fast and hot. The contact was gentle enough to avoid piercing, but the promise was there, heavy and absolute. A silent threat. A wordless vow. Her wrist stayed firm, posture rigid, like a dancer poised mid-performance—but this performance was laced with violence.

Neville didn't flinch. Not an inch. His spine straightened, his shoulders squared as if accepting the knife the way a king might accept a crown. His dark eyes didn't flicker—not with fear, not with anger—but with something far more maddening: curiosity. Anticipation. His lips twitched into something close to a smile, not mocking, but amused in the way a man might smile at a fire threatening to consume him. He had always known her heat could burn.

"What's the plan, Bloom?" he asked, his voice husky and infuriatingly calm, laced with that intimate nickname that always chipped away at her armor no matter how she tried to brace against it. "Cutting me up like Dimitar? That was a masterpiece. Do me better." He leaned into the blade slightly, the motion slow and deliberate, a willing offering. He wanted her unhinged. Wanted her feral. Wanted her real.

Her breath hitched, sharp and furious, the sound dragging through her throat like smoke. She pressed the blade a fraction harder, just enough to feel the soft give of his skin. His Adam's apple twitched beneath the steel. Still, he didn't move. And gods, it made her furious—how he could be so calm when she was falling apart.

"Fuck you," she spat, voice raw with everything she couldn't say, every aching wound she couldn't show. Her hand tightened around the hilt, her knuckles turning bone white, her entire body a live wire of fury and heartbreak. "I hate you."

His smirk deepened, slow and cruel and devastatingly familiar, the kind of expression that only ever made her want to kiss him or kill him or both. "Yes, my love," he murmured, voice velvet-wrapped steel. "Sure you do."

Her jaw trembled, her arm locked in place as though the blade were the only thing anchoring her to the floor. She hated how easily he could unravel her. How he knew—knew without question—that her hatred for him, if it even existed, was outmatched only by how deeply she ached for him. How much she needed him like breath, like blood, like war.

And then he moved—fast as a whipcrack.

His hand shot out, snatching her wrist before she could so much as blink, and in one swift, seamless motion, his other hand came up and curled around her throat. Not in cruelty. Not to frighten. But to hold her in place. To feel the wild beat of her heart under his palm. To say without saying: I see you.

His grip wasn't painful. It wasn't even aggressive. It was commanding. Certain. A reminder that no matter how many blades she brandished or how many masks she wore, she was still his. Still that girl who once cried in his arms in the dead of night and asked if broken things could still be wanted.

"Drop it," he said, voice low and coaxing and terrifyingly gentle. A whisper of command laced with reverence, like he was asking for her surrender and promising she wouldn't be lost for it.

She didn't move.

Not at first.

Because for one long second, she truly considered it—sinking the blade just enough to draw blood. Not to kill. Not to wound. But to mark. To remind him. To leave something on his body that would mirror the scars he had carved into hers. But her hand shook.

Not from fear.

From restraint.

Her fingers trembled, betrayed her fury, her grief, her need—and the knife slipped from her grip, clattering to the floor like the last word in an argument neither of them had truly won.

And she stood there, breath caught in the tight cage of her ribs, chest heaving like she had just survived a war, her skin flushed, her pulse a wild and frenzied beat beneath the steady weight of his hand still curled possessively around her throat. She felt utterly exposed in that moment, stripped of every last defense, laid bare not by lack of clothing, but by the sharp, blistering intimacy of his gaze and the maddening certainty with which he held her—not as if he was testing her power, but as if he knew it was his. And worse, as if she did too.

She trembled beneath his touch—not in fear, but in the unbearable awareness of how deeply he could see her, how infuriatingly well he knew her. Her fury, her pride, her pain—it was all there, trembling on the edge of surrender. She felt more naked than if he had torn the dress from her body himself. More vulnerable than she'd ever allowed herself to be.

"Good girl," he murmured, the praise low and dangerous, curling at the edges of his voice like smoke rising from something still burning beneath the surface. It wasn't condescending—it was claiming.

Her breath hitched, sharp and audible, as her chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm. Her lips parted slightly, her body trembling with adrenaline, want, and rage in equal measure. Her wide eyes locked onto his, brimming with wild contradiction—desperation and defiance, love and loathing, longing and fury. She wanted to scream. She wanted to sob. She wanted to throw him through a fucking wall and kiss him until he couldn't breathe. She wanted to bury her hands in his hair and tear at him until nothing else existed. She wanted to destroy him and have him hold her while she did it.

"Collect my belongings," he said next, his tone maddeningly level, composed, each word crisp and deliberate—like he hadn't just shattered her with a single look.

She didn't respond. She didn't need to. Her wand was in her hand before she even realized she had reached for it, her magic pulsing hot and fast with emotion as she flicked it with practiced precision. The scattered remnants of his life—clothes she had thrown out the window in fury, shoes she had launched into the garden like insults, books she had shoved from shelves in some desperate bid to erase his presence—rose slowly from where they lay, carried gently through the open glass doors and back into their place as if they had never been cast out. Her hands didn't move. Her lips didn't part. But her eyes never left him. Not for a second. Because if she looked away now, she'd fall apart completely.

The air between them buzzed, thick with the weight of unsaid things. Her magic responded to the tension, the charged air vibrating with raw, unfiltered power, as if even the house itself was watching, waiting.

"Clean up the broken glasses," he added, stepping closer again, so close that she could feel the heat of his body without a single point of contact. His breath fanned across her cheek, brushing her skin like a promise and a punishment. "And don't hurt yourself."

Her nostrils flared. Her hands clenched at her sides. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to disappear into him and never be seen again.

But she obeyed.

Wordlessly, she turned her wand toward the wreckage—crystal shards and china splinters, the physical echo of her emotional unraveling—and repaired each piece with precision. Not because he had told her to. But because it was easier than telling him the truth: that she was already broken in places no spell could touch.

He was still watching her, always watching her, and she could feel it—feel the weight of his gaze like a brand on her skin, feel the way it curled around her ribs and wrapped around her spine.

Then, suddenly, he was in front of her again, his hand at her throat once more—less forceful now, but no less commanding—tilting her chin up, forcing her to look at him when all she wanted to do was hide.

"Do not ever do that again," he said, voice dipped in a darkness that made her stomach twist. Not angry. Not scolding. Just final. Like a truth he would not allow her to forget.

She swallowed, the sound loud in her throat, her entire body rigid with the effort not to tremble. She nodded, once, sharp and reluctant, her eyes never leaving his.

He let go of her slowly, his fingers brushing her jawline on the way down, his thumb tracing her skin like a memory he was trying to commit to touch.

"Strip."

Her breath caught. She blinked. Just for a second.

He tilted his head, that maddeningly unreadable look returning to his face, a flicker of something dangerous sparking in his eyes—daring her to say no. Daring her to disobey. Daring her to test just how far she could push him tonight.

She didn't.

Not because she couldn't. But because she didn't want to. Not really.

Her hands moved slowly, almost reverently, reaching for the zipper at the back of her dress. She drew it down inch by inch, the sound loud in the charged silence, her fingers trembling only slightly. The crimson fabric slid off her shoulders, down her arms, pooling at her feet like spilled wine. She stood tall, her chin lifted, her eyes locked on his, her spine unbending despite her nakedness. There was no shame in her. No fear. Only challenge.

Only Pansy.

"Go take a shower," he said finally, his voice lower now, rougher, laced with something primal. His eyes raked over her with slow deliberation, dark and heated. "You look a mess."

She didn't move right away.

But when she did—when she finally turned on her heel, naked and unashamed, and strode from the room without a word—he watched her go like she was his salvation and his ruin all at once.

Her entire body throbbed with the heavy ache of too many emotions crammed into a space far too small to hold them, like a dam stretched to its limit, cracking beneath the weight of fury, sorrow, shame, and something far more vulnerable—something raw and trembling and unspoken. Every step away from him felt like walking through fire, like tearing her own skin apart with each motion, but she didn't look back. Not once. She turned without a word, her spine stiff with pride even as her soul screamed inside her chest, and made her way to the bathroom, the echo of her footsteps swallowed by the thick silence that hung between them. Still, she felt him—felt the heat of his gaze searing into her back like a brand, like a hand reaching across the void and refusing to let go.

The moment the door shut behind her, her composure collapsed.

She stepped into the shower like a soldier stepping into a battlefield, steam already curling around her like ghosts of all the things she couldn't say. Hot water rained down over her skin, burning away the tension in her muscles but doing nothing to touch the storm beneath. Her fingers trembled as she braced herself against the cold marble tiles, her breath catching in her throat as the first tear broke free. And then another. And another.

The tears fell freely, messily, blending with the water that streamed down her face until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Angry sobs tore from her chest, silent but violent, wracking her shoulders as her knees gave out beneath her, and she sank to the floor in a graceless heap of silk and skin and heartbreak.

Why would he do this?

Why would he come back just to light her up from the inside—just to open every wound that had barely begun to scar?

Why would he look at her like that, touch her like that, ruin her like that, only to hold himself back when she had already surrendered?

Why would he love her like he did—only to hurt her like this?

Because you love him, a traitorous voice whispered, curling itself like smoke around her thoughts.

You love him more than anything in this world. More than every plan, every wall you built, every version of yourself that pretended you didn't need him.

More than the universe itself.

And that was the cruelest truth of all. That she knew—deep in her bones, down to her marrow—that he loved her just as ferociously, just as destructively. That he could burn down kingdoms for her and still leave her bleeding in the ruins. That they were two stars in constant collision, bound to crash, again and again, unable to stop.

And that was what made it hurt so unbearably.

Because they had gone too far.

Because this time, they had both done damage.

She didn't know how long she sat there, curled in on herself as the water ran cold, her sobs tapering off into hiccups, her thoughts gradually quieting until there was only the hollow ache of what had been said—and what hadn't. Eventually, her body moved on instinct. She shut off the water, reached for a towel with shaking fingers, dried herself with slow, careful movements. She found her silk robe, wrapping it around her body like armor, even though it offered no protection from what she was about to face.

And then she opened the door.

He was still there.

Waiting.

Not in that casual way he sometimes waited for her—arms crossed, half a smirk tugging at his mouth—but seated at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clenched together so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His eyes lifted the second he heard her, and when they met hers—when he really looked at her—it knocked the breath from her lungs.

Because there was no trace of arrogance in his face now. No trace of the calculated coldness he had worn like a weapon. No grin. No challenge. Just… devastation. Guilt. And a tenderness so deep it scraped at her ribs.

He was staring at her like she was a piece of fine porcelain he'd dropped on the floor—something precious he didn't know how to put back together again. Like he was trying to memorize her, to understand her, to apologize without words. His eyes didn't move from her face, didn't flicker to the way her robe clung to her damp skin or how her mascara had bled down her cheeks in streaks of vulnerability.

And somehow, that made her feel more naked than anything else ever could.

It made her want to scream.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, thick and burning like glass lodged behind her ribs, and crossed her arms over her chest with more force than necessary—an act of defiance, of shielding, of pure survival. Her fingers curled into the soft fabric of her sleeves like claws, and she lifted her chin with the sort of brittle, unyielding pride that only a woman on the brink of breaking could muster. Her throat ached from holding back everything that wanted to rise up and spill out—rage, sorrow, desperation, love—but she forced the words past it anyway, her voice sharp and shaking at the edges, frayed from the weight of too many sleepless nights and too many unsaid things.

"So you don't care about me," she spat, every syllable trembling with wounded pride and poisonous vulnerability, the kind of hurt that couldn't be dulled by logic or soothed by time.

He didn't flinch. He didn't roll his eyes or snap back with something cruel the way she almost hoped he would—because if he did, maybe it would be easier to hate him. Maybe she could stop loving him if he gave her something solid, something selfish and sharp to hold against him. But he didn't. He just exhaled, slowly, carefully, as if the breath he released was the last bit of calm holding him together. As if he had rehearsed this exact conversation a hundred times in his head and still didn't know how to make it land softly. And maybe he hadn't wanted it to. Maybe this was always going to hurt.

"I care about you," he said finally, simply, like it was a fact and not a revelation. And it wasn't cruel, and it wasn't mocking, and it didn't sound like some empty string of syllables meant to fill the space between arguments. His voice was steady in a way that made her ache, low and measured, the kind of steadiness that only made everything feel more unbearable. "Morning, noon, and night, I care about you."

Her breath caught mid-throat, splintering in her chest like the aftermath of a silent scream. Those words—so gentle, so resolute—sliced through her armor with more precision than any insult ever could. Because they were true. And that was the worst part. Because it was too much and not enough, all at once. Because if he cared that much, why did he make her feel like this? Why had he spent the entire night twisting the knife?

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself not to move, not to flinch, not to collapse under the weight of what she was feeling. She stayed upright, kept her spine stiff and her glare sharp, even as every part of her screamed to fall to her knees and beg him to just say more. To say everything. To say he loved her, to say he was hers, to say she hadn't ruined it.

"I can look the other way," she whispered, and the words spilled out like poison, like blood, like something torn straight from the softest part of her and flung into the dirt. Her voice was low, numb, flat in a way that belied how much it cost her to say it. "You can fuck Daphne."

His whole body went rigid. Not just in surprise, not just in fury—but in disbelief, in pain, in something so tightly controlled it could've snapped his spine in half. His nostrils flared, his jaw ticked, his shoulders squared like a soldier bracing for impact. But his face—his maddening, beautiful, infuriating face—remained unreadable, his expression carved from the same stone she'd been trying to crack open for weeks. His voice, when it came, was low and quiet and sharp enough to cut the air between them like a blade.

"Can you?" he asked. And it wasn't a challenge. It was a warning. It was devastation in disguise.

She wanted to scream no. To scream until her throat bled. To tell him that the very thought of him touching Daphne, laughing with her, giving her anything that belonged to Pansy, made her physically ill. That she'd rather raze their home to the ground and salt the earth than let another woman have a piece of him. That it made her want to claw her skin off just to stop feeling it.

But instead, she lifted her chin again, blinking past the burn in her eyes, forcing her voice into something steady, something cold, something so far from how she actually felt it made her want to vomit. "If that's what you want," she said, and she hated herself—gods, she hated herself—for how calm she sounded. "Then yes."

A flicker of something passed through his gaze. Not just anger. Not just hurt. Something older. Something deeper. Something ruined.

And then, in that soft, low, cutting voice that had always gotten under her skin, he murmured, "You are what I want. But not like this."

Her chest ached so violently she thought it might cave in.

His voice remained steady, maddeningly so, but there was an edge to it now, a glint beneath the calm like a knife beneath velvet. His eyes searched her face, scanning every twitch of her jaw, every flutter of her lashes, every ounce of her fury. "What is your problem lately, Parky?" he asked, and the use of her name—his nickname for her, once laced with affection, now steeped in exasperation—made her flinch. "What happened to you?"

She didn't answer.

He stepped closer, and when he spoke again, his voice came out louder, sharper, tinged with the kind of frustration that simmers beneath the surface for too long before finally snapping like a taut string. It was no longer a whisper, no longer restrained or patient or soft. It was a demand—pointed, raw, dangerous in its honesty. "Why are you so damn annoying?"

And that was it.

Something inside her cracked wide open. All the pressure, all the panic, all the gnawing insecurity that had been building and pulsing in her chest like a second heartbeat—unseen but all-consuming—finally tore through the fragile skin of her composure. She snapped.

Her hands, shaking with fury and something that tasted too much like grief, launched forward, shoving at his chest with a force that was more desperation than strength. He barely moved—of course he didn't—but that didn't matter. She needed to hit something. Break something. Be loud. Be heard.

"I found your letters!" she screamed, the words leaving her like shrapnel, each one coated in fire, her voice already cracking under the weight of what she was about to admit. Her breath hitched, her lungs spasming with panic. "Your disgusting, love letters to that bitch! That filthy woman!"

His brows pulled together slowly, not in guilt or fear or anything close to what she wanted to see—but in confusion, sharp and clean and real. "What?" he said, the word almost clipped, like he couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

"Don't lie to me!" she shrieked, because she had no more room for sanity, no more patience for slow revelations. "I saw them, Neville! I read every single one!"

And something shifted.

He didn't recoil. He didn't yell back.

Instead, his body stilled, squared, hardened, and his gaze turned lethal—not cruel, but wounded, betrayed, indignant. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening with the effort not to explode. For the first time that night, he looked truly furious.

"You found my work letters," he said, voice so low it barely scraped the air. A thread of disbelief laced each word, unraveling like a rope coming undone. "The ones that were sitting—sitting—right on the fucking desk? The letters from Hannah?"

Her stomach twisted violently, a leaden drop of shame falling into her gut like poison.

"The reports," he continued, his voice cold, deliberate, every word a clean cut, "on the new restoration project we're funding? The Herbology documentation? The fucking soil updates?"

Her mouth parted, but no sound came out. Her lips moved around a silent apology she didn't have the courage to say. The image of those letters—the formal tone, the bullet-pointed lists, the tidy little closing line from Hannah Abbott, Assistant Coordinator—flashed through her mind like a neon sign of her own failure.

They weren't romantic.

They weren't love letters.

They were… professional.

Just… work.

Her spine stiffened, but her muscles were locking up. Everything in her body screamed to deny it, to keep reaching for the version of the story where she was the one wronged, where he was the villain. But it was slipping through her fingers like sand.

She had spent weeks—no, a month—tormenting herself, building a mythology of betrayal around something that had never existed.

But instead of backing down, instead of collapsing in shame or apologizing or doing anything that would crack her armor, she lunged at the last shred of control she had left.

"Then what the fuck was tonight?!" she snapped, her voice unraveling at the seams, too shrill, too exposed, too honest. "Was that your revenge? Was it fun for you, Neville? Did you enjoy watching me spiral while you flirted with that—"

He laughed.

It was not a kind sound.

It was bitter and brutal and hollow as a ruined cathedral. The kind of laugh that makes the air feel colder.

"You started this fucking game, Bloom," he said, her nickname suddenly cutting instead of sweet, a reminder of just how far they'd fallen. He stepped forward, and it wasn't threatening, but it was suffocating all the same—his presence overwhelming her senses, his scent filling her nose, his voice dragging claws down her spine. "And now you're upset that I learned how to play?"

She opened her mouth, ready to bite back, but he moved faster, grabbing her chin in one rough but careful hand, angling her face up to meet his. His thumb dragged across her jaw—not soft, not cruel, but claiming.

"You think I don't know you?" he whispered, voice so low it echoed inside her chest. "You think I haven't seen every single fucking mask you wear? Every time you push me away, every time you scream and fight and destroy things just to see if I'll come back?" He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with something sharp and furious and heartbreakingly tired. "You're trying to see if I'll stay."

The air left her lungs like a punch to the ribs.

Because he was right.

He knew. He had always known.

And for the first time in their long, messy, beautiful, chaotic history, she had nothing to say. Not a single word. No retort. No defense.

Only silence.

He stared at her for another moment, the tension in his jaw the only indication that he was still barely holding himself together. Then he let out a slow, guttural breath and dropped his hand from her skin as if it burned him.

"I don't know what the fuck is going on inside that twisted little mind of yours," he said, stepping back, his fingers trailing down her collarbone in one last touch—so featherlight it almost didn't exist—until they came to rest over her pulse. "But if you think I'm going anywhere, you're more delusional than I thought."

And just like that, with all the quiet finality of a slammed door, he turned and walked out.

Didn't look back.

Didn't offer another word.

Just left—leaving her in the thick silence of their ruined evening, standing frozen, stripped bare by the truth and trembling from the weight of it.

The quiet swallowed her whole.

The room, still half-lit, seemed to shimmer with all the words she hadn't said, the apologies she hadn't made, the honesty she hadn't had the courage to reach for. Her hands trembled at her sides, fingers twitching like they wanted to summon him back—but her pride held them still.

She stayed like that for a long time.

Long enough for the shadows to grow.

Long enough for the tears to come.

And still, she said nothing.

Because what was left to say?

The dogs were already curled up at the foot of the bed, their tiny bodies nestled into one another, soft snores and rhythmic breathing filling the quiet in a way that felt both comforting and cruel. Their peaceful innocence was a stark contrast to the storm raging inside her chest, and the sight of them—so unbothered, so safe—twisted something deep in her heart. Even they, she thought bitterly, don't deserve to live inside this kind of chaos. Not even them.

Her knees gave out before she could reach the edge of the mattress, a sudden, silent surrender to the weight pressing down on her from every direction. She collapsed to the floor, the cold wood jarring against her skin, and wrapped her arms tightly around her body as if trying to hold herself together. But it was no use.

The first sob punched its way out of her throat like it had been waiting for hours—maybe days, maybe weeks—to break free. It bent her forward, made her curl in on herself like something wounded, something small and too broken to pretend anymore. "Love me, please," she whispered, the words brittle and cracked and barely audible, like the voice of a child begging the dark not to swallow her whole.

But it wasn't enough. Of course it wasn't.

"Come back to me," she gasped, louder now, her breath hitching as her hands clawed at the tangled bedsheets. She gripped them with white-knuckled desperation, as if the fabric itself could pull her back from the edge, as if clinging to it might bring him back to her. "Please! Please—come back to me!"

The next wave of sobs broke her entirely.

"I need you!" she wailed, her voice hoarse and cracking, every syllable soaked in pain, drenched in longing, hollowed out by the sheer impossibility of existing without him. "I can't function—I can't breathe without you—I can't sleep, I can't eat, I'm nothing without you! NOTHING!"

And then the dam truly gave way, the sobs ripping through her with violent force, leaving her body heaving, her throat raw, her heart screaming for something it couldn't name. Her entire frame shook, every part of her trembling, unraveling, shattering, as the agony clawed its way out of her in waves. She couldn't stop it. Couldn't contain it. Couldn't hide anymore.

And then—warmth.

A weight, a presence, arms that she hadn't even realized had moved until they were around her, wrapping her up, lifting her off the floor as if she weighed nothing, pulling her against his chest with a strength that felt like salvation. She didn't hear him approach. Didn't know when he left the bed. But suddenly, he was there—he was there—and his scent surrounded her, familiar and grounding, anchoring her to something real, something solid, something that had always, always been home.

His embrace wasn't careful. It wasn't soft. It was desperate. Fierce. Bruising in the way only love can be when it's on the edge of crumbling. His arms locked around her like a vow, like a tether, like if he let go, he'd fall apart too.

"If you'd ever die," he whispered into her hair, his voice a shattered thing, thick with emotion and salt and unspoken promises, "I'd die with you. I swear it. I swear on everything I am. Because you're it, Pans. You're my whole fucking world."

She let out a choked, gasping sob against his chest, and he held her tighter, his lips pressing to the crown of her head like an apology, like a prayer. "I would never leave you. Not really. Not ever."

She dug her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him with everything she had left. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst, and maybe that was what she needed. For something to burst. To bleed. To finally stop hurting.

"I enabled you," he murmured, his voice rough, broken open. "I made excuses. I should've drawn a line, should've said something when things got bad—but I couldn't. Because all I've ever wanted is you. All I've ever loved is you. Every maddening, selfish, radiant part of you. Even the pieces that terrify me. Even the ones that hurt."

"Why would you do that to my heart?" she whispered, the question laced with anguish, her voice cracking, her lips brushing against the base of his throat. "Why would you touch anyone else? Why would you let anyone touch you? You can't. You can't. You're mine, Nevie. Mine, mine, mine."

He growled, the sound barely restrained, raw from somewhere deep inside his chest. His grip tightened around her waist, like he was trying to pull her even closer, as if closer would somehow fuse them back together.

"I wanted to make you jealous," he admitted, his voice like thunder laced with guilt. "I wanted to punish you. But while I was pretending, while I was laughing at that stupid cow's jokes and pretending to listen, all I could think about was you. How I wanted to ruin you. Fuck you in that red dress until you screamed my name in front of everyone. So Daphne would see. So they'd all see. What's mine."

A broken sound slipped from her lips, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and she clawed at his back like she needed to tear him open just to climb inside and stay there, stay safe.

"Then do it," she whispered, the words trembling, almost lost in the space between them.

His breath hitched against her hair.

"Do what?" he rasped, even though he already knew. Knew from the look in her eyes, from the way her body shook against his, from the way she clung to him like she was drowning and he was the only thing that could save her.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her mascara-streaked face a picture of devastation and fury and absolute, soul-deep need. Her lips parted, swollen from crying, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears, with fire, with the unbearable truth of it all.

"Ruin me," she breathed, her voice like broken velvet. "Right now. Right here. Make me yours again."

And something in him snapped.

He didn't hesitate—he never hesitated when it came to her.

In one swift motion, he crushed his lips to hers, the kiss bruising in its intensity, his hands tangling in her hair, his body pressing her back against the mattress. She gasped against his lips, and he took advantage, his tongue sweeping inside, claiming her in a way that left no room for doubt, no space for anything but this.

He kissed her like he was trying to consume her, to devour every inch of her, to make sure she felt him in her bones, in her soul.

His hands moved with purpose, ripping at the silk robe she had wrapped around herself, tearing it from her body and throwing it aside like it was nothing. His lips left hers only to trail down her jaw, her throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, making her shudder beneath him.

"You drive me insane, Pansy," he growled against her skin, his voice thick with emotion and hunger. "You make me fucking crazy. But you are mine. You will remember that."

She arched into him, desperate for more, her hands already working to undo the buttons of his shirt, her nails scraping lightly over his skin.

"Show me," she pleaded. "Make me feel it."

He didn't need to be asked twice.

He pulled away just long enough to strip himself bare before settling between her thighs, his hands gripping them tightly, spreading her open for him. He drank in the sight of her, bare and vulnerable beneath him, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her lips red and swollen from his kisses, her skin his to mark.

"Look at me," he ordered, voice rough, commanding.

She did.

"Say it," he demanded.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her eyes locked onto his, her voice barely above a breath.

"I'm yours, Nevie."

A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest, and then he was moving, claiming her in the only way he knew how, his name falling from her lips like a prayer, like a curse, like a confession.

And as they moved together, as the world outside disappeared, as the past and the pain and the games they played melted away into something raw and real and theirs—

His hand slid between her thighs, teasing her soaked folds before his fingers found her aching clit. But instead of the soft caress she expected, he slapped it—sharp, precise.

She screamed, the unexpected jolt of pleasure-pain sending her spiraling. The sound echoed off the walls, loud enough that their dogs bolted from the room, paws scrambling against the floor.

Neville smirked. "Sensitive tonight, aren't you, love?"

Before she could answer, he did it again, reveling in the way she gasped, her body convulsing against the mattress.

"Neville," she choked out, but there was no protest in her voice, only unrestrained need.

"On your hands and knees," he ordered, voice firm, dripping with command.

She obeyed instantly, spine arching as she pressed her chest into the mattress, her bare back exposed to him, vulnerable and beautiful in the dim candlelight.

"Good girl," he murmured, trailing a hand up her trembling thigh, his fingers gliding over the curve of her ass before parting her.

The first intrusion was slow—two fingers, sliding inside the tight, forbidden place he knew she loved, even when she pretended otherwise. She gasped, arching deeper, her moan raw and breathless.

He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "This is going to hurt, love. Just as much as my heart fucking hurt for you."

"Yes," she whimpered, voice breaking. "I—I deserve it."

Neville's grip on her tightened. "You are such a good girl. Even when you break my heart."

He murmured a quick charm against her skin, and then, without warning, he thrust inside, slow but unrelenting.

Pansy keened, her fingers fisting the sheets as she tried to adjust, her body stretching to take him. It was too much, the delicious burn, the overwhelming fullness, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

"Neville," she sobbed, her voice a mix of pain and unbearable pleasure.

He groaned, his own control slipping as he sank deeper, his fingers digging into her hips. "Fuck, you feel perfect."

He set a ruthless pace, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back inside, dragging another scream from her lips. Each thrust sent her forward, her body rocking with the force of him. She could feel every inch of him, every possessive stroke claiming her, wrecking her in the way only he could.

And then he reached around, fingers finding her clit again, circling it in maddeningly slow strokes.

"Nevie, please—please," she sobbed, her body already teetering on the edge.

"Please what, love?" he taunted, his voice ragged as he fought to hold himself together. "You want to come, don't you? You want to make a mess on my good sheets."

She whimpered, barely able to form words.

"Say it," he demanded, fingers moving faster. "Tell me what you need."

"I'm—I'm so sorry," she gasped. "Sir, please—let me—"

"Do it," he growled, giving her one last punishing thrust.

Her body shattered. The climax hit her like a violent storm, crashing through her in relentless waves, leaving her shaking, ruined. She screamed his name, her voice hoarse, her vision blurring as pleasure consumed her.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, their bodies entwined, their breath mingling in the heavy silence.

Finally, he pulled her up, pressing soft kisses along the back of her neck, his hands roaming over her trembling frame, soothing where he had been rough.

"Touch yourself for me," he murmured, his fingers tracing her inner thigh.

She let out a broken whimper, shaking her head, but he wasn't having it.

"Again, darling," he whispered against her ear, his teeth grazing her skin. "I want to feel you come apart one more time."

And as she obeyed, as she let herself unravel in his arms, she realized—this was them.

No matter what they did to each other, no matter how far they pushed, no matter how many times they burned, they would always, always return to this. To each other. To the wreckage and the ruin and the love that survived it all.

~~~~~~

And as if the chaos of watching the love of his life endure the most agonizing pain known to wizardkind wasn't already making him unravel by the second, Theo had to deal with fucking Parkinson, who had somehow convinced herself—despite lacking a uterus currently hosting a fetus—that she too was in labor. Because obviously, if Luna was pushing a human being out of her body, then Pansy Parkinson had no choice but to emotionally, theatrically, and cosmically push right along with her.

It didn't matter that Pansy was in perfect physical condition. It didn't matter that she was not pregnant. It didn't even matter that she was wearing a perfectly tailored jumpsuit with heels that screamed fashion week rather than maternity ward. None of those things could stop her from barging into the birthing room like the deranged lovechild of a midwife, a drill sergeant, and a fashion icon having a psychotic break.

Theo had barely processed the fact that Luna's water had broken—on the bed, of course, because fate hated him—before Pansy was there, storming into the room like a queen arriving at a battlefield. Her entrance alone was enough to make three of the mediwitches back away in instinctive fear. She did not knock. She did not ask permission. She simply materialized at Luna's side and declared, in a tone that could only be described as weaponized melodrama, "Move aside. The goddess of birth has arrived."

From that moment on, all hell broke loose.

Within minutes, Pansy had transformed into some terrifying hybrid of birthing coach, protective auntie, and unhinged avenging spirit, barking orders at the mediwitches, rubbing Luna's back like she was starting a fire, and snapping at Theo every single time he breathed wrong.

If he shifted in his seat? "Stop fidgeting, you're making the contractions worse."

If he opened his mouth to speak? "Do not say anything unless it's a spell to stop time and spare her this agony."

If he so much as looked in her direction? "I swear to Merlin, Nott, if you so much as blink like a man, I will curse you into infertility."

And Theo, who had spent the last nine months living on the razor's edge of panic—monitoring Luna's sleep cycles, potion intake, blood pressure, and bowel movements like a madman—had truly, honestly tried to keep his composure. But then Pansy crossed the line.

She yelled at him.

Yelled. As if he were some incompetent, wandless intern. "Stop hovering like a constipated ghost and PUT THAT BLOODY GUN DOWN BEFORE YOU SHOOT YOUR OWN BALLS OFF!"

That was when Theo truly and sincerely considered launching himself into the fireplace.

Because yes, he was armed. He was always armed. And maybe it was their house, and maybe it was magically warded six ways to Sunday, but he didn't give a flying fuck. This was Luna. His Luna. His literal entire world was currently being ripped open from the inside out, and he wasn't going to take any chances, not even for a second.

But Pansy—his eternal tormentor, his living migraine, his personal trial sent by the gods—had decided that his perfectly rational anxiety and precautionary weaponry were an aesthetic offense and had screamed at him like he was trying to hex the baby out of Luna with a wand made of bad decisions.

And maybe—maybe—Theo had stared her down with a murderous glint in his eyes that suggested he was weighing the pros and cons of throwing her out the window. But did Pansy back down? Of course not.

Instead, she went full Shakespearean banshee, hurling an unbroken monologue of insults at him that included "emotionally stunted hit wizard," "wand-happy trauma case," and "dementor in Gucci."

Theo was this close to losing it. And he would have, too. He would've blown a blood vessel. But then Luna—his glowing, goddess-like, suffering wife—reached over, grabbed his wrist with the strength of ten Basilisks, and snapped in a tone that could silence volcanoes: "Theodore, if you don't put that wand down and get over here, I swear to every ancient rune in the book, you will never be allowed near this uterus again."

Theo didn't argue.

He holstered the gun.

Not because Parkinson had won—absolutely not—but because Luna had spoken. Luna, who was in pain, and radiant, and terrifyingly in charge of every nerve ending in his body.

And so he stood there, unarmed, vibrating with rage, while Pansy smirked with the gleeful satisfaction of a woman who had just conquered Rome in heels.

She acted like she was giving birth. Like she was the center of this entire planetary event. Like she was moments away from demanding a crown and a foot massage.

Theo loathed her.

Luna, of course, just gritted her teeth through another contraction and, between hisses of pain, reached out to squeeze Pansy's hand with something dangerously close to affection.

Theo watched that moment—his wife in agony, his mortal enemy receiving a thank you—and understood something deeply tragic:

This was going to be the longest, most exhausting, most emotionally derailing day of his entire life. And he wasn't even the one giving birth.

°°°°°°

Neville needed to come and get Pansy—urgently, immediately, before someone filed a formal complaint or cast a Silencing Charm on her permanently—because by the end of it, even Luna, the one person in the entire house who possessed the serene patience of a celestial being, who could gracefully endure Theo's worst moods without flinching, who once held a full tea-time conversation with a confessed assassin without batting an eye, who could find inner peace in a room full of chaos and still offer a smile that made people rethink their crimes—even Luna Lovegood had finally, finally reached her limit. And when Luna lost her temper, when that ethereal, composed façade cracked and gave way to something sharp and wrathful, it was the kind of event that caused grown men to weep, birds to fall silent mid-song, and time itself to stutter in shock. It was so rare, so spectacularly catastrophic, that even the bravest among them—Theo included—took several steps back like they were witnessing the eruption of a dormant volcano.

It hadn't happened all at once, no. It built slowly, insidiously, like the slow swell of a tidal wave: first came the gentle sighs of irritation, small but steadily increasing in frequency, then came the pointed, piercing looks cast in Pansy's direction like Luna was calculating just how many nerves she had left; after that, the gritted teeth, each contraction sharpening her jaw until she looked like a woman who could bite through iron. And then, in the final, glorious moment—right as Pansy leaned a little too close, her voice syrupy and dramatic, delivering yet another unsolicited pep talk about womanhood and the divine agony of creation, hand placed over her heart like she was narrating a performance of Les Misérables—Luna snapped.

Her voice—usually dreamlike and lilting—cut through the thick tension of the birthing room with the precision of a whip: "For the love of God, Pansy, get out before I kill you." No exclamation. No shout. Just a quiet, crystal-clear threat laced with celestial rage.

And that was the moment—that was when every single person in the room, magical or not, maternal or not, male or female, realized with a chill down their spine that it was officially over for Parkinson. The Queen of Drama had met her match.

Neville had been summoned instantly—whether it was divine intervention, the desperate prayers of the overworked house-elves, or simply the fact that his name had been screamed into the ether by three different people at once, no one could say for sure—but within seconds of Luna threatening homicide, he had appeared in the birthing room with the eerie precision of a man who had long ago developed a sixth sense for Pansy-related emergencies. 

He didn't materialize with the grandeur of a hero or the urgency of a man sprinting to a crisis; no, Neville entered with the bone-deep, soul-weary energy of someone who had been dragged into this circus far too many times and had come to accept his fate with the quiet resignation of a man who knew exactly what fresh hell awaited him.

There was no greeting, no grand declaration, no dramatic speech to diffuse the tension—just a silent, heavy sigh and the casual, practiced motion of reaching for Pansy's elbow with one hand while the other hovered near his wand, just in case she decided to hex him on the way out. His grip was not cruel, not forceful, but imbued with the calm authority of a husband who had spent the last seven years refining the art of physically removing his wife from situations she had absolutely no business being in, like some glorified, emotionally entangled bouncer at the Ministry's worst karaoke night.

He didn't speak right away because he didn't need to. Pansy, naturally, filled the silence with her own dramatic commentary, stomping beside him with the righteous indignation of a royal who'd just been denied her throne. "I wasn't finished," she declared, nose in the air, her Louboutin heels clicking against the polished floors like a ticking time bomb of theatrical outrage. "Luna needs me, Longbottom. I was helping." The word helping was delivered with such exaggerated conviction that Neville had to physically bite back a laugh before it escaped and cost him his life.

"Helping," Neville repeated, flat as day-old tea, his voice so dry it could have cured parchment. He adjusted his grip on her elbow as she twisted dramatically, her whole body language screaming misunderstood heroine dragged from battle. "Pansy, you were five seconds away from being killed by a woman in active labor. A woman who is known to speak to thestrals and hexed a death eater with a lily once. You are not irreplaceable in this scenario."

"She wouldn't dare," Pansy sniffed, lifting her chin with the kind of regal pride that completely ignored the fact that Luna had indeed dared—and very loudly, at that. "I'm her best friend. She adores me."

Neville quirked a brow, unimpressed and unbothered. "Is that so?" he asked, steering her through the hallway like he was escorting a drunk banshee out of a high-society gala. "Because I'm fairly certain she threatened to shove a wand somewhere very unpleasant if you didn't leave her birthing suite."

"She was just venting," Pansy insisted, as though this were a normal Tuesday and not a diplomatic incident. "She appreciates my presence."

"Luna appreciates your presence when you aren't acting like you're the one crowning," Neville deadpanned, not even sparing her a glance as they entered the manor's lavish living room, the kind of space designed for polite tea conversations and not marital hostage negotiations. He gestured toward a luxurious velvet armchair like he was offering her a throne, though his tone made it very clear this was a prison. "Now sit. Be a good girl. And wait."

The gasp she let out could've powered a small wind turbine. Her mouth fell open in slow motion, scandal pooling in her expression like a vintage perfume spill. She whirled on him, hands on her hips, every inch the affronted noblewoman. "Did you just command me like I'm some tragic little extra in your provincial fantasy about obedience?"

Neville didn't even blink. He simply sighed—deep, long-suffering, and spiritual—and rubbed the bridge of his nose like he was praying for deliverance from Merlin himself. "No, Pansy. I didn't command you. I asked you—politely—to sit your overbearing arse down before Luna comes back in here and murders you with her mind."

She reeled back, clutching her chest like he'd slapped her with a fish. Her eyes blazed with the outrage of a woman who had been both insulted and denied center stage. But Neville? He just stood there. Blank-faced. Emotionally numb. The physical embodiment of a man teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown, begging whatever higher power was listening for one single moment of peace.

And so they stood, locked in a silent standoff in the center of their obscenely elegant sitting room, staring at each other like two generals waiting to see who would blink first in a war neither of them truly wanted to fight—but would absolutely die rather than concede.

Finally—finally—Pansy scoffed, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder in a grand display of false nonchalance. "Fine," she snapped, flouncing dramatically toward the armchair as if she were the one allowing herself to be removed from the situation, rather than being forcefully expelled by an entire room of people who could no longer tolerate her existence.

Neville watched as she dropped onto the chair, crossing her legs with the kind of haughty defiance that suggested she was seconds away from filing a formal complaint against every person involved in this grave injustice.

"Good," Neville said, voice clipped, his shoulders relaxing slightly now that she was finally out of the birthing room.

Pansy lifted her chin. "I will be having words with Luna when this is over," she informed him primly, her expression one of great importance.

"I'm sure you will," Neville replied, not even attempting to hide the sheer apathy in his voice.

Pansy narrowed her eyes at him. "And you will be apologizing for that tone."

Neville snorted, rubbing at his temples, before looking at her with the kind of expression a man wears when he has long since stopped fighting battles he knows he cannot win. "Sure, Bloom, immediately."

Pansy gasped, scandalized, clutching her imaginary pearls as she glared at him, her entire body vibrating with rage.

But Neville? Neville just turned and walked away.

Because fuck that.

~~~~~~

The arrival of Pansy and Neville, fashionably late as always, was marked by the kind of effortless presence only Pansy Parkinson could command. She did not simply walk into a room—she arrived, with a flair that turned heads and demanded attention without so much as a single word.

Draped in a flowing emerald gown that clung in all the right places and flared at the hem with an effortless grace, she looked less like a woman carrying a child and more like a goddess descending from Olympus, ready to preside over whatever mortals dared to bask in her presence.

Neville, ever the doting husband, remained close at her side, his quiet strength complementing her dazzling confidence in a way that felt perfectly balanced. His hand rested on the small of her back, grounding her even as she swept into the room like a force of nature, her dark eyes scanning the opulent décor with a smirk that suggested she had been expecting nothing less.

She surveyed the space, the intricate details Theo had so meticulously arranged, the sheer magnitude of pink and gold draped over every surface, and let out a dramatic sigh. "Merlin's tits, Nott really did lose his mind over this, didn't he?" she drawled, one perfectly manicured hand settling over her belly as if to emphasize the absurdity of it all. "I mean, we knew he was obsessed, but this is a different level of insanity."

Neville chuckled beside her, though his eyes flicked between Pansy and Luna with a quiet concern only he would have. "You say that like you wouldn't demand the exact same thing for our son," he murmured, and Pansy shot him a glare that was entirely ruined by the amused glint in her eyes.

Ginny, still cradling Valerius, let out a soft laugh. "If you think this is extreme, just wait until the christening. Theo might actually commission an entire temple."

Blaise smirked, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored robes. "You underestimate him, love. He's probably already done it."

Luna, lounging gracefully on one of the plush settees, sipped her tea with a serene smile, looking entirely unbothered by the conversation unfolding around her. "You all act as if this is some sort of surprise," she mused, her voice lilting with amusement. "You do realize he would have burned the entire world down if I asked him to, right?"

Pansy shook her head, lips curling into a smirk as she settled beside Luna with the ease of someone who had long since accepted the madness of their lives. "Honestly? That's what makes this entire thing so fun to watch."

And with that, the celebration was in full swing, each arrival adding to the electric energy thrumming through the manor, each moment a reminder that this wasn't just a baby shower—it was the grand unveiling of a future queen, the first glimpse of a legacy that had already begun to rewrite history.

At the very center of the room stood the crib—a masterpiece carved from pale ashwood, its intricate designs inlaid with mother-of-pearl, depicting phoenixes rising among the stars. Within, nestled in a cocoon of blush-pink silk, was the heart of it all: Seline Nott.

The baby was breathtakingly delicate, her features so impossibly perfect they seemed crafted by magic itself. Wisps of silvery-blonde hair curled against her tiny forehead, her lashes dark against petal-soft skin as she slumbered, utterly oblivious to the adoration surrounding her. She was the very image of something ethereal, something dreamt into existence rather than simply born.

Hermione drew in a quiet breath, the sheer innocence of the moment washing over her. "She's perfect," she whispered, leaning slightly forward, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the magic that had settled over the space.

Draco tilted his head, his gaze lingering on the infant with an unreadable expression. "Perfect and aptly named," he murmured, his voice softer than usual. "Seline—the goddess of the moon. Fitting, really." He smirked faintly. "Theo must be over the moon."

Luna, seated nearby with her ever-present air of tranquility, smiled with knowing warmth. "He's completely smitten," she admitted, her voice a gentle hum of amusement. "He's already planning her first stargazing trip. I told him she can't even hold her head up yet, but he insists it's never too early."

A sharp click of heels against polished wood announced the arrival of Pansy Parkinson, who swept into the nursery with a dramatic flair that was equal parts feigned exasperation and genuine affection. At five months pregnant herself, she still carried herself with the effortless poise of a queen, her emerald-green silk dress hugging her figure in a way that was both sophisticated and unmistakably deliberate.

"This little one is going to be spoiled beyond measure," Pansy declared, leaning over the crib, her dark eyes alight with something almost reverent. She extended a manicured finger, allowing Seline's impossibly small hand to curl around it. For a moment, her usual sharp wit faltered, replaced by something achingly tender. "She's magic," she murmured, almost to herself. "Truly magic."

Draco, standing just beside her, caught the flicker of longing in her gaze. He didn't say anything—he didn't have to. Instead, he reached out, brushing his fingers lightly over her forearm in a silent exchange of understanding.

Around them, the nursery filled with soft conversation and warm laughter. Blaise recounted Theo's tragic misadventures with changing nappies, dramatizing every detail to the point where even Luna had to wipe away a tear of mirth. Ginny teased about how the once-imposing wizard had become an utter sap, checking in on his daughter every five minutes, as if she might vanish into thin air if he wasn't watching.

Draco and Hermione drifted slightly apart from the others, coming to stand near the window where golden evening light poured in, casting a soft glow over everything. They watched as their friends cooed over Seline, the sound of laughter weaving through the air like a gentle melody.

"She makes you think, doesn't she?" Draco murmured, his voice contemplative, as though he were lost somewhere between past and future.

Hermione turned to him, her gaze searching. "About what?"

"The future," he said simply. "How even after everything we've been through, there's still this. Still hope. Still beauty."

Her expression softened, and without thinking, she reached for his hand, her fingers threading through his. "It's moments like these that remind us what we're fighting for," she said quietly.

He exhaled, his thumb brushing absently over her knuckles, grounding himself in the warmth of her touch. "It's easy to forget, sometimes," he admitted.

She smiled at him, gentle but knowing. "Then we just have to remind each other."

They stood there for a moment longer, the weight of the past momentarily lifting, giving way to something lighter. Something unspoken, yet understood.

The living room of Nott Manor was a world unto itself—a warm, golden cocoon where time stretched and softened, where the weight of the outside world dissipated into the flickering glow of firelight. Shadows waltzed along the polished wood floors, elongated by the soft candlelight that flickered atop the antique sconces. The walls, lined with shelves of well-worn books, seemed to hum with the quiet history of stories shared and memories made. Thick emerald curtains framed the towering windows, keeping the winter's chill at bay, their rich fabric a striking contrast to the gentle warmth within. Beyond the glass, the wind howled through the trees, but inside, there was only peace—a sanctuary wrapped in the quiet symphony of crackling flames, the soft clink of porcelain against saucers, and the occasional murmur of laughter drifting through the air like a spell woven into the very foundation of the house.

The scent of mulled wine and cinnamon curled through the room, mingling with the honeyed sweetness of steeping chamomile and the faint trace of lavender from the bundles Luna had tied above the hearth. It was the scent of home, of safety, of the life they had built, rich with magic in ways both seen and unseen. House-elves moved gracefully through the space, ensuring every cup was full, every flickering candle remained alight, their presence barely noticeable but deeply felt.

Hermione sat curled into one of the plush armchairs near the fire, a woolen throw draped across her legs, her fingers wrapped around a delicate china teacup. The warmth seeped into her palms as she let her gaze drift to the bassinet nestled in the corner of the room, where a tiny miracle lay swaddled in the softest blush-colored blankets. Seline, impossibly small and breathtakingly perfect, slept soundly, her tiny chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that felt almost sacred. Hermione found herself smiling, her heart swelling at the sight of her friends' child, a girl who already seemed woven from the stars themselves.

Across the room, on the velvet loveseat, Theo and Luna sat close, the picture of quiet devotion. Theo's arm rested along the back of the couch, his fingers absentmindedly tracing along Luna's shoulder, a touch that spoke of familiarity, of possession, of reverence. Luna leaned into him with effortless grace, her presence as ethereal as ever, her silvery hair spilling over his forearm like moonlight caught in motion. They looked like something out of an ancient painting—two figures perfectly in sync, orbiting each other as if the universe had designed them to fit.

"Seline and Lysander," Hermione said softly, the names rolling off her tongue like something sacred. "They sound like they belong in a story—something timeless, something that will be remembered long after we're gone."

Luna's dreamy expression brightened, her silver-blue eyes shimmering with something deep and boundless. She reached for Theo's hand without looking, her fingers slotting between his like they were meant to be there. "We wanted names that carried meaning," she murmured, her voice like the whisper of the tide. "Names that would remind them of who they are, of where they come from. Names that would tie them to the stars."

Theo's gaze softened, the firelight reflecting in his stormy grey eyes as he studied his wife. His thumb brushed over her knuckles in a slow, reverent caress. "Seline is our little moon goddess," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, each syllable carefully measured. His eyes flickered to the bassinet for a moment, as though grounding himself in the overwhelming reality of their daughter, before shifting back to Luna as if she were the only thing that had ever truly mattered. "And Lysander… he's our bright, curious star, always reaching, always searching. They have brought more light into my life than I ever thought possible."

He paused, the weight of his words settling between them like something tangible, something rare. Then, in a voice barely above a breath, he added, "But Luna…" His fingers tightened around hers, pulling her attention back to him completely. "She remains my greatest treasure. My Moon."

Luna's breath hitched, her cheeks flushing with a warmth that had nothing to do with the firelight. It wasn't the kind of blush born of shyness—Luna Lovegood had never been shy—but rather, a glow that came from love so deep it ran in her blood, in her bones. She tilted her head slightly, strands of her hair catching the light, making her look even more like the celestial being Theo so often compared her to. A knowing, affectionate smile played at her lips as she gazed at him, and in that moment, nothing else in the world existed for them but each other.

Theo, never one to let a moment pass without claiming it as his own, leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek—slow, lingering, a silent vow written in the way his lips moved against her skin. Luna turned into him just enough that their foreheads nearly brushed, her eyes shining with quiet joy, and for a moment, the entire world held its breath.

Hermione watched them, her own heart swelling at the sight of something so pure, so utterly unshaken. It was a love that had endured, that had been tested and strengthened by every storm they had weathered together. She sipped her tea, letting the moment settle into her, warm and reassuring, like the fire crackling at her side.

Then, from the bassinet, a tiny sound broke the spell—a soft, breathy sigh followed by the delicate stretching of limbs. The ancient cradle creaked faintly as Seline stirred, her impossibly tiny fingers unfurling from the folds of the blanket as if reaching for something unseen. Instinctively, Luna was already rising, her movements fluid, effortless, as if she had been doing this for a thousand lifetimes.

She crossed the room with that same unearthly grace, the silk of her gown whispering against the floor as she leaned over the crib, her hands feather-light as they brushed against her daughter's cheek. The way she looked at Seline was unlike anything Theo had ever seen—something reverent, something celestial.

"She's magic," Luna murmured, her voice barely more than a breath.

Theo joined her, his tall frame folding beside her, his arm wrapping around her waist as they gazed down at the tiny miracle they had created. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and hushed, but filled with something that could move mountains.

"She is," he agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of Luna's head, his voice thick with love, with devotion, with something unbreakable.

"She's everything."

Across the room, perched gracefully on the armrest of a plush chair, Ginny arched a knowing brow, her voice slicing through the tender moment with the precision of a well-aimed hex—sharp, teasing, and laced with affection. "Well, isn't that sweet enough to put Honeydukes out of business?" she mused, arms crossing as she cast a mock-critical glance in Theo's direction. "Honestly, Theo, you're setting the bar so high I might have to start checking Blaise for memory charms, because he certainly doesn't remember to water the plants."

Blaise, sprawled in the chair beneath her, one arm draped lazily over the back while his other hand swirled a glass of rich, red wine, shot her a look of deep, theatrical offense. "I beg your pardon," he said smoothly, as though personally insulted. "That philodendron is thriving, thank you very much. And, more importantly, I never forget to water you—with champagne and compliments, of course."

Ginny let out an exasperated laugh, rolling her eyes before grabbing a throw pillow and chucking it at his smug, infuriatingly handsome face. Blaise caught it effortlessly, because of course he did, his smirk widening. "You're absolutely impossible," she said, though the laughter in her voice betrayed her.

"And yet, you adore me," he countered with practiced ease, his smirk shifting into something devastatingly charming. "Face it, Weasley, I've grown on you. Like the aforementioned philodendron. Only more dashing."

She scoffed, but her lips twitched upward despite herself. "Keep talking, Zabini, and you'll be growing on the couch tonight."

Blaise feigned consideration, tilting his head slightly. "If that means more space and no dogs stealing my pillows, I might take you up on that offer."

Draco, observing from across the room, exhaled long-sufferingly. "It's like this every single time," he muttered under his breath, lifting his glass to his lips.

Luna, ever composed, ever ethereal, turned her luminous gaze toward them, her voice drifting through the room like a soft breeze. "Ginny and Blaise's banter is merely their way of expressing devotion," she noted, as if remarking on the alignment of the stars. "Some constellations shine with quiet brilliance, while others burn with the intensity of a dying sun."

Blaise turned his head toward her, brow lifting slightly, caught between amusement and curiosity. Before he could retort with something cuttingly charming, Luna's expression took on the serene seriousness only she could pull off. "That being said," she continued lightly, tilting her head ever so slightly, "you really should water your plants more often. They're living beings, Blaise. They feel things."

For a moment, Blaise simply stared at her, as if debating whether she was being serious or whether she had just bested him in a game he didn't even know he was playing. Then, much to his own surprise, he threw his head back and laughed, rich and warm. "Well, Luna, if you insist," he conceded, raising his glass in her direction. "I'll add 'plant caretaker' to my long and impressive list of talents."

Ginny nudged him with her elbow, grinning. "See? She's always right," she declared, ever the victor.

Luna only smiled serenely and lifted her teacup in quiet triumph. "To new beginnings," she said, her voice carrying the weight of something more—something that felt like a blessing, like a promise, like a spell cast upon the air itself.

"To magic, family, and the moments that remind us what really matters," Hermione added softly, her gaze flickering between them all, eyes shimmering with something warm and unspoken.

The others echoed the toast, raising their glasses, their voices blending in quiet celebration. And as laughter hummed in the air and firelight flickered against familiar faces, the room seemed to take a deep, collective breath—a moment of pure, undisturbed contentment.

Theo, who had remained unusually quiet throughout the exchange, let his eyes drift across the room, landing on the bassinet where his daughter lay swaddled, a tiny piece of his heart sleeping soundly in the soft glow of the firelight. He exhaled slowly, then turned to Luna, pulling her closer, his voice low enough for only her to hear. "Can you believe we made her?" he murmured, his breath ghosting over her temple. "She's everything good in this world."

Luna leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, her fingers tracing slow circles over the back of his hand. "I can," she answered simply, her voice a whisper of stardust. "Because she's part of us."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Ginny leaned toward Blaise, lowering her voice into something conspiratorial. "You know," she murmured, eyes twinkling with mischief, "Seline's got Theo wrapped around her tiny, perfect little finger already. I give it a year before he's sitting at a tea party in full wizarding robes."

Blaise took a slow sip of his wine, entirely unbothered, before shooting her a knowing smirk. "Oh, no doubt," he agreed, setting his glass down with a satisfied hum. "And I'd be willing to wager a hundred galleons that I can get photographic evidence of it."

Ginny's brows lifted, impressed. "A hundred galleons? Confident, aren't you?"

He extended a hand toward her, all smooth arrogance. "You in, Weasley?"

Her grin turned positively wicked. "You're on, Zabini."

And as the evening stretched on, filled with the sound of clinking glasses and shared laughter, the weight of past burdens felt lighter, the promise of the future felt brighter, and in that room—surrounded by love, friendship, and the quiet, unshakable magic of new beginnings—time, for once, seemed to pause just long enough for them all to hold onto the moment.

Little Lysander wobbled across the room, his steps still carrying that delightful toddler uncertainty—half charging forward, half catching himself before he could tumble. His tiny arms swung at his sides for balance, fingers splayed as though he could steady himself with sheer determination alone. When he reached Hermione, his chubby hands latched onto her knee as he peered up at her with wide, sparkling eyes, his mouth stretched into a toothy grin.

"Mimi!" he chirped, bouncing slightly on his heels, his excitement bubbling over. Before she could respond, he scrambled up onto her lap with all the confidence of a child who knew he belonged there, wedging himself against her chest with a happy sigh. His little fingers immediately began patting at her arm, his version of an affectionate greeting.

"Hello, my love," she murmured, her voice warm as she smoothed back a lock of his golden curls. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, inhaling the soft, sweet scent of him—the faint traces of lavender from his bath, the lingering hints of honey from whatever snack he'd gotten into before making his way to her.

Lysander pulled back suddenly, his entire body perking up with excitement, as if a very important thought had just crash-landed into his mind. "Kitty!" he gasped, twisting in her lap as he craned his neck to scan the room, his chubby fingers clutching at her sleeve.

Hermione bit back a chuckle at his sheer enthusiasm. "Crooks isn't here right now, little love," she told him gently, running her hand soothingly down his back. "But you'll come visit tomorrow, and then you can see the kitty. How does that sound?"

Lysander considered this very seriously, his lips pursing in thought. Then, with a decisive nod, he declared, "Tomorrow!" as if it had been his idea all along.

Satisfied, he let out a deep, contented sigh—the kind only small children seem capable of, as if all the world's worries had been solved in that single moment. He burrowed his face against her shoulder, his tiny arms wrapping around her in a clumsy but utterly devoted embrace. Hermione instinctively began swaying, rubbing slow circles along his back, her heart swelling at the pure, unguarded love wrapped up in his little form.

His breathing grew slower, heavier, his warm weight settling deeper against her. She held him closer, letting the quiet moment stretch between them, feeling, for the first time in what felt like ages, a true and steady sense of peace.

Across the room, Draco leaned against the mantle, his gaze fixed on Hermione and Lysander. His typically composed expression softened as he took in the sight of her cradling the child so naturally, her smile tender and unguarded. She seemed radiant, as though this moment of quiet nurturing had unlocked a piece of her he rarely got to see.

For a fleeting second, he let himself imagine it—Hermione cradling their child, her laughter spilling through the sunlit room as they built a life together. He pictured her brushing a kiss across their baby's forehead, her smile soft and full of love, and the thought wrapped itself around his heart with a gentle but unrelenting grip. It was a vision that felt both impossibly distant and tantalizingly real.

The warmth that spread through his chest was unfamiliar, a heady mix of longing and quiet determination. He wanted this—not as a fleeting dream but as a future he could hold in his hands. The kind of future that made all the chaos and pain of the past worth enduring.

His reverie was interrupted by Pansy's voice, slicing through the lull of conversation like a playful breeze. "All right, Granger," she teased, her smirk as sharp as ever. "What's your perfect baby name? Come on, let's hear it."

Caught off guard, she blinked, her cheeks coloring faintly as a laugh escaped her. She shifted Lysander gently in her lap, his tiny fingers brushing against hers. "My perfect baby name?" she echoed, glancing around as if the answer might be hiding in the corners of the room.

Her gaze flicked to him, lingering just a moment too long, and he fought to keep his expression neutral. But something in his eyes must have betrayed him—a spark of curiosity, of hope—because she hesitated before answering.

"Yes, Granger," Pansy pressed, leaning forward with exaggerated interest. "You're the ultimate planner. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."

She chuckled, shaking her head as she ran her fingers lightly over Lysander's tiny hand. "I suppose I'd want names that carry meaning," she said slowly, her voice soft and thoughtful. "Something timeless, yet unique. Maybe... Scorpius, Lyra, Cassiopeia or Leo."

Draco's eyebrows lifted slightly, the faintest twitch of surprise betraying him. Scorpius. The name resonated within him like a note struck on a perfect chord, echoing deep and true. It felt impossibly intimate, as if she'd reached inside him and uncovered a piece of his heart he hadn't yet dared to examine.

Pansy tilted her head, intrigued. "Constellations, huh? I'd have pegged you for something more… literary. Edward, perhaps? Aemelia?"

She laughed, her cheeks flushing a shade deeper. "The stars have always fascinated me," she admitted, her gaze dropping to the baby in her arms. "They're constant, even when the world feels chaotic. I think I'd want a name that reflects that—stability, wonder, and beauty."

His lips curved into a soft, almost imperceptible smile. Her words reached him in ways he hadn't expected, wrapping around his carefully guarded heart and pulling him closer to her in ways he couldn't quite explain.

"Well," Pansy said with a knowing smirk, giving Hermione a light nudge, "here's hoping you get your Scorpius, Lyra, Cassiopeia or Leo someday."

Hermione smiled back, her eyes flicking to Draco once more. "Maybe one day," she said softly, her voice carrying an unspoken depth that made his chest tighten.

The room seemed to still, the air between them charged with something unspoken yet undeniable. 

Ginny, ever the spirited one, broke the moment with a teasing grin. "Speaking of babies," she said, her voice light and mischievous as her gaze darted between them. 

"If Hermione's naming her kids after stars, what about you, ferret? Got any celestial favorites you're hiding?"

He leaned back in his chair, his composure returning like a well-worn cloak. A slow, deliberate smirk spread across his face. "Oh, I think I'll leave the naming to Hermione," he said smoothly, his grey eyes glittering. "She seems to have excellent taste."

Sherolled her eyes, though her lips quirked in amusement. "Flattery will get you nowhere," she retorted, though her voice betrayed the warmth of her smile.

"Is that so?" he drawled, one brow arched in that infuriatingly elegant way he had. "Then I suppose I'll just have to rely on my charm instead."

The group erupted into laughter, the moment lightening as the easy camaraderie filled the room once more. Her cheeks ached from smiling, but her heart carried a quiet flutter—a sensation she tried to brush aside but couldn't quite ignore.

As the evening wore on, Lysander drifted into a contented sleep in her arms, his tiny hand clutching the fabric of her sleeve. She rocked him gently, her eyes soft with affection.