Notes:
Miss Ma'am is extreamly scary, so TW applies for torture.
The words landed hard, sharp enough to steal the breath from her chest. For a moment, Pansy could not move. The room seemed to tilt, sound draining away until all that remained was a hollow ringing in her ears.
Draco had been attacked.
The fact refused to settle neatly in her mind. It pressed in from all sides, heavy and disorienting, like smoke filling a room too quickly. Draco was not supposed to be vulnerable. None of them were. Their family had been forged in blood and loyalty, in calculated brutality and careful alliances. They were meant to be feared, not touched.
And yet someone had dared.
Her thoughts scattered, racing ahead of her control. When. Where. Who knew. Who had spoken out of turn.
Her pulse thundered as images of Draco flashed through her mind, not the polished menace he presented to the world, but the private versions of him she knew too well. His sharp grin when he was pleased with himself. The tired slump of his shoulders when no one was watching. The way he trusted, completely, that the walls around them would hold.
Hermione had saved him.
Relief followed instantly, hot and undeniable, but it tangled with something uglier before she could stop it. A familiar bitterness rose in her throat. Of course it had been Hermione. It was always Hermione, stepping into the breach, emerging bloodied but victorious. Pansy hated herself for the flare of jealousy, for the way it clawed at her even now. This was not about pride. This was about survival.
She wanted to have been there.
She wanted to be the one who had pulled Draco back from the edge, who had stood between him and whatever bastard thought they could make an example of him. The thought that she had been absent, that someone else had filled that role, made her chest ache in a way she could not ignore.
She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe. Slowly. Deliberately. Panic would solve nothing. Panic had never kept anyone alive.
This was different from everything that had come before. They had fought wars, toppled enemies, cleaned blood from marble floors and called it necessary. But this was not a battlefield. This was not strategy. This was personal.
If someone could reach Draco, then no one was untouchable.
The realization sank in with sickening clarity. The life they had built was not invulnerable. It was strong, yes, but strength did not mean immunity. There were fractures she had chosen not to see, hairline cracks that now threatened to split wide open.
For a fleeting moment, fear whispered its worst suggestions. What if this was only the beginning. What if next time, Hermione was not there. What if the next target was closer to home.
She shoved the thought aside with a sharp inhale.
Fear had its place, and this was not it.
Draco needed her steady, not spiraling. He needed the version of her that did not flinch, that understood what it meant to protect what was theirs. The heat that bloomed in her chest was not panic now, but something harder and far more dangerous.
Resolve.
She lifted her chin, her spine straightening as if the decision alone had pulled her upright. Whoever had done this had crossed a line that could not be erased. They had tested the boundaries of a family that did not forgive trespass.
She would not shrink. She would not hesitate.
No more standing just behind the front line. No more letting others carry the weight while she watched from the edges. This was her family. Her war, too.
When she stepped forward, it was with purpose, her fear locked down and her focus sharpened to a single, unyielding point.
Someone had touched Draco.
And Pansy Parkinson was going to make sure they understood exactly what that cost.
~~~~~~
Pansy was halfway through her afternoon tea, the steam curling lazily from her porcelain cup, when the Floo flared and Hermione appeared in the middle of her living room.
She took in the sight with a slow blink. Hermione looked rumpled, tense, hair escaping its tie, cheeks flushed like she had run here instead of traveled by magic. Against the polished floors, silk cushions, and carefully curated calm of the room, she looked wildly out of place.
Pansy set her cup down with deliberate care and lifted an eyebrow.
"Well," she drawled lightly, "to what do I owe this unscheduled invasion, love?"
Hermione did not rise to the bait. There was no snark, no lecture, no polite preamble. Her eyes were sharp with urgency.
"I need your help," she said. "Specifically, I need your potions."
The faint smile slipped from Pansy's lips. That single sentence carried weight. Hermione did not ask lightly, and she certainly did not come to her unless things were already spiraling.
Without another word, Pansy stood. The soft clink of porcelain against saucer echoed in the sudden quiet.
"Come on," she said, already moving. "If you're asking for that, we won't be doing this in the parlor."
She led Hermione through the house at a brisk pace, heels clicking against marble before giving way to thick carpet that swallowed their steps. The warmth and elegance of the main rooms faded as she pushed open a narrow door and descended into the dimmer heart of the house.
"This," Pansy said, stepping aside, "is where the real work happens."
The room beyond was shadowed and intimate, lined with dark wooden shelves stacked floor to ceiling. Hundreds of vials glimmered softly, each labeled in precise handwriting. Liquids of deep blues, sickly greens, and slow-moving blacks caught the candlelight. The air smelled of crushed leaves, sharp resins, and something metallic that lingered at the back of the throat.
Hermione inhaled once, steadying herself.
"What's going on?" Pansy asked, her voice quieter now. "Why the urgency?"
Hermione's gaze skimmed the shelves, her jaw tight.
"I don't have time to explain everything," she said. "But I need your strongest restorative potions. And concealment. The one that doesn't leave traces."
Pansy nodded once. No questions. No hesitation.
"Fine," she said. "Let's get you what you need."
She moved deeper into the room, fingers gliding over glass, selecting vials with practiced confidence. Hermione watched her for a moment, then folded her arms.
"So this is your workspace," Hermione said dryly. "A private museum of things that would get half the Ministry apoplectic."
Pansy glanced over her shoulder, unimpressed.
"Oh please," she said. "Are you here to ask for help or file a report?"
Hermione huffed. "I'm not here to snitch. I just need those potions. Now."
Something in her tone softened Pansy's expression, just a fraction.
"All right," she said. "But I expect a full explanation later."
As she gathered ingredients, Hermione hesitated. Her eyes lingered on Pansy longer this time, studying her.
"What happened to you?" Hermione asked quietly. "I miss the girl I used to know."
Pansy's hand stilled.
When she turned, her gaze was sharp enough to cut.
"The girl you knew?" she said. "I gutted that bitch from the inside out."
The words landed cold and final.
"She didn't survive what came next," Pansy continued. "Life doesn't leave everyone intact, babe."
She gestured around the room, not apologetic, not defensive.
"On my eighteenth birthday, my mother taught me everything she knew. Then she handed me this shit and walked away. I learned fast."
Hermione's expression shifted, sympathy softening her features.
"I'm sorry, Pansy."
She waved it off.
"Don't be. I don't need pity." A faint, crooked smile tugged at her mouth. "I've grown rather fond of it, actually. Still refining a few experimental things. Potions, though? Those I perfected."
Hermione stared at her. "You're serious."
"Painfully."
There was a beat of silence. Then Hermione shook her head.
"You're not even asking why I need this."
Pansy shrugged.
"Why would I? I know what Draco does. I know what all of them do." Her voice sharpened. "If it were Neville, I would burn the world for him."
Hermione blinked. "You love him."
Pansy's expression softened instantly, the steel giving way to something warmer.
"Of course I do. I married him because I chose him. He sees me. Really sees me." She paused, then added quietly, "We fit. Even when nothing else does."
Hermione studied her carefully.
"And he knows all of this? Everything?"
"Yes," Pansy said without hesitation. "All of it. The good. The rot. He didn't fall in love with a memory."
The room fell quiet again, heavy with things that could not be undone.
Hermione exhaled. "I just wish you didn't have to carry so much alone."
Pansy smiled faintly as she handed her the final vial.
"I don't," she said. "I have Nevie. And despite everything, I have you too. Even if you pretend you're only here when the world catches fire."
Hermione's lips curved despite herself.
Two people in love can build a universe of their own, where understanding and connection bind them like the stars.
~~~~~~
Now it was time to set the plan in motion.
She stood in front of the mirror, pulse thudding hard enough that she could feel it in her throat. Excitement and danger tangled together in her chest, sharp and electric. There was no room for doubt anymore. They had planned this to the last breath, argued every angle, tested every risk. If something went wrong, it would not be because they had been careless.
The mansion hummed with restless energy as Hermione and Pansy moved through the final preparations, both of them locked in with the kind of focus that came from knowing exactly what was at stake.
Hermione darted from surface to surface, collecting the last ingredients, checking vials, counting tools under her breath. Her mind was razor sharp, every motion purposeful, every decision calculated. This was her element, controlled chaos bent into order by sheer will.
Pansy stayed at the vanity, lifting her chin as she worked with slow, deliberate precision. Dark shadow framed her eyes, smoky and dangerous, cut sharp enough to promise trouble. She painted her lips a bold red, unapologetic and demanding, the kind of color that dared people to stare and never look away.
The adrenaline sang through her veins as she worked, every sense heightened, every thought crystal clear.
Hermione swept back into the room, sleeves rolled, hair pinned up, energy crackling off her. The space turned into a beautiful mess of purpose, silk and steel and magic scattered everywhere.
Pansy watched her hands as they sorted potions and tools with practiced ease, steady and exacting. It grounded her. Hermione's discipline tempered her instinct, and together they found the balance that made this work possible.
Every minute felt heavy with anticipation. Charged. Alive.
Hermione took the time to shave, thorough and meticulous, because nothing was allowed to be sloppy tonight. Skin smooth, movements graceful, she treated preparation like ritual. Pansy caught herself watching with respect. This was commitment. This was how far they were willing to go.
When they finally stepped back, the sight stopped her breath.
They looked lethal.
Their clothes clung in all the right places, elegant and dangerous at once. Fabric caught the chandelier light and shimmered softly, wrapping confidence around them like armor. Sexy, yes, but controlled. Intentional. No wasted detail.
Pansy met her own reflection and felt something fierce settle into her bones. Power. Readiness. The kind of certainty that made fear irrelevant.
Hermione stood beside her, calm and unshakeable, strength radiating quietly from her posture. Together, they looked like women who knew exactly what they were walking into and were choosing it anyway.
They slipped into their heels, the sharp sound against the floor ringing like a starting bell. A glance passed between them, brief and knowing.
With one last glance in the mirror, she smoothed a stray strand of hair back into place and lifted her chin. Her shoulders squared almost on instinct. This was it. No more rehearsing, no more circling the moment. It was time to step into the night and take what they had planned.
Draco was waiting in the living room.
His sharp gaze tracked them the moment they entered, cutting through the low light with immediate intensity. His jaw tightened, irritation flashing hot and fast across his face. "Hermione, you cannot go out like that," he snapped, voice taut with barely restrained concern. "You are practically naked."
Pansy flicked her eyes toward him, lips curling into a slow, deliberate smirk. "Draco, darling, mind your own fucking business," she replied lightly. She knew exactly what she was doing to him and enjoyed every second of it. The irritation, the loss of control, the way it set his teeth on edge. Power came in many forms.
The tension shifted as the door opened again and Theo, Blaise, and Neville stepped inside, their presence bringing a familiar hum of energy with them. The room felt fuller instantly, grounded.
Neville's attention went straight to her. His expression softened, genuine warmth lighting his face as his gaze lingered. "You look delicious, my bloom," he said easily, pulling her into his arms without hesitation. The way he held her was unguarded, proud, certain.
Draco gestured sharply toward the two women, frustration still simmering. "Are you seriously not outraged by how good they look?"
Neville barely spared him a glance. "No," he said calmly. "My love always looks incredible." His certainty cut through the tension cleanly, leaving no room for argument. His eyes never left her.
Hermione stepped forward before Draco could respond, impatience flickering across her face. "Enough," she said firmly. "Everyone knows what they are doing."
The room fell quiet. The weight of the night settled around them, thick and undeniable. This was no longer banter or irritation or posturing. This was purpose.
"We do," they answered together, the unity in their voices steady and unflinching.
Adrenaline surged through her, bright and sharp. She met Neville's gaze and he gave her a subtle nod, grounding her in a way nothing else could. Whatever waited for them beyond those doors, they would meet it head-on.
They gathered closer, conversation shifting seamlessly into strategy. There was no teasing now, no distractions. Just focus. Draco's earlier agitation faded into something colder and more resolved, his attention snapping into place alongside the rest of them.
Hermione took control with ease, voice clear as she outlined the final details. The bond between them felt solid, reinforced by everything they had survived together. For a brief moment, hope sparked bright and undeniable.
When they finally moved to leave, the energy in the room thrummed with anticipation. Hearts pounding, breaths steady, they shared one last look, an unspoken promise passing between them.
Together, they stepped forward, ready to claim whatever waited in the dark.
°°°
They took a cab, which fascinated Pansy far more than she would have admitted out loud. She was used to Apparition, Portkeys, the clean snap of magic getting her from one place to another without friction. This was different. The low hum of the engine, the steady glide of wheels over asphalt, the city sliding past the window in streaks of light and shadow. It grounded her in a way she had not expected. For a brief moment, a genuine smile tugged at her lips, excitement flickering beneath her carefully maintained composure.
The Marriott rose before them like a modern castle, all glass and gold, its façade glowing under the evening lights. Inside, the lobby opened into polished marble floors and towering chandeliers that scattered light like constellations. Well dressed patrons murmured to one another, laughter and perfume hanging in the air. The opulence was undeniable, yet beneath it all, tension threaded through their group, subtle but constant. Every one of them knew what tonight carried with it.
Viktor Krum was already waiting near the entrance, standing beside a man so striking he seemed almost unreal. The moment Viktor saw Hermione, his face broke into a smile that softened everything else in the room. Pansy watched as Hermione crossed the distance without hesitation, arms wrapping around him in a familiar, intimate hug. It lingered just a beat too long. Hermione pressed a light kiss to his cheek, her smile warm and deliberate.
"It's so good to see you," Hermione said, her voice smooth, affectionate, practiced in the way that suggested intention.
"It is always a pleasure to see you, Hermione," Viktor replied, his eyes bright with recognition and something deeper that did not try to hide itself. Hermione seemed to glow under it, standing a little taller, smiling a little wider.
Viktor gestured to the man beside him. "This is my teammate, Dimitar."
Dimitar inclined his head politely, dark eyes sharp with interest. There was an easy confidence about him, the kind that drew attention without effort. Pansy felt it immediately, a subtle quickening in her chest.
Hermione turned, her hand lifting in an easy, proud motion. "And this is my best friend, Pansy Longbottom."
The way she said her name carried weight. Possession. Pride.
Pansy stepped forward, her smile slow and deliberate as she met their gazes. "It's a pleasure to be in the presence of such superstars," she said, her tone silky, flirtation woven seamlessly into every syllable.
Dimitar smiled. Viktor nodded, clearly pleased. The tension shifted, settling into something charged and promising. Pansy felt it settle into her bones. This was her element. This was the game.
They moved toward the bar, a sleek, modern space washed in low light that softened edges and invited intimacy. Soft music threaded through the low hum of conversation. The bartender moved with practiced elegance, crafting cocktails that gleamed in crystal glasses beneath the lights.
They ordered shots without ceremony. The first burn of alcohol slid down her throat, warm and welcome, loosening something in her chest she had not realized was clenched. Glasses clinked together, laughter spilling easily now, sealing the mood of the night with sound and motion.
As the hours passed, conversation flowed as freely as the drinks. Pansy played her part with precision, wit sharp, charm effortless, flirtation calibrated just enough to keep both Viktor and Dimitar engaged. All the while, she kept a careful eye on Hermione, who moved through her own delicate dance with Viktor, every smile and glance placed with intention.
This was not just a night out. It was strategy wrapped in silk and laughter. And as the room pulsed with music and possibility, Pansy knew she was exactly where she needed to be, ready to take whatever the night was prepared to give.
°°°
After half an hour, the atmosphere in the bar had shifted completely. Pansy was perched comfortably in Dimitar's lap, all easy confidence and careless charm, her fingers tracing idle, teasing patterns over his chest. She laughed at something he murmured against her ear, the sound light and melodic, drawing curious glances from nearby tables.
She played the role of the flirty socialite without effort, keeping Dimitar utterly wrapped around her finger, her body angled into his, her presence warm and inviting, the chemistry between them unmistakable.
Across the bar, Hermione found herself trapped in a relentlessly dull conversation with Viktor. He was deep into a monologue about Quidditch formations and training schedules, his enthusiasm unwavering despite the polite vacancy in her eyes.
The night shifted gears when Pansy rose from her seat, a confident smirk curving her lips. "We're heading up to the room to keep the party going. Are you two coming?" she asked, her voice playful, inviting, charged with suggestion.
Hermione caught the glint in her eye and turned to Viktor, her own smile sharpening into something flirtier. "Why not?" she said lightly. "Sounds fun." She gave him a wink that immediately had his attention.
With deliberate ease, Hermione took his hand and guided it to her waist, then lower, encouraging without being obvious.
She leaned closer, her smile warm and reassuring, the familiarity of the plan steadying her nerves. The brush of his fingers against her skin sent a rush of adrenaline through her. It was all part of the game, she reminded herself, even as the moment grew heavier with possibility.
Inside the elevator, the tension thickened. Hermione stepped closer, placing her hands against Viktor's chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palms. Slowly, she slid her hands up around his neck, pulling him into an embrace that felt both thrilling and dangerous.
"You know, Viktor," she murmured near his ear, her voice low and deliberate, "you've always been handsome. But the man you've become?" She smiled. "Incredibly sexy."
His eyes lit with approval as he leaned in, brushing a kiss against the corner of her mouth. "I'm glad you think so," he said softly. "You've always looked delicious."
When they reached the suite, Pansy did not hesitate.
She took Dimitar by the hand, her expression lit with playful intent, and tugged him toward the ensuite bathroom without a word. Hermione watched them disappear, a flicker of amusement crossing her face as the door shut behind them. The night was moving exactly as planned.
As soon as the bathroom door shut behind them, something in Pansy shifted.
Dimitar felt it before he understood it. The playful warmth drained from her touch, replaced by a stillness that set his nerves on edge.
She turned the lock with a soft, deliberate click, the sound far too final for comfort. When she faced him again, the flirtation was gone. What looked back at him was calm, assessing, and utterly devoid of mercy.
He reached for her waist, smiling out of habit, out of arrogance. The mistake cost him everything.
She moved faster than he could react. One moment he was stepping closer, the next his back slammed into cold tile, the air ripped from his lungs.
Her hand closed around his throat. She knew exactly how much pressure to use. Enough to frighten. Enough to remind.
His grin vanished, replaced by confusion, then fear.
Pansy leaned in, close enough that he could feel her breath against his cheek. Her eyes were empty, sharp, glittering with intent. Whatever game he thought they were playing had ended the moment that door locked.
"Oh," she murmured softly, almost kindly, "you really should have paid better attention."
He tried to speak.
She slid her hand beneath the hem of her dress and pulled out a blade, small and elegant, its curve catching the low light. The sight of it made him jerk instinctively, but her grip tightened, cutting off the movement, cutting off the sound.
"This isn't personal," she continued, conversational, as if discussing the weather. "You were just useful for a moment. Nothing personal."
The blade disappeared from view as she stepped closer, her body blocking him from the mirror, from the world. The sounds that followed were muted by tile and steam and her steady hand. Whatever resistance he managed was brief, panicked, and ultimately meaningless.
Time stretched. She was patient.
Slicing him from throat to his belly button.
When it was over, she stepped back, smoothing her dress, adjusting a curl of hair as though she had merely freshened up. The room smelled faintly of iron and perfume. Dimitar no longer moved.
Pansy regarded the scene with a critical eye, head tilted slightly, lips pursed in thought. There was no rush, no tremor in her hands. Only quiet satisfaction.
"Messy," she murmured to herself. "But effective."
With practiced ease, she cleaned the blade, slipped it back into place, and reached for her wand. A few murmured words, a flick of magic, and the room stilled into something far more orderly. Controlled. Final.
She took one last look, a small smile curving her mouth.
"Perfect," she whispered, and looked at Neville who was already at the door.
~~~~~~
Before Hermione could form a response to Viktor's advances, he grabbed her and spun her around, crushing his mouth against hers in a kiss that was all force and entitlement. It was rough, invasive, nothing like consent. The sharp tang of gin clung to his breath, turning her stomach as panic flared hot and fast.
She shoved at his chest, hard, but he only tightened his grip, fingers digging into her arms as if she were something he owned.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. Fear ripped through her, bright and blinding.
With shaking hands, she clawed for the emergency charm woven into her bracelet and slammed her thumb against it again and again, not caring how frantic it looked. Every second stretched, elastic and cruel, as her pulse thundered in her ears.
The air ruptured.
Three figures tore into the room in a rush of black smoke, their shapes half-formed, edges blurring as shadows curled around them like living things. One of them struck Viktor immediately, dragging him off her with brutal efficiency. Hermione staggered back, gasping, her lungs burning as she struggled to stay upright, her mind scrambling to keep pace with what was happening.
"That was the last time you ever touched anyone, Krum," one of them said softly.
The voice was quiet, almost conversational, and far more terrifying for it.
Viktor barely had time to register what was happening before he was hurled into the wall. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. He tried to fight, tried to reach for magic, for strength, for anything, but a spell snapped tight around him and lifted him off the floor. He hung there, helpless, limbs locked, panic finally overtaking arrogance.
Hermione watched in stunned silence, her hands trembling at her sides. Adrenaline and relief crashed together inside her, leaving her lightheaded. The danger was gone. It was really gone.
Draco moved without ceremony, levitating Viktor toward the bedroom. His face was hard, controlled, stripped of everything except purpose. The door shut behind them with a sharp click that echoed too loudly in the sudden quiet.
The smoke thinned. The room felt eerily still.
Neville turned slowly, his brow furrowed, his gaze sweeping the space with rising unease. "Where's Pansy?" he asked, his voice tight, already bracing for the answer.
Hermione's stomach dropped. "She's in the bathroom," she said at once, the words tumbling out with urgency.
Neville did not reply. He was already moving, silent and fast, every step measured as he headed for the bathroom door.
Dimitar hung upside down from the ceiling, his body a grotesque silhouette against the dim lighting of the room.
Blood gushed from a deep gash that cut from his stomach to his neck, pooling ominously on the floor beneath him, where it mingled with the remnants of their chaotic night.
His eyes, once filled with curiosity and charm, were now wide with shock and fear, struggling to comprehend the brutal turn of events.
The sight was horrific, a stark testament to the lengths they had gone to in order to execute their plan.
His breaths came in shallow gasps, the weight of his situation evident as he swayed slightly, his limbs contorted in a way that defied all logic.
Each drop of blood that escaped him painted a picture of desperation, a chilling reminder of the violent undercurrents that had driven them all to this moment.
Neville stood frozen in the doorway, his heart racing and mind reeling from the gruesome scene before him. "Parky, this is… intense," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, a mix of disbelief and admiration threading through his words. " You've definitely outdone yourself."
Pansy gazed down at her dress with exaggerated dismay, her eyes widening dramatically as if she'd just discovered a shocking revelation. "Oh, FUCK! Look at my dress! Just look at it—utterly ruined!" With a flourish, she twirled around, showcasing the bloodstains splattered across the fabric like tragic art. "This was an exquisite piece, and now it's—well, it's a complete disaster!"
Neville, unable to contain his amusement, let out a chuckle. "Quite the opposite, bloom. I must say, I'm impressed."
Pansy threw her hands up in a theatrical gesture, her frustration spilling over. "Well, at least the job's done, but how could this happen? The color was perfect for tonight!" She let out an exaggerated sigh, her expression a melodramatic mix of frustration and mock grief. "I suppose I'll have to find a replacement. But you must admit, the stain adds a certain… character, doesn't it?"
Neville laughed, shaking his head at her flair for the dramatic. He stepped closer and took her hand gently, his touch warm and reassuring. "Let's get you cleaned up. The dress may be ruined, but you're still as radiant as ever."
Pansy looked at him, her expression softening slightly. "You really think so?" she asked, a hint of vulnerability breaking through her dramatic facade.
"Absolutely," he replied with sincerity. "No amount of blood can overshadow your shine."
Pansy rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. "Alright then, lead the way. I may be a disaster, but at least I'm a glamorous one!"
What the actual fuck is wrong with them?!
°°°°°°
Draco took Viktor without ceremony.
One moment Viktor was suspended, barely able to breathe, and the next Draco was already moving, guiding him down the corridor with a grip that did not invite resistance. The bedroom door shut behind them with a final, decisive click that felt heavier than any spell.
The killing spell was quiet. Clean. Final.
When it was done, Draco stood alone in the room, staring at the place where Viktor had been, his hands shaking only once before he forced them still.
He cleaned himself meticulously. Removed every trace. When he returned to the sitting room later, his expression was composed, his movements precise, his voice steady.
Later, they gathered around the fireplace, the flames crackling softly, throwing long shadows across the walls. The warmth did nothing to ease the chill that lingered in the room.
Draco spoke first.
"I still have no answers from Krum," he said evenly. "We are actively searching for leads."
Hermione looked at him sharply, her mouth opening in protest, fear and fury tangled together.
"Darling," Draco said, turning to her, his tone suddenly steel. "You are not allowed to join us on any missions ever again."
"But Draco," she said, voice breaking despite herself.
"I said not again."
Their eyes locked. There was no argument to be made. No compromise to be found.
One by one, they left, each carrying the weight of what had been done and what it meant. When the house finally fell quiet, only the fire remained, snapping softly, a reminder that some lines once crossed could never be uncrossed.
~~~~~~
With a quiet pop, Neville and Pansy apparated back home, the familiar surroundings offering a sense of safety after the night's harrowing events.
"Help me get out of this dress," Pansy said, her voice a mix of urgency and relief.
Neville stepped closer, carefully helping her peel the fabric away from her skin. As the last remnants of the dress fell to the floor, Pansy hurried into the bathroom, the soft sound of water cascading from the shower beckoning her.
Neville hesitated for only a moment before following her inside, the steamy air enveloping him as he leaned against the doorframe.
"It's incredible what you did today," he said, his admiration evident in his tone.
Pansy turned to face him, the water cascading over her, glistening on her skin. "Nevie, you should be disgusted with me," she replied, her brow furrowing with doubt.
"But I'm not," he countered, stepping into the shower with her, his presence warm and reassuring. "In fact, I'm quite turned on."
With a gentle smile, he leaned in, placing soft kisses along her neck and shoulders. Each kiss ignited a spark within her, dissolving the weight of the day's events.
Pansy closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, feeling the heat between them rise like the steam in the air. In that moment, they found solace in each other, a tender connection that promised healing and intimacy.
"I love seeing you in those tiny outfits," he murmured, his voice low and filled with desire.
"Oh really? Aren't you just a little jealous?" she teased, a playful glint in her eyes.
"Jealous? Not in the slightest. Can anyone else do this to you?" He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her neck as he kissed her slowly, the warmth of his breath igniting a thrilling sensation that sent shivers racing down her spine.
With a skilled motion, he lifted her leg onto his hip, drawing her in until their bodies were pressed tightly together, the heat between them palpable.
Pansy moaned softly in his ear, "Nevie…" Her voice was a breathy whisper, laced with desire.
He entered her slowly, the sensation igniting an all-consuming fire between them. She gasped, her breath hitching as she wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him for balance. With a smooth motion, he lifted her other leg, pinning her against the wall, their bodies locked together in a heated embrace.
The intensity of their connection deepened with every movement, the rhythm of their bodies finding a perfect harmony that echoed the urgent pulse of their desires.
"Please… put me down," she pleaded, her voice a mix of urgency and longing.
With a playful smirk, he slid her down onto the floor, their eyes locking in a smoldering gaze that held promises of what was to come.
"Take me to bed, now!" she commanded, her voice firm yet tinged with eagerness, a spark of mischief in her eyes.
In a flash of magic, he apparated them to the bedroom. As soon as they landed, she wasted no time, pushing him back onto the bed.
With a determined glint in her eyes, she climbed onto him, taking control as she began to ride him, her movements bold and passionate. She lost herself in the moment, riding him until she felt the wave of pleasure crash over her, gasping as she came.
"Now it's my turn," he said, his voice low and commanding.
With a swift, practiced motion, he flipped her onto her side, his body hovering over hers, their skin brushing together. He lifted one of her legs, entering her again with deep, steady thrusts that sent shivers of pleasure coursing through her. As he moved, he deftly massaged her clit, his fingers working in perfect rhythm with his thrusts, determined to bring her to the brink of ecstasy.
Feeling bold, he slid a finger inside her bum, teasingly pushing her boundaries. She cried out, the sensation overwhelming her senses, her back arching as she surrendered to the pleasure.
"Nevie, please…," she pleaded, her voice a desperate whisper that ignited a primal fire within him.
With a smirk of satisfaction, he added a second finger, curling them expertly as he continued to work her clit.
The tension within her built rapidly, her body responding eagerly to every movement, every thrust. He could feel her nearing the edge, her breaths quickening, heart racing.
In just a few moments, the pleasure reached its peak, and she came hard, her cries echoing through the room as waves of bliss washed over her, leaving her breathless and quivering beneath him.
Notes:
King of enabling. Oh Gods I love Neville.