The day began with a heaviness that felt unnatural, as if the world had woken under a shroud. The sky hung low, darker than it had any right to be, and the morning breeze carried a strange stillness that settled on her skin like a warning. Even the Manor seemed quieter than usual, every polished surface and velvet curtain holding its breath.
Pansy had felt a strange pressure building in her chest before she even left her bed, a quiet whisper of dread she tried to shake off. Yet it followed her, lingering at the edges of her thoughts no matter how often she told herself she was imagining things.
Then the Floo roared to life.
The flames shot high in a violent plume of green, far brighter than usual, and the sound alone made her flinch. Before she had time to brace herself, Luna's voice cracked through the room, sharp and frantic, nothing like the airy calm Pansy had always known.
"Pansy! Ron is dead! Sweet heavens, Pansy, he and Lavender are gone!"
The world stopped.
Her breath caught mid-inhale. Her vision blurred. Her hand clutched the armrest of her chair with so much force that pain rushed up her forearm. The words hit her like a physical blow, knocking something loose inside her ribcage.
Dead.
It did not feel real. It felt like something spoken in a dream, something too absurd to belong to daylight hours. She stared into the flames, her eyes searching Luna's face for some sign that she had misheard, that grief had twisted the message into something unrecognizable.
But Luna's expression held nothing but panic. Her usually serene features were tight, almost distorted with shock. Her breath came too fast, and her eyes were glossy with tears she was fighting to contain.
"It is unthinkable," Luna said, voice trembling. "I do not understand how this happened. They were both… killed." She forced the last word out as though it burned her tongue.
Killed. Sounds about right.
Pansy inhaled sharply, and the sound tore painfully through her throat. Her thoughts tumbled over one another in a frantic rush
Her voice cracked when she tried to speak. "It is… it is truly…" She trailed off, unable to push through the fog gathering at the edge of her vision. Nothing she could say felt right. Nothing felt large enough to match the weight of those words.
Luna tried to continue, but her breath hitched violently. "I cannot stay on the call. I need to speak with Hermione. She is… she is not well. Oh, Pansy… I will contact you again."
The connection snapped. The flames died down as if retreating from the horror they had carried. Silence swept into the room, thick and disorienting, swallowing every sound.
Pansy did not move.
The quiet pressed around her like a closing fist, the stillness so intense she wondered for a moment if the world had stopped spinning altogether. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, loud and uneven, and her fingers trembled despite her attempts to curl them into steady fists.
It was not grief that made her chest tighten. She felt that too, of course, but it lived in the background. A softer ache compared to the jagged shard of something else that lodged itself in her ribs.
She stood very slowly, as though rising too quickly might cause the floor to vanish under her feet. Her legs felt weak, heavy with the shock of Luna's words.
She stared into the dying embers of the Floo…and something cold settled deep inside her. A certainty she had been pushing away for days. A certainty she had buried under excuses, under rational thought, under the faint hope that she was overreacting.
But she knew.
And the knowledge struck her with brutal clarity.
Because she knew who had gone after Ron Weasley.
And she knew exactly why Lavender Brown had died with him.
She had known before Luna even finished speaking. The truth had struck her like a blow the moment Ron and Lavender's names entered the room, their syllables shaking the air in a way Pansy would never forget.
Luna's voice trembled with shock, frantic and grief-stricken, but Pansy barely heard it. The knowledge rose inside her like an uncoiling beast, sharp and undeniable, and no amount of wishing could take it back.
They had done it.
The truth clawed at her ribs, desperate to be spoken, desperate to be dragged out into the open. Her mind spun with too many images at once. Luna's tear-stained face.
And behind it all, the cold precision of the men they loved, men who lived with shadows at their backs and blood on their hands.
She opened her mouth. Just a breath, nothing more, but it felt like the beginning of a confession. The beginning of the end.
Luna, do you understand? Do you see it? He did this. Your husband did this. They killed them. They made this choice. They changed everything.
The words rose, hot and violent, burning the inside of her throat.
But she could not speak them.
She felt them press against her teeth, ready to break free, ready to explode into the world and destroy whatever was left of Luna's fragile hope. She could almost see it happen, the moment the truth settled in Luna's eyes. The moment that soft, dreamy stillness broke. The moment she turned toward Theo with shaking hands and realized she no longer knew the man she had built her home with.
Pansy's stomach twisted at the thought of it. Luna, holding Lysander in her arms, trying to steady herself as her world splintered under her feet. Luna, who believed in love with a devotion Pansy had always found impossible to match. Luna, who trusted Theo despite every shadow he carried, despite every brutal thing Pansy had suspected for years.
If Pansy said it aloud, that trust would shatter. It would poison everything. And she would be the one to swing the first blow.
She closed her mouth. Forced the truth back down. Swallowed it until it scraped her insides raw.
The silence that followed wrapped itself around her throat like a tightening rope. Each breath grew heavier, shallow and sharp, as if she were inhaling smoke instead of air. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady it, trying to keep herself from shaking apart.
The guilt hit her in a tidal wave.
She felt it crawl under her skin, cold and unyielding. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to undo this, to go to Luna and pull her into her arms and confess everything. But she remained frozen in place, her hands trembling at her sides, her reflection vibrating faintly in the window's darkened glass.
She had been raised to survive. Raised to bury everything that hurt, to keep silent even when the silence tore her apart.
She had learned early that secrets were a form of currency, that withholding truth was as much a weapon as speaking it. She had not expected those old lessons to haunt her again in adulthood, yet here she was. Holding a truth that burned her alive from the inside.
And for Luna.
For her.
She would bear it.
That was the part that hurt the most. She loved Luna in a way she had never known how to explain. Their friendship was something fragile and fierce at the same time, something she would protect with everything she had. Luna had never turned away from her. Never judged her. Never used her weaknesses as leverage.
Luna had chosen her. Again and again.
And Pansy could not repay that love by destroying her world.
Her breath trembled, catching in her throat. She rose from her chair with abrupt, restless energy. The walls of the room felt too close, too tight, the air too thin. She paced as if she could outrun the thoughts in her head, but they followed her with every step.
She paused in front of the window.
Her reflection stared back at her. Hard eyes. Tense jaw. A woman trying too hard to look unbreakable. A woman who had spent her entire life fearing she would become her mother. Cold. Distant. Silent in all the worst moments.
She touched the glass, her fingertips brushing over her reflection's cheek, as if she could soften it. As if she could reach past the armor she had worn for so long.
She had wondered for years if her mother's legacy had somehow carved itself into her bones. If she was destined to repeat the same cruelty, the same emotional abandonment.
Her voice broke when she whispered to the empty room, "I am worse, aren't I."
Because her mother had been cold. Brutal with her silence. Unforgiving.
But Pansy?
She was lying to protect someone she loved.
She was burying the truth to spare Luna a pain that could break her.
She was still lying.
And the lie settled over her shoulders like a mantle she had never asked to wear, heavy and suffocating.
She closed her eyes, pressing her palms to the window as the truth settled deep in her chest.
There had never been a choice. Not for her.
If protecting Luna meant swallowing a truth that ate her alive, she would swallow it again and again.
If loving Luna meant carrying the weight alone, she would carry it until her legs gave out.
Selective transparency is not honesty.
And may the fire of who you are burn you alive until you are capable of standing in the fucking truth of it.
Theodore. His name felt sour in her mouth, as if the syllables themselves carried the taste of old wounds and old choices.
She said it quietly, almost like she was afraid the walls might hear her, although nothing about the moment felt delicate. The name hung between them with a weight that bent the air.
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until she felt her heartbeat pounding in her throat. She wanted him to speak. She wanted him to lie. She wanted him to give her some scrap of humanity to cling to, some proof that he had not crossed the point of no return. But Theodore Nott did not deal in comforts, not even false ones.
"When the devil finally comes for you," she said, her voice low and steady, even as something inside her cracked, "you will have more sins to explain than Hell has room to hold." She drew in a breath, held it, forced herself to meet his eyes. "And I hope those sins stay buried. Not for you, for Luna. And for Lysander. And for the family that thinks they know you. They love a version of you that never had blood on its hands, and I would give anything to keep that illusion alive."
The words settled like stones sinking into water. Her body trembled with the effort of holding herself upright. She had not felt this kind of shaking since childhood, since the nights she had hidden her face in her pillow and tried not to make a sound.
Pansy had never prayed. She had always believed that the only salvation in this world came from what you could wrench out of it with your bare hands. Gods were stories. Mercy was a lie. Justice was something people in power pretended to believe in.
But as she looked at Theo, with his calm face and steady breathing, she felt the sharp edge of fear slice through her. Fear of what his choices meant. Fear of the way Luna would shatter if she ever learned the truth. Fear of what would happen to a child who worshipped the father Pansy no longer recognized.
Theo had done the unthinkable. And he stood there as if nothing had changed.
The sickness of it rolled through her chest. A quiet, simmering grief for a man she had once trusted to stand beside the people she loved.
He was still part of their family, in his strange, distant way. His hands had held her son's godfather papers. His voice had toasted her wedding. His arms had carried Lysander on the day he was born. And now those same arms had carried out an execution.
Pansy stared at him with something that was not quite hatred, but not far from it either. He had become a ghost wearing a man's face.
If Muggles could cling to faith through wars and famine and centuries of disappointment, then surely she could find one small ember of belief to hold onto. Belief in something bigger than her, something that might be listening, something that might keep Luna safe in ways Pansy could not.
She felt her pulse pound beneath her skin. She did not pray for Theo. She would not waste breath on him. His choices were carved into him now, written into his life like a curse no one could break.
She prayed for Luna. For the love she carried like an open flame in her hands, unaware that everything around her was soaked in oil.
She prayed for Lysander. For the innocence of a child who deserved a world gentler than the one they had been born into.
She prayed for the strength to carry this secret without letting it hollow her out.
Pansy had never shielded anyone but herself. She had built her entire life on sharp edges, on self-preservation, on cutting before being cut. Yet something in her shifted now, something she could not name. It rose inside her like a vow forming of its own accord, fierce and protective, heavy as iron.
She would guard Luna. She would guard her godson. She would guard the fragile peace of their small, strange family.
And she would carry the weight of Theo's sin on her own shoulders if she had to.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. Her breath trembled in her lungs.
She had lied before. She had manipulated. She had twisted truths into elegant shapes. But this was different. This was sacrifice, the kind people wrote epics about. This was the kind of loyalty that did not make you a hero, but carved you into something darker and stronger.
She closed her eyes, letting the last of her pride fall away. And for the first time in her life, Pansy Parkinson prayed.
Who was she kidding?
When the devil finally came for her, when every ledger of right and wrong was finally opened and read aloud, she knew her name would be buried on the wrong side of it. Her sins did not float around her like stray memories.
They lived in her bones. The pressure of them sat beneath her ribs with the steady pulse of something forged in iron, heavy and constant. She had carried it for so many years that she no longer remembered what it felt like to breathe without it.
Being born into the darker corner of the Sacred Twenty-Eight was not a childhood. It was a chain. A contract signed long before she had learned to walk, sealed by a lineage that believed legacy mattered more than innocence. The Parkinson name did not wrap itself around you like a family. It wrapped around your throat like a ribbon pulled tight.
She had grown up under the flicker of candlelight in rooms that always felt too grand and too cold. The air had always smelled of expensive firewhiskey and the faint bite of burnt parchment.
Every whispered conversation had been a lesson, every raised brow a warning. Power turned in those rooms like a wheel, slow and merciless, and she had learned to keep her voice soft and her ears open. Silence had been her first language. Secrets had been her second.
She had been taught to pour tea with perfect posture while absorbing the kinds of truths that could topple families. She had been taught to smile with steady lips even when her stomach twisted at the sound of someone's life being quietly negotiated away.
She had been taught that loyalty was a currency and that betrayal could be embroidered into a compliment. When the war came, it did not erase those rules. It only made them sharper.
The darkness had always been there, not lurking at the edges of her world but sitting at the center of it. She had breathed it in until it became familiar, until it felt like part of her. She had watched men and women drift in and out of her parents' drawing room, hands gloved in velvet, eyes sharp with calculation.
She had grown up knowing who would live long and who would not, often months before the Prophet caught on. It had never been spoken openly, but she had felt it in the tension of her mother's smile, in the stillness of her father's voice. She had learned to carry those truths in silence.
Even now, the weight of all the things she knew pulled at her like gravity. Every favor her family had ever owed. Every warning whispered in back hallways. Every quiet deal sealed with a handshake rather than a wand. It clung to her skin like a second shadow. She understood it too well. She had made herself into a woman who could survive it. But tonight, the knowledge throbbed beneath her skin like a bruise.
Her eyes dropped to her hands. Pale, elegant hands that had once been praised for their steadiness. Hands that had written letters in perfect script. Hands that had skimmed velvet robes and polished silver and broken open parcels filled with enough gold to buy small countries.
But these same hands had also reached across marble countertops to collect vials of powdered nightshade. They had measured aconite as if preparing a dessert. They had moved through her ancestors' potions room with the quiet confidence of a woman raised among poisons.
She had been proud of that once. Proud of her precision. Proud of the clinical calm she could summon with only a breath. Proud of the way she could craft something deadly with the same grace she used to button a gown.
Now the weight of that talent bore down on her in a way it never had before. Brewing poison had once felt like a skill, a craft, something sharp and elegant she could wield with precision. It had felt like control. A choice.
Something that set her apart in a world where power was never freely given. Every vial she had prepared, every drop she had measured, had been a confirmation of her place in the shadows. She had told herself it was necessary. She had convinced herself it was pragmatic. She had wrapped the truth in a neat little box and called it survival.
Except now the box was cracking, and the truth inside it felt rotten.
Poison was not an accident. It was intent. It was looking at a possible future and choosing to end it before it could begin. It was deliberate. It was intimate. It was a kind of violence that left no room for doubt, and she had done it with steady hands and a steady heart. She had never considered herself cruel, not compared to the people she had been raised among. She had always told herself she was different from them.
At least she did not kill for fun the way some of her so-called friends did. She knew better than most the kind of gleam Theo could get in his eyes when he settled into a mission, calm as a priest preparing a sermon.
She knew how easily Draco could slip into cold focus when something or someone threatened Hermione. She had seen Blaise wipe blood from his sleeve with the same ease he used to straighten his cufflinks. They were terrifying in ways most people could not understand. They were ruthless in a way that made sense to them. Their loyalty was a blade. Their love was an oath. Violence was only ever a consequence of devotion.
And she had understood that. It had been part of their world for so long that she had stopped questioning it. Affection was shown in protection. Protection was shown in blood. There were no half-measures in the families they came from. There were only choices, and the consequences of those choices.
But Ron?
What on earth could Ron Weasley have done to deserve death.
The thought landed cold in her stomach, with a weight that would not shift. She had never liked him. That part was easy. They had clashed since childhood, and she had never thought much of him. Loud. Reckless. Petty. Too self-righteous for his own good. But he had not been evil. Not in the way her world defined evil. Not someone she would ever expect to find lying dead on the floor of a crime scene her friends had created.
Draco hated him, of course. But Draco did not kill without reason. Not anymore. Not casually. Not without lines being crossed so violently that there was no turning back.
For Draco to be willing to spill that man's blood meant something had happened. Something unforgivable. Something that made even Theo and Blaise step over a line they had no business stepping over.
But what if there had been no line.
The question sent a chill crawling along her skin. It made her feel sick, like the ground beneath her was tilting slowly, steadily, and she could not brace herself.
What if she had spent her whole life making excuses for the people she loved. What if she had been so desperate to protect her world that she had stopped asking whether it deserved protection in the first place. What if she had learned to swallow her conscience so completely that she no longer knew where her moral compass pointed.
She pushed herself to her feet and began to pace, the familiar movement doing nothing to calm her. The room felt smaller than usual, the walls too close, the air too tight. Her thoughts twisted themselves into tighter knots with every step.
She needed clarity. She needed truth. She needed to know whether this world she had built around herself was held together by loyalty or delusion. For Luna's sake. For Neville's. For Hermione, who had fought tooth and nail for peace after the war. For herself.
The shadows felt heavier now, stretching across the floor, clinging to her ankles like vines. She had always told herself she walked the line between darkness and survival, but now she wasn't so sure. Perhaps she had crossed that line long ago, without noticing, without thinking, carried forward by the momentum of habit and heritage.
If she stayed silent, she would always be part of this. She would always be a stitch in the fabric of their violence. Another accomplice. Another ghost who kept her mouth shut because loyalty demanded it.
But if she spoke the truth. If she dragged the secrets into the light.
She might lose everything.
Her friends. Her place among them. The fragile sense of safety she had spent years trying to build. The life she had pieced together with Neville. Every bit of warmth she had fought so hard to claim.
It was a choice with no safe path, no promise of redemption. It was a choice that would change everything.
She stopped pacing, breathing hard, her hands curled tight at her sides. The room was silent but it felt alive, watching her, waiting.
She had spent her whole life outrunning the things that haunted her. The things her parents had done. The things she had witnessed. The things she had participated in. She had become a master at dodging consequences.
But the truth pressed against her now with a force she could no longer ignore.
If she kept running, she would lose herself entirely.
~~~~~~
She stood in the center of the living room, her pulse hammering against her ribs so hard it made her breath catch. Every nerve in her body felt stretched thin, vibrating with tension she could no longer contain.
The moment she heard the familiar crack of apparition just outside the door, the world narrowed to a single, unbearable point. He stepped inside a second later. She saw the exhaustion first. It hung on him like a weight, tugging at his limbs, dimming the natural warmth in his eyes.
His shoulders slumped just slightly. His hand drifted up to rub at his temple, a gesture she had seen a thousand times, one that meant he was trying to shake off the day.
He moved toward her with the expectation of comfort, of quiet domestic peace, of a night where they could curl into each other and shut out the world. She could see it in the way he reached for her, the way he softened as soon as he saw her face. But tonight she could not give him peace. Tonight she was the storm.
The truth pressed against her ribs like something alive, clawing at her chest, begging to escape. It had followed her through the day, a cold shadow trailing behind every thought, refusing to be silenced. She had rehearsed this moment over and over and she still wasn't ready.
He set down his things. He barely had time to release a sigh before she forced her voice to steady itself.
"Neville, love," she said, lifting her chin, willing herself not to break. "Please sit. I need to tell you something important."
Concern swept across his features in a single breath. His brow creased. His shoulders tensed. The exhaustion that had weighed him down melted away, replaced by a sharp edge of fear.
"Oh Merlin. What is it?" His voice was quiet, wary, already bracing.
She inhaled slowly, praying her lungs would not collapse under the pressure. There was no way to soften it. No way to give him a version that would hurt less.
"Ron and Lavender are dead."
The words hit the air between them like stones dropping into a lake, heavy and cold, sending shockwaves through the room. He stared at her as if she had spoken in a foreign language.
As if his mind needed time to translate something so impossible. His expression did not change at first, but his whole body stilled, locked in place, as if even the act of breathing had become too much.
She reached for his hand, barely brushing her fingertips over his. "I am so sorry."
Still no reaction. Not even a flinch.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. She felt it like a rope around her throat, tightening with each second. When he finally blinked, it was slow, as if he were waking from a nightmare.
"What happened?" The question was barely more than a breath.
"It was Fiendfyre," she said. The words cut her tongue as they came out, sharp and jagged, carrying the taste of guilt she could not swallow.
His breath hitched. Horror washed over him in a wave that left him visibly shaken. His fingers curled, empty and trembling.
"Pansy, that is cursed magic," he murmured. His voice had gone tight, strained, as if the very idea unsettled something deep inside him.
"I know," she whispered. "But it happened."
He dragged a hand down his face, his palm covering his mouth for a long moment. She watched his throat work as he swallowed and watched the way his jaw clenched.
"That is horrible," he said. "Absolutely horrible. How?"
She hesitated, the lie forming itself before she could stop it. She tasted bile at the back of her throat. "I do not know," she said, steady enough that even she almost believed it. "Some people think it might have been an accident, but it does not feel like one."
He stared at the table, eyes unfocused, fists forming on the wood. His knuckles turned stark white.
"Ron was not perfect," he said softly. "But he did not deserve that. Lavender did not deserve that."
"No one deserves a death like that," she said, the truth slipping out in a whisper. "But not everyone plays fair."
His eyes snapped to hers, sharp as glass. Suspicion wove itself through his gaze, a thin thread she could already feel tightening.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," she said slowly, carefully, "that Ron was involved in things. The Weasleys have their own enemies. Sometimes past choices come back stronger than people expect."
Neville leaned back slightly, studying her. His silence was no longer empty. It was assessing, cautious, waiting for her to slip.
"You are talking about the darker side of our world," he said. His voice was low, testing.
"I am saying nothing about anything," she replied softly. "Only that there are pieces we do not see. Pieces no one talks about."
The table creaked under his tightening grip.
"I do not like this," he muttered. "It feels wrong."
She took his hand fully this time, threading her fingers with his. "I know."
He shook his head slowly, his voice rising with a grief that felt frighteningly pure. "That is not fair. He was Hermione's friend. Lavender was obnoxious sometimes, but she was still a person. They did not deserve to be burned alive."
A heavy breath slipped from her, her gaze drifting toward the flickering candlelight. The shadows danced along her cheekbones, giving her a strange, haunted look.
"Randomness is a luxury," she said quietly. "People like us get caught in wars we never asked for."
Neville scoffed under his breath, an ugly sound of disbelief. He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table so tightly she feared it might crack. "So what now? What are we supposed to do? Stand here while our world turns into ash around us?"
She held his gaze, steady and unblinking. "We have to be careful," she whispered. "We cannot make enemies of the wrong people. That is how we end up like Ron and Lavender."
His entire body went rigid. He looked at her then with something fierce and pained. "We would never end up like that. You know that."
She gave him a fragile smile, one that trembled at the edges. "I know, love. It is just difficult to imagine a death that violent. It feels senseless."
He exhaled, long and slow, as if trying to breathe through a storm he had never expected to face.
He leaned forward, closing the small distance between them, his hands finding hers with a tenderness that made her chest tighten. The warmth of his skin drew her out of the storm inside her head, pulling her back to the room, back to him. His voice softened, but the certainty in it held steady.
"Pansy, listen to me. We are not living in that world anymore. We built something different. Something safe." He glanced toward the windows as if seeing the wards without needing to look at them. "There are protection charms layered around the manor. More than most people would ever think to use."
A small flutter of relief warmed her, but the weight in her chest did not disappear. It lingered like a stone pressing against her ribs. "I know, my love," she whispered, trying to smile even though her pulse refused to settle. "I reinforced some of them myself after we married. But why did you do it?"
A faint blush rose along his cheekbones, an innocent mix of affection and embarrassment that made her heart twist. "The moment I realized I loved you," he said quietly, "I went looking for more. I read through every warding book I could find. I wanted this place to feel safe for you. I wanted you to know nothing could get past me."
Her fingers tightened around his, anchoring herself in that simple, earnest truth. "Good," she murmured, her voice steadier. "Because I did the exact same thing. The idea of you worrying about danger makes me sick."
He let out a warm, low laugh, one that wrapped around her like a blanket fresh from the hearth. "Of course you did. You always think ahead. I love that about you."
For a moment the room felt soft, the quiet settling around them like a well-worn cloak. They had always shared this kind of silence, the kind that felt full rather than empty. A small safety they carried within each other.
But the comfort only held for a heartbeat before something colder twisted inside her. The shadows in her thoughts stirred again, pulling her back toward the edge of the world she had tried so hard to leave behind.
"But it is not only about spells, is it?" she murmured, her thumb drifting slowly along the back of his hand as her gaze fell to their entwined fingers. "There is a darkness out there. I feel it. I know you feel it too. It is not just paranoia."
The change in him was subtle, but she saw it. The shift in his eyes, the way his shoulders tightened. He nodded slowly.
"I feel it," he admitted, his voice quieter, more grounded. "It is like the air is holding its breath. But we worked hard to build this life. I do not want to let fear take it away."
His words were steady, full of hope in a way that made her chest ache. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to step into that certainty and let it carry her. But the truth loomed between them, heavy and unspoken.
"We will not lose it," she said, though the reassurance cost her something. She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes steady and serious. "But I need you to promise me something."
He shifted toward her fully, concern etched into the lines of his face. "Anything."
Her fingers curled around his hands again, holding tighter this time, as if the promise she asked for could anchor the ground beneath them.
"If something feels wrong, we talk about it. We do not bury it. We do not hide it from each other."
She swallowed, her voice softening with the weight of what she could not say out loud.
"No secrets between us. Not anymore."
Liar.
He gave her a firm nod, his fingers curling around hers with a certainty that steadied her pulse for a moment. His thumb drifted across her knuckles in a slow, deliberate sweep, as though he could press the promise into her skin and bind it there. "I promise," he said softly, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it with a reverence that made her throat tighten. "You can trust me, my love. I am here for the long haul, whatever comes."
She leaned in, resting her forehead against his, her breath catching as the warmth of him dulled the sharper corners of her thoughts. Their noses brushed, the closeness grounding her. "I love you, Nevie. More than anything."
"And I love you," he murmured, the words warm and sure, as if nothing in the world could ever shake that truth.
Yet beneath that tenderness, beneath the way he held her, beneath the way her heart pressed against his, something cold threaded down her spine. A slow, creeping sensation that felt almost like a warning. The world outside their walls was quiet now. Too quiet. And she had lived through enough storms to know that silence was rarely kind.
The moment fractured when soft paws pattered across the floor. Lady Lemongrass bounded into the room with theatrical enthusiasm, her tiny body wiggling as if she intended to save the entire evening with her presence alone.
Pansy let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Look at her," she murmured. "Always arriving like she owns the place."
Neville smiled, reaching out to scratch behind Lady's ears. "She knows we need cheering up."
"She always does," Pansy said, letting her hand drift through the pug's fur as Lady climbed into her lap and settled there with a satisfied sigh. "She is our little guardian angel."
Lady pressed herself against her stomach with a soft huff, as if claiming the space for herself alone. The warmth helped. The normalcy helped. But Pansy still felt the pulse of her own thoughts echoing beneath the surface, restless and persistent.
Ron and Lavender.
Fiendfyre.
A message, warning.
The very idea of that spell twisted her insides. It was not something one cast by accident. It was not something born of panic. It was the kind of fire that did not obey once it was unleashed. It was the kind of fire that destroyed everything in its path with a hunger that never lessened.
She looked at Neville again. He was still speaking, his voice low and thoughtful as he rambled about strengthening the wards, about talking to Aurors he trusted, about taking extra precautions at the greenhouses. She watched his mouth move, the faint crease between his brows, the honest concern in his voice, and she loved him for it. Truly.
But the words barely reached her.
Because safety, in their world, had always been a fragile illusion. Because love, in their world, did not erase the shadows that followed them.
He stroked Lady's fur with absent care, his mind already turning toward solutions, always seeking a way to keep her safe without realising she had never needed his protection.
Her gaze lingered on him, her heart tugging with affection and something darker that she wished she could ignore. He was everything she had ever wanted. Gentle. Steady. Honest. The kind of man who believed in goodness even when he had every reason not to. The kind of man who lifted her to a version of herself she never thought she would become.
But he was also impossibly vulnerable in ways he did not understand. His kindness was a soft belly in a world of knives. His trust was a fragile bridge that most people would trample without hesitation.
He had never needed to fear the world the way she had. He had never needed to fear himself.
Her fingers brushed lightly over the pug's back, yet her thoughts drifted somewhere far colder.
There was no one in this entire world she loved more.
And yet, with painful clarity, she understood something she had always kept tucked away at the edges of her mind. A truth that rose now like a shadow stretching under a fading sun.
She was the only person he should ever truly fear.
The chill that ran through her was sharp enough to make her inhale. The knowledge sat in her throat like a stone, heavy and immovable.
She wasn't just his wife. She wasn't just his partner. She wasn't just the woman he fell asleep beside every night.
There was a part of her that had never been softened by his love.
A part shaped by lineage, by darkness, by the quiet ruthlessness taught to her before she ever had a chance to resist it.
A part that could smile sweetly while hiding a bottle of poison behind her back. A part that understood how to make enemies disappear without ever lifting her wand. A part that had survived too much to ever fully lay down her claws.
She felt it stirring now.
And she was no longer sure how much longer she could keep it at bay.
Notes:
If this chapter sat heavy with you, you're not alone. I wrote it with my whole chest, and I'm still shaking a bit. Thank you for reading. Thank you for staying.
—more soon. ♡