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The Daily Prophet: RECONCILIATION ACT PASSES: MINISTRY-MANDATED MARRIAGES TO BE ANNOUNCED

THURSDAY JULY 10, 2003

Neville was fifteen minutes early. The bell above the door rang as he ducked his head under the lintel and then a delicate woman robed in mauve was approaching him, her hands raised as though to clutch her neckline. Neville hadn’t brought any of the field or greenhouse with him—he was bathed and freshly shaven and wearing his town clothes—but it was clear he wasn’t her usual clientele.

“May I help you?” she asked, doubtful.

“I have an appointment,” said Neville. “One o’clock.”

“I don’t believe—”

“Under my fiancée’s name,” said Neville.

Raised eyebrows. A tilt of her head.

“Parkinson.”

Her mouth opened with her inhale. A sharper angle to the tilt of her chin. She closed her mouth and blinked in surprise.

Neville agreed to wait on the cream-colored loveseat, nudging one end forward on the cream-colored carpet so he could see the entrance from the corner of his eye. He declined the glass of champagne. He read the letter he had in his pocket—nothing much of note—and vanished it. Then the bell rang, and he looked over to see Pansy Parkinson coming through the door.

She was in black. Precise black bob, tight black dress, black high heels, black varnish on her nails. The bra earning its keep under that deep box neckline would also be black, Neville guessed, with knickers to match. When he met her gaze, she was smirking. She shook her hair into place and strode into the shop as he stood.

“Hiya,” she said, looking up at him.

“Hiya,” said Neville, smiling a little.

A hand on his arm as she went on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He could smell her perfume—coffee, vanilla, jasmine, patchouli, orange blossoms. Something complicated and muggle.

“Cosette.” More kisses on cheeks. Then Pansy’s hand was back on his arm, her hold on him light but proprietary. “I see you’ve met my intended, Neville Longbottom.”

The night before, Neville had been standing by his bedroom window, going through the evening post, when she’d stepped back from his closet and said, “Where’s the rest of it?”

“The closet?” The closet was so shallow it only fit hangers at an angle. It was perhaps not unreasonable to wonder where the rest of it had gone. Currently, it held his old dress robes and five shirts.

“Your wardrobe!” She’d looked to him. “Where are the rest of your clothes? Where’s your dressing room?”

“That’s it,” he’d said, nodding toward the chest of drawers she’d already been through.

Pansy’s chin had lifted as her back stiffened. “This is worse than I thought.”

Neville had smiled, stifling a laugh. He had as many clothes as he needed.

“I’ll have to make a list,” she’d muttered. She’d turned back to the closet and poked at the hangers with distaste. “You don’t own a muggle tuxedo, do you.”

“No.” He’d sat on the wide sill, his long legs crossed at the ankle. He’d set aside the post to watch her.

“Well, they’re only recently on-trend.” A wry expression—they’d both known that wasn’t why he didn’t own one. “It’s no matter. I’ve made an appointment at T&T. For tomorrow. One o’clock.”

She’d looked over, her eyebrows raised, as though she expected immediate protest. Neville had said nothing.

“Our top priority is the tuxedo for the Ministry reception. We’ll do a few suits as well. We can start with summer weight and go from there.” Her lips had pursed and she’d looked the closet up and down as though everything in it was about to be incendioed.

“Pansy,” he’d said firmly, and her head had swiveled toward him. “You can’t throw out anything my mother or gran gave me.”

Her expression had faltered.

“Even if it looks like rubbish to you.”

“I—I understand that, Longbottom.” She’d gone fidgety, wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Pansy.” Neville had tilted his head. “I’m not angry. Just don’t throw out my things.”

“All right,” she’d said, a touch sulky. “I wasn’t going to.”

She’d been planning to, then.

“Come here,” Neville had said lightly, watching her chest rise and fall in her tight dress.

A beat and then she had done. It was a small room—only a few steps. He’d uncrossed his legs and pulled her in, his hands on her ribs. He’d already fucked her once—this conversation was overdue.

“Pansy,” he’d said softly, “we should talk about your rules.”

She’d looked at him blankly. Her kohl-rimmed eyes were so big. Mesmerizing. But she’d looked mesmerized by him.

“Your rules for me,” Neville had said. Then: “Hard nos.”

She’d taken a breath. She’d said it quickly then: “You can’t hit me or come on my face.” Her chin had lifted like she’d expected an argument.

But Neville wouldn’t hit her—even if she wanted him to. And he would only enjoy coming on her face if she enjoyed it too. He knew the appeal, for a lot of men, was the opposite. They wanted to get a woman to do something she didn’t want to do. They wanted to humiliate her because they didn’t like themselves. He wasn’t one of those men.

“All right,” he’d said, his hands flexing on her ribs to let her know he was still with her.

“What are your rules for me?” she’d asked, her mouth tense.

“You can’t throw out my things,” he’d said. “You can’t tell anyone my business.” He’d canted his head, watching her. “If I tell you not to touch a plant, don’t. And if you choose to sleep with other people, I won’t have sex with you. If I’m fucking you, I’m the only one.”

Her lips had parted as she considered him. She’d looked like she was trying to work something out.

Neville had said, “Just because the Ministry matched us, you don’t have to—”

“I choose you.”

Neville had felt his jaw clench. His stomach tighten. Just like that, she’d broken him.

Her gaze had been unblinking. A challenge.

Neville had squeezed her ribs. “Pansy,” he’d said. “I won’t come on your face. But I’m going to fuck your cunt—”

He’d felt her ribcage expand with the breath she took.

“And come in your mouth.”

He’d paused but she hadn’t objected.

“And then we’ll go to your tailor tomorrow, and I’ll pick out whatever you want me to pick out.”

She’d gazed at him, her mouth softening. Finally, she’d said, “Unzip me?”

“Turn around.”

She’d obeyed, standing between his legs, her head bowed.

Now Neville stood, obeying orders to lift his arm as Cosette took his measurements. Pansy watched from the loveseat, sipping champagne, her eyes roving over him.

The night before, Neville had unzipped her dress and murmured, “Strip,” and she’d done so—laying her dress across the back of a chair, shimmying out of her underthings so that her breasts jiggled—and Neville had watched while he took off his own clothes. Her eyes had moved over his body then too. Her gaze had lingered on his shoulders, his chest, his cock. She’d watched his hands.

Neville was no longer self-conscious about his body—it was just a body. He had a tan line on the back of his neck and hair on his chest and scars on his hands and arms. He and Seamus had got good at healing each other, back in their bomb-making days, but the plants had left permanent marks. He worked with his body—that was part of the appeal of the work he did. Much of it had to be done by hand. He didn’t grab his wand every time he needed to shift a pot. He got dirty and he sweated a lot. It was very likely that Neville wouldn’t get old—that he’d make a mistake and die horribly, by a slow-acting toxin or a quick curse—and so he used his body while he could.

Still, he wasn’t sure anyone had ever looked at him like she did. Maybe Pansy didn’t usually sleep with men who worked with their hands. She was probably used to aristocrats.

“On the bed,” he’d said, watching as she did what he said.

Now Neville watched as Cosette brought out sample after sample. The sample tuxedo jacket was already on the form. But as she held up different options, its details changed. Neville hadn’t known how many options there were: fabric, buttons, thread, lining, vents, pockets, cuffs, the cut of the lapels.

Pansy sat straight-backed beside him, handling the swatches and buttons with a kind of professional aplomb. She looked over at him, eyebrows raised.

He looked at her face. This was important to her.

Neville took it seriously. He considered the samples. He made his selections. He could feel her body shifting beside him, her shoulders tensing when she disagreed.

Neville watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was being careful not to contradict him. Hannah would have been taking the piss out of him—the Abbotts priding themselves on being too down to earth for custom clothing. His gran would have told him to wear his dress robes. Luna would have explained how fashion was a means of social control.

Neville looked on as the tuxedo jacket updated itself and he saw . . . a tuxedo jacket. He knew this was how other people saw plants. They saw a rose bush. Neville saw bracts and buds and canes and leaves and petals and thorns.

The night before, Neville had joined Pansy on the bed and kissed her for a long time while he touched her nipples and clit. She liked a lot of stimulation—he’d pinched her nipples harder and harder and she’d only kissed him more ardently. She’d been squirming on his hand by the time he’d gone down on her. He’d worked his thumb into her warm, wet cunt and licked and sucked on her clit and she’d pushed into him.

“Like that,” she’d said, breathy. “Do . . . that.”

He’d listened to her until she’d climaxed.

Then he’d kissed her inner thigh and said, “Pansy, I’m going to fuck you now.”

“Mm-hm,” she’d said, like she didn’t care what he did next.

He’d got to his knees and taken his cock in hand. The head had been wet with pre-come and he’d wiped a bead of it up with his finger and then leaned over her and held his finger to her lips. Her tongue had darted out and she’d licked his finger clean, looking up at him with those big, kohl-rimmed eyes. Godric, she’d be the death of him.

He’d jerked her up by the hips and fucked her hard then, her breasts bouncing, her eyes heavy-lidded.

“Pansy,” he’d said, slowing as he got close.

She’d pushed up onto her elbows, her lips parted.

Godric.

Neville had pulled out of her cunt, his hand tight on his cock, and moved on his knees, over her leg—

She’d opened her mouth—

Merlin.

He’d pushed his cock between her bee-stung lips and she’d looked up at him and swirled her tongue—

That had done it. She’d swallowed, willing, blinking and looking up at him as he pumped come down her throat, breathing hard, his whole body pulsing.

When he was done, he’d pulled back and lowered his head to kiss her. One of Luna’s rules—if he came in her mouth, he had to kiss her; if he came on her body, he had to lick it off. It had been four years and a failed engagement since Neville had had sex with Luna but she’d been his first and certain habits had stuck.

He’d tasted his come on Pansy’s tongue but she hadn’t held it in her mouth until he kissed her, the way Luna would have done. If you want me to swallow something, you should be willing to swallow it too.

He wouldn’t have come in Hannah’s mouth at all.

Neville hadn’t had sex with a lot of people. He’d mostly had a lot of sex with two people. Luna for one year, and then Hannah for two years after that. They’d liked different things. He was still learning what Pansy liked. So far, she liked to pretend he was in charge.

Now Neville looked at the tuxedo jacket and then over at Pansy. “All right,” he said. “Change what you want to change.”

She sucked in a breath, her lips pursing.

He leaned closer and said, “I can tell there’s something here you want to fix.”

She looked at him, calculating.

“Go on,” he said.

She straightened and spat out commands rapid-fire. Neville saw at least five things shift. The result looked like . . . a tuxedo jacket. But Pansy had lifted her chin. Her body beside him thrummed with energy as she did a little wiggle of satisfaction.

Neville found himself swallowing a laugh. He saw a tuxedo jacket, but she saw a rose bush that had been properly pruned.

Neville said, “Thank you, Pansy,” and she looked up at him, her mouth quirking as she tried not to smirk.

“You’re going to look very handsome,” she said archly.

Neville smiled. He was going to look like himself in a tuxedo. But he liked the way Pansy looked at him when she got her way. She was pleased with herself. She was pleased with him.

He leaned in, and said low, near her ear, “You look like you need to be fucked.”

He pulled back and looked at her.

“Oh,” she said, nodding. “I do.”

When Neville had unrolled the Ministry scroll to see Pansy Parkinson’s name, his first consideration had been whether he would kill her.

Pansy’s name had not come up directly in the whisper networks, but her mother’s certainly had. Pansy’s Death Eater father was currently doing life in Azkaban and her mother was currently living with a fascist playboy in Spain.

Pansy seemed to be spending her time with Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott—presumably having resumed her relationship with Malfoy upon his release from Azkaban. The fact that they hadn’t married probably had to do with protecting her assets from search and seizure when he was arrested again.

Malfoy had, by Slytherin Sacred 28 standards, kept his nose clean after serving two years—which was to say he was knee-deep in illegal activity. Malfoy was a millionaire, brought up in a family of domestic terrorists, who—as his legal enterprise—ran ships through largely lawless seas. It went without saying he did not think the law applied to him. (It didn’t, short of incarceration. With his wealth, legal fees and fines were merely a business expense.) It also went without saying that a large majority of his contacts had Death Eater ties. The most Neville could say for Malfoy, then, was that none of his activity—at the moment—appeared to be ideologically motivated. There was overtly ideological action to be had. Either Malfoy was not interested in committing more war crimes or he’d got much better at hiding his tracks.

Nott was both harder and easier to pin down. Harder because he showed up everywhere. Easier because . . . he showed up everywhere. He’d started running errands for Malfoy during Malfoy’s two years of post-prison house arrest but otherwise had a reputation as an unaffiliated chaos agent, despite living in a Death Eater mausoleum. He was, unaccountably, liked by most of the antifascist mercenaries who crossed his path. Maybe because he had no problem selling dark artefacts to Order members who would reverse-engineer them or turn them in. (Maybe because he had a habit of sleeping with his trading partners.) He was reportedly mildly fascinated by clocks and locks. (Neville viewed this as less of a quirk and more of a ticking bomb, given the existence of time-turners behind warded doors.)

At any rate, Neville didn’t think that Pansy Parkinson was quietly funding the revival of blood supremacy as purists recruited true believers to wage a Third Wizarding War, but it was possible he’d missed it. He was part of an underground network—he wasn’t omniscient. He’d used a public owl to send a note to Bill Weasley, suggesting a date and time, and then gone to Gringotts and wended his way to the cursebreaker’s office, ducking his head in several low passageways.

Bill had cleared off a chair—moving maps and a chalice made from a gilded skull—and thrown himself into the seat behind his desk, his ankle on his knee, his long hair tucked behind his ears, exposing his earrings and his heavily scarred face.

“I’ve looked at what I can see,” Bill had said. “As far as I can tell, Pansy took over day-to-day management of the Parkinson estate almost two years ago and put her mother on an allowance. That will have hampered Violet’s ability to bankroll her new friends.”

Neville had nodded. By all accounts, the Spanish revivalists were idiosyncratic and shoestring—and Violet more interested in sun and social invitations than dirty work after shedding her much older husband. Neville mostly heard about dinner parties and game hunts after a flurry of activity a few years back.

“There’s no indication Pansy has ideological interests of her own,” Bill had continued. “She donates to all the right causes in lockstep with Narcissa Malfoy—”

“Rehabilitation campaign,” Neville had muttered.

“Right,” Bill had said. “Not that they’re taking much advantage of it. She and Malfoy must stick to Muggle London.”

Neville had nodded—it was a familiar irony now. The supremacists had suddenly found muggles tolerable when the alternative became being spat on in shops. “Any sign this has pushed them to marry?” he’d asked.

“No asset transfers or new keys.” Bill had shrugged. “But Malfoy recently visited the vaults. He may have been retrieving rings.”

Neville had gone about his business then, expecting a notice that he’d been rematched after Parkinson and Malfoy took themselves off the market. But Pansy had surprised him. She’d marched into his greenhouse and announced—in her own way—that she needed his attention.

“Oi, plant daddy. You got the Death Eater bitch.” That was what she’d said.

Neville had huffed a quiet laugh, his back to her. Calling herself names before he could. Pansy Parkinson was feeling insecure.

He’d stood from the venomous tentacula he was tending and brushed off his hands. Stepped closer to take in her dark red lips, her pale skin, the jut of her chin. She’d already dropped her handbag onto the tile and cocked her hip. He was a foot taller than she was in heels.

“Pansy Parkinson,” he’d said, canting his head.

He’d been so afraid of her in school.

“You know,” he’d said, “plants do better when you speak to them nicely. You can call me Daddy if you want to—”

Her lips had parted. Her eyes had been drinking him in.

“But don’t talk about yourself that way. Not in front of the plants. Not in front of me.”

She’d blinked, her nose wrinkling. “Well, I’m not nice.”

She wasn’t. But he didn’t like listening to people talk down on themselves. Neville had been bullied a lot when he was younger—he knew what it sounded like. He’d give her the chance she wasn’t giving herself.

“Spiky? Thorny? Venomous? Deadly?” He’d smiled a little. “I can still take care of that. Every plant is nicer when its needs are met.”

“You don’t know anything about me, Longbottom,” she’d said coolly. “And I can talk however I want.”

“You can.” He’d shrugged. “And I can walk away. We can try again later.”

Because, apparently, there would be a later. She’d said: You got the Death Eater bitch. Not: Don’t bother yourself. Malfoy and I’ve wed.

He’d walked away then.

He hadn’t heard her heels on the tile.

“C’mon, Parkinson,” he’d called over his shoulder. “I’ll make you some tea.”

“Trying to poison me already, Longbottom?” she’d called to his back. “I’ve heard about you.”

He’d stopped then and turned with a laugh. Was Pansy Parkinson afraid of him?

“Are you here to extort me?” he’d asked. “I’ll make it in front of you. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t trust me yet. C’mon, Parkinson. Come tell me about your needs. Ideal growing conditions. What it’ll take to make you thrive.”

The look on her face. He’d been half taking the piss but he’d seen it then—she was miserable.

“What do you care?” And she’d crossed her arms tighter against her chest.

He’d shrugged, amused. Why was it so hard for the snakes to fathom? “I like taking care of things.”

And he did.

She’d looked so sad and unsure then. And the feeling had washed through him—the calm certainty he experienced when he saw an unhappy plant and he knew he could help it.

People weren’t plants. He couldn’t save Pansy. He couldn’t fix her. Sometimes he did everything he knew to do and even the plants resisted him. Sometimes he fed and watered and coaxed and bled and they were still determined to die.

But . . .

Sometimes a plant just needed a little attention.

“Pansy,” he’d said gently. “Come with me.”

She’d hesitated, her mouth twisting.

He’d waited while she decided. This was as far as he’d go. He wouldn’t force a witch who wasn’t willing.

Then she’d picked up her handbag—and she’d followed him.

Chapter Text

MONDAY JULY 7, 2003

Neville got cleaned up and went to 12 Grimmauld Place that first night, after Pansy had left the greenhouse. He didn’t usually invite himself over, though Ginny insisted he was always welcome. Maybe he was feeling antsy.

He stepped out of the floo and saw the Prophet’s special edition dropped onto the dark floorboards: MINISTRY GIVES GOLDEN GIRL TO DEATH EATER: Hermione Granger Forcibly Wed to War Criminal Draco Malfoy in Reconciliation Act Shocker!

Neville felt a twist of adrenaline in his chest. So Pansy had been telling the truth when she’d said Malfoy wasn’t marrying her to get out of it.

Neville followed the sound of voices downstairs. Ron and Ginny were not quite shouting at each other in the basement kitchen.

“I don’t care what her note says. We should be over there, checking on her,” said Ron.

“I’m telling you,” Ginny huffed as she slammed a bottle down on the long wooden table, “you need to let them work it out!”

“Should you be drinking that?” asked Ron as he eyed the firewhisky.

“I’m not drinking that! It’s for you!”

“Hullo, Neville,” said Harry, just as Ron muttered, “Don’t mind if I do.”

Ginny sent three glasses hurtling onto the table, and Neville accepted one after Ron poured.

“He’s never expressed a word of remorse,” said Ron darkly.

“What is this?” asked Harry, pulling the cover off a dish.

“Leftovers?” guessed Ginny.

“Of what?”

“She has the betrothal ring to protect her,” said Ginny. “If you two were so worried, why’d you escort her out of the Ministry? Why didn’t you keep them there—”

“It was a media circus. It wasn’t safe. You were meant to stay with her—”

“I can’t live at Malfoy Manor,” said Ginny, exasperated. “He said she has her own rooms. Look, it was all quite fast. One minute, she was trying to scratch his eyes out and, the next, he’d whisked her off—”

“Parkinson says Malfoy’s a traditionalist,” said Neville. “For what it’s worth.”

They all turned to look at him leaned against the sideboard.

“Pansy Parkinson?” said Ginny.

“She came by the greenhouse,” said Neville. “We had a chat.”

“She’s your match,” said Harry, gone still.

Neville nodded.

“Blimey,” said Ron.

“You haven’t appealed?” said Ginny.

Neville shrugged. “I heard the Sorting Hat did the matches. I reckon I’ll take what the Hat gives me one more time.”

“Jesus,” said Harry, looking away.

The air had gone out of the room. “You think the Hat matched Hermione and Malfoy?” There was a tension around Ginny’s mouth, her eyes on Neville like what he said would determine the truth.

Then Ron blew a raspberry. “There’s no way. It was Shacklebolt with a quill and a spreadsheet.”

“I think the Hat would give Hermione a human being,” said Harry.

“And it would give Malfoy Parkinson,” said Ron. “What’d she say?”

“She said Malfoy’s like a brother—”

Scoffs—they’d all seen the two of them at Hogwarts.

“—and he’ll treat Hermione like any other Malfoy wife.”

“Do Malfoy wives usually try to claw their husbands’ eyes out?” Ron exchanged a doubtful glance with Harry.

“I mean, I expect that is the normal response,” said Ginny.

“Yeah, all right.” Ron rolled his eyes.

“What about you?” Harry chucked his chin. “Did Parkinson try to claw your eyes out?”

Neville felt his mouth quirk and raised his glass.

“What was that?” said Ginny, lightning quick.

Ron and Harry were staring at him.

Neville tried to avoid lying, though he did it all the time now. He admitted it: “I may have some scratches on my back.”

He took a sip as they all shouted, “What?”

“It was a good chat,” said Neville.

The truth was Neville seemed quiet and calm, and his silences compelled people to talk. He visited people’s homes and asked them simple questions about what they wanted—in their solariums or gardens—and they poured out their life stories, their hopes and dreams and resentments and family squabbles. People’s possessions were personal; their houses held their histories; their renovations spoke to their aspirations; their décor revealed how they wished to be seen. Neville came into their lives for a limited time—to install the poisonous plants that were now in vogue in pureblood parlors or to salvage neglected heirlooms or to design a carnivorous hedge maze—and then he went away. He was polite and paid and safe, his wartime heroics overshadowed by the Golden Trio. His clients didn’t realize how much they told him.

Neville had washed his hands and made Pansy tea while she’d watched. “So you’ve heard about Flint,” he’d said. “He’s a friend of yours?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she’d said testily. “Millie and I exchange the occasional note.”

He’d tucked that piece of information away.

Then he’d sat down across from her at the scarred wooden table in the back of the greenhouse and asked, his tone neutral, “What have you been doing since the war?”

And she’d told him.

What she’d said had matched what he’d known about her mother in Spain and her father in prison—there was also a cousin in a cell. But he hadn’t known how anxious and isolated Pansy had become, how she spent her time in Muggle London shopping or in hotel bars alone, how much the war still weighed on her. He’d listened and asked her simple questions and it had all come out: how angry Malfoy was after Azkaban, how untethered Nott was after his father’s death, how unloved by her parents Pansy had always felt. (She hadn’t said that—unloved. But Neville had heard it.)

Neville had watched her gesturing hands and the rise and fall of her chest, and he’d felt the pull. Her eyes held all the pain she thought she hid.

Neville had been to the mind healers. He knew his desire to help was the fruit of a poisonous tree. He liked being needed because it made him feel necessary, and being necessary felt good after he’d felt like a burden for so much of his youth. It had to do with his needs, not hers. Neville knew this, but the problem was the mind healers had never suggested anything that felt better. They’d only suggested things that made him feel worse.

It wasn’t the basis for a real relationship.

But this wasn’t a real relationship, was it? Shacklebolt had invested everything in this Reconciliation Act—a last-ditch effort to avoid doing what needed to be done. Passed over Hermione’s loud objections. (Neville hadn’t said anything. He didn’t draw attention to himself.) Shacklebolt could have come to Neville; he could have had a frank conversation. Instead, he’d done what these great men always did—he’d kept his power held close to his vest and taught Neville to keep his secrets close to his. He’d forced a younger generation to sacrifice, again, to save a wizarding world that didn’t listen to them.

The assassin’s teapot Neville had used on Flint was still on the sideboard. He could get out of this match. But Neville had wondered: What if it were real? The Ministry had tried to reassure the public by leaking its use of the Sorting Hat. The Reconciliation Act was politics but the Hat was magic. What if the Hat had paired him with Pansy because they were each what the other needed?

“If we do what the Ministry expects,” Neville had said, “what do you need to feel good about it?”

Pansy had lifted her chin. “I have to continue to manage the Parkinson estate—I won’t give up control of it.”

“All right,” Neville had said. “I’ll also need to work without interference. I work long hours. Travel is involved—”

She’d been waving a dismissive hand. “Of course, Longbottom. I know men have their business affairs.”

Neville had smiled faintly. “Right. What else?”

She’d gone twitchy. “A real wedding.”

He’d raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t want a horrible little handshake in some musty back office.” It had come rushing out, spitting and bitter. It had been the real Pansy. “I want a proper bonding ceremony with a beautiful backdrop and dress robes and attendants and dancing and—and flowers.”

She’d looked angry and embarrassed. She’d started to look away.

“Pansy,” he’d said. “I can guarantee there will be flowers.”

She’d taken a sudden breath. She’d swallowed hard.

“What is it?” he’d said.

“Nothing,” she’d said quickly. She’d tossed her head, a reflexive movement that shook her fringe out of her eyes. “Shall we see if we’re compatible, then?”

And she’d begun to unbutton her blouse.

“Pansy,” he’d said. “You don’t need to do that.”

“No, I need you to fuck me,” she’d said. “Right now.”

Neville had vanished the teacups.

She’d stood and dropped her shirt onto her chair. Then she’d stepped out of her knickers.

Neville had scourgified the table. “Take off your bra,” he’d said.

She’d looked at him with those big, kohl-lined eyes and then she’d done as he said.

Her skin was very pale. She had full breasts with prominent nipples. Neville hadn’t had sex in eighteen months. It felt good to be needed, it felt good to be wanted, he could tell her body would feel good. Pansy was like a silence Neville felt compelled to fill—he knew he was doing it for the wrong reasons. But he didn’t make himself resist.

“Come here.”

She’d done it and he’d reached down and hiked up her skirt and lifted her onto the table. His fingertips grazing her thighs, his hands on her waist—the first time he’d touched her.

He’d stood between her legs, his head bowed as he’d looked at her—she’d been half-naked and defenseless in his greenhouse, her palms flat on the table. He’d been hard. Breathing shallowly. He’d raised his hand to her chest—she’d made no move to stop him. She’d watched with downcast eyes as he’d cupped her breast. Her pink areola, the blue veins visible beneath her skin, the firm weight of it—a gift she’d given him. He’d reached up and touched his other hand to her throat, and she’d sighed when his fingers had come to rest on her. He’d pressed the tip of his second finger into the cord of muscle at the back of her neck, and her head had fallen back, her lips parted. He’d kissed her then. She’d tasted like tea and peppermint.

Then she’d tugged at his trouser button and he’d stripped off and fucked her hard and then eaten her out. He’d been too impatient to do it the right way round, so that’s what he’d got. She’d made squeaking, high-pitched noises before she’d come. He’d been panting after—slicked with sweat in the hot greenhouse—when he’d said, “Pansy, if you need a proper wedding, I’ll do it.”

Now, in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, Ginny said, “You’d better stay for dinner.”

“Right. We have—” Harry looked down at the dish and then scanned the kitchen. “Bread and jam.”

Ron snorted. “We can go to mine, where people know how to cook.”

“I don’t think Susan wants to hear about Death Eaters all night,” snapped Ginny. “I’ll get a take-away.”

You got the Death Eater bitch.

Pansy had wanted to give Harry to Voldemort. She had been right to think no one would forget. Neville hadn’t forgotten either. But he was currently tracking down active fascists. Even if he weren’t marrying her, Pansy wouldn’t have made his hit list.

THURSDAY JULY 17, 2003

Neville was standing in the Ministry ballroom in the muggle tuxedo from Twilfitt & Tattings, his back to the wall, Pansy just in front of him, Ginny striding toward them on Malfoy’s arm. They were impossible to miss—Ginny was in spangly gold, and Malfoy had his white-blond head held high in solid Gryffindor red. Either Malfoy was taking the piss or the tux’s color was Hermione’s work. Malfoy didn’t look the slightest bit annoyed by it.

Malfoy and Hermione were rumored to be the reason the Ministry had thrown this late-notice reception in the hopes of generating better press. They’d been fighting each other in public—enough for the Prophet to run an op-ed questioning the Ministry’s use of the Hat. Malfoy’s goal seemed to be to goad Hermione into putting her hands on him. When she’d broken his nose in the middle of the Ministry cafeteria, he’d looked positively thrilled.

Ninety minutes earlier, Neville’s own snake had been trying to goad him into putting his hands on her.

Neville’s property was intentionally hard to reach. It was not on the floo network. His greenhouse was unwarded and open to deliveries but the cottage was decidedly not. He’d told T&T to send his tuxedo to Parkinson Manor. When he’d arrived at the Manor to put it on, he’d been greeted by a contingent of elves who’d questioned him rapid-fire about his bloodline, business prospects, schooling, betrothal history, and desire for children as they led him to their mistress’s suite. (They’d clearly considered kicking him out when he’d admitted his last fiancée had left him. But Neville knew better than to lie to elves.) When he’d finally been announced in her sitting room, he’d found Pansy in a shimmery green backless halter dress with a deep V neck. It hugged her hips and arse and left the sides of her breasts bare. It was a gown meant to raise cocks and fists. It was obscene.

Pansy had looked up at him, almost wiggling with anticipation as she waited for him to yell at her to go change.

Neville had lowered his head to kiss her cheek. “You look good.”

“That’s all I get?” she’d said, her hand on his abdomen.

He’d looked down at her, the corner of his mouth quirking. “I don’t want to smear your lipstick.”

“It’s charmed,” she’d said, pouting.

He’d raised an eyebrow. “In that case—” And he’d bent to kiss her mouth. Her lips had parted and he’d kissed her slowly, properly, while her hand clung to his shirt. “Pansy,” he’d murmured, his face close to hers, “how much can that charm withstand?”

She’d shimmied her shoulders, pleased. “Do you want to find out?”

He’d straightened and run his fingertip down her bare sternum. “After the ball.”

“You don’t want—”

“I can wait.”

She’d narrowed her eyes at him, and he’d smiled.

“Where am I changing?” he’d asked.

“Through here,” she’d said, tossing her head toward her bedroom. “Where I can watch.”

And she had done. She’d eyefucked him while he’d unbuttoned his shirt, unbuckled his belt, stripped off to his pants. Neville had felt thick and uncoordinated when he was younger; then he’d grown a few feet and his weight had evened out. Her eyes had moved over the muscles in his arms, his flat stomach as he’d put on the socks and trousers and shirt she’d ordered him. He’d sat on the bench at the end of her bed to put on the shiny dragonskin shoes. “Come tie my bow tie,” he’d said, guessing—yes, she knew how. She’d been happy to stand between his legs and fuss over him. He’d gripped her thighs lightly, thinking about pushing them apart. Then she’d accioed a small jewelry box from a side table with white orchids on it. “I’ve been by the vaults,” she’d said.

Neville had imagined her pitching the box at his face after he’d started a row about her gown. But Neville wouldn’t fight over the choices a witch made. She would do what she would do. That was something Neville had already found out.

Now Neville watched over Pansy’s head as Malfoy approached. He was lean but no longer gaunt, his skin white instead of gray—not the wraith he’d been when he’d hired Neville to build his mother an indoor night garden during his house arrest. As he neared, he glanced toward the dancefloor—where Hermione was with Harry—and, when he looked back, Neville could see the hunger in his eyes. Interesting.

“For shame, Draco!” Pansy’s hands were on her hips. “Red. And Red. I can barely tell you two Gryffindors apart.”

Ginny smirked. “Watch out, then, Parkinson—you’re outnumbered. Hiya, Neville.”

Neville smiled. “Hiya, Gin.”

“I see Pansy is dressing you too, Longbottom.” Malfoy saluted him with the champagne flute held loosely in his left hand.

So Malfoy wanted him to think of them as alike.

“And his looks good because he hasn’t mucked about with it.” Pansy was impatiently charming Malfoy’s tux back to black—except for the pocket square. He looked put out as she straightened it. “There. I’ve left your wife’s marker.”

Malfoy glanced down at the red silk. “Going soft, Pansy?”

“I think that’s your department,” sniffed Pansy and Ginny whooped.

“She’s fun, Ferret! Pansy, come tell me everything!”

Then Ginny—bless her—reached out her hand to Pansy while Malfoy gave them a half-hearted sneer. Neville would think Pansy and Malfoy were flirting except the energy between them was that of irritated siblings. Malfoy was already turning toward Neville. “Longbottom, a word?”

Neville lifted his chin in acknowledgment and stepped to the side. If Malfoy was about to tell him to treat Pansy right, it would be a short, unpleasant exchange. Neville saw Malfoy’s eyes flick over his cufflinks—goblin-wrought silver, from the Parkinson vaults. Pansy was indeed dressing him.

“Longbottom—” Malfoy’s tone was casually confidential. “About one of your, ah, side projects.”

So Malfoy did know. They’d been on crisscrossing orbits for the past year. Neville’s eyes played over the heavy signet rings on Malfoy’s right hand, the delicate diamond band on his left.

“If you have any associates in the field, they may want to look for specimens in South America. Argentina, perhaps. Avery tells me Bariloche’s climate is quite hospitable this time of year.”

“Interesting,” said Neville. “And in exchange?”

“Nothing,” said Malfoy. “I’ve no investment in that endeavor. It’s a free tip. Happy hunting.” 

“Always,” said Neville. He took a drink of his firewhisky and studied Malfoy over the rim of the glass. Argentina was new. Why was Malfoy trying to get on his good side? Or maybe that was obvious.

“Scum.” Neville looked over as Seamus spat at Pansy’s feet. “Really, Ginny? You too?”

Neville felt the anger but he didn’t let it out.

Pansy’s whole body had gone rigid. She didn’t defend herself. You got the Death Eater bitch. Malfoy stood by—worthless.

“Fuck you, Seamus.” Ginny pushed his arm, her eyes flashing. And then they were nose to nose in a half-whispered, half-shouted fight.

Neville’s priority was Pansy. He shifted toward her and placed his hand on the back of her neck. His palm spanned her nape, his thumb along one side of her throat, his fingers wrapping to the other. He kept his touch light but deliberate, taking hold to let her know he was there.

Her shoulders dropped. She looked up at him. Her eyes—Godric. The relief and fear in them.

“Dance with me?” she said.

“Yes.” He wouldn’t shy away from her when she’d given him the power to make her look at him like that. “Seamus,” he said.

Seamus’s head swiveled toward him, his face locked in a sneer.

Neville met his eyes. “Pansy’s with me,” he said.

Seamus went still. His eyes traveled rapidly from Neville to the floor by Pansy’s feet and then between Pansy and Neville. “Apologies, Parkinson,” he barked. He looked to Neville again. Then he pushed past Ginny.

Neville watched him go—he would have to speak to Seamus. Then his attention was back to Pansy. He dropped his hand to the bare skin at the small of her back. She looked up to him with a smile that was almost shy, and then she let him lead her away.

Neville kept her close and kept scanning the crowd. Hermione waltzing with Ron. Susan with Harry. Luna leaving with Charlie Weasley and Theodore Nott. (Unexpected but unsurprising, thought Neville sourly.) Marcus Flint in a corner with Adrian Pucey and Lucian Bole, talking intently, oblivious to him. He’d heard Flint had lost sight in one eye after he’d served Flint tea laced with giant hogweed and dumped him in a distant field. No one had tried to extort Neville since.

Neville tracked the eyes moving over Pansy. They darted away when they saw him.

Neville steered her onto the dancefloor and pulled her smaller body close to his, his fingertips on her bare shoulder blade, and she moved in sync with him—effortless. She knew all the steps; she responded to the slightest pressure.

Neville remembered her and Malfoy at the Yule Ball, drunk and bickering and still going through the motions perfectly. In moments like those, they’d seemed made for each other. Now Neville understood it only meant her set had all been to the same dance lessons.

(He and Hannah had been taking a refresher course when she’d broken it off. Neville had been enjoying the classes more than Hannah had been—they were the sort of thing she made a point of not taking too seriously. Neville took everything seriously. A left-over habit from when he was always afraid.)

Now Neville spun Pansy across the polished hardwood floor and didn’t ask why she was friends with an ex-boyfriend who had cheated on her. Neville was still in touch with Luna. (Luna didn’t see it as cheating.) (Neville tried not to.) He focused instead on the feel of Pansy’s body, her hand light and sure in his, her skin warm under his fingertips, her chest rising with her breath. He could feel the life thrumming through her. (Neville thought a lot about life and death.)

The song ended and Pansy tilted her head back to gaze up at him. Her eye makeup was dark and complicated. Her eyes were especially green in this dress. She looked at him like he was the only man in the room. It was intoxicating—it made him feel stupid.

“Want to get out of here?” he asked.

She nodded and he took her to the floos, took her back to hers. She took him to her bedroom, all black and white and silver. He stripped off his tuxedo jacket and slung it onto the bench at the end of her bed, and then he was sitting, pulling her to him—her standing between his legs, untying his tie while he considered her breasts in this impossible dress.

“Finite,” he murmured, and the fabric unstuck itself from her chest.

She reached up and unclasped the halter, and then she was naked to the waist. Neville gripped her hips and looked up at her—she was staring at him, her lips parted—and then her hand went to his jaw. She was cradling his face, her thumb against his chin—just taking him in. Neville raised his eyebrows, and she took a breath. Merlin, the way she looked at him . . .

He found the zipper on the side of her dress and she pulled her wand from the charmed pocket and shimmied the whole thing off her hips, and when the fabric pooled at her feet, she wasn’t wearing knickers. Neville thought back to her little shoulder wiggle of anticipation—she’d thought they’d get in a big fight when he saw that neckline and he’d fuck her before they even got to the ball. She was still learning who she was dealing with.

So was he.

She kicked the dress away, and Neville looked down at the spiky heels, strapped to her ankles, and said, “Leave those on.”

She smirked and lifted one foot and then the other to scourgify the soles. Then she’d tossed down her wand and was climbing onto his lap, straddling him, kissing him in only her stilettos and makeup while she plucked the studs from his shirtfront, his hands roaming over her hips. He could smell the perfume that had been drifting up between them all night—coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms. She tugged his shirttails out of his trousers and he hurried out of the cufflinks so he could pull off his shirt and pick her up—her legs crossed tight around him, the heels against his arse—and carry her to the bed.

He threw all her extra pillows to the rug and ripped back the coverlet with one hand while she clung to him. Then he was laying her down, bent over her, kissing her, and then he was shucking off the rest of his clothes while she pretended she wasn’t posing for him, her hands at her nipples, her knee cocked so he was looking at those spiky black heels in those snowy white sheets. She was all black and white and pink with dark red lips—but he wasn’t going to test that charm tonight, not after she’d been insulted. He climbed into the bed and kissed her carefully. He kissed down to her cunt and let the tips of those heels scratch up his shoulder blades. Then he fucked her with her ankles on his shoulders, watching her face.

After, he rested her foot against his chest while he unbuckled the little strap of her shoe. He pulled the flimsy thing off and lifted her foot and kissed the sole. She smirked at him, and he did the other one.

“You’re willing to kiss my feet?” she asked, her mouth quirked.

“Pansy, I’m willing to lick your arsehole,” said Neville, and she burst into peals of laughter.

He threw himself down heavily beside her, his hand on her stomach. She had no idea just how unafraid of her body he was.

He was kissing her idly, stroking her soft skin, when he said, “I have a lot on tomorrow—”

“Go,” said Pansy. “I don’t expect you to play nanny elf.”

“Right,” said Neville, realizing he’d been hoping she’d ask him to stay. A little fantasy of her begging him not to leave and him giving in. He could have set an early alarm, slept with her held close to him, fucked her again before he left. But Pansy wasn’t the type to beg.

And neither was he.

Chapter Text

FRIDAY JULY 18, 2003

Neville woke from a dream—the details gone now. But the feel of it lingered, a sense memory of the Great Hall during the hour-long armistice. And then he was lying in his bed in the cottage—his quilt pushed down his bare chest, the early morning light filtering in past the devil’s ivy bordering the window—remembering carrying Lavender Brown’s body to be lined up with the rest.

Her throat had been torn out, blood gouted down her front, blood splashed up onto her face. He had crouched low, lifting with his legs, his back straining—she was smaller than him but people were so heavy when they were dead. They didn’t put their arms around you. They didn’t help. He had tried to scoop her up—he didn’t want it to be Ron who had to do it—and her head had fallen back, her neck nearly severed. He’d jutted out his elbow, trying to give her head a place to rest, and her bloody hair had streamed over his arm, spattering red down his trousers. She’d had deep claw marks across her stomach—he’d lifted her, and he’d smelled her entrails. The bodies smelled like piss and shit and blood and fear. The Great Hall smelled like smoke and sweat—an acrid stench—and the bodies smelled worse.

Lavender Brown, who would never have wanted anyone to see or smell her like this. Now Neville thought of her like this . . . every week? Sometimes every day. Now Neville dreamed about her.

Neville had tried to be gentle with Lavender, but it had been awkward, setting her down, trying to right her head.

Later, it occurred to him they could have levitated the bodies. (An awful thought: Lavender’s head hanging, its weight tearing the ragged flesh of her neck.) But they had carried their dead. They’d lifted the bodies and held them in their arms, pressed them to their chests. They’d got their dead’s blood and piss and shit all over themselves. Afterward, Neville had vomited.

Sometimes Neville smelled something—some rot in the greenhouse, a durian—and he was back in the Great Hall. Sometimes he was fighting Greyback and could still smell the reek of him. He and Ron had killed Greyback. He didn’t know whose diffindo it had been. They’d been casting hard and fast, scrambling. The sword like a counterweight in his right hand. He didn’t know if it made Ron feel better, knowing it had been one of them. He and Ron hadn’t talked about it.

Neville had been awarded an Order of Merlin: First Class for killing Nagini and taking down Greyback, but he never dreamed about that. He dreamed about the dead he had carried and laid out. Lavender and Colin Creevey and Fred. Then the memories cycled through his head as he worked in the greenhouse.

Neville flooed to the closest pub and then walked a narrow back road, watching the sheep on the other side of the low stone fence as he went. It would be another hot day; he was already sweating, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. When he got to the distillery—three-story, more stone—he trod up the gravel path and ducked in through a side door. Katie’s office was there, on the ground floor—she wasn’t in—and then he was climbing the metal stairs to the mezzanine overlooking the copper firewhisky stills, scanning for movement, aware of his ways out.

Seamus looked up from behind his desk and saw him through the glass wall of his office. He waited while Neville nudged his guest chair over so he could sit at an angle, the door in his peripheral vision. Neville sat with his arms on the armrests, his body open to Seamus but taking up space.

“Nev—”

“I’ve been matched with Parkinson, and I’m going through with it. You can accept it, or—”

“Whoa there, Neville.” Seamus had raised his hands, palms out. “It needn’t be a fight. I was just surprised, was all. Thought she was there with Malfoy.”

“She’s never been on our lists.” More than he needed to say.

Seamus raised his eyebrows. “You could have just told me.”

Neville didn’t say anything. Seamus was right.

“What’re we doing about the rest of the family?”

“I’m still deciding,” said Neville.

They sat in silence for a minute. Seamus fiddled with the cheap muggle pen on his desk. Neville looked at the map on the wall behind him. Finally, Seamus said, “There’s talk of a wizard from somewhere East looking for something.”

Neville nodded. That was how these rumors went. Sometimes it was something, sometimes it wasn’t. “The brokers asking after anything?”

“Being cagey with Alicia,” said Seamus.

The Order tattoo tended to have that effect. But Neville didn’t bother to say so. Enough people knew Alicia with or without it.

“The Avery elves are stocking more firewhisky—” Seamus made a winding up gesture with his index finger. “Month over month. Three months makes a trend.”

“So he’s hosting and his group is growing.”

Seamus nodded, his mouth a thin line.

“Malfoy told me Avery is connected to exiles in Argentina—”

“Fecking hell.” Seamus was wincing with disgust. “Malfoy’s involved now?”

Neville shrugged.

“What’s he playing at?” Seamus chucked his chin toward the Prophet on the corner of his desk, and Neville picked it up. On the front page, Malfoy licked blood off Hermione’s arm in a loop.

“He hurt her?” asked Neville, his eyes lifting to Seamus.

“No, that was Flint,” said Seamus, just as Neville’s skim of the article caught up to claims Malfoy was jealous. “Malfoy cut off his fingers.”

Neville raised his eyebrows, reluctantly impressed. In the photo, Hermione’s face was all revulsion and lust.

“Could be jockeying for position,” said Neville. He tossed the paper back down. “Don’t know.”

But Neville was picturing Malfoy in that red tuxedo, and he had a feeling he did know. He had a feeling Malfoy had chosen Hermione like Pansy had chosen him. (Had the Hat been right?) What he didn’t know was how far that went.

Neville stood to go, Seamus looking up at him from behind his desk. Then it hit him. “The Ministry didn’t—”

Seamus gave him a nasty, tight-lipped smile. “Wee girl—seventeen and a Puff.”

“Godric, Seamus.” Neville’s shoulders slumped.

“Alicia got an ancient Slytherin, must be forty—”

Neville sat back down. “Bloody hell, Seamus. What are you going to do?”

“Reckon I’ll be eloping.” He was leaned back in his chair, his chin cocked. “Can’t bond me twice, can they?”

“Bloody hell.” Neville’s head was tilted, loose on his neck, as he took in Seamus’s defiant expression. The hurt in his eyes. He’d fought a fucking war for Shacklebolt, and this was the thanks he got. “I’ve had my head up my arse, Seamus. Tell me when and I’ll be there.”

Seamus nodded. “I know you will, mate.”

Neville walked back to the pub, thinking about the hurt on Seamus’s face. My word, he was a proper idiot. Pansy had looked at him with those selkie eyes and thrown a shag his way and he’d convinced himself the matches were real. So fucking ready to believe it, he’d told himself Malfoy could feel it.

They couldn’t be real, not if Seamus had been paired with this girl. You didn’t have to be the Sorting Hat to know who Seamus loved. The Hat would have never done that.

Ron was right. It was Shacklebolt with a spreadsheet. It was politics.

Neville could feel the anger and resentment in his chest. Everything tight. His thoughts turning dark as he trod this path back to the public floo because he didn’t like to come or go direct from the distillery too consistently. People told you to walk to clear your head but lost in the repetitive motion of his steps—that’s when Neville ruminated.

The mind healers hadn’t been able to do anything for Neville—about the dreams or the brooding or the rest of it. They’d told him not to distance himself from his feelings and then told him to imagine his feelings as distant clouds. They’d told him to interrogate his emotions from a standpoint of intellectual curiosity and then told him not to intellectualize. They’d told him he would never heal while he kept busy to avoid thinking about his past and then told him to keep busy to avoid slipping into melancholia. Neville had got tired of parsing the contradictions, tired of listening to the healers split hairs to explain why all the ways he thought and felt were wrong. It was like being eleven again, with a wand that didn’t listen to him and adults who didn’t help and no escape from the bullying—because the adults meant to help were the ones bullying him.

He and Hermione had talked about it.

“I’m tired of being told I have trust issues,” she’d said, “as if the problem isn’t people using me, it’s me noticing.”

“Right,” Neville had said. He’d been abused, and he’d noticed.

It hadn’t been safe to be angry when Neville was young. He couldn’t be angry at the grandmother he was dependent on. He couldn’t be angry with the headmaster everyone loved. He’d had to turn that anger inward and decide he must deserve it when his gran scowled at him or Snape tormented him or McGonagall left him locked out and sleeping in the corridor. Then the Carrows had started torturing him, and he’d let that anger out. Harry and Hermione and Ron had been so shocked when they’d come back and seen him with that swollen eye, the gouges in his cheek. What had they thought was happening at Hogwarts while they were off spinning their wands?

Neville had let out that anger and, afterward, he hadn’t put it away. He’d felt it, talking to the mind healers. They’d never been able to help his parents. And now here they were—these much-touted experts meant to make him better—and they didn’t listen to him, they didn’t understand him, they couldn’t answer his questions, they only made him feel worse.

Neville had felt himself turning the anger inward again. There was something wrong with him, there always had been—that was why no one ever paid attention. That was why no one ever helped. There was something about him that was unlovable. Something about him that made his gran look at him with disappointed disgust. Something about him that made McGonagall sigh and Snape single him out. Something that made Dumbledore see him struggling without his parents’ love and do fuck all about it. Neville had felt that anger go inward, and the intrusive thoughts had started up. He would sit with the mind healers and think, If even the healers can’t understand me, then I might as well give up.

Neville had held on to the anger and walked out on the sessions. He’d gone back to repotting plants and building fertilizer bombs. The intrusive thoughts had vanished as soon as he’d got away from these people meant to help.

He and George had talked about it.

“I don’t want to heal,” George had said. “I want to blow those fuckers up.”

Neville had agreed.

George had come to him and Seamus right after the Battle, and they had blown some fuckers up. George had been mad with grief then, out of control. They’d had to pull him off Shacklebolt in the Great Hall—Shacklebolt talking about “coming together” and “healing society,” and George lunging for him even as he pointed to Fred’s body, screaming, “Come together? They can never make us whole!”

The twins had been blackmailing Ministry officials going back to Ludo Bagman. They’d been selling DADA products to the Ministry since WWW opened. They’d had contacts, and they’d had auror passcodes. And after the Battle, George had had Percy on the inside. He and Percy had gone in, and they’d got the lists—who was being charged and who wasn’t. Not enough people were being charged—Shacklebolt had wanted to wrap up the war quickly and move on, not spend years on trials like the last time.

The twins had been partial to explosives—all those fireworks and decoy detonators—and Seamus was inadvertently experienced in blowing things up. Neville had gone with Seamus to the twins’ workshop under the shop, George muttering, “We have black powder . . . we have blasting caps” as he pulled packets off the shelves, Neville’s heart twisting in his chest because he knew George didn’t mean him and Seamus when he said we.

Neville and Seamus and George had gone after the people who were going free on plea deals and sob stories and lack of evidence. The bombs were easy to disguise as deliveries—usually they didn’t even need Bill to break the wards. They’d blown up a bunch of manor wings. It had been sloppy work. They’d killed some people they’d meant to kill—and some elves and people they hadn’t—but they’d missed more than they’d hit. The Ministry had covered it all up, and Neville had turned his guilt to anger. He wasn’t the Chosen One; he wasn’t doing the right thing. He was someone expendable doing bad things because someone had to do something.

Later, Neville blamed himself for helping to drive the blood supremacists underground and out of the country. They’d gone for sound and fury when they should have been strategic, and it’d only made their targets harder to root out. The work he was doing now was the result—more fruit of his poisonous tree.

Neville stepped out of the floo at the Leaky, then made for the Alley before anyone might think he was looking for Hannah behind the bar. They had never officially decided they weren’t speaking. They just weren’t.

Neville remembered the summer of 1998, when he was living above a different pub with Luna. They’d had poky little rooms above The Three Broomsticks—Rosmerta wasn’t charging them—and Neville had spent his evenings with Seamus and George and then, every morning, he’d gone up to Hogwarts to help Professor Sprout repair the greenhouses and grounds. Harry and Ron and Hermione had been off on their war hero tour, testifying for the Malfoys and helping Shacklebolt to sell the new administration, but it was like Neville had never left the Battle’s aftermath.

He could still recall the feeling of the first time he’d come back to Luna gone without a note. He hadn’t thought anything of it. She’d planned to test out of her seventh year and spent her afternoons studying in strange places. He’d been gritty with sweat and dirt, red-faced from the heat, and he’d cranked open the window with the sticky casement to let in the weak breeze and climbed into a cold bath with one of the joints she’d left by the bed. He’d only just lit it when he’d heard the door open and he’d called out to her and she’d come through—the tub was in the kitchenette. She’d sat on the cast-iron lip and taken the joint from him.

“How was your day?” she’d asked, holding her long, blonde hair up off her neck.

He’d said, “Good,” which was not quite true but he’d been happy to see her. “Where have you been?”

“Oh,” she’d said. She’d dropped her hair and exhaled smoke. “I met an interesting couple downstairs and they invited me back to theirs.”

Neville had nodded but he hadn’t understood. “To keep talking?” Luna liked to talk to people—much more than Neville did.

“Oh, to have sex.” She’d said it with confidence.

Neville had laughed—he’d had a hit off the joint, it’d seemed funny. But she’d only smiled, and—

He’d stared at her as his stomach dropped. “Luna—” He’d sat up, the water splashing. “But you’re with me.”

She’d been so calm. “That doesn’t mean we can’t have sex with other people—”

“No—that’s what it means!”

“But we never said that.”

Neville had cried then.

She’d comforted him, and he’d let her.

He’d stayed a year after that. Agreed to almost everything to keep her. He’d thought he was happy a lot of the time—except when he was absolutely miserable. She’d been the first person to love him. He’d thought that meant they had to be together, no matter how much it hurt. Leaving her had felt like slitting his own throat.

But somehow it was Hannah he wasn’t speaking to. Neville exhaled heavily and shook it off.

He scanned the passersby in the Alley as he made his way to Fernsby’s curiosity shop. He didn’t like Fernbsy, but the man fenced at the intersection of Knockturn and Diagon, and he heard a lot.

Neville slipped inside the cluttered shop and made his way slowly down a narrow aisle, listening. He cast a homenum revelio to be sure—it was only him in there with Fernsby behind his counter.

He stepped out from behind a glass cabinet of mummified paws and small animal skulls.

“Longbottom.” The man already looked nervous.

“Fernsby.” Neville studied him. Then: “What’re you hearing?”

“Oh—” He pursed his lips, spread his fingers wide against the counter. “Bits and bobs. This and that.”

Neville nodded, didn’t look away. Fernsby had on a floral waistcoat over a striped shirt and paisley tie, everything a little too worn. Pansy would have had opinions.

“These Ministry matches are stirring things up, you know,” said Fernsby. “Putting people in contact with people who wouldn’t otherwise be within reach.”

Within reach. Neville’s chin lifted a notch as he considered Fernsby’s choice of words, and the man jumped to change the subject.

“Say,” he said. “If you’re selling—”

“I’m not,” said Neville.

“Right, right.” Fernsby nodded. Then: “Shame, really. When there’s demand—”

“Who’s asking?” said Neville.

“Who?” His eyebrows were raised, the picture of innocence. “Oh, no one. No one. Just generally—”

Neville waited but Fernsby had decided this was a silence he didn’t want to fill. He drummed his fingers on the counter, glanced at the mirrors in the corners. Neville asked, “What else is in demand?”

“Well, not mandrake, eh? Not enough. I hear Leech is telling people to buy now while prices are low. Sounds like supply is about to be cut.”

A culling—killing healthy living things to make the survivors rarer and more valuable. Neville felt his jaw flex and Fernsby looked away, checked his mirrors again. A nervous habit—the door hadn’t sounded.

Neville watched him for a moment. Then he chucked his chin. “I’ll see you around, Fernsby.”

The man nodded quickly, and Neville left without lingering. No, he didn’t like Fernsby.

He went deeper into Knockturn, where the passersby didn’t make eye contact. He got more misdirection and half-answers from the brokers there. The alley buzzed with an edgy, uncertain energy.

He was on his way out when he saw it, in a dark, cramped stall tucked between shop windows: an altar holding a picture of a laughing Bellatrix Lestrange.

Neville was no longer surprised by anything.

Neville had got home in a foul mood, only to see a thin line of smoke on the horizon where there should be none. He’d retrieved a cloak from the cottage and gone to investigate. Now he was in the woods on one edge of his property.

It was cooler and damper here under the dense tree cover, but Neville had brought the cloak because it carried impervius, exstinguere, and repello muggletum charms. He wasn’t worried about water or muggles, but where there was smoke, there were flames.

Beefsteak fungus grew here, the trees layered with what looked like slabs of raw meat the size of Neville’s spread hand. Neville moved quietly past the red, glistening mushrooms that seemed to drip blood all around him, and then he was thinking of Luna again.

That summer after the Battle, Luna had refused to visit the mind healers because “in the machine that is late-stage capitalism, the mind healer’s job is to make you a better cog.” Neville had argued this wasn’t so and then quietly dropped the matter when he realized he’d come to agree with her. It sounded like a conspiracy theory, to say it out loud.

Luna had grown up isolated by her father’s strange ideas. She’d adopted them as her own because, with her mother dead, she’d needed his care and approval. Then she’d gone to school and been bullied and ostracized by her peers. Snape and Umbridge and the Carrows had added their own physical and mental abuse. And then Luna had been kidnapped and held prisoner in the Malfoy dungeons, going cold and hungry and unbathed for months as she listened to Bellatrix torture people on the floor above. She’d fought in the Battle, thought Harry killed, seen her classmates torn apart, gone back to a childhood home in ruins.

Luna had been traumatized, over and over again, but people liked to think she was so quirky she hadn’t even noticed. (People had actually said as much, with a laugh, to Neville: “Oh, Luna—she probably just went to her happy place and thought of her friends!” “Yes,” Neville had said, “a break with reality is one response to torture.”) She was little and blonde and pretty, wide-eyed and soft-spoken, and it made people feel better to pretend she was a clueless child—her brutal honesty a party trick—instead of a fully aware adult whose brain had been irrevocably altered. (The mind healers had told him this, that repeated trauma changed the brain, and Neville had wondered who he would have been if he'd been brought up by people who liked him.)

Neville had known it was his job to understand Luna, to be there for her when no one else was. That’s what she did for him. She was his person, and he was hers. Sometimes it felt like she was ripping his heart out of his chest and shredding it with her sharp fingernails, but that’s how loving someone was.

Now Neville thought he could hear voices and the crackle and pop of wet wood burning. The wind had shifted and the smell of smoke was stronger, drifting through the trees. No one should be burning anything on his property. He passed more red, raw mushrooms.

Neville had been remembering a certain afternoon from that summer. The first time she’d brought up Rolf.

Neville had begun growing Luna’s mushrooms in a Hogwarts greenhouse so she wouldn’t forage in the Forbidden Forest. That afternoon, he’d brought the ones that were ready back to their rooms; they were a light beige, bruised blue where he’d handled them. He’d spread them out on the small kitchenette counter and carefully dehydrated them. Tergeo siphoned the moisture from them without the high heat that would degrade the psilocybin. Once they were fully desiccated, he'd grind them into powder with a mortar and pestle and blend everything to keep the potency consistent across the batch.

In school, Luna had been much more haphazard—eating dried mushrooms of different sizes and strengths according to her own trial-and-error whims. Which—well, which explained a lot, in retrospect. That summer, she’d become much more intentional, micro-dosing exact amounts on a schedule that involved her menstrual cycle and her astrology chart. She was seeing better results than he was with the mind healers, so he’d given up questioning it. Potions had never been his strong suit.

She’d come home with their post and pulled the chair—they’d only had one—into the kitchenette to keep him company while she went through the envelopes. She’d been humming to herself.

“We’ve been sent forms to make reparations claims,” she’d said.

Neville had nodded absently, occupied with the mushrooms.

“Oh, my journal’s here.”

“Which one?” And he’d glanced over his shoulder to see her holding up Deviant Behavior. It always came late, shipped over from a muggle academic press in America.

“And here’s a nice note . . .”

He’d dehydrated another mushroom while he waited but she hadn’t picked up the thought. He’d looked over his shoulder again.

“It’s from Rolf Scamander,” she’d said brightly, her eyes on the letter. “He’s doing some fascinating work.”

Neville had felt a pang of jealousy. She’d sounded so enthralled.

“He wants to come visit.”

“Of course,” Neville had murmured—but she hadn’t been asking permission.

“You know,” she’d said lightly, and Neville had heard in her distracted tone that she was still skimming the parchment, “I want to try double vaginal penetration—"

“Luna,” he’d said, sighing with his whole body. He’d closed his eyes, as if he could shut it out.

“Maybe Rolf is someone we could ask—”

“Luna.” He’d opened his eyes, blinking—he was staring at the knob on the cupboard door. He’d said not behind his back. Sometimes he wished he’d said the opposite. “Do we have to do this?”

“Neville, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You have personal autonomy—”

Neville had tuned her out. He didn’t want personal autonomy, he wanted a girlfriend who gave a shit. He wanted—

Neville had taken a deep breath so he wouldn’t punch the wall. He’d slowly exhaled. He’d agreed to this. Not our close friends. Not in our flat. Not behind my back. I have to know everything. And, boy, did he.

Neville had got himself under control. He’d felt a wave of guilt then. If he loved her, shouldn’t he want her to be happy? She was being honest about her feelings and upfront about her needs. How could he be angry with her for being authentic, for communicating, for telling him the truth? She wanted to try new things. She’d trusted him with that.

(How could he be angry with her when letting out that anger would mean tearing this flat apart and never seeing her again?)

He’d turned to face her, and she’d got up and put her hand on his arm. “This is upsetting you, Neville. I won’t ask him.”

He’d nodded, his head bowed, grateful, and she’d reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead. She’d always been so gentle with him.

She’d picked up one of the small, dehydrated mushrooms. “It’s good to be open to new experiences. Your thinking is still dominated by received ideas.”

Neville had looked sadly at her. She was so pretty and smart and kind. And she loved him. She was everything he’d ever wanted. He didn’t want to be open to another man’s dick rubbing against his inside her. Why did she want to do this? Because he wasn’t enough for her. (She’d say, No, it’s not that at all. They’d been over this.)

She’d held up the mushroom, and he’d opened his mouth.

She’d carefully placed it on his tongue.

It had tasted terrible.

Now Neville could see the fire and hear the voices and he knew what he was about to discover in the clearing he was coming upon.

Three men. They’d found his devil’s snare. He hadn’t warded it. He didn’t like to ward land. He thought it put some animals off, and then that altered the ecosystem. But now these men had fires going—a flaring line corralling the sprawling tendrils, and flames at their wandpoints—trying to protect themselves as they harvested this plant under his care.

One had a machete. The others flanked him, wands held aloft.

The devil’s snare was fighting back, its serpentine tendrils snatching at their arms and ankles while they swore and swung their wands. It wanted to grab hold and squeeze the life out of them.

Neville watched these men hacking at it, the smoke blowing across his face.

Neville let the anger out.

He stepped forward and exstinguered the fire line. The devil’s snare went wild. The men whipped around—

“Fuck—”

He was striding toward them, throat tight, eyes stinging—

“Look, mate—”

A slashing diffindo. He nearly took the man’s head off. Blood sprayed, hot, all over Neville’s face.

The others disapparated with a cry and a shout.

The man had crumpled at his feet—into the grasping tendrils of the devil’s snare.

Neville could feel the blood, wet and dripping, on his skin. His hands were shaking.

He swallowed hard. He pushed the anger down.

He took a deep breath—smoke, blood, the rot and damp of the woods—and exhaled it out. He forced himself to be calm for the plant.

Neville cast a homenum revelio and confirmed he was alone.

Then he kneeled down. The devil’s snare had claimed the dead man. Its lush green tendrils wound around his limbs. It poked at his stomach, curious. Neville reached out and gently stroked a tendril. The plant ignored him, and he stroked it again. Now it brushed against his knee. Neville breathed evenly and petted it for a while. His heart rate slowed.

Finally, he tugged at the dead man and said, “I need this. Can I have it?”

The plant tightened its grip.

Neville did not allow himself to be frustrated. The devil’s snare would feel it and fight him. He closed his eyes tight and scourgified his face, the magic rough and prickling. The blood had been drying itchy and irritating him. He exhaled and tried again. He stroked the plant and slowly unwound its tendrils. “Can I have this, please?” he murmured. “Thank you.”

The devil’s snare let him work it free from its attacker, and then he was considering the man as the plant swept the damp, trampled forest floor for its severed tendrils.

The poacher was older than he was. A patchy beard. Frayed tradesman’s clothes. Neville went through the pockets. No papers. Neville took the man’s wand and galleons, looking for anything else that could identify him as a wizard. He left the protective amulets. Plenty of muggles also wore them, for all the good they did.

Then Neville crouched low, lifting with his legs. People were so heavy when they were dead.

Neville hefted the man up—his head hanging, the ragged flesh of his neck tearing—and concentrated on his destination. The tight squeeze of apparition, and then he was in the botanical gardens in St Neots in Cambridgeshire, where England’s mandrakes grew.

It was a tidy little field in a historic market town.

Neville threw the body down. Let it land akimbo in the dirt and mulch. It was covered in blood, the neck gaping open—an obvious murder.

The area was populated—the muggle aurors would discover the corpse and crawl over the grounds, looking for evidence. The scene was gruesome enough to attract media attention. Mugggles would be told to watch for suspicious characters. Poachers would understand it was a warning. It should significantly complicate attempts at a culling.

Neville tergeoed the blood off his clothes and scourgified his hands and then his face again while he surveyed the area. The mandrakes looked healthy—rosettes of dark green leaves, the bell-shaped purple flowers already gone this time of year. He wished he could stay and spend more time with them. But he didn’t see anyone, and he wanted to keep it that way.

Neville took one last look at the man he had killed. Then he apparated back to his land.

Dusk was falling as Neville strode through the field from the apparition point at the edge of his property, his long legs covering the ground quickly, his cloak billowing out behind him. He held his wand to his side as he scanned for anything out of place. Like one of the poachers come back for him.

As the greenhouse came into view, he saw it—a figure outside the doors.

A witch.

If this had been two years ago and it had been Hannah, Neville would have been swearing under his breath.

It was Pansy.

Neville felt his stomach tighten. Why had she come all the way out here?

The snakes were cowards at heart: They followed the leader or they ran. Now they were lost after the war. They weren’t fighting the Ministry marriages. Pansy wasn’t fighting him. He’d told her to come with him, and she’d snapped into a role she’d been trained for—her hand light on his wrist, her lips brushing his cheek, her smile practiced as she introduced him as her intended. And he’d played along because it’d made him feel like a big man. But seeing Seamus had made it clear. She was idly twisting one foot on its stiletto heel, her leather bag held in front of her with both hands. And he was remembering this wasn’t real. They were like her and Malfoy at the Yule Ball: going through the motions.

She saw him and straightened. Shouldered the purse.

He watched her as he neared. She’d tilted her head, observing him. She was in her usual black. Tight on top. A full skirt. Incongruous amid the cracked flagstones and pea gravel and streaky greenhouse glass.

When he got close, she smiled.

Neville’s stomach flipped. He couldn’t help it. She looked good, standing outside his greenhouse. Waiting for him.

He walked up to her and she rose on tiptoe and he lowered his head to kiss her chastely on the lips. He smelled like blood and smoke and sweat—he knew it.

“What have you been up to?” she asked, bright-eyed. Smiling. Had she come out here just to ask him?

“Seeing to some poachers,” he said.

He watched her face. She had to be able to smell the blood and smoke on him.

Her expression didn’t waver. She was smiling up at him.

I know men have their business affairs.

She raised her hand to his chest.

Did she truly not care?

Neville found himself faintly smiling in return.

She was fussing with his cloak around the clasp.

“Draco says to tell you there’s talk of a mandrake culling.” She didn’t say it like she’d been sent to deliver a message. She said it like she was making conversation—conversation she hoped interested him.

“I’ve heard.” He put his wand away, his eyes on her. “And Malfoy wants a discount in exchange?”

“No.” She snorted. “You should charge him more. He can’t buy from anyone else now that you’re with me.”

You’re with me. Said so easily. It made Neville want to test it.

“What if we were matched and you didn’t like me?” Neville asked.

“Who says I like you, Neville Longbottom?” And she fisted the fabric she had been smoothing to pull him down to her mouth.

Godric. She had him so fucking randy.

“Pansy,” Neville murmured between kisses, “we’re going to go back to yours . . . and I’m going to fingerfuck your arse . . . while I shag you from behind.”

She apparated them to her bedroom without breaking the kiss.

He told her to strip and get on the bed with her head down and her arse up.

He paused to give her time to object. Instead, she did everything he said.

And then he did lick her arsehole. He ate her arse, he ate her cunt, he fingered her, he fucked her till she came and flipped her over and fucked her till he did. And when she smiled at him then, she looked so fucking smug. Because she knew—she knew she had him.

All right.

He was breathing hard. His heart pounding in his chest.

He was attracted to Pansy Parkinson. And she was, for some reason, attracted to him. That had been well established.

Neville held her and told her she was perfect. And then he went home to clear his fucking head.

Chapter Text

SATURDAY JULY 19, 2003

Neville stared at the photographs stuck up by the door. A healer had written names in the margins: FRANK. ALICE. NEVILLE.

Neville was at St. Mungo’s, sitting with his mother while she stirred the room—moving her possessions incessantly, so that the loose photographs were mixed with the documents were mixed with the sweets wrappers were mixed with the napkins were mixed with the potion bottles were mixed with the colored pencils and small toys the healers brought her like she was a young child. It all moved round and round her room, piece by piece, as she puttered, her mind still trying to work at something it could no longer do, her body not yet ready to give up.

Neville sat and watched and barely spoke and didn’t allow himself to feel anything. This was life. He could not undo what had been done to his mother. He could not make her better. And he could not make himself feel better about it. He could only make himself feel nothing.

This was being an adult. This was being a man. You faced up to hard things. You faced up to reality. The reality was that life was a hard thing. It was quite painful. But Neville didn’t know what to do with that pain—it was not a pain that anyone wanted to acknowledge or witness. So he shoved it down, deep inside himself, and covered it up with this feeling of nothing.

Neville sat with his mother and told himself he could take it. Somewhere inside him was a scared and lonely little boy who needed help. But the world had required Neville to become a man without needs, and he had grown up accordingly.

When Neville left St. Mungo’s, he was thinking about the Room of Requirement.

There was something about his mother’s piles of possessions. Something about the human smells and noises of the hospital. It reminded him of sleeping amid the looming stacks of hidden items and detritus, listening to people breathing and snoring and coughing and the hammocks creaking, the air thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and sex because Lavender and McLaggen kept sneaking off.

Neville and Seamus had used to lie next to each other in their hammocks, and Neville would worry about Luna and Ginny, and Seamus would worry about Dean (which he expressed by being a right cunt to everybody). “They’re alive—I know it,” Seamus would say gruffly and Neville would nod, and then he’d lie awake and remember Luna softly stroking his face after Amycus had punched him and then he’d fixate on the thought of her dead. He felt responsible for everyone in the Room; he would lie awake and listen for the sounds of the Carrows breaking in, discovering them. He would lie awake with his wand in his hand.

Dumbledore might have groomed Harry to die but the Carrows had groomed Neville to fight. They had wanted the purebloods to use dark magic; they had wanted to make the purebloods mean—and then they’d been surprised when it’d worked. They’d been surprised when Neville had started talking back, started fighting back, started reassembling the D.A., a little guerrilla army right under their noses.

Harry had gone into those woods and he hadn’t defended himself. Something about his mother’s love saving him—Neville had never understood it. He just knew his mother had loved him too, and that love hadn’t done shit for him. He’d been bullied and petrified and beaten unconscious; he’d been tortured with the same curse that had driven his parents insane. He’d pined for a mother who didn’t know his name. All while she lived on in a fate worse than death—hidden away in hospital, forgotten, his parents sacrificed to the fight to no tangible benefit to anyone. When he’d faced Voldemort alone at the Battle of Hogwarts, Neville hadn’t stepped forward to sacrifice himself. He’d stepped forward to tell one last bully fuck you to his face. It wasn’t love that had saved Neville. It was wanting to kill that fucking snake before he died.

1998

Neville’s father died that autumn. Neville felt a suffocating sorrow and also a horrible sense of relief. His parents were never getting better. Now his father would never get worse. It felt almost as though, with Bellatrix dead, his father had been able to let go. But of course it was only a coincidence—nothing so neat and clean. His mother lived on, alone. Neville felt guilty that he wished she’d died with Frank.

Maybe, if he’d had siblings, they’d have got pissed on firewhisky and reassured each other that it was normal to feel this way. (Neville remembered Fred’s funeral—Ginny and her brothers crying and fighting and laughing, George cracking jokes before drinking so much they’d had to pump his stomach and feed him charcoal.) But Neville didn’t have siblings, and he’d hesitated before he’d told Luna.

He found himself hesitating more now—afraid her honesty would be too much for him. Sometimes it was exactly what he needed to hear; sometimes it was worse than anything. If he said to her, “Gran would rather I die if it meant she had Frank back,” would he feel better or worse if Luna agreed?

Luna was the one who’d been there for him with his parents. She’d gone with him to visit them. She’d sat with him afterward, when he couldn’t speak. She’d listened to him try to put his feelings into words. And Neville looked at her during the funeral and thought, I can never leave her now. No one else would ever remember his father from those visits. It would be losing a connection to Frank. And then Neville thought about the fact that that sounded like he wanted to leave her.

Afterward, as they stood clustered in Gran’s dark drawing room, the taxidermized wildebeest looking down on them, Bill said, “Longbottom, come by the cottage if you need a break from your great aunts.” And Neville did—didn’t even bring Luna. Sometimes he needed a break from her too—not her, but what was happening between them.

He found Bill and Charlie and George there at Shell Cottage, drinking in the kitchen, their laughter drowning out the sound of the sea outside. George handed Neville a bottle of muggle beer and then dropped onto a stool by the counter. The cold glass felt real and solid in Neville’s hand after the surrealness of burying his father.

They had Charlie’s shirt open, Bill looking at the new burn on his neck.

“How do you have any hair left?” said Bill, his own long hair tucked behind his ears instead of hanging over his scarred face.

“Just licked me,” said Charlie. His loose curls were wild and frizzy in the salt air that blew in through the open windows. “Had it pulled back.”

Neville could see more of the burn—red and white and pink, the skin bubbled up—on Charlie’s freckled chest.

“Ruined my shirt, though.” He tossed a hazelnut up and caught it in his mouth. His rolled sleeves showed the smooth, hairless patch on his forearm.

“Mum seen it?” George asked with a sly grin.

Charlie snorted.

“My Bill was such a handsome boy!” said George in falsetto. “My Charlie was such a handsome lad! Now they’re hideous!”

It wasn’t funny but they were guffawing, slapping each other’s chests.

“You were so haaaandsome,” crooned George.

“Did she not say that about you?” laughed Charlie.

“No, Mum doesn’t want to shag us the way she does Bill—”

“This is what I am saying!” yelled Fleur from upstairs, and then George and Charlie were sputtering as Bill groaned. Neville thought about his gran never forgiving him for not being his father.

“Don’t mind me, though—” George’s eyes had gone unfocused, and Neville realized now how pissed he was. “I’m only shagging my dead brother’s girl.”

“Oh, c’mon, now—”

“George—”

“She had the one she wanted. Now she has to make do—”

“George—”

Neville leaned against the sink, drinking his beer and listening to them. This was why he’d come here—because the Weasleys wouldn’t make him talk and wouldn’t hide their own mess. He could just exist with them.

“But do you love her?”

“I do.” He was crying now, snotty, Charlie’s arm thrown around him. “She’ll leave me when she realizes I’m not him—”

“Georgie—”

“He was the sweet one. I’m a prick—”

“Well, that’s true—”

George laughed and wiped roughly at his nose. “She’s funny—really funny. Not like jokes. Like how she tells a story. She’ll have you rolling. And fit. She’s so fit.” He sighed, slumped against Charlie. “And I’m a prick, moving in on Fred’s girl—”

“George, she loves you! I know it!” Fleur called from upstairs.

“What’d she say?” he bellowed. And then he was pushing off Charlie, heading for the stairs. “Tell me, Fleur!”

“Merlin,” Bill muttered, watching him go. “He’s going to pass out and we’ll have to carry him to the guest room.”

Charlie was frowning. “Still weird, only seeing one of them.”

“Maybe he’ll get her to marry him, get you off the hook—”

“Me?” Charlie looked over at Bill, his eyebrows raised.

“Mum’s decided we need a wedding to bring the family together—”

“We just had a wedding—”

“Yeah, but Percy didn’t let Mum star in it.”

Charlie snorted. He was digging in the dish for another hazelnut.

“She wants you and Laura—”

“Me and Laura?” Charlie was faintly shaking his head.

“It’s been four years.”

“Off and on.” Charlie ate a nut. “It’s fine the way it is.”

“You don’t want—”

He’d pulled a face. “What’s the rush?”

What’s the rush? Neville thought he couldn’t wait to be bonded. It seemed everyone from school was pairing up. (Ron, ducking his head, saying almost furtively, “Maybe, you know, maybe Hermione and I will get married.” Ginny, gazing at Harry, asking Neville, “Do you think now he’ll propose?”) It felt like, once you’d found your person, what else would you want but to stop being alone? (Luna said marriage was a social construct that was not, historically, good for women. What mattered was reaching their own accord.)

“Laura told Mum she wants children—”

Charlie shrugged one shoulder, loose-limbed. “We’re young. I’ve got the preserve.”

“Speaking of the preserve.” Bill glanced to the stairs, and the mood shifted.

“Yeah, what’s up with your mates?” said Charlie. “I’m not a dumping grounds.”

“It’s only been one or two—”

“Sure.” He ate another nut. “But give me a heads up. And you gotta strip and dismember. I don’t need them mistaking me for feed—or shitting out belt buckles.”

“Hey, Longbottom,” said Bill. “You want to meet some mercenaries I know from Egypt?”

“Yes,” said Neville.

This was why he’d come here. Because, between them, the Weasleys knew everyone.

It turned out that cursebreaking overlapped with treasure hunting which overlapped with arms dealing which overlapped with bloody regional conflicts which overlapped with the types of people who were hired to provide private security during all of the above. Bill Weasley was known and liked by a lot of shady people.

“Scratch!”

“Red!”

“Smash and Grab, in the flesh!”

Bill smiled through his scars as the man in the lead clasped his hand and clapped him on the shoulder, black beads layered on the man’s left wrist, his compatriots crowding behind him in the dark pub.

The mercenaries were wiry and travel-worn, all shorter than Neville, with shaggy hair and a penchant for dragonleather and waxed canvas that Bill shared. Their leader was wearing what Neville thought was a muggle band T-shirt under his jacket. They scanned the room, angling their chairs for views of the floo as they threw themselves down with exaggerated ease. Bill and Neville had their own backs to the wall—they’d got there early and got the better seats.

“Balmaceda. Dionisio. Estrada. Longbottom.” Bill chucked his thumb in Neville’s direction. “A friend of the family. Led the resistance at Hogwarts.”

“Nice,” said the leader—Dionisio—reserving judgment. “See any action?”

“Killed a snake,” said Neville.

The men were scoffing, exchanging sidelong glances.

“With a sword.”

Their eyes shifted back to him. “No shit—that was you.”

“The Sword of Gryffindor,” murmured Estrada.

“That’s me,” said Neville, monotone. He didn’t appreciate this, having to present his CV. Maybe it was reasonable for people to want to know who they were working with. But Neville had a thing now about people judging his worth.

Neville’s gran had been badgering him to join the Auror Department. He’d heard about his father, the auror, since she’d taken him in. (“And your mother,” Gran would remember to add.) But by the time he’d got to school—clumsy, overweight, hopeless with Frank’s wand—no one had expected him to live up to anything. Harry was the Chosen One, and Neville was the boy no one wanted. Harry had had a whole series of surrogate fathers—grown men he’d looked up to and obsessed over saving. Because, somehow, they were always in trouble themselves. Adults weren’t meant to need children to feed them and scold them and plead their cases and die for them. Were they? Neville had been jealous but also nonplussed. Just like when he’d listened to Harry and Ron talk about becoming aurors. They were smart-arses who skated on coursework and broke the rules. Why would they want to be aurors? It felt like someone else’s idea of what they should do.

Neville had seen them at his father’s funeral. They’d had their hair cut too short. They’d been throwing around acronyms like they’d invented them and moaning about training. Apparently, Robards was a real hard man.

Neville had felt a sense of physical revulsion at the idea of letting anyone claim the right to yell at him. He was out of school—that wasn’t happening again. This is the price you pay, he’d thought, when people take an interest. You ended up influenced by their ideas of you.

“Longbottom took down Greyback,” Bill said casually.

“With Ron,” said Neville quickly. “Not on my own.”

“My youngest brother,” said Bill as the men raised their eyebrows.

“So where is he? Is he coming?”

“He’s joined the Auror Department—”

“Ay!”

“So did we,” said Balmaceda, and they all laughed.

Estrada jerked his chin. “Give him a few years.”

“What’d you use on Greyback?” Dionisio said to Neville. “Not the sword.”

“Diffindo,” said Neville. “A lot of them.”

“That’s it—cast fast and ask questions later.”

“Slash and bash, papí.”

They were taking the piss—but not really. They were nodding and peeling the labels off their beer bottles, their eyes darting around the room. Twitchy even when they were in a good mood.

“He’s doing vigilante shit with George—”

“Tell George we need a re-up on that darkness powder—”

“What’re doing?” Dionisio looked right at Neville, serious.

“Bombs,” said Neville.

Dionisio snorted. “Perfect for when you want to kill them all and let the Hat sort them out.” He turned to Bill. “You know what’s being used now? Manzanilla de la muerte. For VIP targets. But it’s hard to get.”

Neville didn’t react but his mind was spinning. The little apple of death grew on the manchineel tree. After Fred and George had left their portable swamp in Umbridge’s office, Flitwick and Sprout had (eventually) moved it to a new greenhouse. There was a manchineel tree there, with the mangroves and golden leather ferns and worm-vine orchids. Every part of the manchineel was highly toxic—the bark, leaves, and fruit—because of the sap.

“Who’s being targeted?” asked Bill.

“Well . . .” The men laughed—some sort of inside joke. “Never the right people, eh? Now you’re pushing out your fascists for the rest of us to deal with—”

“Are you?” asked Neville. “Dealing with them?”

“Not if no one’s footing the bill.” Dionisio watched to see how he’d take this.

“What about in trade?” asked Neville. “I can get manchineel fruit.”

“You have access to la manzanilla de la muerte.”

Neville nodded.

Dionisio’s eyes moved over him. “You a poisonmaster?”

Neville met his gaze. “I’m a herbologist.”

Dionisio’s face broke into a wide grin. “I like you, kid.”

“Great,” said Neville, deadpan. “We can date.”

The man winked at him and then threw back his head and laughed. “Yeah, kid. We’re going to get it on.”

Neville had got to Wheezes and gone down the back stairs to find Alicia Spinnet there in the workshop—she’d been coming round with Seamus. Neville had tuned out her and George whenever they’d started reliving their quidditch glory days until he’d realized they were really talking about Fred. The Gryffindor team had never seen beaters as good as George and Fred Weasley. The twins had always known where the other was in the air, and they’d played without mercy. Alicia had been a chaser; she was still solidly built and physical—always sweeping George’s ankle or roughhousing with Seamus, his cheeks going a blotchy red. Neville could tell she missed having an outlet.

They were playing exploding snap when he got there. Neville watched them laughing over the cards and heard Dionisio call him kid.

Seamus looked up from the table and the cards exploded.

“You distracted me!” She punched his shoulder.

He was grinning, leaning away from her. “What’s the craic?” he asked Neville.

Neville felt like he was looming over them as he stood by the small table and they slouched in their seats. They’d picking up their beer bottles now that the game was over, and they gazed up at him. There was a free chair but he wasn’t ready to sit.

“I met Bill’s mates from Egypt,” said Neville. “I’m going to need a bezoar stone and lab goggles.”

“That escalated quickly,” said George. “They’ve already been paid to poison you?”

“I promised them the poison,” said Neville.

“Do they use guns?” asked Alicia. “I want to try guns.”

“That’s the spirit.” George bounced his eyebrows.

Neville squinted at them like what the fuck? (The mercenaries were Americans. They probably did use guns.)

Neville left them to go rummage through the shelves for goggles and dragonleather gloves. He wasn’t doing anything tonight, but he was too antsy to sit and play cards. He could feel an anxious energy in his chest, at the base of his throat.

“Longbottom.” Alicia was at his elbow. She’d sidled up close. He expected her to ask where he was getting the poison but then she said: “It’s no bother if I ask out Luna. Right? I know you two are open but I don’t want bad blood.”

Neville was caught off guard. “What about Katie?” He’d turned more fully toward her, his hand still on the shelf.

She rolled her eyes. “We broke up—”

“When?”

“Last night, all right? So—”

“So you’ll make up—”

“Not this time—”

“Alicia.” He canted his head toward her, eyebrows raised.

She widened her eyes. She had brown eyes and brown skin and long black hair she wore tightly braided. “I’m single now. I can do what I like—”

“It’ll hurt Katie’s feelings.”

Her shoulders dropped and she glared at him. “Well, maybe she hurt my feelings with Leanne.” She shook her head, her lips pursed. She looked away. “You know what? Fuck this.”

Then she’d turned and snagged her jacket off a chair. Seamus and George and Neville watched as she stomped up the stairs. Seamus walked over to stand beside Neville. “They’ll be back together in a week.”

Neville didn’t say anything. He didn’t know if he’d just prompted Alicia to lay off or to fuck Luna to spite everyone. Luna liked sex with women—she’d say yes. Neville knew it made him a chauvinist, but he was less jealous of women. He thought of Luna and another man’s dick and it made him sick. Which was selfish—he couldn’t see past his own insecurities to focus on her needs. Luna would say pleasure was neutral. He was the one making it a competition.

“You do your reparations paperwork?” asked Seamus.

Neville nodded. “I don’t understand how they do the calculations.”

“Fecked if I know,” said Seamus.

“What would you do if you got a million galleons?” asked Neville.

“Buy a distillery,” said Seamus immediately. “Make firewhisky.”

Neville looked over at him. “You already know?”

“I do.” Seamus nodded briskly. He smacked Neville with the back of his hand. “You can come work for me. Grow me barley.”

Neville laughed. Seamus made it sound so easy. “And Dean?”

“Get his own studio,” said Seamus, his voice softening. “Do his art.”

They’d had sex that felt more like making love. Oftentimes, Luna came to him with something she wanted to try, and Neville followed instructions like he was learning a tricky spell. But she’d let him go slow and not talk this time. He’d kissed her throat and breathed in her musky, earthy scent and she’d looked up at him as he'd thrust into her and said, “Neville, I like having sex with you,” and he’d felt the warmth in his chest spread and choke him. Luna wouldn’t dissemble to save his ego. When she praised him, she meant it.

Now they were lying spooned in bed, her slight body tucked against his, his eyes idly traveling over the chair and wardrobe. Luna had painted flowers all over them though it was only a temporary let—that they still weren’t paying for. Neville would catch himself trying to match the daubs of color to real plants, but they weren’t accurate—a ridiculous thing to be hung up on.

“I have a date on Friday,” said Luna. “You should go out, too.”

“I will do,” murmured Neville. (He wouldn’t.) (Why wasn’t this enough for her? It was enough for him.) “So Alicia asked you—”

“Rolf’s in town.” They’d talked over each other. Now Luna turned her face toward him, though she still couldn’t see him. “Hm?”

Neville was blinking, his stomach tight, picturing the photograph of Rolf Scamander that had run in the Prophet. He was lean, with an angular jaw and hair that doubled as a personality.

“Neville, did Alicia say something?”

“What?” Neville shook his head, preoccupied. “No.”

Neville had never met Rolf, but he’d decided he hated him.

Neville was in the Hog’s Head with his back to the wall and a manchineel fruit in a bag. The pub was dark and dreary and disreputable—Neville had heard Death Eaters traded potions and poisons here during the war. Now it was his turn. The fruit looked like a green apple. The sap was milky white and would blister skin on contact. Neville had expected to feel guilty, slipping on gloves and goggles and stealing it from the Hogwarts greenhouse—but he hadn’t.

Aberforth had been behind the bar when Neville had got to the pub—the old man had clapped Neville on the shoulder and given him a firewhisky on the house. It’d been only months since Aberforth had been feeding the whole D.A.—Neville creeping back and forth along a dark tunnel to retrieve the bottles and sacks. He could take one more drink from Aberforth. But at some point, Neville was going to have to start paying for things. All summer, he’d saved the stipend Professor Sprout had given him, but now the grounds were restored and Hogwarts was back in session, welcoming a new class of first years as though time did not care whether Neville was ready for it to move on. Maybe that was why Neville hadn’t felt guilty stealing the little apple of death. Maybe he felt Hogwarts owed the D.A. that much. If he wasn’t ready to move on, it was because the job wasn’t done.

Dionisio sat down lightly beside Neville, his eyes moving around the room. “Hey, kid.” Then he faced him. “So what’s your price?”

It was Friday night and Neville was going out—to see Hermione.

It wasn’t a date.

Imagine.

Neville had fancied Hermione since he was eleven. He had imagined. He’d spent the years he’d roomed with Ron wanking to either Hermione or Ginny while Ron bitched and moaned and blustered about anyone daring to date either one of them. Neville wasn’t sure why Ron expected his sister to become a cloistered nun but he knew exactly why Ron didn’t want anyone to ask out Hermione. Now they were finally official, sharing a flat.

Hermione had told the Prophet and anyone else who asked that she was returning to Hogwarts to finish her education and sit for her N.E.W.T.s. But Luna had come back from the exams offered late that summer for students whose seventh year had been disrupted—or anyone who wanted to test out and leave school early, like Luna—and said Hermione had been there. Neville imagined Hermione had laid out her old school uniform and realized she couldn’t put it back on. It would feel like a fancy dress costume, wouldn’t it? How were you going to sit there while professors scolded you for being tardy when you’d fought a war—and they’d needed you to? But maybe those were his thoughts. Neville hadn’t taken any N.E.W.T.s. He didn’t plan to work for anyone but himself.

Now Hermione opened the door and her face lit up when she saw the small Venus flytrap in his hands. He came through and set it on the kitchen windowsill and showed her how the pot should stand in a centimeter of wand water. (Muggle tap water held minerals that would eventually kill it.) She studied the acid green plant with its bright red mouths, delighted, and Neville looked around. The kitchen was less tidy than he would have expected, with more beer bottles in the bin.

“Ron’s out?” he asked.

“With the other auror trainees,” said Hermione. “Bonding.”

Neville nodded. In this moment, he was very aware that he was alone with Hermione in this flat.

Neville had been thinking about the manchineel tree and the fact that he was shit at potions. Poison had the potential to cause less collateral damage than bombs—but it depended on the delivery method. He needed to be less shit at potions.

Neville had asked Hermione where she’d begin if she were relearning the subject, and she’d offered to loan him her favorite texts—and invited him round to collect them on a Friday night when Ron was out. Neville had Luna in his head, saying he needed to experiment more. She was out with Rolf now, no doubt telling him she wanted to have sex.

Neville had fancied Hermione his whole life. And he was alone with her in this flat.

And he was not going to tell her he wanted to have sex with her.

He was an idiot, but not that kind of idiot. She’d invited him round because she didn’t think he was a threat—not because she was interested.

She had never seen him that way. No one but Luna had done.

She got them each a beer, and she sat curled in an armchair while he sat on the sofa, feeling uncoordinated again. He looked at the books piled on the coffee table. “You’re in muggle university now?”

“Oxford,” she said, nodding. “I didn’t have to forge too many documents—some transcripts and NHS records. Percy was helpful. And Arthur pulled some strings.”

Neville thought Arthur must have pulled more than strings, if Hermione had only this summer decided she was enrolling. This university was quite hard to get into, wasn’t it? Neville wondered how many muggles had been confunded.

“I’m a bit behind in some subjects. Like chemistry and physics and maths—”

Neville nodded blankly as Hermione assured him she could catch up. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that all the muggle subjects would be different. But of course they would be.

“First-year students are offered college accommodation and, really, you’re meant to take it, but you can also live out. It’s not a problem.”

The way she said this made Neville think it was a problem. That Hermione should be living in her college, getting to know her new classmates, instead of staying in this dingy flat with Ron. But he also wouldn’t want to go back to dormitories. Neville nodded and Hermione kept filling the silence.

“Harry wanted us to stay on at Grimmauld Place, but I thought—” Hermione faltered.

She had needed a break, thought Neville.

Abruptly, she said, “You and Luna are still in Hogsmeade?”

Neville nodded. “Luna’s father is still rebuilding.”

Hermione grimaced, guilty. She’d been the one to trigger the erumpent horn. “My parents sold their house when they moved to Australia,” she said quietly. An odd sort of olive branch: I destroyed my childhood home too. She’d obliviated her parents during the war, planted the idea of Australia. They didn’t know she existed.

“Were you able . . .” Neville left it there.

Hermione took a breath. “No.” She wasn’t making eye contact. “I went with some healers from St. Mungo’s but we weren’t . . .” Her jaw flexed and now she was looking away. “I had to obliviate them again, so they wouldn’t remember me trying.”

Neville sucked in a breath, his back pressing against the sofa.

Hermione was blinking and swallowing hard, so she didn’t cry.

Neville looked away—to give her her privacy. He could tell her he knew what it was like to visit parents who didn’t know you—but she knew he did. He didn’t know if that would sound comforting or like he was making it a competition.

She took a breath and put on a bright face. “It’s all right.”

Neville knew it wasn’t.

Neville didn’t say, I’m here if you need me. It would only force her to keep acting, and he already knew she wouldn’t reach out. He knew because he wouldn’t reach out, either. Some hurts were too personal to share.

“At least I don’t have to deal with the damn press,” said Hermione, forcing a laugh. “I’m completely anonymous at uni. No one knows who I am.”

Neville smiled. Right—it must be freeing, being around people who didn’t think they already knew everything about you.

But Neville looked at these books on the coffee table, full of unfamiliar subjects, and watched Hermione hesitate before picking up her wand—as though she’d been catching herself before she used magic in front of people—and he realized being in the muggle world meant her hiding everything she’d just spent years studying and everything she’d just been through. It wasn’t the freedom to be herself, it was a second job—pretending to be the muggle persona she’d created for herself. Probably pretending to be the person she thought she’d have been if she didn’t have magic.

Neville thought of himself wondering who he’d have been if his parents had been the ones to bring him up.

Maybe he’d be angry with them now, sure they didn’t understand him.

Molly was sure Charlie should marry Laura. Gran was sure Neville should join the Auror Department. He and Seamus were sure Alicia and Katie should make up. When people had known you a long time, they looked at you and saw everything you’d ever done. They thought they knew you better than you knew yourself. They’d tell you what you were good and bad at and what you should do with your life, and, if you weren’t careful, you’d believe them.

Neville tried to imagine what the mercenaries had seen when Estrada had murmured the Sword of Gryffindor and they’d looked at him. Dionisio had called him kid but he’d also met Neville’s eyes, focused, when asking what he was doing with George, what he’d used on Greyback. When they’d parted ways at the Hog’s Head, Dionisio had shaken his hand.

Hermione got up and retrieved the books she’d promised him. “I thought you didn’t like potions,” she said, holding them out.

Neville stood and took them from her.

She looked up at him, her curls lank and frizzy around her face, and he could see the tension around her mouth—how tired her eyes were. She had certain ideas of what was expected of her, whether she was in the wizarding world or the muggle one.

“Maybe I’ll feel differently,” he told her, “if I don’t have Snape looking over my shoulder, telling me I’m hopeless.”

Chapter Text

1999

“What’re you down in the mouth for?” asked Seamus.

Neville didn’t say anything.

“Fecking mardy cunt,” said Seamus under his breath.

Neville threw down George’s muggle pen and let his hands fall to his lap. His price with Dionisio had been information. Now he and Seamus were in the Wheezes workshop, compiling lists of what they knew—always more lists. Like they were back in school. (Hogwarts would always be in Neville’s head.) He looked over. “If I say something—”

“Oh, this will be grand, this will—”

Neville sighed and lowered his voice. “Luna wants to try . . . anal sex.”

Seamus raised his eyebrows.

“And she wants me—” Neville closed his eyes. “To ask you—”

“She reckons I’m N.E.W.T.-level at taking it up the arse, does she?”

“Oh my giddy aunt,” muttered Neville. He looked up toward the dark ceiling beams and then risked a glance at Seamus.

Seamus’s eyebrows were still raised—but his cheeks weren’t flushed a blotchy red.

“I’m only saying she might say something,” muttered Neville. Luna did that—she said things. Neville had said not their close friends—he didn’t want her sleeping with them but he also didn’t want them all knowing. But Alicia knew. That meant Katie and Seamus and Dean knew too. Now Luna wanted to quiz Seamus on—

“All right, big man—”

Neville’s shoulders slumped but he knew Seamus was taking pity on him.

“Here’s what you need to know: Go slow. And use ten times the lube you think you need. If it hurts, see steps one and two.” He clapped Neville on the arm, businesslike. “Tell her to go easy on you.”

“I’m not—”

Seamus snorted and then started to laugh. “You sure about that?”

“Oh my Merlin,” muttered Neville. He wasn’t sure of anything.

Neville was kissing Luna, his fingertip prodding. They were trying anal sex for the third time. As far as Neville was concerned, her body had decisively rejected him twice, but Luna insisted it was possible—other people did this, and she wanted to see what the fuss was about.

Neville murmured the lubrication charm. He circled, he prodded, he pushed a finger in—she was so tight. More lube. More kissing to distract her so that she might relax. He fingered her arse and didn’t rush.

Neville liked this—kissing, going slow, being focused on her. He liked that she hadn’t done this with anyone else. He felt so close to her now, touching her where no one else had touched her. Being the person she trusted to do this. Neville hadn’t slept with anyone else—everything was new to him. He liked feeling like it was just the two of them.

Neville was about to fuck Parvati Patil and Luna at the same time. Neville both didn’t know how he had got here and was agonizingly aware of each step of the way—because Luna had made sure they talked it through. Neville hadn’t wanted to do this—he wasn’t convinced Parvati wanted to do this with him. But Luna had earnestly told Neville she wanted to try group sex and she wanted to try it with him—and he’d caved. She was trusting him to understand. She wanted him to share this with her. And he didn’t want her to find another man.

Now Luna was talking it through with Parvati, and Neville wanted to die. They were in the Patil twins’ sitting room—nicer than his and Luna’s rooms, more richly decorated, Padma mercifully out—and Luna said, “Are you willing to perform cunnilingus?” She was sitting beside him on the settee, Parvati across from them in a blue velvet armchair as though this were a job interview.

“Sure,” said Parvati.

“And vaginal sex with Neville—”

Neville closed his eyes—

“Yes,” said Parvati.

“Anal—”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Parvati said quickly.

“Oh my Merlin,” Neville muttered, looking away. Did Parvati think he expected that?

“We can start with fellatio and then move on to—”

“Luna,” laughed Parvati, “I’m sure we can sort it out along the way.”

Neville wasn’t so sure. He, for one, didn’t know what to do with two women. But they’d had a few drinks and now they were in Parvati’s bedroom and Neville was stripping off while Luna and Parvati kissed and undressed each other.

Luna dropped Parvati’s shirt onto a tasseled pouf, and Neville blinked and looked away, his gaze skittering over the room—one wall painted Gryffindor yellow, Parvati’s crystal orb in its cradle of carved wooden elephants, her tarot cards and sidereal chart, beaded hair combs, a German dictionary, a pink ticket marked London Underground, vinyl records on a brass rack below a record player, embroidered pillows piled on the bed.

His eyes were back on Luna and Parvati. He watched as Luna, topless, pushed Parvati’s skirt down her hips.

Neville was hard—his body more confident than he was.

They shimmied out of their knickers.

He was seeing Parvati Patil naked—surreal.

She and Luna were a study in contrasts—Luna’s long blonde hair and pale skin and Parvati’s glossy black hair and brown skin and darker nipples. Parvati’s breasts were a different shape to Luna’s, her hips narrower. Their hands moved over each other’s bodies. Neville was staring, uncertain what to do with himself.

“Godric, Neville—” Parvati was looking over at him, standing there with his cock in his hand. “Have you been walking around with that this whole time?”

“I—” What?

“Luna, you didn’t tell me—yeah, I’m definitely not doing anal with that.”

Parvati was laughing, and Neville was glancing to his cock. Was it—

Then they were pulling him onto the low bed. Parvati kissed him—

And Neville kissed back, his heart jumping. She tasted like the gin and tonic she’d been drinking. She was kissing him like she didn’t mind that he was here.

Then Luna and Parvati were kissing each other again, their hands at his cock—Neville sucked in a breath—and then Neville was letting Luna kiss him while Parvati took hold of him and—

Oh my Merlin.

—licked his shaft.

Parvati took the head of his cock into her mouth, her tongue laving over him, while Neville kissed Luna and touched her breasts.

Luna’s tongue in his mouth, Parvati licking the head of his cock . . . surreal.

Parvati used her hands more than Luna—now he was comparing everything. Was Luna all right with this? If they kept doing this, he was going to come.

Luna pulled back. “Parvati, do you want to do oral on me while Neville does oral on you?”

“Sure,” Parvati said, looking up, her hand still tight on his cock. Her head hovering over him. The light glinting off her dark hair.

“I’ll just lie down and you—”

“Right, I’ll just—”

“Neville—”

“Neville, if you go to the foot of the bed—”

“I’m—”

“I’m arse-up, like—”

“From behind?”

“Right. Just—sorry, Luna. All right—”

Then Parvati was face-down between Luna’s thighs, her arse pushed up so that Neville could—

Merlin, he was really doing this?

He did what he would do with Luna. He palmed her arse and spread her open to lick her cunt.

Godric—she tasted different to Luna. Neville hadn’t quite realized—

His tongue delved into Parvati, and she pushed back into him. Neville kept licking. And then he was lost in cunt, Parvati’s body swaying as she worked on Luna. He was licking diligently. He wanted—

“Sorry, you two, this is killing my neck—”

Neville pulled back as she did—

“Oh, sorry, Parvati. Do you want to turn over? We can just—”

“Right, I’ll just—”

Luna was sitting up. Parvati moving onto her back. Neville was on his haunches—he couldn’t quite look at Luna.

Godric, she had straddled Parvati, Parvati’s hands going to her thighs. She was sitting on Parvati’s face. Facing him.

This was meant to be hot. He could watch Luna take pleasure from Parvati’s mouth. She could watch him eat Parvati’s cunt.

Neville didn’t want his girlfriend to watch him eat another woman’s cunt.

He was hesitating—Parvati was going to think there was something wrong with her, he didn’t like her body.

He did like her body.

He dropped down to Parvati—between her legs. Still hesitating.

Luna’s eyes fell closed as she shifted her hips, her hand reached out to brace herself, and Neville took the reprieve—he lowered his head, lowered his eyes, and tried to shut out everything else. He licked up to Parvati’s clit, circling it. More certain now. He liked eating cunt. She tasted good. He could let his body take over.

He pushed a finger into her—she was so wet—and settled into a steady rhythm with his tongue. She couldn’t give him directions—her mouth was occupied. But she shifted her hips and then stayed there as he tongued hard circles on her clit. He pushed a second finger into her, feeling for the rougher, spongier spot—

If she was sighing and breather harder, he couldn’t tell—

If she wanted to say, Keep doing that or Not quite, she couldn’t—

But she didn’t shift her hips away, she didn’t work a hand out from under Luna to swat at him—

Neville kept going, doing what he liked. She seemed to like it. She was moving with him—

He could hear Luna breathing harder, Luna and Parvati making little noises—

Luna was mewling—

He was painfully hard—

Parvati was so wet—

His cock was leaking precum—

And then—

Then—

He did it.

He just did.

He didn’t wait for Luna to direct him.

He pulled back and scrambled up and put his thumb to Parvati’s clit as he pushed his cock into her, whispering the charm—

Oh my fucking Godric.

Her cunt was at a different angle to Luna’s. He could feel it going in.

He hadn’t known—

Another push, with the charm again—

And then—

Fuck.

He was all the way in.

(Was this all right? He couldn’t see her face.)

He rolled his hips, thrusting—

He was fucking Parvati Patil.

(It was all right—wasn’t it?)

Fuck.

She felt good. He felt like he wasn’t fully in control of his body—

Luna was riding her mouth—

He was stroking into Parvati, pleasure seeping through him—

His thumb at her clit—

(But he couldn’t see her face.)

He felt out of time. Surreal—

(She was all right with this—wasn’t she?)

He was fucking her—

But if he looked up, he could only see Luna. Right there, too close.

He kept his eyes on his cock sliding in and out of Parvati. The shaft pink and glistening, her skin darker here—

She felt so good. He was fucking her steadily—

(She’d stop him if she’d changed her mind. Right?)

Movement—Parvati was tapping Luna’s thigh, urging her off.

He slowed—

Oh fuck. He was such a fucking arsehole. What was he doing—

Here it came—

Godric. What had he thought—

“Sorry, hold on—” She was breathing hard. “I just need to— Don’t stop! Neville—”

She jerked her hips, and Neville thrust back into her.

“Keep doing that—”

Did he keep doing that? Now he was just fucking another girl while his girlfriend had to watch. Luna was crouched next to her. But—

“Neville—” Her voice breathy. “Harder—”

Oh my Merlin. Parvati Patil was saying his name while he fucked her. Neville’s body reacted. He was fucking her harder. His heart was racing—

“Oh my Godric. Oh my Godric.” Parvati was rubbing her clit, clenching her cunt on him—

(What was Luna—)

Parvati grabbed his forearm—“Neville!”—and Neville fucked her harder.

“Yes—” Her face was crumpled like she was about to come.

(What about—)

“Neville—”

Neville gave up thinking—he fucked Parvati while she whimpered and rubbed her clit and grabbed his arm and tightened on him, saying, “Yes, yes, yes—” Saying his name. And then she sucked in a breath and her cunt spasmed on him and Neville came too, with a shout. It rocked through him—

Waves of pleasure—

He was shuddering—

His heart racing—

She was gripping his arm—

Aftershocks making him twitch—

He was panting—

She felt so good—

And then . . . then it was over.

And he was disgusted with himself.

He’d just cheated on Luna. Right in front of her.

His heart was pounding like he was in trouble. He was in trouble—

He’d just fucked Parvati Patil. While Luna watched.

He couldn’t meet Luna’s eyes.

He didn’t have to—she leaned over Parvati to kiss her, sparing him.

Neville pulled out of Parvati. That involuntary sound in the back of his throat that only Luna had heard before this. “Luna, do you want—” What was he offering? He had never felt less turned on than in this moment. He was nauseous with adrenaline. What had he done?

Parvati and Luna kissed, their hands light on each other, and now Neville was the one watching, scourgifying his dick, feeling lost. (Was Luna all right with this? Was this what she wanted?) (Had she come earlier, without him realizing?)

“Luna—”

Luna lifted her head from Parvati’s and sat back on her haunches. “I’m good,” she said. “We can stop. You two look tired.”

Neville was suddenly exhausted. But he knew Luna wasn’t good.

“Luna—”

“We can go. Unless you want to stay with Parvati, Neville.”

Neville inhaled. “No,” he said. He couldn’t send Luna home on her own. But he felt a bit shit about that—rushing out. More than a bit. Did Parvati hate him now? She wasn’t meeting his eyes either.

Neville got dressed silently while Luna and Parvati did the work of papering over the cracks. Hugs and we have to get a cuppa soon. It was awkward as hell. (Did Luna and Parvati both hate him?)

Finally, they were back above The Three Broomsticks. Their rooms looked sad and shabby after being in the Patil twins’ flat. Luna was cool and distant. She told him she was fine each time he asked.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked, though he didn’t want to hear the answer.

She said, “Of course not, Neville.”

Neville watched her, his head ducked. It was so unlike Luna to lie.

He bathed in the kitchenette, wishing they didn’t both know why he was washing. Wishing the tub were behind a closed door. She didn’t come join him. She stayed out of his line of sight.

Of course not, Neville. Neville should have said, Really? Because I’m furious every time you fuck someone else. But he didn’t want to hear she was angry with him. And if he admitted he was angry with her . . . he would never stop being angry.

It wasn’t until the next day that she said, “I suppose I felt jealous. Seeing you with Parvati.”

Good, thought Neville. GOOD GOOD GOOD. Now she understood how he felt. Now they could stop—

“I’m going to work on that,” Luna said.

Neville’s stomach dropped. “How are you going to work on that, Luna?” He could hear it—he sounded angry. He hadn’t sounded angry before this.

Neville was worrying about Parvati. He should have asked first. He should have stopped if he wasn’t sure. She’d grabbed his arm and told him to keep going, but Neville knew what felt good in the moment could feel bad after. Did she feel used? He wouldn’t have left so soon if it weren’t for Luna. (Or had Parvati wanted him to go?) Should he send her . . . flowers? An apology? Or did she feel fine and an apology would imply she shouldn’t? Would that only make it worse? If he sent her a rare plant—something with value—would that look like he was trying to start something on the side? Or would she feel paid off? (Like . . . a prostitute?) But if he sent her something common, would she be insulted?

Maybe she didn’t want him bothering her.

Neville wouldn’t ask Luna. He didn’t want to talk to her about it at all.

Neville didn’t send Parvati anything. He didn’t want to make it worse.

Something was off—

Neville threw his arm around Seamus—

He pulled Seamus to him and he hit the deck, Seamus’s chin digging in below his collarbone—

The carriage blew.

Neville screamed as the shrapnel sprayed across his back.

He couldn’t hear the scream—he couldn’t hear anything—

He could feel Seamus moving under him—

Seamus was rolling Neville off him—

Debris and gravel all over them—

He couldn’t hear Seamus—he couldn’t hear. He thought Seamus was saying, Jaysus, Jaysus. His hands were trembling. Then he’d apparated them back—

They were in the Wheezes workshop. George and Alicia were lunging toward them—

His back was screaming with pain—

Maybe he was screaming too—

He was—he could see it on their faces—

George’s wand was in his face—

He could hear again.

His face was wet.

“All right, big man—”

“Seamus—”

“On your stomach. C’mon, now—”

They cut his jacket and shirt off him.

George and Seamus healed him.

When he got home, Luna was gone.

Fucking somebody, he thought, suddenly angry. Suddenly shaking.

“Rolf’s in town—”

Here we go, thought Neville. Furious—he was immediately furious. He still hadn’t met this man he was jealous of.

“And I was thinking we could try a threesome again.”

“With Rolf,” said Neville, his tone flat and hard.

She looked up at him, guileless. “He’s bisexual.”

“Luna,” said Neville. “I’m not.”

“Studies suggest everyone—”

“I do not want to fuck men, and I do not want to be fucked by them—”

“Well . . .” Luna’s expression was thoughtful. “Maybe Rolf has a friend—”

“Fine,” said Neville. “Fine.”

“I think you’ll find—”

“Is this about Parvati?”

She looked at him blankly. As if she didn’t know.

“That was your idea, Luna. I only did that because you told me to—”

“Neville, you have personal autonomy—”

“Not if I want to be with you. You made it very clear this had to be an open relationship—”

“Neville, you agreed—”

“Yes,” said Neville, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. “I agreed. And now you’re punishing me for it.”

“I’m not punishing anyone. I only want to try new things. We’ve tried two women, and I want to try two men. Other people do these things. Why shouldn’t we? It’s only that we’ve been socialized—”

“My feelings are not a social construct!” yelled Neville.

“We’re all products of society,” said Luna.

“Which is why no one is actually enjoying this!”

“What do you mean? Many people have enjoyed—”

“You didn’t enjoy watching me fuck Parvati, Luna, and I don’t enjoy knowing you’ve fucked all of Hogsmeade—”

The fight didn’t get better from there.

Seamus told George that had been the last bomb.

“I’ve never liked them,” he muttered to Neville. “I’m not getting me mickey blown off ‘cause George has a hard on for fireworks.”

He was standing with his hands on his hips, his thin lips twisting as he looked away. He had argued against it from the start—they might have caught the elderly Mulciber patriarch as the family decamped but they might also have caught his underage grandchildren.

“So you’re done?” asked Neville.

Neville had been having flashbacks to Lavender Brown. Watching Luna startle when he came into a room. Dreaming of high-pitched screaming he thought was his mum. Frank and Alice had been tortured well after the First War had ended, when everyone thought it was all over but the trials. A dark lord had already resurrected himself once. Neville couldn’t let it go yet. The job wasn’t done.

But it probably would have been the last bomb anyway. The explosives had been meant to vent rage, to reach the people hiding behind their warded gates, to make these last remnants of the D.A. feel like they decided when the fight was over, not Shacklebolt. But they didn’t work—not really.

“All right, motherfuckers,” said George. “What’s the plan?”

“I need a think,” said Seamus, shaking his head.

Neville watched as he walked out.

Rolf Scamander kissed Neville on the mouth as soon as Neville came through the door.

Neville sighed heavily.

Rolf was lean and artfully disheveled with sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw and a flare of wavy hair like an exotic bird’s crest. Now he was bending to kiss Luna’s cheek, his hand at her shoulder. They were in Rolf’s room above the Leaky Cauldron. Neville could only assume every single person in the pub had noted them climbing the stairs and was now timing how long they were up here—but he knew that wasn’t so.

Rolf and Luna had their hands on each other, twittering away—

“How are you, Rolf?”

“Oh, I’m fine, dear.”

“Did you ask Charlie about that Chinese Fireball?”

“I’m off to see him next.”

—Neville the third wheel.

Rolf appeared to be in his twenties—a bit old, Neville thought, to have taken such an interest in Luna. Also, he was a pretentious git. And his hair was stupid.

Rolf served them tea. Neville sat, mostly silent, through the small talk as Luna touched his arm and then Rolf’s. He tried not to be surly—he had agreed to this. So that Luna didn’t find someone else.

Luna was running through her checklist. “Neville won’t bottom—”

Rolf was cuffing him on the shoulder. “You really haven’t lived until—”

“I won’t bottom,” said Neville.

 “That’s all right,” said Rolf, cheeky. “I will.”

Luna smiled at him like he’d taken first prize, and Neville forced himself not to glower. (He was glowering.)

“Should we get started?” asked Luna, her expression bright.

“If you like, dear.” Rolf was smiling fondly at her. And then—

He reached out—

And he brushed a strand of hair back from her temple.

Neville stared, a heavy weight in his chest. He could feel his heart beating in his throat.

Oh, how he hated this man.

Rolf turned to him, smiling, and Neville began to unbutton his shirt.

Neville watched as Rolf stood and helped Luna to unzip her dress. Neville pulled his shirt off over his head, stripped it off his arms, stood and unbuckled his belt. Rolf and Luna were down to their underthings. Neville dropped his trousers and his pants.

“Well!” said Rolf. He was unapologetically studying Neville’s cock.

“Oh, yes,” said Luna, “Neville is quite well endowed.”

“Well, he’s tall,” said Rolf absently, watching as Neville took his cock in hand. He wasn’t hard.

Neville was taller than Rolf and heavier. His cock was larger. He remembered Luna saying everything was about sex except sex, which was about power.

“If he’s too big—”

“No,” said Rolf, meeting Neville’s gaze, “I can handle him.”

“Neville doesn’t want to top anyway—”

“No,” said Neville, not breaking eye contact. “I’ll top Rolf.”

Neville flipped listlessly through Luna’s latest copy of Deviant Behavior. He stopped at the paper titled Hypersexual Behavior as a Symptom of PTSD. It was especially tied to victims of sexual violence. Neville thought of Luna in the Malfoy dungeons for months with the Lestranges and Greyback in the manor. He thought of Luna at Hogwarts—small and wide-eyed and bad with social cues, surrounded by older boys and empty classrooms.

Maybe there were some things even a brutally honest person couldn’t bring herself to say out loud.

Harry and Ginny got married as soon as she’d finished her seventh year. She wore white patterned with gold, Harry in dark dress robes with a waistcoat to match her gown. Ron and Hermione were their attendants in the backyard at the Burrow. They took all the pictures together—the Golden Quartet. The photos ran in the Prophet and Witch Weekly and Wizarding World News. And then Ron and Hermione quietly announced that they had split. They were all over the tabloids for months. Everyone blamed Hermione—Neville didn’t quite understand why.

His split with Luna was not announced by the press.

He had begged.

“We could get married,” he’d said. “It could just be us.”

Then he’d got angry.

He wasn’t proud of that.

But it had felt honest. All this time, he’d been doing things he didn’t want to do—and lying to himself about how much they bothered him. He’d kept telling himself she’d trusted him and he had to be understanding. He’d kept thinking, once she’d tried these things, she’d be satisfied and choose him. But he’d been in that rented room in the Leaky Cauldron, and Rolf and Luna had sucked his cock together, and then Luna had said, “I’m thinking Rolf and I can sixty-nine while you take me from behind, Neville, and then Rolf will also be able to lick your balls,” and Neville had thought, I cannot keep doing this.

He had done it. He’d done what she wanted. He’d fucked her with Rolf’s face underneath her cunt. He’d fucked Rolf. He hadn’t gone slow. He hadn’t used enough lube. He’d made Rolf be the one to keep saying the charm, over and over, while Neville was rough with him. Neville ought to be ashamed—he knew that. But he wasn’t. Rolf wouldn’t admit he didn’t like it—and maybe he did. He’d come in Luna easily enough, and what Neville was ashamed of was that he had come too. Rolf had sucked his bollocks, but it was Neville who felt degraded—and apparently his body didn’t mind that. It could still get off. It felt familiar after Hogwarts. School had been one humiliation after another, and he’d comforted himself with a wank just as often as the other boys had done.

Neville had flooed home with Luna, feeling blank and empty. And still he hadn’t ended things. Then Rolf had sent Luna a letter—from Romania, where he was visiting Charlie at the preserve—and somehow that had been the last straw.

Neville could still hear himself saying, “I want to be the only one you want,” and Luna, her head tilted, her eyes on his, saying, “That would be nice, wouldn’t it? But that’s not how I feel.”

Neville was in the Hog’s Head with his back to the wall, aware of his ways out. It wasn’t a habit he’d picked up in the war; he’d learned it as an eleven-year-old afraid of Snape.

A man exchanged a few words with Aberforth at the bar and then turned with a pint, came and sat down across from Neville. He was in black, a scar through one eyebrow.

“How do you know Dionisio?” he asked.

“Smash and Grab,” said Neville.

“That nutter,” said the man with a laugh. “All right.”

They did a deal for some deadly nightshade. It had been simple, collecting it from the Forbidden Forest. The man was paying for the convenience of Neville doing it.

“You interested in something more hands-on?” asked the man.

“Maybe,” said Neville, thinking of Alicia, bored and picking fights without Seamus there to arm wrestle.

After the man left, Neville went upstairs. He’d left Luna in the rooms above The Three Broomsticks, taken a room here. He could have gone back to living with Gran, but she’d only tell him to get a job with the Auror Department. Instead, he shoved the door shut and colloportused it and then lifted the mattress and incendioed the bedbugs—which caught the mattress on fire. He exstinguered it and opened the window to let out the smoke.

Neville sat in the dim light of the room’s dirty lamp and ran through wandless drills like he was back in his fourposter at Hogwarts with a wand that didn’t listen to him, desperate to make something work.

Neville went drinking with Harry and Ron. They all got pissed.

“I really loved her, you know.” Ron was slurring. He’d leaned toward Neville and stayed at a tilt. “I loved her. But it was just pick, pick, pick. I was never good enough.”

Neville nodded, working hard to focus on Ron.

Ron was funny and clever and best mates with Harry. Neville had always envied him. He acted put-upon but he was popular in Gryffindor and even more popular after the war. Ron was the one who didn’t think he was good enough for Hermione. Back in school, he’d take the piss out of her—pick, pick, pick—but he wouldn’t ask her out. Then he’d cockblock anyone who got near her. But Neville didn’t say this. He just nodded along, blinking, queasy with drink. He knew how Ron felt.

“What’re you doing now?” asked Harry. He looked vaguely like he might vomit after this.

 Selling foraged poisons to soldiers of fortune. Chipping in to pay Alicia’s way to a training camp run by a questionable outfit out of Croatia. Lying awake, thinking about Luna and Lavender Brown. Wondering if Seamus would talk to him again. “Dunno,” said Neville.

“You should join the aurors,” said Harry.

“No, dooon’t,” said Ron. “It’s the worst.” Meaning he loved it.

“Do you ever want . . .” Neville was drunk. Saying too much. “Do you ever want to just . . . go after them?”

“Who d’you mean?” asked Ron.

“Death Eaters—”

“I mean, we are,” said Harry. “We’re going to be in Goyle Manor for months—”

“They’re the worst,” said Ron, slumping back.

“Better than the office,” said Harry.

Ron groaned. “I can’t believe I have to dodge her in the lift now—”

“What’s happened?” asked Neville, looking swiftly between them—too swiftly. The room was swimmy now.

“Hermione’s in Magical Creatures—”

“What about the muggle—Oxford?”

“Couldn’t hack it,” said Ron—with some satisfaction, Neville thought. “She’s dropped out.”

Hannah Abbott was approaching, wiping her hands on a bar rag. She’d always been nice to Neville. He’d been friendly with a lot of Puffs in school.

She got to their table. “All right, then?”

“Another round?” asked Ron, listing into Neville as he looked to Harry.

Neville gazed up at Hannah. There was something reassuring about her. Like she was completely present in the moment. When she looked at Neville, it didn’t feel like she was thinking about something else.

“Another round,” said Ron, leaned against Neville.

Hannah snorted. “We’re closing,” she said. “I’m to tell you to clear out.”

SATURDAY JULY 19, 2003

“Hannah was such a nice girl,” said Gran, pursing her lips. The vulture on her hat looked on, beady-eyed, as she insulted the waitstaff by wiping down her silverware with her napkin. “Quite a respectable family, the Abbotts. We were all sure she and Neville would be bonded by now.”

Neville shifted forward to stand. He’d brought Pansy to this restaurant to meet his grandmother on neutral ground, and this was Gran’s opening salvo. He’d take Pansy and leave.

But Pansy touched her fingertips to the back of his hand, staying him. “All’s well that ends well,” she said acidly.

Neville settled back into his seat.

Chapter Text

SATURDAY JULY 19, 2003

Pansy was wearing some sort of black corset dress that was, in Neville’s considered opinion, much too risqué for dinner with his gran.

When Hannah’d left him, Neville had taken her words to heart. He hadn’t tried to find a new relationship. He’d told himself he didn’t miss the steady sex—he channeled the energy toward work. Then Pansy had unbuttoned her blouse and raked her nails down his lats and his libido had come roaring back. The dress hoisted up her breasts, it clung to her arse, it left her throat on display. Neville could have fucked her through a wall.

“You look nice,” he’d said when he’d collected her, and he’d bent to kiss her charmed mouth.

He might as well say it—Gran wouldn’t approve of her no matter what she wore.

They’d met Gran outside the restaurant, and he’d almost snorted when he’d seen the expression on her face.

“I hope you’re not wasting your money on clothes,” she’d said, eyeing the fitted black suit Pansy had bought him.

Neville had said, “My finances are fine, Gran.”

The host had shown them to their table with Gran in the lead and Neville on Pansy’s heels, and he’d watched as the other patrons’ eyes had locked onto Pansy’s chest and then slid up to him. Pansy was the first witch Neville had been with who got this reaction. Women had stared at Luna’s clothing. Blokes at the pub had checked out Hannah’s arse. But men looked at Pansy like she was walking sex. And then they saw Neville behind her in that black suit, and they looked at him like he owned her. Neville looked back, dead-eyed, like he knew what they were thinking. They quickly looked away after that.

Neville had been ready to march Pansy right back out after Gran had started moaning about Hannah, but Pansy had signaled she wanted to stay. Neville hadn’t overruled her. Yet.

Now Gran took a parsimonious sip of her sherry and said, “I’m surprised you weren’t already betrothed, Miss Parkinson. I understand the practice is still common in your circles.”

“My father did not wish me to marry,” said Pansy, her back very straight, and Neville’s eyes darted to her. He hadn’t known this.

“And why is that?” asked Gran.

“He didn’t want another family to take control of the estate. He determined it should go to my cousin, to carry on the Parkinson name.”

“And are you close with this cousin?” asked Gran.

“No,” said Pansy crisply. “He tried to rape me when I was twelve.”

“That’ll do it,” said Gran, unperturbed.

Neville reached out under the table and set his hand on Pansy’s thigh. She didn’t look over.

“But now your father is in Azkaban, and you’re matched with our Neville.” Gran made it sound like Pansy had pulled a fast one.

“Yes, I rushed to tell all my friends,” said Pansy, not quite snide, and now she placed her hand on Neville’s.

“I suppose your set sees this as quite the hardship,” sniffed Gran. “Your marrying into a family that works instead of living off its investments.” Her eyes moved over Pansy’s pale skin, her lacquered nails. “You don’t look like the type who enjoys sun and dirt.”

“Oh,” said Pansy, “but I do enjoy a man who gets dirty.”

His gran gave a little cough like she was thinking of choking on her sherry, and Pansy gave her an evil little smile in return. Neville watched them both from under his brows. He didn’t squeeze Pansy’s thigh or remove his hand—he let this play out.

Pansy said, “Even my set respects a man with a calling—”

“I had thought he might be an auror,” said Gran. Her familiar refrain, sung for a new audience. “Like his father.”

“Oh?” Pansy turned to Neville, her gaze appraising. “I can see that. Neville’s quite brave, isn’t he?”

Neville saw his grandmother’s head twitch toward Pansy. Usually his great aunts said, Well, that’s not really Neville, is it. They seemed to think he’d stumbled and killed Nagini by accident.

Pansy was still considering him. “The Auror Department would be lucky to have him. And we’d be lucky to see him in that shoulder holster.” Pansy winked at him.

Neville raised an eyebrow.

She turned to Gran. “But, you see, I fell in love with Neville in his greenhouse, so I can’t bear to think of him doing anything else.”

Gran’s expression was skeptical. “I thought you two had only just become reacquainted.”

“Oh, but as soon as I experienced what he’s capable of in that greenhouse, I knew he was the man for me,” said Pansy, her eyes never leaving Gran’s. “His intimate knowledge of every petal and bud under his care in a business he’s built single-handed—why, it’s awe-inspiring, don’t you think?”

The look on Gran’s face said she had never been awed in her life, much less by her grandson. “I wouldn’t say single-handed—”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve been an enormous help to him,” said Pansy, beaming insincerely. “Haven’t you? Go on! Take credit where it’s due.”

His gran gazed sourly at Pansy while Pansy stared her down, her mouth quirked.

Neville waited for Gran to retaliate. But Pansy had soon allowed his grandmother to settle into her favorite topic—horrific ways people had died that were their own fault—and the rest of dinner passed pleasantly. By the time Neville paid the bill, Gran seemed willing to overlook how much praise Pansy had heaped upon him.

Neville didn’t comment on Pansy’s claim to have fallen in love with him—the snakes would say anything to win a fight.

“Awe-inspiring, hm?” Neville raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t meant to say this, but Pansy had surprised him by acting as though she expected to come back to his. And now she was in the cottage, straddling him on a hand-embroidered loveseat that had originally belonged to a great aunt, and he couldn’t stop himself.

“Oh, hush,” she said, her palms on his chest. “A good wife presents a united front.”

“And a good husband?”

“Dies at the right time,” said Pansy as though by rote.

Neville huffed a laugh. “Is that what your mother taught you?”

“Yes,” said Pansy. “She’s currently quite miffed at Father.”

Neville smiled, but there was a question that had been nagging at him. “She wasn’t happy to have control of the vaults with him in Azkaban? How did she come to hand them over?”

Pansy tucked her chin, gazing up at him from under her fringe with a shifty expression.

Neville was very aware of his cock right now and what this expression was doing to it.

“She didn’t. I stole them from her.”

“And how did you do that?” he murmured.

“I had a property and finances deputyship drawn up, and then I got Nott to forge all the signatures.”

“And it fooled Gringotts?”

“Nott’s good with a quill,” she said, eyefucking him.

“She hasn’t contested it?”

“So far she’d rather complain than work out how. She already let the elves run most everything.”

“And when your cousin gets out of Azkaban?”

She rocked forward, pressing her cunt against his hard cock. “I suppose I’ll have to kill him,” she said, gazing into Neville’s eyes.

Neville smiled.

His hands were at her ribs, and he squeezed.

She leaned in and began to kiss his neck.

Neville sighed, tilting his chin up. “Pansy,” he murmured. “Impressive, imposing Pansy.” Her lips, the little swipes of her tongue, her hands on his chest—he could feel shivers of pleasure running down the back of his neck as she lavished attention on him. “Petrifying . . . terrifying . . . mesmerizing Pansy . . .”

She kissed up to his earlobe, her breath warm on his skin, her cunt hot against him. He could smell the same perfume—coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms. She sighed happily and licked the line of his jaw.

“Gran liked you,” he lied, lowering his mouth to hers.

She smiled and kissed him. “I told you I can be polite.”

Neville’s lips quirked at her idea of polite. He knew his dick was doing a lot of his thinking, but he increasingly found Pansy amusing. The shirtiness. The open scheming. Her talking him up just to needle Gran—

His dick was doing all of his thinking, wasn’t it?

“Neville,” she said.

“Hmm?” She’d suddenly sounded unsure. He pulled back to look at her.

“I don’t want my mother at the wedding.” She looked like she was holding her breath.

It would be a cold day in hell when Violet Parkinson was allowed at Neville’s wedding. But he said only: “Then she’s not invited.”

“But she’ll be upset.”

Pansy had stolen millions of galleons via premeditated fraud and now she was fretting over a wedding invitation. But Neville understood. Why else did he keep going to dinner with his gran?

“Those are her feelings, not yours,” he said evenly. Someone had told him that once. A mind healer he’d stopped visiting.

“But what will people say?”

“That’s their business.”

“Hmmm.” She chewed her lip.

“You already know what you want,” he said. “We’ll do what you want.” So long as Pansy did not change her mind. Violet Parkinson was not coming to his wedding.

Pansy nodded but her eyebrows were drawing together, her jaw flexing. It was painful, watching her agonize over a bad person who did not care about her. Pansy’s parents would have denied her a family of her own—Violet didn’t deserve Pansy’s consideration. But how many times had Ron said, Tell your gran to bugger off? Easy to say when it wasn’t a person who had ever meant anything to you. Hard to do when you’d craved her approval.

“Your charm is working.” He touched his finger to the dark red lipstick on her bottom lip. “Clever, skillful Pansy . . .”

She licked his finger. He pushed the digit into her mouth—to no resistance. Neville felt his brain slow. Her mouth was warm and wet, her tongue moving rhythmically as she diligently sucked.

Godric.

“Pansy,” he said gently. “I’m going to take out my cock and fuck your mouth. Would that help you to stop worrying?”

She nodded around his finger, her eyes wide and solemn.

“All right.” He slowly pulled his finger from her lips and leaned forward and kissed her, open-mouthed and unhurried. Neville had learned he had no control over other people. He only had control over himself. He was trying to control himself now.

He held her to him as he stood, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms around his neck. He carried her to the bedroom.

She kneeled on the bed while he stood beside it and undressed her, undoing the corset one hook-and-eye at a time. He worked the skirt up to her hips and then pulled the dress off over her head and tossed it aside. He kissed her and touched her and quietly said, “On your back. Head off the bed.”

He stripped off while she got into position, across the bed, biting her lip, her knees up, her head hanging off the edge. She reached between her legs to rub her clit.

Neville stood at her head, his cock in hand, and looked at everything available to him—her mouth, her breasts, her clit, her cunt within reach. He ran his fingertips along the side of her neck and she sighed, her eyes heavy lidded. No resistance. Neville hadn’t done anything to earn her trust—he hadn’t hurt her, that was all. But she wanted to trust him. She needed to feel safe with him, and he needed to be careful. Neville knew what it felt like when that was gone and it was too late to go back. He didn’t want to do that again.

He stroked her throat, down to her clavicle, and back up. He ran his fingers over her chin, to her lips. She opened her mouth and his fingertips slid in, gently pulled down her lower lip, slick with saliva. His hands were calloused and criss-crossed with scars—he kept his touch light.

He moved his hand to his cock, his cock to her lips. She licked the head, and he slowly pressed it into her mouth, the sensation making the back of his neck prickle and heat. Her lips fell open as she hung her head off the bed, her tongue swirling around him, and then he was watching the bulge in the smooth line of her throat as he slowly fucked her mouth. Hypnotic.

Neville liked this—not having to talk. Just focusing on her, watching her body and how it responded as pleasure swept through him. She touched herself and let him touch her, and he paid attention. Pansy got anxious and fretful. She needed penetration, clitoral stimulation, and a distraction to get her off. He liked being able to give her that. He knew if he stopped paying attention—if he hurt her, if he bored her, if he didn’t get it right too many times—she’d stop giving him this.

He fucked her throat, he teased her nipples, he fingerfucked her until she came with his cock filling her mouth, and then he spun her around and ate her out. Then he took her hard and fast at the edge of the bed, his hands gripping her hips and then bracing him, until he came. He was breathing hard, shivering. “Merlin, Pansy,” he muttered, hunched over her. Her lips were against his throat; he could feel his heart beating under them.

He climbed onto the bed and pulled her up with him to lie with their heads at the pillows. He was sweaty, sucking in air. She was warm and damp. And when he leaned over her to kiss her, his hand on her stomach, she put her fingertip on his chin and said, “Neville, tell me I can’t invite my mother to the wedding.”

This was a hard decision for her. It wasn’t hard for him. He said, “You can’t invite your mother to the wedding, Pansy.”

“All right,” she said, resolute. “It’s been decided.”

Neville held her, her head on his chest. He was tired and loose-limbed, his breath and heart rate coming back to baseline. She was soft and yielding. It was so easy with her in moments like this.

“Neville . . .”

Neville was on alert. This sounded like something he wouldn’t like.

“You probably won’t like this—”

Grand.

“—but I’ve asked Narcissa to help plan the wedding.”

Pansy shut her mouth abruptly, and Neville got the sense she’d learned information was ammunition. She was right—that was why Neville collected it. That was why, when Malfoy had written during his house arrest and asked Neville to build his mother a night garden in the Malfoy Manor drawing room, Neville had taken the job.

Neville had wanted to get inside Malfoy Manor, he’d wanted a look at the drawing room, and he’d wanted to know why in the hell Malfoy thought it was a good idea to ask him to come to the place where Bellatrix had tortured Hermione after Bellatrix had also tortured his parents. He’d found the manor in a state of disrepair after the war and the Ministry raids and Malfoy hungover and hollowed out, his head so far up his arse after Azkaban that Neville believed he’d genuinely forgotten Neville’s connection to Bellatrix. This had not been the Malfoy Neville had known at Hogwarts—that Malfoy had noticed and remembered everything. This Malfoy had been skittish—Neville had rarely seen him in the time he’d been there. But he’d seen a fair amount of Narcissa.

“All right,” he said.

Pansy seemed to start breathing again. “It’s only that—”

Neville remembered Bill saying Pansy made her donations in lockstep with Narcissa, and he had a feeling he knew what Pansy was about to tell him.

“—she’s been like a mother to me. And I feel like right now,” Pansy’s voice got very small, “I quite need a mother.”

“I understand,” said Neville softly, and she pressed tighter to him.

Neville did understand. Or he thought he did. He understood, anyway, what it was like not to have a mother.

“Neville . . .”

He waited.

“Will your grandmother expect—”

“No,” said Neville. He was angry at even the thought of it. “Pansy, under no circumstances is my grandmother to have a say in your wedding planning. If she owls you, tell me and I’ll take care of it.”

Pansy had gone still against him, and now he gripped her a little harder and awkwardly kissed her head. “I’m not angry with you for asking. I just don’t want Gran bothering you.”

She nodded against him.

“Come here,” he said, and she pushed up onto her elbow to face him. “I said you’d have the wedding you want.”

“I know,” she said, looking at him with those big eyes.

She looked at him like what he did could make her happy or sad. Like what he did mattered.

Merlin.

He was such a sucker for this.

“How’s my charm?” she asked.

“Your lipstick’s worn off,” he said. “But the eye makeup hasn’t budged.”

“Godsdammit,” said Pansy. “If we’re to be married, I need lipstick that can make it through a facefuck.”

Neville burst into surprised laughter but she only snapped, “I’m serious!”

“Oh my giddy aunt,” said Neville. “Pansy, you’re perfect.”

SUNDAY JULY 20, 2003

Neville’s gran owled to say she thought she’d got a bad oyster the night before and she hoped his stomach wasn’t similarly unsettled. The restaurant had gone downhill, which was a pity. Nevertheless, she was glad she had finally been introduced to Miss Parkinson, who seemed to be making the best of things. She only worried that Neville’s future bride would grow restless with the slower pace of country living once the bloom was off the rose. Pansy seemed more the city type. But of course no one had asked for this old woman’s opinion.

Gran’s owl, Archibald, waited for a response. Neville wrote that his stomach was fine and sent the owl back.

Neville had found the only thing the elderly enjoyed more than living through the young was dying through them. His gran had only ever approved of him when she’d thought he was going to get himself killed by the Carrows. If he’d beheaded Nagini and died in battle, Gran would have never had another bad word to say about him. Unfortunately, Neville had lived.

It was out of spite and self-preservation, then, that Neville had allowed his grandmother to believe his only work was the nursery.

1999

“Longbottom!” barked George, crouched on the stairs to look down into the workshop. “Keep that hemlock away from the novelty sweets. I’m not going to Azkaban for killing children.” He clattered back up toward the sales floor.

“Touchy since he got sued for those lawn darts,” said Alicia.

“That was user error!” called George from the top of the stairs. “Every product is deadly if deployed incorrectly!”

“There’s your new shop slogan,” said Alicia.

Neville pushed his hair off his forehead with his wrist, careful not to touch his gloved hand to his face. He’d been slowly reading Hermione’s books, alone in his rented room with the bedbugs, and she hadn’t asked for them back yet. Busy with Magical Creatures, he supposed. He thought of her every time he saw the books but he hadn’t reached out.

“Now you know how to get to Malfoy,” said Alicia, jerking her chin toward the sweets shelves. “Remember those care packages his mum used to send him?”

“Do they allow care packages in Azkaban?” asked Neville.

“Don’t know,” said Alicia. “Since I don’t visit filthy fascists.”

“How would you get something in?” asked Neville. “Assuming they search you.”

“Bribe a guard,” said Alicia.

“Then he can grass on you.”

She shrugged. “Poison him too, once he lets you in with it.”

Neville snorted despite himself. “Now you’re leaving a trail. What if you like the guard? He’s on our side.”

“Then why’s he grassing on us?”

“His children were threatened.”

“Hmm, all right.” She canted her head, considering. “Jewelry. Or a hollow boot heel. Wear it in.”

“So it has to be small.”

“Course,” said Alicia. “You think you’re bringing in a sword?”

Neville laughed and then she was laughing too.

George came clattering back down the stairs, all knees and elbows in his magenta suit. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—"

“We’re being careful!” called Alicia, who was, in fact, leaning on Neville’s workstation without paying attention to where her elbow was going.

“Ministry owls,” said George, holding up three envelopes—one opened. He was flushed pink, his face clashing with his ginger hair. “The reparation amounts are in.”

Neville hadn’t got a million galleons. He’d got five million.

Dean opened the door to the flat and said, “Hiya, Nev. Come on in.”

He could hear Seamus in the sitting room, singing something traditional. He had a high, clear singing voice and perfect pitch—Neville remembered him leading them in Gryffindor standards on match days. He followed Dean through to the sitting room and there Seamus was, his glass held aloft, his cheeks a blotchy red. He broke off—

“Ah, Nev—how’d you make out, then?”

Neville felt a desperate relief wash through him. His eyes were itchy—he hadn’t heard from Seamus since he’d walked out.

Dean handed Neville a glass with a finger of firewhisky in it and moved toward Seamus.

“I did all right,” said Neville. He’d been afraid Seamus would never speak to him again. That seemed daft now.

“We’re rolling in it.” Seamus was grinning—his arm around the taller Dean’s waist. “Since me man had the good sense to get himself snatched.”

Dean snorted. “The Malfoys must’ve coughed up.” He looked to Neville, and Neville knew they were both thinking of Luna. “C’mon, sit down.”

Neville did, watching Seamus and Dean together—Dean’s arm thrown across the back of the sofa, Seamus’s hand on Dean’s thigh. Sometimes it physically hurt, knowing he’d never have what they had. He’d thought he’d have that with Luna. “You going to buy your distillery?”

Seamus jerked his chin at the glass in Neville’s hand. “Make something better’n this shite.”

Neville laughed.

“You going to buy all the plants?”

Neville smiled and ducked his head. Studied the glass. The scars on his hand. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to look at land for a greenhouse.”

“You going to keep doing the other thing?”

Neville looked up. Seamus’s face had gone serious. Dean wasn’t smiling.

Neville thought of Lavender in the Great Hall and Luna in the dungeons and Hermione on the drawing room floor and a high-pitched screaming he thought was his mother. He remembered Amycus breaking his cheekbone and Alecto’s crucio ripping through him and the Sorting Hat burning on his head.

“Yeah,” said Neville. “I am.”

Neville was sitting across from Luna in The Three Broomsticks. She was so familiar—here she was, right in front of him, and he wanted to pull her to him and lie in bed with her in their rooms upstairs, breathing in her scent while he listened to her tell him what she’d just read. But, also, she was unfamiliar. It was like an invisible barrier had been cast between them. He couldn’t touch her. And he didn’t recognize her necklace. Her life was moving on without him.

But, then, his life was moving on without her, too.

He’d gone and looked at land. He’d always imagined doing it with her. Walking the fields. Hearing her opinions. Pointing out what he liked and didn’t like. Deciding together.

When they’d first got together, people had laughed and said, “Oh, of course—you two were meant for each other.” Neville had clung to that. He had found his person. The world made sense now. He wasn’t unlovable—she loved him.

Neville still didn’t understand how it could be that it hadn’t worked out. How it could be that he’d ended it.

“Did you get your reparations?” he asked. If they’d still been together, he’d already know the amount and all her plans for it.

“Oh, yes,” she said, widening her eyes in that way she did. “It’s rather a lot.”

Neville thought of the Malfoy dungeons and imagined it had to be.

“There’s a magizoology degree program in Canada I’m quite interested in. Rolf recommends it—”

Neville nodded, frowning.

“He’s written a letter of introduction, which is nice of him, and they’ve agreed to take me on short notice—”

Neville nodded, his fingertips on the pint glass in front of him. She was going away.

“Which gives me a few weeks to travel before the course starts. Rolf’s invited me to see where he’s doing research—in the boreal forest of Saskatchewan—”

Neville nodded, tired of hearing Rolf’s name.

“I think we’ll get married—”

Neville’s head whipped up.

She was still talking, but it was as if she’d cast a muffliato. The blood was rushing in his ears, blocking everything out.

“Luna,” he blurted, “you told me you didn’t believe in marriage.”

“Oh . . . well.” That tone—thoughtful and off-hand. “It’s only for the paperwork. Now that I have this money, I want to do those research trips I’d been thinking about. Rolf says we could collaborate. And it’s just easier, logistically—”

Neville was no longer absorbing anything she said. He was sitting forward. “Luna, it’s been two months.”

She looked at him, unblinking.

“I—” He stared at her. She didn’t seem to know what he meant. “I told you I wanted to get married. I asked you— You said—”

He couldn’t continue.

She looked right back at him. “But that wasn’t what I wanted.”

Neville could feel the pain, physically, in his chest. How could the truth be so horrible? How could he love someone who didn’t love him? How was that possible? How could life work this way?

“Neville,” said Luna, “it doesn’t make sense for me to do something I don’t want to do only because you want to do it—”

“That’s what I did,” hissed Neville, jerking forward. “Because I loved you—”

“I don’t think that’s love,” said Luna. “I think that’s something else.”

Neville just looked at her, his mind a blank.

“Maybe you should think about why you did that, Neville.”

Neville did think about it. Alone in his room at the Hog’s Head. He sat on the floorboards in the moonlight, listening to the mice fighting in the walls, and drank muggle whiskey and thought about it.

Nicotine was a toxin. All parts of the tobacco plant—leaves, stems, and flowers—were poisonous because of the high concentration of nicotine. Neville sat on the floorboards and smoked muggle cigarettes and thought about it.

Neville sat on the floorboards, his head leaned back against the wall, and pitched sickles at a cup and thought about it.

Then he sat and concentrated on silently accioing the sickles one by one, the nonverbal magic pushing all the other thoughts from his head.

It was because there was something wrong with him.

Neville had a vault now. He visited the vault and withdrew a bag of galleons. He took the bag and fixed his teeth. Cosmetic magic wasn’t cheap.

Neville found the land with an old stone cottage on it. Fields and a wooded area that turned boggy in spots. Room for a large greenhouse and other outbuildings. Some of the plants would need their own climates.

Luna had never seen it, and he was glad. He wouldn’t forever connect it to her, the way he did Hogsmeade. He was on his own, and this was his alone.

Neville was in the Leaky Cauldron, sitting down at the bar. He’d been to the solicitor’s office to sign the contracts in triplicate: buyer, seller, deeds office. He had no one to have a drink with—because he hadn’t told anyone—but he wasn’t ready to go back to his room at the Hog’s Head.

Hannah Abbott was suddenly in front of him—standing up from where she’d been crouched to handle glassware. “Neville,” she said, “what can I get you?”

He’d seen her more often since that night with Harry and Ron—working when he was coming or going from the floo. Behind the bar or chatting up regulars at the tables. She had straight, shoulder-length hair the color of pilsner and didn’t wear makeup. She wasn’t usually smiling like this.

He ordered a firewhisky. Hesitated. Said, “Make it a double.”

“Shit day or celebrating?”

He shrugged one shoulder, thought about telling her—

“I’m celebrating.” She’d started pouring firewhisky into a second glass. She glanced up. “I just bought this place. With my reparations.” She looked surprised and thrilled by how daring she’d been. Giddy.

“Congratulations,” said Neville, grinning stupidly, suddenly happier for her than he was for himself. It seemed pure and uncomplicated for her: She’d wanted this, and she’d got it. “I bought some land,” he admitted.

“Here’s to us, then,” she said, grinning back, and she set his drink in front of him and clinked her glass against his.

Neville’s mouth was caught open—not quite a smile anymore. She’d always been nice to him, and he hadn’t paid attention. Too busy mooning over girls who didn’t look his way.

“Here’s to us,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

MONDAY JULY 21, 2003

Neville was in the Great Hall, the air acrid with smoke and sweat. Blood was gouted down her front. He had crouched low to pick her up. He didn’t want it to be Ron who had to do it. He lifted with his legs, his back straining. People were so heavy when they were dead.

He hoisted her up and her head fell back, her neck nearly severed. He jutted out his elbow—and that’s when he saw her face. It was Hermione. Her eyes empty. Blood splashed up onto her jaw. Dried tears streaked through the dirt on her cheek. Her blood-soaked curls streamed over his arm and spattered red all down his leg.

Neville woke in his bed in the cottage, the morning light seeping in past the devil’s ivy and the pot of mind-your-own-business on the sill. His heart was racing. Adrenaline coursing through him.

He took a deep breath and sighed it out.

He remembered carrying Hermione through the Department of Mysteries.

He remembered Bellatrix cruciating him there.

Neville was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing an expensive black suit and a closed expression, and had in recent memory helped to kill a semi-immortal dark wizard by wielding a sword of legend. In other words, the denizens of Knockturn Alley shied away from him. He scanned over the heads of the passersby, alert for trouble. The cobblestones were slick under the hard leather soles of his shoes.

Neville understood now how the monied Slytherins dressed this way. The suit was made of a thin, summer-weight wool cut to move with him, charmed to keep cool and wrinkle-free. His collar and cuffs stayed crisp, the shoulders square, but the custom clothing was as comfortable as pyjamas.

Neville trod on the scattered pages of yesterday’s Prophet as he passed dirty shop windows. The papers had been full of pictures of Hermione and Malfoy arguing on the front steps of Gringotts, Hermione dressed like a Malfoy wife, and then Hermione standing over Malfoy, his nose bloodied, at a Harpies match. The gossipmongers said they were fighting over Malfoy’s gold, but it seemed clear to Neville that what they were fighting over was control.

Ron was right—Malfoy had never expressed a word of remorse. He’d stood silent and glaring during his trial. He’d done his time in Azkaban and paid his court-ordered reparations and issued no apology, made no amends. He was, to all appearances, an unrehabilitated blood purist. Now with their generation’s most famous muggleborn bound to him, living inside his wards. Should Neville go ahead and assume this was what had Knockturn buzzing?

Neville had woken from the dream with it nagging at him—Seamus’s rumor about a wizard looking for something. Fernsby saying within reach.

The ingredients brokers were close-lipped and nervous. They were hardly going to tell him.

He was on his way out when he saw the stall with the altar and the picture of a laughing Bellatrix. He slowed, looking in. Hand-lettered pamphlets. He stopped and picked one up—the proprietress’s hand jerking as though she wanted to smack it out of his. It looked like a religious tract. Orion on the front. Inside, a sketch of Bellatrix, her wand held aloft, her other hand raised as though in benediction. Neville turned it over. The back held an advertisement . . . a guided tour to her grave. A godsdamned pilgrimage.

Neville threw down the folded parchment and took a deep breath, so he didn’t grab this crone by the hair, jam his wand up through her soft palate. He couldn’t control other people. He could only control himself. He was trying to control himself now. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat.

“Where is it, then?” he said, low. “Her grave.”

“You have to pay,” said the witch, her voice high and querulous. She’d snatched up the tract, and now she held it to her chest. Her hair was long and tangled, her dress as dingy and tattered as the stall.

“You don’t know,” said Neville.

“Course I do,” she said. But her eyes lost their conviction when she saw the conviction in his.

Neville got back from the impulsive trip to Knockturn to find a muggle car parked on his property.

One more godsdamn thing.

He cast a homenum revelio as he neared the unwarded greenhouse. Two people at the other end, where the wooden table sat.

No one waiting in the outer aisles to flank him. A mistake.

Neville quietly crossed the crunching pea gravel and pulled open a door and slipped inside, listening. The regular hum and drip of the greenhouse. The faint scrape of his shoes on the tile. No voices.

He could feel a tension in his chest, at the base of his throat. His stomach was tight. He took a breath, and then he got on with it.

He let the door fall closed behind him and strode down the center aisle, his wand held along his leg.

The venomous tentaculas on either side rattled and rustled their red and green leaves and smiled at him, their eyeless heads turning to follow him as he passed, their vines reaching out. Happy he was back.

The men heard the susurration and looked over their shoulders to watch as he neared. One was already sitting, the other standing at his shoulder. The sitting man smirked—they hadn’t wandered in lost, then.

They were dressed like muggles—so much synthetic fabric.

Neville got to them and saw it—the sitting man held a gun. He began to skirt the table to reach the chair on the other side, and the man looked him up and down in the suit, his gaze lingering on Neville’s hand. He met Neville’s eyes and said, “You put down your stick and I’ll put down mine.”

Neville looked at his stick. It was a Glock 17. No external safety. Seventeen rounds if the magazine was standard. Extremely common in the muggle world—which was why Neville had been trained on it. In Algeria. Estrada and Balmaceda taking the piss until they all stepped onto the shooting range.

Neville’s protego wouldn’t stop a bullet. The kinetic energy was too great.

Neville silently placed his wand at the table’s end, his fingertips remaining in place. He jerked his chin toward the other side of the table, and the man got up and laid down the gun. There was a pause and then Neville lifted his hand as the man did. Neville watched the man as they both took their seats, their weapons out of reach.

“Fernsby said we’d find you here.”

Neville didn’t say anything.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Neville raised a baleful eyebrow.

“McDuffie’s remembered you,” said the man, canting his head as his gaze played over Neville’s expression.

Neville nodded. He’d done some deals he shouldn’t have done. Back when he was living in Hogsmeade. Broke and uncertain and afraid to admit he didn’t know who the people approaching him were or how anything worked. He’d learned to ask questions. He’d learned to say, “I don’t know you.” But first he’d sold some toxins in some exchanges he didn’t like to claim.

(He’d said something once, vague and nearly under his breath, to Balmaceda and Estrada and they’d laughed, rueful. Balmaceda had chucked his chin toward Estrada. “Tell him about your first raid.”

“Ay!” Estrada had grimaced and laughed. He’d looked almost wistful then. “So I’m eighteen, right? I weigh a buck twenty. And I’m lying with my wand in a ditch in the rain, thinking I’ve made a horrible mistake . . .”)

Now Neville said, “Who are you?”

“Jones,” said the man, not trying to sell it.

Neville waited.

“Gaffer’s been thinking on you. Don’t know how much you keep up on things—bloody Prince of Darkness and all that. No? Well, he’s banged up now, isn’t he? But the Mandem have got the gaffer thinking. Thinking we could use a witch doctor of our own—”

“That’s not my practice,” said Neville.

“Sure, all right.” The man’s jaw shifted forward as he evaluated Neville. “But you can do the same thing—”

Neville was shaking his head. “That’s not what I do.”

“Lambie—”

“Is none of my business,” said Neville.

Some of the muggle gangs used magic from other cultures. There was a lot of magic in the world. Most of it had the same underlying principles. Much of it was practiced semi-openly—muggles trying to outlaw or discredit it when they colonized its regions. But Neville did not pretend to understand magic he had not been brought up in. And he wasn’t interested in pledging the magic he did know to a muggle crime firm.

“But I have business with you. We’ll start simple. The gaffer wants more of that from last time—the plant venom. You have it?”

“It’s here,” said Neville.

“So we’re all set,” said Jones.

“I’m not selling,” said Neville.

“That works for me, too.” Jones tilted his chin up. “It’s simple, see? I can buy it from you. Or I can take it. Pop something you don’t need, like a knee. Silver or lead. You choose.”

Neville’s anger had been building and now he could feel it, hard and heavy, in his chest. He was on his own property. He didn’t need to put up with this shit.

“Either way,” said Jones, “I’m leaving with it.”

Neville shook his head. “No part of that statement is true.”

Jones narrowed his eyes as the man behind him shifted his weight.

Neville looked, dead-eyed, at them.

“You might want to rethink that, pal—”

Neville raised his hand—

Neville didn’t have his wand. But the point of a wand was to focus magic, and years of practice did that too. Neville had learned not to rely on a stick.

“Who is this?” he asked, pointing to the standing man.

“Never mind him. He’s with me—”

“Glacius—”

Jones had ducked—

“Bombarda—”

The man’s frozen body exploded with a noise like a thunderclap.

“Now he’s mulch,” said Neville—ears ringing, face wet.

Time slowed. Neville could feel icy flecks sliding down his neck. Jones’s back would be coated—

Then Jones was pulling his back-up—

But Neville had accioed the Glock—

Right into his hand—

Neville pulled the trigger—

—and emptied the magazine into Jones. Just like he’d been trained.

It was the standard seventeen rounds.

Neville exhaled—

And lowered the gun.

Set it onto the table.

Wiped his face with his hand.

He was deaf, his eardrums aching. Muggle firearms were shockingly loud. The humid greenhouse air was acrid with blood and gunpowder and piss and shit.

Neville accioed his wand. Then he stood to strip off the gore-spattered suit.

He had two pulped bodies to clean up. A lot of pulverized tile. The chair was kindling.

Neville didn’t feel anything for these men but a dull, resolute anger. He was unhappy about the state of his tile. He was furious with Fernsby. He’d told Fernsby he wasn’t selling, and Fernsby hadn’t fucking listened. No one ever listened to him.

He couldn’t hear it, but he knew the plants were rattling and rustling. He could see them shrinking back, whipping their vines—agitated.

Neville shrugged off the suit jacket.

They’d feel better once he’d fed them.

Neville worked methodically, scourgifying and reparoing while he ruminated about Fernsby and McDuffie. The anger sat, heavy, at the base of his throat. He forced himself to think about something more pleasant—he thought about Pansy the day before.

Before he’d seen her off Saturday night, she’d said, “Would you like to come look at muggle makeup with me tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he’d said, by which he’d meant he’d like to look at Pansy look at muggle makeup. He’d been wanting to observe her in her natural habitat.

Her eyes had narrowed and then her brow had lifted in a sort of shrug as she’d decided he was lying but she didn’t care. “The black merino would suit you.”

“Then that’s what I’ll wear.”

She’d find a way to tell him which shirt to put on too. Neville didn’t care which shirt he wore, but he did like the little shoulder wiggle she did when she was pleased. He didn’t mind, either, the way she would fuss with the jacket and call him handsome before she went up on tiptoe to peck him on the lips—his little reward.

Pansy wasn’t subtle—and that was fine. Neville didn’t much enjoy guessing what a witch wanted.

Which was how, just before noon on Sunday, Neville had found himself standing in a high-end department store in a black suit and white shirt, wearing Parkinson cufflinks, while Pansy examined an eyeshadow palette’s packaging. Neville’s eyes had moved over the other shoppers, her arse, the confident way she handled the cosmetics, the other shoppers, her arse, the curve of her neck, the other shoppers, the ways out—

“See, this line is plant-based,” Pansy had said, and Neville had looked to the delicate cardboard sleeve she was tilting toward him and then to her—engrossed in the fine print. He’d shifted closer and then reached past her to pluck the next palette from the shelf.

Neville had been approached by pharmaceutical companies, but not about cosmetics.

Pansy had gone through the displays systematically, saying, “Oh, this is new” and showing Neville a bristling mascara brush, or muttering, “Lilac is in but I refuse.” At one point, she’d put her hand lightly on his upper arm as she’d gazed at an array of lipsticks. He’d stolen a glance at her. She’d been fully engaged in what she was doing—not worrying whether she was boring him or taking too long. He’d looked back at the lipsticks. He didn’t care about any particular color but he liked them all together like this—like a bouquet of flowers.

She’d lifted her hand to make her selections, and Neville had touched her elbow, said, “I’ll be right over here.”

She’d nodded, absorbed, and he’d stepped away.

He’d seen the perfume department—its own little salon, with purple carpet and dark wood and glass shelves.

Neville had stood under the department store lights—too bright, reflecting off every surface—and lifted the testers, one by one, to his nose. He’d been looking for one that smelled like coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms.

He’d found it: Black Opium.

The saleswoman had said it was popular—while she’d eyed him up and down in the suit—but Neville had never smelled it before. It just smelled like Pansy to him.

He'd rejoined Pansy at the till—she’d said, “There you are,” and tilted her cheek and he’d kissed it, the saleswoman’s eyes on him when he lifted his head—and then he’d stood by while she’d bought a passel of lipsticks. Then she’d turned to him and said brightly, “Lunch?”

They’d eaten at the restaurant in a nearby hotel—it had turned out Pansy owned it.

“The muggles have loads of long-wear lipsticks,” she’d told him, showing him various tubes. “But they’re too drying. You have to use these moisturizing primers first—and then they dry out anyway and flake off.”

“And you want to come up with something better,” Neville had said, watching her. Her eye makeup had been less complicated—because it was daytime? But the black bob and black dress had begun to feel increasingly familiar. She’d asked for a black napkin so the white one originally on the table wouldn’t leave lint on her skirt.

“I’m thinking about it,” she’d said. “Because the stasis charm isn’t quite right on its own, and not everyone is good at the beauty charms. So there’s a market for it. But I don’t know that I’m smart enough. Of course, being smart is overrated—look at Nott. He gets bored and can’t be bothered. That’s why he’s always drunk.”

Neville had tucked this assessment away and asked, “And Malfoy?”

She hadn’t hesitated. “Draco’s smart but he needs someone to wind him up and point him in a direction.” She’d raised a wry eyebrow. “Of course, he has Granger for that now—”

“He listens to Hermione?”

Pansy had snorted. “No. But if she’s so smart, she’ll sort him out.”

Neville had paused, his fingertips at the base of a wineglass—faint scars across the first two knuckles, his fingernails cut to the quick, the cuff of the custom shirt still crisp around the Parkinson cufflink. “Is that what you’re doing—sorting me out?”

She’d smiled beatifically at him and batted her eyelashes.

He’d huffed a laugh. No, Pansy wasn’t subtle.

“Anyway,” Pansy had said archly as she’d turned to the menu, “I don’t need to be smart—I’m rich. I can hire smart people.”

Neville had found himself still smiling faintly as he’d considered the looks the Gryffindors would be exchanging if they’d heard her say this. He’d remembered Gran needling Pansy about marrying into a family that worked. Pansy was rich—she didn’t need to be considering the market for cosmetics. But he thought he understood. Her mother might work out how to contest her deputyship. Her cousin would be released from Azkaban. Her father would have made her a spinster, dependent on this cousin for a stipend. Pansy wasn’t sure she would always have her estate.

Now Neville blasted a bloodied pane of greenhouse glass with a focused aqua eructo. He was no longer broke—he didn’t need to sell poison to gangsters. In fact, he was rich—on a miniscule level compared to the Slytherin Sacred 28, but still. He’d left himself a nest egg and tied up the rest in his endeavors. Still . . . so much of it depended on him remaining able-bodied. If he didn’t get himself shot first.

Neville thought of Pansy tilting the eyeshadow pallet toward him, saying, “See, this line is plant-based.”

TUESDAY JULY 22, 2003

Neville used a public owl to send Fernsby an invoice for his chair. There was nothing on the envelope to indicate it was from Neville—so, nothing to warn Fernsby not to open it. Neville was fairly certain Fernsby opened his own post. He’d never seen an assistant in the shop—or any evidence of a cleaning staff.

Half a death cap mushroom could kill a man. The amatoxin in it was not destroyed by cooking, drying, or freezing. Neville had reduced half a cap to powder while wearing a bubble-head charm and gloves, and had dusted the invoice with enough of it that Fernsby would inhale it or rub it into his eye. It probably wouldn’t kill him—but, then again, it might.

Neville had a policy of reminding people not to fuck with him. He’d spent his youth being fucked with. He was over it.

As he left the owlery, he saw Theodore Nott leaving Knockturn. Nott was sauntering in a summer weight suit, an extra button open on his shirt, his signet ring flashing in the sunlight as he twirled his wand. He saw Neville and broke into a wide, feral grin—then he jerked his chin in acknowledgment, right before he disapparated.

It didn’t look like Nott had been bored in Knockturn.

Neville turned toward Wheezes. He would tell George he had a muggle car for him. George would want it.

WEDNESDAY JULY 23, 2003

Seamus was behind his desk. Neville was perched on the credenza, his back to the wall, his legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles. He had a clear view of the floor-to-ceiling glass and anyone walking past.

“What’s the craic, then?” said Seamus.

Katie and Alicia were in the guest chairs. Katie was, officially, the distillery’s Director of Marketing. She’d put her reparations gold into a savings vault and hadn’t touched it. Alicia was the head of sales. Officially.

“We have a training camp in France that’s still all talk. Yaxley cousins in Bulgaria,” said Seamus. “Someone from, we think, Eastern Europe looking for something in Knockturn—may or may not be related. Exiles in Argentina connected to Avery—I reckon that’s where the Mulcibers are at. And Avery setting himself up as the headquarters for the blood purity revival movement in England. That’s the part I don’t like. We had them scared off. Now they’re setting up shop.”

Neville had been gazing at the map on the wall behind Seamus, but now he looked to him. That was it, wasn’t it? He thought of the buzzing, uncertain energy in Knockturn. The anticipation of chickens come home to roost. And his own crew wasn’t set up here—for reasons to do with Shacklebolt.

“You get your appeals in?” he asked, looking between the others.

Everyone nodded wearily.

“How’d it go with your wee girl?” Alicia asked Seamus. She was slouched in her chair, elbows on the armrests. Already starting to grin.

“She thinks I’m cute,” said Seamus.

“You tell her you’re gay?” asked Alicia.

“She said nobody’s perfect.”

Katie and Alicia burst into laughter. “Sounds ideal for her,” said Katie. “Half of this place and a husband who leaves her alone.”

“Aye, she reckons that, too,” said Seamus. “She’s not appealing.”

“I don’t know,” said Katie, looking over at Alicia. “Bit disappointing to find out we’re not meant for each other. Maybe I should give this bloke a chance since he’s my soulmate—”

Alicia blew a raspberry. “You don’t need a soulmate. You need a bitch who’ll put up with this rubbish sense of humor—”

“I had you giggling last night—”

“Cause that feather tickled—”

“Jaysus,” said Seamus. “The Hat split you up to spare us the details.”

“You slip it a knut?” asked Alicia. “You know the Hat can be influenced.”

Neville glanced sharply over. “Only by the person wearing it. It sees what you truly want—”

“But none of us was wearing it,” said Katie. “Someone had to give it some instruction.”

Seamus was shaking his head. “They didn’t use it—”

“That’s what Ron reckons,” said Neville. “He thinks it was Shacklebolt.”

“You think they lied entirely?” asked Katie.

Neville hesitated. Lying about the Hat seemed sacrilege. Too wrong even for the government. But: “The Hat sees the truth. It wouldn’t make false matches. If they’d used it, you’d be matched—”

“Or it saw Katie really wanted that Ravenclaw—”

“Now I’m depressed either way,” said Katie.

“I have something that’ll cheer you up,” said Alicia, bouncing her eyebrows.

The way Katie smiled, she already knew.

Alicia looked to Seamus. “About Crabbe.”

Seamus sat up a little as he and Neville exchanged a look. Crabbe was a true believer embittered by Vincent’s death. The Crabbe elves were conservative and loyal. It was hard to get information out of Crabbe Manor.

“The Crabbe elves won’t talk to me—”

Everyone nodded.

“Obviously. But they talk to the Goyle elves,” said Alicia, “who talk to the Bulstrode elves—”

Katie: “Who are in a turf war with the Flint elves—”

“Is anyone happy about that marriage?” asked Seamus.

 “And Flint must have hacked off the Bulstrode elves—”

Katie: “Probably cheating on Millie—”

“Because they were in a snit. Complaining he’s not at home with the baby. And I said, oh, is he at Avery’s, then—”

Seamus raised his eyebrows.

“—and they said, yes, except Monday night he rushed to Crabbe’s—”

Katie was grinning—

“—because someone had taken out Master Crabbe’s tongue.”

“Fecking hell,” said Seamus, sitting forward.

“Who?” asked Neville, looking between them. “Someone we know?”

“The elves know but won’t tell me—”

“Not someone we know, then. They’d be talking about outsiders.”

 “Outsiders would have to get past the wards. The elves would get to them first,” said Alicia. “This was someone he let in.”

“One of his mates,” said Seamus.

“But who’s psycho enough to cut out someone’s tongue?” asked Katie.

FRIDAY JULY 25, 2003

“Malfoy,” said Ginny, her eyes alive. “He cut out Vance Crabbe’s tongue.”

Neville was in the Grimmauld basement kitchen with Ginny, Harry, Ron, and Susan. Ginny had invited him over. They were drinking muggle beer and ginger ale, Susan picking the salt off her pretzels before she ate them.

“I saw Hermione last night, at the Leaky, after work. She said he and Nott were covered in blood—”

Neville thought of Nott jerking his chin in acknowledgment as he stepped out of Knockturn. Pansy saying you’re with me now. Had she known about this and not told him?

“Why would Malfoy cut out his mate’s father’s tongue?” asked Susan, wrinkling her nose. She’d been careful to collect the salt onto a napkin.

“So, get this—” Ginny raised her eyebrows. “Crabbe insulted members of Malfoy’s household.”

Ron: “Meaning—”

“Her! Obviously!” Ginny threw up her hands. “Crabbe insulted Hermione, and Malfoy cut out his tongue!”

“That’s what Hermione said?”

“Oh, she—” Ginny scrunched her face, waved a hand. “She tried to tell me it’s a power play, Malfoy’s lashing out because she’s lowered his status, blah blah blah. C’mon, it’s plain as day. Malfoy fancies her.”

“Or he’s insane,” said Ron.

“He was flirting at the match,” said Harry. “Even I picked up on that.”

Ron sniggered. “When he explained what a broom was—”

“And the concept of scoring.” Now Ron and Harry were both snorting with laughter.

“I can’t believe you two went along with that,” said Susan. “He cracks some jokes and now he’s all right?”

“I know, but—”

“But she doesn’t pay attention—he had her dead to rights on that—”

“How does he know that, though?” said Ginny. “Eh?”

Ron scoffed. “No one spends more time thinking about muggleborns than blood purists. It’s a fetish.” He looked to Harry. “Remember the porn they used to leave in the boys’ lav?”

Neville did. He’d looked at it—all the boys had. Then he’d been embarrassed—more embarrassed than usual—any time he saw Hermione. His own anodyne fantasies replaced by intrusive thoughts of those pictures.

“What?” Ron was faced off with Susan. “I didn’t go looking for it! It was everywhere before the war.”

It had been, hadn’t it? One of those things that only seemed strange now. They’d taken it for granted then—they hadn’t known better.

“Blokes are so gross,” said Ginny.

Neville still felt a vague shame wash through him, thinking of the images. As though he’d chosen to remember them when he saw Hermione. “It was meant to recruit us,” he said now. “We were meant to think we’d become Death Eaters and get a muggleborn . . . sex slave.”

“Well, Malfoy did—”

“Susan!”

“What?” Her shoulders were drawn up as she looked to Ginny. “I’m just saying—stop romanticizing it. He’s a Death Eater. If this is what he wanted, then he’s getting his way. And if he doesn’t like it, he’ll find a way to hand her over to his mates— What? Just because no one else will say it.”

Ron rolled his head on his neck. “Hermione’s not going to let anyone hand her over—”

“The Ministry already did,” said Susan. “I’m sick of blokes saying that—that this or that witch is too tough to let blokes abuse her. It happens no matter how tough a witch is, and if she actually fights back, she gets the blame. People are already saying Hermione should be nicer to him. He was convicted of genocide, for fuck’s sake!”

“Who’s saying that?” demanded Ron. “That she should be nicer to him.”

“The women at work who want to fuck him. Just ‘cause he’s fit.” Susan widened her eyes at him. “They act like if they talk shit on her loud enough, he’ll pick them instead. It’s all, Couldn’t be me. I’d have folded the second—”

“All right, all right!” Ron had thrown up his palm. “I don’t need to hear it—”

“You think Malfoy’s fit?” asked Harry.

Susan and Ginny both rolled their eyes, though they wouldn’t quite look at each other. Now everyone was disgruntled and tense. This was why Neville didn’t talk to Harry and Ron about his side project—as Malfoy, of all people, called it. They let Susan play the killjoy—they didn’t say, All right, let’s do something about it.

And fair enough. Harry had had to be the Chosen One since he was eleven. He’d already died for them once.

Neville remembered Luna telling him that, after Hermione had been tortured, Harry’d spent hours hand-digging Dobby’s grave while Hermione recovered inside Shell Cottage. When he’d got out of Malfoy Manor, Harry had taken Griphook and the sword—not Hermione. Maybe he’d known Ron would never leave her behind. Maybe Ron had already reached her. But Neville had always wondered about that—wondered why Harry hadn’t done anything for Hermione after she’d jinxed his face to disguise him and then lied through a crucio to save them. He could have dug Dobby’s grave with magic and gone to sit by her side. Why had he been drawn to memorializing Dobby even as he’d avoided her?

“How’s Parkinson?” asked Ron, pulling Neville from his thoughts. Changing the subject.

“She’s fine,” said Neville.

Ron was leaned back, his arm across the back of Susan’s chair. “She’s not a raging bitch to you?”

“No,” said Neville.

A good wife presents a united front.

And a good husband?

Dies at the right time.

She didn’t even expect him to defend her.

Neville remembered her reaching up—

He’d been thrusting into her—the ankle straps of her heels rubbing against his shoulders, her knees to her breasts, her cunt warm and wet and welcoming like it was made for him—and she’d reached up to hold his neck, to pull his face closer to hers, so she could kiss him.

“She’s nice to me,” he said.

They all squinted in confusion.

Neville was in his own clothes—trousers, an old button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. But Ron was eyeing him like he was still in that T&T tuxedo. “So long as you do what she wants, right?”

Neville met his gaze. “Isn’t that everyone?” He turned to Ginny. “Is Hermione all right?”

“She’s fine,” said Ginny.

Susan looked like she wanted to say something.

Neville drank his beer while they talked and ate the pretzels. He could still see the pictures in those wrinkled magazines back at Hogwarts—the fake muggle slave girls in tiny red dresses and gold collars. He remembered Malfoy in that red tuxedo, looking toward the dancefloor. Was it just a fetish? Pansy said Malfoy needed to be pointed in a direction. When he’d cut out Crabbe’s tongue, had he been trying to impress Hermione or Avery?

Neville could feel the tension building in his chest. He could hear Luna saying, I don’t think that’s love. I think that’s something else. How did you know when it was love, and not lust or habit or wanting to feel something? Wanting to feel like you mattered. Pansy had said, I choose you, but did she even know what she was choosing? He hadn’t told her—he hadn’t told her loads of things.

She didn’t know, for instance, why it was a problem that she hadn’t told him about Malfoy cutting out Crabbe’s tongue.

Or she did know. And her loyalties lay elsewhere.

“That’s me, then,” said Neville, and he pushed back from the table—the others looking up as he left. He went home and dug through his dirty laundry, his heart beating harder, his jaw tight.

Malfoy telling her to mention the mandrake culling. Pulling him aside to talk about Argentina. Was any tip ever free? Why was Malfoy trying to worm his way in?

Neville left the cottage again, though it was late to go calling.

Neville stepped out of the main floo at Parkinson Manor. He wasn’t expected—he wasn’t going to apparate into the middle of Pansy’s bedroom. The formal entrance was all black and white checkerboard marble and white pampas grass in standing vases.

Pansy apparated down—alerted by the wards or the elves. She was in a dark green dressing gown, tied tight around her waist, gaping open to show her cleavage. Fuck, she looked good. Neville was staring.

He took a breath and got on with it.

Neville threw the gore-caked suit down to the marble flooring.

Her kohl-lined eyes dropped to the wad of black fabric and dried blood and bone matter and then flicked up to his face—wary.

“Pansy,” he said, “we need to talk.”

Chapter Text

FRIDAY JULY 25, 2003

“I had uninvited visitors at the greenhouse,” said Neville, “and now I’ll have to incendio this suit—”

“Don’t be daft,” said Pansy. “Fennel can clean that. Fen!”

Neville looked between Pansy in her dark green dressing gown and the blood-soaked suit he’d just thrown to the checkerboard marble tile in front of the Parkinson Manor main floo.

Then the elf was there and Pansy was saying, “Fen, please see to Mr. Longbottom’s suit.”

Fennel appraised the ball of viscera-encrusted fabric with a professional eye while Neville glowered, nonplussed, at her and Pansy. Then she turned to Neville with a doting smile and a condescending pat on the leg before she scooped up the suit and popped out with it.

“So sexist,” muttered Pansy. “I’d be told off. Sorry, what were you saying? I interrupted you.”

She’d raised her eyebrows and tilted her chin—her active listening face.

Neville took in her calm expression, the cupid’s bow of her mouth, the even rise and fall of her chest. He sighed, defeated. “Is there somewhere we can sit down?”

“Of course,” she said, stepping to him. Her fingers wrapped round his wrist, and then she’d apparated them to her sitting room.

She pulled him down to sit next to her on a white chaise. “What is the matter with you?” she asked, matter of fact, her knee against his.

Neville laughed—surprised—as he looked away, his eyes roaming over the silk wallpaper.

Merlin.

He looked back to her. He wasn’t laughing now—he could feel his mien going flat and mean. “Pansy, I work with dangerous plants, and sometimes I deal with dangerous men. Two of them came to make demands of me, and I killed them.”

Her expression hadn’t changed. She was waiting for him to get to the point.

“You don’t care who I killed?”

“I don’t know,” said Pansy. “Do I? Was it someone I know?”

“No,” said Neville.

“Then I’m sure you had your reasons,” said Pansy blandly. “You told me not to interfere in your business.”

“I did,” admitted Neville. His eyes moved over her face. “But, next time, it might be someone you know. Because I also hunt Death Eaters.”

“Oh, I know,” said Pansy—she’d perked up, on firmer ground now. “Draco told me. Before dinner with your gran.”

Neville remembered her staring into his eyes, saying, I suppose I’ll have to kill him about her cousin in Azkaban. She’d pressed her body to his, and Neville had smiled. It hadn’t been a joke. He’d known that. “You don’t mind,” he said.

She shrugged, her expression diffident. “I know what side of the war you were on. I can’t be surprised.”

“You don’t want out of the marriage,” said Neville.

“No,” said Pansy.

Neville waited, but it was a silence she didn’t fill. She just looked at him. Neville thought of her pulling his head down to kiss him. Her eyes roving over his body as he undressed. Her asking him to look at muggle makeup with her.

Finally, she tilted her head, her eyes downcast as she reached for his hand. She’d pressed her lips into her mouth. Now she pursed them. “Will you promise, though . . . will you promise not to hurt Draco or Nott?” She looked up at him then—her big eyes especially green above the dressing gown. “They’re not doing anything and—”

“Except taking out Vance Crabbe’s tongue. If you knew, you should have told me—”

“You want to hear my gossip?” Her face had come alive—she looked delighted.

“Pansy.” Neville threw back his head, blinking in disbelief. He looked at her. “Yes, when it’s to do with shifting Death Eater alliances. If Malfoy sets me up to further himself—”

She’d sucked in a breath. “He wouldn’t do that to me!”

“To you?” said Neville, staring at her.

She’d widened her eyes, staring back at him. “He knows I’m finally happy!”

“With me?” said Neville.

“Aren’t you?” she asked. Then: “Don’t answer that—I don’t care.”

Neville laughed—Merlin, she was shirty.

“Draco knows better than to muck up my marriage,” said Pansy, annoyed. “And he’s not kissing the old guard’s arse anyway—”

“Why’d he cut out Crabbe’s tongue?” asked Neville. “Ginny thinks it’s because Crabbe insulted Hermione.”

Pansy pulled a face. “That’s part of it.”

“What’s the rest?”

“Vance was disrespecting Draco as head of house—”

“That’s what Hermione said,” said Neville. “That it was about Malfoy’s status.”

“So she understands him,” said Pansy, shrugging one shoulder. “He could hate her guts and he’s not going to let Vance tell him what to do with her. Of course, Nott thinks Draco did it to cheer him up.”

Neville raised an eyebrow.

“It was a proper telling off like they were children. Reminding Nott of his childhood is not good for him.” The look she gave Neville was significant. “Draco’s letting everyone know they’re not sixteen anymore.”

“He wants the respect his father was given,” said Neville.

Pansy snorted. “He wants more respect. Lucius let Voldemort treat him like a house elf. Then Draco came out of Azkaban looking like shit. Now everyone thinks House Malfoy is weak. Draco has to push back or he’ll be everyone’s bitch.”

Neville felt an uneasy mix of emotions, sitting here on Pansy’s chaise—holding her hand while she dissected pureblood politics with him. He’d come out of the war pushing back. On Shacklebolt. On Robards. Even on Sprout—he hadn’t taken the greenhouse job she’d offered him, and he’d needed it. He’d had to get away from Hogwarts, from everyone telling him who he was. He didn’t want to understand Malfoy now—though he needed to. Which was worse for the world: A hobbled Malfoy lending some other master his money and magic? Or an unfettered Malfoy wreaking havoc?

Neville said, “Being married to Hermione doesn’t make that impossible?”

Pansy shook her head. “Only if he acts like it does. Better to make people think twice before using her against him. He’s sending the message that any member of his household ranks above outsiders with him. That’s why he told Vance he was feeding his tongue to her cat.”

Neville stared at her. He could hear Jones: Cat got your tongue? “Her cat.”

Pansy waved her hand. “That orange thing—”

“Crookshanks.”

“If that’s its name,” said Pansy, skeptical. “It’s always on Draco’s desk now. Or Nott’s lap.”

“Malfoy and Nott get on with Crookshanks.” Ron had complained about Crooks for years. The cat was a terror. All it did was bite and scratch.

“Oh, it’s sickening,” said Pansy, her nose scrunched. “Draco pretends to hate it and then you catch him sweet-talking it—”

“What’s he say?” asked Neville.

“Oh, you know—” Her voice went sing-song. “Look at you, you’re disgusting, you’ve ruined my life. Like it’s a baby.”

“And Crooks lets him.”

Pansy shrugged.

“But he didn’t actually feed Crooks the tongue—”

“Oh, he did,” said Pansy confidently. “He had the kitchen dice it.”

“Right,” said Neville, making a mental note: Crookshanks now had a taste for human flesh. And Malfoy didn’t bluff. But Pansy’s explanation was more reassuring than Ginny’s idea that Malfoy was in love. Could Neville trust the hunger he saw in Malfoy’s eyes to be more than fascination? No. Could he trust Malfoy to act out of vicious self-interest? Yes.

She’d made her affect appealing. “So, will you promise—”

“Pansy,” he said, “I will promise not to hurt Malfoy and Nott if you promise not to tell them that.”

A wicked grin was spreading across her face. “I won’t tell them,” she said, tilting her chin up. Her hand was on his thigh—she was pushing up to kiss him.

I’m finally happy.

Aren’t you?

2000

Neville was finally happy. He had a girlfriend, and he was the only one she wanted. She’d said, “Here’s to us,” and he’d come back the next night and she’d smiled and, that was it, there was an us.

Now they were at Cho Chang’s winter wedding in Muggle London, and Neville was feeling underdressed. He was in a suit and tie—nothing wrong with it. But Cho was marrying some sort of muggle athlete—a footballer—and Neville had never seen such a fuss.

“New money,” Gran would have sniffed. The Longbottoms were old money without the money—Neville had the bloodline, and that was it. Gran’s house was dark and dreary, the carpets worn, the taxidermy balding. But Gran would have turned up her nose at the thick, diamond-encrusted chains these men were wearing. Their odd haircuts. The suits in shiny fabrics. And the women—tall and thin with round, pushed-up breasts, their dresses painted on, with cut-outs in places Neville wasn’t used to seeing flesh. Apparently, Cho’s footballer was a professional, paid millions by a top club—a few of Hannah’s regulars followed the sport for the novelty and had been filling everyone in. Hannah said Cho’s man wasn’t a top player—but the top players were in attendance, judging by the press camped in the freezing cold outside the hotel.

They were currently in a ballroom—all cream walls with gilt accents. Somehow too much even without color. Too much cream. Too much gold. Too many flowers—all blush roses. Ostentatious and boring.

Neville could tell Hannah’s dress was conservatively cut, somehow too casual. The witches were exchanging looks and then coming back from the lavatory with their frocks transfigured. But Hannah hadn’t bothered to lower her neckline or lengthen her skirt. She just sat between Neville and Ernie Macmillan and said, “Oh my Merlin, where did Cho meet this bloke?” Neville suspected they had been last-minute additions to the guest list, meant to fill seats so Cho’s side wouldn’t look empty.

Cho walked down the aisle. She was in white—a big skirt, with a lot of skin showing on top.

“Helga’s humps—how many glamours is she using?” whispered Hannah.

Cho looked like the muggle women with the other footballers, but Neville couldn’t exactly say how. She hadn’t worn makeup at school and now she wore a lot—maybe that was it. But she’d always been pretty. He couldn’t tell what Hannah thought was glamoured.

Neville scanned the room, noting the ways out. He held Hannah’s hand while Cho and her footballer stood though a poetry reading and an unfamiliar song. It was a strange ceremony—no bond, only an exchange of rings. But first the officiant gave a little speech. Neville realized the muggles thought Cho’s name was Melanie. (Had she met the bloke clubbing? Neville had heard Lavender and Parvati, in the common room, telling a gaggle of fourth years not to give blokes their names. “Just tell him it’s Sarah,” Lavender had said. “All the muggles are called Sarah or Emma.”)

Finally, it was over. They were standing, waiting for their turn to file out to the reception, when Hannah shook her head. “I’m having a traditional bond. Not all this to do.”

Neville felt a squirming sensation in his chest. “You want to get married?”

“What, to you?” She laughed when she saw him freeze. “Maybe when it’s been more than two months—”

“No, I mean—” He could feel his cheeks flushing. “At all. You don’t think marriage is a social construct that’s, historically, bad for women?”

She was staring up at him, her lips parted. Then she burst into laughter. “What are you on about? Of course I want to get married. Who doesn’t want to get married?”

Luna. Except she and Rolf were married now—Neville had seen the announcement.

“Where did you hear that? Marriage is a social whatsit—”

“I don’t know,” said Neville. He was not quite shrugging, not quite shaking his head—smiling a little. She made it sound daft. “Nowhere.”

She’d narrowed her eyes at him, but she was smirking. “Ask me again when it’s been more than two months.”

His smile faltered—his mouth just open, his eyes moving over her face. She wanted to marry him? He said, “All right, I will.”

Neville was standing outside a newly rebuilt wing of Gage Manor, looking at charred rose bushes with the elderly Gage matriarch.

“There was an unfortunate incident,” said Lady Gage, waving a withered hand toward the stonework, “after the war.”

Neville nodded. The unfortunate incident had been him bombing the manor.

When Neville had got the letter inviting him to submit a proposal and bid to renovate the Gage gardens, he’d agreed to the meeting because he’d thought it was a trap. He’d reckoned the Gages meant to kill him, and he’d wanted to find out what that looked like.

“The boys have gone to Cologne—”

Neville made a noncommittal noise. Interesting. The boys were her middle-aged sons.

“—but I think the grounds are worth salvaging. They’ll see when they’re back for the holidays.” She peered up at him then, frowning. “Longbottom. You’re pureblood. Related to Callidora Black Longbottom.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Neville.

She patted his arm. “We’ll give the job to you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Neville, because he refused to say thank you to a blood purist.

Neville and Hannah were at George and Angelina’s wedding.

“Oh my Merlin, she looks amazing,” breathed Hannah as Angelina joined George in front of the officiant, in the tent behind the Burrow—everything decorated with orange Gerbera daisies and autumn leaves.

She did. They were in purple—her dress and his frock coat—a rich jewel tone that looked good against her brown skin. George’s waistcoat was patterned with red and orange and gold that played off his ginger hair. They were perfect together. A matched set.

Neville remembered George crying in the kitchen of Shell Cottage, afraid that Angelina would leave him. Did she look at George and see Fred? Or did they look entirely different to her, because she knew them each so well—the way the plants in Neville’s new greenhouse were each distinct to him?

It was a short, traditional bond—George and Angelina grasping each other’s wrists. Neville could see his face—he looked entranced by her, holding his breath like something was just about to happen and he didn’t want to miss it.

And then it was a big party. Lee Jordan toasting the happy couple. Katie and Alicia and George and Angelina and Harry throwing their arms wide as they told old stories—the Gryffindor quidditch team reunited, reliving their greatest plays. Angelina’s aunties dominating the dance floor while her father and uncles smoked cigars outside with Arthur.

Neville found himself standing with Hannah and Ginny, Susan Bones and Ernie Macmillan having just walked up—Ginny watching with her nose wrinkled as Ron danced with Romilda Vane.

“I can’t believe he brought that twat,” said Ginny. “He’s only done it to show up Hermione.”

“Witch Weekly’s reported they’re dating,” said Susan as Neville glanced over to where Molly had Hermione boxed in by the punch, gesturing while she talked.

Ginny snorted. “This week. Next week he’ll be on to someone else.”

“You couldn’t pay me to date a fuckboy,” said Susan, shaking her head. “No matter how fit he is.”

Macmillan looked sharply over—they’d come together.

Hannah: “Or one of those blokes into polyamory and threesomes—”

“Uch,” grimaced Susan.

Now Hannah looked up at Neville, the corner of her mouth quirking. He just had to take it. He raised an eyebrow. This again?

“If a bloke won’t date to marry, he’s just using you,” said Susan.

“Don’t say that in front of Laura,” said Ginny, and all the witches leaned in. “She and Charlie have been together for yonks. She keeps breaking it off with him, thinking that will get him to propose. She missed Bill’s wedding that way—but at least Bill’s older. Now she’s got to watch his younger brother get married. Not just younger—six years. She is so hacked off right now.”

Neville couldn’t help glancing over—probably his whole circle had done. Charlie’s hand was at the lower back of a smart-looking brunette in gold jewelry. But he was talking to Bill. He threw back his head and laughed as she watched the dancefloor, her expression faintly critical.

“Was she at your wedding?” asked Susan. “I’ve never seen her before.”

Ginny was shaking her head. “Broken up then too. I think Charlie does something on purpose every time there’s a wedding so he won’t have to bring her round—have her talking to Mum about them being next.”

Now Laura said something to Charlie and he turned with a smile, guileless. Then they were headed to the dancefloor, and Neville and Hannah ended up there too—though they were a bit shit at it. Beside them, Dean was ducking under Seamus’s arm—Seamus always led, and then the height difference fucked up the twirls. Charlie spun Laura back into him, grinning, and she smirked like she had his number. They were a handsome couple with his square jaw and wild curls, her strong nose and wry mouth. Neville thought how, to see them—dancing close, her hand gripping his shoulder—you’d think them well-suited.

Then, somehow, two—or three?—hours had passed. Neville was pissed. Hannah was used to working nights—still fresh-faced and laughing. Neville thought how she’d been so easily flustered at school. Work had been good for her. She liked the routine, the labor. She was more confident now. They were alike that way, he supposed. Well-suited.

The nights were chilly this time of year but it was stifling in the tent. Neville was down to his shirtsleeves—all the men were. But George was putting his frock coat on Angelina, calling, “Charlie! Come help with the fireworks!”

Charlie was standing up—his shirt was mostly unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up. Neville could see the burn—now healed—on his freckled chest. He had a firewhisky bottle by the neck.

Laura was looking up at him—she’d been sitting beside him at the table. “You’re too pissed for this.” She had hold of his wrist.

“I’m just pissed enough.” He took a slug from the bottle.

“This is such—"

“Bring the firewhisky!” called George.

Then Charlie was shaking Laura’s hand off, grinning, tripping away from the table—

“Charlie.” Her teeth were clenched.

“It’s my brother’s wedding!” A big, theatrical shrug—which only displayed the bottle in his hand.

Then George’s arm was thrown over his shoulders and they were ducking out of the tent with Angelina right behind, drumming a little cadence on George’s back that had him looking over his shoulder and leaning back to kiss her—all three of them tumbling out of sight.

“Arsehole.” Laura was up and striding toward the flap opposite. Neville didn’t know if she was leaving the tent or leaving Charlie. She looked furious.

“Poor Laura,” murmured Hannah, and Neville leaned toward her. “I suppose it is George’s last hurrah—”

“What d’you mean?” asked Neville.

She’d widened her eyes like it was obvious. “Now that he’s married, he’ll have to settle down.”

Neville searched her face. “I think this is as settled down as George gets.”

“I know, but Angelina isn’t going to want him doing all this stuff—”

“She’s out there now, watching him prep drunk fireworks—”

“Right, but—they’re going to start having children. Angelina’s not going to want him doing all that stuff.”

She was raising her eyebrows like Neville was slow. He was slow—because he was pissed. Hannah knew he and George and Seamus and Alicia had cased Rowle and Travers and Montague after Neville had done more work at pureblood manors, referred by Mrs. Gage to her whist circle—the men paying no mind at all to who their mothers hired. There’d been meetings at the Hog’s Head with Bill’s and Dionisio’s contacts. There had been an afternoon when Shacklebolt had come by the greenhouse and Neville had thought he was being arrested. They shouldn’t be talking about it here. But also: “He’s never said anything about children.”

Angelina had just finished her magiengineering mastery. She’d taken a high-paying job.

“Neville.” Hannah’s tone was firm. “It just stands to reason. That’s what you do. You get married, you have kids, you stop with the bullshit.”

“I mean, setting aside the fact that George is sort of the king of bullshit . . .” Neville was definitely too drunk for this conversation. “You think it’s bullshit?”

How could Hannah say that when her mother had been murdered by Death Eaters? Neville had thought—

“FIREWORKS!” George’s voice reverberated with the sonorous. “GET OUT HERE BEFORE WE BURN IT ALL DOWN.”

“George!” yelled Molly.

Neville did ask her again, on the one-year anniversary of that first Here’s to us.

“Want to get married?” he asked. “To me?”

They were at dinner, at the table. He didn’t go down on one knee—she’d be embarrassed if he made a scene in the restaurant.

“Oh my Merlin!” she gasped when he lifted the lid on the box.

Neville was beaming, watching her face.

It was a diamond flanked by canary yellow diamonds, since Hannah was proud of being a Puff. He’d thought it a nice touch, something that made the ring personal.

“It’s too much,” she said.

“No, it’s not,” he said. “I want you to have something nice.”

“Nice?” said Hannah. “Neville, it’s enormous.”

He put it on her finger, and she kept looking at it.

After that night, the ring sat in its box on top of Hannah’s bureau. It was too large for everyday wear, she said. Impractical while she was working—it would catch on her jumper, get banged on the kegs, attract the wrong kind of attention. She didn’t want to be mugged after last call.

“I’m not meaning to get you mugged,” said Neville.

“I didn’t say you were,” she said.

Sometimes, when Hannah was downstairs in the pub, Neville would open the box and look at the ring. He felt a twist of shame now. He could hear his gran saying, New money. He’d miscalculated—got ostentatious. Picked out something that made him feel like a big man instead of what she’d like. He should have asked Susan’s opinion—she was Hannah’s best mate, had the same taste. But he hadn’t wanted to take another witch ring-shopping. He could hear Susan and Hannah teasing him about it later, in ways that weren’t fun. (Was being teased ever fun? No. It was criticism.)

Then Hannah would wear the ring for special occasions—rare when she worked nights and weekends, but Macmillan also worked in Diagon and would sometimes manage the pub for her—and Neville would think he was overreacting. It was fine. She worked with her hands—just like him. She liked the ring. Hadn’t she said that? (Hadn’t she?) It was fine.

MONDAY JULY 28, 2003

Neville woke to tapping at his window. Owls delivering newspapers he hadn’t ordered. He stood in his pants and scanned the headlines. It seemed news of his match had leaked, and the press had run low on Malfoy material.

THE SWORD AND THE SNAKE

SWORD OF GRYFFINDOR TO WED SLYTHERIN HEIRESS

GRYFFINDOR HERO MATCHED TO MALFOY EX

SORTED: How the Ministry Helped the Golden Girl and the Sword of Gryffindor Find Love Among the Snakes

Rita Skeeter had got the grieving Creevey parents to sell her the undeveloped film from Colin’s camera, and now—just like every year on the anniversary of the Battle—Neville came face to face with himself on one of the worst days of his life. (One of—Merlin.) Blood caking his forehead. Soot from his own singed hair streaked down his cheek. Still holding the sword.

He looked angry—and he had been.

Neville didn’t know who had taken the picture. Colin had been dead by then.

This was the picture that had prompted the tabloids to give him the epithet of an Arthurian knight. Neville suspected his role in the Battle would have been largely forgotten without this photographic proof. That would have been all right.

Next to him on the front pages, the pictures of Pansy varied. At the hearing that had led to her probation: her hair shorter, dark circles under her eyes, spots on her face. Dressed as a siren at the Ministry reception: her expression cold and imperious. And then a photo Neville had never seen before, under the Wizarding World News headline identifying her as Malfoy’s ex: her with Malfoy in a dark nightclub.

They were sweaty and bleary-eyed, a drink in her hand, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he leered at her chest. Clearly underage. They looked rich and sleazy. This was the Malfoy and Parkinson Neville remembered from Hogwarts.

One of their mates had to have sold it—this hadn’t been meant for the press. Crabbe was dead, Goyle in prison. Zabini was in Milan, married to an Italian pureblood and working in finance. (With no family or property in Britain and the snakes unpopular after the war, he’d got out as soon as he could. Neville had kept tabs on him.) A Greengrass sister? Bulstrode? Even the question took Neville back to being fifteen, averting his gaze from the Slytherin table before they caught him watching. Seeing them again in this picture, realizing how young they had been, did he feel a new empathy for them?

No.

This was Malfoy’s Parkinson. If she’d seen him looking, she’d have called him a fat fucking squib—and that would have been the nice part of her remarks. They had been mean. They had been shitty. Neville didn’t owe them anything.

Neville got dressed and went to visit his mother, in case she’d seen his picture in the papers. (It wouldn’t matter if she had.) He wore his old clothes, in case they helped her to recognize him. (She wouldn’t know him, whatever he wore.) He found her eating breakfast, paying no mind to the Prophet open on her bed.

“I’m betrothed, Mum. Again.” He said it softly. Futilely. He knew she didn’t understand.

When he’d been with Hannah, she’d been to visit his mother. She’d talked to Alice brightly, eyes wide and encouraging. Shown her the ring with the canary yellow diamonds. His mother had looked away, scanning for something no one else could see.

Neville didn’t try to explain himself now. He watched his mother eat her breakfast, the pressure slowly building in his chest.

That image from the pamphlet was in his head: Bellatrix, her hand raised in benediction. He hated that he saw his mother and that’s where his thoughts turned. The two of them tied together forever for him. He was brooding now, thinking about that altar. He left and went to Knockturn.

People pushed past him as he looked for the stall—

Black curls out of the corner of his eye—his head whipped around as they disappeared into the crowd.

It couldn’t be.

He could smell acrid smoke and offal. He was flashing back to the Great Hall. He was—

“Insane—”

“His wife—the mudblood.”

The witches from the kiosks were huddled together, glancing over from the gutter as they gossiped. Neville could still smell smoke. A boy was selling discarded copies of the Prophet. “What’s happened?” asked Neville, giving him a knut.

“They’re saying it’s Nott!” The boy chucked his head, gleeful, at the shopfront where they stood. “Bloodworth’s the third this week!”

Neville looked at the window display of stale potion ingredients. He nodded to the boy and moved to try the door. Unlocked.

Inside, the shop reeked like a rubbish fire. The usual dusty, cluttered shelves—Neville had been here before, dealt with this broker. The stench got stronger as he made his way to the office in back. He pushed open the door and Bloodworth—bent over a case of vials occupying his guest chair—took one look and jolted upright.

“So now it’s her side too!” Bloodworth had thrown up his hands—something off about the right one. “Malfoy’s man has already been—as you can well see.”

He was gesturing bitterly toward his charred desk, the scorched wallpaper behind it, but Neville kept his eyes on the man.

“I was only asking after clippings. A molar? She wouldn’t have missed it—”

Neville stepped forward and grabbed his hand—a thumb and three fingers. A smooth, bright pink stub—episkeyed but not regrown. “You weren’t asking for a finger?”

The man tried to wrench his hand away—

But Neville had tightened his grip. He could see the three fingers were missing their nails. However Nott had torn them out, it had hurt.

“He made his point, all right?” The man was glaring up at him.

“Who’s your buyer?” said Neville.

“No one now—”

Neville canted his head, his eyes narrowing.

“I don’t know, all right? Word is someone’s looking to buy. I reckoned, once I got something, I’d put the word out—”

“And invite your competitors to rob you?” said Neville dryly. “Who’s your buyer?”

The man’s mouth was a thin, hard line.

“One of these days—and you won’t know which—I will make sure everyone entering this shop dies—”

“All right! All right. There is someone looking to buy but Avery means to get there first—”

“What does he want with—”

“Why wouldn’t he want a relic from the Golden Girl?”

“Be specific.”

“I don’t know, all right—”

Neville squeezed—

“I don’t know! I only know it has to be her!”

Neville dropped Bloodworth’s hand. “If I find Malfoy’s man, will he tell me you don’t know? Or do I have to pull out the rest of your fingernails—”

“He didn’t even ask!” The man was frantic now. He was snarling when he shook his splayed fingers in Neville’s face. “He said Malfoy doesn’t share, and then he did this for fun.”

Neville didn’t allow himself to react. He’d heard Nott had a dark side—the sort that was cheered by cutting out a bully’s tongue.

Neville left Bloodworth’s shop and pulled the door closed behind him. He wouldn’t coat the doorknob with a hemlock gel—this time.

Neville walked down the Alley toward Diagon, thinking about Malfoy and Nott and Crookshanks.

TUESDAY JULY 29, 2003

It was first thing in the morning, still relatively cool. Neville was in the depths of the greenhouse, preparing to repot his mandrakes. He hadn’t put in the earplugs yet—he could hear rapid heel clicks coming down the center aisle.

Pansy was here.

He hadn’t seen her since the papers ran those pictures. He’d been avoiding her, he realized, though she couldn’t know that—it had only been twenty-four hours.

He turned and there she was, coming at him, her face stricken. She shook the parchment in her hand. “Have you opened your post? Have you seen this!”

“No,” said Neville, keeping his expression neutral. “What is it?”

“An overdue notice! They’re calling us in to the Ministry—we have to appear. They’re saying we’re overdue!” She’d come to a halt out of his reach. “They’re going to marry us on the spot. This is not what I want. This is not what I want!”

She’d screamed the last—she looked ready to blow all the glass out of his greenhouse with accidental magic. She looked ready to burst into tears.

“Pansy, come here,” said Neville, unmoving.

She immediately dropped the notice and stepped into him.

This wasn’t Malfoy’s Parkinson. This was his Pansy.

He hugged her to him—hard—and counted down from twenty. He could feel the bones of her shoulder blades. The life thrumming through her as she breathed against him. Her arms locked around him.

He could smell the loam behind him and a whiff of mildew he needed to find and scourgify and coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms—his life and her life mixing together. Sadness washed through him, and he realized he didn’t want to be married on the spot either. He’d always felt there was something wrong with him—he didn’t get the things other people got. But if Pansy wanted a real wedding, he wanted one too. He didn’t want that to be something other people got and he didn’t. He didn’t want his life with Pansy to start with a disappointment.

He felt her shoulders drop and her breathing slow, and then she was pushing back and he let go.

She opened her eyes wide, blinking, and took a deep breath. She wasn’t going to cry—that would ruin her makeup.

He took her hand, her lacquered fingertips on his scarred knuckles.

“Come tell me which shirt to wear,” he said, “and we’ll take care of this.”

Chapter Text

TUESDAY JULY 29, 2003

Neville was in a black three-piece suit and a white shirt, freshly shaven, wearing Parkinson cufflinks and sitting with Pansy in mismatched Ministry guest chairs on level two. They were across from a case worker he suspected had been a seventh year only months earlier. Somehow, when Pansy had shaken the Ministry notice at him, Neville had imagined explaining himself to Shacklebolt. But of course reality was much pettier.

It wasn’t a coincidence, Neville thought, that they had been called in—informed they were overdue to wed—a day after every newspaper had featured them. The Malfoys had not gone quietly into mandatory marital bliss, and now the populace had been reminded that he and Pansy hadn’t even been bonded.

“I’ve pulled your file,” said the young man. “What do we have . . . Pansy Padgett Parkinson. Date of birth: January 13, 1980. Neville Francis Longbottom. Date of birth: July 30, 1980.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Neville saw Pansy shift in her seat.

“You were matched the thirtieth of June—”

“It hasn’t been a month,” snapped Pansy.

“A bonding ceremony takes two minutes.”

Pansy stiffened. “We’re having a proper event. With an officiant of our choosing. And attendants—”

“Who is your officiant?” asked the case worker, his quill hovering over his form.

“I haven’t selected—”

“The names of your attendants?”

“What does it matter?” asked Pansy.

“We’ll be contacting them for confirmation—”

“That’s ridiculous—”

“Miss Parkinson, we have families going to ridiculous lengths to delay. If you’re telling me you haven’t complied with the law because you are planning a ceremony, you should be able to name an officiant or your attendants—”

“Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott, the Second,” spat Pansy.

“And what is your relation to them?”

Pansy had narrowed her eyes. “We were all charged with conspiracy to commit genocide.”

The boy flinched, and Neville sighed. The young man’s hand was swaying over the form. It looked like a gear had slipped.

Neville asked it while the boy was distracted: “How are other people delaying?”

The young man cleared his throat and said, “Apparently everyone is a homosexual now.”

“What if they are?” said Neville, sharpish. “With long-term partners.”

The young man shook his head, flustered. “The law is the law. Not even the muggles let homosexuals marry each other—”

“What if they’re already bonded?”

He was still shaking his head, but his widened eyes said he had no idea. “The Ministry employs oathbreakers? Or maybe they’re prosecuted—”

“Aren’t there exemptions?” asked Neville.

The clerk grimaced. “The whole point of the law is that it apply to everyone. Fair’s fair.”

“That’s not fair at all,” snapped Pansy. “And there are exemptions—for insanity. Nott has one.”

The clerk’s expression said Pansy’s choice of attendants was truly disturbing. “Yes. Well.” He tucked his chin and consulted the calendar on his desk blotter. “I can give you two weeks—”

“Two weeks!” shrieked Pansy. She’d leaned forward like she was ready to lunge across the desk.

“Take us to Shacklebolt,” said Neville.

“The Minister isn’t—”

“Tell him it’s Longbottom.”

“I’ve already offered a photo exclusive to Witch Weekly. This will be a marketing coup for the Ministry and your idiotic Reconciliation Act—if you give me the time to plan properly. I would think you’d welcome good publicity after your Malfoy debacle.”

Shacklebolt regarded her wearily. Pansy had given the Minister an earful from the moment she’d marched into his office, Neville’s hand at her back. Neville hadn’t said a word. They were sitting in Shacklebolt’s guest chairs, Pansy to Neville’s left.

Finally, Shacklebolt turned to Neville. “Do you have anything to add?”

“Pansy,” said Neville, his eyes not leaving Shacklebolt’s, “wait for me outside.”

Shacklebolt’s eyes darted to Pansy but Neville did not look to her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her rise from her chair. She placed a light hand on his shoulder as she turned for the door.

Shacklebolt’s eyes tracked her. Neville heard the door open and close, and then he was alone with the Minister of Magic.

The Minister looked to him. “It would seem Miss Parkinson—”

“I’m not your soldier, Shacklebolt,” said Neville. “And I’m not your salesman.”

Shacklebolt’s expression had hardened.

“But I told Pansy she would have the wedding she wants. If you make me break that promise, I will break some promises I’ve made to you too.”

Pansy was sitting in a chair in the antechamber to the Minister’s office, flipping the pages of a magazine and ignoring Shacklebolt’s secretary.

She looked up as soon as he crossed the threshold and shoved the magazine back into her handbag.

She rose as he approached, smoothing her skirt.

Neville was very, very angry. His jaw flexed as he swallowed. He wasn’t going to let it out.

He bent to kiss her cheek, and when he straightened, her chin was lifted, her expression haughty.

“We have until year’s end,” he said. “But I had to cut a deal.”

“What kind?” Her mouth had barely moved. She knew the secretary was listening.

Shacklebolt had looked down at the partially completed form the clerk had left on his desk. He’d raised his eyes to Neville and said, “So Miss Parkinson wants to give me good publicity, does she?”

Now Neville pursed his lips. His words were clipped: “Shacklebolt does want a marketing coup. A true reconciliation wedding. So, with your side of the bond representing the war criminals, he’s insisting my attendants be my fellow D.A. leaders.”

“So, Finnigan—”

“Ginny and Luna,” said Neville.

Neville had said no. Shacklebolt had made threats. Neville had had to decide how badly he wanted to keep his promise to Pansy and stay out of Azkaban.

“It’s a good visual,” said Pansy. “Two fit witches across from my gits—Witch Weekly will love it.” She straightened as she took a deep breath. “Lunch, then?”

“Wherever you’d like,” said Neville.

Twenty minutes later, they were seated at a high-end muggle restaurant, all cloth napkins and wineglasses and leather-bound menus. Pansy had been cold as they’d made their way here. Neville had been watching her out of the side of his eye, distanced by his own looping thoughts.

Finally, she snapped, “Why are you so angry? I thought Lovegood and Weasley were your friends.”

“I don’t want my ex-girlfriend as my attendant,” said Neville, ready to say some things about Malfoy. Then: “Isn’t that why you’re angry?”

“I’m not fussed you took the She-Weasel to the Yule Ball,” said Pansy, fussing with her napkin.

“I meant Luna,” said Neville. “You know who I took to the Yule Ball?”

Pansy made a face like she didn’t see why that was surprising.

“I dated Luna for a year,” said Neville. Didn’t everyone know that? It had felt that way to him. But, then, Pansy’s father had been on trial. She’d been on probation.

Pansy looked unimpressed. “Who broke it off?”

“I did.”

“Why?” she asked. There was nothing coy in her expression. She was evaluating him.

“She wanted an open relationship.”

“And that’s against your rules,” said Pansy.

Neville didn’t say anything. That way he wasn’t lying. And he wasn’t telling the truth.

Pansy opened her menu. “She just slept with Nott and the dragon Weasley at the Ministry reception. I don’t think there’s any risk of you taking her back.”

“I couldn’t take her back if I wanted to,” said Neville, “since Shacklebolt has hand-selected every witch in my wedding and decided where she’ll stand—”

“He didn’t pick me—”

“Well, it wasn’t the Hat.”

She looked at him sharply.

“If the Hat had been involved, there’d be gay couples,” said Neville. “It’s all politics.”

She sucked in a breath, her jaw set. Then she turned her sullen face toward the list of lunch entrees.

“If it’s not Luna, what are you cross about?” asked Neville. “You were angry before we got here.”

“If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you,” said Pansy.

Neville closed his eyes. He couldn’t control other people. He could only control himself. He sighed and stopped himself from saying suit yourself. He looked at her and said, “I hope you do tell me.”

Pansy shifted in her seat, her mouth twisting. “I’m having the lamb,” she said finally. “What are you having?”

“The chicken,” said Neville.

She slapped her menu shut and the waiter came over to take her wine order.

2001

Neville and Hannah had just found Seamus and Dean outside the tent at the reception after Terry Boot’s bonding ceremony. Same-sex unions weren’t legal in the muggle world and went unrecognized by the Ministry, but Boot had found an officiant who would do it. Now Neville scanned the people milling about. Boot’s husband had gone to Beauxbatons—Neville didn’t know him or half the guests.

Alicia was walking up, flashing a two-finger salute. “Be gay—”

“—do crime,” said Seamus, saluting her back.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you two,” said Dean.

“Bum us a smoke off Corner?” suggested Seamus.

Dean shook his head and walked off.

“Was that a yes?” asked Alicia.

Seamus shrugged. He turned to Neville, “How’s your gympie gympie?”

“Afraid to find out,” said Neville, and everyone but Hannah laughed.

Neville was mostly joking—he was confident enough in his skills that he wasn’t afraid of the gympie gympie, but he did have a healthy respect for it. He’d collected his from the Australian rainforest, wearing a bubbleheaded charm, gloves, and a boiler suit coated in wax. He’d burned everything he’d been wearing as soon as he’d got the sample under a stasis charm and packed for transport. The gympie gympie was called the suicide plant because you would most likely avada yourself if its nettles stung you. The muggle botanist Marina Hurley had described the sensation as “being burned by hot acid and electrocuted at the same time.” The pain was said to last for years. Neville had it in its own rainforest outbuilding behind the greenhouse.

Hannah had been against him collecting it, though she’d never quite said so.

“It’s so far away.”

“Sounds like more trouble than it’s worth.”

“But what are you going to do with it?”

She’d gone distant and doubtful as he’d made his plans, her protests minor but persistent. Finally, he’d asked, “Why don’t you want me to get it?”

She’d shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. It just seems like . . . overkill. I don’t see why you need it.”

Neville had gone to get it anyway. It’d been a physically taxing trip. He’d sweated out the wand water as fast as he’d drunk it. It had been Balmaceda’s connect who had linked him up with the guide. Neville had gone the last leg alone—the man didn’t want anywhere near the gympie gympie. The nettles were fine and dense, and they shed—it was possible to breathe them in without touching the plant. Hannah had been right—it was far away, it was a lot of trouble. He’d come out of the rainforest dehydrated and bug-bitten, down a stone. But it was worth it to Neville. He wanted the gympie gympie.

While he was still in Australia, he’d bought a muggle gun—a Desert Eagle, Balmaceda’s favorite—and sent it to Balmaceda. He’d huffed a laugh when he’d got a picture of Balmaceda grinning and kissing the barrel in return.

(He’d thought of Hermione’s parents when he was in Australia. He didn’t know where they lived. What would he do if he did know—go by? Send her a note to say he’d checked on them? He hadn’t known how she’d feel about that. He hadn’t said anything.)

“What?” Hannah’d said when she’d seen him smiling over the picture.

“Nothing.” Knowing he’d have to show her. He’d held it out to her. Hoping she didn’t ask—

“Why’s he sending you a picture of a gun?”

“I sent it to him. As a thank you—”

“You’re buying muggle guns now?” She’d wrinkled her nose.

“Only to give away. Like pink carnations—”

“Pink carnations.”

“He likes guns better than flowers.”

Her lip had curled—she was done with his nonsense. “Why are you friends with these—”

“They’re no worse than your regulars—”

“My regulars?” Her eyebrows had shot up. “This isn’t the fucking Hog’s Head—”

“All right, I know—”

“I run a quality establishment—”

“I know, Han—”

“Why you want to spend your time at that seedy—”

“Because you don’t want me doing that business here—”

“That’s right—I don’t.”

They’d stood at an impasse. Neville’s stomach had been tight. He hated fighting about this.

“When are you going to be ready to quit this and settle down?” Hannah had asked.

“When the job’s done,” he’d said, knowing she didn’t like that answer.

Now one of the new husband’s Beauxbatons friends came out of the tent and started telling everyone to get on the dancefloor. (Why were the Beauxbatons alums always mental?) “C’mon, people!” He was making his way toward Neville’s group. “I see you just standing there!” His finger wagging between Neville and Seamus. His skin was uncannily smooth—a glamour.

Neville was aware of Hannah shifting away from him, and then he realized the man thought he and Seamus were a couple—and Hannah had caught it first. She’d moved closer to Alicia, so he and Seamus were standing together.

“C’mon, you two,” said the man, pointing at Neville and Seamus and then Hannah and Alicia. “You, too.”

Neville looked to Seamus. “You’re leading, then.”

Seamus’s face had scrunched up. “Course I am.”

The man beamed and turned to harass more partygoers, and Hannah leaned over to poke Neville in the ribs. “Aw, you two are so cute.”

Dean was back, a cigarette between his lips. He was holding an unlit one between his fingers, stark white against his dark brown skin. He passed it to Alicia and then pulled the cigarette from his mouth, offered it to Seamus.

“What, I don’t get me own?”

“Just in time, Dean. That bloke thought Neville was Seamus’s boyfriend.”

Alicia was watching Hannah from the corner of her eye.

Dean had been grinning fondly at Seamus’s put-out expression. “Well, Nev and I are often confused for each other,” he said mildly. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and held it out to Seamus.

Seamus snatched it and then jerked his chin at Dean, tilted his head up—Dean kissed him and then straightened, smiling. Seamus was fighting his own smile. He slotted the cigarette between his lips, and Neville said, “Inflamari,” and snapped his fingers, the flame jumping up above his thumb.

“Ooh, look at you,” said Alicia as he reached out to light her cigarette and then Seamus’s. Neville snorted—it wasn’t a difficult trick, just showy.

Seamus inhaled, the cherry flared, and Neville dropped his hand with a nonverbal finite.

Neville glanced at Hannah. He could tell she wanted to say something—

“Pissed already?” Katie was there, slipping the cigarette from Alicia’s hand. She took a drag while Alicia shamelessly eyed her cleavage. She was in a low-cut floral dress—tight on the waist with a frill along the neckline, thin straps. The opposite of the kind of thing Hannah wore. (Neville looked away so Katie wouldn’t think he was a creep.) “We’re meant to be dancing—”

“So we heard,” said Alicia, tilting her head toward the Beauxbatons man. “Bloke came out to round us up.”

“He thought Seamus and Neville were a couple,” said Hannah.

Katie looked at her blankly, waiting for the punchline.

“It was just funny,” said Hannah.

“All right,” said Katie. She took another drag, her red lipstick marking the filter.

Later, when they were pissed, Katie leaned into Neville and asked, “What’s Hannah’s deal?”

They were sitting on white folding chairs at the back of the tent, the table before them covered in empty bottles and dirty glasses and wadded up serviettes. Neville was down to shirtsleeves and his vest, his tie loosened. Katie had been complaining her feet hurt but wouldn’t take off her heels.

“What do you mean?” asked Neville, looking over at Katie.

“That thing earlier—with Seamus.”

Neville shrugged. He didn’t know how to say it wasn’t about Seamus. It was about Rolf.

Early on, when they’d first got together, Hannah had made a joke about threesomes. And Neville had shaken his head, said, “So awkward.”

“Wait—you’ve had one?”

Neville should have lied right then. He should have said, “No. But isn’t that what everyone says? That they’re a disappointment?”

But he hadn’t—he’d hesitated.

“Oh my Merlin. You have.” She’d looked impressed and revolted. She’d been staring at him like he’d suddenly transfigured in front of her—she saw him differently now.

Neville hadn’t known what to say. “Twice,” he’d said.

A mistake.

She’d asked questions.

The details had trickled out.

But that was all right, wasn’t it? It was better not to start off everything with a lie.

No. Wrong. Neville hadn’t understood just what he’d done until the comments started and didn’t stop.

What Neville understood at Terry Boot’s wedding was that Hannah knew about Rolf. And she liked to tease him about it—when he was keeping her company at the pub and another man at the bar tried to pay for his drink, when a bloke looked him up and down on the street. Little gibes about gay men thinking he was gay. Like she found it titillating but also wanted to shame him. He’d told her it had been a breaking point for him. Somehow it still came up.

Neville didn’t know how to tell Katie that, that afternoon with Luna and Rolf, he’d felt like a piece of meat. And he’d been jealous and angry—Rolf stealing his girl right in front of him. And he’d reacted by trying to dominate Rolf. And he felt ashamed about the whole thing. And Hannah wouldn’t let it go because it bothered her that he’d been with a man. It bothered her more the longer they were together.

Neville liked to think, if he were attracted to men, he’d own it—like Seamus and Dean and Terry did. But attraction hadn’t played any part in what he’d done to Rolf.

And, when he really considered it, Neville didn’t think Hannah thought he was gay. He thought the problem was something else. Maybe it wasn’t about Rolf but about the open relationship and the bomb-building and the poison trade. Maybe it was that Hannah looked at what Neville had done and what he kept doing and felt like she wasn’t enough.

Neville didn’t know how to say any of this. He only knew he regretted telling Hannah the truth.

“Petrification grenade,” said George, holding up a prototype tinted safety-orange. “Arm it, chuck it, and don’t make eye contact until the screaming has stopped.”

Estrada was already reaching for it. “Ah, we’re going to raise hell.”

“You’re going to go in discreetly and look for muggle victims of torture,” said Seamus.

“Sure,” said Estrada, turning the grenade over in his hands. “That too.”

“Grenade grenade,” said George, holding up an olive-drab sample. “Voice activated.”

Estrada was grinning as he deftly snatched it from George. He looked to Seamus and Neville. “Give me Spinnet for this one—she knows how to have fun.”

“I will yeah,” said Seamus with a dark look,” if we want all of Albania blown up.”

“Is it the petrification grenade screaming or the targets?” asked Neville.

“Yeah,” said George.

Alicia came back from Albania with an Order tattoo on the back of her hand. Apparently, the whole team had got them.

“Went drinking with Estrada and Aberforth’s old mates,” she said, tossing a marked-up map onto the card table in the Wheezes workshop. “Those blokes know how to have fun.”

Seamus reached for the wrinkled and folded parchment.

“Also,” said Alicia, “I now have contacts at every wizarding pub in Tirana.”

“We’ll add them to your territory,” murmured Seamus, his head bent over the map.

“How did the grenades perform?” asked George.

“Worked a treat,” said Alicia. “Can we get a flamethrower?”

“You can just incendio—”

“But that’s not fun.”

“What’d you find?” asked Neville.

She canted her head, her expression gone stoic. “They were recruiting boys and letting them practice the unforgivables on muggle girls. We obliviated them all—I don’t like killing kids. But if I see those boys at another training camp, they’re not getting a third chance.”

Neville pushed the lab goggles up onto his forehead and stripped off his gloves but left the dragonleather apron on—he wasn’t done, only waiting for the solvent to do its work. He could tergeo but it was more labor-intensive. He opened the icebox and retrieved the leftover take-away curry from the shelf above the containers of seeds. He’d turned the cottage’s kitchen into a lab—neither his gran nor boarding school had taught him how to cook. Now he leaned against the counter and, with a wandless heating charm, the dish warmed in his hand. He ate the curry, watching the Polyjuice base brew and wondering what Hannah was doing. Probably having breakfast while he was having lunch.

Neville woke in the flat above the pub, the sound of the morning deliveries filtering up from the Alley—the scrape of kegs on cobblestone, owls shrieking as they clipped one another. Next to him, Hannah was sleeping soundly. Her pilsner-colored hair, spread across her pillow, smelled faintly of beer. Neville should already be in the greenhouse.

Neville liked early mornings on his property. The best time to water the fields and trees, before the heat burned everything off. The best time to whisper encouragement to the plants, before they were awake and surly. But he’d come back to the Leaky to see Hannah that second night, and then he’d gone up to her flat and hadn’t left. The flat was noisy. Hannah needed hours to unwind after closing. Neville’s sleep was perpetually disturbed. He’d been getting to the greenhouse later and later. The venomous tentaculas were acting up.

Hannah said Neville spent too much time in disreputable inns, asking after exotic plants and also certain Death Eaters who had left the country, but she was the one who thought they’d bring up children here. “Nothing wrong with growing up above a pub—they’ll be inheriting it. They can work summers.”

There wasn’t anything wrong with working in a pub, Neville thought, but he’d imagined his children growing up outdoors. The opposite of his childhood spent in poorly lit rooms, listening to adults talk while the potpourri gave him a headache. And maybe their children wouldn’t want to be landlords—maybe he and Hannah shouldn’t make that decision for them. “C’mon, they’ll love it,” Hannah always said. “What teenager doesn’t want their own pub?”

Neville was making plans to put the cottage on the floo network. It had low ceilings and ancient plumbing, but he was done with the major repairs, and it was bigger than the flat. And right outside were fields and woods and a sunset you could actually see, all along the horizon. Hannah would spend some time there and realize it was better for family life. Things would change once they had children. The job would be done, surely. He could move the lab. Neville would fill his days tending to sticky toddlers and nippy flytraps, and Hannah could floo to the pub to work nights. Or she’d hand off nights to Macmillan. She’d finally hired him—he was overseeing the deliveries now, while she slept.

For now, Hannah wanted to be here, above the pub. Neville didn’t mind being the one to travel back and forth—he was the man. But it had been a late night, with a brawl downstairs and drunken singing below the windows after last call. And, this morning, Neville was tired.

Neville was in a castle outside Oban, Argyll, for Michael Corner and Morag MacDougal’s wedding. The MacDougal men were in their clan tartan, the kilts predominantly red with blue and green, their crest badges pinned over their hearts. Outside, a rainy, overcast afternoon had turned dark, but inside the lamplight flickered over the thirteenth century stone and the clusters of thistles and daisies and white roses and eucalyptus. Cigarette and pipe smoke drifted up with the smoke from the candles—the reception was in full swing. Michael and Morag—dark and dour—danced slowly, eyes only for each other.

Neville turned from the dancefloor—and realized he’d come face to face with Parvati Patil.

“Hiya, Neville,” she said. She was gazing up at him, looking faintly amused.

“Hiya,” he said. His head was ducked; he didn’t want to yell over the din but didn’t want to lean in. He was trying not to picture her naked—that wasn’t fair to her. Part of him, though, all it could think was: I’ve had sex with this woman.

The corner of her mouth was quirked. Was she picturing him?

“I’m living in Berlin now, but I came with Padma,” she said. “Here with Abbott?”

“Yeswereexclusive,” said Neville, and Parvati seemed to swallow a laugh.

“Yeah, I’m not really doing that sort of thing anymore,” she said. “I think we were all a bit mental after the war.”

Neville nodded, relieved. She was letting him off the hook—

“I think I had this idea I should do all the things Lavender wouldn’t get to do—”

Neville had gone still. His breath felt caught in his throat.

“I don’t know. It’s daft.” She’d glanced away, her drink still held at her chest.

“No,” he said, and she met his eyes. “I understand.” He understood, anyway, that she was sharing something personal with him. Risking him judging her.

He didn’t tell her that he thought of Lavender every day. Lavender wouldn’t want him talking about her that way. He didn’t know how to say it. He was staring at Parvati, thinking this.

Parvati smiled at him. “I’ll see you around, Neville.” And she reached out and squeezed his forearm before she moved away, slipping through the crowd.

Neville took a breath, remembering her gripping his arm, calling his name as he thrust into her. As she came. He could picture her face. Merlin, she’d always be the second person he’d slept with, though it hadn’t been about him at all for her. He’d never see her and not remember. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

He looked around. He didn’t see Hannah. Then he did see her, watching him. He started walking toward her and she drained her glass.

“Trying to fuck Parvati again?” she said when he got near.

Neville drew in a breath. “Hannah. You know I didn’t—”

“Oh, that’s right—Luna made you.”

“Hannah—”

“A real hardship, fucking the fittest girl in our year—”

“I don’t think she’s the fittest girl in our year—”

“Oh, do tell. Is it Padma?”

“Clever,” said Neville.

“I know it’s not me—”

“Hannah, you know I think—”

She held up her empty glass and turned for the bar.

Neville sighed and looked around—though he didn’t know what he hoped to see. Something other than Hannah’s back. His gaze caught on the MacDougal crest on the wall, the clan motto: Buaidh no bàs.

Victory or Death.

There was no winning here.

We were all a bit mental after the war.

What did Neville understand? He understood they’d all been grieving. He understood, in some ways, they still were. But he didn’t understand why he was at odds with Hannah.

Their relationship didn’t have the highs and lows of life with Luna—he didn’t come home to a note and want to cry or punch the wall. He didn’t stare at her while she slept, wishing he could protect her from everyone who didn’t understand her. (Hannah would bristle at the very thought. She had friends; she was capable. She’d told him often enough: “I can do it myself. I don’t need help.”) But that was good. He understood now that a relationship wasn’t meant to feel like an ongoing natural disaster.

So why was Hannah so frustrated with him? They wanted the same things: marriage and children. They loved each other. They didn’t have big fights.

No, they had small disagreements that never ended. Hannah currently thought Neville was doing too much in Albania. Voldemort was dead. Playing vigilante wouldn’t bring back her mother or make Neville’s mother well. Neville needed to focus on what was right in front of him. Namely, her.

Somehow, this feeling that he wasn’t focused on their future had turned into the intimation that he wasn’t satisfied with her.

“I know I’m not as wild as Luna,” she’d said when he’d pinned her hands above her head in the shower and she’d made a face.

“Hannah—” He’d dropped her wrists. “I like having sex with you.”

“Wow, what an endorsement.”

Neville had felt an odd pang in his chest. It had meant something to him, when Luna had said that. Why did it sound lukewarm when he said it? But all his protests sounded weak when Hannah twisted them.

“What?” he’d said. “I do like having sex with you. I don’t want to do whatever it is Luna and Rolf are doing—”

“Right. Who’d want to travel abroad, having acrobatic sex with everyone you meet, when you could be stuck in a pub flat—”

“Hannah, that’s not how I feel—”

“Oh, so you do want to live here now?”

“Maybe not forever. But for now—”

“You’re willing to settle?”

“Hannah, you’re the one telling me to settle down. Now you’re the one calling it settling—”

“Right, I want you to settle down, but you don’t actually want to—”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I do want to—”

“You just said not forever—”

“Not here. But I want to be with you—”

“What’s wrong with here? This is my inn—”

“Hannah—”

And around they’d gone. Over what? Over nothing. Neville was living with her, and she was insisting it wasn’t enough for him. He’d proposed, and she wasn’t wearing the ring. And then she said he wasn’t happy.

Neville was meant to reassure her. But somehow it was never enough. Or he never said the right thing. It felt like he kept saying the wrong thing. Like . . . like he wasn’t happy and part of him was trying to hide it and the other part of him was trying to blurt it out. But that made no sense. He and Hannah had the same goals, and he loved her. What did he have to be unhappy about? No relationship was perfect.

Neville could feel the pressure building in his chest. He didn’t want to think about it.

Hannah got pissed—she didn’t usually. The castle hall was dim and smoky. The cold, wet wind was keening, blowing in raw through the open windows. The charmed candles guttered but never went out. Somewhere outside, the foxes were screaming like women and children meeting their deaths. Neville’s hairline was damp with sweat though a chill was running down his back. He pulled Hannah to him and scanned the crowd.

“Looking for Parvati?” Hannah’s face was tilted up to him. Her eyes were glassy.

“For anyone I need to say goodbye to before I take you home,” said Neville.

“I can decide—”

“We’re leaving,” said Neville, twisting the wrapper off the portkey in his pocket.

“I don’t want to—”

Neville touched his finger to the portkey and they left Scotland with a sharp, sickening pull on his navel.

They landed in the flat above the Leaky and Hannah was immediately pushing him off and lurching for the loo. Then she was retching—he hoped into the toilet—and he was shucking off his dress robes to go help her.

He wiped her face with a damp cloth and filled a glass with water and handed her her toothbrush as she leaned, swaying, on the sink.

“Staying here,” she muttered. “Can’t do the bed.”

He unzipped her dress—he could see the knobs of her spine through her pale skin—and pulled it off her. He brought her her nightdress and laid out a pillow and blanket on the cramped tile. She waved him away.

Neville sat up in bed, running through nonverbal drills like he was back in his fourposter at Hogwarts, making sure a broken nose wouldn’t stop him next time. He was meant to be listening in case she needed him, but his thoughts kept drifting back.

Oh, that’s right—Luna made you. A real hardship.

Hannah thought he was full of shit.

(Neville snapped his fingers and a flame flared to life.)

Neville thought about it.

How could Luna move on so quickly? This was what Neville had wondered when she’d told him she was marrying Rolf.

Because she’d never been on the same page as him in the first place, Neville had decided.

Luna had been honest. And so often he’d overlaid his idea of them onto what she’d done—ascribed meaning beyond anything she’d ever said.

He’d told himself a story.

Luna understood him, Luna only had him, Luna would choose him after she got this out of her system—all a story he’d told himself. Had she ever said any of that? He’d put words in her mouth and then blamed her when they weren’t true.

And, since then, he’d been telling himself another story: that Luna was responsible for everything she’d done in the relationship and everything he’d done, too. He’d only done it because she’d insisted—that’s what he’d said to Hannah.

Hannah didn’t believe him.

Because he could have walked out of the Patil twins’ flat. He could have walked out of Rolf’s rented room. He could have broken it off with Luna when it became clear she didn’t want the same things he did.

He hadn’t.

And that was on him.

He’d told himself a story: Luna was his soulmate. He’d let his fear of losing her override all his other feelings. He just hadn’t known how to do anything else. He’d felt worthless and then she’d loved him and he’d thought he’d die without that feeling—that feeling of being acceptable. That feeling that someone had finally seen you and wanted more of you instead of less.

Maybe Neville didn’t have to blame himself for being young and stupid and inexperienced. Maybe he didn’t have to feel ashamed for abandoning his own needs. (He did feel ashamed, though. He did.) And maybe he didn’t have to blame Luna, either, for being herself instead of who he’d pretended she was. She wasn’t his soulmate. She was just another fucked up kid. Maybe it was all right that they had tried something and it hadn’t worked. Maybe he didn’t have to keep blaming either one of them.

Maybe he could forgive Luna. Maybe he could forgive himself.

It was an idea, anyway.

Neville snapped his fingers, and a flame sprang up as he thought about it.

Chapter Text

WEDNESDAY JULY 30, 2003

Neville had woken to more tapping. He lay in bed and stared up at the beams in the ceiling and wondered what awful photo Witch Weekly had dug up this time. And then he was thinking of Colin Creevey. Going out with Wood to recover the bodies and picking up little Colin Creevey from the broken stone and shards of glass. He’d been lighter than Lavender, and less bloody. His heart hadn’t been torn out of him—it had just stopped.

Wood’s eyes had been red, his jaw set as he’d taken Colin’s body from Neville, hoisted Colin over his shoulder. Neville had seen Wood’s pulse fluttering in his throat—his heart still working.

Did Wood dream now of flying through smoke over the burning pitch? Did he dream of finding Tonks? He and Neville hadn’t talked about it.

Neville got out of bed before he annoyed the owl.

He eased the devil’s ivy away and cranked open the casement.

It was a snowy owl with a Parkinson leg band, bearing a notecard embossed in silver. Neville gave the bird a treat but it waited. Neville looked at the card.

He was—quite formally—invited to dinner at Parkinson Manor. That night at eight. In the lesser dining room.

Neville hadn’t seen the lesser dining room but he could guess it seated eight.

Neville remembered meeting with Narcissa Malfoy—in a green-draped sitting room, at a small table with an intricate wood inlay, meant for card games. He’d asked her what she wanted in her indoor night garden. White flowers. Most of them poisonous.

“What is the theme of the room?” Neville had asked.

Narcissa Malfoy had met his gaze. “Regret.”

Parkinson Manor hadn’t seen the wartime atrocities Malfoy Manor had housed—Voldemort hadn’t made the Parkinsons his hosts—but there had been meetings and there had been deaths. Since that first night when Pansy had told him to go, Neville had never stayed at the Manor more than a few hours.

Neville thought of the Manor and he was curious about the old rose bowers, the deserted hedge maze, the koi pond in the Asian collection, the butterfly garden. The grounds were extensive. And, inside, the ceilings were high, the air crisp like ironed linens. The furnishings looked new. Every room he’d seen was quintessentially Pansy—the cold, ringing tile; the black and white and silver color palette with green accents; the illegal extension on her dressing room that housed every piece of clothing she’d ever owned, arranged and labeled by year; the extension in her en suite that allowed for a makeup counter and mirrors. Neville didn’t know if Pansy was trying to erase the past or had simply seized her chance to make her mark on the manor that had long ago made its mark on her. Either way, it was Pansy’s house.

Neville had rushed headlong into living with both Luna and Hannah, desperate to make his home in them. Now he had more control over himself. He wouldn’t invite himself into Pansy’s space after she’d told him she didn’t need him to stay. The Ministry did expect its matches to cohabitate, though. At some point, one of them would have to move.

Neville found the pencil he kept on the sill for replies and wrote that he would attend dinner.

Neville spent the day repotting the mandrakes and mulling where he stood with Pansy. After refusing to tell him why she was angry, she’d spent lunch updating him on her lipstick project. (She was hiring chemists.) Then she’d tilted her jaw toward him when he’d seen her off. Pursed her lips as he’d kissed her cheek goodbye. Apparently her feelings were no reason for her not to command his attention.

Neville watched the mandrakes scream at him—he couldn’t hear anything through the earplugs. He’d learned bad feelings wouldn’t kill him. Pansy couldn’t leave him. (Unless she planned to poison him.) He’d go to dinner. (He’d take a bezoar stone.) He’d ask what he had to do to make up with her. Then he’d decide whether he was willing to do it.

That evening, he put on one of the suits Pansy had bought him and got to the Manor fifteen minutes early.

“Hiya,” he said, when she apparated down. He kissed her on the cheek and gave her the orchid he’d brought with him. “It’s a ghost orchid,” he told her. “Nearly extinct because of poaching. There are fewer than fifteen hundred in the wild.”

Her expression softened as she examined it. He watched her looking at it—he liked being able to observe her. Then she peered up at him, a little furrow between her eyebrows. “Why are you giving me this?”

“I reckon you like white orchids—there’s a white butterfly orchid in your bedroom.” And then Neville reached out and used his thumb to iron out the crease above the bridge of her nose. He saw her shoulders lower.

Then she looked between the orchid and him and narrowed her eyes. “You’re kissing up because I’m cross with you.”

Neville smiled a little and didn’t say anything. Was that what he was doing? He’d thought he was thinking of her.

“You’re only digging yourself deeper, you know.”

Neville snorted. She was acting stern but she liked the orchid—he’d seen it when she’d looked at it.

“Dinner’s through here,” she said, shooting him a dark look, and she marched off—carrying the orchid.

Neville followed, allowing himself to watch her arse shifting under her skirt. He wanted to be hanging onto her hips as he thrust into her from behind, pleasure racing through him, her arse jiggling every time it hit against him. He could picture it clearly because he’d seen it. He was half hard, remembering the breathy little noises she’d make. He shouldn’t be thinking this way when she was annoyed with him. (He’d brought the bezoar.) But she had him so fucking randy.

The lesser dining room had black floorboards and wainscotting, the walls above painted to capture the Manor grounds. Neville knew from his almanacs the sun would set tonight at 8:59. Now the light in the murals was warm and golden. Peacocks were strutting past the topiary, on their way to the hedge maze. Charmed candles blazed in the chandelier above the table shrunk down to fit six, set for two. Neville seated Pansy before taking his own chair at the other end of the table. Pansy had placed the orchid so that it wouldn’t block her view of him.

“You look nice,” he said.

“So do you,” she said, snippy, and he smiled.

Then the elves were there, and Pansy was introducing them. “Anise is head of the kitchens,” said Pansy. “Saffron is just here to gawk at you.”

That got Pansy a dirty look—and an indulgent smile for Neville as he said hullo—and then there was soup and salad and then Beef Wellington, rosemary potatoes, Brussels sprouts with pancetta, and haricots verts.

“Godsdamn,” muttered Neville.

“What?” said Pansy, quick. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s the best food I’ve ever had,” said Neville, forking more steak and puff pastry into his mouth.

“You don’t have to butter up the elves,” said Pansy. “You’re already the favorite.”

“I’m not lying,” said Neville, around another bite. “I haven’t had proper elf cooking since Hogwarts. I live on take-away. I turned my kitchen into a lab.”

“That makes sense,” said Pansy, off-hand.

Neville looked up at her. “You don’t know how to cook or clean, either, do you.”

“I know how to launder money,” said Pansy. “I can pay elves to cook and clean. Then everyone’s happy.”

“How do you launder money?” asked Neville.

And she told him—while insisting all her current investments were legitimate. Neville wasn’t surprised by everything Pansy had overheard in her parents’ manor. Neville had grown up with the whispers about Voldemort and Bellatrix, and then he’d gone to school and learned that evil didn’t have to be grandiose. It was regular people like the Crabbes and the Goyles and the Flints. Too convinced of their own superiority to think anyone else should have a say. They felt free to bribe and extort and inside trade, and when the right rabblerouser came along to work them up, they convinced themselves they had the right to kill and torture, too. Neville had learned you had to be willing to kill, too, to stop them.

With Hannah, Neville had started to . . . downplay. She’d wanted to know where he’d been and what he’d been up to, and then the answers had made her tense and unhappy. Pansy didn’t demand to know what he did. And, when he told her, she said things like, I’m sure you had your reasons. She’d grown up around bad behavior, Neville thought. Nothing he did would shock her.

Or maybe, Neville considered, Pansy just saw him differently. Hannah thought she knew who he was from school. He was a good, hard-working man, and Bill’s mates from Egypt were a bad influence. She’d thought he’d stop running around and go back to being himself. (He’d let Hannah tell herself a story.) But, before Pansy had ever come to the greenhouse, she’d heard he’d poisoned Flint. Neville didn’t expect a Slytherin heiress to know how to cook. And she didn’t expect him to be a good person. She’d been warned about him.

Now the sun was setting on the walls around them, and Neville could see Pansy getting agitated as dinner wound down. Her gaze was flitting around the room. Her shoulders were twitchy.

Neville sat back and sighed. He was about to find out what he’d done to upset her.

They were about to have a fight.

Finally, the plates had been cleared and she’d dipped into her charmed pocket and her hand had emerged with a thin rectangle wrapped in silver paper.

With a flick of her wrist, she sent it sliding down the polished wood of the table, toward him.

“Happy Birthday,” she said. “Here’s your generic gift because you didn’t give me a chance to plan properly.”

Neville had been watching as it slid to a halt. Now he looked up at her. “This is why you’re angry.”

This was why she was angry?

“You weren’t going to tell me.” Her words were clipped. “I had to find out from a clerk.”

“Pansy—”

“You were going to have your birthday without me—”

“Pansy, I wasn’t going to—” He took a breath, glanced away and back. “I don’t do anything for my birthday.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” she said. “Why wouldn’t you do something for your birthday?”

Neville shrugged. He didn’t know how to explain it. “It’s during the summer. I was always home with my gran. Or it was someone’s wedding weekend. Or I was alone. It doesn’t matter—”

“It matters to me.” Her arms were crossed. “I’m meant to do something for it—”

“Pansy, I don’t need anything—”

“I don’t care! I’m meant to give you a gift, not the other way round!” She’d uncrossed her arms to jab her hand at the orchid.

“Pansy—"

“Now I feel like a shit wife who did a shit job of your birthday—”

“We’re having dinner. You got me a gift. I’m sure it’s lovely—”

“It’s shit.”

Neville huffed a surprised laugh. His gran had used to buy him the next year’s school uniform for his birthday. He would ask for chocolate cake and she’d serve vanilla because that’s what the great aunts liked. Now Pansy was hurt he didn’t want more from her?

Neville accioed the silver-wrapped rectangle the rest of the way, his eyes darting up to watch her. She’d thought he’d made plans with friends, he realized. The late dinner had been a test—she’d wanted to know whether he’d come to Parkinson Manor instead. She’d wanted to know whether he’d choose her. Pansy Parkinson was feeling insecure.

He carefully unwrapped the gift, sliding his finger under the seams in the paper. She sat watching him like a ticking bomb.

He slid the lid off the narrow box.

He looked inside.

It was a Patek Philippe stainless steel wristwatch with a slate gray dial.

He tilted it, and it caught the light—sleek and expensive. “Pansy, how much did this cost?” asked Neville.

“Nothing. Not even three thousand galleons,” muttered Pansy.

Fifteen thousand muggle pounds.

It was a beautiful watch. Neville liked it. He would never have bought it for himself.

He slipped it onto his wrist and fastened it. He looked up. “Pansy, come here.”

She just stared at him, her face mulish. Her arms were back to crossed.

He looked at her steadily. He wouldn’t say it again. She would either come to him or she wouldn’t.

She pulled in a breath and her eyes fell to the table—all he could see of her expression was her eye makeup and her set mouth. Neville’s heart was pounding but he wouldn’t show it. He didn’t control her. But he could control himself.

Then she pushed back her chair and stood. She walked to him slowly, her heels clicking on the flooring.

When she got close, he pushed back his chair and reached out his hand to her and pulled her in—onto his lap. Her arm went across his shoulders, her palm to his chest. He could smell coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms.

“It’s beautiful, Pansy.” He leaned in and kissed her jaw. “Thank you.”

She settled her weight onto him. She’d been holding back. “You don’t care what kind of job I do because I’m not a real wife. I’m just politics.”

Neville inhaled. Oh. “I do care, Pansy. I’m angry with Shacklebolt for interfering with my life and lying about the Hat. But I take this seriously. I want to have a good relationship with you.”

Her mouth twisted as she mulled this. Neville realized he’d spoken the truth to her before he’d put it into words for himself. He had no reason to believe they could work—it was a stunt, they had nothing in common, she wasn’t nice, he ruined things—but he was here now, in it with her. She felt so good breathing against him, warm and alive, his hand on her knee. He didn’t want her to feel bad.

“I’m sorry I made you feel lesser. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my birthday. I didn’t think about how it would look to you,” he said. “I’ll think of you next time.”

And he would do. No one else had ever sulked over not being invited to his birthday. No one else had ever complained that they hadn’t done enough for him. Pansy wanted to be a good wife to him. Pansy wanted to make a fuss over him, whether he liked it or not. Was this turning him on?

It was turning him on.

A lot.

Her full breast was pressed to him, her arse shifting on his thigh. She was sad and sullen and angry, and he wanted to hug her to him and then fuck the hell out of her.

She tilted her head toward him, still down in the mouth.

He lifted his wrist with the watch. “Avenseguim it,” he said. “So you always know where I am.”

She looked at him, those big eyes narrowing. Like it was a trick.

“I like it when you surprise me at the greenhouse,” he said, “but I don’t want you to waste your time waiting for me or wondering if I made other plans. This way you can always find me.”

“You like it when I come by?”

“Yes,” he said.

Her lashes were thick with mascara. Her eyeliner was black and precise. Her eyes were bright amid all the dark shadow. She was looking for the lie.

“Go on,” he said.

Nothing stopped him from taking off the watch if he didn’t want to be found. It was a gesture. One that was easy to make—because she never interfered with his business, and he wasn’t interested in cheating. It didn’t cost him anything. (Or she and Malfoy would sell him out and it would cost him everything.)

Maybe he was thinking with his dick. But she smiled at him—something soft and real; he didn’t think she was that good an actress—and he didn’t care. He watched while she did the spell, and then he asked, “Is it time for cake?”

She straightened, still on his lap. “How do you know there’s cake?” she said, looking down her nose at him.

“Pansy, there’s no way you planned a birthday dinner for me without cake.”

“How do you know? Maybe I skipped it because I was angry.”

He smiled. She was full of it. “There is no way Anise let you plan a birthday dinner without cake.”

Pansy huffed. “Fine. There’s cake. It’s carrot cake.”

“That’s grand,” said Neville.

“Ew,” said Pansy. “I’m lying. It’s black forest gateau.”

“That’s—my favorite,” said Neville.

“I don’t care,” said Pansy. “And I know. I sent Fennel to ask your friend.”

Neville cocked an eyebrow. “My friend—”

“You know. That horrid little—”

“Seamus?”

“Yes. Finnigan.”

“You sent Fennel to Ireland—”

“That’s where he is.”

Neville’s eyes played over her face. She’d gone to this effort when she’d thought he might not come. “Why didn’t you ask Harry or Ron? They’re right here.”

Her lip had curled. “Because I wanted the right answer. Those morons can’t see past their own noses. I asked your best mate.”

Seamus was his best mate? “How d’you reckon—”

“Your gran asked after him. The cottage is full of his distillery swag. You talk about him.” Her look said, Duh.

Neville felt a pang—he wasn’t a good enough friend to Seamus. He said, “That was nice of you, Pansy. Thank you.”

Her expression softened. She’d only wanted to please him.

“Get the cake,” he said. “I want to eat it in bed while I look at you naked.”

Ten minutes later, Neville was in her bedroom with a black forest gateau on a cake stand and a large knife, his sleeves rolled up. “Strip,” he said over his shoulder, and then he cut a large piece and maneuvered it onto a plate. It was rich and moist—the chocolate sponge soaked in kirsch and layered between cream and cherry filling. It held together but it wanted to fall apart.

He licked the knife and looked over his shoulder—she was nude. Merlin. “Sit at the headboard,” he said. He traded the knife for a fork and left the second plate and fork on the side table with the rest of the cake.

He carried the slice of cake to the bed and toed off his shoes. She was sitting at the headboard, wearing only her makeup and jewelry, her legs tucked up. His eyes played over her breasts, her face, her mouth. She was so pretty—he was staring.

“I’m sticking your hands to your knees,” he said, and she didn’t object. She put her hands in place—palms on her kneecaps—and he said the words. One knee was up, the other akimbo—he could see a lot. Pansy kept herself hairless, which was a first for him. He sat facing her on the bed, the plate on his thigh. She eyed his shirt and trousers but didn’t say anything.

Neville fed her a cherry from the top of the cake, her lips parting so he could push it into her mouth. He swirled the syrup on his fingers onto her nipples while she chewed and then watched her face as he reached down and touched her clit. She sucked in a breath. A little noise in the back of her throat. The noise a second time when he withdrew his hand and forked a bite of cake into his mouth. Merlin—of course it was the best cake he’d ever had. The elves.

He cut another bite, the fork dropping through the sponge cake and cream and cherry filling, and then picked it up with his fingers. Messy. He reached out and she opened her mouth and he gently shoved it in, filling and cream on his fingers, a morsel dropping onto her breast. He leaned forward and licked it off her, licked the syrup off her nipples, tongued them as they hardened.

He lifted his head as she swallowed. He held his fingers to her mouth for her to lick clean. Her tongue darted out. She licked diligently, tilting her head.

He fed himself another bite with the fork and watched her face, her big eyes taking him in.

He cut another bite and fed it to her with his fingers. He traced cream along the cupid’s bow of her upper lip and around her nipples, then kissed it off. He pushed his fingers into her mouth for her to suck clean. Fed himself another bite. Touched her clit while she squirmed. He fed her another cherry. Touched her clit while he watched her eat it, her eyes locked on him.

“Take off your clothes,” she said. “I want to see your cock.”

Neville raised an eyebrow. He set the plate on the sheet and got off the bed. Stripped off his shirt. Watched her as he climbed out of his trousers and socks and pants. His cock was hard, the head glistening with pre-come. She made a wistful little noise when he took it in hand, and he laughed, surprised.

“What?” she said. “I like seeing it.”

“Do you?”

She squinted at him. “Course. Oh—” She’d inhaled, her eyebrows rising. “Do that again.”

He glanced down—he’d absent-mindedly stroked himself. “This—”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, that works.”

He huffed another laugh but her lips were parted, her eyes on him. She looked . . . enthralled. He watched her face as he stroked his cock. Then he blinked and shook it off and got back in bed.

He scooped up cherry filling with his fingertip and she opened her mouth and he smeared it onto her tongue. He ate another bite, and she licked cream off his fingers. He fed her more cake, her eyes traveling over his face, his chest, his cock. No one else had ever looked at him this way—like he made her hungry.

Her nipples were hard, her labia plump. He rubbed her clit and drew his finger down, turning his hand palm up. She made a breathy little noise as he pushed his finger into the warm grip of her cunt. He leaned in and kissed her as she squirmed on his hand. He pumped his finger into her, and then pushed a second in. Impatient little huffs from the back of her throat as her hips shifted.

He sat back, keeping hold of her by the cunt—his fingers buried in her, his thumb light on her clit—and cut another piece of cake with the fork. He picked it up with his fingers and she opened her mouth. He smiled. “You’re perfect, Pansy.” He pushed the cake into her mouth and pecked her on the lips. He fed her more cake and watched her chew as he pinched her nipples and slowly fingerfucked her. She was squirming, her breasts rising and falling with her breath. He let her lick the cake off his fingers and then ate the last bites himself. He leaned forward, his fingers still in her, and set the plate and fork on the bedside table.

He sat back and slowly pulled his fingers from her. She was sighing and shifting her hips. He lifted his wet fingers and her lips parted and then he was pushing them into her mouth so she could clean herself off him. She sucked on his fingers—he could feel her tongue working over them—and he watched her watch him. He couldn’t look away. He was painfully hard. If he told her to suck his cock, she’d do it—and then he’d come too soon.

He pulled his fingers from her mouth and pushed down onto his stomach, between her thighs, settling in. The taste of chocolate and cherries and kirsch was still in his mouth. He breathed her in and then licked up to her clit. She was wet and slick, swollen. Merlin—if a younger Neville had known this moment was possible for him, his head would have exploded. Chocolate and cherries and kirsch and cream and cunt while she made little whimpering noises and pushed into him. It was the best birthday Neville had ever had.

Neville sucked and licked and rubbed circles with his tongue. He pushed his fingers into her and listened to her incoherent directions until she came, and then he licked some more. He sucked on her nipples as much as he wanted, her wiggling as they got harder and harder and oversensitive, and then he pulled her down by the hips and pushed his cock into her and fucked her with her palms still stuck to her knees.

He was fucking her hard and she was making adorable high-pitched noises, whining.

“Nev, Nev—” She was panting. “I need my hands.”

“Why?” he said, fucking her a little faster.

She whined and tightened on him. “Because—”

He fucked her harder.

“I want to touch you.”

He finited the charm. Then her hands were all over him, running up his sides.

He fucked her with her hands gripping him, her fingertips digging in. He didn’t hold back.

Then he was coming and collapsing onto her, and she was wrapping her arms around him, holding tight.

Neville’s heart was pounding. He was sweaty. Everything smelled like sex and cherries. He didn’t want to go anywhere. He didn’t want to have to get dressed and go back to the cottage.

He was still catching his breath. He couldn’t see her face. His own face was mashed into pillows, her hair sticking to him, coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms drifting up between them. He was dizzy—too much sugar, the cake and her perfume, his heart racing, the heat coming off her. He was going to have a splitting headache if he didn’t drink some water soon. He sucked in air and said, low, “Can I spend the night?”

Right now, in this moment, that was all he wanted from her—for her to say yes and let him stay here.

“Yes,” she said.

Neville closed his eyes and exhaled.

THURSDAY JULY 31, 2003

“I was told to be on my best behavior with you,” said Nott.

They were in an executive club lounge in Muggle London, in a hotel Pansy owned. All dark wood and brown leather and brass fixtures and frosted glass. Nott was slouched in his chair, his chin lowered so he could pout. He was looking up from under those dark lashes—equal parts seduction and menace.

Neville canted his head, considering him. They were nearly the same height, but Nott was thinner. Neville wasn’t afraid of him. By all accounts, Nott was actually insane. Capable of violence. Neville thought his magic was probably quite strong. But Neville was capable of violence too. And his magic was stronger than other people realized. He didn’t think Nott could overpower him. “I need you to do some forgery work for me,” said Neville.

Nott raised an eyebrow. He looked idly intrigued. His body conveyed not an ounce of urgency.

“What’s your price?” asked Neville.

Nott sat up abruptly. Spine straight. Shoulders square. Chin lifted. “I get to call you Daddy,” he said, his tone light and incredibly posh.

“No,” said Neville.

“I will forge anything you like—” That wide mouth had spread into a wicked grin. He was inordinately pleased with himself. “—for as long as you’re married to Pans, if I can call you Daddy.”

Neville looked levelly at Nott. He needed this forgery work done. Nott was clearly going to call him Daddy either way. Probably more often if he thought it got under Neville’s skin. There was no price. It was just a game.

“Once we’re bonded,” said Neville, taking his turn.

Nott squeezed his shoulders up, his eyes closed. “Ooh, I can’t wait.” Very gay, very camp. Then he dropped his shoulders and his face fell flat, his eyes going heavy-lidded. “So what do you need done?” His voice low. Here was the real Nott—or one of them.

Neville didn’t know if Nott unmasking was another intimidation tactic or Nott rewarding him for faithfully playing his game. It could be a bid for trust or it could be unconscious as Nott cycled through his personas. He would have to get to know Nott better. Nott and Pansy were close. He would no doubt be getting to know Nott whether he liked it or not.

“I need you to forge the Minister of Magic’s signature,” said Neville.

Nott’s face broke into a naughty grin. His eyes were sparkling. He did a little shoulder wiggle—just like Pansy. “Tell me all about it,” he said.

Neville had told Pansy he wanted to meet with Nott that morning, before he’d left Parkinson Manor.

“You’re going to see me without my makeup,” Pansy had fretted the night before.

They’d been in her en suite, sticky with sweat and cake filling—Fennel no doubt changing the sheets behind them while the bath ran. Neville had been drinking water from the sink.

“Does anyone else see you without your makeup?” Neville had asked, putting down the glass.

“Only if I run across Nott after he slept in one of the spare rooms,” Pansy had said.

Neville had raised an eyebrow.

“He doesn’t like to go home, because it’s—”

“Cursed,” Neville had said, surprising himself. His heart rate had kicked up a notch, an old instinct saying he’d miss-stepped. He was meant to be collecting information, not sharing it. “I’ve heard about that,” he’d admitted. The Nott elves didn’t talk to Alicia but other manor elves spoke of trading with them.

“So you know the elves have gone feral—”

“Unaffiliated,” he’d said, and she’d squinted at him. “Feral implies they’re uncivilized when their culture predates ours.”

She’d tilted her chin. “Is that true?”

“There’s never been a time in wizarding history without them.” Neville had shrugged. “I think they discovered us, not the other way round.”

Pansy had pursed her lips. “Fen does treat me like a misbehaving pet—”

“Well, you are,” he’d said, smiling as he kissed her. He’d still been leaning over her when he’d murmured, “If Fennel and Nott get to see you without your makeup, I want to see you too.”

He’d straightened and she’d gazed up at him. “What if you don’t like me when I’m not pretty?” she’d asked. She hadn’t been joking. She’d looked so sad.

“Pansy,” Neville had said, taking hold of her, his hands on her ribs, “I like you, not your makeup.” He’d canted his head, considering her. “But you don’t have to show me—”

“No,” she’d said. “I will.”

He’d sat on the lip of the cast iron tub then and pulled her in. “Thank you,” he’d said, looking her in the eye. “For the birthday. And for trusting me.”

Pansy had heaved a sigh. Her shoulders had been slumped, her hands hanging at her sides. “I hate trusting people,” she’d said.

Neville had barked a laugh, unable to contain his smile. “Oh, Pansy.” Warmth had flooded his chest as he’d taken in her sulky face. He’d felt so happy he could’ve cried. “So do I.”

He’d pulled her closer and she’d put her arms around his neck and he’d kissed her mouth. Then they’d bathed and she’d taken off all her makeup and spent half an hour putting potions on her face and, after, he’d lain naked in the clean white sheets and kissed her cheeks while she said, “Stop, stop—I’ve done my skincare regimen.” He’d slept with her smaller body held to his and woken early and fucked her again, her wrists pinned above her head, her breath against his chest.

Then he’d kissed her goodbye and left.

He’d taken a slice of cake to his mother—Anise had readied it for him—and sat with her while she ate it. “I turned twenty-three, Mum,” he’d told her. “I have a fiancée called Pansy. She gave me a watch and this cake.”

His mother had been focused on her next bite. She liked sweets.

Neville had taken a deep breath—his chest had felt too tight. He’d thought back to Pansy without her makeup. She’d looked younger. The last time he’d seen her without eyeliner, she’d been twelve.

If Neville hated trusting people, he certainly hated trusting fate. Something terrible would probably happen to even out these twelve perfect hours in Parkinson Manor when he had enjoyed his birthday. He’d already started coming back to reality, sitting there, listening to the scrape of his mother’s fork against her plate. The healer’s assistant had come in the room then and looked sharply over. “Didn’t recognize you,” she’d said, “in that suit.”

Now Nott eyed the Patek Philippe on Neville’s wrist, his gaze playing over Neville’s scarred hands as Neville signed for the tab. Nott’s lips were parted. His tongue was in his cheek. His eyes lifted to Neville’s, and he smiled. “Just daydreaming,” he said.

“I heard you’ve been busy in Knockturn,” said Neville neutrally.

Nott shrugged one shoulder. “Reminding people not to bother Granger.”

“Why?” asked Neville.

Nott feigned shock, his hand flapping to his sternum. “She’s my best mate’s better half! I’m pledged in service.”

“Though she was on the other side?”

Nott was shaking his head, amused. “Longbottom, there’s not a thought in this pretty head. Draco says get an enemies list and go down it, then that’s what I do.” He cocked his chin, his head loose on his neck. “Of course, if someone hurt Pans, I’d just kill him.”

“Good,” said Neville. “So would I.”

Nott’s smile was wide and delighted. He said it deliberately, with full eye contact: “You and Pans are perfect for each other.”

Neville didn’t react, but he felt his heart jump in his chest.

Chapter Text

MONDAY AUGUST 4, 2003

“Hiya, Percy,” said Neville as he lowered himself into Percy Weasley’s guest chair on level six.

“Longbottom.” He was already reaching out his hand for the documents Neville held.

Neville passed them over. “I need these filed on level two.”

Percy was scanning them, his lips pursed. “Meritorious service?” He glanced up at Neville.

Neville shrugged. “I’ve left the dates—”

“I’ll backdate them,” said Percy, already reaching for his stamp. “Penelope will pull the appeal paperwork when she has a chance. We’ll back out the whole match.”

“Won’t—”

“We’ll owl a correction,” said Percy. “Bureaucratic snafu. Happens all the time.”

Neville watched him for a moment. His movements were quick and decisive. Neville had never known Percy well—Ron and the twins had always moaned about him, made him out to be an arse-kissing fussbudget. But Neville had found him to be skeptical and self-possessed since the war's end.

Neville stood to leave. “Thanks, Percy.”

He looked up. “Of course, Longbottom. Keep fighting the good fight.”

Neville didn’t think he was being sarcastic. But Percy’s wit was so dry, Neville never knew.

2002

Neville was in the backyard of the Burrow, back in the Weasleys’ wedding tent. All the (living) Weasley brothers were there to see Ron and Susan bonded. Harry was standing up with Ron, and Ginny was Susan’s attendant. There was a lot of yellow—the same color Hannah had meant to use.

Neville thought Hannah was a closer mate to Susan—he’d dreaded seeing Hannah up front when Ron’s save-the-date came straight after she’d broken their engagement. But the Weasleys were sending a message: Susan had been embraced by the remains of the Golden Quartet. She wasn’t a consolation prize after Ron and Hermione’s failed romance.

Neville’s gaze lingered on Hermione, in the third row. Not so close to the ceremony she would draw focus (or be caught in the same camera frame as Susan) but not so far the press would say she’d skulked, weeping, in the back. It looked like she’d come alone. Rita Skeeter would have a field day with that. But Neville could see how bringing a date could go wrong—the bloke plastered across Witch Weekly as the alternative to Ron. Then a big feature on their break up if they didn’t immediately wed.

Neville should have asked Hermione to be his date. They were both—Neville closed his eyes at the phrase—war heroes. It wouldn’t be strange for them to be pictured together. But then that would have got the tabloids going. And Hermione would have had to explain, over and over, that he was only a friend.

For some reason, the papers never ran pictures of Neville with Harry and Hermione and Ron and called themthe Golden Quartet. Which was fine—Neville didn’t want that. It was only that he’d never quite understood it—how everyone instinctively knew he wasn’t to be included. He’d taken down Greyback and killed Nagini and run the D.A. and been there for the Department of Mysteries and the Astronomy Tower fights . . . but he wasn’t part of the inner circle. He never had been.

After hearing how Dumbledore had fucked with Harry’s head, Neville knew he'd dodged a bludger. There was Neville, wanting a father figure. And there had been Dumbledore, too busy grooming Harry—Harry some sort of redeemed version of Dumbledore, to be helped or hindered depending on what the old wizard projected onto him—to spare Neville a kind word. He could have had Neville all set up as Harry’s spare. It would have been so easy for him.

But, then, maybe Dumbledore had set him up. Neville had led the D.A. with Harry gone, killed the last horcrux for Harry. Maybe Dumbledore had meant to ignore Neville so he would be desperate to prove himself, with nothing to lose. Maybe Neville had done his job as planned, and maybe Dumbledore hadn’t cared how he’d feel about it.

It wasn’t that Neville had trust issues. It was that he’d been used.

Hermione’s curls were shiny and loose. She was wearing pink when Neville associated her with Gryffindor red. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to stand out?

If Neville had been the Chosen One instead of Harry, would Hermione have dated him? Neville cringed at the thought—it was crude. Hermione wasn’t like that. In the years he’d fancied her, though, he’d imagined it: Hermione running to hug him, Hermione poring over secret maps with him, Hermione visiting him in the summer, Hermione leaning her head on his shoulder. He’d also imagined fucking up, failing miserably, not knowing what to do—her muttering, “For fuck’s sake, Neville.” Neville almost laughed now, remembering that. He’d been so unsure of himself. It had hurt, though, knowing it was obvious to everyone that he couldn’t possibly be the Chosen One.

Neville focused on Ron and Susan. The bond was taking longer than usual—Susan’s officiant was reading a poem. Susan was smirking up at Ron as the Witch Weekly photographer’s flash went off. Neville realized that was what felt so different—Ron and Susan had let favored reporters in, instead of forcing them to grub for pictures after. All the papers had covered the lead up to the ceremony. It was four years out from the Battle, and the press finally had another Golden Trio wedding. It all felt slicker and more packaged. Susan’s and Ginny’s dresses were bigger, covered in eye-catching ruffles. Ron’s older brothers all wore matching boutonnieres: yellow roses with white limonium. It was an afternoon event—better lit than George’s.

Neville thought back to Harry and Ginny’s afternoon wedding in the same backyard. It seemed casual and slapdash now in comparison—Harry beaming with joy and amazement, his hand clutching Ginny’s wrist so hard his knuckles went white. So fucking surprised to still be alive.

After the poem and a song and the bond, Neville stood with Bill and Percy, drinks in hand, idly watching the photographer pose the wedding party and Penelope and Fleur talk while their toddlers fussed.

“What’s the latest on Shacklebolt’s act?” asked Bill.

Percy said, “He’s adding mandatory intermarriage—”

“What.” Bill huffed a laugh. “It’s not the Middle Ages.”

Percy looked over, eyebrows raised. “He’s got a hush-hush exploratory committee combing through the legal precedents—”

“That’s bullshit,” said Bill, his voice hardening. “He can do that but he can’t go after these revivalist groups?”

“I know.” Percy’s Ministry ring caught the light as he lifted his Pimm’s cup. “It’s a reach. Won’t make it to final draft.”

“Spinning his wand,” muttered Bill, his beer bottle at his lips. He took a swig and looked to Neville. “Survive the guest lecture gig?”

“Always strange to go back to where you were tortured.” Neville swirled the firewhisky in his glass. “Also, the Carrows cruciated me there.”

Bill’s scarred face broke into a chuckling smile. He knocked Neville’s elbow with his. “The only arseholes who miss their school days are Percy and Charlie—”

“For entirely different reasons,” said Percy darkly as Bill laughed. Percy jerked his chin toward the dancefloor. “There goes George.”

Neville watched as George swept Hermione into a showy twirl. He was talking up a storm—Neville couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Hermione was laughing. All the flashbulbs were going off. George and Angelina were tabloid fixtures—Angelina was good-looking, Wheezes was spinning money, George couldn’t go anywhere without chewing the scenery. Hermione wouldn’t have to explain that George was only a friend. Here was the photo op proving she hadn’t been cast out by the Weasleys at Ron’s wedding.

“Good publicity for the shop,” said Percy.

Bill snorted, glancing sidelong at him. “You’re too cynical, Perce.”

Neville looked back to the dancefloor and his stomach dropped—Hannah with Macmillan. They weren’t only friends. He was grinning at her. His hand was nearly on her arse. Hadn’t Neville said he wanted to fuck her? It had been obvious. She looked happy. Happier than she’d been with him.

“Oi, big man.”

Neville glanced over. Seamus and Dean, here to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. Or at least not without them.

Neville got hammered.

He danced with Seamus.

He danced with Dean.

He danced with Alicia and with Katie.

By the time he danced with Hermione, he was too pissed to remember it.

It was a Weasley wedding—he was hardly the drunkest person there. At least he kept his shirt on, unlike Charlie.

The fight had happened not long before she’d broken it off.

Neville had been behind Hannah, which was already a concession, and then he’d touched the pad of his thumb to her arsehole, and she’d jolted forward—

He’d pulled back—fuck.

“What is it with you?” she’d hissed. “Why does it always have to be something—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“I just want to have normal sex—”

“This is normal sex—”

“Just face to face, without some extra—without something weird—”

“Hannah, we’re not doing anything weird. I thought you might like it—”

“Why would I like that?”

Neville had known better than to answer. He’d been on his haunches, his dick still hard and wet. He’d known he wouldn’t be putting it back in her.

She’d been climbing out of bed. “Just—why do you have to be a pervert about everything?”

“Hannah—” He’d sighed, his embarrassment turning to frustration. “I’m not a pervert.”

He’d shared bathing facilities with McLaggen. He’d heard George and Fred on a tear. He knew there were more perverted blokes out there. But that wasn’t the point. The point was she’d decided she wasn’t enough, and now she thought anything he did was him trying to make her be someone else. The point was she didn’t trust him enough to experiment.

He’d taken a deep breath. “I’m sorry I touched you there. I won’t do it again.”

“You should’ve known I wouldn’t like that—”

Neville had closed his eyes. “You’re right—”

“Then why would—”

“I don’t know, Hannah.” He’d looked up at her. “All right? I wasn’t thinking—”

She’d started to walk away—

“Hannah, come back here.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she’d snapped.

“You know Macmillan wants to fuck you, right?” He’d shouted it out.

“Oh my Merlin, you are such an arsehole.” And she’d yanked the loo door shut behind her as hard as she could.

Neville had squeezed his eyes closed and run his hands through his hair and then scougified his half-hard dick, trying to push all the conscious thought from his mind. He was such a fucking arsehole. He’d heard the water running—she wouldn’t be coming out for a while.

Neville sold the ring with the canary yellow diamonds back to the jeweler and went to Indonesia to procure a corpse flower. He put it in his rainforest building with the gympie gympie. No one told him not to do it.

He added more pitcher plants to his carnivorous collection.

He met up with Balmaceda and Estrada in Algeria and learned how to shoot guns.

He paid Dionisio to put together a crew, and he and Alicia went with them when they rooted out the training camp that had reformed in the Albanian woods. They obliviated the muggle women they freed and killed the wizards. It wasn’t killing in cold blood—not after he saw what they’d done to the women.

Dionisio cast faster than anything Neville had ever heard, rolling the Rs on the spells.

Afterward, Neville asked him whether it was just practice and Dionisio laughed and said, “I grew up speaking Spanish, kid. That’s nine syllables a second. You only speak six.”

He sold some poison to some of Bill’s contacts who convinced him they had the right politics.

He met with some men who worked for muggle governments. Dionisio called them spooks but they were corporeal. They wanted to talk about what Russia was using.

“You brought the herbologist.”

“You brought the poisonmaster.”

“You brought the Sword.”

“Shit, is that Longbottom?”

Neville had told himself he wasn’t a coward. He’d told himself he faced hard things. And then Hannah had had to be the one to break it off. It was a black mark against him.

She’d told him he wasn’t focused on the life she wanted to build with him. That everything else took priority.

He’d said, “I’m making sure we never have to fight another war.”

“What’s the difference,” she’d said, “when you’re still fighting the last one?”

She’d said, “The war’s over. You’re the one prolonging it.”

She’d said, “You’re doing it because you want to. You get off on this—”

She’d said, “I loved my mother. But I still have to live my own life. Living in the past doesn’t bring her back.”

She’d said, “I think your mother would want you to be happy. I think she’d want you to get married and have children and live a normal life. Not run around doing—whatever it is you’re doing.”

But I’m not normal, Neville had thought. I don’t get the things that other people get. I always do something to ruin it—just by being myself.

Neville didn’t know which was worse: that she’d loved him, that she’d wanted to marry him, and he’d ruined it by making her unhappy. Or that he’d been unhappy himself and never faced up to it, that he’d have gone through with it if she hadn’t ended things.

Neville mulled this while he drank with Dionisio around a campfire.

He brooded in wizarding inns, listening to Balmaceda snore through the thin walls.

He murmured, “Wingardium leviosa,” and concentrated on rearranging the furniture without his wand.

He pitched sickles at a cup and silently accioed them back to push the thoughts out of his head.

Neville made his way slowly down the row, plucking the dead leaves from the venomous tentaculas. They turned their eyeless heads to him and smiled.

Neville was better off alone.

There was something wrong with him that made relationships too hard. He was better at working, which was his priority anyway.

It was fine. He had his work and his plants. He didn’t need anything else.

Neville agreed to guest lecture for another term, though being on the Hogwarts grounds made him sad and irritable. He wanted access to the rare plants in the greenhouses.

He asked Sprout if there were any new ghosts in the castle since the Battle.

She claimed there weren’t.

Luna sent him a long letter describing the flying caribou and boreal chorus frogs and native tamaracks in the forests of Saskatchewan. Neville read it.

“You’ll appreciate this,” said the man, chucking his chin at Neville. They were in a market in Romania, in the wizarding village closest to Charlie’s preserve. Neville and Balmaceda were meant to be meeting up with antifascists in France but had got sidetracked on an errand, which was common when traveling with Balmaceda.

When Neville had met Balmaceda at the Hog’s Head the day before, he’d held up a bulging bag. “Come with me to see Smash and Grab’s brother,” he’d said. “I’ve got something for him.”

Neville had raised an eyebrow.

Balmaceda had leaned in. “I was at a fight club in Knockturn last night, and a fuckboy aristocrat sold me a dragon egg—sold it to me and then sucked my dick.”

“Was this Theodore Nott?” Neville had asked.

“Sounds right,” Balmaceda had said, squinting. “Tall, lanky, bit of a twat—”

“That’s Theodore Nott.”

“Sucks a mean dick,” Balmaceda had told him.

Neville had said, “I’ll remember that,” which was true.

They’d portkeyed to the preserve, and Charlie had jumped down from the alpaca pen fence and come to greet them, grinning and cuffing their shoulders. Later, he and Balmaceda had disappeared for an hour and come back smirking.

Neville hadn’t reacted, and he and Balmaceda had slept on the extended sofa that night. Neville hadn’t known Charlie was bi. Balmaceda, sure—as far as Neville could tell, Balmaceda’s sexual preference was “yes,” and he got laid everywhere he went.

Early that morning, watching Balmaceda rummage for coffee in Charlie’s cupboards while Charlie fed the animals, Neville had remembered Rolf going to visit Charlie and sending Luna that letter. That letter that had been the final nail in the coffin because, seeing it, Neville couldn’t pretend Rolf only existed in that rented room in Diagon Alley. Neville had idly wondered then whether Charlie had fucked Rolf, though it didn’t matter either way.

Now Balmaceda had wandered off to buy cozonac, and a merchant at a stall selling dill, parsley, and thyme was telling Neville he knew something Neville would appreciate. “There’s a young wizard nosing around,” said the man, “claiming to be Bellatrix’s son.”

Neville looked at the man, a curl of revulsion twisting in his stomach. “I don’t think appreciate is the word.”

“Sure, sure—you know what I mean.” The man scrubbed his hand over the stubble on his jaw. He was British. Neville didn’t know how he’d ended up here, selling local herbs. “Wild, eh?”

“Wild,” said Neville, monotone, but now he was turning it over in his head. Was it possible?

Of course it was possible. She could have given birth in Azkaban. They would have hushed it up, sent the baby away. There was always someone who would take in a child when his mother couldn’t care for him. It didn’t mean they’d care for him either—but they’d take him in.

The next time Neville was at Grimmauld Place, he looked up the stairs to the drawing room, where the Black tapestry hung. He lingered for a moment but didn’t go up. He went down to the kitchen, where the others were.

Someone would have noticed if Bellatrix had a son. They’d have taken note of him on the tapestry. Wouldn’t they?

Neville didn’t go to Hannah’s wedding. She married Macmillan. They closed the Leaky for a private reception. Free drinks for everyone.

FRIDAY AUGUST 8, 2003

Neville was on an armless black leather loveseat in Pansy’s sitting room, flipping through a seed catalogue. They were meant to have dinner in the lesser dining room—Anise was making coq au vin—but he’d got here well early. It was Friday and he’d been ready for a change of scenery.

“Longbottom—”

He looked up. Pansy had marched in wearing—a very short pleated skirt. It was black, longer on the sides, with two big silver buckles in front. He raised an eyebrow.

“We’ve had a breakthrough—”

He refocused. She was holding a tube of lipstick. She had a team of chemists working under NDAs.

“It’s currently stable for seventy-two hours—”

She’d conjured a mirrored compact and now she was holding it up, the tube’s lid pinched between two fingers, as she applied a coat of lipstick. Neville shifted on the loveseat as he watched the bright red cylinder dragging across her plump lower lip.

“But it’s meant to be smudge-proof. So, while I have you—”

She dropped the compact and lipstick onto a side table and picked up a large brocade pillow from the chaise. Then she tossed it down, at Neville’s feet.

Neville stared at her. Then he unbuttoned his trousers.

“Take off your top,” he said.

He stood and stripped off. She was down to her bra and skirt. He gestured with his finger, nodding at the bra. She reached back to unhook it.

Then he was sitting, his clothes in a pile on the rug, watching her bare breasts sway as she kneeled on the pillow between his legs. She reached up—her black-lacquered nails stark against her pale hand, his pink skin—and grasped his bollocks (Neville inhaled) and then she was taking the head of his cock into her mouth. (Neville was holding his breath.) Her tongue laved over him (Neville exhaled) and pleasure seeped through him. Pansy Parkinson was on her knees, sucking his cock.

Neville had been much too afraid of her at school to have ever considered this scenario. Neville watched her, his eyes heavy-lidded, as she tongued the head. He’d fucked her mouth before, but there was something about this position . . . Pansy on her knees . . .

She looked up at him—

Fuck.

Those big, kohl-rimmed eyes—

Her cheeks hollowed—

Her lips around his cock—

The lipstick was already smudging. He didn’t tell her. He was breathing harder. Just watching her—

Pansy leaned in and then she was sucking his cock diligently, her tongue swirling, her hand at the base of the shaft. She was taking him deeper. Pulling back to work over the head. Taking him deeper again. She’d gagged a little—her mouth was full of spit. Her hand was squeezing. Pleasure was rolling through him. Saliva was building up. His cock and her hand wet with it. Spit running down his bollocks.

She looked up—

It was shameful, how much he liked this—Pansy on her knees. Him lorded over her. Being serviced. Usually he was working hard to distract her, overstimulate her so she could let go. He wasn’t doing anything now. Just watching while she worked to please him. It felt dirty—

Pansy pulled back—strands of spit stretching between them—and began aggressively wanking him off, her head tilted to the side to take in the lipstick smeared with saliva along his cock.

“This isn’t staying put at all,” she said, her grip tightening.

Merlin. Her mouth was messy—

Lips wet, tint and spit streaked to her chin—

She licked her lips—

Neville was breathing hard, staring at the smeared lipstick—

Her hand was moving fast and tight on him, everything slick with her spit—

Her breasts were jiggling with the motion of her arm—

Her breasts, her mouth, the smeared red, her face wet and sloppy from sucking his cock—

She tightened her grip—

Neville came all over her chest.

She sat back on her heels.

He was breathing hard, the aftershocks rippling through him—

His semen was painted across her sternum, her breasts—

He shuddered—

“I need to start over in the lab,” she said, and she absently wiped her chin on the back of her hand. “I’m sacking everyone.”

“Pansy—” He was panting, reaching for her. “Get up here.”

She looked up at him then, and then she scrambled up onto the loveseat to straddle him on her knees in her short skirt, and he held on to her thighs and licked her sternum clean, his tongue broad and flat against her skin. He licked her breasts as her fingers played through the hair at the nape of his neck. His hands were roaming over her. He licked her left nipple and began to suck. He was kneading her arse, his hands squeezing and squeezing as he took her breast into his mouth.

He was sucking as she stroked his hair, his fingers gripping her flesh—so dense and full and satisfying, so plush and yielding. He tongued her nipple and let go, tilted his head to suck on the other one. He couldn’t get enough of her body, pale and soft and unmarked, so different from his own. He sucked until he was hard again.

“Pansy,” he said, “get on my cock.”

She did. She reached under her skirt, pushed her knickers to the side, used her hand to position him and spread herself open as she shifted her hips. She was wet but he murmured the lubrication charm as she bore down and he worked his way into her. Go slow and use lots of lube—it had proved to be all-purpose advice.

Then she was seated on him, her breasts pressed to him. Merlin, he could live like this. He wiped her chin. Kissed her messy mouth.

She put her hands on his shoulders and moved on him. He had hold of her ribs, lifting her as she pushed up. He was snapping his hips up as she dropped onto him, his hands pulling her down. He was fucking her hard, her breasts bouncing. The loveseat was creaking. She was making those breathy noises. He could do this forever.

Finally she sighed and rocked forward on him. She was grinding against him. He had his hands up the skirt, her knickers pulled to the side. He was palming her ass, squeezing. He shifted his hand. Her noises went higher pitched. His finger was at her arsehole—he concentrated on the lubrication charm and pushed the very tip of the top joint in and she whined, grinding harder on him, pressing into him. He didn’t go deeper. He kept hold of her arse as she worked her clit against him and tightened on his cock. “You’re perfect, Pansy.”

I love having sex with you. He didn’t say it. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say. She’d think he was saying—

She was grinding against him, her hand gripping his shoulder. Then she gasped and held her breath and her cunt was clenching and spasming on him and she was rocking slowly, her mouth open, her eyes closed. Oh my Godric, she was beautiful. He could say that—

“You’re beautiful, Pansy. You’re beautiful—”

She sucked in a breath—

He pulled his hands from her arse and grabbed her ribs, and then he held her there as he thrust up into her until he came with a groan. He held her on him, everything pulsing. He shivered with the chills running down his neck—

He was breathing hard—

He kissed her, panting when he pulled away—

He was coming back to himself. He blinked, taking it in—

She was smeared with lipstick and saliva. He’d licked his own come off her breasts. She was still half dressed, her skirt hiked up—he’d ruined her knickers. He’d fingered her arsehole. They’d probably damaged the loveseat. Did she mind—that he was like this? That this got him off? That he always had to be weird about something? Had he forced this on her?

She took a deep breath and shook her hair into place. She sat up a little straighter, still on his cock.

“Thank you, Longbottom,” she said, her voice breathy. “For helping test that lipstick.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Anytime.”

“There are going to be quite a few iterations going forward. Loads of testing to be done. I’m going to need a lot of help—”

“I understand.” He was nodding, his heart racing, sick relief twisting in his chest. “I’m your man.”

SUNDAY AUGUST 10, 2003

Neville was on a rocky cliff in Ireland, a mist blowing up from the sea below, laughing women spilling out of Dean’s art studio. The sky stretched out before him, bright blue against the clouds. The green of the earth was dotted with yellow gorse, sea pink thrift, purple heather, wild daffodils. Wild pansies.

Seamus and Dean had been bonded inside the gallery—standing on the bare oak planks, Dean’s paintings on the white walls around them—surrounded by family and close friends. Now Dean’s muggle stepfather and Seamus’s muggle father were talking about cricket while Dean’s younger half-siblings milled awkwardly in their good clothes. There would be an early dinner at the distillery after this.

Neville moseyed back inside. Dean’s aunts were there, taking pictures with muggle cameras. They were tall and lean, with dark brown skin, like Dean. He’d painted them—a semi-abstract style, the canvas alive with bright colors—and they were posing together in front of the group portrait.

Neville looked over—Seamus had come to stand beside him.

“They won’t let him put them in any paintings with magic,” explained Seamus. “They’re good Christians—don’t hold with witchcraft. Till the neighbor lady steals the rhubarb out of the allotment. Then they love me, soon as they need a wee hex done.”

“They don’t ask Dean?” asked Neville.

“No! It’s me soul that can go to hell.” But he was smiling like he was proud of them. “Ach, there’s me mam talking to his mam—they’re thick as thieves. Up to no good, I’ll warrant you. I’ve got to break this up.”

Neville watched as he strolled over and then Dean’s mother was patting Seamus’s cheek while his mother straightened his lapels, Seamus’s face going a blotchy red as he soaked up their attention. Neville found himself smiling a little, his heart in his throat. He could hear Pansy saying, I quite need a mother. He’d never had one. Not like this. Now Dean’s aunts were there, fussing over Seamus. He grinned as they scolded him, their thin hands gripping his arm, holding his chin. His mother was laughing. Neville swallowed hard, the pain in his heart choking him.

Pansy. Neville had a mother, even if she couldn’t be here for him. Maybe it was his wife he wanted. He’d like her here, so he could take her hand. And then she could look up at him—like he mattered.

Selfish, to want her here to make him feel better. He was meant to take care of her.

She had refused to come because she didn’t think Seamus and Dean would want her here. Neville had asked her.

Neville had said, “Seamus and Dean are getting bonded on Sunday—”

And she’d said, “Have a nice time.”

“I thought you might come with me.”

Pansy had pursed her lips. “I don’t think so, Longbottom. I don’t go where I’m not wanted.”

“You’d be with me,” he’d said.

“Neville.” She’d fixed him with a look. “It’s Finnigan and Thomas’s bonding. That’s not the time—”

“We’re going to be bonded—”

“It’s their day,” she’d said firmly. “I won’t be a fly in the ointment.”

Neville didn’t control where Pansy went. But next time he’d argue. Next time he’d make it clear he wanted her there. Why hadn’t he said that? He should have said, You’re wanted. I want you there.

He hadn’t realized it until now—how much he wanted her here.

Now Seamus’s mam was waving him over. “Neville, look at you—”

He let Mrs. Finnigan take his hands as she gazed up at him. “You’ve grown up, you have. If you fell, you’d be halfway home.”

Neville laughed—he didn’t mind it, coming from her.

“And look at this suit. Are you getting married, then?”

“I am—this autumn.”

“And is she a nice girl?”

“No,” said Neville. “But she’s nice to me.”

Mrs. Finnigan threw back her head and laughed. “Ah, lad. That’s all that matters, then.”

Neville found a moment—before dinner started and they all got too drunk—to pull Seamus and Dean and Alicia and Katie aside. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and withdrew the envelopes.

“These are copies,” he said, handing them out. “Percy filed the originals.”

Katie had hers out and unfolded. “An exemption—”

“Shacklebolt signed this?” Alicia looked up at him, her tone sharp. “I don’t want to be beholden—"

“No,” said Neville. “They’re forged. I had Nott do them—”

“Theodore Nott,” said Dean, eyebrows raised.

“What about—”

“Percy had Penelope pull all the original match paperwork and the appeals. Officially, there will be no evidence they ever happened. If anyone goes looking, they’ll find the exemptions—backdated and filed as though they were there all along. Your matches will get something on Ministry letterhead saying the previous paperwork was in error.”

“I don’t have to marry that creepy Ravenclaw?” asked Katie. And then she was hugging him and not letting go.

Seamus’s brow was furrowed. “Will this fool—”

“Nott modeled it on his own exemption,” said Neville over Katie’s head. Her arms were tight around him. “His is for criminal insanity, but I reckon the format is the same—”

“You mad bastard—” Dean was jostling his shoulder as Katie began rocking him side to side.

“What do we owe Nott?” asked Alicia. Her arms were crossed. “The snakes don’t do anything for free.”

“Nothing,” said Neville.

“Bullshit.”

Neville huffed a laugh, his head thrown back as he avoided her eyes. His gaze skittered over the rafters and stills as he swayed with Katie. This was embarrassing. “It’s a favor because I’m with Pansy. I just have to let him—”

Godric—he was smiling, fighting a laugh. He couldn’t say it.

“What,” said Alicia.

“He gets to call me Daddy.”

“Daddy!” yelped Katie, pulling back to peer up at him. “Oh my Merlin—”

“Please get too pissed to remember I told you that,” sighed Neville, his eyes closed.

But he could hear Alicia sniggering. “I’m never forgetting that—”

“That’s what you get,” said Seamus—

Neville looked to him—

“Galloping in on your white horse, waving your sword around—”

“Playing the big man,” said Neville, his smile wry now. “I know.”

“Well, from what I’ve heard—” said Alicia.

“All right,” said Neville, “time for dinner.”

“Here—” Katie had slotted her copy back into its envelope and was collecting the others. “I’m putting these in my office before you lose them.”

She marched off, her heels clicking against the flooring. Neville thought of Pansy.

“Thanks, Nev,” said Dean, and Neville nodded as Seamus shook his hand, clapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re a good man, Neville,” said Seamus, and Neville felt his eyes prickle, wishing it were so.

“Oi,” said Alicia. “This means Katie and I don’t have to get bonded—”

“I heard that!” called Katie over her shoulder. “You’re not getting out of it!”

Neville didn’t get pissed. He was still mostly sober when he stepped out of the main floo at Parkinson Manor. He scanned the black and white checkerboard marble and white pampas grass—familiar now—and then Pansy was there, in her dressing gown. She wasn’t wearing her makeup.

“Hiya,” said Neville, smiling a little. He held out the wild pansies he’d gathered on the cliff in Ireland.

She stepped forward and took them from him, looking down at the purple and white and yellow flowers.

“They were there but you weren’t,” said Neville. “I missed you.”

She looked up. He could see the hope and fear in her eyes.

“I’m not doing that again,” he told her. “You’re meant to be my wife, Pansy. I’m not going places without you.”

Chapter Text

MONDAY AUGUST 11, 2003 – WEDNESDAY SEPTEMBER 17, 2003

Neville was sitting at a filigreed wrought iron table in the Parkinson Manor conservatory, eating breakfast with Pansy while she paged through her leather-bound wedding planner. August had been warm and dry this year but the room was still cool this early, weak daybreak sunlight filtering in through the palms and yuccas.

“It’s time for us to get serious about planning,” said Pansy, raising her eyebrows in her I mean it face, her hand coming to rest on a series of bullet points.

Neville nodded but did not say anything. He’d thought she’d got serious when she’d offered the photo exclusive to Witch Weekly.

“Narcissa says I should include you more,” said Pansy absently, as though this were a novel and suspect idea. “She has nice things to say about you, by the way.”

Neville cocked an eyebrow.

“Rings,” said Pansy, the tip of her pen at the first item on her list, which was RINGS. The pen was sterling silver, Tiffany & Co engraved at one end.

Neville felt a tightness in his chest. This was a sore subject for him after the ring with the canary yellow diamonds. But he shouldn’t be churlish with Pansy.

“I don’t wear rings,” said Neville. The truth. He worked with his hands. He didn’t want devil’s snare catching hold of a band and twisting. “I will buy you a ring if you want one.”

The elaborate betrothal rings were more of a Slytherin Sacred 28 tradition—part of their arranged marriages. There were Longbottom rings but they were antiques in the worst way—out of style, with stones like diamond chips. They weren’t good enough for Pansy. And Neville would be damned before he went to Gran or the great aunts to ask for them. (Gran had had some commentary on Hannah’s ring. She’d thought it flash and muggle.)

Pansy pulled a face like a shrug. “There are loads of rings in the vaults—”

“I don’t want you wearing anything with a fidelity charm on it,” said Neville, his voice harsher than he’d intended just as he set down his teacup with a rattle.

Pansy had paused, her expression wary.

Neville took a breath. Why was he worked up about this? He sighed. He was looking at the camellias, unable to meet her eyes. He’d told her, if he was fucking her, he was the only one but—saying this made him cringe.

Pansy was sitting very still.

He glanced over at her—her eyes guarded, her lips compressed. He opened his mouth—

“Do you have a cuckolding fetish?” she said.

What?

“You don’t want to fuck me? You want to watch other men—”

“Godric, no,” exploded Neville. “I don’t want to see anyone—”

“Then why do you want me to be able to fuck other men?” she spat, her chin jutted forward.

“I want you to choose not to!” barked Neville. There, he’d said it. So fucking embarrassing. Pick me. Choose me. He looked away. “I’m not interested in forced fidelity. It has to be your choice.”

“Oh.”

He looked to her—

She’d sat up straighter. She was decisively striking through RINGS.

Her pen moved to the next item on the list: FLOWERS.

Neville stared at her, his heart still beating too fast. A nauseous twist of the anger that had spiked through him. That’s it?

Where was the rest of the fight? The part where Pansy refused to believe him and made more accusations? The part where he gave up and walked out?

Thank Godric she didn’t know he’d seen Rolf fuck Luna. He’d been angry and sick to his stomach and then numb. He’d hated it. But if Pansy knew he’d spent a year being cuckolded, she’d think he was lying when he said he didn’t like it. Oh, that’s right—Luna made you. She’d be afraid he’d start making demands once she was bonded to him. She wouldn’t trust him.

Neville watched her purse her lips as she made a note. She was in business mode. Arch and efficient. All he had to do was acquiesce on matters of no importance to him—what he wore or where they ate or when he was to meet her—and she’d look at him with such satisfaction. Like he was her man. Neville didn’t want to see her start to look at him differently.

Pansy looked up from the planner. “You’re in charge of flowers.”

“All right,” said Neville. “What do you want?”

“You’re in charge,” said Pansy. “Do what you want.”

Neville studied her face. It was her wedding. He knew how important this was to her.

She was gazing back at him, eyes widened, in a manner that suggested she had been clear.

“All right,” said Neville. He lifted his chin to look at her list. “What’s next on—”

“Eh eh eh—” Pansy’s palm was up, halting him. “I’m in charge of everything else.”

Neville laughed. He didn’t like seeing Pansy tense and uncertain. He was happy to have this Pansy back.

Seamus watched from behind his desk as Neville walked into his office. His arms were crossed, his chin cocked.

“What’s the craic?” asked Neville, wary.

“Dean’s been invited to exhibit at a gallery in Muggle London—one of the right ones.”

Neville raised an eyebrow. This seemed like good news, but Seamus’s expression was chiding.

“At the insistence of an anonymous patron—”

Neville felt his brow furrow.

“Who’s guaranteed a minimum buy.” Seamus sat forward. “This Parkinson’s idea of a wedding gift, is it?”

Neville opened his mouth and then closed it. He exhaled. “That does sound like Pansy’s idea of a wedding gift,” he admitted. “Dean saying no, then?”

“You mental?” Seamus scoffed. “How do you think everyone else gets these shows? He’s taking it.”

Then Seamus smiled, pleased after all, and Neville shook his head.

Pansy.

When, later, he said it’d been nice of her, Pansy said, “Don’t be daft, Longbottom. It’s a tax write-off when I donate the pieces to museums.”

Neville eyed her. “Museums where more people will see Dean’s art?”

Pansy shrugged, as though she didn’t know exactly what she was doing.

“It’s an official Ministry notice.”

Ginny had owled him, and he’d come over. Now she was laying the parchment in front of him at the long table in the basement kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Neville imagined Luna opening her post in Canada.

“They’re covering any travel costs or expenses—”

“Why?” asked Ron. “Where’s it going to be?”

Parkinson Manor made the most sense for the ceremony, but too many of the elves would let Violet in. Neville said, “Pansy hasn’t decided yet.”

Ron snorted, and Neville raised an eyebrow.

“I’m surprised Shacklebolt didn’t want Ron and Harry,” said Susan, reaching to pull the crisps packet closer as Ginny sat down. “But I suppose they’d be all anyone cared about then.”

The blokes lost in the woods while we fought the Carrows. Neville didn’t say it. He said, “Pansy says it’s a better visual. Two attractive witches to balance out her side—”

“What—” Ron was smirking. “Is it going to be her and Bulstrode stood up there?”

Neville paused. “It’s going to be wizards,” he said slowly. “Nott and Malfoy.”

“Malfoy—”

“That’ll be handy if you need someone’s tongue taken out,” said Harry.

“Right,” said Neville, looking at Ron.

“He’s been hanging around the Ministry,” said Harry. “Malfoy.”

“Is he visiting Hermione because he fancies her?” Ginny’s voice had gone singsong as she leaned into him.

“Helga’s humps,” said Susan. “He’s cornering her at work because she’s a captive audience there. She can’t flee her own office.”

“It’s good strategy,” said Ron dryly.

“Thank Merlin the betrothal ring stops him from raping her—”

“Susan!”

“Oh, come on. Don’t pretend you aren’t getting reports.” Susan was looking between Harry and Ron, eyebrows raised. “From witches who don’t have protection?”

Ron said, “Yeah, all right—”

“The worst thing that could happen is Hermione getting pregnant—”

“Susan—”

“What? Like we haven’t all thought about it.” Susan and Ginny were exchanging widened eyes. Neville took in the ginger ales in front of them.

“They’re married,” said Ginny weakly.

“Ginny! He thinks she’s subhuman!”

“Not anymore—”

“Point to the statement he’s made disavowing that. You can’t. What he has said—out loud—is that he wished she were dead—”

“That was a long time ago—”

“Right—before he took the Mark, poisoned Ron, and told the press he was holding her captive. Definitely have a baby with that bloke.”

Ginny’s and Susan’s arms were tightly crossed against their chests. Ron and Harry were looking anywhere but them. Ginny said, “It’s more complicated—”

“It’s not complicated. He screamed ‘I hate you’ at her a month ago—we were there! He’s not even lying—'cause you’re doing it for him.” Susan broke her hard stare to sigh. “Look, if Hermione were to get pregnant, the best-case scenario is he disowns the baby—”

“What—”

“Because otherwise, he’ll take that baby from her and bring it up to know he hates it. He’ll treat that kid like a squib no matter how much magic it has, because he’ll be disgusted it’s half muggle. You know how squibs are treated.”

Ginny couldn’t meet her eyes.

“C’mon. It’s not sweet or romantic for Hermione to have a baby with a fascist. That’s a nightmare for her andthe baby. It only gives him a way to control her. It’ll take a toll on her body and her career. And then she’s tied to him forever. Which will fuck with her head. If she stays clear of that, she can just leave once this law is repealed. Because surely it will be. I don’t understand why you’d want anything else for her—”

“I don’t know,” said Ginny. She was looking at Harry. His expression was pained. “I guess I just have baby fever—”

“I mean, she wouldn’t have it,” said Ron quietly. The witches looked to him, and he shrugged, uncomfortable. “Her work comes first. Maybe if she were with the right bloke. But it’s Malfoy. If he did that to her, she’d abort.”

“There you go,” said Susan. She was speaking to Ginny but she was looking at Ron. “It’s not what she wants.”

Ginny sighed heavily.

Ron turned to Neville. Ready to change the subject. “Was that Shacklebolt’s idea—Nott and Malfoy?”

“It was Pansy’s,” said Neville.

Ron shook his head. “Mate, you gotta learn to stand up to her.”

“Right,” said Neville. The room was tense and unhappy. He was ready to go. He turned to Ginny. “Give me your match schedule so Pansy has it when she’s deciding the date.”

Ron huffed a laugh, still shaking his head.

Neville was having dinner with his gran. The familiar tatted curtains. The familiar silver. Archibald glaring at his taxidermized predecessor, perched permanently in the corner.

Neville had brought a fruit tart from the shops.

“Too much starch,” said Gran, poking at the crème pat with her dessert fork.

Neville didn’t say anything.

“It seems quite a lot of fuss for a bond,” said Gran. “I’m sure people have other things to do with their time. If Miss Parkinson—”

“It’s what Shacklebolt wants,” said Neville.

“Well—” Gran cocked her chin. She was a great admirer of Shacklebolt.

She ate another bite of the tart.

Neville drank his port.

Neville was in the Wheezes workshop, flipping through the pictures Alicia had brought with her. She and Katie had eloped—no friends or family, only an officiant and a photographer and them on a beach, in white dresses and leis, barefoot, their hair loose. Alicia said her parents were being bellends and she’d decided fuck ‘em. This was just for her and Katie.

Neville was surprised by the photos—he hadn’t seen Alicia in a skirt since Hogwarts.

“What are you wearing?” said George.

“Fuck you, dickwad, I’m a lovely young lady,” said Alicia, and then she and George burst into laughter and Neville was laughing with them.

“Did you buy Katie and Alicia lifetime Kestrels box seats?” asked Neville. They were eating at the bar in a hotel she owned.

“We bought them box seats,” said Pansy. “You said they got bonded.”

Neville watched her cut her steak.

She looked up. “They’re still sporty, aren’t they?”

“So I was on my rounds, talking to Fatima at Witch Weekly,” said Katie, sitting in a guest chair in Seamus’s office. “She’s spearheading the new current events column in Teen Witch—”

They all nodded. The spin-off magazine’s features had been called “surprisingly hard-hitting.” But it wasn’t surprising if you knew Fatima. She had a political science degree from a university in the States and over a decade in journalism. She assumed her readers could think.

“—and she’s noticing a trend among her daughter’s friends. Younger wizards are getting more conservative while younger witches are getting more progressive—”

“If mandatory marriage won’t radicalize them, I don’t know what will,” muttered Alicia.

“—and some lads are starting to tell the girls they don’t need them because they’ll just imperio muggle women.”

“Wonder where they got that idea,” said Alicia.

Neville was flashing back to the training camp in the Albanian woods and the sound of high-pitched screaming. Green light strobing as, beside him, avada kedavras rolled off Dionisio’s tongue.

“They’re talking about someone named Saiph.”

Neville’s head jerked toward Seamus. “That’s—”

“A star in Orion,” said Seamus darkly.

Neville took a deep breath.

His chest was tight. His eyes had gone to the door. There was no one there.

Of course there wasn’t.

Neville went to Knockturn. No one there was going to talk to him.

His hands were in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched as he scanned for the crone with the stall.

He moved further in, the shopfronts closer together, the air fouler. His gaze swept over the streaked windows, the uneven cobblestones at his feet.

Then he saw it—the pamphlet. Marked with a boot print, the Orion constellation still visible on the front. Bellatrix’s namesake star charmed to glow.

He looked up. He could hear the witch’s querulous voice now—the stall just ahead, tucked against crumbling brick.

“Don’t need to pay you,” said a man. “Everyone knows where she is—the Malfoys claimed her. She’s in their graveyard—”

“They did not.” It was the witch. “They turned their backs on her—and they’ve had nowt but ill luck since! Azkaban, exile, dirty blood—”

The man was scoffing. “What do I care?”

“You should. She’ll know who was loyal, who lost faith—”

Then her head twitched toward Neville—

She saw him—

She was snatching up the pamphlets—

Neville’s shoulders were no longer hunched—

“I know who you are!” The crone’s crooked finger was pointing at him.

Neville was pushing aside the people in his way—

Her eyes were wide. “She’ll come for you first—”

Neville was casting—

She disapparated with a shriek—

Neville dropped his wand hand. The incarcerous ropes fell to the begrimed cobblestones.

In the stall, Bellatrix’s picture laughed and laughed from its abandoned altar.

Neville blew it all up.

A nonverbal confringo—it wasn’t accidental magic.

The tattered canvas aflame. Broken bricks scraping, chalky. Scraps of paper and wood scattered across the gutter.

High-pitched screaming.

Neville turned and stalked out of the alley. He didn’t disapparate until he reached Diagon.

Neville stood stroking the leaves of the venomous tentacula and thinking as the vines wound around him.

The crone was a fanatic.

The boys were repeating purist recruitment propaganda that had a life of its own.

Saiph was a star in the Orion constellation. Just like Bellatrix.

Saiph meant sword.

A new year had started at Hogwarts. Neville would give one lecture each month as his Advanced Herbology students cultivated their plants over the course of the term. He was assigning fanged peonies. Easy, but he had a use for them. He’d brought the bare-root tubers and pots and some mandrakes and venomous tentaculas on the old lorry he had enchanted as a portkey—he didn’t like shrinking plants to transport them. He had a pass-spell for the portkey, from Sprout.

Now Neville stood outside the greenhouse, in canvas trousers and a work shirt, watching Slytherin fifth years furtively smoke by the Black Lake. Were they, even now, being slipped the same magazines promising their pick of muggle women that Malfoy and his lackeys had traded? Neville could see a glimpse of Dumbledore’s tomb on the far side of the water, white through the trees.

He turned as the latecomers arrived. His sixth and seventh years could still remember him as a seventh year. It made Neville uncomfortable—but so did the thought of the last of them gone.

He looked up at the castle he didn’t go into. Then he followed the students into the greenhouse.

Neville came in from the fields sweaty and hungry and annoyed with himself. He already knew he was out of food because he hadn’t been to the shops. He’d get obsessive about planting or pruning and put off the chores he didn’t care about. Then he’d end up eating porridge for three days straight.

He washed his hands in the kitchen lab and turned to lean against the sink. He’d have to change clothes and go into town. He’d lose the afternoon.

He realized he was looking at a cake stand. On the counter across from him.

It held a chocolate cake, sprinkled with coconut, under a glass dome.

The cottage was heavily protected, with some pointers from Bill. The wards should only allow Neville or Pansy in.

There was a note card.

Neville straightened and plucked it up. It read: For Mr. Longbottom, from the kitchens 🖤

Neville felt a wave of sadness wash through him. He didn’t know why—the note made him happy.

He looked at it for a while, picturing Anise drawing the heart.

Then he found a fork and lifted the dome off the cake and carved a big bite from the top. He could do that. He was alone here. The cake was for him. He tipped it into his mouth—it was a little too much—and stood chewing, absently holding the fork as though it were his wand. It was as good as the black forest gateau. He’d probably left his wand in the greenhouse. He should go get it. He should shower and—

Neville set down the fork and opened the icebox as it occurred to him to check—

There, on the shelf above the seed containers, were covered dishes. Neville pulled one out and raised the lid. Chicken and carrots and roasted potatoes and asparagus. Cooked and seasoned and ready to be warmed.

Neville swallowed. He needed some water to wash down the cake. The chocolate buttercream was thick. It was sticking in his throat. Choking him.

Neville was sitting on the upholstered bench at the end of Pansy’s bed, his lips parted, his eyes trained on Pansy’s face. She was on her knees, sucking him off. Her lipstick was charmed black, the better to show thinned spots or feathering. The contrast was mesmerizing—her matte black lips puckered to kiss the wet, pink head of his cock.

She took him deeper, her lips stretched around him, and kept him there. Her tongue swirled, and he reached out and very, very gently palmed the back of her head. No pressure, just contact. He wouldn’t be the man who held a witch down. But the image . . . his cock in her mouth, his fingers splayed across her dark hair, cradling her skull—

Neville drew in a breath, his heart racing—

She looked up at him, those big, kohl-lined eyes—

He pulled his hand away—

“Up,” he said, his voice husky.

He gestured with his curled fingers—quickly, quickly.

She did it.

She pulled back and then she was up, off her knees—

Climbing onto his lap—

Straddling him—

Her pink tongue licking those matte black lips—

Her hand lining him up. He was doing the charm while he felt her—

Godric, she was on his cock and—

“Pansy, you’re perfect,” he sighed. Perfect. Perfect. How could she have thought he wouldn’t want to do this? That he’d want to see her with someone else?

He tilted his head down to kiss her black lips. He wasn’t going to last long—

Neville leaned back, taking her with him. His elbows on the edge of the bed, his hands on her ribs. Her breasts pressed to him. She was moving against him. He was snapping his hips up—

She looked so determined.

I love this, he thought.

He was breathing hard. “Pansy,” he panted. He didn’t say anything else.

“Sit,” said Pansy.

Neville frowned at her low vanity stool but he tried it. He was all knees and elbows on this thing. This was—

“Stop frowning,” said Pansy. “You’re going to get wrinkles.”

“I work outdoors.”

“Which is why you need my help.” She’d moved to stand between his legs.

She was in a silk slip. Thin straps and lace cups. He could see her nipples—

“Chin up.”

He obeyed and she started dabbing something from a small pot onto his forehead—

“What is this?”

“Skin cream,” she said.

Neville gave up on asking questions. He closed his eyes and let her touch his face.

She stroked his cheeks, humming to herself. He sighed and felt his shoulders release.

Neville was watering the venomous tentaculas while Pansy sat at the scarred wooden table, drinking the tea he’d made her and flipping through her hedge fund prospectus. Sometimes she came by for no reason.

“Roll up your sleeves one more turn,” she said.

He glanced over his shoulder. Was this a fashion thing?

She was in a full black and white checkered skirt and black top. Emeralds at her earlobes and fingers. The dark red lipstick they’d been field testing. They’d been field testing it a lot. Her gaze was raking him up and down.

He rolled his sleeves all the way to the elbow.

She was suppressing a smirk.

He looked at her sidelong.

She said, “I like your forearms.”

Neville raised an eyebrow and got back to his watering.

No one had ever said that to him before her.

THURSDAY SEPTEMBER 18, 2003

Neville was lying on his bed in the cottage, being suffocated by Pansy Parkinson’s cunt. He’d begged for this.

Neville didn’t beg. But he’d come up from making rosary pea seed paste and found her propped up against his pillows. He’d made her wait while he showered and then he’d come out—scrubbed pink, his hair still wet—and she’d told him she was in charge. So when she was on her knees and elbows, sucking his cock with her cunt in his face—out of reach because he was too tall and she was too short—he’d tugged on her hips and said please. “Please, Pansy. Sit on my face.”

Now he didn’t care if he couldn’t breathe. All he could smell or taste was her. She’d come and gone still, her hand flat on his chest, and he was lapping her up. Everything hot and slick and her. He could do this forever or until he passed out—

But then she was pulling away and he was sucking in air. She was moving to face him. He was blinking and wiping his hand across his muzzle. He wanted her to stay there longer next time—

But now she had hold of his cock and she was lowering herself onto him. He was panting, mumbling the charm—she was wet but there was a lot of him and he liked seeing that wince but felt guilty about that. Then he was in—

She was seated on him—

Godric, she felt good. He was rolling his hips to push into her like he couldn’t get enough—

And she was doing a little shimmy as she took off her bra. Her bare breasts—Merlin.

His fingertips were on her thighs. She was moving on him. She was—

She was glancing over at the bedside table.

She was back, focused on him—

No, she was distracted. That little crease between her eyebrows. That little frown—not in a good way.

He tilted his head back, eyeing the table. The post was stacked up there—she’d mentioned it when he’d got out of the shower. He’d told her he’d look at it later. Was this why she’d been coming on strong?

He cleared his throat. “What’s in the post, Pansy?”

“Nothing,” she said, slowing. Her rhythm gone now.

She looked shifty. He knew that face.

He pushed up onto his elbows, his stomach tensing under her. He looked over at the bedside table. Loads of people wrote him about loads of things. What would have upset her? She’d never cared about his business.

He reached across and shuffled through the post until he saw it—an envelope in Hufflepuff yellow. “Is it this?”

He pulled it from the pile and turned back to her. His cock was hard inside her but unease twisted in his chest. It was Hannah’s name on the return address. She’d written him?

He tossed the letter down onto the sheet beside him and shifted so he was reclined against the pillows, one arm up behind his head, one hand on Pansy’s thigh. He could see from her face that they’d have to have this out. He’d avoided things with Luna and Hannah, and it had only hurt longer and slower instead of all at once. “Tell me.”

Pansy shrugged, rocking on him a little. She wasn’t pushing off him. But she wasn’t saying it was nothing, either. She was looking at his chest.

“I saw it and I got jealous,” she said. She tilted her head. Then she met his eyes. “Are you angry? Do you think I don’t trust you?”

What, had she thought he’d been cheating? Did she think he’d kept something up with Hannah—with Hannah married, and him telling Pansy he had to be the only one?

He was angry. But: “I know who you used to date.”

“I know you’re not Draco,” she said.

Neville raised an eyebrow.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

He could feel the heat in his chest. A tightness spreading outward.

Malfoy had openly, flagrantly fucked around on her when he wasn’t harassing unwilling witches. Groping girls in the corridors. Flipping up skirts. Whispering vile things in the library. Smirking as he flaunted the lovebites and jinxes. Neville didn’t need to be told he was different—

She was holding her breath. She looked scared. He’d scared her. Pansy Parkinson had grown up around volatile people. She was very attuned to anger.

And Neville was an angry person. He knew that.

She was naked and vulnerable. He was simmering beneath her.

Neville took a breath.

He was an angry person, but he didn’t have to let the anger out. He could choose not to take it out on the people he cared about. It would still be there, waiting for the people he did take it out on.

This needed to be said, though.

“For one thing,” he said, running his thumb and finger up and down either side of her thigh muscle, “I’m not a coward.”

She was holding very still. “I know that, Neville.”

He wasn’t going to take this out on her. But he wanted to be clear. “Which means I don’t cheat.”

He looked up from her thigh, and she nodded.

He watched her face. Her eyes skittered over him. She didn’t believe him. Malfoy had done this. She thought all men cheated now. He thought back to her rules—don’t hit her, don’t come on her face. She hadn’t even asked him to be true.

Neville took his hand from her thigh and reached over and picked up the envelope. He held it out to her.

She shook her head, her lips sucked into her mouth.

“It’s not a test,” he said. “Open it.”

“What does it say?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You can tell me.”

She looked at him.

“Open it, Pansy.”

She hesitated. She took it.

She stole a look at him as she slid her thumbnail under the seal and then pulled the stationery from the envelope, but he kept his expression neutral. He had no idea why Hannah had written him.

Pansy’s head was bent over the parchment. She was making no pretense of not poring over it. Neville felt a grim fatalism flood him. Would Hannah choose this moment to put everything she’d found objectionable about him into words? Does Parkinson know you’re a cuckold? A pervert? A disappointment? A piece of meat no one wants? Would Pansy raise her head from the letter and look at him differently?

Neville took in a slow breath.

If she did, he would just have to own it.

He might not be good or special or necessary. But he could face up to things. That’s what he told himself.

(Was that why he was so angry? Because he hadn’t faced up to things with Luna or Hannah? Because he hadbeen a coward? Neville sighed.)

He reached out and—a surprised inhale from her—began to rub circles on Pansy’s clit. He sensed her glance up but he kept his eyes on his hand. He didn’t want to see her look at him differently. He just wanted to do this.

“What does it say?” he asked.

“She said she wouldn’t get involved and she won’t. She debated whether to tell you this, but she’s noticed increased floo traffic between the Leaky and Avery Manor. She hopes our match isn’t bringing up the past. P.S. Am I as awful as I was in school.”

It was nothing. The letter was nothing. Hannah being nosy. The tip about Avery an excuse to insert herself into his life. She didn’t know Pansy did things like drop by his bedroom and collect his post. She didn’t expect him to let Pansy read his mail.

“What shall I tell her?” he asked Pansy now.

Pansy rocked her hips, tightening her cunt on him. She wasn’t pushing off him to lock herself in the loo.

“Tell her I’m worse. A terrible shrew,” said Pansy. “You’ve never met anyone so jealous in your life. I never let you go anywhere or do anything or have any fun, and I hex you if you so much as look at a witch sideways. It’s hell on earth for you here.”

Neville snorted a laugh. She was funny—it was one of the things he liked most about Pansy now that he wasn’t afraid of her. He was smiling as she got the balls of her feet under her and began to move on his cock. She let the letter fall to the floor.

Neville said, “I’ll tell her you’re devoted and protective and a brilliant shag.”

“That’s what I just said,” said Pansy.

He was smiling as she fucked him. Merlin, it felt good.

“I am awful and I will read your post again,” she said, low and threatening.

Neville laughed, his eyes nearly closed as he tilted his chin up, his head back. Pleasure was rolling through him. He was awful because he didn’t mind this—hearing her get possessive. That was easy. There wasn’t anyone else.

“Read it all,” he said. “I’m not scared.”

He let her wear herself out on him.

Then he rolled over with her and fucked her fast, turning his head away so he didn’t shout in her ear when he came. He turned back, shuddering, and kissed her face. He was breathing hard, his cock still in her, when he murmured, “Pansy, you’re the only witch for me.”

“I know that,” she said.

She didn’t. He hadn’t done enough to convince her—evidently. He hadn’t understood the things she took for granted. But he understood better now. He’d take better care of her.

He went downstairs and came back up with tea and cake, and they ate naked in bed.

She was watching him when he looked over at her. He smiled—she looked like she’d been scheming.

“Why didn’t you and Abbott marry?” she asked him. “I’d assumed you had.”

Was this why she was jealous of Hannah? She thought he and Luna were incompatible because of his rules. But he’d almost married Hannah. She didn’t know everything he’d had in common with Hannah had been superficial. (He hadn’t known that either.)

Neville made his expression neutral as he looked down and picked crumbs off the bedding. He didn’t want to tell her that knowing about Luna had made Hannah jealous and insecure. That every time he’d tried to reassure Hannah that he wanted what they had, he’d inadvertently made Luna out to be the sort of libertine who would blow into town, blow him, and blow up Hannah’s world.

He told part of the truth. The bigger part: “She thought I needed to let the war go. That I was obsessed. That’s why she didn’t want to tell me about Avery Manor.”

Pansy turned more fully toward him. “But how do you do that? Let the war go.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “So I didn’t.”

“Right,” she said, nodding. There was a little crease between her eyebrows.

“Why are you all right with what I do?” he asked. “You grew up with these people.”

She sighed. She wouldn’t look at him. “Because . . . they used us. The boys, especially. They ruined them—all the boys I cared about. And for nothing. A stupid, made-up idea.”

She stopped then—she had to know: Neville hated those boys Pansy had cared about. He’d known them since they were eleven—they’d never been sweet and innocent. They’d stolen his things and hexed him on the stairs. They’d put him in hospital. One in particular had wished Hermione dead and nearly killed Katie and Ron. He didn’t feel bad for those boys.

But Pansy sounded so sad he tried to see it through her eyes. He thought of those rare moments when Nott or Pucey or Zabini was separated from the others—alone in the library or paired with a Gryff in Herbology—and he’d got a glimpse of them as a person. Someone with interests and insecurities they only shared one-on-one, when they weren’t posturing and protecting their image. Like maybe they would have been all right if they’d been in a different house with different friends and different parents and a different life.

Maybe Neville would have been all right too, if his whole life had been different.

Pansy had shifted over to lean against him. Finally, she said, “They lied to us—about a lot of things. And I just . . . hate them now.”

This Neville understood. This feeling of having been lied to. Sacrificed and taken for granted by the adults meant to love and protect you. Though Neville still wasn’t sure that was real—this idea that certain adults were meant to do that for you. He’d disagreed when a mind healer had told him every child deserved respect by virtue of being human. “No,” he’d said, shaking his head. “You have to earn it.” It was a nice-sounding theory, what the healer said. It just didn’t have anything to do with how people actually treated you. Now Shacklebolt was still fucking with him. And Neville was still being told he was the problem if he didn’t play by the rules. He thought of Alicia saying her parents had been bellends, so she’d decided fuck ‘em.

Neville nestled Pansy into him, his arm around her. She smelled like sex and cake. Like coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms. She was warm and alive and his to take care of. Maybe no one had defended him, but he could say this to her: “I’ll take care of them.”

She looked up at him, quick, and grinned. She was looking at him like he was her man. Like he was her hero. Like he mattered. He’d do anything to get her to look at him like this.

“Do you want to read my response to Hannah before I send it?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I trust you.”

Neville smiled. He wasn’t falling for that. He’d leave it out where she’d find it.

He let her pull him down and kiss him, scattering all the crumbs he’d collected.

Neville wrote to Hannah that he was well and she needn’t concern herself with his match. He paused, the distillery-branded pen held over the parchment. That was all that needed to be said. But the message was for Pansy as much as Hannah. He added that he and Pansy understood each other, and she made him happy.

A low blow, perhaps. You didn’t understand me. I wasn’t happy with you. He could imagine Hannah’s furrowed brow, her nose wrinkling as she read between the lines.

But Neville had a policy of reminding people not to fuck with him. She shouldn’t have added that P.S. about Pansy.

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 19, 2003

Neville was wrestling with a bubotuber when he heard Pansy’s heels on the greenhouse tile.

She reached him at the wooden table in back and said, “It’s half past five. We’re going to Granger’s birthday drinks at six.”

Neville looked down at the pus splashed across his work clothes. He’d known today was Hermione’s birthday but he hadn’t heard anything about drinks.

“I’ve been by Flourish & Blotts.” Pansy rummaged in her handbag to produce gift-wrapped books she now held up in turn. “You’re giving her a novel—something muggle called The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. It was published in August, so it’s possible she hasn’t read it. And I’ve bought her a history of cosmetics so she has some context for that eyeshadow she hasn’t updated since fifth year.”

Neville was confused. “Did Ginny owl—”

Pansy was shaking her head. “Draco—he’s got himself invited and needs back up.” She’d looked down as she shoved the books back into her purse. Neville thought he heard her mutter “little bitch.” She lifted her head, her expression bright. “Nott will be there too.”

“Where?”

“The Leaky.”

Neville nodded. He was, apparently, about to gatecrash Hermione’s birthday drinks. With the snakes. With Hannah behind the bar.

Chapter Text

WEDNESDAY MAY 28, 2003

Neville was at The Three Broomsticks, sitting beside Hermione—their backs to the wall—after the ceremony commemorating the fifth anniversary of the Battle. Neville had spent a portion of the afternoon up in front of everyone, feeling ridiculous. They’d read out the names of the dead—their dead, anyway—and Neville had looked at their faces in the program—smiling and laughing, or shy and formal in their school portraits—and felt suddenly distracted and irritated. He’d wanted to be in the greenhouse. He’d wanted to be walking the fields. He’d wanted to be rearranging the furniture or accioing sickles, pushing the thoughts from his head. He’d shifted in his seat. A children’s choir had sung—mawkish, he’d thought—and his eyes had lingered on where he and Ron had taken down Greyback, where Molly Weasley had killed Bellatrix. Shacklebolt had got in a bit of campaigning for his Reconciliation Act there at the end. Now they were all in Hogsmeade, where the consensus was to get blind drunk.

“You getting married if the law passes?” Neville asked Hermione. It was a common enough hypothetical now as debate on the bill dragged on: Act before they could match you or wait to see who you’d get? He watched her over the rim of his pint glass as he took a sip.

“I can’t imagine who I’d marry,” said Hermione. “I’m not dating anyone.”

“Right,” said Neville carefully. He was hunched down a little, so she could hear him in the din.

She was looking around. Idly scanning the crowd packed in around them. The pub was full and getting stuffy.

He hesitated. Then he said, “Me neither.”

Hermione nodded. His eyes flicked over her eyebrow, that freckle, all the details familiar after years and years. He’d always considered Hermione his friend, but now that school didn’t force them together, he saw her less and less. She had her work, and he had his, and he was hesitant to overstep. What would he say, if he reached out?

But he’d been rather obvious with that me neither.

Now she turned her face toward him, and Neville sat up a little. Was this—

Was this where she said, We could marry each other, you know. I’ve always liked you—

And Neville would say—

“But it’s not going to pass,” said Hermione. “The Wizengamot is insanely out of touch if it thinks—”

Neville nodded along. She was the public face of the bill’s opposition. He’d insulted her, asking her plans for when she failed—of course she hadn’t made any. She was still determined to win. Hermione didn’t give up. That was the thing about Hermione.

He could say something. It could be him who suggested it. A joke that wasn’t a joke. But it wasn’t a matter of being brave. It was a matter of facing reality. If Hermione wanted something, she didn’t give up on it. He was right here, sitting beside her. She didn’t even see him.

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 19, 2003

They were late—Neville had needed to subdue the bubotuber and bathe—and the Leaky was already loud when they got there for Hermione’s birthday drinks. Neville kept Pansy close as they stepped from the floo, his fingertips on her bare shoulder blade. He wanted it clear he’d be the one addressing any comments made.

He scanned his surroundings—the patrons, the door, the tables, the stairs to the rented rooms and the flat where he had once stayed. Hannah and Macmillan behind the bar. She’d see him if she glanced over—he was tall—but Pansy would be lost in the crowd. Hannah should have got his note by now—the note saying he was happy with Pansy. He couldn’t imagine she’d believed it. After he’d said Pansy was nice to him, Ron and Harry had looked at him like he didn’t know when he was being bullied.

Now he could see the Golden Trio ahead, standing with Padma around a table in the back. Malfoy and Nott were faced off with them, the Slytherin men in dark trousers and crisp button-downs—they’d come in from the other side.

Neville watched over Pansy’s head as Nott jerked his chin and Ron jolted forward, Harry yanking him back. Nott had probably said they were gay—it had been a running gibe with the Slytherins. The rich ones all frantically fucked around before they were locked into arranged marriages, and then they accused everyone else of being prudes or secret sex pests. They’d called Ron and Harry a couple since they were twelve.

Neville had wondered about Harry himself, back when Harry had whinged any time he’d had to spend time alone with Hermione in the library. Neville would have gladly traded Ron’s friendship and his own right arm for time in the stacks with her. He would have carried all her books and let her petrify him again. He’d never understood how Harry could be oblivious to all the drama between her and Ron.

Now Nott slouched off as Neville and Pansy reached the others.

“Was that Nott?” asked Pansy, dropping her handbag onto the table. “Nott!” she called. “Firewhisky for my man!”

She was on edge with the Gryffs—she knew they couldn’t stand her.

Neville reached up and took hold of Pansy’s neck, his other hand in his pocket. She was short enough his hand rested naturally at her nape, like standing with a wineglass at a posh party. He felt her press back into his grip, and he squeezed—his fingers flexing on the margins of her throat. He could sense her shoulders drop.

Neville nodded to Harry and Ron—they’d gone still. Had they realized he hadn’t been invited? Ron’s brow was furrowed, Harry’s lips slightly parted. They were staring at his hand on Pansy’s neck.

That was fine. He left it there.

He nodded to Hermione, who looked a bit wide-eyed.

“Hiya, Padma.” He knew it was Padma—she wore her hair to her shoulders instead of her lower back and was still dressed, like Hermione, for work at the Ministry.

She said, “Hiya, Neville,” and the way her eyes flicked over him made him think she was picturing him naked. (Had Parvati told her everything?) He shifted closer to Pansy as though she could shield him. Hannah would have caught it—there would have been a sidelong look and a comment later. He’d have spent the night waiting for it. But Pansy didn’t know about Parvati—because he hadn’t told her.

He glanced to Malfoy, who’d wanted Pansy there—but his focus was on Hermione. Something passed between them. Then Malfoy turned his sharp, pointy face to Neville and drawled, “Longbottom.”

“Malfoy,” said Neville, picturing punching him in the jaw.

Malfoy lifted his chin, as if he knew what Neville was thinking.

Cheater. Coward. War criminal.

After last night, Neville regretted his promise not to hurt this man. Malfoy had been convicted of torture, unlawful confinement, attempted assassination, accessory to murder, and conspiracy to commit genocide. Pansy saw him as a victim. Neville didn’t.

Hermione pushed back her hair, and Neville’s eye caught on the diamond and sapphires on her hand. Malfoy was exactly the sort who needed a charmed ring to keep a woman chained to him. Or to keep him from forcing her—was Susan right about that?

A giggling Ginny and Nott came back with trays from the bar—Harry moving to intercept them—and Neville realized Susan wasn’t there. Had she refused to drink with Malfoy? Neville toed his chair over for a better angle on the door before he sat; he would have to trust Ron and Harry to watch the floo. Hermione had the best position—her back to the wall. The snakes had the worst seats—their backs to the pub.

Then Hermione nudged Ginny to switch and Ron was dropping into the seat beside her. He leaned in toward Hermione’s ear, loose and casual, and Neville was reminded—his brain supplying the image automatically—that they had slept together. Ron wasn’t touching her; he wasn’t leering. But he slouched in his chair, his shoulder near hers, and the familiarity said it all. It wasn’t just Neville thinking it—Malfoy’s fingertips were tapping on his firewhisky glass as he stared at them from across the table. The diamonds of his betrothal band glittered in the light. His jaw was set. Had she done it on purpose?

Nott was distracted by Padma. Malfoy too preoccupied to check his six. Someone was going to see that white-blond hair and glass him from behind. Neville tugged Pansy’s chair closer to his—away from Malfoy’s. His brain supplied the image automatically: her hanging on Malfoy in the Great Hall.

But Pansy had turned away from Malfoy to fuss over Neville’s drink. She’d got it for him, though he could reach. Her hand was on his arm. She was wearing a dress with tight, gauzy sleeves that were sliding off her shoulders and a mostly open back. The fabric clung to her body, wrinkled up in a way that was intentional. Neville pushed away everything else and leaned in as she looked up at him.

“Is it Finnigan’s?” she asked, nodding toward the glass in his left hand.

Neville raised his eyebrows, surprised, and took a sip. “No, it’s Ogden’s,” he said.

“You can tell?” she asked.

He nodded. “Who made your dress?” he asked.

“Tom Ford,” she said. Neville didn’t know who that was—but it didn’t matter.

I want you, he thought, concentrating like it was nonverbal magic.

She grinned like she could read his mind. He was smiling now.

Neville straightened and looked around—Ron and Harry were eyeing him, their gazes traveling over his black button-down and the Patek Philippe like they were seeing him for the first time.

Sometimes Neville would have drinks with the Gryffs or the Puffs from school and they’d ask about his plants and then slap him on the back and say, “Good old Neville—just the same.” How could he possibly be the same, Neville always wondered, after everything that had happened?

People saw what they wanted to see. And, Neville had learned, people didn’t like it when you changed. They didn’t like the possibility that they had played a part. They liked to believe you would stay naive no matter what was done to you. They liked to believe good people couldn’t be permanently harmed. (But Neville had always known that wasn’t true, hadn’t he? He’d visited his parents.)

He and Hermione had talked about it—pissed in Hogsmeade in May. She’d told him about the howlers she got from women who viscerally hated her for not being soft and sweet after she’d been hunted like an animal and tortured on a manor house floor. They’d been told women were nice, and instead she was difficult. It made them so angry. They wanted to pop her in the face. They wanted her to shut up and go away. They wanted her to just submit already. Who did she think she was?

Hermione thought they were angry at the idea she might be rewarded after breaking the rules they’d all internalized. They wanted her punished instead, the way they felt they’d be punished if they broke the rules. Because they weren’t soft and sweet, they were just socialized to fawn—and fawning was a trauma response. Then Hermione had explained what fawning was, and Neville had remembered living with his gran. (He could hear Luna, looking up from one of her journals, saying, “This new study by Galinsky says the traits ascribed to women are just the ways that people without power learn to act.” Neville had been soft and sweet once, too.)

Neville didn’t get Hermione’s howlers. But it was clear enough that people wanted to believe he was still a shy, fumbling fourth year. They remembered him losing the passwords to the Gryffindor common room and thought he was an open book. But Neville had grown up not telling his gran most of what he felt. He’d grown up not telling his classmates about his parents. He’d grown up not telling his professors anything he could help. It had been easy to keep the D.A. a secret. It had been easy to tell the Room of Requirement that what he really needed was to hide. It was easy these days not to tell people what he was doing.

Now Harry and Ron were watching him with Pansy, Malfoy and Nott sat beside them, as if they’d expected the snakes to call him a fat fucking squib while he went pink in the face. They didn’t know he’d fairly recently blinded Flint and poisoned Fernsby and fed two muggle gangsters to his plants and this had made Nott and Malfoy a wee bit reluctant to engage. But he’d told Ron and Harry more than once that he and Pansy got on. So, really, it didn’t matter what he said to people who didn’t fucking listen.

Neville nodded along while Harry and Ginny and Ron talked quidditch and he observed the snakes. Pansy and Malfoy resumed their irritated sibling routine—no heat to it. Nott called Malfoy lover and touched him too much. Neither Pansy nor Malfoy had any reaction, and Neville concluded this was Nott and Malfoy’s usual dynamic, not Nott acting up. It was Harry and Ron who were made uncomfortable by it—which encouraged Nott to keep at it.

Now Nott rolled his head toward Harry and looked him up and down, his bedroom eyes menacing with his head ducked. His lips were parted. He shifted his jaw. It looked like he wanted to use his teeth. His eyes flicked to Neville, and he flashed a boyish smile. Caught me looking—or did I catch you? He mouthed, “I can’t wait.”

Neville snorted and looked away. Nott had the persistence of an invasive species.

Now Malfoy was leaning past Nott to trade office gossip with Padma—Harry had said he was spending time at the Ministry. Malfoy was referencing Hermione’s initiatives and . . . interoffice memos. Padma didn’t seem surprised. He was spending a lot of time at the Ministry, then. Neville glanced to Hermione. She was gulping her beer as Harry asked whether she’d thought about teaching Care of Magical Creatures. She didn’t seem to realize how much Malfoy was talking about her. Neville glanced back to Malfoy. He didn’t seem to realize either. Every few minutes, something new prompted him to mention Mrs. Malfoy. Pansy and Nott had started to throw wadded-up serviettes at each other.

Then the gifts came out, and Malfoy gave Hermione the deeds to Flourish & Blotts.

Hermione was tipsy—flushed and smiling until she saw what it was.

“Malfoy,” she said, her head bent over the parchment, “did you forge my signature on a legal document to obtain this?”

“Of course not,” he snapped. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I did,” said Nott. “I have the fairer hand.”

“What the fuck?” said Harry. “Hermione, I’m not arresting someone at your birthday drinks.”

“I should hope not,” said Nott, sipping firewhisky.

“I might,” growled Ron, leaning forward onto his elbows.

Neville laughed. How were Ron and Harry still surprised by the snakes?

A drunk Nott looked over at him and winked.

Malfoy announced he was changing the bookshop’s name to Granger & Malfoy. Hermione stared at him like he’d stripped her naked. Malfoy’s smile was wolfish.

Neville had the gist of it: Malfoy was fixated on Hermione. Hermione was attracted to Malfoy. They weren’t having sex.

Clearly—given the swipes Malfoy was now taking at Ron. Bickering over the Flourish & Blotts rebranding had turned into some nasty inuendo. Ginny and Pansy were hooting but Hermione looked embarrassed.

Neville was ready to go.

Pansy started to stand, and Neville sat forward.

“Just nipping off to the loo,” she said.

“Not by yourself,” said Neville. Not in a packed pub. Not in that dress. But Nott was already up—

“I’ll go with. C’mon, Pans.”

And then his hand was out to usher her away and Pansy was kissing Neville on the cheek and she and Nott were exchanging a look and Neville’s eyes were narrowing. They went in the right direction. Neville got a glimpse of Nott waiting for her where he ought to be, flipping a butterfly knife opened and closed. Then Neville glanced over a minute later and Nott was moving toward the bar. Neville leaned back and craned his neck, and the patrons parted in time for him to see Pansy, talking to Macmillan. Macmillan looked sharply over—toward the taps.

Neville sighed and turned back to the table to wait.

Minutes later, she was back, suppressing a smirk. Nott wasn’t hiding his.

Neville pushed his chair back from the table, and when she touched his shoulder, he reached out and pulled her onto his lap. She jostled against him with a little squeak of happy surprise, her hand going to his chest.

He leaned in close to her ear. “What did you do?” he asked, low.

She tilted her head toward him, her hair a dark curtain. She smelled like firewhisky and perfume. “Paid the tab,” she said.

“And?”

Her mouth was quirked. She was shifting her weight on him. Her arse on his thigh. His fingertips sliding under the scalloped hem of her dress as it rode up. He waited and she said, “I might have asked Macmillan why his wife was trying to fuck my intended.”

Neville snorted—there it was. Hannah wouldn’t be sending him any more tips. He pulled back to look at Pansy. “I’m taking you home.”

“Yes, please.” Her eyes boring into his. She pressed herself to his chest and kissed his mouth.

Oh, Pansy. If an ex-girlfriend had written him with a shirty P.S., Luna would have said he had personal autonomy. Hannah would have acted like he’d encouraged it and told him not to get a big head. Pansy tried to destroy her marriage. And then gave him those selkie eyes in her fuck-me dress and didn’t apologize for any of it. He shouldn’t be getting off on this.

He was getting off on this.

He pecked her on the lips and sat forward.

Harry and Ron were watching Pansy tug her skirt down as she climbed off him and Neville reached down to adjust before he stood up. Nott was murmuring in Padma’s ear. Hermione and Malfoy were eyefucking each other. Ginny was the only one sober, Harry’s half-drunk pint on the table in front of her—to quash press speculation, Neville guessed. He and Pansy made their cursory goodbyes and then Neville kept her in front of him on the way to the floo, his forearm up to push through the crowd. When he looked out over everyone’s heads, he saw Hannah and Macmillan shooting tense glances at each other, her cheeks pink. They’d have to wait till after closing to have it out.

At the Manor, Neville stood leaned against the door jamb of her dressing room and watched Pansy take off her heels. She bent over and the dress worked its way off her shoulders. “I knew those idiots were planning something,” she told him, “but they wouldn’t tell me anything because they thought I’d tell you and you’d tell Granger.”

“Hermione and I aren’t that close,” said Neville, eyeing Pansy’s arse as she turned.

“Good,” she said, and he huffed a laugh.

There was a time when he would have been achingly jealous, watching Hermione and Malfoy make eyes at each other. There was still part of him that wanted to gallop in on his white horse, waving his sword around. Malfoy was scum. Hermione could do better. He could get rid of Malfoy. But Hermione hadn’t confided in him. She hadn’t asked for his help. And, the way she’d looked at Malfoy tonight, Neville knew who she wanted. If he left them to it, then, despite everything he knew about Malfoy, was that him growing up? Or was it a touch of spite too? Neville didn’t know. All he knew was, right now, he was focused on what was right in front of him.

She was reshelving the shoes.

There were criss-crossed strings across her back that he’d have to untie. Maybe a hidden zipper? If she was wearing a bra, it was held on by magic.

Neville pushed off the jamb.

She was still facing the built-in shelves when he ran his fingertip up the bare skin at the top of her spine. She bowed her head, and her hair fell forward to expose the base of her neck. “Are you cross with me?” Her voice quiet.

“No,” said Neville. He traced his fingertip back down to the first set of strings and tugged on them. The little bow fell apart.

“Not even a little bit?” asked Pansy.

“Not even a little bit,” said Neville, tugging on the second set of strings.

Neville ran his fingertip down her mostly naked back.

“You’re not going to give me a talking to?” said Pansy.

“For what?” said Neville. He bent down and grabbed the skirt on either side, tugged it up over her hips. He kept tugging—up, up—with a nonverbal finite for any charms. “Arms,” he murmured.

She raised her arms so he could strip the whole thing off her. He got it off her arms and tossed it onto an upholstered pouf. He turned back and she was in only her knickers. Cut high so he could see her arse. Still standing with her back to him, as if she didn’t do as she pleased. “Turn around.”

She did—her face tilted up to him. He was looking at her breasts.

“For what?” he said.

“For being petty and catty and jealous,” she said. Her fingertips were on the black fabric of his shirt. “For being a vindictive bitch.”

Neville’s lips were parted as he took in her breasts, the little dip of her clavicle, the line of her throat, her Cupid’s bow mouth. He was breathing shallowly. She was so beautiful. Sharp and funny and devoted. She wanted him to herself. He met her eyes. “I don’t mind it,” he said.

Her mouth was quirking as he lowered his head to kiss it. She threw her arms round his neck, and then he had hold of her waist and was hoisting her up. She wrapped her legs around him.

It was easy to carry her to bed with her holding onto him so tight.

SATURDAY SEPTEMBER 20, 2003

“Granger and I have drinks tonight,” said Pansy at breakfast. “I’ll owl her and tell her.”

Neville raised an eyebrow.

Under her dressing gown, Pansy was wearing a flimsy silk nightdress and nothing else. He’d very recently had the straps pulled down to kiss her breasts while her fingers carded through his hair. (Then she’d said, “Stop, stop, I have to pee” and got out of bed and he’d fallen back onto the pillows, his hand at his cock.)

“Career intervention,” said Pansy. “She’s never going to be minister if she follows your friends’ asinine advice.”

Neville paused and set down his teacup. “You want Hermione to be minister.”

Pansy shrugged. “Someone has to do it.”

“I thought you didn’t like Hermione.”

“I don’t. She cares about everything—unless it’s fun. It’s exhausting.” Pansy sounded faintly disgusted. But then her tone lightened: “Which is why she’d be a good minister. It’s not like I can be arsed. Granger can always be arsed. That’s what the job needs. Someone who doesn’t know when to quit.”

“I think you’d be a good minister,” said Neville. He hadn’t thought of it before, but: “You’re decisive. You’re good with details. You get things done—”

“Only when it’s something I care about,” said Pansy, shaking her head. “If it were all fashion imports and restructuring inheritance laws, sure, I’d be grand. But I don’t want to spend my weekend untangling centaur grazing rights because someone mucked something up in the fifteenth century and the bylaws are still on the books—”

“So you’d delegate that,” said Neville, feeling oddly invested in the case he was making.

“Maybe,” mused Pansy. “But I want to do what I want to do. Government needs people like Granger who can’t help themselves.” She sat up straighter. “Anyway, Granger’s right that the current laws are terrible for witches. And she can’t be worse than the men in charge now. So I’m going to buy her a decent glass of wine and give her a little pep talk—”

“You’re going to tell her everything she’s doing wrong—”

“A-vay-da, a-vah-dah—”

“You’re a good communicator—”

Pansy laughed. “She needs to be a better communicator. And more calculating—”

Neville snorted. “Tell that to Marietta Edgecombe.”

Pansy paused. “Why? What’d she do to Edgecombe?”

Neville told her.

“That’s pretty calculating,” said Pansy.

Neville told her what Hermione had done to Rita Skeeter. And to Umbridge.

Pansy’s eyes had narrowed. “Maybe she’s more of a natural than people let on.”

Neville smiled a little. “I’ll go back to the cottage, then. If you’ll be out scheming.”

Neville had been spending the night when he came over but they still hadn’t discussed their living arrangements.

Pansy nodded, lost in thought.

Neville met Estrada in Barcelona, in a little public square at the intersection of several narrow, winding streets in the Gothic Quarter. The sun had set an hour earlier, at 7:53 pm, but the evening was still fair as the dinner rush started. They were sitting at a little patio table and chairs, the waiter coming out from the restaurant, the area lit with electric lights. Neville watched a black dog trot down the sloping stone pavement and into a bar on the corner.

“How’s the wifey?” asked Estrada. “I saw that picture from July. Looks mean—”

Neville glanced to him.

“Man, that’s what I need.” Estrada’s head was tilted back, a hand in his thick hair. “A mean woman to yell at me. Tell me what to do.”

Neville laughed, surprised by Estrada’s wistful tone. “She doesn’t yell.” He took a drink of the Spanish wine Estrada had ordered for them. He could hear Pansy telling him to roll up his sleeves. “Sometimes she tells me what to do.”

“Man, I love that.” Estrada gazed into the night. “When she gets bossy—that’s when you know she cares. If she ignores you—” He shook his head.

Neville was smiling, his hand on his wineglass. “Didn’t you quit the aurors—”

“Because I didn’t like MACUSA telling me what to do?” Estrada cocked an eyebrow. “That’s different. I like to fuck—I don’t like getting screwed.”

Neville laughed with him. That was how they’d all got here, wasn’t it?

The paella came and Neville ate and watched people come and go. “What are you hearing?” he asked.

“A lot about Avery,” said Estrada. “People are sending their boys to play foot soldier. And there’s noise about exiles coming back for something.”

Neville nodded. The chatter was consistent. He wanted to get inside Avery Manor. But the closest he had was what the elves would tell Alicia when they placed their orders. Which was nothing.

“Have you heard of a Saiph?” he asked.

“A little,” said Estrada. “Young wizard? Claims to be a Lestrange?”

Neville nodded. He’d reckoned, with the name, it had to be the wizard from a year ago in Romania.

“You know, there’s always been a bit of a cult around Bellatrix,” said Estrada. “The witches like the dark feminine. The men like the idea of a powerful witch bowing and scraping for her man. Now this kid’s trying to get in on that.”

“You don’t think he’s Bellatrix’s son?” asked Neville.

“So what if he is?” said Estrada. “We’re all someone’s son. My mother is twice the witch Bellatrix was. Anyone whose life she’s touched, she’s made it better. Who cares if no one’s heard of her outside her village? These people confuse infamy for power.” He broke off with a laugh. “I should firecall my mother—I owe her a call. Shit. That’s why I like being yelled at, isn’t it?”

Neville snorted laughter as Estrada shook his head, grinning.

“Whatever,” said Estrada, chuckling and tonguing his molar. “I like what I like.” He looked at Neville. “I tell you what, though. Whoever raised that kid, they didn’t call him Saiph. I bet they called him Matteo or Benjamin—something like that. He named himself when he decided to build his own legend. Even if he’s got Bellatrix’s blood, he knows he’s full of shit.”

They drank another bottle of wine while they watched the locals and tourists.

“All right, papí,” said Estrada when they’d stood to go. “I’ll let you know what I hear.”

Neville cuffed him on the shoulder and found a dark doorway that smelled of urine, portkeyed back to the cottage.

Upstairs, in his bedroom, he stripped off and threw his clothes on the chair and then slipped into the lav and washed his face with a bar of lye soap he knew horrified Pansy. He brushed his teeth without her there to make him sit while she dabbed skin cream all over him. (Did his face feel tight and itchy without it?) (No, it was fine.)

He imagined her in her en suite, with the gleaming checkerboard marble tile, going through her skincare regimen step-by-step. She’d probably gone to bed hours ago—he couldn’t imagine she and Hermione had closed down the bar. Strange to think, when the two women butted heads, he’d hear Pansy’s side first.

He climbed into bed. Smaller and lumpier than Pansy’s, with a lower thread count, but familiar. His old, worn quilt. The pillows that smelled like him instead of her. He bunched his pillow under his head and lay in the dark.

Neville heard Estrada say, Anyone whose life she’s touched, she’s made it better, and a wave of sadness swept through him. He was thinking of his own mother now. Surely, she’d become an auror because she’d wanted to do good. What would she have done with her life if Bellatrix hadn’t destroyed her? Whose lives would she have touched? She’d never got to find out. She’d had to live on, her life a mockery of what it should have been.

Neville’s throat was tight and aching. His eyes prickly. He inhaled slowly and then breathed it all out. He pushed the thoughts from his mind. What good did it do when he couldn’t change anything? In the end, it didn’t matter what he did. Life was painful. That’s how it was.

He lay in the dark and tried to think of something more pleasant. If Pansy were here, she’d be lying with her head on his chest. Cuddled against him. Warm and soft and comforting. If he said, “Look at me,” she’d do it—she’d push up onto her elbow and turn her face to him. Wait to hear what he had to say. If he said, “Anyone whose life you’ve touched, you’ve made it better,” she’d wrinkle her nose and say, “Ew. What’s the matter with you?”

Neville almost laughed, imagining it.

It wasn’t true. Pansy had hurt people. So had he. Maybe it wasn’t true of anyone—it was just something people said when they loved someone. When they wanted to believe the best of them. Neville believed there were evil people. But he didn’t believe anyone was all good. He’d never seen it. In his imagination, his mother was perfect. He could believe that because he’d never know what she was really like. She’d never know what he was like either.

Neville was dreaming.

Neville was in his hammock in the Room of Requirement. He jerked awake, sending the hammock swaying, when he heard the door breaking. He’d dozed off, his wand in hand—

Now wood was splintering—

And Neville was fighting to get out of the hammock—

It was twisted around him, grabbing at his legs—

It had dumped him out.

He was on the floorboards, scrambling up—

His wand was raised—

The stacked detritus dark and looming—

He was trying to find his way through the goat paths—

The way was narrow and twisting, the walls of rubbish close—

Where were the others?

He could hear screaming—

He could hear high-pitched screaming—

He was in a hallway—

It was a dark, shabby hallway—

In a little house, at nighttime—

He’d stumbled out into a bedroom—

Bellatrix—

Her mass of tangled curls, her rotten teeth—

She’ll come for you first!

She had his mother by the neck—

She threw his mother down, where Hermione lay crumpled on the rug—

Neville cast—

But he didn’t have his wand.

Bellatrix was on him—

She smelled like blood and smoke and piss and shit—

The fabric of her dress was razor-sharp, crusted in blood and bone matter as he grabbed at her—

He had her by the throat, squeezing hard—

He could feel the life thrumming through her as he squeezed, flesh and artery and tendon—

He could feel the anger bursting out of him—

His chest so tight, ready to explode with it—

Her breath smelled like blood and sweat and fear and death—

She was laughing, laughing at him—

She had her wand up between them, jabbing into the tender skin under his chin—

She was laughing and laughing—

She said, “I came back to kill you—”

Neville hissed, “I’m already dead—”

Then she jammed her wand up through his soft palate—

Into his brain.

The pain was excruciating—

Lightning strikes of agony—

Neville screamed—

Neville was screaming—

Neville was screaming and screaming—

The high-pitched screaming was him.

Additional TW/Note:

Reminder that Hermione permanently disfigured a teenage girl, subjected a reporter to unlawful confinement, and lured a woman into the woods to be attacked by centaurs. I commonly see it said that Hermione excelling in politics is OOC because she’s not shrewd/scheming/calculating enough in canon, which always leaves me nonplussed given these examples of her anticipating the need to identify and deter political saboteurs, controlling press coverage, and engineering a decisive blow against a political opponent—not to mention her setting Snape on fire, sabotaging McLaggen’s try-out, calculating when to trigger the erumpent horn to avoid political blowback to Xenophilius Lovegood, obscuring Harry’s identity upon capture, and so on. Time and again, we see Hermione being shrewd, forward-thinking, and willing to play dirty, making BSP-style political maneuvering extremely in-character, to my mind.   

I’ve also seen it said that Hermione is too abrasive, self-righteous, unsophisticated, and bad at reading people to excel in politics, but plenty of politicians have made careers of being “plain-spoken” and “unflinching.” If anything, this would make her better suited to government, where she can help beings in the aggregate, than any career (like healing) that focuses on one-on-one interaction. But is Hermione actually bad at reading people? She accurately diagnoses Harry’s missteps with Cho, isn’t flattered by McLaggen’s attentions, shares the popular view of Luna, etc. If she was able to negotiate the use of a time turner and lie through a crucio, then I think she can probably read people in power and stay on-message just fine. Much of the portrayal of her as out of touch is really just canon mocking her for being anti-slavery.

Even if Hermione wasn’t radicalized by experiencing the Ministry’s power to legally declare her an undesirable, seeing the Muggle-born Registration Commission in action, or having to obliviate her parents to keep them from being murdered by death squads, she shows an early interest in ambitious political advocacy with S.P.E.W. and acts as a political organizer for the D.A. Hermione has her own blind spots, lack of leverage, and inexperience to contend with, but her instinct toward political action and her ability to be shady as fuck both seem well established in canon, making me wonder if the impulse to underplay these aspects of her characterization stems from a desire to see her as a more stereotypically feminine “good girl.”

Chapter Text

TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 23, 2003

“It’s Parkbottom—”

“Pansy, Pansy, who are you wearing?”

“Neville, over here—"

“Mr. Longbottom, how do you feel about your match?”

“Pansy! Where’s the wedding at? Miss Parkinson!”

Neville was in the T&T tuxedo, walking into the Ministry Solstice Ball with Pansy on his arm. She’d straightened and slowed when the flashbulbs had started popping. Neville had told himself not to glare. The media were covering them as a couple. He shouldn’t look miserable in every shot.

“Parkbottom?” he said when they got inside.

Pansy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to trademark it.”

Neville was smiling as he looked out over the ballroom, decorated with apples and chrysanthemums. Of course she was.

“Oh,” she said, her free hand going to his arm, “there’s Millie and Daphne. I’ll just pop over—”

“Go,” he said. “I’ll be with the Weasleys.” Percy and Charlie were just ahead.

She nodded and slipped away, and he watched her go. He’d always binned the gala invitations but Pansy liked to dress up. She was wearing Tom Ford again—he’d asked. She’d said it was Gucci but Tom Ford had designed it. It was long and black with another corset front and more strings across the open back—he could see the similarities to the other dresses now. He was watching her arse, her bare shoulder blades. She looked over her shoulder at him, flirty—she’d known he’d be staring. He didn’t mind that. He should have kissed her before she’d left.

He took a deep breath and refocused. Jerked his chin in greeting as he neared the Weasley brothers. Percy’s ginger hair was short and neat, his pale skin unmarked. Charlie was all wild curls and freckles.

Percy raised his glass as Charlie nodded. “Longbottom.”

“The Minister will be happy you and Parkinson can enter a room without fist-fighting the press,” said Percy dryly.

“I take it the Malfoys are here,” said Neville.

“She came without him, thank Godric. Skeeter’s promising an exposé. Malfoy’s been cutting deals in support of her legislation—”

“There’s Goldstein,” said Charlie, and then he was whacking them each on the arm and walking off.

“Support?” prompted Neville. Charlie didn’t care about Ministry business, but Neville wanted Percy to finish his thought.

Percy shrugged one shoulder. “It’s the Malfoy name going on her proposals. If there’s one constant in politics, it’s Lucius Malfoy’s ego.” He favored Neville with a sardonic look. “Between father and son, they’re blackmailing half the Wizengamot.”

Neville wasn’t surprised Lucius didn’t see life in prison as an impediment to a career in government. But: “Why didn’t they get Draco out of the match, then?”

“That I don’t know,” said Percy. “Maybe they reckoned Hermione was their best bet at political ascension. No one else named Malfoy will be getting near the Minister’s office.”

Neville considered whether Percy and Pansy having tea would be a good idea or a bad one. Then it hit him. “They didn’t plan it, did they?”

Percy looked to him, eyebrow raised.

“Did the Malfoys bribe the Ministry to match Draco and Hermione?” A nervy nausea was spiking through Neville, his stomach dropping. This felt like the kind of secret he was afraid to find out.

Why?

Because it meant—what? That Shacklebolt had sold Hermione to the Malfoys. Like in those rolled up magazines left in the Hogwarts boys’ lav. The Malfoys had paid, and they’d got their Death Eater son his own muggleborn sex slave and political pawn. And now Hermione was bound to him, wearing his ring instead of a collar. Would Shacklebolt do that? To prove reconciliation was possible? To get the Malfoys to buy in and get Hermione off his back?

Percy’s expression was troubled. “Well. You can’t bribe the Hat.”

Neville looked at him. “Shacklebolt didn’t use the Hat—”

“Oh, trust me—he did. Transportation was involved in moving it. Kept me standing around for days when I had much better—”

“You saw it,” said Neville.

Percy nodded. “They used pictures.”

Neville sucked in a breath.

Neville had got very cynical very fast—he’d had to do so to survive. He’d gone to school and he’d learned he couldn’t trust authority figures when they were Snape or Umbridge or the Carrows. He’d lost faith in Dumbledore and Shacklebolt and Robards along the way. Even McGonagall had let him down. But somewhere inside Neville was still the scared and lonely little boy who’d gone to school on the train and sat on a stool and been sorted into Gryffindor. And that boy still wanted to believe in the Hat. The Hat had seen something in him when it’d made him a lion. The Hat had given him the sword when he’d needed it. And he wanted to believe the Hat had given him Pansy.

Percy was saying it had. He and Pansy were meant to be together.

But it couldn’t have done or it’d have matched Seamus and Dean or Alicia and Katie.

Or—

“You can’t bribe the Hat,” said Percy. “But you can go in after and make changes.”

Like giving Hermione to Malfoy? Like matching a Slytherin heiress with a war hero? While you split up the queer couples?

Neville’s stomach was roiling. What did it matter, if he’d accepted it was politics? But it did matter. It was the difference between never asking the Hat and countermanding it. Was he making it work with the wrong person? (His true love out there, paired with someone else?) Or did he know, whatever spat or difficulty with Pansy, he was with his soulmate? It wasn’t just a story he was telling himself. The Hat had matched him. The magic knew.

“For fuck’s sake,” said Percy, and Neville looked over his shoulder.

Malfoy and Nott had arrived. They were striding across the ballroom—straight for Hermione. She was shimmering in a champagne-colored gown. Malfoy was locked onto her, unwavering. Nott was loping just behind him. The light was catching Malfoy’s platinum hair and a huge emerald brooch on Nott’s lapel. Nott was smirking like he knew everyone was looking.

“I’ll alert Shacklebolt,” said Percy wearily. And then he’d darted away.

Neville scanned for Pansy—she was standing with the other Slytherin women, her mouth quirked as Daphne Greengrass Pucey stared daggers at Nott. Interesting.

Neville began to make his way over. Pansy caught his eye and turned back to Bulstrode and Greengrass.

“Longbottom’s here,” she sighed. “I’d better go if I know what’s good for me.”

“Oh dear—”

Neville snorted. What was Pansy telling them?

The witches were looking him up and down, Bulstrode’s mien resentful.

Neville stopped at a remove. “Pansy,” he said.

“Oh! Now I’m in trouble.” Light touches on their arms and then she was prancing over—

Neville reached out and caught her elbow, pulled her in. He leaned down to her ear. “You’re full of it.”

She was fighting a laugh. “Just wait till you hear my gossip.”

He straightened. Her hands were flat on his stomach; she was gazing up at him with big, penitent eyes. She wasn’t sorry at all.

He took hold of her chin, looked down his nose at her. “Kiss,” he said.

She went up on tiptoe. The current iteration of lipstick had held up through multiple blowjobs and her skincare regimen. He pecked her on the mouth, and she dropped back down.

“Come tell me your gossip,” he said, steering her toward the dancefloor.

Over her head, he could see Charlie turning from Anthony Goldstein with a grin—casually reaching out for Nott as Nott approached him.

Interesting.

WEDNESDAY SEPTEMBER 24, 2003

PARKBOTTOM: The New Faces of Reconciliation?

IT’S WAR!!!: Draco & The Golden Girl Square Off

INSIDE THE CORRUPTION IN MAGICAL CREATURES

SNAKEBIT: Sword of Gryffindor & Slytherin Heiress Look Lovestruck at MoM Gala

The papers were full of Malfoy casting adders at Hermione on the edge of the dancefloor and then disapparating with a curl of black smoke while Hermione stood gasping in an aqua eructo-drenched dress. The duel had been over in minutes—Neville and Pansy across the room as Pansy explained the Nott/Pucey dispute—but the looping pictures were titillating: Malfoy’s snarling visage, the wet silk clinging to Hermione’s hard nipples.

Neville and Pansy were on the other side of the photo spreads: Shacklebolt’s poster children while the Malfoys played the black sheep. The only reason Neville wasn’t disgusted was the look on Pansy’s face.

The photos showed them on the way in. The fitted tuxedo, the cufflinks, a glimpse of the Patek Philippe—he looked a proper pureblood. She’d been cold and imperious in the coverage of the Ministry reception. Now she vibrated with energy. She stole a coy glance at him—he hadn’t realized it at the time. He was gazing out—his face blank and seemingly unbothered—and when she looked back at the camera, her expression was smug.

He studied her face as the photo looped. She looked . . . proud.

Proud of him?

Only if he acts like it does.

Is that what you’re doing—sorting me out?

Or maybe she was a better actress than he thought. Sending the message that House Parkinson was still standing, despite her father’s and cousin’s prison sentences.

Neville tried the thought on for size. A habit: looking for the more likely explanation when something seemed too good to be true. In his experience, the truth wasn’t good. It was usually just something to be endured. Maybe Pansy had got a pureblood war hero and thought I can work with this.

But if Pansy was only going through the motions, how was that different to having a relationship? He’d feel it, wouldn’t he? If she didn’t like him? (He’d started to feel it with Hannah.) Or was it a question of how he felt about her? How did you know when it was love, not just enjoying someone catering to you? Not just feeling good when you did things for someone else?

Neville shuffled through the rest of the evening post at the sideboard in the back of the greenhouse where he kept the tea. Inquiries about exotic specimens. A note from Alicia saying she was asking around about Saiph. And what appeared to be a letter from Violet Parkinson. Neville raised his eyebrows, his lips pursing.

He had just opened it and leaned against the sideboard when he heard the click of Pansy’s heels. He looked up. She was walking down the center aisle, her hips swaying in her full skirt. A leather potions case levitated just before her—kept aloft by the unfamiliar wand she held angled up. The venomus tentaculas were rattling and rustling their leaves. Their eyeless heads turned as she passed. Did they recognize her perfume? Their vines reached out for her, and Neville felt a strange warmth spreading in his chest. The plants would know if she were faking.

Neville straightened and tossed the parchment to the sideboard, on top of the map there.

Pansy lowered the case until it settled heavily on the tile with a clink of glass bottles.

“What’s this, then?” He stepped toward her, looking down at it.

“Veritaserum.”

Neville raised an eyebrow. Veritaserum was a controlled potion.

“Draco’s expecting a raid.”

So the Ministry had given up pretending Malfoy was rehabilitated after that duel. He’d heard rumors Malfoy had access to high-quality veritaserum. He was brewing it?

Pansy tossed her hair. “He thought you might want it.”

Interesting. “In exchange for?”

“For not telling any aurors where you got it.” Pansy laughed. “The Ministry doesn’t come here, does it?”

“No,” said Neville, thinking back to an afternoon three years ago. “Shacklebolt looks the other way while I keep things outside the country.”

“Good.” Pansy twirled the wand—unregistered, no doubt. “I left Nott’s bombs outside.”

Neville snorted. Of course there were bombs. He reached for her as he shifted closer. “Let’s go take a look, then. I might have a use for both.”

“Thought you might,” said Pansy, smirking as she raised up to kiss him. “After that, I have a use for you.”

“What do I get to do to you this time?” he asked.

“Whatever you want,” she said, those selkie eyes trained on him.

Violet’s letter would have to wait.

2000

The venomous tentaculas were rattling and rustling their leaves. Their eyeless heads turned to him—a ripple of movement—and Neville looked up as the door at the far end of the aisle pushed open and the Minister of Magic stepped into his greenhouse.

Neville pulled his wand from his back pocket and cast a homenum revelio. It was rude but he did it—he wanted to know if hit wizards had apparated in to flank him. He wanted to know if he was surrounded.

Shacklebolt had come alone.

His footfalls were nearly silent as he walked down the center aisle to where Neville stood, his wand shoved back in his pocket.

“Mr. Longbottom,” he said as he neared.

Neville nodded. His heart was beating hard in his chest. He felt faintly nauseous.

The Minister looked around, his hands clasped behind him. Neville could smell loam and rot and the spice of Shacklebolt’s aftershave. There was a drip somewhere.

“It’s a nice nursery you’ve built here,” Shacklebolt said finally.

Neville didn’t say anything.

Shacklebolt inhaled and sighed. He gazed up at Neville with a sort of resigned disappointment that took Neville back to Hogwarts—it was a look he had seen on nearly every professor’s face. “Do you remember a time, right after the war, when bombs kept going off?” asked the Minister.

Neville didn’t answer.

“It was before you bought this land with the reparations money we collected and allotted and paid out,” said Shacklebolt.

Neville watched Shacklebolt’s eyes play over the venomous tentaculas as they fidgeted, discomfited by the tension coming off the two men.

“I gave George Weasley some leeway,” said Shacklebolt. “It’s a hard thing, to lose a brother.”

“Or a father and mother,” said Neville.

Shacklebolt nodded, looking down as though this had not been the right response. “But it’s a hard thing, too, to repair a society—”

“That’s not my job,” said Neville, a little too quick.

“We all—”

“I don’t work for you.” A little too angry.

“Longbottom,” said Shacklebolt, “I can’t have you assassinating sitting members of the Wizengamot.”

“Why would I want to?” Neville asked quietly. He looked at Shacklebolt without blinking, daring him to tell the truth.

THURSDAY SEPTEMBER 25, 2003

Neville had recognized the bombs Pansy had brought to the greenhouse. They’d been modified, but he knew who’d designed the core components.

Neville went by Wheezes. It was early evening. The sales staff were chasing the products back to their bins and slots on the shelves after the after-school rush. Neville had expected to go down to the workshop, but George saw him and threw his thumb over his shoulder. “Come upstairs. Bill and Charlie are here.”

They went up the narrow back stairs to the flat. Fred and George had extended it when they’d first moved in but the kitchen remained cramped, as though no one had cared about cooking and still didn’t. At some point, all the cupboards had been painted dark purple. Bill and Charlie were leaned against the counters. Neville crammed in with them as George squeezed past to reach the icebox.

“Longbottom.”

Neville nodded to Bill but Charlie didn’t look up. He was idly pawing through George’s sweets dish—always a risky proposition—his beer bottle held loosely in his other hand.

Bill’s hair was tucked behind his ears. His earrings were in the shape of Thurisaz—conflict, opposition, protection. A meaningful rune for a cursebreaker. Neville could see him watching Charlie as he said, “Heard you’ve been leaving Ministry balls with a certain Slytherin.”

George straightened in front of the ice box. “New girl?”

“Boy,” said Charlie.

“Oh ho!” George raised his eyebrows as he passed Neville a beer. He used the edge of the counter to pop the bottlecap off his own. “And have you always . . .”

“I was quidditch team captain, George.”

“He was unbearable,” said Bill. “You were too young to hear it all.”

Charlie shrugged, unperturbed. “Who turns down a blowjob?”

“Not you, apparently. Percy said it was Theodore Nott.”

“He was Ron’s year,” said George, eyebrows back up.

“What—” Charlie had glanced over, his beer bottle halfway to his mouth. “You’ve shagged him too?”

“The look on your face,” said George, smirking. “We stuck to girls.”

“Still. Wouldn’t have to ask if—”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Charlie, swinging his head toward Bill. “Am I talking to the tomb raider or the cradle robber right now—”

“Fleur was eighteen—”

“You mean a teenager? Mine’s, what, twenty-three?”

“Perce said the Ministry won’t match him—”

“Cause he’s criminally insane.” George’s grin said he knew he was stirring the cauldron.

“Mine?” said Charlie, the beer at his lips. “Nah, he’s a sweetheart.”

“He’s tortured some brokers in Knockturn,” said Neville. “Set their offices on fire.”

Charlie shrugged. “Doesn’t give me any trouble.”

“He had some of George’s bombs—”

“Mine?” said George. “Huh. Wonder if they still have their serial numbers—”

“I have them,” said Neville. “We can check.”

“How’d—”

“He gave them to Pansy.”

“And how is Parkinson?” asked George, sly.

Neville paused. “Doesn’t give me any trouble,” he said slowly.

George laughed. “So it’s only Granger, then? I hope she and Malfoy never stop going to galas. The entertainment is top-notch.”

“Not so entertaining for her,” said Bill. “All that Black family magic is irritating that scar on her arm. Bellatrix used a knife with a blood curse, and now the betrothal ring is trying to expel it.” He saw them staring at him as he took a drink. “She came to me.”

“You couldn’t break it?” asked Neville.

“Not without a lot of damage to the arm—Bellatrix’s blood is trapped in the scar.” He waved his hand holding the beer bottle. “She just needs Malfoy to take off the ring. But she can’t trust the family not to harm her. Or Malfoy, if he’s hexing her in public—”

“Snakes and water,” said George. “That’s kids’ stuff.”

“He’s protecting her from relic-hunters,” said Neville. “That’s why Nott was scaring off the brokers.” Bill and George had looked to him. Charlie was back to sifting through the sweets dish—Neville couldn’t tell whether he was listening. “She tipped him off about a raid—”

“Oh ho! Does Ron know?” asked George.

Neville shook his head. “Don’t think so. That’s why I have the bombs. And Malfoy’s veritaserum. It was all at Malfoy Manor.”

George had crossed his arms, chin cocked. “So Granger had you—”

“Malfoy,” said Neville. “He sent it over with Pansy. Said he thought I might want it.”

“So he wants to get along,” said George. Not quite a statement. Not quite a question.

Bill jerked his chin at Charlie. “Nott say anything—”

“He’s not talking when he’s with me,” said Charlie.

George was snickering while Bill rolled his eyes. “We don’t need to picture that when you bring him to dinner—”

“Like I’d let Mum at him,” said Charlie with a snort. He was separating out the caramels. “It’s only been twice, anyway. He’ll probably wander off.”

“Perce said you two seemed pretty wrapped up in each other,” said Bill, eyeing him carefully.

Charlie looked up, his face open as he glanced between Bill and George. “Yeah, I like him.”

“Should we tell Ron what’s going on?” asked George, his eyes darting between them. Still stirring the cauldron.

“So he has to keep secrets from Robards?” said Bill.

“He could be covering for us,” said George.

“He swore an oath,” said Bill. “We have Percy—”

“Ron won’t like Hermione protecting Malfoy,” said Neville. “Or us taking his contraband.”

“So we let Ron keep playing auror,” said Bill.

George was back to snickering. “He’s going to be so hacked off when he finds out.”

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 2003

“It just really hacks me off,” said Ron. “How is it possible there was nothing there? Even if he knew it was coming.”

Neville had risked reaching out to Ginny when he’d seen the headlines—the papers full of the overnight raid on Malfoy Manor after an anonymous tip about controlled potions. The Prophet claimed Harry led every Auror Department investigation, but that’d given Neville a reason to ask how it’d gone.

“He doesn’t need much warning with the elves,” said Harry. “They can take it out faster than we can get there.”

“But even if they vanished the veritaserum, we should have found something else,” said Ron. Neville got the impression he and Harry had been repeating this exchange for the past thirty-six hours.

“So does Robards suspect someone in the Department?” asked Ginny. “Or someone higher up?”

“According to Skeeter, he has Higgs in his pocket,” said Susan. “And you’ve said he’s in and out of Avery’s office—”

“And whatever other purists he’s brewing the veritaserum for,” said Ron. “That’s his way back in with them after that show of force with Crabbe. He’s reverted to form now that the movement’s gained ground.”

“He didn’t have to revert,” said Susan. “He was a slimy git the whole time.”

“That’s what I told Hermione when I saw her,” said Ginny. Her shoulders were hunched defensively. “I said I shouldn’t have told her to give him a chance—”

“How’d she take that?” asked Susan.

“She was a bit cross!” said Ginny, sounding cross herself.

“She was just short on sleep,” said Ron, weary and authoritative, and the others left off.

It seemed Hermione had gone straight from the raid to a Wizengamot hearing on her wolfsbane potion proposal—its long-shot passage that same morning the other big story in the papers. But no one at Grimmauld Place was focused on Hermione’s legislation as Susan and Ginny shifted in their chairs. Neville sipped his beer and remembered Pansy gazing at George’s bombs on the pea gravel outside the greenhouse, saying, “Lucky thing Draco and Granger had that little duel. Now no one will think she tipped him off.”

Neville had looked to her. “They’re working together.”

“No, that’s the problem. Draco’s been playing politics behind her back. Now her side’s going to blame her. If she didn’t know, she’s a pawn. If she did know, she’s dirty. Did you see that Skeeter article? No wonder she’s hexing him.”

“You think it helps her, fighting him—”

“I think she should throw a shag his way so he shuts up—”

Neville had blinked.

“—but that’s in private. In public, sure.”

“I thought people wanted her to be nicer—”

“Who? Draco’s Witch Weekly fan club?” Pansy had snorted. “I suppose we can’t all be girls’ girls.”

Neville had raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t entirely sure what a girls’ girl was but—

“I’m only saying it’s tricky for Granger,” Pansy’d said. “She needs Draco’s help, but she’s in trouble if she’s seen taking it. I told her, if she wants him to leave her alone, she should give him an heir—”

Neville had been back to blinking.

“But of course she won’t. And how would that look for her—”

“It’ll look like the Hat was right—”

“That’s even worse. A Death Eater is her soulmate?” Pansy had shaken her head. “The progressives would burn her at the stake.”

Now Neville’s eyes flicked over Harry spinning his bottle cap on the old wooden table, Susan and Ginny with their ginger ales. (When were they going to announce? Was it too early?) He thought of Susan saying Hermione getting pregnant was the worst thing that could happen. He tended to agree. He remembered those wrinkled magazines, the training camp—repulsion and attraction all mixed up for the supremacists, and they took it out on the women. He wouldn’t trust Malfoy—Malfoy, of all people—not to mistreat a child he saw as lesser. Neville knew what that was like—adults irritated by your very existence, ready to sigh and slap at the slightest misstep. Ready to grab you up and throw you out a window.

Pansy said give him an heir so casually. But the Slytherin Sacred 28 were bizarrely off-hand about that sort of thing—brought up to expect arranged marriages and obligatory children. Neville felt a pang. He and Pansy hadn’t discussed it. Would she want to have his baby—or just extend her bloodline? He wanted children. For all the wrong reasons. Something to take care of. Something to love that would love him back because it didn’t know any better. More fruit of his poisonous tree.

“Is it true,” Neville asked now, “that Malfoy Manor has a tapestry like the one here?”

Ron nodded. “There’s a tapestry and a book with a family tree in the front.”

“And Hermione’s on them now?” Neville didn’t have to put on much. He was morbidly curious.

“Oh, yeah, it’s wild,” said Harry. “Want to see?”

“Yeah,” said Neville, and they all trooped upstairs. Neville watched Ron hover over Susan as she got up, keep his hand at her back on the stairs. It was both her and Ginny, then. Neville let watching them distract him as his heart began to beat faster. It was racing as though she would be there, waiting for him.

Harry lit the lamps and led the way across the drawing room.

Sure enough: there was Hermione on the Black tapestry—her curls in brown and gold thread. Linked to Malfoy by marriage. Her expression was haughty. But the tapestry made everyone haughty unless they were sad. Those must be its feelings, Neville thought, as his gaze moved over the burnt-out faces to the nimbus of curls done in black.

Bellatrix.

He felt a twist of nausea. He hated her that much.

He looked below her, his heart pounding.

There was no son. No offspring named Saiph or anything else.

Neville exhaled. He’d known that. Hadn’t he? Of course he had.

Neville’s eyes played over the generations on the wall. They went back to the thirteenth century. There was Callidora Black Longbottom. This was why it was impossible to infiltrate the Sacred 28. They were obsessed with their own lineage. The magic in their heirlooms was blood-based. Everything traced back hundreds of years. The families intertwined. You couldn’t send a stranger into a meeting of blood supremacists and claim he was an unknown cousin. No cousin was unknown when the tapestries updated themselves.

Had this wizard calling himself Saiph never been inside a pureblood manor? Did he not know about the family trees? Or did he just reckon his audience—those boys he had talking about him—knew even less? The truth didn’t matter if you could sell people a story.

“You know where the wedding’s going to be yet?” asked Ginny, jarring Neville from his thoughts.

He looked over at the others. Ginny and Susan with their arms crossed against their chests. Ron with his hand on Susan’s shoulder. Harry gazing, glassy-eyed, at the tapestry. “It’s going to be at the Malfoy chateau in France,” said Neville.

“What?” they all shouted.

The night before, Neville had drunk his beer in George’s flat and then gone to Parkinson Manor. He had been trying to decide whether to tell Pansy about Violet’s letter, which he’d finally read early that morning when he’d got back to the greenhouse after spending the night in Pansy’s bed. Violet had, apparently, seen the press coverage. And she had written Neville to tell him he had another think coming if he thought he was getting his hands on the Parkinson gold. Padgett Parkinson would be out of Azkaban in two years, and he would be taking control of the estate as intended. It was certainly not falling to a broke, blood traitor Longbottom, whatever games Pansy thought she was playing.

So. Neville would have to take care of that.

Pansy had been a little too chipper over dinner. Enough that Neville had wondered whether she’d got her own letter. But when she’d finally folded her hands and sat up straighter, she’d said, “So Draco and I had a talk—”

Neville had leaned back in his chair, his chin raised. He knew she spent time with Malfoy and Nott. She didn’t tell him the details because she knew he didn’t like these men. (Neville’s feelings about Nott were now veering toward neutral. Neville had sighed internally at the realization. Nott, the invasive species, was growing on him.)

“—and Draco has invited us to hold the wedding at the Malfoy chateau. Because—” She had started to talk faster. “—Mother is less able to gatecrash there, and he reckons you don’t want guests on your property.”

Neville hadn’t reacted except to purse his lips as he’d considered this—this habit Malfoy had of trying to ingratiate himself. The tip about Argentina. The heads up about the mandrake culling. The gift of the veritaserum. This argument meant to show he was thinking of Neville’s interests.

“And also—”

The way Pansy had paused had made Neville raise an eyebrow.

“—he thinks it would be a good idea for us all to be seen out of the country. Because he’s planning something. To do with Avery.”

Neville’s chin had dropped. “To do with Avery taking over the government.” If so, he would be breaking—

“No, the opposite. Or I assume.” Pansy had frowned. “He wants to meet with you. No wands or owls—”

“Nothing traceable,” Neville had said. “I get it.”

“That’s just what I said.” She’d been beaming.

Which had made Neville laugh. Godsdammit.

Pansy’s mouth had been twisting as she ducked her head to give him a coy look. “Are you approachable?” she’d asked.

“Come here.” And he’d pushed back his chair.

She’d got up and skirted the corner of the dining table, and he’d pulled her onto his lap—her arm around his neck, her hand at his chest. All right, he was a sucker for this. “So—” she’d said, tilting her head toward him.

“I’ll meet with Malfoy.” He’d been going to anyway, but he didn’t mind Pansy thinking overt sexual manipulation worked on him. Then he’d asked, “Do you want to have the wedding at the chateau?”

She’d nodded, her lips compressed. “Narcissa and I can plan everything there. And it will be lovely. You’ll see—”

“Pansy,” he’d said, “if that’s what you want, we’ll do it.”

And she’d pressed herself to him and kissed him. She’d felt warm and alive against him, his hand at her ribcage as it expanded with her breath, the weight of her comforting. She’d been happy—he hadn’t told her about Violet’s letter.

Now Neville took in Susan’s wrinkled nose and Ron’s squint. Harry’s and Ginny’s raised eyebrows. He’d revealed he was marrying Malfoy’s ex-girlfriend on Malfoy property when they’d just told him Malfoy was brewing veritaserum for blood purists. Neville wasn’t going to tell them he had the veritaserum and Malfoy wanted to meet with him. He didn’t owe them any explanation at all. But he said, “Pansy’s close with Narcissa. She wants to have the wedding there.”

Ron was shaking his head. “Mate, don’t you make any of the decisions?”

Neville took a breath and sighed. He didn’t expect Ron to understand this, and he wasn’t going to spell it out for him. He looked at his old school friends, standing in this dreary drawing room that reminded him of the house he’d grown up in. The house where everything he did was wrong.

“I told Pansy she’d have the wedding she wants,” he told them. “I decide whether I keep that promise.”

Neville went home to the cottage. He lay in his bed and thought about the night before.

Neville had taken Pansy upstairs to her bedroom. She’d been standing in front of him when he’d murmured, “Strip.”

She’d looked up at him with those big green eyes, her hands held in little fists at her chest. “Can I strip you?” she’d asked.

He’d shifted his jaw, not quite smiling. “Go on, then,” he’d said—and she’d reached for his shirt.

He’d stood with his arms at his sides and watched while she’d unbuttoned it. Her fingernails a shiny black. A silver ring shaped like a snake coiled around one finger. It’d felt good—Pansy spending time on him, doing something for him that he could do himself.

She’d got his shirt open and spread her hands across his chest, and he’d lowered his head to kiss her, his fingertips at her jaw. She’d tasted like wine and chocolate. He’d smelled her perfume, the coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms that meant she was near. The kiss had gone hard. She’d tugged off his belt, and he’d slipped off the shirt while she unbuttoned his trousers.

“Get your clothes off,” he’d said, bent to kiss her again. He’d shucked off his trousers and pants. She’d unzipped her dress. He’d spun her around and unhooked her bra, pushed it all off her shoulders. She’d stepped out of her knickers and he’d kissed the back of her head, told her, “On your knees on the rug.”

It was white fur—at the upholstered bench at the end of the bed. She’d spent enough time on her knees there to add it.

He’d watched as she’d dropped down without protest, and then he’d taken his place on the bench in front of her, his hand at his cock.

She’d looked up, and he’d said, “Left hand behind your back.”

She’d done it. Her elbow jutted to the side, her palm facing out. He’d stuck her wrist to her lower back.

“I’m leaving your right hand free for your clit,” he’d said. “That’s it.”

She’d nodded and moved her hand from her thigh.

Neville had canted his head and considered her there, sitting back on her heels between his legs. Her bare breasts. Her hand at her cunt. Her arm behind her back. He’d reached out and stroked her hair and she’d sighed, content. The faintest pressure—his fingertips at the back of her skull—and her lips had parted and she’d leaned forward, her eyes on him.

His cock had been standing up. He’d pushed it down, so she could take him into her mouth. Then he’d left her to it. It was more work without her hands. That was good—Pansy needed distraction. Her fingers had been busy at her clit as she’d moved her head on him.

Godric, it never got old. Neville knew it was the basest fantasy—a witch on her knees with your cock in her mouth. He’d been much too shy at school to even think of ordering a girl around. He’d imagined her in charge—Ginny winking at him before she pushed him down or Hermione telling him she wanted to make Ron jealous. He’d learned to be direct—Luna had been clinical, and Hannah made fun of flowery language—but it hadn’t been until Pansy had walked into his greenhouse and said I’m not nice that he’d dropped the niceties entirely.

She’d had him in as deep as she could take him, her mouth open wide, her lips stretched around him. She’d been breathing through her nose—but it’d have been so easy to make her gag, to make her feel she was choking on him. He’d had his hand at the back of her head but he’d been holding still—letting her decide how to move on him. She hadn’t been pulling back, though. She’d been leaning in, as though she’d choke herself. Her hand had been working at her clit. He’d pressed his fingertips into her hair, to her skull—as if to hold her there, as if to force her, but with no force. The illusion of control. And she’d climaxed.

Neville had drawn in a breath and held it as she’d tensed and gone still and shuddered, coming with his cock in her mouth, his hand on her head. Warmth had flooded him. A nervy twist of pure ego. He’d barely touched her. She just liked this. Sucking his cock. Being on her knees for him. She’d started sucking hard on him as the last of it rippled through her and Neville had groaned. Merlin.

She’d pulled back and started moving her head on him again and Neville had let her. But finally he’d said, “Face to the floor.”

She’d looked up at him, his cock still in her mouth—Godric, she was going to kill him—and he’d swallowed and said, “Do it. I want to fuck you.”

She’d done it. She’d pulled back and turned to the side so she had room and then tilted forward—one hand at her back, the other on her clit, her head turned so that her cheek kissed the rug. It’d raised her arse and presented her cunt to him. He’d climbed off the bench and kneeled behind her. He’d run his hand up her—she was wet and glistening—and then slowly slid his finger into her. He’d just wanted a taste. She’d felt so warm and tight—the sensation so satisfying. He’d pulled his finger from her and put it in his mouth, sucked her off him as he’d lined up behind her.

With her wrist stuck to her lower back, her arm had been cocked like a handle, and Neville had taken hold of her forearm and held her steady as he thrust into her, thinking the charm. The grip of her cunt, the pleasure rolling through him—soon he’d been fucking her steadily, pulling her back onto his cock as he snapped his hips into her. She’d been making those little breathy high-pitched noises as her arse hit against him, the flesh bouncing. He’d wanted to fuck her fast and hard but he’d been holding back—if he wasn’t careful with her like this, he’d hit her cervix. And if he hurt her after he’d agreed to the chateau, she’d never trust him again. She’d learn he’d say he didn’t mind and then punish her, and she’d get skittish and closed off with him. His hand at her head would feel too real. She wouldn’t come from sucking his cock again. So he’d held back, and she’d kept touching herself. He’d held on to her arm and put his other hand flat on her back—the feel of him holding her down when he wasn’t. Her knees had pushed wider apart, and she’d come again. Godric.

Neville had slowed as she’d gone limp, and then pulled out. He’d finited the sticking charm. “Turn over,” he’d said quietly. “I want to see you.”

She had and he’d moved to lean over her, to brush the strands of hair off her face and kiss her flushed cheeks. “Pansy,” he’d murmured. “You’re so pretty.”

She’d smiled. “You’re handsome,” she’d said, and he’d kissed her mouth. No one ever said that but her. She said it often enough he thought she might think so. He’d fucked her then, on the rug. She’d been soft and relaxed, and he hadn’t worried about hurting her. He knew she could handle him face to face.

Afterward, he’d pulled her up and bundled her into bed with him. He’d kissed her jaw and her throat and her breasts and told her she was perfect. He meant it, whenever he said it—she was perfect for him, right then, in that moment. He’d held her to him, her head on his chest.

After a while, Pansy had turned to face him—his head had been propped on a pillow and she’d rested her chin on her folded arms on his chest and he’d idly trailed his fingertips through the curve of her hair as he watched her face.

He’d known he shouldn’t bring it up, but it’d been on his mind. And Pansy always pointed out things he hadn’t quite seen. Like her saying it was better for Hermione’s career if everyone assumed her match was politics. He said, “Percy Weasley says they did use the Hat, but he reckons Shacklebolt went in and made changes. I reckon Shacklebolt showed his hand with these matches no one believes are real.”

“You mean Draco and Granger or us?”

Neville had felt a pang right through his chest, a kind of icy nausea. He’d shrugged. He’d been the one to say they were politics. She was only echoing him. Still: “Does it bother you, if I’m not your soulmate?”

“Merlin, no,” she’d said. “I reckon Shacklebolt gave me an upgrade—”

Neville had huffed a laugh—he hadn’t been expecting that.

“My soulmate was probably Vince Crabbe,” she’d said. “He’d fancied me for yonks. Was always leaned over Draco’s shoulder, asking if he was done yet—”

“You mean that metaphorically.” He’d been staring at her, his nausea now red hot. Had Malfoy let—

“Ew. Yes—”

Neville had taken a breath. “Right. Go on.”

“Point being—” She’d been eyeing him. She hadn’t looked displeased. “What do you mean by a soulmate? Is it the person who was right for you when you were born or the person who understands you after you’ve been through some terrible shit and everything you know about yourself and the world has changed—”

“It should be the same person,” Neville had said.

“But how could it be?” she’d asked.

Neville had felt his brow furrow.

“I’m not the same person I was at seventeen,” Pansy had said. “If the Hat had picked my match then, it might have been Vince—”

“No, the Hat would know who you would become—”

“But what if we keep changing? Does the Hat give you your soulmate for when you’re ninety? Is it your first match or your last match or the one that’s right for the longest?”

“It should be the same person.”

“But that means that person has to keep changing too—”

“Maybe they do,” he’d said. But he’d been thinking of Luna then. About that mind healer saying trauma altered the brain.

What if Luna had been his soulmate—before the things that had happened to her and the things that had happened to him, all the things he had done, the things that had changed them? What if the Hat would have matched them when they first came to Hogwarts but couldn’t have done by the time they’d left? What if, in a world where Voldemort didn’t return, Neville was living with Luna right now, in the cottage?

But even as he’d thought it, he’d known it wasn’t so. He’d remembered Luna and Rolf in that rented room, that letter Rolf had sent from the preserve, and he’d known he’d been so angry because he’d seen that Rolf was the better match for her. It had hurt, knowing it was so easy for Rolf to steal her because there was something between them that he and Luna didn’t have. Luna didn’t want to live in the cottage with him, Neville had thought, she wanted to travel with Rolf. Just like Neville didn’t want to live above the Leaky with Hannah.

“No, I reckon my soulmate is dead or an arsehole,” Pansy had said, “and Shacklebolt did me a favor.” She’d been smiling, straining forward to kiss him.

“You don’t think I’m an arsehole?” Neville had murmured.

“No, you’re good to me,” she’d said—and suddenly the moment had been real and serious.

“Pansy,” he’d said, sadness washing through him. “That’s all I want—to treat you right.”

“I know,” she’d said.

He’d let her kiss him. But now he lay awake in his bed in the cottage and thought about it. I know. She always said the opposite of what she meant. I don’t care—she said that when she did. And now he was chewing over—

Uch, he was an arsehole. Because when she’d said, I reckon my soulmate is an arsehole, he’d had a moment—a moment he’d tried not to admit to himself—when he’d thought: Malfoy. What if her soulmate were Malfoy and Neville’s soulmate were Hermione and Shacklebolt had just . . . switched them?

It was so simple.

Pansy and Malfoy had always been a couple. They’d always been on the same side. He and Hermione had always been friends, their lives intertwined. It wouldn’t be strange at all for two war heroes—he closed his eyes at the phrase—to end up together. Except—he squeezed his eyes shut as tight as they’d go—he was an arsehole.

He was such a fucking arsehole.

Because Pansy’s soulmate wouldn’t cheat on her. And his soulmate would actually want to date him. Why had he even had that thought? He had this perfect woman—sharp and sweet and doting, fit and funny and surprising—and he had to keep doubting it. Why did he have to ruin everything?

Neville threw back the quilt and pulled on his clothes and went downstairs. He tugged on his boots and tied the laces and slung his cloak over his shoulders on his way out the door. It was a new moon—the sky darker, the stars more visible. Neville’s eyes were drawn to Orion. He could feel a tightness in his chest. He was frustrated—so, so frustrated with himself. He shook his head and looked away.

He walked through the fields in the dark. Going nowhere. Trying to get away from his brain.

I reckon my soulmate is dead.

Pansy’s words—ringing in his ears. Who was Lavender Brown’s soulmate? Cedric Diggory’s? Colin Creevey’s? Fred’s?

Neville could feel Orion in the sky above him, though he wouldn’t look at it.

He thought of Bill saying Bellatrix’s blood was trapped in Hermione’s scar.

He thought of Bloodworth saying it had to be Hermione.

He thought of the crone in Knockturn saying Bellatrix would come for him.

Neville was going to meet with Malfoy.

But first Neville needed to see Wood.

Chapter Text

FRIDAY OCTOBER 3, 2003

Oliver Wood had worked his way off the Puddlemere United reserve team by playing like a man possessed, moving from keeper to chaser when that was the position open. He was known for an aggressive attacking style of play and grudges that extended beyond the pitch with understated yet savage verbal take-downs of rival clubs (gleefully reported by the sporting press) and at least one fistfight at a children’s charity event (which had made him an icon among the Puddlemere ultras).

It had taken Wood six days to return Neville’s owl. Wood was busy with league play, but Neville couldn’t help but feel he was a face from the past Wood wasn’t keen to see. Neville had been back to Hogwarts in that time, expecting to glimpse a younger Wood every time his gaze drifted from his students’ fanged peonies. Now Neville was standing in a black shirt and black suit in a practice facility locker room, not bothering to arrange his face into something more pleasant. Wood was right—him being here could only be bad news.

Wood was in his practice kit, crossed bulrushes over his heart, hands on his hips, still wearing his leathers. “Longbottom.”

“Wood,” said Neville. His chest was tight. He took a breath and got on with it. “Did you tell anyone what we did with Bellatrix’s body?”

“I didnae,” said Wood darkly. “I’ve spent five years trying to forget.”

Neville nodded and cocked his chin, glanced around the locker room.

Wood sighed heavily, canting his own head.

Fine. They were both reluctant to talk about this. Maybe Wood’s answer had gone without saying. Or maybe not. We were all a bit mental after the war.

Neville could see the fine lines on Wood’s forehead from flying in the wind and sun. Neville’s own face felt heavy, like his cheeks were slabs of meat. Maybe they both looked older than they were. He sucked in a breath through his nose. He was remembering—

He said it: “You ever think of Colin Creevey?”

“Every day,” said Wood, meeting his gaze.

Neville nodded. He looked at Wood’s thinned lips, his set jaw. What more was there to say? They had carried the dead, and they carried them still.

Neville had been seventeen. A legal adult. A child.

He was twenty-three now. Maybe he was meant to be past it.

“I dream about Lavender Brown,” he said. He hadn’t said that out loud before.

“I have dreams too,” said Wood. He hadn’t moved—they were standing there, staring at each other—but the tension around his mouth had lessened. “About the Battle. I’m right in the thick of it.”

“I think I blocked that out,” said Neville. “I remember the armistice and—after. Bits before that—” He shook his head. “I remember fighting Greyback. But I don’t know if it was me or Ron that killed him.”

Wood nodded, like nothing Neville said was strange. Like it all made perfect sense to him. Neville felt an odd sensation seep through him—a feeling like relief.

SATURDAY MAY 2, 1998

Neville’s head was aching. His back hurt. The Great Hall reeked of blood and smoke and sweat and shit, and everywhere he went, he smelled his own burned hair. If he stopped to think, he could feel the blood, tacky, on his forehead and the cuts on his hands. But it was hard to think with George keening and so many of the girls crying.

“They ought to be arrested,” said Wood, and Neville glanced over to see him glaring at the Malfoys. They were huddled together against the wall. Draco’s face was utterly blank. His father looked disheveled and shaken, his hand set possessively on Draco’s shoulder. His mother’s chin was raised but her icy blue eyes were wide, scanning for the person who would attack them.

Maybe it should be me, thought Neville. They were Death Eaters. Why were they left to stand there? Wouldthey be arrested?

“Bloody fucking Godric in hell bugger me with a goat flying sidewise,” muttered Wood. He’d gone back to clearing the debris. They were standing over a body—scuffed black boots, ragged skirts.

Wood swept aside the kindling that had once been a bench, and Neville’s gorge rose as his stomach dropped. He was breathing shallowly, too much saliva in his mouth. They were standing over Bellatrix.

Neville’s eyes darted to the Malfoys—they weren’t looking his way—and then he was staring at her at his feet. Her eyes were still wide from Mrs. Weasley’s killing curse. Her hair wild about her head, streaked gray at the temples. Cruel lines etched around her mouth. Neville could hear her laughter. She didn’t look to be living but she still looked too alive. Neville rocked forward—he wanted to stomp her face.

Wood had caught his arm. When Neville looked up, his face was turned away—his eyes sweeping from the Malfoys to the Weasleys to all the people moving about the Great Hall. “Look, Longbottom—”

Neville waited and Wood’s bloodshot eyes came to rest on him. Wood raised his eyebrows, his chin down, his thin lips compressed. His look said, Ye ken?

Neville raised his own eyebrows.

“I dinnae like leaving this one unattended.”

Neville’s eyes dropped to Bellatrix and then up to Wood. They’d been separating the dead. McGonagall had told them to take the other side’s out to the courtyard—no one wanted them lined up next to their own. But—

“Where are the Lestranges—Rodolphus and Rabastan?” Wood was speaking quietly, quickly. “We dinnae know if they’re dead in a corridor or coming back for her. We dinnae know who we’ve missed.” Wood’s head tilted toward the Malfoys—no one paying attention. “She was his right hand. Someone will want her. They’ll take her apart for relics. We dinnae know what dark artefacts she has on her person—”

Neville’s eyes flicked over the pouches at her belt, the skirts with their pockets.

“—or what dark magic they’ll do with her bones. We cannae just dump her with the rest.”

Neville looked around the Great Hall. Mrs. Weasley had cornered McGonagall and Shacklebolt with Bill and Percy. Arthur and Charlie had their arms around George while Ginny sat with Fred. He didn’t see Harry or Ron or Hermione. He didn’t see Luna.

He looked down at Bellatrix’s corpse. His heart was pounding in his chest.

She’d tortured Frank and Alice well after the first war had ended. Voldemort had returned after years and years. The smoke in the Great Hall hadn’t even cleared. They didn’t know what was going to happen. It wasn’t over yet.

FRIDAY OCTOBER 3, 2003

It was late afternoon turning to early evening when Neville got to Parkinson Manor. He stepped out of the main floo and looked around. He didn’t have a reason to be here—he just wanted to see Pansy. Being selfish. He wanted her to smile at him. Say something that would make him laugh.

Then Fennel was there, telling him Pansy was meeting with a design team.

Neville nodded. The only painting in the entryway showed a tabletop heaped with flowers and fruit, the green apples and grapes spilled across a platter next to a pewter ewer. Neville watched the hare on the table wake and begin eating a rose. He turned back to Fennel—she was gazing benevolently at him.

“Is there a Parkinson family tree?” he asked. “Can I see it?”

Fennel’s whole face lit up.

Fennel led him into a wing he’d never entered—he knew immediately he’d crossed out of Pansy’s home and into her parents’. His footfalls were muffled by a dense Persian hall runner. The wallpaper was intricately patterned. The chandeliers fussy and ornate. Gran would have examined it with an admiring eye and declared it overdone. It felt stuffy after Pansy’s bright lights and clean lines. The air a little too still. Had Pansy not got around to renovating this wing or had she closed it off for a reason?

Fennel opened double doors with a wave of her hand, and Neville stepped into the formal dining room. The table would seat twenty-four. The far wall was set with windows, heavily draped. Fennel spun around, and Neville followed suit—to see the Parkinson tapestry stretched across the interior wall, interrupted only by the doors he’d just stepped through. Fennel beckoned him over, smiling, and he came to stand beside her.

There was Pansy on the family tree. In the short French bob she’d worn at school. Neville wasn’t there yet—not until the bond.

Neville scanned for Padgett, and Fennel narrated what he was seeing. The Parkinson brothers, Rhodes and Perseus, had married the Padgett cousins, Violet and Aster, some years apart. It had been a late marriage for Rhodes, and Violet had had difficulty conceiving—allowing the younger Perseus to father a son nine years before Pansy’s birth. (Neville did the math: Padgett had been twenty-one when Pansy was twelve.) A face was burned out of the tapestry—Padgett’s first wife. He’d divorced her upon discovering impurities in her bloodline. Now Rhodes and Padgett were in prison, Perseus living abroad on Padgett property, Aster dead young of a blood disorder.

“There you are.”

Neville turned to see Pansy at the door. His Pansy—not the girl with the French bob. “Hiya,” he said as she made her way to him. “Were you meeting with Tom Ford?”

Pansy laughed—Neville felt a flush of warmth in his chest. “Why would—”

“Fennel said you were meeting with designers—”

“No, you goose. Packaging for my lipstick, not clothes.” She was fighting a pleased grin.

Neville jerked his chin toward her sleeveless dress. It was a gray tweed with rough seams and a black swatch sewn to the chest, a black pleat with a flower detail along the side. “That’s not Tom Ford.”

“Full marks.” She was smiling now. “It’s Prada.”

Neville found himself smiling back, trying to fix the word Prada in his mind. It had been a guess because the dress looked different to the others. (Tom Ford looked like underthings. Prada looked like scraps stuck together.) (Neville knew not to say this.)

“What are you doing in here?” asked Pansy.

“Taking an interest in your family,” said Neville.

“They’re all terrible.”

Fennel nodded confirmation.

Neville didn’t argue. “What else is in this wing?”

“The master suites,” said Pansy—and Neville saw the tension around her mouth. “Mother left her things here when she fucked off. I need to clear it all out but I haven’t—”

Neville reached out for her. She was frowning, her shoulders drawing in.

He pulled her to him. “You will when you’re ready.” Her arms had gone round him. He rubbed her back—the fabric there was a smooth, shiny black instead of tweed.  “Do you need to change before we go to dinner?”

“Where are we going?” asked Pansy.

Neville thought about it. It had been an impulsive suggestion meant to distract her. “That place where you had the lamb. And you’ll tell me what the packaging designers had to say.”

He looked down at her—her head was tilted back to take him in. “And then what?” she asked.

“We’ll come home and—” He left off because Fennel was there.

Her mouth was quirking. Dark red with her own lipstick. “Home?”

“Here,” said Neville.

SATURDAY OCTOBER 4, 2003

Neville was having breakfast with Pansy in the lesser dining room, the table shrunk down to seat two, a fire going. They had woken to a cold snap. The drapes were drawn against the chill but Neville could see from the painted walls above the wainscotting that the day would be blustery. Pansy had that dark green dressing gown cinched tight over her thin nightdress. Neville was wearing a charcoal gray jumper because Pansy had said, off-hand, “You have a jumper,” and held it out to him. Every time he came over, she had bought him more clothes. A wardrobe in her dressing room was filling with black cotton and gray wool and socks and belts and shoes.

Neville watched her page through her wedding planner and frown while he ate his ham and eggs. He was idly replaying the night before, when he’d made her take his place on the bench at the foot of her bed while he sat on the floor to eat her cunt. (He was going to have to reparo both the bench and the rug if he kept scourgifying them. The upholstery and the fur were thinning in spots.) She’d been making those breathy noises while he tongued her swollen clit, her fingers in his hair—

“Longbottom.” She closed the planner decisively and sat up straighter.

Neville paused with his teacup at his lips.

Her chin was lifted, her expression arch.

Neville waited.

Pansy squared her shoulders. She said, “I want you to move into the Manor.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” said Neville. He took a sip of tea, watching her over the rim of the cup.

“Good,” she said, clipped and high-pitched.

Neville set down the teacup. He cut a bite of ham and ate it while he kept an eye on her.

Her spine was stiff, her eyes downcast. Finally, she lowered her chin and opened the planner back up. She seemed out of sorts. Maybe he should have let her make her case.

“Will you show me the hedge maze when I’m back this afternoon?” asked Neville.

Her head whipped up. “You want to?”

Neville drank his tea.

“We’ll probably get trapped,” said Pansy.

“Good,” said Neville, and he smiled at her.

She was smiling when she bowed her head over her planner.

Neville was standing in his bedroom at the cottage, going through his closet. Fennel had come with him, but there wasn’t much for her to take back. Some books and work clothes. The straight razor and shaving brush that had been his father’s. Neville spent his money on plants and outbuildings and lab equipment (and weapons and mercenaries)—not on himself. Most of his childhood belongings were still at Gran’s.

Neville had left his wizard cards and terrariums in his old room not because he expected to ever live there again but because everywhere else he’d stayed—boarding school, the rented rooms over pubs—had been egregiously temporary. Buying the land had been a relief—his own property, where he wasn’t dependent on anyone. But even as he’d fixed up the cottage and furnished it with cast-offs from the great aunts, some part of Neville was always prepared to come back from town to find it razed to the ground. Because that’s how life was.

Now Neville paused over the box full of gum wrappers his mother had given him, one visit at a time. He looked at the rectangles of waxy paper, creased and wrinkled. A jumble of rubbish he couldn’t throw out. Neville could feel the sadness in his chest—a painful tension there. But it felt dulled. Something he’d already told himself he would just have to live with. What had happened to his mother was a fact of life. No one could save her. No one could make it better.

He put the box back on the shelf in the closet. He couldn’t throw it out, but he thought it could stay here.

He told Fennel the jumpers his gran had bought him could be donated to the less fortunate.

Neville was walking back to the main greenhouse, scratching a mosquito bite on the back of his neck. The sweat was drying cold on him under the charcoal jumper; he’d hung it on the outer doorknob and then pulled it back on as he’d left the wet heat of the swamp. He’d only gone in for a peek—the rule with most ecosystems being to leave them be. Everything had looked as it should. The mangroves and manchineel trees were healthy. The crocodiles were bellowing in the brackish water—mating or fighting or maybe just talking. They were vocal beasties. The herons had appeared unbothered.

(It was possible George had been too liberal in his use of the extension charm when he’d come out with the portable starter to Neville’s swamp.)

Now Neville slowed as he neared the greenhouse. He pulled his wand from his back pocket.

Something felt off.

He could probably hear the venomous tentaculas rattling without realizing it. He cast a homenum revelio: A single person was waiting for him.

Neville kept his wand in hand as he slipped inside. He didn’t recognize the man loitering by the doors. Sandy blond hair. Medium build. Maybe ten years his senior. He straightened when he saw Neville. “Mr. Longbottom.” There was something about him that set Neville’s teeth on edge.

Neville kept walking toward the rear of the greenhouse, leaving the man to follow. The man didn’t hurry but he kept up. The venomous tentaculas turned their eyeless heads, one after another, as they passed.

“I’m here about an owl,” said the man.

Neville didn’t say anything.

“You might’ve received it some ten days ago.”

Neville had a guess which letter this was, but he wasn’t going to volunteer it. They were nearing the table in back. Neville came to a stop and turned to him. “I don’t know you,” he said.

“Ah, of course. I’m Chelmsford,” said the man.

He didn’t look like a solicitor.

“I’m a guard at Azkaban.”

“Gryffindor?” guessed Neville.

The man bobbed his head. “Like yourself.”

“Like you,” said Neville.

“Right,” said the man, missing the correction. It was one of Gran’s pet peeves, the misuse of yourself. Neville had said it reflexively.

Chelmsford said, “I told Padgett Parkinson I’d check in with you. Make sure you’re getting your post. Bit sad, really. Prisoners aren’t allowed outgoing owls—so they’re dependent on family. And our charity, I suppose. He says his aunt has been trying to reach you on his behalf. She wrote him to say she’d owled but you hadn’t responded.”

Neville had been considering Chelmsford as he spoke. Azkaban guards were traditionally Gryffs or Puffs. Ravenclaws and Slytherins were, historically, too readily drawn into corruption—the Ravenclaws because they got bored and resentful and thought they were too clever to be caught, the Slytherins because they were Slytherins. Maybe Chelmsford thought he was doing a good deed, or maybe he just needed the money.

Neville said, “He can check in with me himself in two years.”

“Well—” The man laughed. He didn’t sound so naïve now. “I think he wants to speak with you before the bond.”

When Neville would gain a legal claim to the Parkinson estate. Neville had promised Pansy she’d retain control. The law didn’t recognize promises. She hadn’t made him sign a pre-nup. In fact, she’d given him a vault key. She’d done it quite casually—very early on. Like giving him the jumper.

Neville could feel a tightness growing in his chest as he stared at this man. “I haven’t got any letters asking to speak with me,” he said. “I’ve only received threats.”

The man had raised his hands, palms out. “I’m not threatening you—”

“You should be,” said Neville. “If you’re going to come onto my property on behalf of a Death Eater, you should be prepared to back that up—”

“Mate, I’m only the messenger—”

Neville whipped up his wand—

The nonverbal incarcerous hit him with his hands at his chest.

Chelmsford rocked back with a yelp, overbalanced by the ropes—

Neville lifted his knee and kicked him in the gut—

He toppled over, the back of his head bouncing off the tile with a sickening smack—

Neville said, “I have a message, then.”

The man had sucked in a breath and was coughing and calling out but Neville ignored him as he rounded the table and moved to the sideboard. He shoved his wand into his back pocket as he got into the cupboard. He withdrew a potion bottle full of clear liquid and then rummaged an oral syringe from the drawer.

Chelmsford was making a lot of noise. The plants were rattling louder. Neville’s heart was beating hard but his hands were steady—he felt that old, resolute anger. Chelmsford probably thought his actions were reasonable. Delivering a message for a well-behaved prisoner. Accepting some small fee or favor for his time. It was this idea of reasonableness that turned people into lackeys for fascists. Neville had stopped being reasonable when the fascists had started torturing his classmates.

Chelmsford was struggling, trying to sit up. He was talking rapid-fire now, but Neville wasn’t listening.

Neville strode toward him and knocked him back with his foot. Then he dropped onto him—he was sitting astride Chelmsford, pinning him with his weight. Neville could feel the adrenaline coursing through him. He pulled the potion bottle’s cork with his teeth, and Chelmsford’s eyes went wide.

“What is that, mate? What is that—” Chelmsford wanted to thrash, but there were too many ropes and Neville was too heavy. Chelmsford’s heels were scrabbling on the tile but they couldn’t gain purchase.

Neville let the man watch while he dunked the oral syringe into the potion bottle. It was awkward, but Neville had large hands and long fingers—he could hold the bottle and the syringe’s barrel flange while he pulled up the plunger, filling the syringe with liquid.

Chelmsford was screaming at him, going red in the face. His lips were flecked with spittle.

Neville leaned to the side to set the potion bottle on the tile. Chelmsford wanted to buck him off but he didn’t have the leverage. Neville wasn’t going to petrify him or stupefy him or immobulus him—he needed Chelmsford able to swallow. And him being afraid now was part of the message.

Neville turned back to him with the syringe, and Chelmsford suddenly went quiet as he pressed his lips closed. The cords were straining in his neck. He was blinking, his nostrils flared with his panicked breath. Neville could hear it—he was close to hyperventilating.

Neville spat out the cork. “I don’t have anything to say to either Parkinson in Azkaban,” he said. “But your fellow guards should know not to work with them.”

Chelmsford sucked in air through his nose—he wanted to argue but he didn’t want to open his mouth.

Neville held up the oral syringe. “It’s going to burn going down.”

The man made a desperate noise in the back of his throat, and Neville grabbed hold of his nose and pinched his nostrils shut. Chelmsford jolted. His eyes were squeezed as tightly closed as his lips. His face was red. Neville could smell his sweat—acrid with fear.

Neville held the syringe at the ready—right at Chelmsford’s lips. He didn’t last long. His mouth opened in a gasp—

He tried to twist his head away—

But Neville had a grip on his nose, and he jammed the syringe into his mouth—

Neville shot the plunger—

And the man bellowed and choked as the venomous tentacula juice burned his tongue, his throat, his esophagus, all the way down to his stomach.

Neville thought of the noise the crocodiles made as Chelmsford bucked under him and he watched the man’s bright red face flush a dark purple.

Mesmerizing.

Then Neville pushed off him—his hand on the rough ropes, his knee popping—and let Chelmsford retch and thrash. Tears and snot were glistening on his aubergine skin. The purple extended across every inch of exposed flesh. Neville could see it through his sandy blond hair. With the dosage Neville had given him, it would take months—maybe a year—for his lymphatic system to clear the juice’s toxins entirely.

Neville could feel his pulse in his throat. Chelmsford would believe he hadn’t deserved this. That was fine.

Neville snatched up the potion bottle and silently accioed the cork. He stoppered the bottle and returned it to the cupboard. He took apart the oral syringe and washed it thoroughly and then scrubbed his hands. He worked quickly, listening to Chelmsford’s ragged coughs and wheezing. He scourgified everything for good measure.

Then he turned and moved back to Chelmsford, hefted him up—

Chelmsford drew a deep breath and began to swear at him—

Neville said, “You don’t have to be alive to be a warning—”

And Chelmsford’s mouth snapped shut.

Neville got a firm hold on him and concentrated on a tract of common land.

The tight, airless squeeze of apparition—

And they landed among scattered trees. It was pannage season, and black-spotted pigs were rooting for acorns in the groundcover. The pigs keep snuffling, unfazed. Neville threw Chelmsford down onto the grass and fallen leaves. The air felt especially cold after the warmth of the greenhouse. Chelmsford’s skin was a vibrant purple in the pale sunlight. His nose was running. He’d grunted on impact—now he was swearing and calling for help.

Neville glanced around—catching his breath, nervy adrenaline still flooding him, a chill down his back—and considered his next step. He’d done enough at the greenhouse. He’d go back to the Manor and spend time with Pansy. If he went back to his property, he’d brood over Chelmsford.

He finited the incarcerous—he wanted the guard to make it back to Azkaban.

Then Neville pictured checkboard marble and pampas grass—the formal entrance to his new home—and disapparated with a pop.

“I don’t want to lose you,” said Neville, and he reached out and took Pansy’s smaller hand in his.

Pansy was smirking at him, wiggling in her emerald-green peacoat.

“It’s not a line,” said Neville, “I think your hedge maze moves.”

“Oh, it does,” said Pansy, laughing.

Neville was smiling, happy she was happy. She’d been fretful when he’d got up to the bedroom, standing with her hands on her hips in the dressing room. She’d turned and crossed her arms against her chest when he’d cleared the doorframe. Her lips had been pursed. “Just because you don’t own anything doesn’t make this all right,” she’d said.

Neville had raised his eyebrows.

“I feel like I’m sneaking my boyfriend into my room.”

Neville had felt warmth bloom in his chest. “I feel like your boyfriend?” he’d asked.

Pansy had frowned. “Yes.”

He’d smiled. There had been something irresistible about her in that moment—standing in her short pleated skirt and wool tights, her daytime makeup. Sulking over him. “And that’s bad?”

“Yes!” she’d said. “We’re meant to be moving into the master suites—you have a whole set of rooms. But I still haven’t cleared them out. I should have done that first—”

She’d been on the way to working herself up. Her shoulders beginning to hunch. Neville had stepped to her and caught her chin, pushed it up. “Pansy,” he’d said, “I like being your boyfriend—”

She’d inhaled, looking up at him with those big green eyes—

“I like sleeping in your bed.” And he’d lowered his head and kissed her. “Let’s just live here.”

Pansy had kissed him gently, and Neville hadn’t told her that her mother and cousin were making a fuss. Her parents’ presence here was already weighing on her. She didn’t need to worry about Padgett.

Now they were heading into the maze and Neville could sense a low vibrational hum, like the hedges were restless. Their edges were still sharply cut but he imagined they didn’t see many visitors nowadays. Had Malfoy and Greengrass and Zabini run these paths, laughing and yelling, during summer hols and Christmas breaks when they were younger? Before the Triwizard Tournament and everything that came after?

They turned to the left. The hedges were slightly taller than Neville—seven foot was standard—and immediately blocked the wind. The sky was overcast. It was a gloomy day to be outside in a maze made of yew, the tree of the dead. But Pansy was holding his hand, and she looked adorable in her pleated skirt and green coat and wellies. Or maybe he was just enjoying being with her.

Neville had looked at her sidelong when she’d pointed out the black peacoat hanging on his wardrobe door.

“It’s not green!” she’d protested. “It’s a practical, versatile piece. A classic.”

Neville had put it on—a boyfriend being dressed to match his girlfriend. It was practical, here in the maze, where a cloak might be caught by grasping branches.

Neville looked back now and saw the arched entrance closing behind them, sealing them in.

“Oh,” said Pansy—the gap in front of them was narrowing, and Neville pulled her along as they ran to beat it. Now they were faced with a round-about, a tree cut into a cylinder at its center. Neville guessed there would be a series of these—a section full of circular designs that would look pleasing when seen from above on a broom. They veered left again as they began to wend their way through.

Neville kept an eye out for shifting yew, listening for the creak of branches. Yews were poisonous—the taxine would kill in hours to days if the tree’s leaves, seeds, or bark were chewed or ingested. Some muggles considered the trees an omen of doom. But they were a favorite of maze designers, and many witches were partial to them because they were associated with Hecate. Neville hadn’t been brought up with religion, but the goddess of witchcraft and necromancy had her followers. He thought of Bellatrix with her hand raised on that pamphlet, Estrada saying there had always been cultists. Men and women drawn to the dark feminine.

Neville glanced at Pansy—her black bob, her dark eyeliner, her skin so pale in the cold, a spot of pink on the tip of her nose. Neville had thought his type of witch liked sunny colors and wore cotton bras and did earth magic. Living together had looked like strawberry lip balm and yellow curtains and rag rugs and hand-painted chairs. Now Neville’s idea of a wife would be black silk knickers and lace slips and high heels. Pansy’s perfume drifting up as she kissed his neck. Pansy pulling out a drawer to sort through eyeshadow palettes as he watched from her vanity stool.

Neville stole another look at her.

It was because of the en suite that he’d known he’d be moving into the Manor. The law required cohabitation, and Pansy would obviously murder him if he tried to tell her to make do with the cottage’s tiny loo and unpredictable plumbing and the closet that only fit hangers at an angle. He didn’t need to be Trelawney to foresee that grisly end.

It was fine. He’d finally put the cottage on the floo network—on a private connection to the Manor. Eventually, Pansy would get frustrated enough with her mother or herself that she’d empty out the master suites and renovate them, and then Neville’s only request would be that they keep a joint bed. He liked falling asleep with her head on his chest and rolling over in the morning to find her next to him, warm and soft and still smelling faintly of her skincare potions.

(Neville wondered which wing the nursery was in.)

(She wouldn’t want separate bedrooms once she’d had the obligatory heir, would she?)

(Was Pansy using contraception?)

Neville frowned, realizing he didn’t know the answer to any of these questions. Maybe this was what had Violet and Padgett worried—in two years, Neville could have married Pansy and strengthened his claim with a baby. This was how Violet and Padgett thought. Neville didn’t care about Pansy’s money—but he did want to keep it out of purist hands. And he wanted Pansy to be happy. She’d be unhappy if she lost the estate.

Neville looked around—they’d got themselves boxed in. They were surrounded by hedge on all four sides.

He looked over at Pansy. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

She jerked her chin toward one wall of yew. “We could snog.”

Neville glanced over to see a wrought iron bench and then he was pulling her toward it. He unbuttoned his coat, quick, and then he unbuttoned hers, and then he sat on the bench—it was cold through his trouser legs—and tugged her down to straddle him. She was biting her lip, snaking her arms around him inside the coat to press their jumper-clad chests together. She snuggled in, squirming against him—Merlin—and then he was kissing her.

Her lips and nose were cold. She tasted of tea and peppermint. Neville could feel the heat building between them as her tongue moved against his. He was straining forward. Their mouths more urgent. He was hard and she was rocking her hips. His peacoat was about to become a blanket—

“Oh!”

Neville groaned.

His head fell back as she looked up at the new break in the hedge. He could see his breath. Her hands were at his chest—she’d be able to feel his heart beating faster. She could certainly feel his erection.

She was climbing off him and Neville was wincing as he reached down to adjust. He didn’t want to spend hours in here. He wanted a hot bath and Pansy’s warm cunt.

“I’m cheating,” he said, and he stood and then stepped up onto the bench.

He looked out over the tops of the hedges. He could see the rough design of the maze—and ripples of movement. Some of the round-abouts were turning slowly. Paths opening and closing. He and Pansy had got themselves into a far corner. They needed to be at the center.

Neville glanced over at her—she was swallowing a smirk—and then he stepped down. He chucked his head toward the bench. “C’mon. You’re getting on my shoulders.”

Her eyes widened and then she was doing a pleased little shimmy before she skipped over and climbed up to stand on the bench. He crouched down and—there was no other way to do this but to get his head between her legs, his hands on her thighs, her fingers around his wrists. And then he was pushing up to standing and she was letting loose a shriek and slapping her hand across his forehead as she hung on to him.

“Oh my giddy aunt,” muttered Neville as she jerked his head back but he kept hold of her legs and then she was balanced.

“Oh my Merlin, I’m so tall!” called out Pansy—

Neville was laughing—

“I can see everything! Don’t laugh, you.” She was pulling his hair. “I spend all my time looking at everyone’s backsides—”

Neville was laughing and she was tugging his head to the right—

“Go this way—”

So he did.

She steered him through the maze, yelling, “Hurry, hurry!” and then yelping when he jostled her, the muscles in her legs tensing, her fingers gripping his head. It was ridiculous—he loved it.

Finally they were stepping through an archway—she was hunched over him to make it under—and then into the center of the maze. Neville was surprised to find roses there. They were large double blooms, white with a hint of pink. Neville thought they were Desdemonas—they would be in season—but he wasn’t a rosarian.

“Going down,” said Neville, and—

She shrieked—

“I just warned you!” said Neville, but she was laughing.

He kneeled on the grass and bowed his head—

She was climbing off him, her skirt dragging over his hair—

When he looked up, she’d turned to face him.

He was still on one knee. She was standing in front of him. He gazed up at her, and she cupped his face between her hands. She was smiling faintly—but suddenly Neville wasn’t. He was just looking at her, his heart beating hard in his chest. She was so beautiful. She was going to be his wife. Forever.

She moved her hands up and ran her fingers through his hair, combing it back into place. She was touching him carefully. Setting him to rights. She smiled fondly at him, her head canted to one side. “My noble steed,” she said.

Neville snorted. “I was thinking you’re beautiful. You were thinking I’m a horse.”

Pansy threw back her head and laughed. “But you’re my horse,” she said. She looked delighted with him. She bent to kiss him, and Neville tilted his head back to meet her mouth. He closed his eyes and breathed her in. They were being silly. He didn’t remember the last time he’d been silly with a witch.

She straightened and said, “The lodestone’s here. You want to see it?”

Neville raised his eyebrows and climbed to his feet. He did want to see it. The oldest manors were set along ley lines, each with their own lodestone. She took his hand and then he could make out the design—the roses arrayed around the jagged black magnetite.

“We should add you to the blood wards,” said Pansy.

Neville almost said, Right now? But as soon as he’d thought it, he knew it made sense. Most of the British revivalists were still unaware of him—but next time Padgett might send someone more effective than Chelmsford. “The standard ones?” he suggested, looking over at her.

She nodded and stepped forward. She reached out and pricked her finger on one of the rose bushes. Then she leaned over the lodestone and squeezed a drop of blood from her fingertip. Neville watched as it disappeared on the dark lodestone, and then he followed suit—making sure to prick his wand hand.

They pulled their wands, and Neville held her hand while they cast—the advantage of being left-handed. Later, Neville would add some trickier wards he’d learned from Bill. But for now, this would do. They said the familiar words, and Neville felt the warmth spread through him.

The wards were welcoming him to his new home. But, also, there was a hot flare of spite, there in the center of his chest. Pansy’s mother and cousin could fuck all the way off if they thought they could tell him who he was and what he could do.

He and Pansy finished the wards, and then a break in the hedge opened and the maze saw them out.

SUNDAY OCTOBER 5, 2003

Neville was in the lesser dining room, eating breakfast with Pansy in front of the fire and going through yesterday’s evening post. He’d been much too preoccupied the night before to read it.

They’d got back inside and he’d told Pansy he needed a bath—he’d sweated through his shirt in the swamp and then he’d been dragging Chelmsford to and fro and running with Pansy (which was, incidentally, going to do his back in)—and she’d let him strip off and get into the water before she’d padded into the en suit and pulled up her vanity stool and said, “I’m just here to watch.”

She’d been sitting quite primly, her hands folded in her lap. Neville had raised an eyebrow and got on with it.

She’d let him soap up and splash around, her eyes roving over his shoulders and chest and arms. And then, when the water was low—the old water draining, the new water still coming in—she’d said, “Touch your cock for me.”

Neville’s head had turned on a swivel. His lips had been parted. There was something about hearing her say that—

He’d said, “I thought you were just here to watch—”

“You touch your cock,” she’d said, nodding at him. Go on, then.

Neville had inhaled and looked away, tonguing his molar, laughing because— Did he like this?

He’d looked back to her. “Why do you want—”

“It’s all my favorite things,” she’d said, widening her eyes. “I like your hands and your wrists and that vein in your forearm—and your cock. If you wank for me, I can see it all at once.” She’d smiled at him.

And he’d laughed and done it. She’d said this before, that she liked seeing him, but he wasn’t used to it. He’d stroked himself—he hadn’t started hard but he’d got there quick with a lubrication charm—and she’d said, “Yes, like that. That’s it.”

He’d looked over at her, eyebrows raised. “Are you talking me through it, then? I’ve done this before.”

“I’m sure you have,” she’d said, pouty, “and you’re doing a good job—”

He’d snorted and kept at it. He hadn’t been going very fast—he’d wanted to fuck her, not come on his own.

She’d wetted her lips. “Keep going—”

She’d pulled in a breath. “You’re so hard—”

She’d been biting her lower lip. “You look so good, Nev—”

She’d sighed. “I just love your cock—”

“All right, that does it.” He’d scooped water over himself and stood—the most cursory rinse. “Let’s go—I’m fucking you now.”

“I don’t mean to rush you!”

He’d been doing the drying spell.

“I don’t want to disrupt your routine!”

She was so full of it. He’d been stepping out of the tub, flinging water, and she’d been giggling, and then he’d chased her to the bed.

He’d held her down and kissed her all over, eaten her cunt, fucked her. Lain in bed and kissed her and told her thank you for showing him the hedge maze.

When he’d got into his wardrobe after, he’d found the picture of his parents, framed and on the shelf. He’d had it shoved into one of the books Fennel had brought over from the cottage. He’d stood and stared at it, feeling—for just a moment—like nothing in his life was real.

Now Neville shook off the memory and got back to the post. He had a note from Alicia, saying the elves were talking—there were loads of boys living at Avery Manor.

Neville remembered Estrada saying the purist families were sending their sons to play foot soldier.

He remembered Pansy saying, They ruined them—all the boys I cared about. And for nothing. A stupid, made-up idea.

He remembered Katie saying, They’re talking about someone named Saiph.

He remembered Bloodsworth saying, There is someone looking to buy but Avery means to get there first.

He remembered Luna telling him the men most drawn to authoritarians were the ones most insecure about their own masculinity—at the time, he’d pictured Malfoy and Flint and Crabbe and Goyle.

Neville didn’t think Saiph and Avery were working together. But he thought they were part of the same lie. A lie about blood supremacy being the natural order of things. A lie about that order giving these boys the right to take what they wanted from anyone they could dominate. A lie about a war that would reward its soldiers with the power and respect they were due—or at least with muggle women to knock around.

Neville had been delaying this conversation, but now he turned to Pansy. “Tell Malfoy I’m ready to meet with him,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

MONDAY OCTOBER 6, 2003

It was mid-morning, and Neville was in a park in Muggle London. It was a crisp day, without precipitation. The grass was still green but the leaves were just turning and beginning to fall. Neville was walking toward Draco Malfoy on a pea gravel path by a pond dotted with lily pads and waterfowl. Malfoy was standing slightly slouched in a black three-piece suit, his hands in his pockets—a posture of aristocratic indifference ruined by the tension radiating off him.

Muggle women were passing Malfoy, stealing glances. Malfoy’s hair was too pale, his skin too even, his bespoke clothing too pristine. The women didn’t know what he was, but they knew he didn’t belong here. They’d tell their friends later they’d seen a celebrity whose name they couldn’t recall.

Neville realized the muggle looks were now bouncing to him. Women eyeing him up and down. It was the black suit Pansy had bought him. That, and he was tall.

Neville was reminded as he neared that he had, in fact, several inches on Malfoy and more than one stone. But, then, Malfoy had never been the tallest or broadest. That wasn’t the point of Malfoy. He’d strutted around Hogwarts with the larger Crabbe and Goyle at his beck and call. Now the taller Nott liked to hang on him while he ignored Nott like a painting ignores its frame. Malfoy’s henchmen had always made the case for him: Malfoy didn’t get his way because he was bigger—he got his way because he was richer and meaner.

But now Malfoy was alone.

Malfoy glanced over as Neville came to a stop, the pea gravel crunching underfoot. “Malfoy,” said Neville.

“Longbottom.”

The Azkaban tattoo was on the other side of his neck—Neville couldn’t see it.

Neville waited. They were standing side by side, ostensibly gazing at the pond. Malfoy smelled like oranges and cloves—colonial goods. One used to prevent scurvy. The other a numbing agent.

Malfoy nodded. “Right. Alastair Avery and his revivalists have become bothersome to me. If you are interested, I will supply information, funding—whatever you need.”

“Intriguing,” said Neville as he gazed out at the swans. This was a bold opening salvo. Neville didn’t like the to me in it. “But I won’t be used as a cat’s paw to assassinate your rivals.”

Neville did want to kill these people. But he didn’t believe the enemy of his enemy was his friend. He believed he had two enemies.

“Understood,” said Malfoy. His shoulders had tilted toward Neville. He’d begun to speak faster, making his pitch: “But that is not the situation. I no longer have any allegiance to purist ideologies. If anything, I would like to prevent Avery from selling my father on any more lost causes. No, it’s my wife’s career I wish to advance—”

“And you think, once you have advanced Hermione, she will promote Malfoy interests?” Neville felt his mood darkening. Percy had called it—the Malfoys saw politics as a horserace, and they thought Hermione was a good bet.

But Malfoy only laughed. “Merlin, no,” he said. “You went to school with her. You know it’s impossible to tell her what to do.” He cocked an eyebrow at Neville—relaxed now that he thought they’d found this common ground. “No, at the end of the day, I’m but a simple Slytherin: ambitious, pragmatic.” He’d turned to watch the squabbling ducks, his tone wistful and sardonic. “With my own future gone, my ambition now belongs to my wife. Avery is an obstacle in her path—one that will become an existential threat if his movement has its way.”

Interesting. “And does Avery understand you to be in conflict?”

“Avery believes House Malfoy is using my wife as an asset within the Ministry,” said Malfoy. “I am assisting in his recruitment efforts in exchange for his lot voting her way—”

Neville’s heart rate had kicked up. Ron and Harry had been right to think Malfoy was back in bed with the purists. All to pass Hermione’s legislation?

“Now I plan to hex them in the back before they can betray her.”

Neville felt a flicker of distaste. “Yes,” he said, “a simple Slytherin. And you expect me to help—why?”

Neville didn’t need a reason to go after blood supremacists. But Malfoy kept returning to Hermione climbing the ladder as though he assumed Neville would hurry to hold it steady. Maybe Hermione would be a good minister—in twenty years. But Neville wasn’t doing what he was doing to further someone’s career. Why should—

“Because we were both just boys,” said Malfoy, “and I’ve seen the boys Avery is recruiting now—that I’ll be helping to recruit now. They think it was all very glamorous.”

The disgust in his voice was palpable, and Neville felt a twist in his chest. Finally, something that sounded like the truth instead of what Malfoy thought he wanted to hear.

Neville would never feel sorry for Malfoy. Ron and Susan were right about him—he’d never uttered a word of remorse, and he’d never had to. People lined up to make excuses for him. But in this disgust, Neville heard something real—something he believed more than any carefully worded statement.

Then Malfoy said something Neville would have never expected to hear.

“The revivalist movement can never be allowed to get off the ground,” said Malfoy. “Shacklebolt has underestimated the depth of this rot. He doesn’t have the tools to dig it out. It’s down to people who will do what has to be done.” He took a deep breath, sighed it out. “You’re good at what you do, Longbottom. And I’m good at being a cowardly traitor.”

Malfoy’s voice was bitter. Neville’s heart was pounding. Malfoy wasn’t looking at him—too self-absorbed to see Neville’s pulse jerking in his throat. This was what he wanted to hear. This could change everything.

Neville’s crew wasn’t set up in Britain because Neville had had to tell Shacklebolt they’d keep it outside the country if he’d wanted to stay out of Azkaban. And now Avery was ramping up his revivalist campaign and Neville didn’t have a way in because the Sacred 28 were impossible to infiltrate. Malfoy was the way in. He had always been the way in—for Greyback and the Carrows and Yaxley and Rowle and Gibbon at Hogwarts. And maybe for Neville now. Malfoy wasn’t a killer—he was a mole. The perfect mole. The pureblood whose line went back to the thirteenth century. The war criminal who had never once apologized. The youngest Death Eater to take a Dark Mark he hadn’t disavowed. Bellatrix’s nephew.

There were some deep cracks in his fascist credentials. He’d lowered his wand. His mother had lied to Voldemort. He was married to a muggleborn war hero he had a habit of eyefucking in public. But that was Malfoy’s problem to solve. This could work for Neville. Or was Malfoy playing him?

“So you will tell me where and when,” said Neville, “and I will have people standing by for a controlled burn.”

Neville waited for Malfoy to waiver, to begin to qualify his intentions. But he said only, “Yes.” He nodded, resolute.

“And what have you told Hermione?”

“That I’ll sort out Avery with you, if you’ll agree,” said Malfoy. He turned to Neville with a kind of pleading look on his face. “I tell her the truth.”

Neville was furious, the anger flaring up in him. Did Malfoy want a biscuit? He said, “Then that would be a first.”

Malfoy froze.

Neville could feel the tightness in his chest. The anger spreading through him, demanding blood. He said, “I know how you treated Pansy.”

Malfoy was holding very still. Neville imagined taking Malfoy apart and didn’t hide it when he looked at him. He’d seen Pansy’s face when he’d said he didn’t cheat. Sweet, loyal Pansy—unable to believe she could be enough. He would spend the rest of his life undoing Malfoy’s damage. He wanted to hurt Malfoy. That was a promise to her he’d break.

Malfoy lifted his chin.

His face was stiff, his body thrumming with that terrible tension.

Neville waited for him to make excuses.

“I behaved badly,” said Malfoy, clipped and grim. “I hurt Pansy in ways she didn’t deserve. She has been better to me than I deserve.”

Those pale gray eyes were blinking. His sharp jaw flexed as he swallowed. Neville watched as Draco Malfoy refused to cry in front of him in a park in Muggle London.

Neville had put the anger away. He was in control of himself. He said, “Tell that to Pansy, not me.”

“I will.” Malfoy nodded, quick to break eye contact. He was looking down at the pea gravel under his feet. His voice was rough when he said, “It’s different now. I don’t treat my wife that way. She has my loyalty, Longbottom.”

Neville wanted to know. Why Hermione? When he couldn’t do it for Pansy. Had they cut a deal? Was it politics? Or was it something else. He said it quietly: “And what has Hermione done to get it?”

Malfoy looked up, meeting his gaze again. Neville could see the pain and self-loathing there. Malfoy took a breath, his jaw shifting. He said, “She looks at me like I’m a real person.”

He looked utterly miserable.

Then he turned his face away.

Neville studied him.

Malfoy had stood by while Hermione was tortured, while Bellatrix cruciated her and carved a slur into her arm. Neville wondered if Malfoy could still hear Hermione screaming. If he heard her screaming and screaming at night in his dreams.

He thought of those wrinkled magazines in the Hogwarts boys’ lav. He thought of those early D.A. meetings, when they had been scared, yes, but excited. Some part of them had thought it would be brilliant. They hadn’t had any idea.

Neville looked at Malfoy, staring at nothing. His chest rising as the muscles in his jaw jumped. Was it a fetish or guilt or something else? How did you know when it was love, not just wanting someone who had every reason to hate you to tell you that you weren’t a piece of shit?

“All right,” said Neville eventually. “All right.”

Neville didn’t go home for his wand—he made do with the poacher’s wand he’d brought with him. (He assumed Malfoy had brought his unregistered one.) He went through the Leaky to Diagon Alley—Macmillan looked over and saw him and didn’t smile—and then to Wheezes. He pulled George aside.

“I just met with Malfoy,” Neville told him.

“What’s he want?” said George. He’d seen Neville’s face and wasn’t smiling either.

They were standing close together on the sales floor, George in his magenta suit that clashed with his hair. The lunchtime shoppers weren’t streaming in yet.

“He claims he’s going to help us take out Avery’s group,” said Neville. “He doesn’t like them recruiting boys. And they’re a threat to Hermione.”

George looked at him, that scheming glint in his eye. “You believe him?”

Neville couldn’t bring himself to say yes. It sounded naïve.

George said, “I think it tracks.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Neville.

“So, listen to this—” George canted his head as his tone turned conspiratorial. “Last night, Granger’s at dinner—”

“She still comes round?”

George nodded. “And Ron and Harry are still on about that raid. Malfoy’s the worst, but godsdamn. How often can you tell a story that ends with, ‘And then I didn’t find anything—’”

Neville shrugged a little.

“Just an excuse to tell us again about his labs—as if either one of them knows what they’re looking at. So I tell Granger I want to try out his set-up—”

Neville nodded. George had the bollocks to do that.

“And bam—” George had snapped his fingers. “Owl from Malfoy this morning. Inviting me to brew at Mrs. Malfoy’s suggestion.”

Neville cocked his chin, considering this.

“I didn’t think she’d even heard me, mate. Twelve hours later, it’s name my time and day.” George raised his eyebrows. “I reckon Ron and Harry are reading this wrong. They have Susan winding them up. And fair play to her. But everyone thinks Malfoy is terrorizing Granger. I’m telling you—she’s walking him like a dog, and he’s barking for it.”

Neville heard Malfoy say, She looks at me like I’m a real person. All Pansy had to do was give Neville those selkie eyes and he did whatever she said while they pretended he was in charge. Maybe Neville knew what it was like for Malfoy.

“Any chance it’s a trap?” he asked.

George snorted. “If I don’t come out of those labs, no one does. I’ll take down the whole fucking ship.” Said casually as he surveyed the sales floor. Then he looked to Neville. “But if they’re setting us up, they won’t tip their hand this early.”

Neville nodded.

“How’s Parkinson?” asked George. “You still getting on?”

Neville nodded. “She’s developing a semi-permanent lipstick.”

“Oh, good shout,” said George, cocking an eyebrow. “For personal use or commercial sale?”

“For sale,” said Neville. “She wants to go into business.”

“Liability insurance,” said George. “Look into it.”

“Right,” said Neville.

“And a good criminal defense solicitor.” George was reaching into the breast pocket of his suit coat with a quick geminio.

Neville took the business card George had now extended between two fingers. “You carry your solicitor’s card?” he asked.

“At all times,” said George. He turned and yelled, “That’s superglue, not bubblegum! One shelf up!”

When George turned back, his eyes moved over Neville. He was fighting a knowing smirk as he asked, “She have you field testing the lippy?”

Neville inhaled as he looked to the rafters, his own mouth quirking.

George was snickering. “Ange helps me stress test the sex toys.”

Neville shook his head and met his eyes. “I didn’t tell you that.”

But George just grinned and gazed out over the shop. “Godsdamn, I love being married.” Then he cuffed Neville on the arm and stepped away to berate the new shop clerk.

Neville wasn’t to the door before George turned and called, “By the way, Ginny’s preggers!”

Neville flooed directly to the distillery.

“Feckin’ Ferret,” said Seamus.

“Seamus—” said Neville. His chair was angled so he could see the catwalks through the glass wall of Seamus’s office. He could hear the firewhisky stills hissing. He didn’t see Katie or anyone else. “I trust Alicia—”

“But it’s her job to drink with people,” said Seamus. His arms were crossed, his chin lifted. “Plus she hates him.”

“Right,” said Neville. “More than Katie.”

Seamus took a breath and sighed. “So I tell them we have a mole and anything more is need-to-know.”

“And we don’t tell him about you or Alicia or Katie—in case he sells us out.”

“And we’re not telling anyone in the Auror Department,” said Seamus. They both knew he meant Ron and Harry.

Neville shook his head. “Then we have to tell them everything—”

Seamus was shaking his head too. They’d decided a long time ago not to involve anyone who hadn’t asked to be involved.

“They know he’s in bed with Avery,” said Neville. “Better no one question that.”

“Granger isn’t going to tell them?”

Neville paused. “I don’t think she tells them anything. Susan’s firmly against him—”

“Now there’s a witch with good sense,” muttered Seamus. “You going to talk to Granger?”

“If she comes to me,” said Neville, frowning. What rumors had Malfoy told her? Maybe she didn’t want anything to do with this. She worked for the Ministry. He’d be going after sitting members of the Wizengamot. He was struck again by how little he knew of her day-to-day life. How little they knew each other anymore. “But right now Pansy is the owl.”

Seamus looked like he was biting his tongue. Finally, he said, “Dean’s opening is coming up. Your missus will have the details.”

“We’ll be there,” said Neville. He couldn’t help grinning.

Seamus was looking him over. “And you get on?”

Neville nodded.

“Aye, you’ve been less of a mopey cunt lately,” said Seamus begrudgingly, and Neville laughed.

“Draco sent me a letter,” said Pansy. “Was that because of you?”

“I might have said something,” said Neville.

He was standing in her office, a room he was seeing for the first time. He’d left Seamus and gone to a public owlery, sent a congratulatory note to the Potters and a few other messages. He’d spent the rest of the afternoon running errands for the greenhouse. Then he’d come home, and Fennel had told him he’d find Pansy here. The room featured a lot of glossy black.

Neville felt caught off guard. He’d expected Malfoy to put it off, say something in passing.

“Do you want to read it?” asked Pansy. She seemed tense and brittle behind her black lacquered desk.

Neville’s stomach dropped. He felt a flush of guilt and shame. He’d done a bad thing. She and Malfoy had reached whatever understanding they had reached. And then he’d come in and played the big man, and it had only reminded her of all the times she’d been hurt and humiliated.

“No,” said Neville. “It’s not my business.”

Pansy nodded, her gaze downcast. He could only see her makeup, not her eyes. Neville felt his heart beating harder in his chest.

“I’m sorry, Pansy,” he said. “I overstepped.”

She inhaled sharply. “No,” she said briskly. “I appreciated it.”

She wasn’t meeting his eyes as her gaze flitted across her desk. Neville didn’t see anything that looked like a letter. Had she already binned it?

Neville watched her, his jaw tight. He wanted to touch her, but the desk was like a barricade. He’d brought up bad memories. Now she didn’t want to let anyone near.

Neville ducked his head. “Will you sit beside me on the sofa?” he asked.

She didn’t say anything.

He said, “Please.”

He watched her from beneath his brows. She nodded, not looking at him.

She pushed back her chair and stood, and Neville moved to the sofa so he wouldn’t be in her way. Maybe he could explain—though he didn’t know what he would say. He couldn’t talk to her, though, with that desk between them.

It was a black leather sofa. He sat at the far end so he wouldn’t crowd her. She’d skirted her desk, and he watched as she made her way to him. She was wearing a clingy black knit dress with long sleeves and a high neck. All covered up.

Neville played it out. She’d sit with an uncomfortable space between them and tug her hemline lower. She’d tell him she was fine but refuse to make eye contact.

Neville sat still and tried not to sigh or look frustrated. He could feel the anger and shame building, a tension in his chest.

She was to him now.

Neville looked up at her.

She wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Her hand reached out—

She was leaning over him—

Her hand was on his shoulder, her knee on the sofa between his legs—

Neville sucked in a breath—

She was climbing onto his lap.

Neville was holding his breath.

Her arms were round his neck—

She was knocking against him as she settled in—

His arms were wrapping round her—

She was curled up against him, her knees tucked up, and he was holding her there as tightly as he could.

Neville exhaled and she sank into him.

Pansy was warm and alive and breathing against him. She smelled like ink and perfume. He could feel her sadness. She was trusting him with this.

It would be so easy to turn this on her. Neville could blame her for claiming Malfoy was a friend after he’d mistreated her. He could demand she cut off Malfoy. He could tell her she should have done it a long time ago, and he didn’t want to hear her moaning about another man.

Then she could tell him he was the one obsessing over her past, stirring it up, demanding apologies she’d never asked for. She could tell him she’d known Nott and Malfoy her whole life and he was the newcomer—she’d do as she pleased and he could fuck off.

Or she’d do as he told her and share less and less with him.

She still trusted him—and he could still ruin that.

Neville held her and she didn’t say anything and he tried to push it all down. His heart was beating too hard. The tension in his chest felt hot and nauseating. He did what he thought was right and what he thought needed to be done. But he didn’t control other people. He didn’t always know what they wanted, or what was best for them. He couldn’t fix Pansy. He couldn’t rescue her. She was a person—not a plant.

“Pansy,” he murmured, “what do you need?”

Her ribcage rose and fell against him. “A drink,” she said.

Neville huffed a laugh. But she was right—he wanted to get her out of the house. If they stayed here, they’d brood. “We’ll go to your hotel and get you a martini,” he said. He knew she liked that bar. They’d been before.

She sat up and pulled back to look at him. “And then what?” she said. She was meeting his gaze. Her eyes were so green. Her eyeliner was thick and precise. She had on her daytime eyeshadow.

“We’ll eat dinner at the bar,” said Neville. “I’ll get the salmon, and you’ll have your rare steak.”

“And you’ll get the salad, and I’ll get the chips,” said Pansy.

“And you’ll eat half my salad,” said Neville. “And offer me two chips in exchange.”

Pansy laughed. “A bargain,” she said. “All right. You’ve convinced me.”

She has been better to me than I deserve. Loyal, determined, resilient Pansy. Maybe he didn’t need to fix her. Maybe he just needed to be here for her. “Good,” said Neville.

“Let me put on better shoes,” she said softly. Her eyes were playing over his face.

She kissed him then, and Neville closed his eyes and focused on the feel of her mouth, the comfort of her weight on him, the texture of her dress under his fingertips. He’d take her to dinner and let her decide if she wanted to talk about it. But, just in this moment, he didn’t want to let go of her.

“Thank you, Nev,” she said. “For sticking up for me.”

“Thank you for letting me,” said Neville.

TUESDAY OCTOBER 7, 2003 - WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 29, 2003

A photograph in The Daily Prophet: Draco Malfoy leaving Azkaban, his cloak billowing behind him as he walks to the apparition point under overcast skies. His head is ducked, his eyes scanning over sharp cheekbones. He looks to his left, his prison runes flashing, and seems to smirk before he twists away.

DRACO’S DEATH-EATER TIES REVIVED?: Questions Dog Malfoy Heir

UNRECONCILABLE: Hermione Malfoy Disavows Husband Draco’s Politics

Neville was at breakfast, scanning the Daily Prophet headline: HERMIONE MALFOY MOVES TO INTERNATIONAL MAGIC

“See that? That was me.”

Neville looked up at her.

Pansy’s mouth was twisting as she tried not to smirk. “I told her Magical Creatures was a dead end. She should transfer to International Magic.”

“She listened to you,” said Neville.

“Course she did,” said Pansy. “It was good advice.”

But she was chuffed—Neville could see how it lit up her face.

He skimmed the article. The position required Wizengamot approval. Hermione had been narrowly confirmed with some surprise aye votes—Malfoy’s deal with Avery at work.

A photograph in Wizarding World News: Malfoy and Nott, recognizable by their hair though the collars of their overcoats are turned up, their backs to the camera as they crowd a tight doorway. Nott’s hand raises to Malfoy’s shoulder blade, his signet ring visible, and Draco looks over his shoulder, his eyes sharp and distrustful, before he opens the door and they slip inside.

“Suspicions are confirmed,” announced George. He threw himself into the club chair in Seamus’s tasting room, tumbler in hand. “Brewed with Malfoy and Nott—”

“Did you, now?” Seamus was giving him a squinty-eyed look.

“Intel is intel! And I wanted to see his set-up—”

“How was it?” asked Seamus.

“Cherry,” said George. “For home use. He can bulk brew a case. Nothing like what you have here.”

Seamus nodded, mollified.

“But he could not stop yammering about Granger. Let the cauldron boil over ‘cause he was watching the door—”

“Was she there?” asked Neville.

“Came to check on us. He acted the prat till she left and then it was back to Mrs. Malfoy likes this, Mrs. Malfoy says that—”

“How’s he keeping that from Avery?” asked Seamus.

“Oh, he’s not,” laughed George. “C’mon, those pictures of him licking her arm? But who cares. They don’t kick you out of Club Coup D’état for being a kinky little freak—”

“Jaysus—”

“Speaking of freaks—” George rolled his head toward Neville—he looked like Ron in the moment. “Nott may have stolen Charlie’s watch.”

“What?” Neville felt his brow furrow.

“His seventeenth birthday watch. Pretty sure Nott was wearing it the whole time.”

“Why would—did Charlie give it to him?”

“Charlie?” George was shaking his head. “It’s even odds he’s even noticed it’s gone.”

“You going to tell him?” asked Neville.

“No, mate.” George was grinning. “I’m gonna sit back and watch what happens when an unstable object meets an oblivious force.”

WEASLEYS’ WIZARD WHEEZES ANNOUNCES NEW ANGEL INVESTOR

Neville and Pansy were at the gallery in Muggle London. It had white walls and hardwood floors and Dean’s still paintings, arranged by theme. There was chardonnay in plastic cups and cubed cheese and tiny quiches. All the muggle women and some of the muggle men looked like they had dressed as witches impersonating muggles. They were eyeing Pansy up and down. Neville had a firm grip on her hand, their fingers interlocked.

Pansy had on her complicated eye makeup. Her dress had thin, twisted straps and gauzy fabric crossed over a corset and a skirt made of tattered, asymmetrical layers. Neville had seen it and blurted, “Is it meant to look like a shipwreck?”

“Yes!” she’d said, beaming at him.

Now one of the muggle men purred “McQueen” with overt jealousy.

“This old thing?” said Pansy with a shoulder wiggle.

The man guffawed and Pansy smirked.

Neville didn’t know what had just happened, but it seemed they were fitting in. He scanned the room—there. Dean’s and Seamus’s families, standing clustered together. Katie there too. Neville felt a jolt of nervy adrenaline. This could go wrong. He gave Pansy a little smile, and then they walked over.

Dean’s muggle stepfather and Seamus’s muggle father were talking about cricket. Dean’s younger half-siblings were milling awkwardly in their good clothes.

“Don’t look,” said Katie, “but I think that’s the reporter from the Times.”

“Where?” said Mrs. Finnigan, craning her neck. “Oh, Neville—”

Mrs. Finnigan would have seen the Daily Prophet coverage by now. She knew who the Parkinsons were. But Neville didn’t know what Dean and Seamus had told their families about how Dean had got the exhibit.

“—you’ve brought your fiancée.”

“Pansy Parkinson,” said Pansy, offering her hand. “You must be Mrs. Finnigan. You and Seamus look just alike.”

“That we do,” said Seamus’s mam, pleased, and she shook Pansy’s hand with a glance toward Neville. And then she was introducing Pansy to Dean’s mother and aunts as Neville’s fiancée and Katie knocked Neville’s arm and he laughed for no reason, relieved.

“Let’s go find Dean,” he said when Pansy had returned to him. There seemed to be a second room—Dean and Seamus must be there. He took her hand, and they looked at Dean’s paintings as they went. Neville could see the little round stickers on the descriptions that marked which ones had been sold. They stopped in front of a large abstract—so different from the art at Hogwarts—and Neville watched Pansy gaze up at it. The piece reminded him of her dress.

“Did you have lessons?” he asked. “Art or art appreciation—”

“Art history,” she said. “But it was only the classics. Nothing modern or muggle. If it’s new, I just . . .” She shrugged a little. “Go by what I like.”

“What do you like?” asked Neville.

Pansy tilted her head, considering. “I like it to be pretty somehow. I don’t like it if it’s ugly on purpose. Or if it feels random. I like it to feel intentional. And balanced. But not too symmetrical—I like an accent. I don’t know—I don’t think my taste is very sophisticated.” Her mouth twisted like she wanted to chew her lip. “I like popular things. But I don’t know that that’s bad, necessarily.”

She pivoted to give him a scrutinizing look—she was playing it up, squinting at him. “Let me guess—you like venomous plants because they’re unappreciated and tragically misunderstood.”

The laugh burst out of him. “I guess I’m not very sophisticated, either.” It was obvious when she said it—to anyone who knew his past.

But Pansy was grinning like that was silly. Like he couldn’t be unappreciated when she was so pleased with him. Like he wasn’t tragically misunderstood if she saw right through him. Neville was smiling faintly, his eyes playing over her face. The pressure in his chest felt strange. He felt like he couldn’t think.

Neville blinked and looked around. He saw Alicia talking to Terry Boot and his Beauxbatons husband, standing with Seamus and Dean. Neville jerked his chin when Dean noticed him, and then Dean and Seamus were coming over. Neville shook Dean’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder, and then Pansy was looking up at Dean and saying, “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” said Dean carefully, “for everything.”

“It’s well deserved,” said Pansy. She smiled politely and Dean nodded. Then Pansy turned to Seamus. “Finnigan,” she said cooly.

“Parkinson,” he said, his cheeks a blotchy red.

Dean and Neville looked at each other sidelong, and Neville’s shoulders dropped a notch. It was fine. It was grand. No one wanted to make a fuss over Pansy’s too-large gift. She and Seamus had narrowed their eyes at each other—order restored.

“Good Lord,” said Dean. “Is that Theodore Nott chatting up my Aunt Femi?”

Neville turned to see Nott, in velvet and tweed and a gold watch, staring intently at Mrs. Thomas’s youngest sister as she spoke. Her hand moved to her neckline, and Nott bit his lip.

“Oh, fuck no,” said Seamus, starting to move.

A photograph in The Daily Prophet: Malfoy and Pucey exiting a late-night private club known to cater to purebloods, wearing conservatively cut robes and Slytherin tie pins. Pucey looks to either side but Malfoy stares down the cameraman, his lip curled. His mouth forms the words “fuck you.” He draws his wand as the photo goes dark.

“Flaunting it, at this point,” said Ron.

They were in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. Neville had thought to ask Anise for something to bring and had then thought better of it. Ginny invited him round more often now, curious about his life with Pansy, and Neville pretended not to notice as he listened for how much the Auror Department knew about Avery.

“Do they really think they’re going to take over the government?” asked Susan. “Then they’ll have to actually work, instead of sitting around their private clubs.”

“They’ll install puppets,” said Ron. “Take over the Ministry, purge anyone who won’t swear a loyalty oath, force out or arrest anyone who’s not pureblood—then, when all the systems fall apart because no one left knows what they’re doing, they’ll use that as an excuse to crack down.”

Harry nodded, his arms crossed against his chest. “Look at Malfoy with his shipping concerns. If he can get his competitors declared undesirables, he’ll have a monopoly. He already has contracts with half the Wizengamot—”

“More than half,” said Ron. “Then they’ll criminalize being gay or marrying outside your blood status or using the potion if you’re pureblood—since what they really want is more pureblood births.”

“Ugh,” said Ginny. “Can we talk about something else? This is giving me heartburn.”

“How’s the nausea?” asked Ron.

“Worse,” said Ginny darkly. “I thought it’d be gone by now.”

“Mum always says she vomited the whole nine months,” said Susan, and Ginny slouched back in her chair.

“I thought I’d be able to play more of the season,” she said, glum. Harry had reached over to rub her arm.

Neville set his beer onto the long wooden table and said, “I have an update on the wedding.”

Ginny perked up.

“It’ll be the fifteenth of November,” said Neville.

“That soon?” said Ginny as Ron asked, “Why the wait?”

Neville picked up his beer. The timing was tricky. Pansy had had to choose a date, and she’d reserved December for the holidays. But that left Malfoy to convince Avery’s lot to gather on the same day. At least if he wanted an alibi.

“How would you like to go to South America?” asked Neville. He was sitting with his back to the wall in the Hog’s Head. It felt like old times—which meant he was in a bad mood. He scratched absently at his wrists, remembering the bedbugs.

“Where in South America? Because it’s very different,” said Balmaceda. “You know that, right? It’s not all the same country?”

“Oh my giddy aunt,” muttered Neville. “Yes, I know that. Bariloche—”

“You know I’m Chilean, right? Not Argentinian?”

“Oh my Merlin. Yes—”

“You know I’m not from South America at all, right?” said Estrada. “Guatemala is in Central America?”

“Yes, I know that—”

Balmaceda and Estrada were glancing sidelong at each other, their fingertips working at the labels on their beer bottles.

Neville closed his eyes and sighed. He could hear Balmaceda and Estrada snickering.

PURITY POLITICS: Is There a Place for Both Sides in the Post-War Political Landscape?

“I’ve something for you,” said Neville, and he tossed the tube to Katie from where he was sitting on the credenza.

She caught it—old chaser reflexes. “Ooh, you flirt. I like a good lippy.” She’d uncapped the tube. “And it’s in my color.”

Alicia looked to Neville. He shrugged. Anyone could see Katie favored bright red.

“Scarlet Harlot,” said Katie, reading the label. “Aye, that’s me!”

Alicia snorted.

“It’s pre-charmed but you can finite it,” said Neville. “Pansy says cheeky names are more memorable.”

“She’s not wrong,” said Katie. She was recapping the lipstick. “We can go for a pint if she wants to talk marketing.”

Neville raised an eyebrow, surprised.

She looked up. “We chatted at Dean’s exhibit. In the loo.”

Neville nodded. As far as he could tell, all women’s friendships were decided in the loo.

“Attire,” said Pansy, the ballpoint of her pen at the bullet point labeled ATTIRE.

Neville lowered his fork to his breakfast plate. “Can I make a request?”

“Requests are allowed,” said Pansy archly. “I cannot guarantee they’ll be honored.”

“No yellow,” said Neville.

“Ew.” Pansy’s nose had wrinkled. “Of course there won’t be yellow.”

Neville smiled at her expression. It had gone without saying, but he really didn’t want yellow.

“However, there will be green,” said Pansy, suddenly looking shifty.

Neville raised an eyebrow.

“You see . . .” said Pansy, and Neville raised the other eyebrow. “Everyone always wants to do group photos, and then the wedding party’s dates don’t match, and I hate that. So I was thinking . . . I’ll dress them, too. I just need you to tell the Weaselette and Lovegood that their men will be wearing forest green suits—”

“You’re putting Harry Potter in a green suit,” said Neville.

“You’re putting Potter in a green suit,” said Pansy. “I’ve delegated that conversation to you.”

“What, just now?”

“Yes. And I’ve already picked out the suits,” said Pansy. “So it’s really no bother for them. You’re wearing black with black forest green, by the way.”

“You can dress all the guests,” said Neville. “Then everyone will match.”

Pansy sat up straighter. “I like the way you think, Longbottom.” She was writing a note to herself.

Neville did not say it had been a joke.

“What I really need,” mused Pansy, “is for everyone to do what I say.”

Neville nodded.

“It would just be easier that way,” she explained.

Neville wrote a letter to Luna.

Neville wrote a letter to Narcissa Malfoy.

Neville worked his way down the narrow, cluttered aisle of Fernsby’s curiosity shop. The shop was quiet, the voices in the Alley faint noise on the other side of the door. Neville trod lightly and cast a homenum revelio: one person behind the counter in back.

Neville stepped into view and the man’s eyes darted to him. Younger than Fernsby—maybe five years older than Neville. Neville didn’t recognize him from Hogwarts. His shoulders rolled back as Neville moved in on him.

“My uncle’s still in hospital,” he said.

“Good for him,” said Neville. “Then he’s not dead.”

The man’s chest rose with his inhale, his eyes flat as he stared Neville down.

“Anyone ask after me?” asked Neville.

“Maybe,” said the man. His eyes flicked over Neville in the black suit. “But I don’t know you or where to find you.”

“Good for you,” said Neville. Then: “Let me see your ring selection.”

The man hesitated. Then he bent to unlock the doors to the display cabinet beneath the counter. He kept his head up, his eyes on Neville.

Neville was in the conservatory, having tea with Pansy and—through no fault of his own—Theodore Nott. Nott was slouched, loose-limbed, on his wrought iron chair, his head seemingly too heavy for his neck. It was tilted nearly to his shoulder now as, his lips parted, he idly gazed at Neville’s chest.

Nott’s eyes shifted to Pansy and he sat up. “Granger’s making me take a job—did I tell you?”

“No,” said Pansy. “What kind of job?”

“With the Department of Mysteries.” Nott had plucked the watercress finger sandwich from his plate. “I had to apply.”

“Is this to keep you out of Draco’s hair?” asked Pansy.

“Whaaaat,” whined Nott. “I’ve been good. And I have so many suggestions, too, if they’d just take off those rings.”

“Well, they won’t,” said Pansy. “You know how Draco feels about marriage—”

“But they should. Instead, Draco just bleeds all over her.”

What? Neville’s eyes had narrowed.

“You don’t know about that?” Nott was grinning at Neville, still holding the sandwich. “The ring fucks with the curse in Granger’s arm but Draco’s blood is the cure. So it’s bloodletting day and night over there—just rubbing it in—”

“Ick,” said Pansy.

“You know he loves it.” Nott had dropped the sandwich back onto his plate.

Neville was distracted—imagining Malfoy rubbing his blood into Hermione’s arm. Was she afraid to take off the ring? Or was he refusing, to keep her dependent?

“And, no, it’s not to keep me out of his hair.” Nott had raised his eyebrows, the face of innocence. “It’s because Saint Granger noticed I’m going to waste—that’s what she said.” His chin was jutted forward, his hand flapped to his sternum. “Draco is letting me go to waste. I have talents, you know.”

Neville remembered Nott drawing up the exemptions.

Nott had made Neville come to Nott Manor. If he’d thought that would scare Neville off, he’d been wrong—Neville wanted a look inside every Death Eater manor, and Nott Manor had been a notorious one. Nott had had to come out to the gates to unlock them in person—his wandwork fast and intricate and, Neville suspected, studded with decoy movements. Then they’d walked in together. Nott had easily paced him—they had the same stride length, and Nott was much less frenetic on his own property. Nott Manor had been in worse shape than Neville had expected. Mildew, rot, the smell of decomposition. Stained wainscotting. Soiled floor runners. The paintings turned to face the wall. Nott had taken him to a study with ruined books on the shelves and black mold spreading across the wallpaper. Then he’d thrown himself into the chair behind the desk, looked up at Neville, and said, “Show me what you’ve got.”

Neville had pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and placed the paperwork that had accompanied his Order of Merlin onto Nott’s father’s desk.

When Nott had sat forward to study Shacklebolt’s signature, Neville had thought of himself getting to know a new plant. Nott had worked efficiently, with little flourishes that seemed habitual. He was very much in control of his magic. Neville’s wariness had notched up as Nott had relaxed.

Now Nott added an egg salad finger sandwich to his plate, lined up beside the watercress. “I’m hoping I get the time room but maybe I’ll get death—though they’re the same thing, really, aren’t they? I won’t be able to tell you, but there will be signs. Portents, actually, if I’m raising the dead.”

Pansy was grinning at him.

“Maybe I’ll talk to Mum through the veil. I always wanted her to haunt the Manor so she’d talk to me.”

“I know, darling.”

Pansy was still smiling but Neville felt his throat tighten as despair washed through him. Nott was just another boy missing his mother. Neville missed his mother even as he visited her. Someday she’d die, and he’d miss her all over again.

“I won’t get love. Can you imagine?”

Pansy laughed with him.

Nott had stacked a cucumber finger sandwich across the egg salad and watercress. “Unless it’s really just sex. Do you reckon? Does the Ministry have a secret sex dungeon? That’s why no one’s allowed to talk about it. It’s wall-to-wall cock down there. But then how’s Granger to be my reference? She hasn’t fucked me once—”

Neville sighed.

“And it’s no use asking—”

“I thought you were seeing Charlie,” said Neville.

Nott’s eyes flicked to him. He was sitting slightly hunched. “Who said that?”

“Charlie,” said Neville, annoyed enough to answer.

Nott went eerily still. He said, “He mentioned me?”

Neville didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to repeat what had been said in private.

Nott tilted his head. He thickly lashed eyes were downcast as he shifted his jaw. “What’d he say—I’ve been annoying him?”

“Has he given you his measurements?” asked Pansy. “When am I getting them?”

Nott’s tongue was in his cheek.

Neville studied Nott, breathing shallowly across from him. Looking like a dog who expected a kick.

“I need his and Potter’s and Scamander’s soon,” said Pansy. Her eyes moved between Nott and Neville. “Or I’m going to be cross.”

“Pans—” Nott had slumped theatrically. “I haven’t told him—ow! Ow!”

“Theo, he’s your plus-one!” Pansy was smacking Nott on the shoulder as he curled in on himself, starting to laugh. “I am going to beat you to death! I am on a schedule!”

“Pans, Pans—”

“I mean it!”

“But what if he doesn’t want to be seen with me?” Nott was laughing as if it were a joke. “What if he won’t come?”

“You haven’t even invited him?” shrieked Pansy. She’d stood up—

Neville reached out—

—and grabbed her arm.

Nott’s hands were shielding his head—the gold watch on his left wrist.

Neville said it for Pansy’s sake: “Invite Charlie, Nott. The Weasleys already know.”

Pansy shot him a look as she took her seat and Nott cautiously sat up. “All of them?” he asked.

“Bill and Percy and George,” said Neville.

Nott was sitting slouched, his eyes playing over Neville. “He tell them it’s just a bit of sport?”

Neville sighed. Pansy was looking to him, her eyes hopeful. And maybe Nott deserved to know. Neville said it: “Charlie told them he likes you.”

Nott took a deep breath. His eyes had fallen to his plate. He frowned and knocked the top off the cucumber sandwich.

A photograph in The Daily Prophet: Malfoy, Graham Montague, and Miles Bletchley in a private box at a Falcons match with several conservative members of the Wizengamot. The others gesture with their cigars, in animated conversation, but Malfoy watches the sky, a mixture of disgust and wistfulness washing across his face as he smokes a cigarette.

Neville was sitting at the table in the basement kitchen of Grimmauld Place, peeling the label off his beer bottle. The others were pushing crisps packets back and forth, ignoring the tray of cut vegetables Susan had brought.

“What is in the air?” said Harry. “There are young wizards everywhere, all aggro and looking for a duel. DMLE has their hands full chasing them out of Knockturn.”

“Wizengamot’s no better,” said Ron. “They nearly cleared the benches on that blood registry debate.”

“You know who else has been in Knockturn—”

“Running around for Avery. But how is he an inducement? Join the cause and you can also go to Azkaban?”

“Helga’s humps,” said Susan, “can we go a day without discussing Draco Malfoy?”

“We’re all about to be at his fucking chateau—”

Neville looked up to see them turned toward him—like being back in the Great Hall, everyone at the Gryffindor table staring because he’d forgotten something obvious. “That reminds me,” he said. “Ginny, Pansy wants you to wear a gold dress—”

“Oh.” She glanced to the others at this sidestep. But Neville wasn’t going to defend the chateau a second time. It was what it was. “I have those gold robes from the reception—”

“It’s one she’s picked out.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “Is it ugly? Like, horrendous?”

Neville felt his brow furrow. Why would it be horrendous? “Pansy said it’s a floor-length slip dress. With beadwork.”

“Is that appropriate for a wedding?” said Susan.

“I thought a slip was underwear?” said Harry, looking to Ginny.

“Standing around in your knickers in November?” said Ron. “Sounds nippy.”

“Right,” said Neville. “Twilfitt & Tattings needs your measurements, Harry. For a suit.”

“Is it also gold?” asked Ron, shooting Harry a smirk.

“Yes,” said Neville. “It’s gold sequins and he’ll ride in on a unicorn.”

The others erupted into sniggers, and Neville told himself to stop glaring.

“Why does Harry get a suit?” asked Susan. “What about Ron?”

“It’s the attendants’ dates. They’re the extended wedding party—”

“So is Hermione also in a gold dress?” asked Ginny.

“Yes.”

“Oh, I thought I was special—”

“So it’s Harry, Hermione—” Susan looked to Neville.

Neville said, “Rolf Scamander—”

“Right—”

“And Charlie.”

“What?” said Ron. “Why would Charlie be there?”

He looked to Ginny—her eyes were wide. Ginny said, “Charlie’s coming with Theo Nott?”

“What?” Ron was squinting. “Why would Charlie be—”

“Oh my Godric,” said Harry. “Remember what Nott said at the Leaky?”

“What? What’d he say?” asked Ginny.

“You were at the bar,” said Harry. “He said say hiya to your brother—”

“Oh, he was taking the piss!” Ron’s face had screwed up.

“Why? What’d he say?” said Ginny.

“Nothing. He didn’t say anything.”

“That sounds like he did—”

“He didn’t—”

“What was it—”

“Nothing—”

“What was it—”

“Nothing—”

“Tell me—”

“No—”

“C’mon—”

“I’m not going to—”

“C’mon—”

“There’s nothing—”

“Tell me!”

“No!”

“C’mon—”

“No!”

“C’mon!”

“Helga’s humps,” said Susan. “Just tell us, Ron.”

Ron groaned. “He said say hiya to your brother and I said which one—”

Ron sighed heavily and glowered at Harry.

Harry rolled his eyes, rolling his head toward Ginny as he did. “And Nott said whichever one you think just had my face pressed against a wall.”

Ginny yelped, slapping her hand over her mouth. “He said that about Charlie?”

“He was taking the piss!” said Ron. “Charlie’s straight. He dated Laura for six years! And Nott left with Patil!”

“With Padma?” said Susan, leaning forward. “She’s married!”

“Yeah, but he sounds like a real dud,” said Ginny. “She said all he wants to do is meet up with his muggle board game group. He wouldn’t even come to drinks.”

“Are they really playing board games?” asked Susan. “Or is that a cover?”

“Why, what do you think they’re doing?” asked Ginny, eyebrows raised.

Susan grimaced. “I mean—”

“Can we focus?” snapped Ron. “How does Charlie even know Nott? He lives in Romania!”

They all turned to Neville.

Neville shrugged.

A photograph in The Daily Prophet: Malfoy and Bole in Knockturn Alley, their heads turned down and away. Malfoy looks up, blood splattered across his face, and mutters something before the view jars and falls to the cobblestones.

“Is Hermione even safe?” asked Susan. “She’s alone in that house with him.”

“She always says she’s all right,” said Harry.

“She has the ring to protect her,” said Ginny as Harry reached over and briskly rubbed her back. She sounded subdued. She’d been complaining of fatigue.

“If he doesn’t find a way to take it off,” said Susan.

“She’d have to take off his first,” said Ginny. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“If she’s awake! If he’s not forcing her hand—”

“No, the magic would sense his intentions!”

“I suppose,” said Susan, crossing her arms.

“She has her own rooms,” said Ginny. “I’m sure she has them warded against him.”

“Have you been to visit her at Malfoy Manor?” asked Neville, and they all shook their heads.

“I think she spends as much time as possible at the Ministry,” said Harry.

“We’ll see her tomorrow,” said Ginny. “Or that’s the plan.”

Susan settled back in her chair, her eyes moving between Ginny and Ron.

“Oh?” said Neville. No one seemed very happy about it.

“We might as well tell you, Neville, since you’re here.” Ginny was looking pointedly at Susan.

“Susan and I are expecting,” said Ron. He’d put his arm around her—he looked over at her now. Proud. Of course he was.

“That’s grand,” said Neville. “Congratulations.”

Susan smiled a little as Ron pulled her closer. Jollied into it.

“Everything all right?” asked Neville.

Susan rolled her eyes.

“We just want to tell Hermione in person,” said Ron. “Before it gets out.”

“You know how the press is,” said Harry, “with the Golden Trio rubbish.”

“Right,” said Neville slowly.

Ginny sat forward, impatient. “It’s just that the press will make it sound as though Hermione’s been left out—”

Susan made a noise in her throat.

“—or needs to be next—”

“Though that makes no sense,” interjected Susan, “when she’s been married all of three months, against her will, to a violent blood supremacist.”

“Right—that,” said Ginny, as Ron and Harry sighed heavily. “So it might be awkward.”

Neville glanced at the copy of the Prophet thrown aside on the table, Malfoy’s blood-spattered face lifting toward the camera. His expression didn’t look put on. He’d been all over the papers, playing the part a little too well. Unreformed. Unrehabilitated. The youngest Death Eater ever to take a Mark he’d never disavowed. Bellatrix’s nephew.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” murmured Neville.

Maybe it was time to check in on just what Malfoy was doing.

Chapter Text

THURSDAY OCTOBER 30, 2003

It was still early. The day cool and drizzly. The shops preparing to open. Neville had passed through the Leaky and seen the delivery men, pictured the flat upstairs. Hannah’s life was the same. That life felt ages ago for Neville.

The night before, he’d gone home to Pansy. He’d cleaned his teeth and washed his face and sat with his eyes closed and let Pansy rub in skin cream with light fingertips. (He didn’t believe her that he’d look like a prune otherwise, but he could feel his breathing slow and his shoulders lower when she touched him.) Then she’d told him about her dinner with Bulstrode. Flint had been out.

“Now he has his heir and can’t be bothered to pretend to like her. Not that she wants him touching her with those regrown fingers—”

Neville had blinked, a little shiver down his neck as he imagined it. Pansy had been standing at her sink in her nightdress, her fringe pushed back under a headband, using a dropper to dot a potion across her forehead.

“She really can’t win, because when he’s not there, she feels neglected. But when he is there, she’s stuck listening to him moan and whinge—”

“What’s he moaning about?” Neville had asked.

“Draco.” She’d snorted. “He’s making everyone mental.”

She’d glanced toward him in the mirror. Neville had been sitting on her vanity stool, his elbows on his knees.

“Millie says he spends all his time at Avery’s drinking or fighting—contradicts everything Montague says or goes off and duels with the lackeys. Adrian’s already soured on the whole thing after he cruciated Marcus over that anonymous tip. But Marcus can’t get Avery or Montague to do anything because Draco’s a big name and they want to use his ships—”

“How?” Neville had sat up straighter.

“Something to do with bringing back exiles.” Pansy had been patting a serum onto her cheeks. “Marcus keeps telling Millie something’s about to happen but then he clams up when she asks what.”

“Why don’t they portkey?”

Pansy had shrugged. “I think they think they’re being sneaky. Since there won’t be any spell traces for the Ministry to track. And those long-distance portkeys are such a pain.”

Neville had nodded. He’d thought back to the solstice gala—the resentful glares. But Flint had tried to extort him because the greenhouse was lucrative, not because he knew about the side project. “And Bulstrode doesn’t mind telling you this—”

“She’s so fed up with Marcus, I could be a gatepost. And you know I’ve told her what a brute you are—”

“Oh my giddy aunt—”

“Silent. Brooding. Driven mad by the war. No use for me but sex—”

Neville had massaged the space between his eyes while she’d laughed her evil little laugh.

“You don’t want to hear a word out of me, that’s what I told her. She doesn’t know you’re a messy bitch who lives for gossip—”

He’d laughed then, shaking his head, and she’d grinned at him in the mirror.

“I told you mine. You tell me yours.”

“Ginny and Susan are both pregnant,” he’d said.

“So they’ll have a cousin the same age to play with,” she’d said lightly. She’d been leaned in toward her reflection. Neville’s gaze had slid to her arse. “Makes sense.”

Neville hadn’t thought of it that way. “Who did you play with?” he’d asked, his eyes back to her face.

“Fen,” she’d said. “You?”

“By myself,” he’d said.

Pansy had nodded, matter of fact. “We’ll have two,” she’d said. “So they’ll have each other.”

Neville had stood up.

In two steps, he’d been behind her. She’d looked up at him in the mirror.

“I’ll take as many as you’ll give me, Pansy.” His voice had been rough. His heart racing, the blood rushing to his cock. One was obligatory. Anything more was her choosing—

“Two,” Pansy had said, still watching him. His hands had moved to the counter on either side of her. She’d been right up against him in thin silk and lace. “I’ve decided.”

“Two, then.” He’d put his weight on his hands, bent to touch his lips to the crook of her neck. He’d felt her hair against his face. He’d breathed in her scent. Pansy. She’d give him a family, and he’d take care of it. His own family. His children wouldn’t grow up thinking they were a burden.

The warmth had spread through him as he’d kissed her neck. “Are you done with your skincare regimen?” he’d murmured.

He’d heard the smirk in her voice when she’d said, “Close enough.”

He’d pushed the straps of her nightdress down and kissed her shoulders and taken her to bed, being gentle with her until she’d rolled him over and climbed on top of him. He’d fallen asleep with her head on his chest, imagining dark-haired children—chasing them through the hedge maze while they laughed.

Now Neville thought of his father as he walked down the slick cobblestones of Diagon. Gran had always told him Frank was a good man who did the right thing. Would his father be proud of him? No. Neville hadn’t fought the good fight. He’d fought dirty.

Neville found George scourgifying a streaky BLOOD TRAITOR off his brickwork.

“So this has started up again,” said George.

Neville nodded. “See the picture of Malfoy in the Prophet?”

“With the blood all over his face?” George raised an eyebrow. “Knockturn’s been yapping—enough for the rumors to make their way here. They’re saying he went spare over Bellatrix.”

Neville’s face felt heavy. His feet rooted to the ground.

George had leaned inside the doorway to the shop to yell a name. Now he was back. “Word is Rookwood told Malfoy he’d never measure up. Said the Malfoys should recognize her son—”

“There is no son,” ground out Neville.

“He says he is.” It was the new shop clerk coming out.

Neville and George looked at each other. “Go on,” said George, his eyes not leaving Neville’s.

“Oh, erm.” George’s clerk was weedy and spotty. He ran a hand through his hair and it fell back into his eyes. “Like I said before, some of the lads have been talking about—there’s this wizard, Saiph, and apparently Bellatrix is his mum—but he’s not political, not like that. It’s more like he knows what it’s like to be on your own, with everyone against you. But he says we should think of it like we’re rare, so we’re high-value—”

“Godric’s hot steamy hollow, mate.” George had turned to him. “You’re about to get some assigned reading—”

“I’ve read the pamphlets going round, about how we should be proud of our heritage—”

“Well, he’s lying about his,” said George. “You know the Sacred 28 all have family trees, right? They update automatically?”

“What? No, I don’t reckon I knew that.” The boy was scratching the back of his head. “But some of the lads say they’ve seen him and he looks the spitting image—”

“Where?” snapped Neville. “Where have they seen him?”

“Oh, erm. Bert said he was hosting, like, dialogue sessions? He’s in that manky inn above the fight club. You know the secret one? Where they ha—ow! What was that for?”

“You didn’t think to mention that!” George’s hand was still raised from cuffing him. Neville had pulled his wand.

“Let’s go,” said Neville.

And then George was turning with him, headed for Knockturn.

Neville and George were striding past flickering wall sconces in a dim, second-floor hallway, the floorboards creaking under the busy green carpet runner. Neville wasn’t trying to be quiet—it was an inn that rented rooms by the hour as well as the night, and people came and went at all times. Mostly men with other men.

When they’d pushed into the cramped absinthe bar downstairs, the man wiping down glassware behind the counter had taken one look at George and glared. “Who’re you after?” he’d asked.

George was in his magenta suit, his ginger hair short enough on the sides to show his missing ear. Neville hadn’t multicorfored the wool or crinus mutoed George’s mullet; everyone in Knockturn already knew George, and no one wanted a vendetta. Teenage boys might graffiti his shopfront, but shop owners knew George did things like flood your sales floor with geminioing roaches or rig the front door to trigger a blizzard every time it was opened. A street vendor had once called Angelina a racist muggle slur and George had come back week after week to cruciate him at random intervals. Neville had been there when George had caught the man trying to sidle past Wheezes.

He’d been flat on his back on the cobblestones, panting and shaking, when he’d snarled, “It was a mistake. I said it once! How long can you hold a grudge over one word!”

“I don’t know,” George had said, standing over him. “I guess we’ll find out in hell.”

The man had packed up his stall and disappeared.

Now George was spitting out wardbreakers as they neared the jamb marked 23 in tarnished brass. He cast the master alohomora just as Neville shouldered open the door, his own wand up—

Movement—

“Diffindo—”

A scream and Neville cast again—

The petrified lamp toppled to the floor as the wizard disapparated—

Neville exhaled and dropped his wand hand. Now he could smell the dust and the sweet, musty odor—

“Godsdamn,” said George, his hand at his nose.

“Bedbugs,” said Neville.

There was a splash of blood across the rumpled sheets—he’d cut the wizard. Maybe badly.

“When are we getting an anti-apparition grenade?” asked Neville.

“Having trouble with it,” said George absently. He was sifting through the papers at the foot of the bed, using his wand tip to push them apart. “Oh, I don’t like this.”

Neville looked over and saw the weeks-old headline: CHOSEN ONE AND HARPIES STAR EXPECTING. Every other article was about Hermione.

“I think he wants to resurrect Bellatrix,” said Neville. “But there’s no resurrection spell. That’s what Dumbledore told Harry.”

“And we all know Dumbledore never withheld information from Harry,” said George with a snort.

George was leaned back in his chair with his feet on his desk, and Neville was suddenly keenly aware they were sitting above a shop full of things that hadn’t existed until George or Fred had invented them. Who was to say what was possible?

“But there’s not,” George said. “Not one the Ministry knows—”

George had broken into the Department of Mysteries after the Battle, Neville knew.

“—or Bill’s heard of.”

Neville could picture Bill and George in the kitchen at Shell Cottage, their scarred heads bent together, the waves crashing outside. Molly’s handsome boys made hideous. Would Fred still have been the sweet one, had George found a way to bring him back? Neville could hear Nott saying, Portents, actually, if I’m raising the dead. Pansy grinning because that wasn’t real. But that didn’t stop anyone from trying, did it? George would have done it, Neville knew. He wouldn’t have hesitated.

George said, “There’s the regeneration potion—”

“Bellatrix was dead.” Neville could still feel her in his arms—the utter stillness. Her skin cool when he, paranoid, pressed his fingers to her neck. He could still—

“I know, mate.” George met his eyes.

The tightness in Neville’s chest, his throat—it was threatening to choke him. What did he have to be upset about? He was alive, wasn’t he? Neville looked away and sighed. He just didn’t like remembering, though he did it all the time.

“But you said it yourself—he’s got it wrong.”

Neville’s chin tilted up as he thought about it. He felt a strange twist of shame—because he could imagine it. Growing up without parents. Feeling unwanted. Hearing the whispers about Bellatrix that cut off when you came into the room. Cobbling together your understanding of the world from rumors and children’s tales and daydreams. Neville had lived it. He knew how it felt. The problem with stories was they didn’t have to be true to be dangerous.

“We used to give Ron fake spells all the time,” said George. “How do you know if a spell works? You try it out. It only gets tricky when you have to cut off your hand first or find a pound of flesh. So assume it’s some variant on the regeneration potion that sounds good. Something that requires her body, since they’re making noise about her grave.”

“Right,” said Neville. “So. Bone of the father, unknowingly given. Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed. Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken. There’s the Black graveyard. Anyone can be the servant. Hermione is the blood. Bloodworth said it had to be her—”

“Why her, though? Bellatrix had loads of enemies.”

“It was personal for Bellatrix, marking her like that,” said Neville. “Leaving her blood in her arm—”

“And you think they know about the blood,” said George, “Saiph and these cultists. Maybe she isn’t the enemy. Maybe she’s the horcrux.”

“It isn’t the same,” said Neville. “That doesn’t make her a horcrux.”

“Right, but you see what I mean. Bellatrix is dead but her blood is alive in Hermione. Maybe they think they need that blood to spark Bellatrix back to life.”

Neville pursed his lips. He remembered George lying next to Fred in the Great Hall after he’d worn himself out. His eyes closed. Holding Fred’s hand. George’s face had been pink and blotchy and swollen with tears. Fred’s face had been pallid, carefully wiped clean by Molly and Ginny. The same face, alive and dead. For the first time, there’d been no mistaking them. George would have given more than blood to bring Fred back.

“But it’s trapped in the scar,” said Neville. “They’ve been asking for fingers—”

“So they don’t understand it’s trapped. They think she absorbed it. Remember, these people are clowns,” said George in his magenta suit and ginger mullet and purple checked shirt. George, who understood magic on a structural level Neville had never grasped. “Ironically, Malfoy Manor might be the safest place for her. Those wards are legitimate—”

“And Malfoy and Nott have scared off the brokers,” said Neville.

“Then there’s the small matter of it being hard to resurrect a body—” George laughed and began to spin his wand. “—when you don’t have it.”

Neville felt his face go hard. “So we make sure they never find it.”

The owl found Neville at the cottage, changing into work clothes in his old bedroom. Neville took the envelope and gave the owl a treat, and it flew away as he broke the wax seal stamped with the Malfoy crest.

Narcissa had answered his letter. Her response was several pages long and included diagrams.

Neville looked in on his Polyjuice potion in the kitchen lab and then took the pages to the greenhouse and spread the diagrams across the table. But he was distracted, thinking about that morning with George—thinking about a different hallway, with Dionisio, in New York. It had been short and narrow and dead-end—a little branch off the main stairwell—all dirty tile and cheap paint and florescent lights overhead as they approached the flat. Dionisio had been in the lead. He’d cast a homenum revelio but the wizard—one of the Jugsons—had apparated from the other side of the locked door to the hall’s entrance, blocking them in. Neville had spun and cast when he’d heard the pop, his other arm thrown wide to keep Dionisio behind him. Dionisio had pushed past him to finish Jugson off.

“Why you always trying to be the one who dies?” Dionisio had asked him after.

Neville had looked at him sidelong. “Was I meant to duck?”

“You’re supposed to turn sideways, so you’re a smaller target. It happens naturally when you cast.”

Neville had shrugged. “So I have bad form.”

They’d been eating Chinese food in a take-away. More florescent lighting. Flimsy plastic forks. They’d had an hour until the portkey. Neville would probably vomit it all back up.

“What happens to your fiancée, you don’t come home?” Dionisio had said it casually, watching the young men shuffling in to order at the counter, looking up at the faded pictures of food.

Neville had shrugged again. He’d thought Hannah would be sad and angry, and then she’d get over him. She hadn’t set a date for the wedding yet—the rented rooms had needed repairs, and she’d been too busy with contractors to sit down with a calendar. Neville had been away a lot, tracking down Jugson. Jugson had been part of the death squads that had killed people like Hannah’s mother and Susan’s aunt and uncle and cousins, but Neville had known Hannah didn’t want to hear about that. She had the Leaky and her father and her friends—her life would keep going if he fucked up.

That night in New York, Neville’s eyes had flicked to Dionisio. He didn’t know much about the other man. Neville thought there was an ex-girlfriend and a daughter.

Now Neville looked at Narcissa’s diagram of the chateau and the courtyard. Based on the arrangement of the tables for the late post-bond luncheon, Neville could calculate that Pansy was inviting . . . the entire world.

There had already been a Wizarding World News Sunday magazine feature. PARKBOTTOM: Pansy Parkinson Plans the Poshest Pureblood Wedding of the Year.

Pansy had convinced Neville to sit for pictures beforehand by telling him it was smarter to provide their own than to trust the WWN photographer. After his experiences with Rita Skeeter and the tabloids, this argument had worked. Somehow this had turned into two shoots because Pansy wanted to audition wedding photographers. She’d leaned over him in bed, her breasts in his face, and let him latch on to a nipple before she’d told him. “But you don’t mind, Nev—do you?” Her voice low and cajoling. Her fingertips trailing along his neck. He’d been rock hard, sucking greedily. He’d caved.

The first photographer had come out to the Manor. The pictures had been exactly what Neville had expected. Sitting with Pansy in the drawing room. Standing together on the grounds, the Manor looming in the distance, as the peacocks strolled past. Neville had worn the black three-piece suit and white shirt and black tie Pansy had picked out and had faced where he’d been told to face, and the pictures were good. The grounds were beautiful. Pansy’s décor was striking. She looked satisfied. He looked fine.

Well, no, he looked good. It was embarrassing—he wouldn’t admit to it—but he liked the way Pansy made him look. She’d had Saffron taper his hair shorter on the sides and at his nape—it accentuated his jaw. The suit emphasized his shoulders. The uninterrupted line of the black trousers and black jacket made him seem towering with Pansy next to him, she was so short. It wasn’t how Neville was used to seeing himself. Somehow, he always expected to see his sixth-year self—his teeth crowding his mouth, his hair curling because he didn’t have the money to get it cut. Hunching because he felt too big. He studied these photos and he heard Pansy saying, There, you look handsome before she went on tiptoe and pecked him on the lips. She said it enough he'd told himself she believed it even if it wasn’t true. But maybe it was true, at least in these pictures.

The second photographer had met them at the greenhouse. She’d kept Neville in the suit but taken off the tie. The point, Pansy had said, was the juxtaposition. It wasn’t meant to look realistic. It was meant to look like a muggle magazine spread. The photographer had taken pictures of Neville walking down the center aisle in the suit and his dragonskin shoes, the shirt open at the collar, and then standing with his hands in his pockets, looking away and then looking back to her, looking down and then up, unsmiling, while the venomous tentaculas rattled and reached for him.

Pansy had been nestled in among the plants, waiting her turn. She’d been in a sleeveless column of black sequins with a deep V neck. The photographer had said, “I think we got it,” releasing him, and he’d turned to see Pansy stroking one of the tentacula’s leaves. It had tilted its eyeless head toward her shoulder, its vines wrapping round her waist. Neville had ambled over and rapped the pot with his knuckle.

“Hey,” he’d said. “That’s mine.”

The tentacula had swayed closer to Pansy and tightened its grip. Pansy had smirked up at him and he’d smirked back—she’d looked so good in her slinky dress, with his plants, gazing up at him in his greenhouse. The photographer had caught it all. Later, sitting in her office, Neville had lingered on these pictures. Him and Pansy smiling unself-consciously at each other, the black formalwear stark against the red and green leaves, the vines encircling Pansy and creeping round his left wrist, the Patek Philippe on his right, a glimpse of the Parkinson cufflinks. His life and her life mixed together.

“We can’t give these to the press,” he’d told her. “They’re pornographic.”

“We’re fully clothed,” she’d said.

“Pansy, you’re eyefucking me—”

“That’s what you get for looking fuckable. Women are visual creatures—”

He’d scoffed. “I don’t think—”

“Don’t think, Longbottom. Just take off your shirt.”

He’d been fighting a laugh as she’d straddled him on the black leather sofa and tugged at his collar button.

“See?” she’d said. “I can’t help myself.”

“You’re objectifying me,” he’d said.

“Yes, I am,” she’d murmured, her lips at his ear, and he’d felt his cock get harder. Her voice had been breathy: “Tell me when to stop.”

Then she’d started kissing his neck and his brain had turned off. He hadn’t stopped her at all. She’d unbuttoned his shirt and kissed his chest and got his cock out and he’d fucked her on the sofa, just like she’d wanted.

She’d met with the reporter alone—Neville had refused. (Pansy had gone squinty-eyed at the breakfast table, and he’d watched over the rim of his teacup as she’d decided not to push it.)

She’d been vibrating with energy when the finished piece had arrived—owled over by Wizarding World Newsthe night before it hit stands. Neville had watched from the sofa as she’d torn off the wrapper. Then she’d paused and looked to him. “What if they made us sound awful?”

Neville had canted his head. “We are awful, Pansy. We’re rich and privileged, and we’ve both broken the law—”

“Oh.” She’d sat up straighter. “I suppose that’s fine, then.” She’d pulled a face and begun flipping pages. Then she’d looked up, grimacing. “Do you want to read it first and tell me how bad it is?”

Neville had raised his eyebrows. “This was your idea—”

“I know! I know. I want to capitalize on the interest in us to launch my cosmetics line. But I’ve just remembered that everyone hates me—”

Neville had huffed something like a laugh. “Come here,” he’d said, and she’d got up from her desk. He’d set aside the post he’d been sorting through and held out his hand for the magazine. It was slick and glossy.

“Just tell me whether I sound stupid. And if they do those snide little asides. And if I—”

“Are you going to talk the whole time I’m reading?” he’d asked.

“Yes,” she’d said decisively.

Neville had sighed and unbuttoned his trousers, and she’d bitten her lip.

“Get on the rug,” he’d said, and he’d stood and wrenched off his shoes and stripped off while she’d waited, looking up at him with those kohl-lined green eyes. Neville’s stomach had been tight. He liked it when she waited patiently—he couldn’t help it—but he’d been dreading this article from the start.

He’d sat on the edge of the sofa, his elbow on his knee as he paged through, and she’d scooted forward and leaned her head on his inner thigh. The room had felt tense but she’d been so sweet—he couldn’t resist her when she got like this, like she needed him—and then the pages had fallen open to a picture she hadn’t shown him. Neville’s breath had caught. It’d been her against his venomous tentaculas. Their vines had been criss-crossed up and down her torso—the bound damsel in distress. But she hadn’t been wide-eyed. She’d shifted her shoulders, tilted her head, and smiled coyly at the camera. The caption read: A PANSY AT HOME IN THE LONGBOTTOM GREENHOUSE.

“Oh,” she’d said, and Neville had felt her take his stiffening cock into her warm mouth.

He’d pulled in a breath, and then they’d both sighed.

He’d gazed at her smiling coyly at him, surrounded by his favorite plants, while the real Pansy sucked his cock.

Then he’d blinked and flipped back to the beginning of the article. “They’ve used the picture of us standing on the grounds.”

Pansy had hummed, her tongue moving lazily against the shaft.

“Pansy Parkinson is feeling optimistic,” Neville had read aloud. “When your intrepid reporter recently caught up with the Slytherin heiress, she was sitting in her minimalist drawing room at her ancestral estate—”

“Hmm—”

“—surrounded by the spreadsheets that will ensure her guests portkey in seamlessly—just one detail in her meticulous planning for what promises to be the pureblood society wedding of the year. As anyone not living under a rock knows by now, Parkinson has been matched since July to Battle of Hogwarts hero Neville Longbottom as part of Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt’s controversial Reconciliation Act. When asked about the unusual circumstances of her engagement, though, Parkinson only laughs. ‘I stay out of politics, as I’ve no head for it at all—’ So there’s your first lie.”

She’d inhaled and started to pull back and he’d moved the magazine aside—

“I’ll stop reading if you take your mouth off my cock.”

She’d made a high-pitched noise of protest and leaned in to take him deeper. Neville had paused while she’d swirled her tongue and pleasure had seeped through him, warmth spreading down the back of his neck. If he had to read about himself, maybe this made it bearable. He’d forced himself to return to the text.

“‘But I can scarcely complain when I’ve been given the wizarding world’s most eligible bachelor.’ Hmph—”

 Pansy’d hummed—

“Indeed, the reclusive Gryffindor has been turning heads—hmm—with his brooding good looks—good Godric—and classic yet cutting-edge red-carpet ensembles. Parkinson says she can take no credit, since Longbottom’s work as a respected herbologist and rare plant expert has given him a natural eye for detail that extends to his sartorial choices.”

Neville had been shaking his head but Pansy had settled into a slow, steady rhythm, seemingly at ease with this blatant falsehood.

“But when asked if her fiancé will be applying this eye for detail to her party planning, Parkinson laughs again. ‘Mr. Longbottom’s time is much too valuable. I wouldn’t dream of frittering it away on my foolishness.’  There’s little frivolity, however, in the meaning behind the Parkinson Longbottom nuptials or the work that will go into making them happen. Intended to bridge the post-war ideological divide, Miss Parkinson’s celebration will include a veritable who’s who of society scions, with Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott II, Luna Lovegood Scamander, and Ginevra Weasley Potter expected to appear as members of the wedding party. To dress them, Parkinson has looked toward muggle designers currently in style.”

Neville had read the rest of the article to Pansy while she’d sat on the rug with her legs tucked under her and sucked his cock. Neville had understood less and less of what he’d been reading as the article had delved into fashion trends and his heart had beat harder. She’d hummed at certain details and the pleasure had rolled through him—too much to concentrate but not enough. He’d wanted to pull her up and strip off her sartorial choices and fuck her.

The feature had ended with a picture of them in the greenhouse. Neville had squinted stupidly at it. He’d remembered feeling silly in the moment—but in the photo, his glower and flexing jaw looked dangerous. They’d been posed at the scarred wooden table in back—Neville seated on the chair, Pansy on the table, her forearm on his suited shoulder, her legs crossed in the sequined dress so that one high-heeled foot rested lightly on his thigh. On the magazine’s glossy paper, he stared down the camera and absently took hold of her ankle. His fingers circled the bare skin above the shoe’s strap, and her mouth quirked as she draped herself on him. It made him look possessive. Controlling. Pansy looked both sharp and lush, all hips and breasts and the precise edges of her hair and eyeliner.

He’d paused, watching the photo, remembering fucking her on that table when she’d first come to him.

Shall we see if we’re compatible?

He’d read aloud: “‘Mr. Longbottom and I are so well matched because we’re both quite traditional. There’s no need to fuss and fight when we both understand he’s the man of the house and it’s my job to keep him happy.’ Pansy, you didn’t say that—”

She’d made a questioning noise as she’d taken him deeper—

Neville had groaned. “I sound like such an arsehole.”

He’d moved the magazine aside and she’d looked up at him, her big eyes innocent, his cock in her mouth. He’d sucked in a breath—

She’d pulled back. “Let me see it.”

And then she’d scrambled up to standing, and with a quick flip of her skirt, she’d been shimmying out of her knickers. She’d stepped out of them and turned her back to him, and then he’d been lifting her skirt to watch her sit on his cock. She’d been wet as the head pushed into her—a spike of ego at the proof that she liked this—and then he’d focused on the charm and she’d wiggled and borne down on him and he’d been in, enveloped by warmth. She’d taken the magazine from him and he’d rolled his hips, pushing further in, wanting more.

She’d sat on his lap, his cock in her, and paged to the start of the article. “Oh, Nev,” she’d said. “You look so good here. Look at that.”

“You supplied the picture—”

“But it’s different, seeing it in the magazine. Don’t we look good together?”

“You look good—”

“No, you’re handsome.”

His chin had been over her shoulder—she’d arched her back and reached back to palm his head. He’d rocked his hips, thrusting into her, and she’d clenched her cunt on him.

She’d said, “Everyone is going to be so jealous when they see you.”

He’d gripped her waist and she’d tightened on him and he’d made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “You are making me mental,” he’d muttered.

She’d hummed unsympathetically and taken her hand back to turn the page. “It’s a nice write-up after all. I’d been so worried.”

He’d held onto her waist, rolling his hips.

She’d flipped a page.

He’d been sliding his hand toward her clit when realization had dawned. “Pansy,” he’d said, “are you training me to get off on press coverage?”

“Training—”

She’d said it like she’d never heard of such a thing.

“—like a dog?”

She’d been fighting a laugh, he’d heard it—he’d squeezed her waist and she’d squirmed on him. “Pansy—”

“Why?” She’d been laughing her evil little laugh. “Are you getting off?”

“Not like this. I need to fuck you properly—”

“But I’m reading this—”

“What happened to making me happy?”

“Don’t believe everything you read, Longbottom—”

And then she’d shrieked, laughing, as he’d stood up—

She was too short. He’d wanted a bed. He’d pulled out and hefted her up and carried her to the bedroom. He’d tossed her down onto the pillows as she’d yelped gleefully. He’d fucked her properly and kissed her face and told her she was beautiful and he was proud of her. She’d got very quiet and limpet-like then and he’d worried he’d said the wrong thing. He’d said it without thinking.

Now Neville took a breath and shook it off. He needed to concentrate on floral arrangements for the wedding. But the table made him think of Pansy, and he looked around the greenhouse and imagined her there.

Neville got up to go check on the fields and outbuildings. He had too much on his mind. He needed to do something physical.

Neville was eating dinner with Pansy in the lesser dining room, the table shrunk down, the fire going. His hair was still wet from the bath.

“You have a letter,” she said, holding it out. “I’ve been getting loads of notes. I told you the witches would be jealous.”

“They aren’t taking the piss?”

“That’s how you know someone’s jealous.”

“Alicia is green with envy, then.”

“Astoria says she’d climb you like a tree, and Davis wants to know if you’re for hire.”

Neville’s eyebrows were raised.

“Nott asked for nudes but he says that every time I see him.”

Neville sighed.

“It’s just girl-talk.” She looked up from the envelope she’d slit open. “You know how women are.”

Neville thought of Ginny. He’d heard her get raunchy. Just never about him. (What had Hannah shared with Susan?) He was afraid to ask what Pansy told Nott.

He looked to the letter. A postmark from a Canadian owlery. Glittery blue wax and the Lovegood seal. Pansy was frowning over her own letter as he broke the wax.

Luna wrote that she’d received the notice from the Ministry as well as his letter, which was good timing because she’d been thinking of him after seeing a purple pitcher plant. They were native to the acid bogs of Canada—the only pitcher plant to live in cold climates—and ate juvenile spotted salamanders. Luna included several sketches of the purple pitcher plant and the juvenile spotted salamanders, which Neville spent some time examining, and then went into a long digression on Nargle-hunting. This segued into Luna assuring Neville that she and Rolf would make the trip to support his bond. She’d thought about it, and she had a good feeling about his match with Pansy. Also, Rolf’s measurements were on file with Twilfitt & Tattings, and he’d sent the shop a note. Rolf said hullo. They were both looking forward to seeing Neville again.

Neville read the letter and then silently passed it to Pansy.

She looked over and plucked it from between his fingers without bothering to feign disinterest. Neville watched as her eyes narrowed. She scanned to the bottom of the page and turned it over.

“Salazar,” she said, “is this all about plants and lizards?”

“Till page four,” said Neville.

“Merlin,” she muttered, but she didn’t skip ahead—Neville could see she was skimming. Then she looked up and said, “Are you and Rolf friendly?”

“No,” said Neville. Then: “He thinks we are.”

“Ah,” said Pansy.

“Actually,” said Neville, “I don’t know what he thinks.”

“All right,” said Pansy neutrally.

Neville sighed. “Does girl-talk mean Hannah told Susan every time I fucked up and now Susan and Ron and Harry and Ginny all talk behind my back—the way they talk about Hermione?”

“Probably,” said Pansy.

Neville imagined them in the kitchen at Grimmauld, making jokes about him and Rolf.

“But everyone does that,” said Pansy. “What are they saying about Granger?”

“Worrying about Malfoy—”

“There you go. It’d be odd if they didn’t.”

“Right.” Neville went ahead and said it—talking behind her back now: “Susan brings her up a lot. I don’t think she’s ever got over everyone saying Hermione and Ron were meant to be.”

“So she’s insecure.” Pansy pulled a face. “Makes sense.”

Neville thought of everyone saying Luna was made for him. How it had got in his head. “I think they’re feeling guilty they didn’t include Hermione in their plans. Susan keeps justifying it. Ron says Hermione doesn’t want children—”

“Not for five years,” said Pansy.

Neville faltered. “How—”

“Nott talks behind Draco’s back,” said Pansy. “So I know she’s making him wait.”

“He wants a baby—”

“Course.” Pansy shrugged. “It’s not like he’ll have to do any work. It’s going to make him mental, watching everyone lap him. I just don’t know how she can stand not knowing. But I know muggles all breed like Prewetts, so I suppose she doesn’t worry.”

Neville felt his brow furrow—he’d missed something.

Pansy’s shoulders slumped and she picked up the stationery beside her place setting. “Mother has sent me a horrible letter.”

Neville took it from her, his eye flicking between her slack expression and Violet’s old-fashioned, private-tutor handwriting.

Pansy pursed her lips. “I’ve really done it this time. She’s being just horrid.”

Neville felt a sickening spike of adrenaline. Gran had owled to tell him the Parkbottom piece was gauche, but he was used to that. What had Violet said to upset Pansy? Neville scanned:

Pansy was a stupid little cow who needed a good slap for encouraging the press to mar the Parkinson name with this vulgar Parkbottom portmanteau. Maybe Pansy was so desperate for attention she’d play the laughingstock, but the estate had already found its heir and she was only convincing Padgett to rethink his generosity in allowing her to continue on at the Manor while he awaited release. Violet knew Pansy was a vapid little slut who would spread her legs for anyone but if she thought polluting herself with the seed of an impoverished blood traitor would help her to supersede her cousin’s claim, then she should remember that Padgett women had difficulty conceiving—punishment for the family’s past lapses. The bones and tea leaves were in agreement: Pansy would not be continuing the Parkinson bloodline. Padgett was within his rights to cut Pansy off when he was no longer inconvenienced and Violet, for one, would not be taking her in after Longbottom realized he couldn’t rut his way to the Parkinson fortune. It was Pansy’s stubborn refusal to recognize her place that had always made her such a burden—

The letter went on but Neville could not. He dropped it to the table, blinking. His chest was heavy, his jaw tight. “Does she always speak to you this way?” he asked.

Pansy huffed. She wasn’t meeting his stare. “When I annoy her. It took Mother and Father ages to have a baby, and then they got me.”

“Pansy, come here.”

She did it. The table was quite small that night, and she was up and throwing her arms round his neck in a step. He pulled her onto his lap and held her to him. He could smell coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms. He could feel her, warm and soft with sharp elbows and shoulder blades, as he cinched his arms tighter around her. He was trying to breathe out his anger as he concentrated on these things. The anger was hot and heavy and nauseating—in his chest, across his shoulders.

“Maybe Mother and Father were right to skip over me,” she said. He couldn’t see her face. “Maybe the Ministry will give you a new match—”

“You’re mine, Pansy. It doesn’t work that way—”

“But what if Mother’s divinations are right and—”

“Then you’ll be enough for me.” Neville felt a pang. He wanted those dark-haired children he’d seen running through the maze. But that didn’t matter now. “You’re enough, Pansy.”

She cried then, and Neville held her and rubbed her back as his thigh went numb under her and his jaw ached. He could feel her tears wetting his collar, drying itchy on his neck. He kept trying to breathe out the anger but it was a stone in his chest he could only breathe around.

Neville took her upstairs and toed off his shoes and stripped off her dress and lay in bed with her while she cried until she fell asleep. She was damp and clingy. Neville had a headache. When she stirred, he murmured, “C’mon. Let’s do your skincare regimen.”

She nodded and got up and he followed her into the en suite and waited while she peed and then he pissed and washed his hands while she put on her nightdress. Then he sat and watched her push back her fringe under her headband and wash her face and pat it dry. She looked sad and tired. Her jaw flexed as she swallowed and then she took a deep breath and faced herself in the mirror. Neville could see her expression go sullen and resolute. She took the lid off one of her pots and began dabbing cream on the puffy pink skin around her bloodshot eyes.

She glanced to him in the mirror. “I’ve got mascara on your shirt.”

Neville looked down at the black marks over his heart.

“I’m going to develop a tear-proof mascara,” she said.

“One that doesn’t smudge if you cry,” said Neville.

“One that doesn’t let you cry at all,” said Pansy.

Neville went to bed early with her. She fell asleep easily, exhausted. Neville lay and listened to the quiet noises of the house. And then, when he was sure she was asleep, he slipped out of bed and slipped on his clothes and made his way to the double doors that led to the master suites.

Padgett Parkinson wasn’t going to claim Pansy’s estate, not unless Neville made some mistakes. But Neville wasn’t the Chosen One. He wasn’t a good person doing the right thing. He was an expendable person doing bad things because someone had to do something. So Neville didn’t think he was going to make those mistakes. Because he’d had a lot of practice now, doing terrible things to people who deserved it.

Neville let himself into the wing Pansy hadn’t yet renovated, and then he was striding down the hall with only the light from his wand, headed toward Violet Parkinson’s abandoned rooms.

Chapter Text

FRIDAY OCTOBER 31, 2003

Neville was eating breakfast with Pansy in the lesser dining room, the fire crackling, the curtains drawn against the cold. The painted walls above the wainscotting were dark. According to Neville’s almanacs, the sun would rise at 6:59 a.m.

Neville was keeping an eye on Pansy. The serums and creams had done their jobs—her face showed no evidence of last night’s tears. Her skin was pale and even. Her eyes no longer puffy. But she was clenching her jaw. Her lips were pressed together as she opened a notebook that was not the leatherbound wedding planner.

Neville drank his tea.

“Right,” said Pansy. “I am going to need a Parkbottom wordmark. Parkbottom cards. Parkbottom stationery. Parkbottom packaging.” She was writing a list. “I might talk to Bell about who the distillery is using for swag. But I want nicer pens. Fen!”

Neville cut a sausage in half and ate it.

“Fen, tell Saffron we’re burning everything Mother left behind—eh eh, that’s why I’m telling you. Tell her to look for anything that needs to go back to the vaults. And tell Cumin all the furnishings are coming out—so he can do what he’d like with the rugs. All right—thank you, Fen!”

Neville ate another sausage.

Pansy drew a line down the middle of the page with a heavy hand and started another list.

Neville drank the rest of his tea and touched his napkin to his mouth. “I have to see a man about a plant,” he told Pansy as he stood.

She looked up, still hunched over her notebook.

“I’ll be back in time for the St. Mungo’s ball,” he said, and he bent to kiss her cheek. He said it intentionally this time: “I’m proud of you.”

She inhaled as he straightened. She looked uncertain when he left.

The sun was breaching the horizon, the sky going a fiery orange, as Neville strode from the apparition point at the edge of his property toward his cottage.

Neville retrieved an item from the kitchen lab and left two items from the Parkinson master suites.

He went to Knockturn. The fog had cleared but it was cold and dreary. He could see Death Eater graffiti he hadn’t seen since the war—45 and 1313 chalked onto the stones. His jaw tightened as he passed a hastily sketched Orion with Bellatrix and Saiph the only stars marked.

Neville went further in, checking doorways.

He found two boys huddled together in worn clothes, the shop behind them still dark.

“Azkaban,” said Neville, standing over them. “I need a side-along.”

“Sure you ain’t DMLE?” said one boy. He was thirteen or fourteen.

The other boy nudged him. “That’s the Sword.”

Neville sighed.

The first had turned back to him, nose wrinkled. “How you ain’t been to Azkaban.”

“Cause I don’t visit filthy fascists,” said Neville, glowering, and the boys erupted into sniggers.

“Bert’s been,” said the first, still laughing.

“I’ll take ya,” said Bert, untangling himself to stand. “Won’t splinch ya or nothing.” He might have been fifteen.

Neville stepped back and said, “Grand.”

Bert’s gaze slid over the gaudy heirloom ring on Neville’s right hand, the Patek Philippe at his wrist. “Going rate’s ten galleons,” he said, eyes bright as he waited to see whether Neville would believe him.

Neville canted his head, considering. “You know Spinnet?” he asked.

Bert’s expression went wary. “Yeah,” he said.

“Be good for Spinnet and I’ll pay the ten,” said Neville.

Bert was grinning. “Yeah, all right.” He straightened his wool jacket with a shrug. Pulled his wand. Neville wondered for a split second about the home he’d run away from. Then the boy was reaching for his wrist. He stopped just before he touched Neville. His open hand hovered. “You ready?” he said. There was a gleam in his eye. His smile had gone wicked.

Neville drew his wand. Just in case the boy was taking him into an ambush to murder and rob him. Then he lifted his right wrist into the boy’s open hand, and the boy took hold.

Bert’s gaze fell to the cobblestones—

He took a deep breath—

He squeezed Neville’s wrist—

Neville’s whole body was squeezedtightandairless—

Then they cracked onto a smooth circle surrounded by craggy rock and breaking waves.

Neville took a step forward, unbalanced. The boy did a full-body shiver and dropped Neville’s wrist. He turned to Neville, grinning, and chucked his chin. “Told ya,” he said. “Didn’t splinch.”

Neville eyed him sidelong. He pocketed his wand and dug out the galleons. He held them stacked between his fingers, his hand above Bert’s outstretched palm. “Next time,” said Neville, “have your partner hold half up front so you’re not stiffed when I hex you and take off.”

Bert went still as his eyes sought out Neville’s. “I reckoned you were good for it,” he said. “It being you.” He wasn’t smiling now.

Neville dropped the coins into his hand. “Be good for Spinnet,” he said.

Bert nodded. His eyes played over Neville. Then he turned with one last look at Neville and disapparated with a crack. Neville wondered again about the home he’d left.

Then he turned and the brutal tower that was Azkaban was looming over him.

Neville took his own deep breath and got on with it.

Neville walked to the entrance to Azkaban under heavy clouds, his cloak billowing in the raw, wet wind that came off the sea. He could feel a cold, fine spray hitting his face.

Inside the gate, the guard stayed close to the brazier as he eyed Neville. “From the Ministry?” he asked. The man’s hands were cracked and red, as though he’d given up fighting the elements.

“Family,” said Neville.

The man nodded. “Usually it’s the Ministry that comes this early.”

Neville handed his wand over for the weigher and watched as it was catalogued and placed, along with the contents of his pockets, in a cubby with the number 4 stamped on a brass disc below it. The other cubbies were empty.

“Have to search you for weapons or contraband,” said the man.

Neville nodded and looked away as the man patted down his damp clothing. All around them, the dark stone walls dripped with moisture. The stone floor was gritty under the leather soles of Neville’s shoes. The guard stepped back and Neville looked at him again. His gaze was moving over the ring on Neville’s right hand to catch on the Patek Philippe.

“Gift from my girl,” said Neville.

“Lucky man,” said the guard. He liked Neville less now, Neville could tell.

“Chelmsford on duty?” asked Neville.

The man’s eyes narrowed minutely. “Transferred,” he said.

Neville nodded.

“Who’re you here to see, again?” asked the guard.

“Parkinson,” said Neville. “The younger one.”

The man looked him up and down. “I’ll take your cloak as well.”

Neville didn’t argue. He handed it over, chilled through by the time the guard had tagged it and given him the claim card.

“You want a table and chairs?”

Neville nodded and then there was a wait without his cloak. Neville tried a wandless nonverbal warming charm and felt a flush of heat. So it was just the anti-apparition ward, then.

A second guard came for him, and Neville followed the man through a dark passage lit by torches dripping wax. It smelled like brine and rotting seaweed and oily smoke and shit. The man shot the viewing window on a corroded cast iron door, and then he was unlocking the door and gesturing Neville in. “Twenty minutes or until you knock,” he said.

Neville nodded and stepped past him, ducking a little as he crossed the threshold, and the door swung shut behind him.

Inside was more damp stone. Weak morning light streaming in from a grated window set high in the wall. Neville could hear the sea crashing on the rocks. He remembered the kitchen at Shell Cottage, the Weasley brothers laughing. How could families be so good or so bad? What would Pansy have been like if she’d got a good one?

Neville looked at the family she had got. Padgett Parkinson had stood from the shelf that held a thin blanket. He was thirty-two or thirty-three now, with Pansy’s dark hair and pale skin—his pallor sickly after five years in Azkaban. Neville didn’t feel sorry for him. He’d been involved in the torture and murder of independent journalists who’d opposed Voldemort—journalists like Luna’s father. Padgett would have been rewarded for those crimes if Voldemort had won.

Now his hands moved to his hips as he straightened. He was taller than Pansy but still well shorter than Neville. His eyes flicked up. Neville thought maybe Padgett hadn’t expected him to be as big as he was.

Neville stepped to the rickety table and took a seat on the chair on his side, sitting slouched. The narrow cell had a high, distant ceiling. The furniture felt too small.

Padgett crossed his arms against his chest, his lips twisting. His hair was short—he could get someone here to cut it, then. Neville eyed his soft middle and looked up at him, and Padgett sat down abruptly.

“So you’re the gardener Pansy’s marrying,” said Padgett.

Neville didn’t say anything.

“Pansy have you playing house at the Manor? You can keep up the place, then.”

Neville stared balefully at him.

“Hard to get good help these days,” said Padgett. “I told Chelmsford I wanted to speak with you ages ago. Man just disappeared.”

Neville nodded.

“What, you bury him in the rose garden?”

“I don’t grow roses,” said Neville. “I keep venomous plants.”

“Poisonous,” said Padgett. “Animals are venomous.”

Neville nodded. “There are poisonous plants and venomous plants.” The words were rote from his Hogwarts lectures. He tilted his head contemplatively as his eyes fell to his hands, held below the table.

“A poisonous plant is passive—” Neville dug his thumbnail under the edge of the gem set into the ring on his right hand. The ring took up the first knuckle of his second finger. He’d bought it from Fernsby’s nephew and taken it to George. Now he popped off the gem. It was hollow and fell silently into his lap.

“The toxin is ingested when you eat it or absorbed when you touch it.” Neville twisted the ring’s wide band, so the spikes hidden inside the hollow gem were now on the underside of his finger.

He looked up.

Padgett was watching him with a bored expression, his head tilted back. He was drumming his fingers on the tabletop, his elbow not quite on the table.

“A venomous plant—like the stinging nettle—is active. It injects the toxin into you.”

Padgett pursed his lips. His face said, Get on with it.

So Neville did.

Neville sat up in his chair, bringing his hands up to the table.

He shifted his weight forward, over his knees.

Padgett’s head twitched at the empty plink of the hollow gem hitting the floor—

Then Neville grabbed Padgett’s forearm with his left hand—

And slammed down his right—

—driving the palmed spikes into the back of Padgett’s hand.

The rotten wood table cracked. Padgett roared in pain—

“I’m venomous,” said Neville.

Padgett was swinging with his free hand, but it was too late—

Neville threw his hands wide, blocking the blow with his forearm as he stood, the chair clattering to the stone floor.

Neville punched Padgett—a left jab to the solar plexus—and Padgett went down against the stone shelf, yelping when his punctured hand broke his fall.

Neville pulled off the ring, tossed it onto the table while Padgett coughed, the punctured hand held to his chest. Neville had broken it. The spikes were short—he’d had to hit hard to make sure they hit home. They’d been coated in rosary pea seed paste, which was lethal. The effects of the abrin would start with severe vomiting and end in Padgett’s liver, spleen, and kidneys failing. Neville would be long gone by then.

“Pansy promise you a vault key?” choked out Padgett. “She reckon you’d do her dirty work?”

“She didn’t promise me anything,” said Neville. “She told me what happened when she was twelve.”

Padgett sneered. “Nothing happened.”

“That’s what I’ll tell the guard,” said Neville, jerking his chin toward the cell door.

Padget huffed a laugh. “She tell you what she did?”

“I don’t care,” said Neville.

Neville vanished the ring and the hollow gem and scourgified his hands—simple wandless magic when you’d had enough practice.

Padgett was watching him, a haughty look on his face. Whatever threats he’d planned to make were moot now. “What was in that?” he said. “What’d you poison me with?”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Neville. “Azkaban doesn’t waste bezoar stones on prisoners.”

“We’ll see about that.” Defiant, but Neville could see the fear. These people were big men until you bullied them back.

“The reason you haven’t seen Chelmsford,” said Neville, “is I dosed him with venomous tentacula juice as a warning to collaborators. Good luck getting your bezoar—”

“When I get a kite to Yaxley—”

“But if you get it, I’ll be back.”

“I’ve still got connections—”

“I’ve got two years to get it right with you,” said Neville. “But I reckon you have eight hours. That’s when the drooling will start.”

Neville made for the door—

And grunted as the chair broke across his back.

He turned, the anger flaring up in him—

Padgett was scrambling back to the second chair—

But Neville knew it was coming and batted it down. He bent and swiped up a piece of the first.

When the cell door opened with a squeal, Neville was in a wide-legged stance, beating Padgett Parkinson with a chair leg.

“Fella—”

“Family matter,” called Neville, swinging the chair leg into Padgett’s lower back.

Pansy was in her dressing room. Neville was waiting for her on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed, in the T&T tux, his bowtie hanging undone.

He’d gone to the cottage after Azkaban, let Pansy tear apart her parents’ wing without him in the way.

The second guard had muttered, “Helga’s humps, I don’t get paid to referee this shit,” and Neville had tossed down the chair leg and straightened, run his hand through his hair, and then gone to retrieve his wand and his galleons from the cubby and exchange the claim ticket for his cloak. He was currently banned from Azkaban for seventy-two hours. “A cooling-off period,” the first guard had said darkly as the sweat had gone cold and clammy on Neville’s back. He could still picture Padgett Parkinson curled up on the grimy stone floor, the blood soaking through his rough-spun prison garb. He could hear the dull thuds of the blows, Padgett’s cries and whimpers. Neville didn’t feel satisfied, just disgusted.

He’d been irritated as he’d stood in the cottage loo, surveying the scrapes and splinters on his hands. He’d known he was going to take care of Pansy’s cousin but he hadn’t meant to be quite so obvious about it. He’d thought he’d bide his time. Neville didn’t exactly understand Violet throwing in with Padgett—but people played favorites. They always had done. Now Neville was playing favorites too.

He’d episkeyed his hands and gone to the greenhouse and sat at the wooden table with a pot of tea and Narcissa’s diagrams, spread out before him. The venomous tentaculas had rattled and hummed and Neville’s breath had evened out, his shoulders had relaxed, as he’d sketched the arrangements he had in his head. Bouquets. Garlands. Centerpieces. He’d focused on the flowers and the greenery and pushed Padgett’s face and Violet’s insults, Pansy’s tears, the dark-haired children—everything—from his mind. He’d made his calculations. He’d need a lot of seeded eucalyptus. It was popular—but Pansy liked popular things.

He’d gone into town and eaten a late lunch and owled his orders. He’d gone by T&T and confirmed they had measurements for Rolf and Harry. They needed Charlie’s.

He’d hesitated. Then he’d asked about Malfoy and Nott. They’d already been fitted. Of course they had. They were clotheshorses—they probably lived at the tailor part-time.

Still, Neville had felt a flicker of—Godric—gratitude. For Pansy’s terrible friends. Who would go do what she said. On schedule. Without whingeing about what color she’d chosen. Maybe, after that letter from Violet, Neville understood a little better the reasons—good and bad—Pansy had never broken with them. Maybe.

Then Neville had got back to the Manor and seen the headline.

DRACO DRAWS ON GOLDEN TRIO

No. Never mind. Draco Malfoy was a bloody idiot and so was Neville for having ever had a generous thought about him.

Neville had sighed heavily and watched the photo loop on the front page of the Prophet: Malfoy, Ron, and Harry standing round a table in a crowded Leaky, Malfoy’s arm extended, Ginny and Susan wide-eyed as Hermione lunged for Malfoy’s wrist. She’d been in position to hex him point-blank. She hadn’t done it.

Neville had bathed and shaved with his father’s straight razor and put on the tux while Pansy was still in her parents’ wing. His back had been stiffening up, tender in spots from being hit with that chair.

Now Neville sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, his elbows at his knees, and considered his mole who was playing his role a little too well. Avery was planning something big, probably taking the Ministry. The exiles were returning for it. Neville needed Malfoy to give him a time and place—not start pub brawls with Ron and Harry.

Shimmering movement—Neville straightened as Pansy came into the room. She was in a dress made of shiny black discs. Like big sequins, Neville thought. It wasn’t as form-fitting as some of her other frocks. But it showed a lot of skin on top, and it was very, very short.

She marched up to where he sat. Then she was standing between his legs, fussing with his pocket square. He ran his hands up the backs of her thighs. She was half naked. The dress was indecent. (An intrusive thought: her on all fours on the bench.)

He looked down to where the hem hit her legs. “This is—pretty.”

She said, “I have it in silver for the reception after the bond. Tonight is the trial run. If I get fewer than fifty howlers calling me a whore, I’ll find something shorter.”

Neville nodded slowly, his fingertips traveling over the discs. So this was Pansy’s response to her mother calling her a slut. “All right,” he said. “I can fight.”

“Chin up.”

He obeyed as she reached for his bowtie.

“Witch Weekly is coming tomorrow,” she said, her hands moving at his throat.

“I don’t—”

“Talk to the media. Which is why I’ve told them you can’t take time out of your busy schedule. We’re branding you as the strong, silent, successful type.”

Neville hummed. He’d noticed this was important to Pansy.

“At the five-minute mark, you’ll come in and I will be very surprised—”

Neville’s mouth quirked.

“And you will say, ‘I can’t stay,’ and kiss me on the cheek. And then you’ll turn to the reporter and say, ‘I’m lucky to have Pansy.’”

Neville was smiling a little, looking up at the ceiling as she worked on his tie. “That’s all I have to do?”

“That’s all you have to do,” she said. “And then, as soon as you leave, I’ll tell the reporter you have the biggest cock I’ve ever seen—”

“Oh my Merlin,” he sighed. “I wish I thought you were taking the piss.”

“I’m not,” she said. “They won’t print it but they will hang on my every word.”

“Oh my word—”

“And take a second look at the photo I’m providing—”

“Oh my giddy aunt,” he muttered. He was going to pretend she hadn’t told him this.

“There,” she said, brushing down his lapels. He dropped his chin, and she leaned in for a kiss. He could smell the coffee and vanilla and jasmine and patchouli and orange blossoms. “I’ll handle the press,” she said, “and there are some trademarks I’m filing. But you needn’t be fussed.”

“All right,” he murmured against her mouth. “I’m lucky to have you, Pansy.”

She pecked his lips and pulled back. “Very natural delivery. Full marks.”

He looked up at her. Her green eyes. Her complicated makeup. Her Cupid’s bow upper lip. Mean, stubborn, never-satisfied Pansy—fighting for her life in a family that wanted to crush her. He understood a little better now, why she was the way she was.

Her eyes were moving over his face.

“I take it back,” she said. “You need loads of practice. We’ll have to role play—”

Neville laughed and pulled at her thighs so she fell into him. She jostled against him, her arms around his neck. He said, “I’m lucky to have you, Pansy.”

“Almost. Try again.”

He was smiling as he said it: “I’m lucky to have you, Pansy.”

“You’re getting there. We need to block out some time—”

“I’m lucky to have you, Pansy.”

“No, Nev.” She was smiling back, kissing his face with her smudge-proof mouth. “I’m lucky to have you.”

They got to St. Mungo’s in time to be photographed going in, which was what Pansy had wanted. Neville didn’t smile. He imagined Violet Parkinson seeing the pictures: her vapid slut daughter on the arm of an impoverished blood traitor.

That was one interpretation.

Or maybe Violet knew Pansy was smart. Maybe that’s why she was afraid of Pansy. Maybe everything she said to Pansy was a lie.

“Mr. Longbottom, have you spoken to the Golden Trio?”

“Pansy, have you been in contact with Draco Malfoy since last night?”

“Pansy, Pansy—who are you wearing?”

“Paco Rabanne,” called out Pansy, and the quick-quotes quills took down the unfamiliar name.

“Neville! Over here! Are you looking forward to your bond?”

“Miss Parkinson, what are your thoughts on the Malfoy match being revoked?”

Neville looked to the reporter. What?

The woman had sidled up to Pansy, pacing them. “Miss Parkinson, was Draco Malfoy abusive during your relationship?”

“No comment,” snapped Neville with a hard look for the woman, and he steered Pansy away. That was nothow Pansy was going to be portrayed. When they’d got through the scrum, he lowered his head to hers. “Have you spoken to Malfoy?”

She shook her head, tense.

She’d been busy, Neville knew. They’d left the Manor before the evening post had been delivered. Neville looked over the heads of the people around them. They were on the fifth floor, moving with the crowd toward the ballroom. The gift shop was coming up on their right. When they came abreast it, the late edition was on display: MALFOY MATCH TO BE REVOKED???

Neville scanned the front page: Ron making the argument that a marked Death Eater should never have been eligible. Anonymous sources saying Hermione was living in fear, afraid to speak freely to her Ministry colleagues.

Neville turned away. He could feel his frustration like a suffocating pressure in his chest. He didn’t need this. He needed Malfoy to stay focused on Avery and deliver. Balmaceda and Estrada had been to Bariloche. They’d found a large supremacist contingent that had confunded its way into luxury lakefront property and was training in the foothills. The logistics were a nightmare. The other side always had an advantage when you went to them—they could apparate anywhere; you could only apparate to the locations you’d scouted. Alicia and Estrada wanted to go in. Neville and Seamus wanted to trap them on a ship, between continents—use their plan against them. But that meant knowing which ship. And that meant Malfoy.

The ballroom was spelled to look like a clearing in the woods—the tables lit by tiny, charmed bonfires surrounded by pumpkins, Rowan berries, pomegranates, marigolds. Their table was at the far end, dark trees just beyond. They were making their way slowly past other tables and clusters of people. Pansy was drawing looks in her skimpy dress. The older men were openly ogling her. Neville’s hand was on the back of her neck. If she was going to go out half-naked, he was going to make it clear she wasn’t available to be harassed. Neville felt nervy, on edge.

By now, Padgett would be feeling the effects of the abrin. He was already dead—he just had to do the work of dying.

They got to their table—and there were Harry and Ginny and Susan and Ron one table over, with two couples Neville didn’t recognize. Susan’s and Ron’s heads were close together as they talked. They both looked to be in a foul mood.

“Oh.”

He looked down at Pansy.

“Neville—”

He glanced over at Ginny. She was heading toward him in her spangly gold robes.

“There’s Daph—”

Neville looked over to see Greengrass in an updo and emeralds—widening her eyes at Pansy, jerking her head. Come here.

“I’ll just pop over,” said Pansy, turning to face him. Her fingertips at his waistband. She was gazing up at him.

“Stay where I can see you,” said Neville.

A little wiggle as she said, “Yes, sir.”

Neville inhaled, a flush of warmth down the back of his neck. She was eyefucking him. He was caught.

Ginny cleared her throat.

Pansy smirked and walked off.

Neville watched her go.

The dress wouldn’t cover anything if he had her on all fours.

Merlin, what was wrong with him? Neville turned to see Ginny’s raised eyebrow.

“Need a minute?”

Neville was going to ignore that. “What happened with Malfoy?”

“Godric, it was just so weird.” Ginny’s shoulders had slumped. “He’s really done a number on her.”

Neville felt a jolt as he realized he hadn’t asked about Hermione. Hadn’t been thinking of her at all—

“You know Ron and Susan were going to tell her about the baby. And of course Susan didn’t want Malfoy there. I mean, obviously. He wasn’t invited. But then he showed up anyway, acting like Hermione’s not allowed out—just being a knob. And instead of telling him off, she told him to sit down! So Ron said something, and then she and Malfoy got into it, and Malfoy threatened her—”

“With what?”

“She wouldn’t say—we couldn’t hear. But then Malfoy said we wouldn’t do anything about it. So, of course—”

“Right,” said Neville. If Malfoy had wanted a fight, that would do it.

“And then, just between us—” Ginny had shifted closer as she’d lowered her voice.

Neville bent his head to hear her.

“—Susan said something about Ron fighting over Hermione like he’d forgotten she was there—”

Neville’s eyebrows shot up as Ginny spoke faster.

“—which is just a little unfair when he was telling him to leave. And what’s he meant to do with Malfoy threatening her? But that’s when it came out that Susan’s pregnant and Malfoy said he’s been trying to get Hermione pregnant—”

Against her will? Pansy had said five years.

“Which is mental. I mean, he’s gone full Death Eater so why would he. He just wants us to know he’s shagged her—”

Right, thought Neville. It’s going to make him mental, watching everyone lap him.

“But she’s still wearing the ring, so is she letting him? But Ron says she’s sleeping with him for the votes he gets her—that’s the rumor, anyway.”

“To pass her legislation.”

“Right,” said Ginny. She’d shifted back and Neville had straightened. “But her legislation’s not going to matter when he starts a war.”

Neville nodded. Pansy had predicted this. Hermione appeared myopic, hypocritical, in over her head. He said, “Maybe she thinks he won’t get anywhere—with this business with Avery.”

“I suppose.” Ginny looked unsure. “But now Avery’s saying the Wizengamot is going to take up her appeal—after what Ron said to the Prophet.”

Neville frowned. This had to be a loyalty test. Avery thought Malfoy was too attached to Hermione. A good purist should be petitioning the Wizengamot to void the marriage. Malfoy wasn’t going to do that.

Neville sighed. He didn’t need this. He needed a time and place.

“When?” said Neville.

“I don’t know,” said Ginny. “They haven’t announced it yet.” She shook her head. “All I know is I’ve got two hours—tops—in me.”

Neville looked to her, concerned.

She said, “Don’t ever get pregnant, Neville. It’s exhausting.”

Neville gave her a sad smile and saw her to her table. Harry looked up as Neville pulled out her chair.

“All right, then?” asked Harry.

Neville clapped him on the shoulder as he turned to Ginny. Ron and Susan weren’t making eye contact.

Neville looked around from the edge of the ballroom. Everyone had taken their seats. Pansy was crouched to talk to Greengrass, her hands at the back of her too-short skirt. Neville was about to go get her when he saw Malfoy and Hermione, walking in late.

They were making their way to the middle of the room. Their chins were lifted. Hermione was on his arm. The firelight from the centerpieces played off his white-blond hair, her jet-black earrings, the diamonds on his left hand. Hermione was swathed in funereal black silk with lace sleeves. They reached their table, and Malfoy pulled out her chair. He turned to say something to someone, and when he turned back—Hermione slapped him. Right across the face.

Malfoy’s platinum hair went flying as his head whipped to the side. Neville could hear the gasps rippling across the tables.

Then Malfoy tossed his head back, and his hair fell into place.

He looked to her—he was licking the blood off his split lip. Smiling like he wanted to fuck her.

Then he seated her and sat down, disappearing from view as the idle chatter of the room became a dull roar.

Neville could only surmise this was the Malfoys’ public rebuttal to the claims she was cowed by him.

Neville’s chest and jaw were tight. He could feel the sore spots on his back. He was chewing it over. Malfoy had to be telling Avery it was a fetish. That he got off on dressing Hermione like a Malfoy wife and toying with her. That he’d goaded her into a punch when he was thirteen and he’d never stopped wanking to it. (Neville closed his eyes—he didn’t need that mental image. Why had he done this to himself?) How would Malfoy explain it to the Wizengamot?

Neville went to collect his intended.

“Pansy,” he said, standing at a remove from the Pucey table, his voice sharper than usual. She stood up immediately. Greengrass and Pucey glared but Pansy only touched Greengrass’s forearm and came to join him and he ushered her away, his hand on her shoulder blade. He stood over her as he seated her and made sure her napkin covered her lap. Then he nudged his chair closer to hers—so he didn’t elbow the woman on his left and because he wanted Pansy near. His back was to the rest of the room. He couldn’t see the ways out, only the spelled trees. He hated this seat.

They said their hullos, which was as much conversation as Neville was in the mood to make. Under the table, Pansy squeezed his thigh. She tilted her chin up and he hunched down so she could speak into his ear.

“Marcus is dead—”

Neville didn’t react.

“They dumped him on his estate grounds and didn’t tell Millie a thing. But Bole told Adrian it was Draco in a duel at Avery’s. They’re putting it around that it was muggle violence but Daphne says Draco cut him to ribbons. Millie is beside herself. Avery and Montague haven’t even tried to contact her. Draco must be in a state.”

Neville nodded, his eyes on the table. It wasn’t a loyalty test, it was revenge. Malfoy had gone straight from drawing on Ron to killing Flint. Maybe it had been unavoidable—maybe Flint had challenged him. Or maybe Malfoy was losing it.

Either way, he’d hacked off Avery.

“What’re you two lovebirds whispering about?” One of the older men, his tone mocking to Neville’s ear.

“You caught us,” said Pansy, facing the table. “I was just telling Mr. Longbottom I want to take another look at my stock to bond ratio. He’s not to let me forget.”

“Who’s your broker?” asked one of the witches.

The man looked annoyed as Pansy turned away from him to answer.

Neville ate his dinner and let the women talk. He’d worked his right hand under Pansy’s napkin, and he held onto her inner thigh, his thumb stroking the smooth skin of her leg, as he kept an eye on Harry and Ron. He saw the moment they got the news—Smith bending to Harry’s ear, Ron glancing over. Harry got up and then Ron did too and they moved away from the table to stand huddled with Smith amid the dark trees at the edge of the room. Ginny and Susan were sitting together, watching over their shoulders.

Neville had been thinking about Azkaban. It could take several days for Padgett’s organs to fail. Tonight was a good night to die if he could manage it. The veil thinner on Samhain. The passage easier. If you believed in that sort of thing. If you believed in building bonfires and making sacrifices and communing with the dead when the world was in a liminal state. Neville wasn’t religious but he didn’t not believe. He had pulled a sword from an empty hat. He knew all sorts of things were possible. At the same time, Neville had been to this building, year after year—his mother in her room on the floor below them at this very moment—and had learned each time that the possibilities were not infinite. They were quite finite indeed when it came to the question of whether his parents would ever get better, whether they would ever regain what they’d lost, whether they would ever know who he was. Everyone told you anything was possible—until it was the thing you wanted most, and then they told you life wasn’t fair.

If Neville had believed the world was fair, he’d be up and telling Harry and Ron that Malfoy had killed Flint and should go back to Azkaban. But Neville had committed to a different understanding of the world—one in which he didn’t matter but what he did might, one in which people weren’t good but could do hard things—and so it mattered less that Malfoy was an irredeemable prick who deserved what he got and more that Malfoy might be of huge use if he weren’t in a cell. Neville had been to Azkaban now, and he didn’t want Malfoy there.

Dinner was coming to a close. Harry went back to the table to kiss Ginny, and then he and Smith were striding off. Ron was sitting back down—leaned in to talk to Susan and Ginny. Neville’s tablemates were starting to stand. The elves were resetting the floor for dancing. Neville reluctantly let go of Pansy’s leg. It was soothing, touching her. Pansy didn’t prod him to talk or tell jokes at his expense or push his hand away. She let him sit—silent, brooding, driven mad by the war—and grip and stroke her thigh as much as he liked while she carried the conversation. A united front.

She was looking around now. Ginny and Susan were there, their little bags in hand, Ginny touching his shoulder.

“Harry and Ron are being called into the Department,” said Ginny. “We’re going to go.”

Neville nodded and then Ginny and Susan were headed for the floos.

“Let’s look for Nott,” said Pansy. “He usually skips dinner but he might be here now.”

Neville had his hand on Pansy’s neck, steering her toward Theodore Nott.

Pansy had stopped to talk to Greengrass—telling her she’d owl Bulstrode—while Neville had scanned the crowd. He’d paused on Wood with Chang. Cho’s marriage to the footballer hadn’t worked out; she was back, working in Games and Sports, and matched to Wood. Wood had been staring fixedly as she’d made maneuvering gestures with her hands; then he’d broken into a smile as she’d laughed. He’d put his arm around her—looking, in that moment, more relaxed than Neville had ever seen him. Then Neville had found Nott’s head of wavy brown hair.

He hadn’t expected to find wild ginger curls as well.

Nott was lounged on Charlie—his lanky forearm on Charlie’s shoulder, Charlie’s hand light on his back—and reaching for Malfoy’s chin. Malfoy and Hermione were standing close together, but she hadn’t healed his bloodied lip. Now Nott tilted Malfoy’s head this way and that, examining it. Neville could see the Azkaban tattoo on Malfoy’s neck. He looked rough—like he’d recently been cruciated. Neville knew that look from school.

Nott slapped Malfoy on the cheek, saucy. Malfoy took it, his expression put-upon. Hermione was saying something to Nott. Malfoy gave her a dirty look. Neville imagined him narrowing his eyes at her in the Leaky. Picking a fight after gatecrashing. Before killing Flint.

Neville wondered what the threat had been—the one Hermione wouldn’t repeat.

Now Charlie poked Nott in the ribs, and Nott turned to him—he looked caught out.

Charlie shrugged a little and pulled Nott in by the shirtfront.

Malfoy rolled his eyes as he turned away.

Then Hermione was staring, transfixed, as Charlie and Nott kissed with a lot more tongue than Neville usually saw at formal events. Nott’s hand was in Charlie’s hair. Charlie had hold of his hip. Their heads were tilted, Charlie’s square jaw in sharp relief. They were really going at it. Neville heard someone say, “Oh my Merlin.”

“Oi, we’re in public!”

A cluster of men shifted, and Neville realized Ron was just ahead of them.

Pansy gave a determined little gasp. Sometimes Neville forgot she couldn’t see over everyone’s shoulders.

Charlie was shooting Ron a two-fingered salute as Nott leaned into the kiss. Pansy had sped up.

“Oh good, you’re here, Weasley—”

Neville let her pull away.

“—not you,” she said as she passed Ron.

Ron had stopped with some distance between him and a glaring Malfoy.

“Weasley!” called Pansy. “We need to discuss your suit!”

Ron said, “Mione, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“No,” barked Malfoy.

Pansy was smacking Charlie on the arm.

“Malfoy, get down here,” snapped Hermione, turning and reaching for his earlobe.

Neville thought for a second she wasn’t wearing the ring. But then she’d jerked Malfoy’s head toward hers and he couldn’t see her hand. She was whispering in Malfoy’s ear. Malfoy sucked in a breath. His face was awful—stupid with hope.

Charlie was grinning, holding Nott to him as Pansy explained what would happen if she didn’t get his measurements.

Malfoy had gone still. He nodded, and Hermione released his ear.

Another exchange, his face close to hers. Then Malfoy straightened, staring at Ron, his fingertips at her waist.

“I will do,” said Charlie. He chucked his chin at Neville. “Longbottom.”

Neville was shaking his hand as Hermione marched over to speak with Ron and Nott slipped away to stand with Malfoy. Pansy began to talk to Charlie about portkeys. Neville turned to see what was happening. Nott and Malfoy were shoulder to shoulder in their tightly fitted tuxedos, watching Hermione with Ron.

Ron rubbed at the back of his neck and peered at Hermione. His hangdog look from when they were younger. But now she’d said something and his eyes were wide, he was gesturing—they were already fighting. Just like back at school—Ron had been the first to defend Hermione and the first to get defensive when anything she’d said had sounded like criticism. He’d made her laugh—Neville had always envied that. But they’d bickered constantly.

They were bickering now.

Ron’s eyes fell to her hand, and he grabbed her wrist. Neville had been right—she wasn’t wearing the ring.

She pulled her hand away.

Neville’s mind was spinning. Malfoy was still wearing his—Neville was sure of it. The dark circles under his eyes, the gray cast to his pale skin—had he taken hers off after threatening her? Had the magic retaliated?

Neville looked to Malfoy, fixated on her. Had he been angry she was making him wait for an heir?

Or Malfoy looked rough because of the duel with Flint. He’d taken off the ring because the curse was hurting Hermione. She’d agreed to take his off first, and then he’d put his back on—to prove his loyalty.

Neville didn’t know.

They were in a fight. She hadn’t healed his lip.

They’d still been standing close together, though, bantering with Nott. Hermione had said something to make Malfoy nod.

Neville looked back to Hermione and Ron. Ron’s expression was incredulous. Hermione was defending Malfoy—that had to be it.

Her head was jerking as she tore into Ron.

Ron was leaning over her, his eyebrows raised.

She jolted toward him, her fists clenched at her sides.

Neville saw Nott straighten from his slouch.

Then Hermione’s hand pulled back and Nott and Malfoy split apart like struck billiards balls, instantly in motion.

Hermione slapped Ron—

Nott was already to her—

His arm was wrapping round her waist—

Nott was dragging her back—

Malfoy was stepping in front of her as smoothly as if it’d been choreographed.

Neville felt his jaw tense. This was a fight Malfoy had been itching to have. Neville heard him say, “What did you say to her, Weasley?” Malfoy’s wand was in hand.

Ron sounded disgusted. “What did you say, to get her to even touch you?”

“I couldn’t say anything with her holding my head down.”

Ron hexed him, just like Malfoy had wanted.

Then they were stepping back to cast, the floor clearing.

Nott had his chin over Hermione’s shoulder as he hauled her back to where the rest of them stood. He was grinning, a dark glint in his eye.

Neville’s face felt heavy as he looked back to the duel.

“Fair fight,” called Nott.

Neville eyed Nott. This duel would be over if Neville and Charlie stepped in for Ron—Nott knew that. But why would a herbologist step in for an auror? Ron was a war hero with combat training—he didn’t need a friend or his older brother to save him.

Malfoy was spitting out stingers, Ron forced to protego. Malfoy had just killed Flint dueling. But stingers weren’t fatal.

Malfoy stepped into Ron’s stinger, absorbing it with narrowed eyes.

Nott was holding Hermione back. Pansy was gripping his arm. She was intent on Malfoy, muttering encouragement. Neville watched her. This was Malfoy’s Parkinson.

Malfoy pressed forward with another bombardment.

Ron was maintaining his position.

Then Neville felt his whole face harden as Malfoy lashed out with a vicious diffindo.

This was how they had killed Greyback. This was how Malfoy had killed Flint. Torn to ribbons, Greengrass had said.

Ron had deflected but he was bleeding.

Next to Neville, Charlie shifted his weight.

Partygoers were scrambling, casting shields as spells ricocheted.

Aurors were moving through the crowd.

“Expelliarmus!” shouted Ron, and Malfoy’s wand flew toward him.

This should be the end of it.

But no—Malfoy had huffed out a wandless langlock. He was charging Ron—

He swiped Ron’s wand arm aside and punched him in the jaw—

A punch to the gut—

Someone was screaming—

Malfoy threw Ron to the ground—

He was roaring in pain as Ron cast at close range—

Petrify him, Ron.

Malfoy was kicking Ron, platinum hair flying, as Ron hexed him repeatedly, his voice hoarse—

Charlie’s hands were on his hips. He was shaking his head.

Neville took a deep breath.

Get up, Ron. Incarcerous him.

Malfoy dropped, snarling, onto Ron, punching him in the face—

Ron threw aside his wand to swing wildly at his head—

Malfoy punched Ron, his knuckles bloody—

Neville sighed out all the air in his lungs as his perfect mole tried to kill Ron Weasley—auror, son, soon-to-be-father, Harry Potter’s best mate, and the most popular member of the Golden Trio—in a ballroom full of witnesses, with his bare hands.

This stupid fucking shithead.

Malfoy had come to him and whinged and moaned, and Neville had let himself believe this could work. He’d based everything on Malfoy getting him certain key pieces of information. Now Malfoy had spiraled out of control, lost the plot.

He spends all his time at Avery’s drinking or fighting—

They’re saying he went spare over Bellatrix—

Malfoy threatened her—

Malfoy said we wouldn’t do anything about it—

Draco cut him to ribbons—

He’d got away with that diffindo. The fight had been over. Now Neville could see the aurors closing in.

Neville’s jaw was set. He could feel himself glaring. The tightness in his chest was turning into something else—

He could kill Malfoy for this, but he wouldn’t get the chance. Malfoy would be in a holding cell, and Neville would be standing with his dick in his hand when Avery’s plan went off. Avery would kill Shacklebolt and take the Ministry and they’d fight another war because Malfoy couldn’t keep his eye on the snitch. Couldn’t stop antagonizing his own contacts and trying to get sent to Azkaban. The anger was hot in Neville’s chest. He could feel it hardening. A bomb, ready to explode.

Ron’s fist connected, rocking Malfoy’s head back—

Good. Neville needed this fight to end. Neville looked to Charlie. Charlie chucked his chin. Yeah, that’s enough.

“Granger!” Nott was lunging for her—she’d slipped his hold.

She’d raised her wand—

For fuck’s sake.

The spell hit her—

Her head went loose on her neck—

Malfoy’s face jerked toward her—

Malfoy had stopped fighting—

She crumpled to the floor—

Malfoy screamed it, his voice breaking: “HERMIONE.”

Ron punched him square in the head.

Malfoy went down.

Ron slumped to the floor.

The aurors were on them—

Neville’s chest was so tight it felt like he wasn’t breathing.

Nott was arguing with the auror who’d stupefied Hermione, his hands reaching out as the man pushed him back. “She’s with me, mate. Misunderstanding, mate. Let me get her. I’ll take her home!”

Neville had Pansy by the bicep, pulling her to him—

Charlie was already to Ron—

Malfoy was pushing up, his face bloody and swelling, his chin lifted as he looked for Hermione—

He was staring at her, collapsed on the floor, as they jerked him to his feet.

An auror began to levitate her—

Her head hanging limp on her neck—

Neville felt a plunging nausea—

Malfoy’s eyes were wide and unwavering. His jaw set. They were wrenching his wrists behind his back but his eyes never left her.

Nott was muttering “fuck fuck fuck” as he ran his hands through his hair. “I bollocksed it.”

Charlie was crouched at Ron’s shoulder, his hand at his head—

Blood was running down Malfoy’s temple. His eyes were haunted as they tugged him toward an apparition point. He’d turned his head to watch Hermione over his shoulder as he was marched away.

Charlie was back, telling Nott, “They’re taking him to the fourth floor—”

“I have to go with Granger. I have to wait for her to be released.” Nott ducked his head. His eyes were locked on Charlie’s face. “Change your mind about me?”

Charlie cocked his chin. Nott was a few inches taller. He looked up at Nott, his expression serious, but he only said, “It’s fine, sweetheart. It was a fair fight.”

Nott nodded quickly, his lips compressed.

Charlie’s fingertips were spread on Nott’s stomach. “I’ll see you next time,” he said.

Nott nodded again, and then they were going their separate ways—Charlie joining the knot of aurors taking Ron to the healers and Nott chasing after the aurors who had taken Hermione.

Neville looked down at Pansy. Her expression was haughty—she knew he was displeased. “I’m taking you home,” he said. “Then I’m coming back to talk to Bill and George.”

She looked down. Not quite sulky.

Neville didn’t tell her it was fine. Malfoy couldn’t just keep his head down, and Nott and Pansy had been egging him on when he’d needed to lose this fight. Neville had accepted she was attached to Malfoy. He knew how the snakes were. Malfoy was responsible for his own actions.

But Neville was too angry to be around her right now.

Chapter Text

SATURDAY MAY 2, 1998

She smelled like dark magic. Like sulfur and blood and rotting teeth. Mixed with the acrid scent of his own burned hair. Neville had squatted down and lifted with his legs and hefted her up. He’d do it—he’d be the one to carry her.

Wood had tapped Neville with his wand, and Neville had felt the sensation of a raw egg breaking on his head, the cold albumen dripping down his body. He’d looked down and seen himself blend into the debris surrounding them. Neville thought it almost wasn’t necessary—everything was soot and grime and rubble now. He gazed around the Great Hall and he couldn’t focus. Or he latched onto one detail and couldn’t see anything else. Like the broken Ravenclaw earring by his foot. Painted metal. The wing cracked. Something one of the younger girls would wear.

Wood had let Neville get in position and take hold and then he’d disillusioned her too. Was it better this way, not seeing her face? Or was it worse—because now Neville focused on the feel of her. He’d crouched low and then he’d been shaking his head, her hair tickling his chin. Her skirts were heavy—voluminous and greasy—but her torso felt fragile under the tight lacings. Bird bones, Neville had thought. Then: I don’t want to think about this. He didn’t want to think about her body.

Neville was randy all the time—all the boys were, whether they bragged about how much they wanked or not. There was porn in the boys’ lav, the bedrooms smelled like spunk, McLaggen was always naked and snapping towels in the baths. The straight boys joked about fucking each other while the gay boys kept it to themselves.

Gran hadn’t been one for hugs—Neville had mostly only had physical contact with the other boys, especially when they were younger. Ron had grown up with brothers in close quarters—he’d had no sense of personal space at all when they’d started Hogwarts. He’d forever been throwing his arm round Harry’s neck or leaning in over his shoulder, squabbling over wizard cards or swapping sweets. He’d bump into Neville without noticing, leave his arm against Neville’s at the table. Seamus had been the same—backslapping and roughhousing. Neville could see Harry startle sometimes—they were both a bit odd about being touched.

Neville wanted to touch girls but girls didn’t want to touch him. (Seamus and Dean were gay and they’d both got further.) Hermione had grabbed his wrist when he’d got a spell wrong. Ginny had kissed his cheek after he’d danced with her at the Yule Ball—his hands on her waist, lifting her up. He’d hefted Hermione over his shoulder in the Department of Mysteries—but she’d been unconscious.

Then they’d been plotting to break into the headmaster’s office, and Luna had lingered after Ginny had gone. She’d put her hand on Neville’s arm and gazed up at him, unblinking, and said, “Neville, would you like to kiss me now?” And he’d done it—his blood up from their rebellion—too fast to let himself think about what a bad kisser he’d be. Neville still hadn’t undressed a girl. He’d never had sex. He’d only seen the pictures in the magazines and touched Luna’s breasts through her bra, his hand up her shirt.

Now Neville was wrestling with Bellatrix’s skirts, clutching her body up against his own, lifting her like a bride. He had his arm under her knees. His hand was on her ribcage, his fingertips against the swell of her breast. He didn’t want these intrusive thoughts about her breasts and her cunt, the fact of their existence—he didn’t.

Neville took a breath, and his nose was full of sulfur and rot and the smell of unwashed hair. His gorge rose, and he gagged.

Wood’s head was on a swivel. “Right,” he said. “There’s nothing for it, then.”

FRIDAY OCTOBER 31, 2003

Neville was back at St. Mungo’s, on the fourth floor, his feet taking him to his mother’s room. It was fine, Neville decided. He needed to find the Weasleys, but he’d look in on her first.

Neville got to her door and eased it open. Her lamp was turned down low. He could see, in its faint glow, that she was asleep. Neville exhaled, and the exhaustion washed over him. He felt, suddenly, like he could cry.

He wouldn’t. The tension in his chest, the ache in his throat—he swallowed it down, even as the sadness stayed with him. But he was always sad—he was used to that. (Seamus saying, Aye, you’ve been less of a mopey cunt lately.)

Neville slipped inside the room and sat in his mother’s guest chair and watched her breathe. He’d used to watch her sleep and imagine what it would be like if she woke up and spoke to him—like nothing had happened. If she woke up and was his mother again.

He’d taken Pansy home before he’d come back. He’d kept a hand on her and she’d kept her chin up and they hadn’t spoken on the way to the floos. They’d stepped out onto the black and white checkerboard marble, and he’d walked her up to the bedroom.

Neville had been looking forward to fucking her in her little dress made of discs. He’d been going to tell her to take off her knickers and get on all fours for him. He’d had plans. But then Ron couldn’t stop stirring the cauldron. And Hermione couldn’t let him say his piece and go. And Malfoy couldn’t think beyond measuring his own dick. And Pansy had to give Neville that glimpse of his least favorite version of her.

Neville had had plans. (Pansy saying, What I really need is for everyone to do what I say.) Malfoy was going to tell him when Avery’s revivalists were gathering, and Neville was going to take care of them before they killed Shacklebolt and took the Ministry and rallied the country’s supremacists to them. He wasn’t going to let it all happen again—the death squads killing people like Hannah’s mother and Susan’s aunt and uncle and cousins, the kidnapping and rape and torture, the press pretending it was just a routine change in administration, everyone living in fear that they’d be targeted next.

Now Avery didn’t trust Malfoy and Malfoy was in a holding cell and all of Neville’s plans had gone to hell.

Neville’s chest was tight as he watched his mother breathe. She looked older without her expressions animating her face. Her hair needed to be washed. Harry’s mother had died protecting the Chosen One. Alice had been tortured for information she didn’t have and had left behind a disappointment.

Neville wasn’t the Chosen One. He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t good or necessary or irreplaceable. But he’d told himself a story. A story in which his doing the dirty work would make up for that. A story in which he stopped a war and that made his mother’s sacrifice less pointless.

Neville knew it wasn’t so.

He could never do enough to make up for what had happened to her.

No matter what he did, it didn’t make a difference.

People did what they were going to do.

The anger and sadness and fear and shame washed through him. He was failing. He was failing at this. The feelings never went away.

Neville could hear Susan shouting. He’d found Ron’s room—it was just ahead.

Neville was striding down the fourth-floor corridor, still in his tuxedo. All his sadness and anger and frustration—he’d shoved it into a ball at the base of his throat. He’d like to be shouting, too, and punching a wall. But he had control of himself.

“But why was he even there?” It was Susan. “He was meant to be at the Department—”

Neville couldn’t hear what was said.

“We left because he’d been called back!”

Neville had neared—he thought it was Molly talking.

“Enough with Hermione!” yelled Susan.

Bill, Percy, Charlie, and George spilled out of the room, and the door slammed shut behind them.

Neville raised his eyebrows as he came to a stop amid the ginger men.

“We’ve been booted,” said George. “Girl-talk.”

“Is Ginny in there?” asked Neville.

George shook his head. “Mum says she needs her rest. It’s only us that can be rousted out of bed—”

“You weren’t asleep,” said Bill, eyeing George’s windowpane suit.

“Nah,” laughed George. “I wasn’t.”

“I was,” said Percy dryly. He was in a jumper and pyjamas.

“How’s Ron?” asked Neville.

“He’ll live,” said Bill.

“I would’ve stepped in if I’d thought he wouldn’t,” said Charlie.

“Let him get a good kicking, though, didn’t you?”

“It was a fair fight. He was holding his own—”

“Till Malfoy actually started kicking,” said George. “Healer said that’s when the broken ribs happened—”

“How bad is it?” asked Neville.

“Dad’s getting the full report,” said George. “So far we’ve heard broken ribs, collapsed lung, ruptured spleen—”

“I’ve had worse from blowback,” said Bill. “It’s the spleen that hurts.”

Charlie grimaced. “I hate broken ribs.”

“What about you, Perce? Is it the papercuts or the eyestrain that gets ya?” asked George.

“Can you hear me if I tell you to eat a bag of dicks?” asked Percy.

“Twat? Come again?” George had cupped his missing ear. “Speaking of—” He was giving Charlie a suggestive look.

“You still shagging Malfoy’s boy?” asked Bill.

“He’s my boy now,” said Charlie, looking between them.

“Oh ho!” said George. “Shall we tell Mum—”

“No,” groaned the remaining Weasley brothers.

“It could be a distraction!”

Neville could hear Susan crying. Could see the strain on the Weasleys’ faces.

“He going to act up if we break Malfoy’s ribs?” asked Bill.

Charlie shrugged. “He knows how it is.”

“What are we going to do without Malfoy?” asked Neville. “He’s lost the plot.”

“Yeah, what was this about?” asked Bill. “Ron saying the marriage should be revoked?”

“Let me get this straight,” said George, mouth quirked. “Malfoy went spare because Ron bought his cover?”

“That’s the short of it,” said Neville. “He’s also killed Flint and hacked off Avery.”

“Well, shit,” said George.

“Send the mercs back to Argentina,” said Bill. “You’re going to have to keep watch.”

“We don’t need Malfoy for everything,” said George, looking levelly at Neville.

Neville asked, “You still have that car?”

SATURDAY NOVEMBER 1, 2003

Neville was dreaming.

He was carrying Pansy.

She wasn’t helping.

He’d snapped at her, and now she was playing dead. Her head hung limp. Her arms weren’t round his neck. “Talk to me,” he said.

But she wouldn’t.

He could feel the frustration—a suffocating pressure in his chest—but also a sickening twist of fear. He’d done this. He’d ruined it.

He gave her a little shake, and he stumbled—what he got for that. There were branches down. He hadn’t been paying attention to his footing. It was muddy. It was getting muddier the further he went. He could hear the water lapping.

His feet were heavy—his shoes encased in mud. He was wearing the shiny dragonskin oxfords with the leather soles. All wrong for the terrain. The mud was getting wetter. Boggy. Sucking at his shoes as he lifted his feet. The mud on his shoes was building up—

His foot was stuck.

His arms were tired. His back hurt.

He gripped Pansy tighter, jostling her as he jerked his foot free—

It pulled out of the shoe—

He staggered forward into cold, wet mud—

He was up to his ankle.

The cold mud was seeping through his thin sock.

It was hardening around him.

Trees were down just ahead. A big tree—blocking the way forward.

Neville stood and stared at it and heaved a sigh. He needed a plan. How was he going to get over it without dropping Pansy? He couldn’t put her down here. She’d sink into the mud, and he’d never get her out. He looked down at her but her face had rolled away from him when he’d shaken her.

He looked up and the hedge maze was on the other side of the tree. Children were running into the entrance—two little girls, their hair in short French bobs.

Neville drew in a breath, ready to call out. What would he say? Wait.

Wait for me.

But he was stuck on the other side of the tree.

They ran into the maze, and the yew branches closed behind them. Sealing them in.

Neville was cold and his back was sore and his knee hurt and he’d fucked up his ankle. It felt late—after nine when he should have been up at six. He’d slept through the dawn chorus, then. He pulled the throw tighter around his shoulders. He’d done a shit job of making it a blanket in the wee hours.

“Neville’s on our sofa,” called Dean. He’d lit the fire.

Then Seamus was standing over him in a singlet and pyjama bottoms, his hands on his hips.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Dean.

“Get away from there,” said Seamus. “I’ll do it.”

He turned and Neville could see the lions facing each other on either side of a sword—the Finnigan crest—tattooed on his shoulder. It was on all the distillery labels.

Neville sat up and stretched out his leg as Seamus fussed with the hob. The sofa was too short for him, and he hadn’t extended it when he’d broken in. (He hadn’t really broken in—the wards allowed for him.) He was bare-chested, in his pants. His mud-spattered tuxedo and shoes were in a pile by the door. He’d never hear the end of it if he got mud on Seamus’s floor.

“Is that mud on me floor?” said Seamus.

“Don’t mind him,” said Dean as he walked back down the hall.

“Aye, mind me,” said Seamus. “And mind me floors.”

Neville sank down, his head rested on the back of the sofa, and stared at the still portraits of Seamus and Dean hung over the stone mantle. Semi-abstract—recognizably them but stylized. They looked over like they’d each caught the other’s eye in the same instant—in their separate frames but connected by this moment.

Seamus was cooking breakfast—Neville could smell bacon and sausage and black pudding and eggs. The room was warming up. Neville sat and concentrated on an episkey for his ankle.

“You coming to the table in your pants?” asked Seamus.

“Thinking about it,” said Neville. He left the throw on the sofa and got up to go stand over his clothes. He plucked his wand out of his shoe and started to scourgify everything. He’d got spoiled, living with Fennel and Saffron. He put on the socks and trousers and shirt. Dean was back in a jumper. Seamus was giving him a plate without tomatoes. Setting down a plate with larger portions for Neville. Neville slumped into a chair and took hold of a mug of tea. They let him eat while they talked about the weekly shop and Dean’s painting.

Then Dean was up and moving about and back with his coat on. “I’m off to the studio,” he said as he dropped his hand onto Seamus’s shoulder. Neville watched as Seamus turned his head and kissed it. Dean bent over him then and they kissed and Dean left.

“What’s that look for, then?” said Seamus. “You here hiding from your missus?”

Neville’s eyes fell to the Patek Philippe on his wrist. He’d taken her up to the bedroom, and when he’d turned to go, she’d said, “Neville.”

He’d turned back, and she’d said, “Don’t take off your watch.”

He’d stepped to her, and she’d said, “Please.” She’d been looking up at him with those eyes.

He’d bent and kissed her cheek. “I won’t,” he’d promised. Then he’d walked out.

Now he said, “I suppose. How do couples who stay together resolve issues?”

“Fecked if I know,” said Seamus. “Me mam and da have been having the same fight for twenty years.”

“What about you and Dean?”

Seamus shrugged. “He goes to his studio till he’s done being cross with me.”

“What if you’re cross?” asked Neville.

“I’m never cross with anybody,” barked Seamus, and Neville laughed.

“I’ve parked a car at the distillery,” said Neville. “We can’t open the boot if you’ve got a tour going.”

“Jaysus,” said Seamus. “Is it under a stasis charm at least?”

Neville looked at him like what the fuck? “Course,” he said. Then he caught Seamus up on Flint and Malfoy and Ron and the rest of his night.

“And that’s what the Americans do,” said Seamus.

“That’s what Dionisio told me.”

Seamus nodded, thinking it through. “Aye, we can do it today. Go down to the docks.” Then tapping sounded at the window, and he was up, collecting the post.

Seamus gave the owl a treat and cranked the casement closed and came back scanning the paper in his hand. “Looks like you’re not the only one out and about,” he said, and he tossed the special edition onto the table.

Neville looked to the front page. The Wizengamot had met without notice. Of course. They’d done this before—to Harry. An old trick to strip the subject of support. A series of pictures showed who’d made the emergency session:

Pansy and Nott in the spectators’ gallery. Nott had his chin tilted up—the aloof aristocrat. Pansy’s expression was flat and assessing. And squeezed between them—in last night’s silk and lace—was Hermione. Neville could tell Pansy had done her makeup—her eyes were smudged dramatically, her lips were dark.

Neville could hear Nott muttering, Fuck fuck fuck. I bollocksed it. I have to wait for her to be released. He could hear Nott saying, She’s my best mate’s better half! I’m pledged in service. He could hear Nott saying, Longbottom, there’s not a thought in this pretty head.

There wasn’t. The snakes were blindly loyal. They’d egged Malfoy on in a stupid fight that could cost everything. And then Nott had waited for Hermione. All night, judging by the silk and lace. He’d owled Pansy, and she’d come. Neville remembered saying, I thought you didn’t like Hermione, and Pansy saying, I don’t. The snakes weren’t burdened by logic or consistency. Malfoy wanted her, so they’d claimed her. Neville looked at the picture and felt the tension in his chest. He needed to know Pansy’s loyalty wasn’t blind. He needed to know he came first.

In the next photo, Malfoy bowed low to kiss Hermione’s hand as she stood unsmiling. He looked up at her as though begging approval.

A third picture: Hermione clutched between Nott and Malfoy. The Slytherin men looked sharp-edged and smirking. She looked like a Malfoy wife. Malfoy had won.

Neville skimmed the text. After a contentious hearing, the Malfoy match had been confirmed. Neville wanted to know exactly how that had happened. How had Malfoy gone from a holding cell to besting Avery and the Wizengamot?

Neville looked at the Patek Philippe. It was already half past eleven.

“Leave the car,” he told Seamus. “It’s time for me to go home.”

Neville stepped out of the main floo onto the black and white checkerboard marble, and Fennel gasped when she saw his tuxedo.

“I’m sorry,” said Neville.

Fennel was tsking and shaking her head.

He thought she might secretly be pleased. (She liked being needed.)

Then Fennel told him Pansy was sitting down with the reporter, and Neville groaned. Witch Weekly. He was meant to interrupt at the five-minute mark.

Neville glanced down at his wrinkled, scourgified clothing. Pansy would flay him alive if he came in looking like he’d slept on a sofa in another country after twisting his ankle in the mud.

He could skip it.

Neville looked to Fennel—her expression equal parts encouragement and censure.

Neville took a deep breath.

Neville apparated to the en suite.

It was a fast, unsatisfying bath.

Neville was muttering the drying spell and finger-combing his hair as he stomped naked to the dressing room. What did one wear when popping in on a reporter in your own drawing room? What said successful—in a strong, silent way—on a Saturday afternoon?

Neville barreled into the room and stopped short. It was laid out. Shetland tweed, moleskin trousers, a shirt, a tie, a cashmere jumper, brogues. He’d have to thank Fennel. No—there was a note. It was Pansy’s perfumed stationery. Pansy’s handwriting: FOR WW! He felt a pang, right in the center of his chest. He hadn’t come home last night. He hadn’t been here as the interview neared. But she’d acted as though he’d keep his word.

Neville scrambled into the shirt and trousers and shoes, tied his tie and straightened the jumper under the jacket—his hands working on their own after so many years in a Hogwarts uniform. He made his way to the drawing room. It had taken him twenty minutes—he was at least fifteen minutes off her schedule. She’d think he wasn’t coming. He stood in the hallway and listened through the door while he let his breathing return to normal.

“—for your relationship with Draco Malfoy—”

“I certainly hope not,” snapped Pansy. “I would hope I’m best known for my charitable works—”

“Of course, dear. But you did date Mr. Malfoy for several—”

“I’m betrothed to Neville Longbottom.” Pansy’s tone was chiding. “Mr. Longbottom is the only man I should be linked to in your pages—”

“Though you were in the Wizengamot gallery this morning in support of Mr. Malfoy—”

“Mrs. Malfoy,” said Pansy. “I was there in support of Mrs. Malfoy. The Wizengamot has behaved in an unbelievably cruel and brutish fashion toward Hermione, and I hope the witches of this country are taking note of which of our so-called representatives it is who are eager to strip a woman of her husband and property without so much as asking her preference. Do you know they did not even call her to testify? Shocking, if you ask me.”

“Right. Right. And you believe Mrs. Malfoy would prefer—”

“Well, that’s just my point. I have no idea—because they didn’t ask her. I can only speak for myself when I say I would be apoplectic if anyone tried to rematch me. It would be an absolute rampage, I assure you.”

The reporter laughed obligingly. “What if you found out the match was made in error? There are reports of people receiving notices to that effect. If you discovered Mr. Longbottom wasn’t your soulmate—”

“Well, I don’t care about that!” Pansy laughed her society laugh, light and tinkling. “These silly labels are no substitute for how a man treats me, and I don’t need a Ministry owl to tell me that. Mr. Longbottom is the best thing to ever happen to me—”

Merlin, she was laying it on thick.

“—it really doesn’t matter how we met.”

“So you’re satisfied with your match—”

“Satisfied?” Pansy snorted. “Have you seen the man? That’s all muscle. And he didn’t leave the Sword of Gryffindor on the battlefield, if you know what I—”

“Oh my—”

“When I tell you it is the biggest—”

Neville shouldered open the door with a rap of his knuckles.

“Oh!” Pansy had straightened in her armchair. She was beaming. “Mr. Longbottom. I didn’t think you’d be able to make time—”

“I can’t stay,” said Neville. He was striding to her.

He’d reached her, and he bent to kiss her cheek.

She’d tilted her jaw toward him. He could sense the energy thrumming through her.

Neville turned to the reporter—a woman in a fuchsia skirt suit. Her eyes traveled up and down as she fought a knowing grin.

“I’m lucky to have Pansy,” said Neville gravely. “I’d be lost without her.”

His hand was at Pansy’s shoulder. He could feel her inhale as the woman’s mouth formed a little pout of approval. Neville turned back to Pansy and kissed her lips. “You’re full of it,” he murmured, his mouth against hers.

She was smiling up at him as he straightened. Then he nodded to the reporter and left.

As he pulled the door closed behind him, he heard Pansy sigh. “Dreamy, isn’t he? I need a firm hand, and he’s got it—”

Oh my Godric. Neville walked away, swearing under his breath. This was what he got for refusing to do interviews—Pansy, alone, making him sound like an arsehole.

(Pansy, looking surprised and happy and grateful when he came by for one minute.)

(Did he get off on it—just a little?)

(No. Of course not.)

Neville was bathed and dressed, and Fennel told him Pansy was having lunch with the reporter—Anise was serving seared scallops with a cucumber salad—so he went to Diagon.

He bought an unauthorized transcript of that morning’s Wizengamot hearing from a street boy standing in front of The Ministry Press and ducked into Brews & Stews—where the food was worse than the Leaky’s but there was no Macmillan glaring from behind the taps. Neville read the transcripts while making his way through a questionable shepherd’s pie and a firewhisky.

Malfoy’s testimony consisted of misdirection, obfuscation, and willful obstruction. He maintained he saw Hermione as a wartime enemy and refused to confirm the bond had been consummated. (While also managing to imply he was free use for Hermione. Neville had raised an eyebrow.) Finally, Neville reached the crux of the matter: It was suggested Hermione be rematched. Malfoy responded with the equivalent of a financial unforgiveable. Neville read this section of the transcript twice.

MALFOY: If you revoke the match, we will block Ministry access to Malfoy Manor. We will not cooperate with Ministry oathbreakers. We will sue to enforce the marital contract. We will sue for damages. We will move assets from Gringotts to a friendlier country. Malfoy LTD will reassess its contracts under my direction. My wife will stay right where she is. You gave her to me, gentlemen, and I’m not giving her back.

Neville remembered Harry saying Malfoy had contracts with half the Wizengamot and Ron saying, More than half. So, Neville had his answer: Malfoy had extorted them. He’d threatened to cancel millions in contracts while pulling millions from the bank. He’d done it openly, in front of the press. This was what keeping Hermione was worth to him. But he’d spoken in terms of legal claims. He’d postured as a wealthy man antagonistic toward a governing body interfering in his affairs. He’d never admitted to feelings for her.

It was slick, Neville thought. It allowed Hermione to remain blameless. It reminded Avery that he wanted use of Malfoy’s ships. Now Neville had to wait to see how badly. Would Avery continue to toss the quaffle with Malfoy or would he just kill him?

Neville’s eyes played over the other passage that had caught his attention.

ABBOTT REPRESENTATIVE: The Wizengamot granted appeals in cases in which both parties objected to the match.

Neville’s brow furrowed. Had the Abbott rep meant to make this known? Why would the Wizengamot grant appeals so readily if it believed in the Hat’s magic? And why would both parties object if the matches were ideal? Maybe the Hat was right but neither person knew it yet—they hadn’t become the people they needed to be. But Neville thought of Charlie, exempted because he lived abroad. Nott, exempted for criminal insanity. Everyone who was already married, whether to their soulmates or not. The Hat’s candidate pool had been limited even before Shacklebolt had gone in and made changes.

And he had made changes.

GREENGRASS REPRESENTATIVE: The ultimate purpose of the Ministry-mandated marriages is to produce our next generation.

There it was. Consummation had been stripped from the bill after Hermione had made some speeches to the Wizengamot, but they wanted children—reason enough for them to split up the queer couples.

Neville thought of Charlie and Nott, free to do what they liked. Who would the Hat have paired them with? Surely not each other. Charlie was eight years older. Nott was unstable. Neville had told Nott that Charlie liked him, and Nott had looked sullen and upset—already angry with himself for how he would ruin it. Neville couldn’t imagine Nott being faithful.

But maybe that wasn’t important to Charlie. Neville already knew Charlie didn’t want to get married.

Neville sighed and rubbed his face. This wasn’t about Nott and Charlie. It wasn’t even about him and Pansy. It was about everything Neville had put his faith in as a boy turning out to be corrupted. It was about finding out, over and over again, that there was no authority figure waiting to put things right. Neville knew why some of the boys had been drawn to Voldemort. He knew why Harry still couldn’t admit that Dumbledore hadn’t cared about him. This felt like arguing with Luna about the mind healers. Neville wanted to believe that, even if the system was corrupted, there was some truth underlying it—some truth that could settle everything if only he could reach it. But what if there wasn’t? What if everything was chance and manipulation? What if the Hat’s decisions were as good as arbitrary?

Neville was back on the fourth floor. He’d looked in on his mother. Now he was nearing Ron’s room. The corridor was quiet. He didn’t hear Susan crying.

The door was open.

Ron was asleep in the bed, looking peaky. Percy was sitting in the guest chair. He glanced up from the Prophet. He said, “You’ve just missed everyone.”

“What’s the craic?” asked Neville, stepping past the jamb.

“Ron’s expected to make a full recovery. Malfoy has been fined for assault.” Percy nodded toward the rubbish bin full of lilies. “Nott came by and brokered a truce with Bill and George.”

Neville lifted his chin, caught off guard. That was surprisingly unchaotic of Nott.

“Robards has finally relieved Harry on the Flint investigation, and he and Ginny are calling on Hermione. Ginny has vowed revenge on each and every one of us for letting her sleep through the night and most of the morning,” said Percy dispassionately, picking lint off his trousers. “Susan and Mum are angry at everyone for one reason or another. I think that’s everything.”

Neville glanced toward Ron. “I should let you know—”

Percy looked sharply up at him.

“Witch Weekly has heard about the notices saying matches were made in error. A reporter brought them up with Pansy.”

“Well—just between us, Longbottom—the Ministry has its hands full at the moment. There’ve been a slew of complaints from witches charging they were paired with gay men. And a spike in reports of marital rape. Which is, unfortunately, legal. But it’s put Shacklebolt on the back foot. Word is he had a direct hand in this morning’s hearing after he went down to the holding cells to let Malfoy hack him off in person. This fiasco’s been an utter distraction for him.” Percy’s dark look said Neville knew what the Minister should be focused on. “Now appeals are set to skyrocket—”

“Because of that bit in the hearing—”

“Caught that, did you? So did the press. Penelope expects level two to be a madhouse. A few unexplained notices will be the least of anyone’s worries.”

Neville nodded.

Neville’s eyes moved over the double Windsor in Percy’s tie, the crisp fold of his paper. He had a question for Percy. He wasn’t sure he should ask it.

Neville was in the dressing room. He’d struggled out of the clinging cashmere jumper and pulled the shirt off over his head.

“Do you know that woman had the nerve to say to me—”

His undershirt had rucked up.

“—what have you done to your back!”

Neville looked over his shoulder. She was standing just inside the doorway. He could see the bruise—livid purple and yellow now—in one of her mirrors. Splashed across his lumbar region.

She was bustling toward him. “Longbottom, let me see.”

He bowed his head and pulled off the undershirt.

“What happened?”

“Got hit with a chair,” he said.

“Was this in Ireland or Scotland or Azkaban?” she asked.

“You’ve been tracking me?” asked Neville.

“Only when I think of you,” she muttered. “Which is almost never.”

Neville snorted. He could feel her fingertips ghosting along his skin. He glanced over his shoulder, at the mirror. She was in a little black bouclé jacket and skirt with diagonal bands of black ribbon dotted with silver studs. The skirt was hemmed in lace. Her head was bent. He could see the bruise, dense under his shoulder blade, where his back had felt sore. She looked up and he faced forward. “It was Azkaban,” he said.

“Why didn’t you heal this?”

“It was a funny angle.” It was true. It was hard to do your own back.

“You should have had Finnigan—”

“He was busy.”

“He would’ve done it—you didn’t ask.”

Neville shrugged. She knew him.

She huffed. “Go get in bed—”

“I’m going out to the grounds—”

“Right now.” She spun on her heel and marched out.

Neville watched her over his shoulder.

Then he stripped off to his pants. He eyed the door to the en suite as he passed it. He could hear her rummaging in there. He pulled back the coverlet and top sheet.

On your stomach. C’mon, now.

He could remember that night of the last bomb. Being so angry when he got home to the empty flat. Angry, he thought now, or hurt.

He got into the bed, on his stomach. The pillow under his chest, arms up so his chin rested on his crossed wrists. The sheets were cool and clean. He was so tired. He exhaled and sank into the pillow. He’d got used to this bed—it was the nicest bed he’d ever slept in.

She was back. He felt the mattress shift with her weight. She was on her knees, unscrewing a lid—he could smell the earthy pine-sage scent of arnica. It was the Weasleys’ bruise removal paste.

(Arnica was poisonous if ingested in large quantities. Syrup of arnica was used in the extremely poisonous Potion No. 113. The facts ran through Neville’s mind automatically. He had used to sit in his fourposter at Hogwarts and memorize entries from One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi and the RHS Encyclopedia of Plants and Flowers. It was like practicing nonverbal magic. It pushed all the other thoughts from his head.)

He turned his head to watch her. She’d shed the tight jacket and skirt. She was wearing knickers and a short vest—fluttery pleats at the bottom, with lace across the breasts that matched the lace hem of the skirt.

Her hand was on his arse and then—she’d swung a leg over him. She was sitting astride him, treating his arse as her seat. It was only his pants and her thin silk knickers between them.

Did Neville like this? Yes.

She was casting—her enunciation crisp. He could feel the tingling burn of the episkey. She worked from his left shoulder down. She rocked on him a little as she got to his lower back—it was a funny angle.

He could tell her he was fine now, she didn’t need to do the paste. He didn’t. He lay still—his body so heavy—and let her touch him. She was rubbing the thick paste in with light, persistent fingertips. She was taking her time.

“Why were you in Barcelona in September?” she asked.

Neville smiled. “I was having dinner with a mercenary called Estrada. He’s a friend of mine.”

Pansy hummed, reserving judgment.

“He said if a woman’s bossy, it’s because she cares.”

“If a woman is bossy,” said Pansy, “it’s because no one listens to her until she yells.”

Neville laughed. “I listen to you,” he said quietly.

“Yes, you’re very good,” said Pansy.

Neville was smiling, his head bowed over his forearms while she worked on him. “What did that woman have the nerve to say to you?”

“What? Oh. She said I was best known for my past relationships—”

So Pansy wasn’t going to say that name in bed with him again. He’d trained her.

“—as if anyone would say that to a man.”

Probably, Neville thought, because the men she knew were best known for being war criminals.

“Which is why I have to make Parkbottom such a success that no one ever says that to me again.”

“Which you’re doing by promoting your relationship—”

“That’s different—no, it is. It’s lifestyle branding—”

Neville’s snort turned into a sigh as she took hold of him. She was leaned forward, squeezing his shoulders—he could feel the thin pleats of her vest dragging against him.

“And it’s Parkbottom so you’re part of it. I’m making you CEO—”

“Why would I be CEO of your cosmetics company?” Neville had lifted his head.

“Because everyone hates it whenever a woman does anything. But if I’m CIO of my husband’s company, then that’s fine. It’ll make sense when I add the apothecary and plant-based lines.”

Neville sighed and lowered his head. “Is this why you keep saying ridiculous things about me to the press?”

“I haven’t said a single word that’s not true!”

“It’s your job to keep me happy?” Neville’s eyebrows were raised.

“Isn’t it?”

“I have a firm hand?”

“Don’t you?” Her voice low and cajoling.

“I pick out my own clothes?”

Pansy snickered. “All right—that was a fib.”

Neville exhaled. Her thumbs were digging into his lats. He could feel her thighs on him. The heat of her cunt through her knickers.

“Are you still cross with me?” He could picture her face—her head tilted, her eyes downcast. Playing demure.

He let her rub his back. It was hard, holding onto the anger with her. He could do it with everyone else. But then she’d say something unexpected and make him laugh. She’d fuss over him, doing things he could do for himself. She’d act like she was proud of him. The look on her face when he’d come through the door. The way she’d said Mr. Longbottom is the only man I should be linked to—he hadn’t minded that.

Godric, it was embarrassing.

“Pansy,” he said, “it’s not your job to make me happy. I’m responsible for myself.”

“But I made you unhappy last night—”

“I was unhappy with the whole situation, and you didn’t help—”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Neville exhaled as she pushed her thumbs up his back on either side of his spine.

“What would make you happy?” she murmured. She’d tilted forward as her hands moved up him—he’d felt her weight shift where she straddled him.

He couldn’t think when she touched him like this. He could feel her through that thin silk. “Just keep doing that.”

She kept touching him. She was rubbing circles. She was leaned forward, her weight on her hands. She was rocking her hips. She was—

—pressing her clit against his coccyx.

She was grinding on him, just a little, as her thumbs pushed in below his shoulder blades.

Neville inhaled.

Did he . . .

Yes.

He was getting off on this.

He was thinking about her cunt, pressed against him. He was thinking about her wet knickers. He was hard.

She was moving more steadily, not hiding it.

Neville exhaled.

Her hands were harder on him now. The heels of her palms digging in. She made a breathy noise. Neville could picture her biting her lip.

She hitched up on him with a huff.

Neville had his eyes closed, focused on the feel of her, on the sounds. He liked this—not having to talk about it. Pansy knowing she could do this with him.

She was grinding harder. Her toes hooked between his legs. She hitched up on him again, and again.

Neville let it happen.

And then she whined and went still. She was rocking on him a little.

Neville waited it out.

Then she was draped on him, the lace across her breasts pressed to his shoulders, her mouth at his ear.

“Nev . . .”

He hummed. He could feel her breathing against him. Her weight on him was soothing. But, also, he had a raging hard on being pushed into the mattress. “Pansy, I’m going to have to turn over.”

She lay on him another minute and then she rolled off him, sighing.

He was adjusting even as he turned over. “Come here.”

She’d thrown a leg over him. She was leaned over him. He strained up and bit her breast—through the lace, his teeth finding her hard nipple. She squeaked and he hung on, and then he released her and she sat back, on his stomach. He could feel the damp heat of her cunt through her knickers. He wanted these clothes off. He lifted his hand to push his hair off his forehead.

“Nev, your arm—both of them.”

He looked over—his forearms were bruised. Padgett’s blow. The second chair.

She was pushing up for the paste.

“It’s fine.” He was reaching for her—he had her waist. “It’s fine—come here.”

His stomach was tensing under her as he lifted his chin. He wanted her mouth.

“You need—”

“I just need you. Come here.”

He pulled her to him and kissed her. His hands tight on her. He’d been out running around all night, all day. Now he was here in this bed with her and it all felt so good—the clean sheets, her straddling him, her breasts pressed against him, her mouth. The kiss had turned urgent. He needed her here, on top of him. He needed his cock in her.

She was kissing his neck. He was shivery with pleasure.

“I want to be the only one you want,” he murmured. Why was he saying this out loud? He was weak. So weak. He was tired.

“You are, Nev.” Breathy. Her mouth where his neck met his shoulder. “You’re the only one I want. You’re my man.”

She said it so easily. No hesitation. No doubt.

She’d lifted her head. Her mouth was at his ear. “Does that make you happy?” she whispered.

He sucked in a breath. He vanished his pants and her knickers.

She sat up and pulled the vest off over her head. She reached back and unhooked her bra. She tossed it aside, and then his eyes were traveling between her breasts and his cock as she reached down, lined him up, took him into her. He sighed as the sensation hit. She moved her mouth toward his. She was on her shins and forearms, crouched over him, her arse lifted. He had his knees up, his heels under him. He was straining forward to kiss her while he snapped his hips up, fucking her from the bottom.

He wasn’t tired anymore.

After, she sat on his stomach and rubbed the bruise paste onto his forearms. She hadn’t asked why he’d been at Azkaban. He’d have to tell her but he was putting it off. Right now, he just wanted to enjoy her.

“You have to take care of yourself,” she said. “I need you.”

He looked up to her face. He’d been watching her breasts jiggle. “What do you need me for?” he asked. Just to hear what she’d say.

The space between her eyebrows creased as she frowned. “Everything.”

Oh, Pansy.

Earlier, standing in Ron’s room on the fourth floor of St. Mungo’s, Neville had hesitated. And then he’d asked Percy his question.

“If I wanted to know,” he’d asked, “could Penelope find out whether my match was altered?”

Percy had considered it, canting his head. “If they haven’t thought to purge the records.”

Neville had nodded, studying his feet.

“You want to know?”

Neville had shrugged.

Now Neville hoped they’d purged the paperwork. Pansy was his. He knew how she treated him. He could only ruin things, asking how he’d got her.

Chapter Text

1999

Neville was in his room at the Hog’s Head, slightly pissed, his stomach off from a dodgy curry he’d eaten downstairs. He could remember a time when food had been comforting—when he’d been free to eat as much as he’d wanted in the Great Hall and it had all tasted good. That had ended seventh year, when he’d eaten every meal as quickly as possible, hunched over his plate, his eyes on Snape and the Carrows. Then the Room of Requirement, when food had become a problem that had to be solved. Feeding himself had been a chore ever since. He had to find food, he had to pay for it, and it all tasted greasy and stale after the elf cooking at Hogwarts. Too many nights now, Neville decided he would rather go to bed hungry than eat the Hog’s Head curry again.

Now he took a drag and exhaled cigarette smoke—it covered the sweet, musty scent of bedbugs in his room. His heart was racing with the nicotine. He turned the page, blinking, and ashed into a mostly empty beer bottle. He was trying to read one of the potions books Hermione had loaned him—because he was slightly pissed and he’d sit and think about Luna if he didn’t make himself concentrate on something else. He wasn’t learning anything as far as he could tell.

Neville swallowed against the queasy roll of his stomach and reread the section on Polyjuice potion.

SUNDAY NOVEMBER 2, 2003

Neville was back in his cottage, in the kitchen lab.

The notice from Azkaban had come first thing that morning, owled over while they were in the lesser dining room. Pansy had frowned over it as Neville had drunk his tea and watched her. “This says Padgett is near death,” she’d said. “They healed minor injuries after an altercation with a visitor—”

Neville had raised his eyebrows as she’d looked up at him.

“—but his condition has mysteriously worsened. I’m advised to come now if I wish to see him.”

Neville had nodded.

“Was this why you were at Azkaban?”

“Yes.”

She’d held up the parchment. “You did this for me?”

“No,” he’d said. “I did it for me. I was angry.”

Pansy had nodded, her lips compressed. She’d been looking at the letter again. She hadn’t met his eyes.

“What happened when you were twelve?” he’d asked.

She’d gone still. She’d been looking down at the table. Her jaw had flexed as she’d swallowed. “I set him on fire. It was more accidental than anything. I thought he was talking to me because I was so mature. And then he started—doing other things. And I got scared. And it happened. And then I got into trouble.”

“For setting him on fire.”

She’d nodded. “Mother said I was too old to be having outbursts. She’s always sided with him over me because that’s what she does—she sides with whichever man she thinks she can get the most out of because it’s men who have the power. And Father slapped me and said I should have let him—”

Neville had felt a burning hot anger flare to life in his chest.

“—that maybe I wasn’t already dried up like Mother—”

He’d taken a deep breath, his jaw set, as the heat had spread through him. It just got worse and worse.

“—and if he’d got me pregnant, he’d have married me and we’d have kept the estate in the family. But now he wouldn’t because I was a stupid little bitch who didn’t think of anyone but herself.”

Neville’s heart had been beating faster. The adrenaline had felt chemical. Nauseating. But he’d known he couldn’t let it out. He’d scare her and then she wouldn’t tell him things.

Pansy had said, “I told Draco—later. And he wanted to hurt Padgett but I told him we’d both get in trouble. And Father would disown me. And then I said I’d got him back anyway, and it didn’t matter. I told Draco to forget it.”

Neville had nodded, his lips twisting.

“I wanted someone else to know,” she’d said, “but I didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it now.”

“All right,” he’d said.

Neville had stood and picked up his chair and set it next to Pansy’s. He’d moved his plate. He’d sat down on her left and put his arm around her.

“I’m all right,” she’d said.

He’d said, “All right.” He’d sat and ate his breakfast with his arm around her, chewing mechanically.

Finally, she’d leaned against him.

Neville had kissed the crown of her head. “It wasn’t your fault,” he’d said.

“I should have—”

“You did what you could do.” It had been easy to know what to say—he’d said the things people hadn’t said to him.

They’d sat for a while with Pansy’s arms around him, her head against his chest, and then she’d gone to get dressed and he’d told Fennel he needed the portkey coordinates for Violet in Spain. He was still banned from Azkaban until the morning.

Now Neville held up a beaker of Polyjuice potion and dropped a hair into it.

It was a sea-view villa—Andalusian architecture with Imperial styling. Old fashioned compared to the ultra-modern mansion Neville could see through the palm trees lining the plot of land. He was still nauseated from the portkey when the elf opened the door to him.

“Longbottom,” he said when asked, and then he was being shown to a room set for tea. Violet Parkinson was waiting. She was dark-haired and extremely thin. Past her, through the glass-paned doors, Neville could see the whitewashed arches and potted yuccas and ferns of the tiled patio. There was a fountain in the center. Inside, Violet was perched on a walnut wood armchair upholstered in ecru. She was wearing white.

Neville was holding a mass of rhododendrons. “Mrs. Parkinson.”

“Mr. Longbottom.” She raised an eyebrow at the blooms. “Subtle.”

“If they make you nervous . . .” said Neville, his expression neutral.

She snorted and held out her hand. Her fingers were bony, the nails varnished a pale pink.

Neville stepped to her and bent slightly—his hands cupping the head of the bouquet, the ribbon-wrapped stems extended toward her. She took hold and brought up her other hand to steady the heavy greenery. She had small hands, like Pansy. She frowned and looked down at the ribbon. It was bias-cut habotai silk—the same color as the leaves.

Neville sat down in the armchair opposite her.

Violet called an elf. She passed over the rhododendrons, watching with a sharp eye as the elf hugged the large bouquet to her body. “Peligro,” muttered the elf, disapproving. She popped out with a dark look for Neville. Neville hadn’t caught her name—he’d been concentrating on the nonverbal numbing charm for Violet.

Now Violet rubbed her fingertips against her palms, absently scrubbing her hands together as she straightened in her seat. “I suppose you’re here to gloat,” she said,” after what you’ve done to poor Padgett. Pansy has treated me terribly.”

“I’m here to tell you to proceed with caution,” said Neville evenly.

“Yes, I grasped that,” snapped Violet, and Neville was reminded of Malfoy’s Parkinson. “Next time you can bring me orange lilies.”

“Next time won’t involve flowers,” said Neville, and he finited the numbing charm.

Violet gasped and shook her hands. “What is—”

“It’s a neurotoxin,” said Neville. “Absorbed through your skin. There's no cure.”

“What—” She was breathing faster, staring at her hands. They were trembling.

“It’s bound to you, which is why the elf didn’t react to the ribbon. She’ll probably still want to bin it.”

Violet went for her wand, but her hands weren’t working well—by now they’d feel like they were being burned with hot acid and electrocuted at the same time. The ribbon had been thoroughly saturated. Neville let her wrestle the wand free of her pocket, and then he expelliarmused it.

“You gold-digging, blood-traitor parasite.” She’d pressed her palms to her thighs. Her eyes were leaking tears. “You’re absolute filth. You’re disgusting. I wouldn’t wipe my shoe on you—”

“Violet,” said Neville quietly. He’d leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

She sucked in a breath. She was shaking.

“Violet, you’ve hurt Pansy for years—”

“What are you talking about. I’ve only ever looked out for her—”

“Now this is going to hurt you for years too.”

“I’ve only tried to prepare her—”

“Violet,” said Neville. “It’s going to be safest for you to stay away from Pansy.”

Her chest heaved.

“If you come after me,” said Neville, “I’ll do worse.”

Her face crumpled. “But why would you do this to me.”

Her eyes were trained on her palms as Neville stood to leave. She was gulping and shuddering—she was sobbing. Her upper lip was slick with mucus. Her cheeks ran with tears. Her distress was obvious. The pain in her spasming hands tangible. She looked so helpless like this.

Fragile.

Tragic.

It might have tugged at Neville’s heartstrings—if he hadn’t read her letters and seen Pansy cry first.

“I’ve never done anything to you.” It was a high-pitched wail.

Neville glanced to the doorways. The elves weren’t coming on their own—they must not be fond of her. He had a feeling Violet was a survivor, though. She’d work out how to numb the parts that hurt. She was no doubt well-practiced at it.

Violet was screaming for her man.

Neville tossed her wand onto the armchair next to him.

He reached into his pocket—

She lunged for the wand—

He touched his fingertip to the return portkey—

—and winked out of the room with a sickening tug on his navel.

Then he was back on his property.

Neville slowly breathed in the cool air. His stomach was unsettled. His heart beating hard. He sighed and began to walk back to the greenhouse, surveying the fields as he scourgified his hands.

Neville didn’t particularly like conflict, even when he orchestrated it. Violet had got the news about Padgett—he could have just brought her the rhododendrons. They symbolized caution, danger, riches. The message was clear enough.

But Neville had a policy of reminding people not to fuck with him, and now that policy extended to Pansy.

2000

Neville was in Seamus’s tasting room at the distillery. Light streamed down from the skylights high above, past the exposed beams and the wall of whiskey barrels, past the chandelier made of bottles.

Katie and Alicia looked up from the distressed leather sofa as Neville held out take-away containers of curry over rice. “Thanks, mate,” said Alicia.

Seamus was sitting down with his own, setting Neville’s on the coffee table. Neville tossed down the serviettes and took the other club chair. He was watching them as he picked up his.

“This from the new place?” asked Katie.

Neville nodded.

“You see the paper?” asked Alicia around a mouthful.

Seamus said, “Malfoy?”

“That’s right.” She was chuckling. “You see his neck? Before he pulled up the hood? They actually did it—they tattooed him. He looked like shit.”

“This their mild?” Katie’s brow was furrowed.

Alicia said, “How soon till he’s hooked up with Flint and Bole—”

“Not till he has his vault key.”

Alicia snorted. Then coughed.

Katie looked to Seamus. “Does yours taste like anything?”

Seamus pulled a face, chewing. “Wee bit bland.”

“Is it?” said Neville. His was—he’d ordered everything extra-mild.

Alicia sniffed. “Mine’s fine.”  She blinked and put hers down to blow her nose on a serviette. Her eyes looked watery. She coughed again.

Seamus turned to Neville. “Am I eating food dosed with Spinnet’s hair, then?”

“Neville!” yelled Katie.

“I can’t test poison!” said Neville. “It’s the capsaicin from chili peppers—”

“And Spinnet’s hair!”

“It’s in the Polyjuice base, not the food—”

“Uch.” Seamus and Katie had dropped their take-away containers onto the reclaimed wood.

Alicia took another bite. “Could’ve gone hotter.”

“No more lunch meetings,” said Katie. “I’m off food for good.”

“Don’t get too skinny,” said Alicia, eyeing her breasts.

SUNDAY NOVEMBER 2, 2003

Neville took Pansy’s nipple into his mouth. She’d been reading in bed but now he was slouched against the pillows and she was straddling him on her knees. He’d eyed her throughout dinner after coming home to find her in her parents’ wing, but she seemed determined not to wallow. She planned to start renovations in earnest after the wedding, she’d told him, and she’d begun making her way through a thick book on plant-based nutrition. She’d brought it to bed and read sentences out loud to him, asking what he thought, and he’d felt the warmth seep through him. He was a sucker for that—he couldn’t help it. He’d been propped on his elbow, kissing her shoulder—wondering if she wanted him to stop—when she’d looked over at him and he’d looked up at her, eyebrows raised, and she’d inhaled and said, “Stay right there.”

Now she was braced against the headboard and he didn’t have to worry about his weight on her. He could concentrate on tonguing the hard bud of her nipple. He was palming the dense flesh at her hips, squeezing. He licked and sucked as her nipple got harder and harder.

He was thinking, despite himself, about the master suites.

Neville had been right to go through the rooms when he had.

Rhodes had been in Azkaban for years. The elves had cleaned his rooms diligently all this time. Neville had had to make an effort that night. He’d been through Rhodes’s closets and wardrobes. He’d gone through Rhodes’s bedding. He’d finally found what he was looking for in Violet’s rooms, loose in the bottom of an old jewelry box. It was a square glass locket on a goblin-wrought silver chain. It was etched with an R and held a lock of hair. It was dangerous, to give a witch your hair. It put you at her mercy. This was an extraordinarily romantic gesture, probably made when Rhodes was courting Violet. Neville had stood at her bureau and turned the locket over between his scarred fingers, wondering whether Rhodes had had real feelings for Violet—or had thought he had. Only for the locket to lay forgotten with the trinkets Violet had left behind. Neville had pocketed it and gone through Violet’s dressing room until he’d found a hair on a fur coat.

Now Pansy had emptied those rooms.

Pansy pulled back and he sucked harder. He didn’t want to let her go. Finally, the nipple popped free. It was tight and pink and wet, glistening with his saliva. He’d done that. He drew a breath.

Pansy palmed the nape of his neck, shifted, guided her other breast into his mouth. Neville latched onto the nipple and sucked.

“You went to see Mother,” said Pansy.

Neville released her nipple. He mouthed it, his tongue moving over it. He tilted his head and kissed the swell of her breast. “Tell me if she sends you another letter. I don’t like her upsetting you.”

Pansy’s fingers played through his hair. “You told her not to write me?”

“I told her to leave you alone.”

Pansy hummed but didn’t object. Neville wasn’t going to say more until he was asked a direct question.

“And I have a demand,” he said. He kissed her breast, his nose nuzzled into her. Waiting to see how she’d take this.

“A demand,” murmured Pansy.

“Yes,” said Neville. “Don’t live apart from me. The master suites—I want a shared bedroom.”

“Hmm,” said Pansy. “What does your friend say about men who are bossy?”

Neville laughed. He was smiling against her. He opened his mouth and dragged his teeth along her breast. He bit. “That we like what we like—”

“Oh,” said Pansy, patronizing. “In that case . . .”

Neville’s blood was up. His cock was straining against his pants. But, after that morning, he wanted her to set the pace. He pushed down from the headboard, between her thighs. “Make me happy,” he said, “and sit on my face.”

“Well,” said Pansy. She gazed down at him. Brushed the hair back from his forehead. “That is my job.”

“And it’s mine to take care of you,” said Neville, looking up at her. Godric, he wished he could.

2002

Neville was on the overnight ferry between Stockholm and Helsinki, with Dionisio. They had an interior cabin—no windows, and bunkbeds that folded down from the wall. It was so small Neville could stand in the middle and touch either side with his palms. He was too tall for either bunk. But he suspected they were the only ones thinking of sleeping—the muggles were gambling in the casino and queued to buy duty-free liquor.

“Change of plans,” Dionisio had said when Neville had met him at the outdoor café in Stockholm. “Now we’re meeting our contact in the harbor, first thing. They’ll take us to the others.”

They’d decided to buy passage on the ferry rather than find both a portkey vendor and a hotel. Now Neville resigned himself to a miserable night as he sat on the bottom bunk and accepted the bottle Dionisio was holding out to him.

Dionisio scratched at his patchy beard as Neville took a drink. He was wearing combat trousers and a battered leather jacket, black beads at his wrist, his hair curling over his collar. Neville had shrugged off his own leather and shearing coat and left it folded over the healer’s satchel full of poison and Polyjuice beside him.

In the end, he’d had to go to George.

Collateral damage had always bothered Neville. It’d been in the Hog’s Head, reading by the weak light of the smudged lamp, that he’d first wondered about Polyjuice. The leeches in the potion sucked the essence out of one person and into another. The lacewing flies and knotgrass intertwined and bound the two. Could he bind a toxin to a person’s essence so that only this person would be poisoned? Neville had had to master Polyjuice first, and then he’d kept turning himself into Seamus in the kitchen lab before he’d even got to the capsaicin. (It was extremely disconcerting to lose nine inches in a minute.) He’d gone to the Wheezes workshop—George drinking a beer and gazing up at the beams as he considered the underlying theory.

“The Polyjuice has to believe the poison has ingested it,” George had said. “Then like calls to like.”

They’d worked it out. Neville refused to share the process with buyers. He wanted to be hired on himself for the prices he named—including contacts and information—with a cut going to George.

Now he asked Dionisio, “Where were you before this?”

“Pakistan,” said Dionisio. “Looking for bin Laden.”

Neville nodded.

“You know the three-letter agencies love the occult. They’ll hire anyone as a consultant. But they’ll only pay a finder’s fee. They want the military to be the ones to take him out—they have to be able to advertise it.”

They were both slumped against the wall. Dionisio looked exhausted.

“They want credit,” said Neville.

“That and they have to put an end to the rumors. If he lives on in legend, it’s no good to them,” said Dionisio. “But there’s a catch.”

Dionisio rolled his head toward Neville, eyebrows raised.

Neville raised his own eyebrows.

“No body and his followers will say he’s still alive. Body and his followers will turn his grave into a shrine.”

Neville considered this. “So what’s the solution?”

“Well, they have a plan.” Dionisio snorted. “But the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”

“Is that something muggle or are there actually mice involved?” asked Neville, and then Dionisio laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes and Neville passed the bottle back to him, smiling.

“No,” said Dionisio, “they’re not feeding him to mice.”

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 2003

The tight, airless squeeze of apparition and then Neville was on the rocks outside Azkaban. He’d been here now—he didn’t need to hire a side-along. The wet wind blew back his cloak, and Neville strode toward the prison.

Neville was glad Pansy hadn’t punished herself by visiting Padgett. He’d asked, the morning before. He’d said, “Do you want to see him?” as she’d leaned against him with her arm across his stomach.

“No,” she’d said, her voice small, and Neville had said, “I think that’s the right decision.” He’d been prepared to go with her, to wait outside on the rocks if they wouldn’t let him in. But he hadn’t thought any good would come of Pansy facing Padgett one last time. Neville had heard of closure from a mind healer, and he thought it was bollocks.

Now the sea crashed, the white spume spraying up, and Neville’s face felt cold and wet as the wind howled in his ears. He reached the entrance and slipped inside, drawing his wand for the weigher. The guard looked up at him.

“Parkinson’s dead,” said the man.

“I’m here to see the other one,” said Neville.

Neville unclasped his cloak. “I’ll keep the gloves,” he said as he passed it over. “It’s cold in here.”

The man made a derisive noise, and Neville raised an eyebrow as he looked toward the brazier.

Fifteen minutes later, Neville was following another guard through a damp, narrow passage and then up tight, winding stairs lit by smoking torches. The steps were worn down in the center and too shallow to fit Neville’s shoe. Neville climbed upward on the balls of his feet, careful not to trip. The chill seeped through the walls.

Another passageway and then the guard was unlocking the cast-iron door. They hadn’t offered Neville a table or chairs this time. Neville nodded to the guard, ducked inside, and then Rhodes Parkinson was charging him as the door swung shut. Neville sucked in a breath and tensed his abs, wincing as Rhodes punched him in the gut.

Neville cuffed Rhodes’s head and shoved him back, and then he was the one swinging.

Rhodes was sturdy, even at seventy. He’d survived two wizarding wars. He stayed on his feet. But Neville had the longer reach. And he wanted the fight. He didn’t cast a wandless arresto momentum or try to petrify the other man. He just punched Rhodes in the face, wearing gloves that had been soaked in neurotoxin Neville had tergeoed from gympie gympie nettles and bonded with Rhodes’s essence from the hair he’d given Violet.

Rhodes grunted as his head rocked back, and Neville vanished the rough-spun prison shirt so the gloves made contact when he hit Rhodes in the ribs. Then he covered up, twisting his hips, as Rhodes got in a glancing blow.

The first time Neville had been knocked unconscious, it had been fighting Crabbe and Goyle when he was eleven. He’d been taken to hospital and scolded by Madam Pomphrey and McGonagall, as though he’d gone into it intending to sustain a brain injury. But they’d fixed him up and the bullies had learned—no need to hold back when abrasions were easily episkeyed and bones could be regrown. Better to break someone’s wrist and claim you’d tripped him by accident than to lose house points using a hex you weren’t meant to know.

Boarding school had been rough.

Seamus had handled it better. He’d been small and mean—trained to box by his muggle father. The stereotype was that muggles were violent, and Seamus had leaned into it when it suited him. Neville hadn’t had much experience with muggles. It seemed to him that wizards were more violent because they knew most any injury could be healed straight away and that muggles were scarier because they couldn’t heal the injuries and hurt people anyway. There was a reason Neville didn’t mess about with the muggle crime firms.

Now Neville pushed Rhodes back with a weaker right hook and battered his ribs with his left. Rhodes was solid and he was angry but he wasn’t fast. Neville was taking some hits but he was getting more in. Rhodes was wheezing, his nose leaking blood. Neville could see the red patches ready to bruise purple on his torso, the inflammation from the gympie gympie toxin taking hold. There was no way for Neville to lose this fight. As soon as he'd hit Rhodes, he’d won.

Neville had him up against the uneven stone wall. He could remember Seamus saying, “No, you eejit—like this,” his hand on Neville’s hip. He could remember horsing around with Balmaceda as Balmaceda told Charlie about the fight club. Now Neville snapped his hips around as he drove his fist into Rhodes—they exhaled as one. He let Rhodes double over and shoved him down. Rhodes’s eyes were squinted, his hand up to shield his face. Neville was breathing hard. He could feel the sweat rolling down his back, prickling along his hairline. He looked down at the man. Could he see Pansy in him? He could—that was the worst part of it.

Neville leaned forward and snatched the blanket off the stone shelf where Rhodes slept. He bent over his would-be father-in-law. The man was panting, his breath ragged. His nose was bloody. His eye was swelling. Every place Neville had landed a punch would feel burned by hot acid and electrocuted for years.

Neville was panting too as he said, “I didn’t kill Padgett ‘cause I want your estate. I killed Padgett ‘cause you chose him over Pansy. You should’ve chosen her.”

Rhodes stared stupidly at him. Did he even remember what he’d said to her that day?

Neville straightened and threw the blanket down on him. “When the pain gets to be too much, you can hang yourself.”

Neville turned for the door.

“You’re a blood traitor,” rasped Rhodes. “You’re—”

“Fuck you,” said Neville. “You’re the one who betrayed your own blood. Guard!” He banged on the door. He turned back to eye Rhodes slumped on the gritty stone floor. “I’m done here.”

The cell door jerked open with a squeal. “Guvnor wants to see you,” said the guard as soon as Neville stepped through.

Neville stood in the passageway, hands on his hips, catching his breath, as the man glanced in and locked the door. His heart was still pounding. He could feel it in his throat. He could smell the brine. The cold sea air was welcome now.

Then he was following the man to the stairs and up, up, up. Neville’s eyes flicked between the shallow steps and the guard’s back as he peeled off the gloves. Wax crumbled and fell to his feet as he turned the gloves inside out. He tucked them into his back pocket, and then he scourgified his hands over and over as he climbed the stairs. Neville believed in magic. But he’d wanted one more prophylactic between him and the toxin from the suicide plant.

The warden’s office was at the top. Pale light streamed in through the arrowslit windows. Neville could imagine the dementors gliding past—the rays of light cutting out as they did. He could imagine the room flickering. It had been a decade since dementors had been sent to Hogwarts. Already his youngest students thought it was an old wives’ tale. Neville didn’t think he could make them understand without a pensieve—what it had been like, and how it had only got worse. He didn’t think anyone could understand seventh year unless they’d been there—hiding inside the school so the adults didn’t kill them. Maybe that was why he was never the first to reach out to Harry or Hermione or Ron. He’d never been part of their inner circle and, after seventh year, they hadn’t been part of his.

The warden didn’t get up from behind his desk. Neville sat down on the other side of it.

“Padgett Parkinson is dead,” said the warden.

Neville looked at him. He was a thick man with heavy jowls. Neville’s calves were aching from the stairs. He imagined this man must have legs of steel. Or a lift.

“You were the last person to see Parkinson,” said the warden. “He was injured during your visit. What happened?”

“He hit me with a chair,” said Neville.

“And his injuries—”

“A man has a right to defend himself,” said Neville. He didn’t add that, in this case, that man had been Padgett.

“Today you’re back to see Rhodes.”

Neville didn’t say anything.

“Is he going to die now that you’ve been here?”

“Not by my hand,” said Neville.

The man stared at Neville, and Neville stared back.

Neville was in the lesser dining room, a fire going, eating dinner with Pansy and—for his sins—Theodore Nott. Neville’s legs were sore. He’d already slathered his arms and torso in bruise removal paste. He could still smell the arnica.

Now Nott tipped his wineglass toward Pansy. “Did you see the Skeeter piece saying Draco and I are in a love triangle with Granger? I’m really quite pleased with it. The photographer got my good side—”

“Your left?”

“My front,” said Nott. “Dray was actually jealous—”

“No.” Pansy’s eyes were wide.

Nott was nodding. “Got snippy about me taking her to mine while he was in jail. Just because she slept with me—”

Neville raised an eyebrow and took a bite of his duck a l’orange.

“Said I should’ve brought her here.”

“Well, we do have more than one bed,” said Pansy. “Though I’d have been a poor hostess. I’d popped out to Millie’s—”

Neville looked sidelong at her. So she hadn’t sat at home, waiting up, then.

“She was trying to raise Marcus, what with it being Samhain.”

“I hope to curse him one last time.”

“Yes, actually,” said Pansy, and then she and Nott were sniggering. “It didn’t work, but who doesn’t love a summoning circle.”

“Who else was at this circle jerk?”

“Davis, Daphne, Adrian—”

“Did anyone get naked?”

“No, it was all very staid.”

“Mine, too. Granger didn’t give me so much as a cuddle.”

“Then we’d be doing a summoning circle for you.”

“You don’t think Granger can keep a secret?”

“Granger, yes,” said Pansy.

“Speaking of,” said Nott. He’d pivoted to Neville. Neville could feel Nott’s foot against his under the table. “You didn’t tell me Bill and George were in on it.”

“I didn’t tell you anything,” said Neville dryly. “I can keep my mouth shut.”

“I can’t,” said Nott. He was making aggressive eye contact. “Not unless someone sticks something in it.”

Neville locked eyes with him.

A slow grin spread across Nott’s face. “But, alas!” He batted his lashes. “I am spoken for.” He turned to Pansy. “Did I tell you what Charlie said?”

“Several times—”

“He said he’s not sharing his things—”

“You owled—”

“He meant me.” He was tilting his shoulders back and forth.

Pansy hummed over her wineglass.

“That means we’re exclusive.”

Pansy nodded.

“I’m not allowed to fuck around anymore.”

“That’s nice, dear.”

“So I can’t unicorn for you—”

“Theo, I’m also not allowed to fuck around. Mr. Longbottom is quite strict—”

“I’m right here,” said Neville.

“Ew, I don’t want to sleep with you, Pans—”

“Then it’s not unicorning, is it? You just want to sleep with my man—”

“Thank you for offering, but I’m taken.”

Then Pansy and Nott were snickering and smacking at each other while Neville ate more duck.

Nott turned to Neville. “Draco met with Avery and now he needs to speak with you.”

Neville realized this was the purpose of Nott’s visit. He was Malfoy’s owl.

“It’s bad news, whatever it is,” said Nott. He took a drink. He hadn’t eaten any food that Neville had seen. “He’s asked me to look after Granger.” Nott’s expression was serious.

Neville nodded. So Malfoy knew he’d hacked off Avery. “Is he stable, after this business with Flint?”

Nott canted his head from side to side, considering. “Marcus bothered him. But he and Granger have made up. He’ll keep it together for her.”

Neville blinked at this straightforward answer. He said, “Thank you for negotiating the truce with the Weasleys.”

Nott grinned and his foot withdrew abruptly as he sat up. “You’re welcome,” he purred. He ducked his head as his eyes played over Neville. He looked to Pansy. “I can’t wait for you two to be bonded.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” said Pansy.

Nott’s eyes shifted to Neville, and he winked. “You’re welcome,” he murmured, almost to himself.

TUESDAY NOVEMBER 4, 2003

Neville was in the Kestrels box with Alicia and Katie. Kenmare was playing Ballycastle in an afternoon match. The crowd was sparse—mostly season ticket holders. Neville was distracted, anticipating his meeting with Malfoy.

Alicia said, “You want to go skeet shooting? I’ve got an independent elf who will load and pull.”

Neville considered it. “Wands or shotguns?”

She cocked her chin, eyed him. “For you . . . wands.”

He smiled. “All right, then.” She knew he thought guns were too loud. He didn’t like all the lead dust on his skin.

“Good shout.” She’d slapped his knee.

“Oh, if it’s wands, I’ll come.” Katie had looked up from her cheese and onion crisps.

“What’s the craic with Avery?” asked Alicia. “When do I find out who the mole is?”

“With any luck, never,” said Neville. “They’re meant to give us a time and place and not be there.”

She’d narrowed her eyes at him. “So they’ll be at your wedding?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Neville. “It might not be the same day.”

She hmphed. Neville didn’t want her anywhere near Malfoy. She’d hated him even before it’d come out that he’d nearly killed Katie, and Neville didn’t trust her not to shoot him and call it an accident.

Neville said, “I’m sorry you and Seamus won’t be there if it is—”

“Save it.” She was waving him off. “This will be much more fun—”

“I like weddings!” said Katie.

“Well, you have a date, don’t you?” said Alicia.

Neville ate his crisps and briefed Alicia and Katie on everything he knew and could share. It was nearly impossible to be overheard in the box.

Then a Kestrels chaser scored, and Alicia and Katie were cheering.

Neville was in a dark gastropub in Muggle London—all reclaimed mahogany and studded leather and brass pendant lighting. Malfoy had beat him here and taken a bar-height table in the rear that put Neville’s back to the room, which was enough to put Neville in a bad mood. Now Malfoy was telling him the revivalist leaders were gathering the day of the wedding with the promise of imminent action—exactly what Neville had been waiting to hear—and Avery wouldn’t give Malfoy the location. Malfoy had finagled an invitation in exchange for his ships transporting the exiles back to Britain, but he’d have to go in blind—one timed portkey taking him to an unknown site, a second portkey there taking him to the final destination. The portkeys were nontransferable—spelled to Malfoy’s blood.

Neville held back a sigh, waiting for Malfoy to tell him he wouldn’t walk into an obvious set-up. Malfoy looked nervy but put-together. His platinum hair was swept back from his forehead. His suit was tightly fitted, his white shirt crisp. The diamonds of his betrothal band glittered in the low light as he tapped his whiskey glass.

“Your people will have to track me once I’m there,” said Malfoy, “and enchant their portkeys expeditiously.”

What does your friend say about men who are bossy?

That they’re scared. Neville took in Malfoy’s tight jaw. The tension around his pale eyes.

“What time are the Avery portkeys?” asked Neville.

“16:20 and 16:25.”

“Sunset,” said Neville.

Malfoy shrugged, quick and jerky. It didn’t matter to him. Neville had checked his almanacs because it mattered to Pansy’s party planning.

“You’re committing to this additional risk?” Neville wanted to be clear. Or was Malfoy going to spiral out of control, no matter what he said?

“I don’t see that I have a choice,” said Malfoy. “My loyalties have committed me.”

Neville felt a tightness in his chest. His loyalties. “So you’re consistent.”

“To a fault,” said Malfoy. He met Neville’s stare—Neville would give him that.

The waitress approached, and Malfoy held out a muggle banknote. Neville watched but his lip didn’t curl. Malfoy LTD did business in the muggle world, Neville knew.

Malfoy turned back to Neville. The energy radiated off him. “If this goes south for me,” he said, “I want you to look after my wife.”

“Hermione never has to worry,” said Neville.

Neville didn’t fancy Hermione—he knew that now. He’d fancied an idea from childhood, when he’d fantasized that she would notice him and he’d become a different person. For years, he’d kept his distance rather than disrupt it. Then he’d listened to Malfoy at her birthday drinks—deep in the weeds on one of her policy positions—and he’d been bored. She’d raised her wand at St. Mungo’s, and he’d been disgusted. Hermione wasn’t an idea, she was a person. And Neville wasn’t that close to her. Still, he would always protect her if he could—he owed her that much.

Malfoy, on the other hand, was on his own if he fucked up.

Malfoy nodded as though Neville had said this last bit out loud.

“See George Weasley about a ward-proof tracker,” said Neville.

“Was planning on it,” said Malfoy.

“It’s a good thing Nott brokered the truce, then.” Neville said it just to needle him. Malfoy had to know Ron had every reason to have a problem with him, the way he acted in public. He had to know the Weasleys had every right to leave him up a tree without a broom.

Malfoy pursed his lips and exhaled as his eyes fell to the tabletop. A right sulky bastard.

“Has Saiph been in contact with you?” asked Neville.

“Who?” Malfoy had looked up—now his lip was curled.

Neville raised an eyebrow.

“Do you know how many people send me false claims, Longbottom? I haven’t opened a howler since 1998—I have a deaf grounds elf for that. Three-quarters of my post goes straight into the fireplace. If someone is saying he’s a Black—”

“I’ve seen the Grimmauld tapestry—”

“Then you know. He’s a charlatan. If he’s written me, I haven’t broken the seal—much less responded.”

Neville’s chin was cocked as he watched Malfoy. “He has a following among the boys.”

Malfoy snorted. “The boys have learned to be careful what they say to me.”

Malfoy had been convicted of torture for cruciating snatchers and being part of the retinues when Ollivander was tortured and Hermione disfigured. Neville wondered how many of Avery’s boys Malfoy had cruciated. He wondered—

“Did you take off Hermione’s ring without—”

“It was hurting her—”

Neville sat forward.

“Don’t fret. I was penalized,” hissed Malfoy.

“Do I need to sort you out—”

“No,” said Malfoy. “She’s safe with me. We’ve sorted it. It was hurting her, and now it’s not. Now she doesn’t need me.” He looked sick to his stomach.

Neville sat back. He could hear Nott saying, You know he loves it.

He could hear Malfoy screaming her name.

Neville watched as Malfoy’s expression went blank. He’d taken off the ring that made Hermione dependent on him. He’d asked Nott and Neville both to look out for her. Malfoy thought there was a good chance he’d be killed.

Neville’s own expression had gone neutral, though his heart was still beating hard. Part of him wished he’d killed Malfoy before any of this had begun. But part of him hoped Malfoy lived.

1997

The curse hit him and—

Neville fell back.

His head bounced, hard, on the stone floor.

His brain rocked inside his skull.

Neville blacked out.

When he came to, he could smell his own piss—

His nerve endings were on fire—

His muscles torqued and twisted—

He’d bit his tongue—the pain was sharp, so so bright and sharp like fresh blood—

His mouth was full of it—the pain and the blood—

He was convulsing—

The curse ripped through him like lightning. He was exploding with pain—

The agony broke—

He was panting—

He was swallowing his own blood—

His chest was heaving—

He was choking—

Neville rolled over—

He slung his head to the side and his body followed.

He lay on his face.

He pushed up to his hands and knees.

The tears were running down his cheeks—he hadn’t known he was crying.

Blood and spit were dripping from his mouth onto stone.

He lifted his head, and the drool ran down his chin.

He looked up at them and his eyes narrowed.

The anger flared up in him.

They’d done this to his mother.

His mother.

He wanted to kill them.

He was going to, yeah.

He was going to kill them.

They could kill him, he didn’t care.

But he was going to take them with him.

Neville got his feet underneath him—

He pushed up—

A stagger—up to standing—

His chest was heaving—

His mouth was full of blood—

He was staring at them—clustered together there. The Carrows sick with bloodlust. Snape disgusted.

Neville spat his blood onto the stone.

He threw his head back, loose on his neck.

He was breathing hard.

His tongue was swollen in his mouth, the pain a bright copper over the dull agony of his body.

Neville rolled his shoulders back, winced as his spine cracked.

Amycus’s mouth was twisting with pleasure. He was crossing toward Neville.

Neville staggered forward a step.

Amycus’s fingers were fidgeting on his wand—

He crept closer—

One more step—

Then Neville lunged for him, swinging—

Neville fell on him with his whole body weight—

Amycus stumbled back, his knee gave, they both went down—

Neville’s hand on Amycus’s neck—

His mouth was dripping blood onto Amycus’s face.

“I’m going to kill you,” rasped Neville. “I’m going to kill you all.”

Then Alecto flipendoed him and they cruciated him again.

Chapter Text

SATURDAY MAY 2, 1998

The sun had risen at 5:32, as the battle had ended. It was still morning, still chilly outside the castle. Neville tilted his head back and tried to breath in fresh air but even the faint breeze carried drifting smoke, and he couldn’t escape the smell of sulfur and his own burnt hair. He must reek. He felt itchy with sweat and grime, his clothes damp and clinging. He could hear the water lapping, and he wanted to walk straight into it. It would be freezing, but Neville wouldn’t mind being numb.

Ahead, through the thin trees, he could see Harry and Ron and Hermione. Neville looked to Wood—or the space he occupied. They were still disillusioned. Neville thought he could see the outline of Wood in the pale daylight but it was a slight distortion that would be easily overlooked. Did Neville want that—to be overlooked right now?

Neville’s arms were full of Bellatrix. It was too hard to levitate her here, amid the trees. He hadn’t put her down since the Great Hall. He kept stumbling on the fallen branches and uneven terrain. He couldn’t see his footing through her heavy skirts. His right forearm ached with the weight of them.

Now Harry and Hermione and Ron were picking their way toward him and Wood. They were smeared with dirt and ash and flecked with blood. Hermione’s curls were frizzy. Harry’s hair was spiky and disheveled. Ron kept glancing at them both.

Neville saw them and he felt a wash of shame and an anger that flared up in his core, and he knew he didn’t want to talk to them. He didn’t want to explain this or hear their thoughts. He didn’t—

He didn’t know quite what he was feeling.

When he’d stumbled upon them at the Hog’s Head, Neville had been so relieved. They were back! Here was Harry. And brilliant Hermione. And brave Ron. They’d fight together. It would be all right now. They could win.

And then Harry hadn’t fought—he’d sacrificed himself.

And Neville had had to decide—right then—that it didn’t matter that Harry was dead. It’d felt like betrayal—they were on their own after all. But they’d known that, hadn’t they? All of seventh year. They’d been left to fend for themselves.

And then Harry had come to life and defeated Voldemort—somehow. The spell had rebounded? Or it was down to the wand. Neville had seen it happen, but he wasn’t sure he understood. There’d been no one to explain it. The Great Hall had been chaos after, everyone crying over the dead and McGonagall and Shacklebolt each trying to wrest control of the scene. Neville couldn’t reckon whether Harry had done something only he knew how to do or it was more that he was the crux of events playing out. Maybe it didn’t matter.

Neville was glad Voldemort was dead. He was happy Harry and the others had returned. He’d seen Hermione fighting. He’d fought alongside Ron.

Part of him wanted Harry and Hermione and Ron to tell him he’d done a good job while they’d been gone.

And part of him . . .

Part of him was feeling proprietary. He and Luna and Ginny and Seamus and the others—this was their D.A. This was their Room of Requirement. This was their school and what they had done to survive it. And now that Harry and Ron and Hermione were back, Neville didn’t want to hear their judgments on what he could have done differently, their suggestions as to what he should do next. (And Hermione and Ron always had suggestions—never the same ones.) They’d been doing what they’d been doing. And he’d been here. He’d been here for all of it.

Now Harry and Hermione and Ron were nearing.

Neville’s head twitched toward Wood. He expected Wood to call out but Wood stayed silent. Neville could picture his thin lips pressed together.

Hermione and Ron were holding hands—but not looking at each other, as if they were pretending they didn’t know they were touching.

Neville stood still, breathing shallowly. Wood didn’t finite the charm.

Harry and Hermione and Ron were almost to them. Neville’s arms and back were sore. He clutched Bellatrix’s body tighter with his cramping fingers.

Suddenly Hermione stopped. She sucked in a breath. “I’m going back—I’m going to ward it.”

Ron was groaning. “We just agreed—”

Harry said, “McGonagall will—”

“But it’s open until—”

“It’s not open,” said Ron. “We reparoed—”

“Just let McGonagall see to him,” said Harry. “She won’t be a minute.”

Hermione sighed heavily.

And then Ron was tugging at her. “C’mon, I’m starving. Maybe the elves stayed in the kitchens.”

Hermione was frowning as they passed. Ron looked over, his nose wrinkling—but he turned back to her and kept going.

Neville was holding his breath. His heart was pounding. He was used to being overlooked. Used to Harry and Ron rooming with him but not inviting him along. Used to being at all the meetings but not trusted with the secret plan. Now he was the one keeping something from them.

But Wood was right—they didn’t know what was going to happen. They didn’t know who they’d missed.

It was only temporary.

And Neville just didn’t want to hear it—whatever it was they’d have to say.

Neville had been sent out to collect the dead. This was his job, and he was doing it.

Neville’s back hurt and his arms were tight and he stank and he felt dirty all over, like he would never get clean. He could feel the headache radiating up from his tensed shoulders. The unspent adrenaline twisted in him, making him nauseous.

All he did was things he didn’t want to do, because someone had to do them.

Neville was angry again.

WEDNESDAY NOVEMBER 5, 2003

Neville was in a field with Alicia and Katie and an elf named Horatio Nelson—who had, for a fee, brought the clay pigeons and a portable trap. The day was mild, without precipitation. The sky was clear. A perfect day for skeet shooting.

The elf slid two clay pigeons onto the metal arm of the trap, and when Alicia yelled, “Pull,” he ripped the cord and the arm whipped around and sent the pigeons soaring. They were safety orange against the blue sky. Neville tracked them as she picked them off, the left and then the right, with bombardas. You had to aim quickly with doubles. The clay discs blew apart, the debris falling to the ground.

“There’s been a change of plans,” said Neville. “It’s the day of the wedding but our mole will be there.”

Alicia looked over sharply. “How’s he going to signal us, so we don’t take him out?”

“Him?”

“C’mon, it’s a boys’ club.”

Neville couldn’t argue. He said, “He’ll meet you just before—to give you a tracker.”

“Just a minute, Mr. Nelson.” And then she was turning to Neville, hands on her hips. “A tracker because we don’t have a location?”

Neville glanced at the elf. At Katie’s raised eyebrows. She was keeping score, waiting to take on the winner. “We’ll get in George. Have a briefing.”

Alicia chewed this over. Her eyes narrowed. “And I’ll know who he is? I’ll recognize this bloke?”

Neville hummed assent. “Just don’t shoot him on sight.”

“Huh,” said Alicia. “Now I have a guess who it is.”

“There’s only one person you want to shoot on sight?”

“All right, maybe four or five—”

Neville cocked an eyebrow.

“But no, no—there’s a top candidate.”

“Well, we’ll find out if you’re right,” said Neville dryly. “In the meantime, I’m to pitch you both on becoming consultants—”

“Oh no,” said Alicia just as Katie said, “Oh?”

“To try lipstick colors. They can’t all be done to Pansy’s skin tone.”

“Ooh, I’m in,” said Katie. She was nodding at Alicia—who was scoffing.

“No! I don’t wear that shit—”

“Pansy says you have perfect neutral undertones,” said Neville.

“Oh?” Alicia’s shoulders rolled back. “Say more.”

Neville looked at her sidelong. “Apparently, there are warm, cool, and neutral undertones. Pansy says she has blue undertones, Katie has pink undertones, Hermione and Angelina have gold undertones, and you’re a perfect neutral.”

“Is Angelina in?” asked Katie.

“Erm—”

“We could get the team back together!” said Katie, jostling Alicia. “It would be fun!”

“Standing around a lab?”

“Angelina can bring George, and we’ll play two-on-two after.”

Alicia pulled a face. “Maybe. George would like the lab.”

“And then we can be brand ambassadors in exchange for free lippy—”

“I don’t want any lippy at all,” said Alicia.

“But I do,” said Katie. “C’mon.”

Neville let them bicker. He’d done his part—he’d asked.

They shot skeet for another two hours and then paid Horatio Nelson and accioed the debris. The pigeons came in boxes printed with warnings that the clay was toxic to hogs.

“She said that—brand ambassador? That’s exactly what I want.” Pansy was behind her black lacquered desk. Her lips pursed. “Johnson will never agree, though. I said some very stupid things in school.”

Neville didn’t contradict her.

Pansy had slid open a desk drawer. She was slipping stationery and an envelope from it. “I’ll write her a letter. Apologize.”

“So she’ll do what you want?”

Pansy sighed as she gazed toward her bookshelves. “That would be nice. But no.” She straightened and looked down at the monogrammed page. “I’ll just apologize. Leave it at that,” she muttered. “She’ll be at the wedding, so it’s as good a time as any.”

Her expression was grim as she took up her pen.

Neville didn’t tell her it was all right. But when she came to join him on the sofa, he put his arm around her.

THURSDAY NOVEMBER 6, 2003

“Seating arrangements,” said Pansy, the ballpoint of her pen at the bullet point labeled SEATING ARRANGEMENTS. They were in the lesser dining room. “Lovegood and Ginny Potter still get on, yes? With Nott and Weasley being a new relationship, I’m trying not to seat them with people they’ve had sex with.”

“How does that work with Nott?”

“Well, it’s difficult. I’ve decided Draco doesn’t count. But Nott and Weasley have both shagged Lovegood—”

“And Charlie has probably shagged Rolf,” said Neville, buttering his toast.

Pansy looked up. “Oh?”

“I’m guessing,” said Neville. “Rolf has visited Charlie at the preserve, and they would both be game.”

“All right,” said Pansy, making a note. “I’m seating the Scamanders with the Potters, across the courtyard from the Malfoys and the Nott Weasleys. The Scamanders can seduce the Potters instead.”

Neville snorted. Now he was picturing them all naked. Grand.

“Nott is feeling territorial about his Weasley. It’s really quite sweet.”

Neville remembered Nott wriggling with pleasure as he said, I’m spoken for. I’m taken. I’m not allowed.Bragging. Maybe Nott would be faithful after all. At least until the novelty wore off.

“So you know Rolf well enough to know he and Weasley are compatible,” said Pansy lightly, avoiding eye contact.

“Are you—”

“A messy bitch who lives for gossip?” Her eyes darted up as she fought a grin.

Neville huffed a laugh. He stared down at his toast. He’d set her up to ask, hadn’t he? He said, “Luna started seeing Rolf before I broke it off.” He risked a look at Pansy. “I knew about it.”

Pansy nodded. “You opened the relationship.”

Neville took a breath. “It was open. Which is how I found out that doesn’t suit me. I agreed to some things I didn’t like—”

Pansy’s expression had gone blandly neutral.

Neville paused. “I did some things I shouldn’t have done.”

Pansy shrugged slightly. “We’ve all been there.”

“We have?” said Neville slowly.

“I have,” said Pansy with a grimace. “And don’t ask. I’m not going to tell you.”

His heart kicked up. “Were you hurt? After your cousin?” His eyes searched her face. There were rumors about the Slytherin parties. He’d got the impression Pansy had slept with muggle men after her probation had ended. He hadn’t dwelled on it but—

“Not intentionally,” said Pansy. “I mean, yes, we all got hurt. I was young and stupid. I did stupid things. There’s no one to get revenge on—”

“Are you saying that because—”

“No. It was a bad time, that’s all. I’m only saying we’ve all done things we wouldn’t do again.”

Neville’s chin lifted as he inhaled. “Right,” he said. “I wouldn’t do it again.” Why did it feel easier, thinking of it that way? Not something he had to go back and change, just something he wouldn’t do again.

“There you go,” said Pansy, as if that settled it.

Neville frowned. Pansy wasn’t Hannah. She wouldn’t judge him for the same things. (Why had he worried about that?) The problem was he knew he’d acted badly with Rolf—the problem was him judging himself. Neville sighed. He owed Rolf an apology.

“I’ve hurt people intentionally, though,” said Neville. “It doesn’t bother you—that I’m a bad person?”

“What’s wrong with being a bad person?” asked Pansy, sharpish. “Everyone’s bad at being a person sometimes. Why shouldn’t you get a turn?”

Right, thought Neville. It was a sore subject for her. When they’d been sorted, the Hat had told them how they were. The Ravenclaws told themselves they were smart. The Puffs told themselves they were kind. The Gryffindors told themselves they were good. Then, when their actions didn’t match up, they felt defensive and ashamed. Maybe the snakes felt defensive and ashamed all the time after being told they were amoral schemers.

Yes, we all got hurt.

FRIDAY NOVEMBER 7, 2003

Neville was back at Hogwarts. His portkeyed lorry was parked behind the greenhouse. He was inside, with his Advanced Herbology students. He was sitting on the edge of one of the planting tables, his long legs crossed at the ankles in front of him as he reminded the class that their final essays were due at the end of the period. He was collecting them early because he’d be gone on honeymoon. (He knew better than to say the honeymoon bit.)

One of the seventh year Hufflepuff girls was batting her lashes at him. Neville was well aware that her tie was loosened and the top buttons of her shirt undone. She had on bright nail varnish and wore a sparkly clip in her hair.

Neville looked at her and all he could see was Lavender Brown.

Neville could still remember Seamus coming back to their room, blurting out, “Fecking hell, Brown gave me a handjob.” The rest of them had been agog. Neville had been too shocked to be jealous. She’d dated Seamus and Ron and Smith and, briefly, Macmillan. She’d had something on-and-off with McLaggan, though he wouldn’t acknowledge her in public. The Slytherins had all spread it around that Higgs had slept with her—Neville had seen her crying in the Great Hall. Everyone had always made her out to be such a slut. Now Neville thought she’d probably just got attention for being pretty and had thought that was how she’d get someone to love her. I was young and stupid. I did stupid things. People hadn’t liked her because she’d tried too hard. They’d all wanted to be loved—but to be so obvious about it had been unforgiveable.

Neville loaded his students’ fanged peonies onto the lorry. It was muddy back here, behind the greenhouse. The castle loomed over him as he worked. When he looked up at it, he could still see the scorch marks on the stone.

His eyes traveled to the Astronomy Tower.

Neville remembered fighting Death Eaters in the corridor after Malfoy had let them into the school. The sudden terror when existence winked out with the darkness powder. His heart racing when it cleared and they were under attack. He still didn’t know exactly what had hit him. He’d blacked out from the concussion and the pain of his broken leg.

Malfoy had fled—only interested in saving his own skin.

Neville had still been dizzy at Dumbledore’s funeral, trying not to lean too heavily on Luna while she helped him to his seat.

Neville turned away from the castle, gazed out over the grounds. The Black Lake lapped at its shores. Dumbledore’s white tomb was visible through the trees.

Neville was sitting on the black leather sofa in Pansy’s office, his sleeves rolled up, mentally preparing himself to mark the herbology essays. If he did it now and got it over with, he wouldn’t have to do it later. This obligation to Hogwarts wouldn’t be hanging over his head.

Pansy was behind her glossy black desk, opening the evening post. “Disgraceful,” she muttered. “Who RSVP’d this late?”

She was slitting open a silver envelope. Neville was twirling the distillery-branded pen between his fingers, telling himself he could do tedious things that brought up bad memories.

Then Pansy said, “Draco has sent you goodies for your project.”

Neville looked up, surprised. She was holding out a sheaf of documents. He accioed them over, and they arrived in a rustling flurry.

“I hope he knows these do not count as wedding gifts,” said Pansy, twisting in her seat to fuss with her files.

Neville had straightened the pages and was scanning the one on top. He sat up as his heart rate sped up. “So he’s serious,” he murmured.

Pansy snorted. “He doesn’t do things by halves.”

Neville flipped to the second page. The lists looked exhaustive. He could sense Pansy getting up, skirting her desk, but he was busy skimming.

“Neville,” she said carefully as she sat down beside him. She was smoothing out the fabric of her dress, which was full of seams and pleats. “Is Draco going to be safe?”

Neville’s mind was spinning. He shook his head, still looking at the pages. “He could get hurt. He’ll be the way in.”

“And he could be killed?”

“Yes,” said Neville.

“And he knows this?”

“Yes.” Neville needed to talk to Seamus and George. They needed to call in the mercs.

“I just worry,” she said.

Neville raised his head and saw her fretful expression. “I know,” he told her.

Pansy sighed and looked away.

Neville took a breath. Pansy was sitting next to him, asking for his attention. He made himself set the documents aside, next to the stack of essays on the side table. “Pansy.”

She looked to him—those green selkie eyes wide and beseeching.

Neville felt the warmth flood his chest, the blood rushing to his cock. She looked so sad and needy. Irresistible.

She sighed again.

“Do you need a distraction?” he asked. He was unbuttoning his trousers.

“Yes.” She sucked her lower lip into her mouth. Pathetic. Neville was getting hard.

He’d give her something to do other than fret over her ex. He’d get these essays out of the way. He’d take up Malfoy’s documents later, when he could focus on them.

He unzipped. “Keep my cock warm while I mark these papers, and then I’ll take care of you.”

She nodded, watching his scarred fingers pull out his cock. He wasn’t fully erect.

“No hands,” he said.

She nodded.

“Do you need a sticking charm?”

“Yes,” she said, putting her hands behind her back.

He said the words and her hands were stuck fast. She looked calmer.

He stuck her ankles together too.

“Oh.” A breathy little inhale. Godric, he was just torturing himself here.

She swung her feet up onto the sofa, her back to him until she could twist around onto her side to face him. It was awkward. She was struggling a bit.

Neville almost reached out to help her—he stopped himself. This was meant to occupy her. And maybe—he shifted so she could lay her head on his thigh—maybe he needed to feel like she wanted this. Enough to make an effort. Maybe Neville’s chest was tight with his own maelstrom of emotions.

Malfoy would be the way in. Just like he’d been for Greyback and Yaxley and Rowle and Gibbon and the Carrows. Maybe Neville needed his own distraction—from watching Pansy worry over Malfoy while he remembered the betrayal of that night.

Pansy licked her lips and opened her mouth—waiting patiently—and Neville felt the back of his neck prickle.

He pushed his cock between her lips.

She moved her tongue lazily over him and sensation swept through him.

Neville exhaled, and she settled into place.

Merlin, it never got old. Pansy helpless in his lap. His cock in her mouth.

Neville forced himself to pick up an essay.

He skimmed over the opening paragraph. This student had not had a private tutor. It was evident in the uneven quillmanship. Neville was reading quickly—

Pansy’s tongue had gone a little too lazy. Neville glanced down to see her brow furrowed. She was still thinking.

Neville palmed her forehead, his thumb at the bridge of her nose, and stroked his thumb up, smoothing out the wrinkle between her eyebrows. Pansy sighed and sucked his cock. So many distractions—her mouth, her tongue, the feel of her hair, her skin where he petted her. This bloody essay. Neville blinked and lifted his hand from her to hold the paper against the arm of the sofa while he marked it.

He dropped it onto the side table, starting a new stack for marked papers, and picked up the next essay.

Pansy was sucking harder. He slid his fingers under the extra fold of fabric on this side of the dress to take hold of her breast. Dense and heavy and pliable. Soothing. Neville was gripping, squeezing absently as he read. He liked touching Pansy. Did he have full use of her—that phrase from the hearing transcript? She so rarely said no to him. It was important to him that she could, though. If she told him to stop, he did.

Pansy shifted her hips. Neville had a feeling she wanted to touch her clit.

Neville concentrated on the essay. He lifted his hand to mark it and pick up the next one, and she huffed air through her nose.

He found her nipple. He could feel it, hard, through the fabric of her dress and bra. He pinched and teased it while he read. Her tongue was moving with more intention. Pleasure was rolling through him.

He took a breath and picked up the next essay, rested his hand on her hip while he read. He needed to focus to get through these. He was skimming for key words and phrases at this point.

He lifted his hand. Pansy was squirming, probably desperate to touch her clit.

He reached out and flipped up the hem of her dress.

He lifted his hand to mark the paper, and Pansy lay limp with her head in his lap, his cock in her mouth, her knickers exposed. He could feel the tension—her willing him to touch her.

He picked up the next essay and—he caved. He worked his hand into her knickers, wedged between her thighs, his fingers rubbing across her clit. She made a sound in the back of her throat.

He should have held out longer. Now he’d have to do everything one-handed. But Pansy was so sweet and needy and helpless like this, and the urge to give her what she wanted was so strong—

He pressed more firmly on her clit. She squeezed her thighs on his hand, humming on his cock. Neville felt a flush of pleasure. She was moving her tongue on him. She was sucking enough to edge him but not enough to get him off.

It was more than distracting.

Neville worked through several essays as it built.

It was a problem.

“Merlin,” he muttered. His cock was throbbing.

He looked to the stack of essays.

He exhaled heavily.

He couldn’t concentrate.

He muttered, “Fuck it.”

He set his pen aside.

“Pansy, I’m going to prop you over the back of the sofa and fuck the hell out of you.”

The noise she made sounded grateful—a pure boost to his ego—and then she was pulling back from his cock, looking up at him.

Fuck.

She rolled onto her elbow behind her. She winced. It looked like this was painful. He sat up and got hold of her, helped her up to sitting. She couldn’t get her knees under her. She was tilting forward against the sofa. He was up and bodily moving her—there. She was on her knees, arse out, wrists stuck at her lower back, the side of her face resting on the sofa’s back.

Neville’s heart was racing. All she had to do was tell him to unstick her. But she didn’t. She played this out with him. Putting herself at his mercy. All she had to do was tell him to stop.

He pushed up her skirt. He vanished her knickers. He’d hear about that later, but it couldn’t be helped. He stared at her cunt as he stripped off.

Neville palmed her arse on either side. He lowered his head and licked her arsehole and she squeaked and squirmed. Irresistible. He tongued it more, circling, and lifted his head, concentrated on the lubrication charm, and slowly pushed the tip of his thumb into her. She exhaled, and he pushed his thumb further in. He held her there, his fingers interlocking with hers over wadded up fabric, and lubricated her cunt, lined himself up, pushed his cock into her. She whined and he reached around to her clit.

He had her wet and worked up. He kept her doubly penetrated, full of him, while he rubbed her slick clit. She was already making impatient noises and clenching on him. He rolled his hips a little, letting her feel him pushed against her. She huffed, and he kept at it.

“You like sucking my cock?” he asked, his voice low and neutral. He wasn’t taunting—he didn’t like that. He kept his hand moving on her.

“Mm-hm.” Breathy. He did like that.