There they were—another routine Sunday brunch with their friends. Except this time, it wasn't boring at all.
Ron had brought Lavender.
The moment they stepped in, Pansy's gaze locked onto them like a predator spotting its prey. Her eyes widened, then narrowed in sheer disbelief. Of all the days to show up looking like that. Lavender's outfit was not just a poor choice, it was a personal attack on brunch fashion itself.
"Absolutely not," Pansy muttered, leaning toward Neville with the kind of scandalized expression one reserved for witnessing a crime. "Is she trying to look like an overripe banana? Because that shade of mustard yellow is offensive." She flicked her manicured nails toward Lavender's dress in disgust. "It's like she lost a duel with a thrift store discount rack."
Neville made a soft, noncommittal hum, but Pansy wasn't done. Oh, she was just getting started.
"And clogs?" she hissed, barely able to contain her horror. "Merlin's saggy left—are those actual clogs? Who in their right mind pairs an expired condiment dress with Dutch footwear? Someone needs to Obliviate this entire outfit from existence."
Ginny, catching Pansy's scathing expression from across the table, smirked. She was already enjoying the roast. "Come on, Pans, maybe she's going for 'quirky.'"
Pansy scoffed, her expression dripping with aristocratic disdain. "If that's quirky, then I'm a Muggle-born. That's not a look, Red, that's a cry for help." She shook her head, genuinely offended. "I've seen house-elves with more coordinated outfits. The Malfoy peacocks dress better than this."
Draco, who had been quietly sipping his tea, smirked but wisely stayed out of it. Blaise, on the other hand, was openly entertained. "I mean, it's bold," he offered, trying to keep a straight face.
"Bold?" Pansy repeated, aghast. "No, Blaise, war crimes are bold. This is blinding. I swear, Ron must have hexed his own eyes shut before leaving the house. That's the only explanation."
Luna, ever the diplomat, tilted her head. "I think it's nice," she said dreamily. "She looks like a sunflower."
"She looks like a sunflower that drowned in pumpkin juice," Pansy shot back. "And was then stomped on by a herd of centaurs."
Ginny snorted so loudly she had to pretend to cough into her napkin. Even Theo, normally the picture of polite indifference, muttered a low, "Merlin's beard," as he eyed Lavender's ensemble.
And then, just when Pansy thought her patience had reached its limit, Lavender flounced toward their table.
"Morning, everyone!" she chirped, radiating oblivious confidence as she took her seat beside Ron. The mustard monstrosity of a dress swayed with her movements, assaulting Pansy's vision with every ripple.
Pansy plastered on the fakest smile known to wizardkind. "Lavender, darling," she purred, her tone dripping with saccharine sweetness, "I adore your outfit. It's just so... daring."
Lavender beamed. "Oh, thanks, Pansy! It's vintage!"
"Ah, yes," Pansy said, her voice smooth as silk. "I could tell. Very... timeless." She took a languid sip of her mimosa, pausing just long enough to deliver the killing blow. "Practically prehistoric."
Ginny collapsed into silent, shaking laughter. Ron, ever the human embodiment of confusion, glanced at Lavender's dress as if only just realizing it might be offensive to all five senses.
Lavender, still smiling, blinked. "Oh, well—"
"I mean," Pansy continued, tone syrupy, "not everyone can pull off looking like an old Hogwarts tapestry. It's a statement, really. What statement, though, I can't quite figure out."
Blaise covered his mouth to muffle his laugh. Neville shifted uncomfortably but made no move to intervene. No one was saving Lavender from this.
Draco, ever composed, casually set down his teacup. "I think what Pansy's trying to say," he drawled, eyes glinting, "is that your bravery truly knows no bounds."
Pansy leaned back, looking utterly pleased with herself as Lavender finally, finally, started to look uncomfortable.
Maybe next time, she'd think twice before showing up looking like a regrettable Potions experiment.
If Draco Malfoy was an enigma, then Lavender Brown was a nails-on-a-chalkboard migraine in human form. Sitting next to her at brunch felt like some cosmic punishment, Hermione would have rather been locked in a room with Peeves, or worse, forced to tutor Crabbe and Goyle in advanced Arithmancy.
Trapped at the table with Lavender's endless stream of frivolous gossip, Hermione felt a familiar, simmering resentment bubble beneath her practiced poise. Draco, for all his arrogance and contradictions, was at least intellectually engaging. Lavender? A walking, talking Witch Weekly column with the emotional depth of a teaspoon.
She let her gaze drift to her china cup, pretending to be utterly captivated by the delicate floral patterns. Merlin, she'd rather be analyzing runes scratched onto a troll's arse than enduring another second of this.
Lavender's voice, shrill and unrelenting, prattled on, each word scraping against Hermione's patience like a dull blade. Every forced laugh, every vapid anecdote about her latest beauty charm or 'accidental' run-in with someone famous, felt like slow, torturous decay of Hermione's remaining brain cells.
She let her mind wander, complex spell theories, the satisfaction of unraveling ancient magical texts, even the adrenaline of battle during the war, all infinitely preferable to this. But no, she was here, stuck in the brunch purgatory of Lavender Brown's company.
And frankly, she'd rather be interrogating Bellatrix Lestrange.
A sudden, sharp pang of hunger dragged Hermione back to reality. She forced herself to take a bite of her food, though the bland taste paled in comparison to the acrid bite of irritation sitting heavy on her tongue. Across from her, Lavender's voice droned on, rising and falling like a particularly grating concerto—pretentious, overdone, and impossible to tune out.
Lavender Brown, a human embodiment of a discount perfume sample, lazily pushed her eggs around her plate, her every movement calculated, every word dripping in saccharine condescension. Thinly veiled barbs laced her compliments, subtle little jabs at Hermione's place among them, a game of social warfare Lavender was far too eager to play.
"Alright, Granger," Lavender drawled, her manicured nails tapping a slow, taunting rhythm against the tablecloth. "Fancy seeing you here. Still scraping by on those modest Ministry wages, or has Malfoy finally started footing the bill? I hear the new Auror uniforms are rather... plebeian."
Her voice was honeyed poison, her eyes glittering with predatory amusement as they raked over Hermione like she was something unfortunate that had stumbled onto her designer rug.
Hermione, ever the picture of grace under fire, offered a saccharine smile that could curdle milk. "It has its adjustments, Lavender. Though I find designing my own home much more rewarding than, say, spending my time on the floo to Witch Weekly for a feature that never quite seems to come." Her tone was sweet but sharp enough to draw blood.
Lavender's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered, tilting her head. "I bet. It must be thrilling to live in such a... historic place."
The insinuation was clear. Hermione felt her grip tighten around her fork, but she refused to take the bait. "Every place has its charm. It's the people who live there now that matter."
Lavender's expression darkened, her lips curling at the edges. "Oh, please, Granger, drop the noble act. You married up, plain and simple. And don't think I haven't noticed the way you've been clinging to Malfoy like a barnacle. It's almost... pathetic."
A slow, simmering anger settled in Hermione's chest, but she smoothed it down, lifting her glass to her lips with practiced poise. "Lavender," she said with a cool finality, "I appreciate your deep concern for my happiness, but perhaps we should find something more engaging to discuss. Like your latest heartbreak? I hear they last about as long as your dye jobs."
Ginny let out an abrupt cough while Pansy casually stirred her mimosa, not bothering to hide her smirk.
Draco, however, had heard enough.
"Lavender," he interjected, his voice like velvet-lined steel, "I believe this conversation has run its course."
Lavender smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Just curious, Draco. We're all friends here, aren't we?"
"Friends," Hermione thought dryly, stabbing a piece of toast with unnecessary force. If this was friendship, she'd rather spend an evening alone in Knockturn Alley.
But then Draco's expression shifted, his usual cool indifference sharpening into something colder, something lethal. His fingers flexed against his glass before he placed it down deliberately.
His voice sliced through the air like a blade, sharp and deliberate. "I would strongly advise your husband to mind his wandering eyes during the meal," he murmured, his gaze locking onto Ron's with deadly precision.
The air thickened, a weighted silence settling over the table like the hush before a storm. The once lively hum of conversation died, drinks half-sipped, utensils frozen mid-motion. Every breath in the room felt measured, cautious.
Draco leaned back lazily, but his grip on the silver knife remained firm. His fingers curled around the handle with a practiced ease, the blade catching the light as it twirled in his hand with a slow, rhythmic flick. Not careless. Not idle. A message. A warning. A predator deciding whether the hunt was worth his time.
Ronald's face, already tinged with red, lost its color in a slow, humiliating drain. His Adam's apple bobbed with a thick swallow. His eyes darted, as if scanning for an escape, but there was no out. No one dared interfere. Not with Draco Malfoy sitting there, a knife in his hand and murder in his eyes.
"Perhaps," he continued, his voice deceptively light, "you should consider keeping your focus on your plate instead of staring at something you can't have. Because if I catch that filthy gaze lingering on my wife again..." He trailed off, the knife spinning one final time before landing flat against the table with an ominous thud.
The promise of pain hung in the air, thick and inescapable.
Ronald's throat worked as he cleared it, his voice thin, forced. "Look, Malfoy, I wasn't—"
He silenced him with a lazy flick of his wrist, as if dismissing an insect. "Save it, Weasley. I know exactly how you used to look at her. I remember every pathetic, yearning glance, every time you treated her like some backup plan. And here you are again, looking at what's mine."
His voice was low, deadly. Each word laced with poison, sinking deep.
"Some habits die hard," he mused, tilting his head in feigned thought. "But some creatures? They never change at all." His lips curled into something that was almost a smile. Almost. "A leopard can't change its spots, can it?"
Ronald's fists clenched, but his silence betrayed him. He knew better than to engage. Everyone at the table did.
She placed a hand on his arm—a silent plea. A tether keeping him from fully baring his fangs.
"Draco," she murmured, her voice calm, though the tension in her grip was unmistakable.
His eyes flicked to her, and for a moment, his expression softened. But then, slowly, he turned back to Ron, his amusement darkening into something more possessive.
"She is mine," he said, voice quiet but lethal. "She belongs to me. To look at. To talk to. To touch. She means nothing to you now, and she never will again."
The next words dripped from his lips, a whisper of pure malice.
"I'm the only one who knows how the golden cunt tastes like. So get over her. Go home to that whore of a woman you call a wife, and don't ever let your eyes land on mine again."
The weight of the words sank like iron. The world stood still.
Ronald opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Without warning, Hermione stood. In an instant, she grasped Draco's wrist, and with a sharp crack of Apparition, they were gone, leaving only the lingering chill of his words in the stunned silence they left behind.
The tension in the room shattered like glass.
In one blazing instant, Pansy surged across the table. Crystal toppled, cutlery skittered, and an entire mimosa arced through the air before crashing directly into Lavender's face. Citrus and champagne drenched her hair, soaked her garish mustard dress, and dribbled down her stunned expression.
A chorus of gasps echoed through the room as chairs scraped back. Even Blaise flinched, and he never flinched.
She planted her hands on the table, leaning forward with the fury of a dragon deciding whether it would be more satisfying to scorch the earth or swallow its prey whole. Her breath came fast. Her eyes blazed like emerald fire. Rage rolled off her in waves so strong that the air itself seemed to vibrate.
"HOW DARE YOU," she shouted. Her voice cracked through the silence with such force that several glasses trembled. "How dare you sit at this table and speak like that about Hermione. Who do you think you are."
Lavender sputtered, wiping at her dripping hair, her voice a thin, pathetic sound. "Pansy, I did not even say anything that bad, I was only—"
"Oh, please," Pansy cut in, her tone ice cold and dripping venom. "You wish you were only that stupid. You crossed a line that was already ten miles behind you. Look at you. Crying while wearing that tragic excuse for a dress. That colour alone should have warned us you were here to ruin the morning."
Ginny clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with the effort of not laughing, but she said nothing. Even she knew this was Pansy's battlefield now.
Across the room, Luna rose with slow, quiet certainty. Gone was the soft, dreamy expression people mistook for fragility. When she looked at Lavender, there was a weight in her gaze that stilled the room far more effectively than Pansy's fury.
"This is disappointing," Luna said. Her voice was soft, but there was a resonance beneath it that made the hair on the back of everyone's neck stand. "Absolutely disappointing behaviour."
Lavender looked between the two women, frozen and dripping, as if unsure whom to fear more.
Ron remained stuck in place, pale and confused, wide-eyed like a child who had knocked over his mother's favourite vase and was now staring at the broken shards. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then managed a faint, "Lav, maybe we should—"
He did not finish.
Ginny moved with startling speed. She stood, grabbed Ron's arm with the iron grip of a furious older sister, and hauled him to his feet with enough force to rattle the entire table. Her voice was so low, so controlled, that everyone at the table stilled to hear it.
"What is wrong with you," she hissed. "You sit here and let her talk like that. After everything Hermione has been through. After everything we all went through."
Ron stammered something useless, but Ginny kept walking, dragging him toward the next room with the single-minded purpose of someone who fully intended to educate him with violence if needed.
Their footsteps faded, leaving a ringing silence.
Pansy turned back to Lavender with a slow, dangerous smile, the kind that promised violence wrapped in velvet.
"You have no right," she said, her voice low and lethal. "No right to talk about Hermione like that. What exactly is bothering you, Lavender. Is it the fact that Hermione has surpassed you in every possible way. Or that she grew into someone extraordinary while you stayed exactly where she always expected you to be."
Lavender opened and closed her mouth like a fish gasping for water.
Pansy tilted her head, her eyes glittering. "Is it jealousy. Is that what this is. Because you were never even competition, sweetheart. Hermione does not even see you when she stands in a room. You are background noise. White noise. The kind people forget the moment you walk away."
Lavender flinched.
Luna stepped closer, her presence soft but unyielding, the quiet storm behind Pansy's tempest.
"You were not even a second choice, Lavender," she said gently. "Not a second thought. You were someone Ron used to fill an empty place. That is the truth you keep avoiding. Hermione is kind and brilliant and brave. You cannot compare. It hurts you because you know you never stood where she stands. Not even once."
Lavender's eyes filled, though she tried to keep her chin high.
Neville finally spoke, his voice steady and calm, yet somehow the most cutting of all. "Hermione is a good person. She is a loyal friend. She deserved better than the way she was treated then, and she deserves better now."
The silence that settled afterward was heavy and final. Lavender looked around the table, cheeks burning, her hands trembling as she dabbed at her dripping face.
She knew she had nowhere to hide.
That was when Blaise rose from his chair.
He did not slam his hands on the table. He did not shout. His calm was more frightening than any outburst. He smoothed the crease of his sleeve with deliberate care, the controlled motion of a man who had already decided the outcome. Once his cufflinks sat perfectly straight, he lifted his gaze and allowed it to settle on Lavender.
"Brown."
Her name cracked through the room, cold as winter stone and sharp enough to leave a sting.
He let the moment stretch, studying her with a detached, almost clinical curiosity, the way one might examine a stain that refused to lift from silk.
"It is time for you to leave," he said. His voice was smooth, elegant, and far too polite to be anything but dangerous. "And if you smear even one fleck of champagne on my rug, I will make very certain you regret it."
Lavender's breath hitched. Her eyes darted toward the door.
Blaise tilted his head, lips curving into something lazy and cruel. "Fucking bitch."
The table went silent. They had simply been waiting for Blaise to deliver the finishing blow.
Lavender blinked once. Twice. She looked as though she might speak, but nothing left her mouth. Slowly, mechanically, she rose, wobbling slightly as she gathered her things and retreated without another word.
Only once the door clicked shut did sound return to the room.
Pansy was trembling, her jaw clenched, her fists curled so tightly her knuckles had gone as white as bone. "I cannot believe," she seethed, "that this creature ruined an otherwise lovely brunch. I had plans for today. Plans. And she stomped all over them with her ridiculous clogs and her pumpkin sludge of a dress."
"That hag has been an irritation since we sat down," Luna said quietly. The softness of her voice only made her words land with more weight. "I hope she walks into a puddle on the way home."
Even Blaise turned to stare at Luna, surprised, but she simply nodded with serene confidence.
Pansy, however, was spiraling into the kind of rage normally reserved for dark wizards and people who touched her hair without asking. She started pacing, sharp little strides that sent her heels clicking furiously against the floor.
"I want to beat that bitch up," she hissed. "I want to drag her back by that tragic wig she calls hair and teach her what happens when she talks about Hermione as if she matters. She does not matter. She never mattered."
She spun toward the door, practically vibrating. "I am going to hit her. I am actually going to hit her."
Neville reacted before anyone else could move. He reached her in two long strides and wrapped his arms firmly around her waist, lifting her just enough that her feet left the floor for a moment. She kicked once in sheer indignation, cheeks flushed with fury.
"Sassy," Neville murmured against her temple, his voice low and warm. "Let's go home."
"No," she shot back, thrashing like a furious cat. "I want to hit her. Neville, let me go. I am being very serious. I am prepared to commit a mild crime."
Neville tightened his hold, amusement humming through him even as he kept her anchored. "Later," he said gently. "You can hit something else later."
She twisted her head to glare up at him. "Like what."
He fought back a grin. "The plant. The ugly one in the corner. The one you hate."
Pansy stopped struggling.
She lifted her chin with regal disdain. "Fine."
Neville nodded solemnly. "Good."
"But," she added, eyes narrowing in warning, "it better be a large one. I want the satisfaction of really putting my back into it."
Neville pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Anything you want."
Pansy crossed her arms with one final huff, her rage simmering but contained, her dignity intact, her pride crackling like electricity.
~~~~~~
They Apparated home in a burst of colour that tossed them into the manor foyer with a disorienting jolt. Neville barely had time to adjust his footing before Pansy launched herself forward without a single word.
He blinked once. She was already halfway down the corridor.
"Pansy," he called helplessly.
She did not slow. Her heels cracked against the marble like a warning signal, and Neville felt the kind of dread one normally reserved for spotting a Hungarian Horntail circling above their head.
Merlin help me.
He hurried after her, chasing her furious silhouette all the way to the greenhouse, where the lanterns cast a gentle amber glow over rows of thriving plants. Usually the space was warm and peaceful. Tonight, it felt like a battleground.
She marched straight to the first plant by the entrance. A sweet little lavender bush Neville had raised from a cutting.
She glared at it.
Neville inhaled sharply. "Pansy. Whatever you are thinking, do not—"
SMACK.
Her palm connected with the lavender so hard the stems whipped sideways in a dramatic sway of purple buds.
"Take that, you frail little bitch," she snapped, leaning over it with the fury of a goddess raining judgment. "I hope you enjoyed that, you useless purple twig. Next time I will rip your entire face off. If you even have one."
The plant sagged as if it would have fainted if only plants could.
Neville froze in place, one hand on his forehead. "Pansy. You just slapped a bush."
She kept staring at it, breathing hard, chest rising and falling like she had just competed in a duel.
"That is not a bush," she said sharply, pointing at the trembling lavender. "That is Lavender Brown in plant form. Smug. Annoying. And absolutely deserving of violence."
Neville dragged his hand slowly down his face. "It is a plant."
"It has a stupid name," she shot back.
Neville walked closer, trying very hard not to laugh, because this was meant to be serious. He was meant to be the calm one. The sane one. The protector of the flora.
He looked at the poor lavender. One leaf twitched.
He swallowed a laugh anyway.
"Feeling better now?" he asked gently.
Pansy rolled her shoulders, still glaring at it like she was daring it to move. "A bit. Not enough."
Neville sighed. "Can you please refrain from attacking every plant in my greenhouse whenever someone annoys you."
"No," she said without hesitation.
He closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them again, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "I will ask again when you are sane."
She huffed. "Good luck with that."
He stepped closer and placed a warm hand on her shoulder, guiding her gently away from the traumatized plant. "Look. I appreciate the passion. I really do. But the plants are innocent bystanders."
Pansy squinted at the lavender. "Are we sure about that. Because this one is looking at me funny."
Neville groaned, pulling her into his arms. "It is not looking at you. It is recovering from being assaulted."
"Same thing."
He kissed her temple and held her close, her earlier fury softening under his touch. She let out a slow breath, tension easing at last.
"Fine," she muttered. "I will leave the rest of your plants alone. For now."
"For now," Neville repeated softly, half relieved and half terrified.
She lifted her head to look at him. "But the next time that woman opens her mouth and says something stupid, I swear on Salazar's glossy bald head I will kick her straight back into whatever thrift store coughed her out."
Neville laughed, low and warm. "I believe you."
She smirked and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Also, I am still naming that plant 'Lavender the Loser' just so we are clear."
Neville pressed his forehead to hers, smiling. "You are completely unhinged."
"You married me."
"And I would do it again."
She melted a little then, letting him hold her as the lantern light flickered softly around them, the lavender plant still leaning sideways in utter shock.
Neville stroked her back. "Ready to leave the greenery in peace for the night."
She sighed dramatically. "Yes. But if that plant stands back up at me, I am kicking it."
He chuckled and kissed her cheek. "I will warn it."
They walked out together, his arm snug around her waist, her head resting on his shoulder, the chaos finally ebbing away.
Behind them, the lavender remained very still. It knew better now.
~~~~~~
She paced the length of her living room, each stride sharper than the last, her heels striking the polished floor in a clipped rhythm that did nothing to ease the coiled frustration twisting through her. The tension in the manor felt almost alive, thick and heavy, curling around her ribs like something trying to squeeze the breath out of her.
Her nerves snapped with every unanswered attempt to reach the others. They were always there when she needed them, always quick to respond, always ready with a sarcastic remark or a plan that made her blood pressure spike. But today? Today they were ghosts. No word. No explanation. No presence.
Her jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
Fine. If those two arrogant bastards would not answer her calls, she would reach out to the one person who always picked up. The one who had never left her shouting into the void.
With a sharp flick of her wand, the Floo roared to life, flames rising in a vivid swirl of green.
"Theo!" she snapped, her voice cutting across the room.
His face appeared a heartbeat later, framed by emerald fire, and in that single instant she knew something was wrong. His features were tight, his expression grim, his tone clipped in a way that made the back of her neck prickle.
"Pansy," he said. Calm. Controlled. Too controlled.
A cold dread curled low in her stomach.
"What the hell is happening?" she demanded, leaning closer to the hearth as if proximity might force the truth out of him. "I can't reach the others. What could possibly be so important that I'm left in the dark?"
Theo let out a slow breath that told her he was choosing his next words with care.
"We are going on a mission," he said, quiet but firm. "I cannot explain everything right now."
"Of course you cannot," she snapped, throwing her hand through the air in a wild, furious gesture. "You lot always vanish when things get serious. You could at least pretend to include me."
"Pansy." His tone deepened, steady and cold enough to still her breath. "Just pack a funeral dress."
Her heart plummeted. The room suddenly felt colder.
"What are you talking about?" she whispered, the sharp edges of her voice softening into something uncertain, something she hated showing to anyone.
Theo's jaw tightened, shadows shifting across his eyes. "Just listen. We have something on Weasley. More than the usual stupidity. More than wandering eyes."
Her stomach twisted as the flicker of dread swelled into something darker.
"What kind of something?" she asked, but the question felt brittle, as if she already knew she would hate the answer.
Theo hesitated. He never hesitated. That alone made her pulse spike.
"Let us just say," he murmured, choosing each word with deliberate precision, "he has been unkind. To more than one person. Hermione included."
A sick chill washed over her.
Ronald Weasley.
She had grown up hating him for childish reasons, then tolerating him because Hermione had loved him once. But this was different. This was grown-up rot. This was corruption that cut deep.
"What did he do?" she whispered.
Theo's gaze did not waver. "Enough. And if we do not handle it now, he will not stop. We protect our own. That is final."
She closed her eyes for a moment, swallowing the rising tide of fury and fear. When she opened them again, something sharp and bright had ignited inside her.
"What do you need from me?" she asked, steady now, ready.
Theo exhaled, the faintest flicker of relief brushing across his features. "Nothing yet. Just keep quiet. Stay alert. I will handle the rest."
There was a softness in the warning, the kind he only allowed himself with her. Then, with one last unreadable look, the flames flickered and vanished, plunging the room back into silence.
Pansy stood motionless, staring at the empty hearth as her heartbeat thundered through her chest. The edges of her fear sharpened into something lethal, something fierce and unyielding.
Hermione.
Of all people.
He had hurt Hermione.
Her hands curled into fists, her breath shaking as a fresh wave of resolve washed through her. She strode toward her wardrobe, each step resonant with purpose.
She pulled garments with precision, her thoughts racing faster than her hands could move. She layered dresses and cloaks across the bed, assembling her armor piece by piece. Her magic crackled at her fingertips, wild and hungry.
This was no longer about brunch.
This was about the people she loved. The people she would die for.
And if Ron Weasley thought for one second that she would sit in her manor, twiddle her thumbs, and wait for the boys to fix this, he had no idea who the hell he was dealing with.
She lifted her chin, her eyes burning with cold fire.
"If he hurt her again," she muttered into the empty room, "I swear to God, I will turn his life into ash."
And with that, Pansy Parkinson began to plan.
If the world was spiraling into darkness, she would not be swallowed by it.
She would light the match.
~~~~~~
The next day, she found herself standing outside his office before she had even decided what she planned to say. Her thoughts were a knot she could not untangle, every sentence Theo had dropped on her replaying with a cold, relentless clarity. The weight of it pressed against her ribs, tightening with every breath.
She knocked once. A sharp, decisive sound that carried more demand than courtesy. She did not wait for an answer. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Her heels clicked against the stone floor, the sound controlled and purposeful as she crossed the threshold. He sat behind his desk, surrounded by delicate pots of seedlings and parchment scattered in what he insisted was organized chaos. The space smelled of crushed leaves and fresh soil, a scent that usually calmed her. Today it only grated.
Neville looked up at the sound of her approach. His familiar smile formed out of habit but slipped the moment he saw her face. The tension around her jaw, the fierce glint in her eyes. She was not here for gossip. She was not here for tea.
"Parky," he said slowly, adjusting himself in his chair, his brows knitting with concern. "Everything alright?"
She ignored the question entirely. She walked straight to his desk and perched on the edge, crossing her arms with the poise of someone about to deliver a sentence. Her gaze never softened.
"Neville," she began, her voice smooth but edged like glass, "tell me what you know about Weasel and that little bitch he drags around."
Neville blinked. Once. Twice. He leaned back slightly, caught between confusion and the growing suspicion that this conversation was going to ruin his morning.
"You mean Ron and Lavender?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. "I do not know. They fight a lot. Make up a lot. They always have. They burn hot and loud. It has been that way for years."
She rolled her eyes with so much force the motion nearly dislodged something in her skull.
"Neville," she said, voice sharpening, "you have seen them. Please do not insult me by pretending you think that is normal. Or healthy. Or remotely tolerable."
She leaned closer, her dark eyes gleaming with irritation and something deeper beneath it. Something unsettled. Something that carried a hint of fear she refused to name.
"I know what I saw yesterday," she added, quieter now but more piercing than before.
Neville studied her carefully, the easy warmth in his expression giving way to something more serious. He recognized that tone. He had been with Pansy long enough to know when her theatrics were a smokescreen and when they were cover for something real and dangerous.
He also knew that when she arrived in this mood, she needed to speak without interruption. Cutting her off would be as foolish as grabbing a venomous plant by the leaves.
He set his quill aside and folded his hands, encouraging her to continue.
She drew in a breath, her shoulders rising and falling in a slow, controlled arc. The fire behind her eyes had not dimmed. It flickered, restless, waiting to strike.
"We both saw the bruise on Lavender's wrist at brunch last day." Her voice dropped to a low, steady line, quiet but charged with purpose. "Do not tell me that meant nothing."
Neville's shoulders tensed, just slightly, but enough for her to see it. The shift from easy calm to sharpened focus was small, yet unmistakable. He hated rushing to conclusions. He hated accusing without proof. He hated being wrong about people. But even he could not deny the truth in her words.
"Yes, love," he said at last, his voice softer and more thoughtful. "I saw it too."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the dark grain of his desk as if answers might be carved into the wood. Then he lifted his gaze again, steady but troubled.
"But what do you expect me to do about it? None of us are exactly fond of Ron or Lavender. And Lavender..." He paused, searching for the least cruel word. "She does not talk about anything real. Not with us. Not with anyone."
Her eyes flashed with sudden, simmering frustration, the fire inside her starting to burn through the thin veneer of control she had brought into the room.
"Neville, for Merlin's sake, this has nothing to do with whether we like them." Her voice trembled with anger she could not swallow down. "That bruise was not a fashion choice. It was not from tripping over a staircase. It looked like a handprint."
She inhaled sharply, then forced the next words out before her throat could close around them.
"What if there is more going on than we know?"
Neville's expression tightened. His jaw set, his brow creased. She saw the conflict in his eyes as clearly as she saw the plants lining his shelves. He wanted to believe people were better. He wanted to believe the world was kinder than it had shown itself to be during the war. But even he could not deny that sometimes darkness lived in places that once seemed safe.
"Pans, we do not know the whole story," he said slowly, every word measured. "Maybe it is not what it looks like. Lavender has always been dramatic. And Ron... I do not want to believe he would—"
"Do not be naive," she snapped, cutting him off. Anger tightened her voice until it felt like a wire pulled too thin. "You do not think he would what? Hurt her? Please. He is a Weasley, not a saint. Gryffindors can be cruel. They can be reckless. They can be angry. Pretending they are heroes by nature is foolish."
Neville winced. He did not argue. Not immediately. But he tried again, gentler this time.
"I am not saying it is impossible. I am only saying we do not know for certain."
She stared at him, the tension rolling off her in waves, and then she said the question that had been clawing at her all night. The question she had not dared ask herself until it burst free from her mouth.
"Was he abusive toward Hermione?"
The words landed between them with the weight of stone. Neville froze. His breath hitched so faintly most people might have missed it. Pansy did not.
Hermione's name changed the air in the room entirely. It sharpened it. Thickened it. He looked as if she had reached into his chest and pulled something loose.
He sat back slowly, eyes narrowing in thought. The room felt too quiet now, the soft hum of the greenhouse far away, muffled, insignificant in the wake of her question.
"Hermione," he repeated, as if speaking her name aloud might change the shape of the question. He rubbed his hand down his face, pausing at his chin as he exhaled. "I did not see anything like that. Not directly. She was always so... focused on her work. On everything except him."
Too careful.
That word slid into Pansy's mind with uncomfortable ease.
Hermione had been careful around Ron. Too polite. Too restrained. Too aware of him.
It was a kind of distance Pansy knew too well. The kind you kept when you learned a person's temper was not something to take lightly.
Neville continued, slower now, as if sifting through memories he had not examined before.
"They fought a lot," he admitted quietly. "More than they admitted to people. Ron always had a temper. You know that. But I never saw him... cross a line."
His tone faltered near the end, betraying his uncertainty.
Pansy narrowed her eyes, her pulse quickening.
"You never saw," she echoed. "That is not the same as saying it never happened."
Neville looked at her, his expression complicated. Wary. Heavy with dread.
She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper now, more dangerous for how calm she sounded.
"If Lavender is showing bruises," she said, "and Hermione acted like a skittish little mouse around him... you tell me why."
Neville swallowed hard, his throat working, and for the first time since she entered the office, he did not try to comfort her. He did not try to dismiss her worries. He did not make excuses.
He simply said nothing.
His words were too careful.
Like he was trying not to say something.
Neville opened his mouth as if he had something ready, something confident, something reassuring. Then he hesitated.
Pansy saw it. That flicker. That crack. That small shift in his expression where certainty loosened and doubt slipped in through the gap. It was brief, but she caught it, and once she saw it, she could not unsee it.
For a moment he just sat there, silent, staring at his own hands as if they held some answer he had missed all these years.
Then he shook his head slowly.
"I do not know, Pansy," he said, and guilt threaded through his voice in a way she had never heard before. "Hermione never said anything. And she is not the type to keep quiet if something was wrong."
Pansy scoffed, her frustration twisting into disbelief, sharpening the air around her.
"Oh, Neville," she muttered, shaking her head. "She is a Gryffindor, not invincible. You lot wear bravery like armour and pretend that makes you untouchable. Just because she is strong does not mean she could not have been suffering. Silent people often hide the deepest cracks."
Neville pressed his lips together. This time, he did not try to defend Hermione's supposed transparency. He had no comeback prepared for that truth.
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Pansy, I know you are worried. But we cannot start tossing accusations around without something concrete. If Ron had hurt Hermione, she would have told someone. She has never been one to suffer quietly."
He sounded so sure. So painfully sure. The kind of sure that made Pansy's stomach twist with irritation. Neville's faith in people could be beautiful. It could also be blinding. He did not see how often people swallowed their pain because the world had taught them that no one cared.
She stared at him, her gaze steady and sharp, the kind of stare that sliced through excuses.
"I am not jumping to conclusions," she said quietly. "I am paying attention. Lavender shows up with a bruise shaped like fingers. Hermione was always oddly tense around Ron. Always busy, always unavailable, always cautious. That is not a coincidence. Something is wrong."
Neville's shoulders sagged slightly. He rose and crossed the small space between them, pulling her into his arms. The warmth of his embrace settled around her like a blanket, soft and steady, but it did nothing to cool the anger glowing in her chest.
"I know, love," he murmured into her hair. "I know you want to protect the people you care about. But we need time. We need to be smart. We need to know more before we start making moves we cannot take back."
She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, letting his scent and warmth anchor her for a moment. But her eyes stayed open. Cold. Focused. Miles away.
"Nevie," she whispered, "I cannot sit and wait. I know something is wrong. And if no one else does anything, I will."
He pulled back enough to tilt her chin upward. His gaze held worry mixed with the kind of patience he usually reserved for calming skittish animals or persuading deadly plants not to bite him.
"Promise me you will not go charging into the middle of it," he said gently but firmly. "Let me talk to some people. Let me find out what I can. Just do not act without thinking."
She smirked, but the expression was thin, brittle around the edges.
"Since when have I ever done anything rash?"
He laughed softly, shaking his head. "If I tried to count the times, I would run out of fingers."
The brief flicker of humour softened the tension between them, but only for a moment. This was not a game. Not this time.
"Just be careful, Sassy," he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Digging into other people's secrets never ends cleanly."
She nodded, though they both knew she was already three steps ahead of him. She would not let this go. Not when her instincts were screaming at her, not when every detail pointed toward something ugly hiding beneath the surface.
When she stepped out of his study, the decision was already made, carved into her bones with the certainty of a vow.
She was going to find out exactly what Ron Weasley had been hiding.
What he had done to Lavender.
What he might have done to Hermione.
Hours later, something shifted within him. The conversation with her had been gnawing at him, tugging at threads of concern he hadn't fully unraveled before.
His mind replayed moments, memories, glimpses of her reactions when certain topics arose, the way her sharp tongue sometimes hid something deeper, the way she deflected with wit whenever the subject strayed too close to something raw.
He couldn't let it rest. There was something beneath the surface, something she had hidden away so masterfully that even he, the person who knew her best, had never dared to see it fully. And the thought made his heart ache.
Moving quietly, as if approaching a skittish creature, he made his way to the living room. She was stretched across the sofa, her legs draped elegantly over the armrest, fingers grazing absently over Lady, who snorted softly in her sleep. The pug, completely oblivious to the tension that filled the room, lay sprawled across her feet, a picture of perfect contentment.
He stood there for a long moment, just watching her. There was something fragile about her in that instant, something unguarded, something that made his chest tighten.
Her expression was unreadable, her eyes distant, lost in thought. She looked untouchable, yet strangely small, like a woman carrying more weight than she ever let anyone see.
He crossed the room slowly, his movements deliberate, and lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa, close but not touching. Close enough that she would feel his presence, close enough that she would know he was there.
"My love," he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. He waited, patient as ever, until her sharp gaze flickered toward him, locking onto his.
For a second, she simply studied him. He hesitated for just a moment, unsure of how to approach the storm he could see brewing behind those eyes.
Then, finally, he asked, "Has anyone… ever hurt you?"
She raised an eyebrow, her expression hardening like steel against a blade. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face, was it surprise? Annoyance? Pain? She shifted slightly, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a stone in her chest.
"A lot of people have hurt me, love," she said, voice clipped, guarded. "Be specific."
His frown deepened. He hated seeing her fold in on herself like that. Hated the way she braced for pain that was no longer coming. Hated how fast she slipped behind her walls, quick as a whip, ready to strike before anyone could touch whatever she kept buried. He reached out anyway, placing a careful hand on her knee, a touch meant to ground, a touch meant to tell her she was safe.
"Did anyone ever hit you?"
The question left him softly, but it landed in the room with the weight of a stone dropped into deep water. He saw the impact immediately.
Her whole body locked up. Her back went straight as a blade. Her jaw clenched so tight he thought she might crack a tooth. She shot upright, swinging her legs off the sofa and putting space between them as if the air around her had turned electric.
Her arms came up, folding across her chest, elbows pinning her sides. Her fingers dug into her sleeves as though she were holding herself together with nothing but fabric.
"Yes."
The word tore out of her. Sharp. Brutal. Clean as a knife. It sliced through the quiet of the room, left it bleeding in the space between them.
Her voice wavered at the edges, but she did not break eye contact. She stared him down as if daring him to recoil. Daring him to question her. Daring him to ask for details she had vowed never to speak aloud.
His heart clenched so tight it felt like something was tearing. But he did not pull away. He did not look away. He held her gaze with the same steady patience she had spent years pretending she did not need.
He reached for her again, slow and deliberate. His fingers found her wrist, the lightest touch, the gentlest pass of skin over skin. He traced where old bruises had once bloomed, ghosts now, but still present in the way she tensed beneath his hand.
"Baby, please," he whispered.
At first she resisted. Her body stayed stiff, her shoulders tight as iron. Every muscle screamed with the effort of holding herself together. She looked like a woman clinging to the last plank of a broken ship, refusing to drown even as the waves rose around her.
Then something cracked.
She let him pull her against him.
He wrapped his arms around her with the kind of gentleness that made her throat close. A gentleness she had spent years pretending she did not crave. She pressed her face into his chest, her hands clenching at the fabric of his shirt, gripping him like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the world.
"Would you like to talk about it?"
His voice brushed through her hair, soft and careful.
For a long moment there was nothing except the sound of their breathing. Hers came too fast, uneven and fragile. His stayed steady, warm against her cheek, as if trying to show her what calm could feel like.
She shook her head. "Nope."
The word came out thin and trembling. She blinked hard, but the tears pushed through anyway. Her breath hitched, her chest lifting and falling in ragged waves.
He just held her.
He let her come undone. He held her together at the same time. He let her cry into his shirt, her silent sobs sinking into the cotton like secrets she had never given to anyone else.
She hated feeling weak. Hated how easily her eyes burned. Hated how much she needed this. But his arms were warm, and his chest was solid, and being here felt safe in a way nothing else ever had.
It was the only place in the world where she did not have to be perfect.
The only place where she did not have to be untouchable.
The only place she could be Pansy, stripped of armor.
His heart broke for her and kept breaking. He wished he could take every bruise, every hurt, every cruel hand that had ever touched her. But all he could do was hold her now, and he held her with everything he had.
When her sobs finally softened into exhausted little breaths, she pulled back just enough to wipe her face with the back of her hand. She avoided his eyes, her voice small and shaky. "I'm fine."
He cupped her face, tilting her chin so she could not hide from him.
"You do not have to be fine, Pansy."
That was all it took.
Her bottom lip trembled. Her throat tightened. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, soft this time, as though she were finally letting herself feel what she had buried.
He held her close again, murmuring quiet reassurances against her hair, his voice low and full of love. His fingers slipped through her curls, his lips brushed her forehead in gentle, steady kisses.
"You are safe, love. I have you. You are safe with me."
And she believed him.
For the first time in a very long time, she truly believed him.
~~~~~
Pansy had spent the last week drifting through the Manor like someone half-awake, the kind of exhaustion that settled not in her bones but somewhere deeper, somewhere she could not shake with sleep or tea or even the familiar comfort of routine.
She would lie curled on the couch, Lady tucked faithfully against her, the fire flickering in front of her while her thoughts wandered through places she had spent years avoiding.
Lady sensed something was wrong. The little pug rarely left her side, pressing warm, solid weight against her thigh, snorting softly as if she could keep Pansy anchored to the present through sheer stubborn devotion.
Normally Pansy would have laughed at her dramatics, ruffled her ears until she snorted louder, teased Neville about the way their pet had clearly inherited her flair for theatrics. But this week nothing seemed to cut through the fog wrapped tight around her.
Because this wasn't a physical tiredness. This wasn't a simple bad mood.
She was angry with herself. Frustrated in a way that prickled through her chest every time she thought about what she had kept hidden. She had spent years building walls so high and so thick that even she had forgotten what lay behind them.
Walls made out of sharp comments and perfect posture and the unshakeable belief that vulnerability was nothing more than an invitation for someone to hurt her.
And now she was in love with a man who had given her the opposite. Neville had opened his heart effortlessly, trusting her with his fears, his history, his hopes, the tender parts of himself he rarely showed anyone. He had offered that to her so freely. And she had taken it, cherished it, adored him for it.
So why couldn't she do the same?
The question twisted through her mind like a loose thread she could not stop pulling. How could she claim to love him and still hide entire pieces of herself? How could she stand in the warmth of everything he gave her and keep her past locked away in the dark?
Her childhood rose up in her memory, cold and sharp. The marble floors of the Parkinson estate. The long hallways where her footsteps never echoed because she had learned to walk silently, not to draw attention. The clipped voices of parents who treated affection like a resource that needed to be rationed. Every soft thing was scolded out of her. Every tear dried with disapproval. Every plea for comfort ignored until she learned to stop asking.
She had grown up believing that love was conditional, that it came only when she earned it, that it would vanish the moment she faltered. Her parents had taught her to hide every tenderness inside herself until hiding became second nature. Until she could lie with a smile and laugh while bleeding.
No wonder it felt impossible to unclench her past now.
She thought of him again. Neville, with his warm hands and gentle voice, with his steady certainty that love was meant to be shared, not hoarded. He had looked at her with concern the last time she brushed aside his questions. She had smiled and changed the subject, pretending she was just tired, pretending nothing was wrong. She had wanted to be strong for him. She had wanted to spare him the darkness she carried.
But her silence had only built another wall, and she could feel the distance like a bruise beneath her ribs.
What had she been thinking?
Each day she kept quiet made everything feel heavier. Each night she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, letting fear coil tight inside her. Fear that he might not understand. Fear that he might look at her differently. Fear that admitting the truth would somehow crack the version of herself she had given him.
But even stronger than her fear was the growing ache of keeping this part of her hidden. The memories were pressing against the walls she had spent years strengthening, pushing harder every day. She was so tired of carrying them alone. So tired of pretending she was made of stone.
Her heartbeat steadied as she sat up a little straighter beneath her blanket. The thought was terrifying, a leap off a cliff she had never dared approach. But there was a strange kind of relief in the idea too, a quiet breath she had not let herself take.
Maybe it was time.
Maybe she was ready.
She looked toward the door, toward the place where she knew he would appear later, gentle and patient and worried for her in that careful way he always was. Her palms felt damp. Her stomach twisted.
With a newfound resolve, Pansy rose from the couch. Her arms wrapped instinctively around herself, as if she needed to gather her courage in both hands before she could take a single step. Lady blinked up at her from the cushions, snorting softly as if offering moral support. The little pug tilted her head in that knowing way she always did, her wide eyes full of loyalty that never wavered.
Pansy managed a faint smile. "You're ridiculous," she whispered, brushing her fingers over Lady's head.
The manor felt too quiet as she paced the length of the living room. Her heartbeat pulsed loudly in her ears, each breath an uneven tug through her lungs. She tried to steady herself, inhaling deeply, lifting her chin, trying to remember why she had come this far.
The walk to his office felt strange, as if the world around her had shifted half an inch to the left. Familiar halls stretched before her like a path she had walked a thousand times, but tonight they felt charged, humming with a kind of quiet electricity. With each step, she pushed past another layer of fear.
She reached his door before she realized how fast she had been moving. Her hand hovered above the wood, knuckles almost brushing the surface. She knocked before she lost her nerve. The sound echoed in the silent corridor, sharp and decisive, leaving her nowhere to run.
The door opened a second later.
He looked startled to see her there. Concern flickered through his gaze, warm and immediate, like a hand extended across a chasm she had built herself.
"Pansy?" he murmured. "What's wrong?"
Her throat tightened. She swallowed, forcing the words out. "Nevie. Can we talk?"
That was all it took. He stepped aside without a moment's hesitation, guiding her gently inside the room. The door closed behind them with a soft click that seemed to seal them in a new kind of quiet.
He sat on the sofa, leaving space beside him. She sat across from him instead, unable to meet his eyes. The silence stretched between them until he finally broke it, his voice gentle and steady.
"My love, we don't have to talk about it if you're not ready."
His kindness did not make it easier. It made her chest ache. She had spent so long convincing herself that no one would want to hear the truth that hearing him offer her freedom felt almost unbearable.
She stared at her hands in her lap, fingers twisting together. The words refused to form. Her fear tangled with guilt until she could barely breathe. When she finally looked at him, he was watching her with quiet worry, waiting for her to choose.
He lifted two fingers and motioned her closer. The gesture was soft, simple, familiar, and it cracked something inside her.
Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She crossed the room slowly, like someone approaching a cliff edge, and sank onto his lap. Her legs curled to the side, her cheek resting against his shoulder. His arms wrapped around her, steady and warm, and she felt her breath shudder out of her as if her ribs had been holding it prisoner.
He pressed a slow kiss to her temple.
Her voice broke on a whisper. "Thank you."
"Anytime," he murmured into her hair. "I'm here."
She closed her eyes. She could feel the truth rising inside her, forcing its way upward like something long buried that finally had the strength to claw free.
"It was my parents," she said suddenly. The words felt heavy, scraped raw from her throat. "They were the ones who abused me."
His arms tightened, only slightly, but she felt it. She felt the way his entire body stilled, felt the quiet rage that trembled beneath his breath.
But he didn't speak. He didn't ask questions. He didn't touch the wound until she offered it.
She swallowed again, her voice unsteady. "They were cruel," she whispered. "In every way that mattered. And I learned early that showing pain only made things worse. I learned to hide when I needed help. I learned to lie about how I felt. I learned that love had conditions."
Her hands began to shake. She curled her fingers into his shirt, grounding herself in him.
"I never wanted you to see that version of me," she said, her breath catching. "The broken girl. The one who flinch. The one who still feels like she has to earn every bit of care she gets."
He let out a slow, aching breath, his cheek pressing against her hair. His hand traced the curve of her spine, slow and steady, as if reminding her she could take all the time she needed.
"You are not broken," he whispered.
Her eyes burned. She tried to blink the tears back, but they spilled anyway, one falling onto his collar, then another, until her shoulders shook with the weight she had carried for years.
He held her through all of it. He didn't speak. He didn't try to pull the story out of her before she was ready. He simply let her cry into the warm curve of his neck, his arms steady around her as she unraveled in ways she had never allowed herself before.
When her breathing eased a little, she found her voice again, though it trembled.
"I was very young when it started," she murmured, her tone soft and strangely distant. "So young that I did not even understand it was wrong. Everything they did was presented as normal. My parents made the rules, and my only purpose was to obey them."
Neville kept tracing gentle circles along her spine, a quiet rhythm to anchor her.
"They had rules for everything," she whispered. "How I sat. How I spoke. What I wore. How long I was allowed to look someone in the eye. None of it was ever out of love. It was discipline for the sake of discipline, and they acted as if I should be grateful for it."
She swallowed hard. The words came slowly, but once they started, they did not stop.
"At first, it was just the coldness. The looks. My father could make me feel worthless with the slightest raise of his brow. My mother would smile at parties, then ignore me completely once the guests left. She always cared more about the portrait of a perfect family than the child inside it."
Her breath hitched, a small faltering sound she could not hide.
"When I got older, everything tightened. It was no longer enough to behave. I had to excel. I had to be faultless. If my grades were not perfect, I was told I was an embarrassment. If I cried, they mocked me for being dramatic. If I wanted comfort, I was told to stop being weak."
Her voice grew smaller.
"And I believed them. Every word."
She felt his chest rise beneath her cheek, a quiet breath he tried to hide. He was listening with his whole body, holding every word as if it were fragile.
She went on, her voice trembling.
"The first time he hit me, I was fourteen. I cannot even remember what I did to anger him. Maybe I spoke out of turn. Maybe he decided my posture was wrong. Maybe he simply had a bad day. He slapped me hard enough that I fell, and when I looked up, he stared at me like I was nothing. Then he walked away without a single word."
Her hands tightened in Neville's shirt.
"I lived in fear after that. Waiting for it. Wondering when it would come again. And my mother watched it happen. She did nothing. She pretended it wasn't real."
Her voice cracked. "I tried to be perfect. I tried so hard. But nothing I did pleased them. Nothing made the fear stop. When I finally stopped trying, they called me a failure. They told me I would never be enough for anyone."
A tear slipped down her cheek, warm against her skin. She made no effort to hide it.
"That is why I am the way I am," she whispered. "Why I push people away. Why I bite before I can be bitten. It is easier to be sharp than to show softness. It is easier to act like nothing gets to me than to let someone see the cracks."
Neville's arms tightened around her, his silence full of sorrow and fury he kept carefully contained. When he finally spoke, his voice was gentle.
"Parky," he said quietly, "you have never needed to be perfect for me. Not once. I love every part of you. Even the parts you think are too messy or too damaged. I love you exactly as you are."
She lifted her head slightly to look at him. Her eyes were red, her makeup smudged, her breathing uneven. She looked nothing like the polished woman she tried to be, and everything like someone who had carried too much for too long.
"I do not know how to let go of it," she whispered. "I do not know how to be different. I have held it inside for so many years that it feels like it is part of my skin."
He cupped her face with both hands and brushed his thumbs along her cheeks, wiping away tears that kept falling faster than she could stop them.
"You do not have to let go of everything today," he said softly. "You do not have to let go of it alone, either. We will take it slowly. As slowly as you need. I will be right here."
The words shattered the last of her defenses.
She collapsed against him again, her sobs shaking her whole frame. Years of buried pain spilled out of her, pouring into his chest as if her body had finally decided it could not carry the weight any longer.
He held her through all of it.
Through every broken sound.
Through every trembling breath.
Through every memory that clawed its way out.
His voice stayed low, steady, constant.
"You are safe."
"I have you."
"I am not going anywhere."
When her tears finally quieted into soft hiccups, she stayed curled against him, exhausted but lighter than she had felt in years. He stroked her hair with slow, tender motions, letting her rest against the warmth of him.
"I am tired, Nevie," she whispered. "So tired of holding all of this by myself."
"You never have to carry it alone again," he murmured. "I promise."
She closed her eyes, letting the words wrap around her like a blanket she had never known she needed.
"I love you," she whispered, fragile and brave in the same breath.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there.
"I love you more. And I will love you forever."
And in the quiet that followed, she allowed herself to believe it.