Chapter Text
The Ministry building smelled like polished stone and quiet judgment.
Pansy Parkinson arrived exactly four minutes early.
Timeliness shows good intentions, does it not?
The waiting room was a boring neutral. Beige chairs. A low table with neatly stacked magazines no one actually read. A single ticking clock that was louder than necessary. Begging for attention.
Tick. Tick. Tock.
Pansy didn’t sit immediately.
She scanned first.
Door. Window. Distance between chairs. Exit path.
Then she sat.
Back straight. Ankles crossed. Hands folded in her lap.
A small ceramic dish sat on the table in front of her. Three smooth stones inside it.
Uneven.
She stared at them for a long moment.
Then, without thinking, she leaned forward and adjusted them. Not dramatically. Just enough. A fraction of an inch.
Yes.
There. Better.
“Ms. Parkinson?”
The voice wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sharp either. Just… there. Normal. Steady.
Pansy looked up.
Minnie Crane stood in the doorway.
Muggle, obviously. As mandated by the ministry. No wand. No robes. Just a dark green blouse, sleeves rolled, and the kind of posture that suggested she had never once felt the need to impress anyone.
Her eyes flicked to the ceramic dish. Then back to Pansy.
Pansy stood smoothly, chin lifting a fraction.
“Let’s get this over with.”
Minnie stepped aside. “After you.”
The office was worse.
Bookshelves. Real ones. Worn spines. A chair that looked like it been sit in enough for form its own opinions. A desk that was clean but not obsessively so. A window that let in too much light.
And another fucking clock.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Pansy sat without being told.
Control the room before it controls you.
Minnie took the chair across from her, not behind the desk. No barrier.
She smelled faintly of lavender hand sanitizer and bad coffee.
Annoying.
Silence stretched.
Pansy let it.
She was very good at silence.
Sometimes.
Minnie glanced down briefly at a file, then closed it.
“Miss Pansy, I’m Minnie Crane.”
“I know who you are,” Pansy said coolly. “The Ministry made sure to include your credentials in the threat.”
A corner of Minnie’s mouth moved. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything.
“It’s not a threat.”
“It’s a threat being delivered politely.” Pansy corrected. “Comply or be punished.”
Another beat of silence.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Minnie leaned back slightly. “You rearranged the stones in the waiting room.”
Pansy didn’t even blink. “They were uneven.”
“They weren’t.”
There it was.
A hairline crack.
So small it barely registered, but it was there. A flicker behind Pansy’s eyes. A tightening in her fingers before she smoothed it away.
“I prefer things to be orderly,” Pansy said, voice steel. “Is that meant to be a diagnosis or are we just listing personality traits?”
“It’s an observation.”
“Congratulations. You have eyes.”
Minnie didn’t react. Didn’t rise to it.
She just watched.
Present.
Steady.
It was irritating.
Pansy shifted one leg over the other, more deliberate this time. “If this is where you ask me how I feel about the war, I’d prefer to skip ahead to whatever scripted reassurance you’re meant to provide so I can leave.”
“I’m not going to ask you that.”
That… wasn’t expected.
Pansy narrowed her eyes slightly. “No?”
“No.”
Silence again. Thicker this time.
The clock ticked louder.
Pansy exhaled through her nose. “Then what exactly is the point of this?”
Minnie tilted her head just slightly. “You tell me.”
“Excuse me? I didn’t choose to be here.”
“No,” Minnie agreed. “But you still showed up four minutes early.”
Pansy’s gaze snapped to her. “Punctuality isn’t anything to observe.”
“Are you sure?” Minnie asked calmly. “It’s a control.”
Control the room before it controls you.
Pansy smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “You’re very confident for someone who’s known me all of five minutes.”
“I don’t need to know you yet,” Minnie said. “I just need to notice what you do.”
Pansy leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees now, posture shifting from composed to predatory.
“And what do I do?” she asked softly.
Minnie met her gaze without hesitation. “You fix things that aren’t broken so you don’t have to look at what is.”
Silence.
Tick. Tick. Tock.
For a split second, something flickered across Pansy’s face. Gone almost immediately. Buried.
She leaned back again, crossing her arms. “You’re reaching.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Then we can ignore it.”
The lack of pushback was almost worse.
Pansy held in a huff while her fingers tapped once against her sleeve. Stilled.
“I don’t need therapy,” she said flatly.
“Not in the way you’re trying to control.”
“And what way is that?”
Minnie didn’t answer immediately.
She glanced at Pansy’s hands.
“Your fingers move when you’re agitated.”
Pansy went very still.
“They don’t.”
“They did.”
A pause.
“Just now.”
Pansy slowly uncrossed her arms, smoothing her sleeve like it had betrayed her.
“Again, you’re very fucking observant,” she said, tone sharpening.
“It is my job.”
“I think your job is to convince the Ministry I’m not going to hex anyone in a hallway,” Pansy said. “Which I’m not, for the record. Growth.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Or is it restraint?”
Pansy’s jaw tightened.
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s not.”
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The clock was starting to feel personal.
Pansy stood abruptly. “If this is going to be a semantic exercise, I have better things to do with my time.”
Minnie didn’t move.
“You can leave,” she said simply.
Pansy paused.
That wasn’t how this was supposed to go.
“You’re not going to stop me?”
“No.”
“You’re not going to report that I’m being uncooperative?”
“I’ll report that you attended.”
Another beat.
Pansy’s hand hovered near the door handle.
Then…
“Do you sleep?”
Her stomach twisted.
Pansy didn’t turn around. “Irrelevant.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Because people who don’t sleep tend to control small things more tightly.”
Pansy’s grip tightened on the handle.
Her tea.
Her books.
The stones.
“I sleep fine,” she said.
A lie.
Minnie nodded once. She knew the truth anyway.
“Alright.”
No challenge. No correction.
Just acceptance.
Pansy turned then, eyes sharp. Searching for the angle.
“There’s supposed to be a point to this,” she snarled. “Some grand realization. Some moment where I confess my sins and you tell me I’m still worthy of existing.”
“That’s not what I do.”
“Then what do you fucking do?” Pansy’s voice raised.
Minnie met her gaze, steady as ever.
“I sit here,” she said, “and wait for you to stop performing. Could be today, could be tomorrow, could be years from now.”
The words hit like a slap that stuns you for just a second.
Pansy stared at her.
Long. Hard.
Then she opened the door.
“I don’t perform.”
Minnie didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Pansy left to head back to her apartment.
The hallway felt colder.
Quieter.
Controlled.
But her fingers…
A small, restless tap against her palm as she walked away, like something inside her had shifted a hair out of place and refused to settle back.
Pansy Parkinson did not believe in fresh starts.
She believed in strategic relocations. Temporary hideouts. Places to lick wounds where no one knew her name, her history, or the way people’s eyes slid sideways when they recognized it.
This apartment complex was supposed to be that. Anonymous. Clean. Quiet. Managed by some bland, overly polite witch who smiled too hard and didn’t ask questions about why Pansy paid six months upfront.
The unit was… annoyingly nice.
Exposed brick. Tall windows. Warm light. The end unit at the end of the hall, tucked away like a secret. Her bedroom wall pressed up against the neighboring flat.
She’d unpacked in stages. Clothes first. Then books. Then the kettle, because priorities.
She hadn’t met a single neighbor yet. Which was ideal. Solitude was the goal.
The first night passed quietly.
The second night did not.
Sleep would not come for her.
This is when her bad luck finally arrived at the new apartment with her.
It began subtly, just a low, rhythmic thud against the shared wall, like someone had backed into the headboard. Then a soft feminine laugh, bright and teasing, melting into a breathy sigh. Pansy ignored it at first, turning another page in her book with deliberate focus, the tip of her finger running along the rim of her mug.
But the sounds didn’t stop. They built.
A low, masculine groan, rough around the edges, sounding pleased. The unmistakable creak of a bedframe meeting plaster with intent. Then the deliberate slap of skin on skin, slow at first, almost lazy, as if they had all night and intended to use every second of it.
Pansy’s tea mug paused halfway to her lips.
She stared at the wall like it had just confessed to murder.
The wall did not care. It stared back.
Another moan, higher this time, needy. A gasped “Yes-right there-” followed by a deep, gravelly chuckle that vibrated straight through the brick. The pace quickened. The headboard started thumping in earnest now, steady, each impact sending a faint tremor through Pansy’s wall.
She could hear enough.
More than enough.
The woman’s breath hitching into broken little whimpers. A low, filthy rumble of praise, “Fuck, you feel incredible… so tight, so wet for me. That’s it… take it just like that. Let me hear you.”
Pansy’s cheeks burned hotter than the tea in her hands. She set the mug down harder than necessary, glaring at the innocent wall as if it had personally betrayed her.
It only got worse.
The rhythm turned punishing. Skin slapped louder. The woman’s voice climbed- sharp broken cries of “Harder- Gods, please, harder-” answered by a satisfied growl that made Pansy’s stomach flip uncontrollably. A long, shuddering feminine moan tore through the wall, followed by a deep, masculine groan that sounded like it had been dragged from the bottom of his chest.
Pansy’s grabbed her mug again, fingers tightening around the handle until her knuckles went white. Heat crawled up her neck, equal parts fury and something far more mortifying she refused to name.
“Oh. Absolutely fucking not,” she hissed to the empty room, standing so quickly her chair scraped back. “I did not survive a war and move into this glorified broom cupboard just to become an unwilling audience for someone else’s whatever that’s supposed to be.”
She snatched her silk robe from the hook, shrugging it on over her thin camisole and shorts because even in the depths of righteous indignation she had standards. The mug of green tea stayed clutched in both hands like a weapon, still warm, still half-full, perfect for gesturing angrily or possibly throwing if the situation called for it.
She marched down the short hallway that separated their doors, bare feet silent on the cool floor. She didn’t pause to second-guess the wisdom of knocking on a stranger’s door mid-coitus. She didn’t consider how unhinged it looked.
She didn’t fucking care.
She lifted her fist and knocked. Hard. Fast. Careful not to slosh her tea. It was the kind of knock that meant business. The kind that meant there will be consequences.
The sex noises inside stuttered, mid-thrust, from the sound of it, then cut off entirely.
A breathless curse. The creak of the bed. Footsteps.
The door opened.
Neville Longbottom stood there shirtless.
Chest flushed and glistening faintly with sweat. Shoulders broader than she remembered from Hogwarts. Scars, old and silvered, tracing across his ribs and collarbone. Trousers slung dangerously low on his hips, belt hanging open, hair a complete disaster. His breathing was still ragged, hazel eyes dark and slightly dazed from interrupted pleasure.
They stared at each other.
Pansy blinked.
Once.
That was new.
Not because it was Neville Longbottom.
But because the boy who used to trip over his own feet and stuttered every third word now looked like he could pin her against this very wall without breaking a sweat while talking her through it, and was currently regarding her with calm, faintly amused curiosity while radiating mid-sex heat.
“Pansy Parkinson?” he asked, voice low, rough, and a little breathless. “Can I help you? Everything ok?”
Her stomach did a flip flop again. She found her spine. The mug of green tea rose between them like an obvious answer. To show that she was over in her apartment, minding her own business drinking tea.
Control the room before it controls you.
“You can start by learning that walls exist for a reason, Longbottom,” she said, voice clipped and arctic. “Not everyone wants a spontaneous, wall-shaking masterclass in exactly how enthusiastically you fuck.”
Neville winced, one large hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. The motion pulled the skin taut over his chest and made Pansy’s gaze flicker traitorously before she yanked it back up.
She ignored his scars.
A woman’s voice floated out from inside, amused and breathless. “Nev? Who is it?”
“New tenant,” he told the woman, then looked back at Pansy. “I’m sorry. I thought the privacy charms were holding. I didn’t realize they weren’t and sound was carrying.”
“Oh, it carried,” Pansy said flatly. “It galloped. It was a pornographic soundscape, Longbottom. I now have a disturbingly vivid mental map of your evening’s naked dance, and I did not consent to the front-row seat.”
There was a beat of silence.
Neville’s mouth twitched. He fought a smile. Failed spectacularly. “Right. I’ll… keep it down.”
“Please do,” she said, already turning away. “Some of us enjoy pretending other people don’t exist.”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough that it looked like he was biting one back. “Fair point. I’ll fix it.”
Pansy turned to leave, because staying any longer was asking for trouble, but his voice stopped her again.
“Though if we’re filing noise complaints,” he added, quieter now, that same low rumble still threaded through it, “your kettle at three a.m. sounds like a dying mandrake. Just saying.”
She spun back, cheeks heating despite herself.
He smirked.
Pansy blinked.
He leaned one bare forearm against the doorframe, casual, unhurried. “And you might want to tighten that robe. Not that I mind the view… but I am only human.”
Before she could spit fire, soft footsteps padded closer.
The woman appeared behind him, wrapped in nothing but a white sheet clutched at her chest. Dark hair tousled, lips kiss-reddened, eyes bright with lazy curiosity. She slid an arm around Neville’s waist and rested her chin on his shoulder, peering at Pansy openly.
“Ohhh,” she said, grinning. “Is this the kettle witch? Did you bring us tea?”
Pansy’s eyes narrowed to slits. She lifted the mug a fraction higher, as if debating whether to weaponize it.
“No,” she said coldly. “Green tea, bitch.”
The woman laughed outright, bright, delighted, completely unbothered, her fingers idly tracing one of the scars along Neville’s side. “Green tea? Fancy. Bitter, though. Matches the energy. I like it.”
She obviously didn’t understand the insult fully.
Neville’s low chuckle joined hers, warm and genuine, his gaze never leaving Pansy’s face.
He understood the insult.
Pansy’s pulse hammered in her throat. She refused, refused, to look anywhere below his collarbone.
“Charming,” she drawled, voice dripping venom and ice in equal measure. “If asked for a tenant survey to list complaints and suggestions, I’ll add thicker walls, better taste in company, a muzzle for your enthusiastic co-star, and whatever illegal expansion charm is making this entire building reek of dirt. Good night, Longbottom. Put on a fucking shirt before you answer your damn door.”
The woman behind him snorted softly into his shoulder.
“Night, Pansy.”
She turned on her heel, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim, and stalked back to her door, pulse hammering so hard she could feel it in her teeth.
Behind her, the door clicked shut. She heard Neville’s quiet laugh and the woman’s teasing murmur fade away.
She made it back to her flat, slammed the door, and leaned against it.
The mug shook in her hands. Green tea sloshed over the rim, scalding her knuckles. She welcomed the sting.
Breathe.
Four in. Four hold. Four out.
It didn’t work.
Pansy began to organize her tea tins again.
The memories came anyway, sharp, uninvited, the way they always did when something cracked her carefully arranged world.
They hit every time she moved another tin.
The war hadn’t started with a bang for Pansy Parkinson. It started in bedtime stories. Dining room dinner talks.
Her father’s study at age seven… the heavy velvet drapes, the smell of cigar smoke, strange people in dark cloaks and scary masks. Her heart beating out of her chest. “You’re a Parkinson, girl. We stand with power. We survive.” He’d pressed the family crest ring into her palm hard enough to bruise. She’d nodded in agreement, because nodding kept the monsters at bay.
She slid the chamomile tin left. It still felt crooked. Maybe the lemon should be first.
At Hogwarts, it had been easier to be cruel. Safer. Laugh when they laughed at the Mudbloods. Mock the ones who thought bravery was a shield. Offer Harry Potter to the Dark Lord in the Great Hall because..
If I don’t, they’ll take me instead.
The peppermint tin clicked into place with a sharp sound.
Because her father’s voice was still in her head. Loyalty or death. Because she had been sixteen and terrified and the only thing she knew how to do was perform the role they’d written for her since she could walk.
She’d survived. Barely.
The Battle of Hogwarts had been a blur of green light and screams and the metallic taste of her own blood when a curse clipped her cheek. She’d hidden in the dungeons with the other Slytherins who’d chosen not to fight, cowards, the papers called them later. Death Eater spawn. But she remembered the way her hands had shaken when she’d cast a weak Shield Charm over a first-year who’d wandered in by mistake. Remembered thinking, This is how it ends. Not with glory. Just with me trying not to die.
And then it had ended. The Dark Lord dead. Her father in Azkaban. The Ministry slapping the trace back on every “sympathizer’s child” like they were all carrying the Mark under their skin.
Her fingers slipped on the spearmint tin. She caught it before it fell, knuckles white, hands trembling.
Her breath hitched. Once. Twice.
She ignored it.
You offered him up. You laughed when they bled. You were a child. You were a monster. You were both.
She emptied the entire row and started again.
She didn’t want to be a victim. Victims got pity. Victims got forgiveness. She wanted the trace off and her wand back. She wanted the nightmares to stop, the ones where she stood in the Great Hall again, wand raised, and Voldemort’s red eyes turned to her with approval.
A soft thud came from the other side of the wall that betrayed her earlier, Neville, probably cleaning up whatever mess they’d made. Or maybe just… existing. Alive. Whole.
Pansy’s fingers stilled on the tin.
She hated that he’d survived too.
Hated that he survived well.
Hated that part of her, the ugly, surviving part, wondered what it would feel like if he looked at her-
No. Nope.
“Fucking hell,” she hissed.
She kept rearranging.
The wall stayed mercifully silent for the rest of the night.
The next morning arrived unwelcome, too bright, too early, and far too cheerful for someone who had spent the night replaying every mortifying second of the hallway confrontation on an endless loop.
If it wasn’t the hallway confrontation on loop, it was the past.
Pansy had not slept.
She had tried. She had even gone so far as to brew a second cup of green tea. The same batch. Because waste was unbecoming. She dimmed the lights, and attempted the kind of deep breathing the therapsits had recommended after the war. It had not helped. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw:
Neville Longbottom, shirtless and smirking.
The woman in the sheet, laughing like Pansy was the punchline.
The war. The first-year she’d cast a shield charm on.
She had eventually given up and spent the small hours reorganizing her books by color, then by author. The books had not judged her. The books had not looked faintly amused while half-naked with glistening sex sweaty abs.
Now the sun was streaming through the tall windows and someone was knocking on her door.
What fucking now?
The knock is polite. Too polite.
Pansy considered ignoring it. Then she considered hexing it, if she had a wand. Then she remembered she was trying to be better, or at least less visibly unhinged, and opened the door a crack, one eyebrow already arched to lethal height.
Maribel, the building manager, stood there with her clipboard and her curly hair in a bun and her smile that said I have dealt with worse than you and I will outlast you.
“Ms. Parkinson,” she said brightly. “Good morning! Just doing my routine check-in after a new tenant has been here a few days. Making sure everything’s to your satisfaction.”
Pansy stared at her for a long moment.
“My satisfaction,” she repeated, voice flat. “You mean aside from the paper-thin walls, the illegal expansion charms, and the fact that my neighbor appears to be running a private brothel with substandard soundproofing?”
Maribel’s smile didn’t waver, but a tiny muscle twitched at the corner of her mouth.
“Ah. Yes. About the walls..”
“I lodged a complaint last night,” Pansy said coolly. “Verbally. Directly to the source. It was… illuminating.”
Maribel blinked. “You… spoke to Mr. Longbottom?”
Pansy’s lips curved, not pleasantly. “Oh, I spoke to him. And his companion. And his chest because of his appalling lack of shirt manners. It was a very thorough conversation.”
There was a beat.
Maribel cleared her throat. “Mr. Longbottom is…he owns the building. Quiet usually. Maintains the greenhouse downstairs-“
“Longbottom owns this whole building?” Pansy interrupted, eyes narrowing. “How convenient that my landlord lives next door and apparently believes ‘sound-dampening charms’ are optional.”
“They’re not optional,” Maribel said quickly. “They’re just… temperamental. Old building. We’ve had issues with the load-bearing wall. But I can schedule a reinforcement today. It’ll take a few hours, but-”
“Today,” Pansy echoed. “How thoughtful, and will Mr. Longbottom be present for this procedure? Or will he be otherwise engaged?”
Maribel hesitated. “He’s usually in the greenhouse most mornings. Tending the gardens. But I can ask him to-”
“No need,” Pansy said sweetly. “I’ll handle any necessary… coordination.”
Maribel looked like she wanted to ask what that meant, then clearly decided her life expectancy was higher if she didn’t.
“Right. Well. I’ll send the charm specialist by noon. Anything else? Amenities? The rooftop garden is open to tenants, by the way. Very peaceful.”
Pansy’s smile was all teeth. “Peaceful. How novel. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Maribel retreated with a nod that was equal parts relief and apprehension.
Pansy closed the door.
Then she leaned against it, forehead to wood, and exhaled slowly.
Greenhouse. Of course he has a greenhouse. Of course he’s not just the neighbor…he’s the landlord.
She straightened.
Fine.
She glanced at the clock. Ten past nine.
She had time.
She showered, scalding, punishing, the kind that left her skin pink. She got dressed, hair pulled into a sleek knot.
She was going downstairs.
She was going to see the greenhouse.
She was going to see if Neville Longbottom looked quite so unfairly solid in daylight.
And if he did?
Well.
She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
Probably with a very pointed comment about proper shirt usage.
Pansy descended the narrow staircase to the ground floor, shoes tapping against the worn wood. The building smelled stronger down here, earthy, green, alive in a way that made her skin prickle.
The herb shop occupied what should have been the corner of the lobby, but the space bent strangely, as though the walls had politely stepped aside to make room. A small brass sign read Longbottom’s Botanicals in neat, unpretentious lettering. No flashing lights. No garish display. Just a door of dark wood, half-open, spilling warm golden light and the faint hum of bees into the hallway.
Pansy paused on the threshold.
Inside, Neville Longbottom knelt among rows of potted mandrakes, muffled, thankfully, forearms streaked with soil. He was pruning a venomous tentacula with the calm focus of someone who had once faced worse things than snapping vines. A dragon-hide apron hung loosely over his shoulders, no shirt underneath again, apparently. The scars on his back caught the light when he moved.
He didn’t look up immediately.
Time to cross that bridge then.
Pansy leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed and cleared her throat.
Control the room before it controls you.
Neville’s head lifted. His eyes found hers. For a split second something flickered across his face, surprise, a trace of yesterday’s amusement, before it smoothed into polite neutrality.
“Pansy Parkinson,” he said, brushing dirt from his hands. “Morning.”
She tilted her head. “Longbottom. Or should I say landlord?”
He stood slowly, wiping his palms on the apron. The motion made the muscles in his shoulders shift in a way that was unholy.
“You spoke to Maribel.”
“I spoke to Maribel. She was very forthcoming once I mentioned the walls. And the suspiciously spacious layout for a building that’s only four stories tall on the outside.”
Neville exhaled through his nose, the sound almost a laugh. “It’s not illegal. Not exactly. The Ministry allows grandfathered expansion charms on pre-war structures. This place was half-collapsed when I bought it. I fixed it. Expanded it. Made it… livable.”
“Livable,” Pansy echoed. “For how many tenants who don’t want to hear your extracurricular activities through the walls?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a habit she was starting to recognize as his tell for mild discomfort.
“You can also use silencing charms?” he asked hesitantly, a small, crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
Pansy’s skin prickled with fresh anger.
Doesn’t he know?
Of course he does.
He’s just rubbing it in.
Pansy glowered.
He studied her for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he stepped aside and gestured toward the greenhouse proper.
“Come in, then. If you’re going to complain about the building, you might as well see what you’re paying rent for.”
Pansy paused, unsure, then stepped inside.
The air changed immediately. Warm. Humid. Thick with the scent of grass. Rows of pots lined low tables, dittany, gillyweed, shrivelfigs, a small cluster of flutterby bushes that quivered as she passed. In the dark far corner, a massive Devil’s Snare sprawled lazily across the ceiling beams.
Neville watched her take it in.
“You own the whole building,” she said quietly, not quite a question.
“I do.”
“You’re going to let me stay?” She asked, uncertainty slipped into her voice before she could cage it.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant buzz of a charmed bee.
Neville shrugged, simple, and unhurried. “Everyone needs somewhere to disappear sometimes. Even you.”
“Even though I am who I am?”
“Who are you?” he asked, like it actually mattered.
Pansy’s throat tightened. She forced the words out anyway, each one clipped and deliberate.
“Pansy Parkinson. Slytherin girl. Daughter of Death Eaters.” She paused, eyes locked on his. “I offered your best friend up on a platter for killing. A snake.”
Another silence. Pansy grew desperately uncomfortable.
“Ah, well,” Neville stepped closer, not crowding, just enough to reach past her and pluck a small sprig of fresh mint from a nearby pot. He offered it without fanfare, “lucky for you, I can handle a snake.”
Right. He killed one. With a fucking sword.
Pansy stared at the sprig in his hand. Then at him. Then she took it. The casual certainty in his eyes made something in her chest twist..
No. Nope.
“Don’t think this makes us friends, Longbottom.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Pansy.”
She crushed a leaf between her fingers, releasing the sharp, clean scent into the humid air.
“I don’t need your charity.”
“It’s not charity. It’s a lease.”
“Well, I don’t need your pity,” she said quietly. “Or your absolution. I’m not here for redemption arcs.”
“Didn’t offer either.” Neville leaned one hip against the nearest table, arms crossing over his bare chest in a way that made the apron shift and reveal yet another scar curving along his ribs. “I’m just being a landlord, letting you pay a lease.”
“Except it isn’t that clean.” She met his eyes, steady hazel, infuriatingly calm. “Because you remember. You remember the me surviving on the wrong side of the war.”
Neville nodded once. “I remember.”
“And you’re still letting me live across the hall from you. In a building you own.”
“I remember a lot of things from the war,” he said. “Most of them hurt. Some of them changed me. A few of them taught me that people can be more than the worst thing they ever did.” He paused, voice dropping. “You’re not the only one who’s carried something ugly for a long time, Pansy.”
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” she asked, voice cool again, edges carefully sharpened. “Because it sounds less like tolerance and more like… negligence.”
Neville’s brow lifted slightly. “Negligence.”
“Yes,” Pansy said, stepping further into the greenhouse, shoes tapping softly against the stone before the sound disappeared into the humid air. “You own the building. You know exactly who I am. And yet you’re allowing me to stay here as though that information is irrelevant.”
“It is,” he said simply.
Pansy let out a short, humorless laugh.
“No, it isn’t.”
She turned to face him fully now, chin tipped up, posture locking back into something more defensive.
“I helped bully you and your friends,” she continued. “We were on opposite sides in a war. And now you’re standing here pretending that I’m just another tenant with a preference for quiet neighbors and herbal tea at 3 in the fucking morning.”
Neville didn’t interrupt. Didn’t correct her.
Just watched.
That was worse.
Pansy took another step closer.
“Or is this some kind of penance?” she pressed, voice dropping slightly. “Let the Death Eater’s daughter rent a room. Pat yourself on the back for your moral superiority. Very noble of you, Longbottom.”
A vine somewhere behind him shifted, leaves brushing softly against wood.
Neville exhaled through his nose.
“You’re not that important,” he said.
The words landed flat.
Not cruel.
Not heated.
Just… matter of fact.
Pansy blinked.
Once.
That wasn’t-
“You think this is about you?” he went on, tone steady. “That I’m making some grand statement by letting you stay here?”
His gaze held hers. Direct. Unflinching.
“I bought a broken building,” he said. “I fixed it. I rent the flats to people who pay on time and don’t set anything on fire. That’s the extent of the criteria.”
Pansy’s mouth opened.
Closed.
“You bullied me and others. Tormented me about my parents being tortured, living with my gran, and stuttering when I spoke. You were a Slytherin who believed and helped support the teachings of muggle born being lower than dirt itself. You offered Potter up to Voldemort,” Neville added, not raising his voice, not softening it either. “I remember.”
There it was.
Finally.
Pansy straightened, something sharp and defensive snapping back into place.
“Yes,” she said. “I did.”
Silence stretched.
Thick. Waiting.
Neville held her gaze for a second longer.
“Okay.” He finally said.
What?
“Okay, then.” Pansy scoffed.
Neville rolled his eyes turning away from her to work on a plant.
“I don’t sort people into one thing and leave them there.” He offered.
Pansy stared at him.
“You should,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because it’s easier,” she shot back. “Because it’s correct. Because people like me don’t get to be anything else.”
Neville turned back to her.
Neville’s expression didn’t shift.
“That’s your thinking,” he said. “Not mine.”
Silence.
Pansy’s pulse kicked harder against her throat.
She hated this.
Hated that he wasn’t rising to it. Hated that he wasn’t angry. Hated that he wasn’t looking at her the way she expected, like something to be judged, dismissed, or punished.
Hated that he was just… looking.
Seeing.
“Fine,” she said abruptly, pushing off the tension before it could settle. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
His mouth twitched faintly. Not quite a smile.
“I sleep fine.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Do you.”
A beat.
“Better than you,” he said.
Pansy stiffened.
“That’s an assumption.”
“It’s an observation.”
The words echoed back at her.
Pansy’s jaw tightened.
Of course he’d do that.
“Careful, Longbottom,” she said, voice dropping again, quieter now. “You’re starting to sound like a therapist. Know of one named Minnie?”
“Had a few,” he replied easily, “and no.”
“That explains a lot.”
“Does it.”
“Yes.”
Another pause. The air between them felt thicker now. Warmer. Not entirely hostile, but not safe either.
Control the room before it controls you.
Except… Pansy was not in control of this room.
She lifted her chin slightly.
He stepped back then, reaching for a pair of gloves on the table beside him and holding them in one hand, relaxed.
She looked away first, gaze drifting to the Devil’s Snare overhead. The tendrils stirred lazily, as though they are sensing tension in the room.
“You’re growing moonflowers,” she said, changing the subject because she could.
“For dreamless sleep potions,” he confirmed. “The demand’s steady. People still have nightmares.”
She almost laughed, bitter, short. “Of course. Does it help with the sleep you claim to get?”
“Sometimes.” He shrugged. “So do the, what did you call it, the pornographic soundscapes I partake in.” He grinned at her.
Pansy scoffed. “Ew. I don’t want your plants. Or your pity potions.”
Pansy twirled the mint between her fingers. Then Neville chuckled low, reached past her once more, this time to snip a single moonflower bud from the vine. He held it out on his open palm. Pansy stared at the bud, small, tightly furled, pale as moonlight.
She didn’t take it.
“Reinforce the charms by tonight,” she snapped, “Maribel promised at noon, actually.”
“Already scheduled.”
“And put on a shirt before Maribel sends the specialist. I’d hate for her to think you’re running a different kind of business down here.”
He smiled, small, genuine, infuriating. “I’ll consider it.”
Pansy didn’t dignify that with a reply. She just met his gaze again, searching for the trap, the judgment, the inevitable resentment.
She found none.
Only quiet, infuriating calm.
She brushed past him, headed for the door, and just kept walking.
The mint stayed in her hand the whole way back to her flat.
The afternoon dragged.
Pansy spent it the way any self-respecting witch would… pretending she wasn’t thinking about Neville Longbottom’s forearms, or the way he’d offered her mint like it was some sort of olive branch, or the fact that she still hadn’t thrown the damn sprig away. It sat on her kitchen counter, looking far too smug for vegetation.
She reorganized her wardrobe by color. Again. She tried, and failed, to read the same page of Advanced Potion-Making seventeen times. She even considered going up to the rooftop garden Maribel had mentioned, but that felt dangerously close to seeking fresh air, and Pansy Parkinson did not seek. She endured.
By the time the knock came, she was contemplating just blowing up the shared wall with a spell.
“Ms. Parkinson?” A wiry little wizard in blue robes stood in the hallway, clipboard in one hand, wand in the other, and a toolbox that smelled faintly of wet plaster. “Reinforcement specialist, here for the sound-dampening charms on the load-bearing wall. Maribel said you were… particular about timing.”
Pansy leaned against her doorframe, arms crossed, one eyebrow already at maximum arch. “Particular is one word for it. I prefer ‘traumatized by last night’s unsolicited symphony.’”
The specialist didn’t blink. “Right. Well, I’ll need access to both sides of the wall. Your neighbor has already consented. He’s downstairs finishing up in the greenhouse, but he said he’d pop up once I start the diagnostic.”
Of course he had.
Pansy stepped aside. “Try not to track dirt.”
The man gave her a look that suggested he’d heard worse and swept past her into the bedroom. He tapped his wand along the brick, muttering under his breath. Soft golden sparks danced across the plaster like fireflies looking for escape.
Pansy hovered in the doorway, mug in hand, pretending she was supervising rather than… whatever this was. Guarding her dignity? Monitoring for sabotage? She wasn’t sure. The mint sprig on the counter caught her eye again. She scowled at it.
Ten minutes later there was a soft knock on her front door.
Neville slowly opened it, peeking in, a small smile on his face.
Still in the dragon-hide apron. Still no shirt underneath. A smudge of soil across one cheekbone like war paint. His hair was damp at the temples, like he’d run his hands through it after handling something that fought back. He smelled like warm earth and something unfairly comforting.
“Evening, Pansy, may I?” he asked, voice low and easy, the same tone he’d used when offering her mint that morning. His eyes flicked to the specialist, then to her, then to the mug in her hands. Amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No tea service for the charm man?”
“Come in, don’t track in dirt, and I’m not a damn tea service.” She replied coolly,
The specialist snorted without looking up. “This wall’s seen some action. Old expansion charm’s fighting the new dampeners. Might take an hour. You two want to wait in the living room or…?”
“I’ll stay,” Pansy said at the same moment Neville said, “I’m good here.”
They looked at each other.
Neville leaned one broad shoulder against her bedroom doorframe, her doorframe, in her flat, that he owned, and crossed his arms in a way that made the apron shift and reveal yet another scar curving low along his ribs. “Figured I should make sure the charms actually work this time. Wouldn’t want you storming over again in nothing but silk and righteous fury.”
“I was wearing a robe,” she corrected, cheeks heating despite herself. “And it was fury. Not… whatever you’re implying.”
“Mm.” His gaze dropped, just for a second, to the bare strip of skin between her blouse and trousers where the hem had ridden up slightly. “Shame.”
What the fuck.
The specialist cleared his throat loudly. “Right. Casting now. Might feel a tingle.”
Golden light flared across the wall. The air hummed.
Pansy watched the light play over the brick, watched it sink in like liquid gold, sealing away whatever thin barrier had let last night’s performance bleed through. She should have felt relief. Instead she felt… something else. Something she refused to put a name to.
Neville’s voice was quieter when he spoke again, meant only for her. “Nothing quite like a good body tingle, is there?” Her body did indeed tingle she felt goosebumps rise.
“Do not harass me, Longbottom,” She snipped at him quickly then sipped her tea, mostly to have something to do with her hands. “I’d hate to have to file an official complaint with the landlord. Again.”
“Landlord’s right here.” He tilted his head toward the wall, where the specialist was now tracing runes with careful flicks of his wand. “And he’s learning that some tenants come with sharper teeth than his Venomous Tentacula.”
Pansy’s lips twitched before she could stop them. She covered it with another sip. “Compliments like that might make me think you enjoy being verbally eviscerated.”
“Maybe I do.” His eyes met hers, steady, hazel. “I can handle a sharp tongue.”
She refused to blush. She refused.
What is happening?
The specialist’s voice cut through the moment. “All right, that should do it. Test it tonight if you like. Shout, play music, whatever. You won’t hear a thing from the other side.”
Neville pushed off the doorframe. “Thanks, Elias. Bill me for the overtime.”
The man packed up and left with a nod, leaving the two of them alone in her bedroom with a freshly reinforced wall and a loud silence.
Pansy set her mug down on the nightstand. “Well. Crisis averted. You can go back to your… evening plans. I’m sure someone’s waiting to test the new charms from your side.”
Neville didn’t move. “No plans tonight.”
“No?” She arched a brow. “What happened to the woman in the sheet? She finally realize you’re more plant than man?”
He laughed again, softer this time. “She was a friend. Visiting from France. Left this morning.”
The new charms on the wall hummed faintly.
“Ohhh, so you’re a whore.” She drawled, though her pulse had no business kicking up like that.
His grin was slow, crooked. Handsome. She hated that she didn’t hate it.
“I’m can be a whore. You can be a bitch. We’re going to be great neighbors.”
Pansy should have been offended, being called a bitch. Though, the reality of the situation is that she is a bitch. Always has been.
And he smiled when he said it. Like it wasn't a bad thing.
She expected him to push off the doorframe and leave. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, hazel eyes still locked on hers
Pansy’s gaze flicked to his mouth for half a second before she caught herself. She forced it back to his eyes
“Right, great neighbors. Leave me be, have the wall charms hold up, and all will be tolerable.”
“Mm.” He pushed off the doorframe at last, but only to straighten to his full height, making the space between them feel even smaller. “Of course. Some of us do enjoy pretending other people don’t exist.” He threw her own words from the night before right back at her, the low rumble of his voice curling around them.
He turned toward the door, but paused on the threshold, glancing back over one bare shoulder. “Goodnight, Pansy. Keep the banshee kettle quiet as well, please.” Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Pansy stood alone in her bedroom, staring at the newly reinforced wall. The mint sprig on the counter seemed to mock her.
She picked it up, crushed a leaf between her fingers, and let the sharp, clean scent bloom in the quiet room.
“Fucking hell,” she muttered.
The flat was spotless.
Pansy had spent the rest of the night scrubbing every surface until the living room looked magazine-perfect and aggressively neutral. When she was satisfied, she dimmed the lights, walked into her bedroom, and closed the door with a quiet, final click.
The silencing charms wrapped the room in thick velvet silence. Nothing from next door could reach her here.
She stripped down to her favorite silk camisole and matching shorts, climbed between cool sheets, and closed her eyes with a deep breath.
Sleep came easier than she expected.
Knock Knock.
Pansy’s eyes flew open.
She stormed out of her bed and down to the apartment door.
Who the hell needs to knock-
Neville appeared behind the door. Low hung gray sweat pants, shirtless, hair ruffled. Smirking.
“Been thinking about those body tingles, Pansy?”
Then he was on her. Shutting the door, his large hands dragged her backward, mouth already claiming hers in a kiss that tasted like earth and salt. She was on her back in her own bed before she could snap at him, headboard already slamming against the shared wall.
Neville was above her, gloriously naked, sweat gleaming on his broad shoulders as he drove into her with deep, powerful strokes. His thick cock stretched her open on every thrust, the wet slap of skin on skin loud and obscene.
“Fuck, Pansy,” he groaned, voice wrecked and low, hips snapping forward.
Pansy moaned shamelessly, legs wrapped high around his waist, heels digging into the firm muscle of his back. She could feel every thick inch of him dragging along her walls, hitting that perfect spot inside her again and again.
His hand slid between them, rough fingers finding her swollen clit and rubbing slow circles.
“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” he murmured against her throat. “Hearing me through the wall… you wanted it to be you.”
“Harder,” she gasped, nails digging into his scarred back. “Neville.. please -”
He gave her exactly what she begged for. His thrusts turned deeper, faster, the headboard pounding into the brick in perfect time with his cock driving into her soaked heat. His fingers never stopped their steady rhythm on her clit.
“Come for me,” he breathed against her ear, voice rough with need. “Let go, Pansy. I want to feel you come around me.”
Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, white-hot and overwhelming, until it finally snapped.
Pansy woke with a sharp gasp.
Her hand was buried deep inside her silk shorts, two fingers thrusting frantically into her dripping cunt in time with the heavy, rhythmic thumping vibrating through the headboard behind her. She was soaked, slick coating her fingers, dripping down to her ass, the fabric of her shorts dark and ruined. Her clit throbbed, swollen and sticky.
The wall was giving it to her in real time.
Even through the silencing charms, the powerful, steady thump… thump… thump… of Neville’s bed slamming against the shared wall traveled straight into her headboard. Each heavy impact jolted through her skull and down her spine.
Pansy groaned.
She spread her legs wider, knees falling open shamelessly, and fucked herself harder, matching the relentless rhythm coming through the wall. Her fingers plunged deep and fast, curling hard against that sensitive spot inside her while her thumb rubbed tight, frantic circles over her swollen clit.
“Oh gods…” she gasped, voice hoarse.
The fantasy crashed over her, Neville above her, hips snapping, thick cock filling her completely, his low groan in her ear as he drove into her repeatedly.
Her free hand shoved her camisole up, fingers pinching and rolling one tight nipple. The headboard slammed harder, faster, feeding every pulse of pleasure straight through her body.
The coil inside her wound impossibly tight, hotter, sharper, too much, until it finally…
shattered.
Pansy came with a broken, keening cry, back arching off the bed as the orgasm rippled through her in crashing waves. Her cunt clenched hard around her fingers, pulsing over and over, thighs shaking uncontrollably. A hot rush of wetness flooded her hand and soaked the sheets beneath her as the pleasure kept rolling, intense and overwhelming, leaving her gasping and trembling. Her hips twitched with every lingering spasm.
Even after the peak began to disappear, smaller aftershocks kept pulsing through her, each one timed with the slowing thump… thump… thump… of the headboard against the wall.
When it finally faded, Pansy collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, body slick with sweat and release. Her fingers slowly slipped free, glistening and trembling.
The silence in her perfectly charmed bedroom felt deafening.
She stared at the ceiling, heart still racing.
“Fuck,” she whispered shakily, voice soft and wrecked. “Fuck.”