Chapter Text
Rosmerta smiled at Neville the moment he plopped down onto the stool in front of the bar. “Rough day, Professor?”
He rubbed his head. “I don’t know what it is about Third Years.” Gryffindors and Slytherins together were a particularly volatile combination regardless, but thirteen year olds were a special kind of awful.
“Exam season stresses everyone out,” she said.
He snorted. The Sixth Year Ravenclaw who was top of her class and almost certainly going to Head Girl next year came to his office sobbing because she forgot a simple study acronym Professor Sprout had taught her during her Third Year and was convinced there was no way she could ever get it back, forgetting that not only did Neville have a herbology mastery as well but that he had also had Professor Sprout as a teacher for years.
Then there were the students who couldn’t care less one way or another about anything and were in danger of failing. If he could just get them to show the tiniest amount of effort he could give them credit for doing their best.
Rosmerta poured him a top shelf firewhiskey and slid it to him. “On the house.”
“I’m happy to pay—”
She waved him off. “Want the usual for dinner?”
“Yeah, that’d be great, thank you.”
The tension Neville had been carrying around all afternoon slowly started to recede as he sipped his drink and cracked open the updated edition of Magical Plants of Eastern Argentina.
There was supposedly an entire new chapter as well as expanded information about most of the other plants in this edition. One of the most fascinating plants in the book was a magical strawberry. Apparently this edition went beyond the folklore of the first edition and reported on the latest research.
Rosmerta dropped off his steak and kidney pie and then went to check on the other tables while Hank remained at the bar.
Behind the bar and just off to his left, a large mirror hung on the wall, giving him a perfect view of the entrance. One of the times he sipped his drink, he glanced up and saw a witch standing in the doorway.
Yet again, he thanked Godric and whoever else was responsible for making muggle clothing fashionable. The witch’s dress ended above her knees, giving him an eyeful of her long, gorgeous legs.
All he could think about was how they would feel wrapped around his waist or thrown over his shoulders.
She was still hovering in the doorway, obviously looking for someone. His gaze finally slid up to her face and he almost choked.
Merlin, had he actually just been checking out Pansy Parkinson?
He stared down at his book again, but couldn’t help glancing back up at her in the mirror. What was she doing in Hogsmeade?
He’d seen the way she’d looked at his ring at Hermione and Draco’s impromptu engagement party. Still, that had to have been shock that he wore it. There was no way someone like him ever crossed her mind.
Distracting as her legs were, he found himself studying her face. She’d always been pretty, but she’d only become more and more gorgeous over the years.
If he was anyone else, if she was anyone else, maybe he’d consider asking her for a drink. As he knew from working with Fanged Geraniums, however, sometimes the most beautiful had the sharpest bite.
A look of near revulsion crossed her face for a heartbeat before she shook her head to clear it and a determined expression took over.
So she was looking for someone she didn’t actually want to see. Was she in trouble? She marched over to the bar first. He lifted his glass as a cover to stare at her legs again.
It was the only way he noticed her heel give out. He just managed to save his drink as she landed directly into his lap.
She let out a laugh that sounded forced and a little pained. “Oh, Longbottom,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive me, new shoes.”
Her hands gripped his shoulders, bringing her close enough that he could feel the brush of her chest against his.
That put way too many of the fantasies he should not have about Pansy Parkinson in his head. He steadied her by the waist and set her back on her feet, careful not to look at her legs. Again.
“No worries.” He turned back to his book, hoping that was it.
It wasn’t.
“Let me buy you a drink, make up for it.” She caught Hank’s eye and signaled for two of his.
“Just the one, Hank,” he called. He glanced at Pansy. “I already have one, and like I said, don’t worry about it.”
He turned back to the page he was on, but out of the corner of his eye he could see her lean against the stool, legs stretched out in front of her. He’d gotten his growth spurt relatively late in life and it still always surprised him how tiny she was next to him. Hermione, too, had been taller than him for a number of years and now she barely came up to his shoulder.
Hank slid Pansy the firewhiskey and she took a sip. She let out a small, pleased sound from deep in the back of her throat and he had to bite his cheek to keep himself under control before he got any other ideas. There was no way he’d ever hear more moans like that from Pansy Parkinson.
“I appreciate a man who enjoys a decent firewhiskey.”
Was she trying to flirt with him? Was that what this was?
He could think of only three reasons why she was lingering by him. She was avoiding whoever she had come to the Three Broomsticks to meet, she did genuinely feel badly about tripping into him and was trying to make up for it, or…
But that was impossible. She was already friends with Hermione, she didn’t need him to climb her way back up into the top of society.
Not that he’d be much help with that anyway. Hogwarts Professor was about as high as he was interested in climbing and he was unwilling to compromise on that.
Pansy inhaled in a sharp huff. “Tell me, what’s so fascinating over there?”
He paused for a moment, the number of times she’d mocked him in school for his interest in herbology coming back to him. He wasn’t the same awkward kid with no self-confidence that he used to be, but Pansy had never hesitated to be cruel to him—or anyone—before.
He turned to face her. “The latest edition of Magical Plants of Eastern Argentina.”
Instead of mocking him for his obsession with plants, she beamed. “And what makes this edition special?”
Well, so far this was going much better than when the Selwyn sisters tried it.
Just in case he was wrong, he decided to play dumb. “I don’t remember you ever having a particularly strong interest in herbology, Pansy.” If anything about her performance in herbology was memorable, it was her black thumb.
She settled back onto her stool and crossed her legs. It took everything in him not to glance down at the extra few inches of thigh it revealed.
“In school, no,” she said. “But spend enough time with Hermione Granger and you develop an appreciation for information of any and all subject matter.”
He couldn’t hold back his smirk anymore. What a casual way to remind him that she and Hermione were such good friends.
She glanced up at him through her eyelashes with a coy smile. “Have you ever been?”
The way she was gazing up at him made him lose complete track of their conversation for a heartbeat.
She nodded to the book. “Argentina.”
Ah. “No,” he said. “Not yet.” Someday he would. There were so many incredible specimens in South America, it would be unbelievable to get to study them in person.
“I’ve always wanted to visit,” Pansy said. “Of course, having a guide who understands the local flora and fauna…” Her voice trailed off suggestively.
He’d been right all along. This was exactly what he thought it was. Merlin, if Fourth Year him could see himself now, getting hit on by Pansy Parkinson at the Three Broomsticks and about to turn her down.
“Even a fat little crybaby?” he asked.
She blinked, suddenly uncertain.
“First Year, Gryffindor and Slytherin first flying lesson,” he said. “I fell, broke my arm.”
Her expression twisted.
“You were singing a much different tune Third Year when Draco got scratched by Buckbeak, interestingly enough.”
A bitter expression filled her face as she reached for her drink again. When she set it down, she flashed him a smile that was probably intended to be coy but just looked pained. “Do we really need to rehash each and every thing we said to each other during school days? Surely we’re past that.”
That would take hours, if not days. “I have a full day of teaching tomorrow and several rare species to maintain so, no, there isn’t time to go over each and every comment you made to bully me or my friends.”
The bitter expression returned. She took a large gulp of her drink.
For the first time, he felt badly for her. Perhaps he’d enjoyed the tables being turned a little too much, but he didn’t want to keep dragging her along.
“Listen, Pansy, you were pretty drunk last week so maybe you thought you were being subtle but I saw the way you looked at my ring.”
Her reaction was visceral. She hardly moved, her gaze didn’t even dart down to look at his ring, but her entire body locked up tight. “And what way was that?”
“Like you’d just realized that there was at least one member left of the Sacred Twenty-Eight who wasn’t in Azkaban, gay, or recently engaged to Hermione Granger.”
She looked queasy.
“But I’ll tell you right now, whatever Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood supremacy bullshit this is about, I have no interest in it, and no interest in dating you.”
She downed the rest of her drink and then let out a hoarse laugh. “Oh, you flatter yourself, Longbottom,” she said. “I was just stopping in for a drink and trying to make up for tripping onto you. If you took anything from that…” She laughed again.
It sounded just as fake as it did the first time.
“I’ll let you get back to your little pamphlet on Peru before you get too delusional.” She rose with a forced smirk. “Good luck with those rare specimens.”
She marched off with a flippant grin, but as he turned back to his book, he caught her reflection in the mirror again.
Her shoulders dropped. She looked like she was carrying the weight of the world on them. All he saw when he looked at her was someone who was dejected, hurt, and…scared.
Fuck.
Had he read the situation wrong? Had he hurt her feelings?
He hadn’t meant to be cruel. But he’d made the mistake of trying to be nice to the Selwyn girls and that took weeks of effort to clear up.
He still didn’t understand what she needed him for. Certainly not connections, she was already close with Hermione and Draco.
He fiddled with his ring. She’d definitely been staring at it all night. But why? Was she just wondering why a blood traitor wore it? Did it evoke bad memories for her?
Maybe he had been a bit harsh. The next time he saw her, he’d check in and apologize. It wasn’t her fault the Selwyn girls had been throwing themselves at any pureblood members of the DA for social status.
He rubbed his forehead. He was twenty-three years old with a mastery and a teaching job at Hogwarts and one conversation with Pansy Parkinson sent him spiraling.
There was no question about it, Pansy Parkinson was bad news.
He’d clear the air, apologize, and then move on.
In the meantime, he really needed to owl Hannah again. The only reason he’d been checking Pansy out so much was clearly how long it had been since he last had a serious relationship.
Maybe this was the time it would actually work out between them.
He just needed to stay away from Pansy Parkinson in the meantime.
Neville watched as Pansy chatted with Harry in front of the memorial wall. He wondered if she was finally apologizing, working to clear the air about what happened the night in the Great Hall six years ago.
He didn’t blame her. She was stuck on the wrong side of the war, and who knew what pressure she was facing at home. He was certain she regretted it now and if they could all forgive Draco, Pansy’s little crimes hardly amounted to anything at all.
He hadn’t seen her once since the Three Broomsticks. He’d gone back and forth on if he should just owl her, but he didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.
He was still planning on owling Hannah to meet up for drinks. He’d seen her earlier at the memorial but something about asking her out there didn’t seem appropriate.
He rubbed his forehead, wondering when exactly it would be the right time to reach out again. There was always some sort of excuse, some sort of impediment. He just needed to do it, but…
He blinked at the blank space in front of the memorial wall.
Where did Pansy go? Harry was off with the Weasleys, but Pansy had disappeared entirely.
She’d arrived with Hermione and Draco, who were still chatting with Minerva. He didn’t think she’d leave without saying goodbye to them, but what exactly did he know?
As he scanned the crowd, his gaze fell on two figures lurking at the edge of the courtyard. One of them whispered something to the other and they exchanged a leer. The one who’d whispered glanced around and then strode off on the grounds.
Well, whatever that was, it couldn’t be good.
He managed to extract himself from the crowd easily enough, though a number of people tried to stop him and thank him for his bravery.
Bravery always seemed like a stretch. Getting kids away from the Carrows was just basic human decency. And it wasn’t like he’d spent months searching out and destroying horocruxes like Harry, Ron, and Hermione. He’d just been in the right place at the right time with the right weapon.
The grounds were idyllic, one of the beautiful May dates where the weather worked out perfectly. It felt wrong, on this day of all days, for the weather to be nice. Not without Fred or Colin or Lavender or any of the others they’d lost there to enjoy it.
“Don’t touch me!”
Someone’s cry of fear cut through his maudlin thoughts.
Grabbing his wand, he sprinted forward. He rounded the corner in time to see the man he’d followed forcing Pansy against the wall, groping her as she struggled for her wand.
“Stop!” she yelled. “Let me go!”
Neville flicked his wand, blasting him off her. Pansy whipped out her own wand, using her other hand to hold up her dress. He didn’t look away from where the man was struggling to his feet. “Pansy, get an auror.”
The man started laughing. “They vill not arrest me,” he said. “You saw nothing but a lover’s quarrel between me and my betrothed.”
His head whipped back to Pansy. Betrothed? To that monster? Unless he’d stumbled upon some sort of scene, but Pansy was shaking and looked horrified.
He turned back to the man, who was openly leering at her. There was nothing consensual about this. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I make you.”
He made a show of adjusting himself. “Ve vill talk of this at home.” He looked Neville up and down before obviously dismissing him. “You know vat vill happen if he touches you.” He strode off without another look back.
Only after he saw him round the corner did Neville turn to check on Pansy.
Her hands shook so badly she couldn’t point her wand at the rip in her dress. Walking over carefully, he did it with a gentle swipe.
Still not meeting his gaze, she dug in her purse and pulled out a cigarette.
Was she serious? School was still in session, there were children all over. He summoned it from her hand. “No smoking on Hogwarts grounds.”
She flashed him a mocking sneer. “Yes, Professor Longbottom.”
Well this was a completely different person than who’d flirted at him the last time they met. If that hadn’t been about him, what was it? Was she actually betrothed to that man? And who got betrothed anymore anyway?
“Who the fuck was that?”
She laughed, but the sound was hollow and empty. “Nothing that concerns you, Longbottom.”
He’d walked up on someone trying to rape her and she wanted to pretend it was nothing? “Who. The. Fuck. Was. That.”
She still wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Friend of my guardians.”
He knew her father died in the battle—the side that didn’t get their names etched onto a wall—but she was of age and then some. “You’re twenty-three,” he said. “Why the fuck do you have a guardian?”
She pulled out another cigarette. “Does Professor McGonagall know you swear this much?”
Only when he was pissed off, and her flippant disregard for what had almost just happened to her was certainly doing it. Why was she refusing to get aurors involved? Half the DMLE was present at the memorial, the man could be locked up in no time at all. And if she didn’t report him, he could go on to harm someone else.
He summoned the second cigarette out of her fingers before she could get it lit. “Tell me what the fuck is going on, Pansy.”
She finally looked up at him. Despite the smirk she flashed at him, her eyes looked dead and haunted. “I don’t remember you being this bossy in school,” she said. “Tell me, when did Neville Longbottom grow such a big pair—”
Fuck this. He turned away from her. “Hermione can deal with this.”
“No!”
The panic in her voice made him freeze, as did the way she clutched the bottom of his jumper. She was trying to hide it, but she was truly scared. But why of Hermione? He turned back to face her, deciding to give her one last chance. “What’s going on, Pansy?”
She pulled out another cigarette and he immediately summoned it. “For fuck’s sake, Longbottom, let me have a damn cigarette!”
“Who was that?”
“The man my guardian chose for me to marry,” she spat. “Minor Bulgarian nobility, I’m told. Pureblooded, obviously.”
And, there it was. Six years later and she was the exact same person she’d always been. “Are you serious?” he demanded. “You pick today of all days to rub in the fact that your pureblooded beliefs run so deep that you’d marry someone like that?!”
A slightly deranged laugh burst from her. “My best friend is muggleborn.” She pressed a hand to her chest, rubbing it as if it hurt. “Of course I don’t give a fuck about blood status anymore.” For a brief moment, he almost wondered if there were tears in her eyes. She sagged against the castle wall, staring up at the clouds.
“Hermione Granger is your best friend?” He would have expected Draco or Daphne Greengrass or another one of her former housemates who hadn’t ended up in Azkaban.
“Yes,” she spat, as if his surprise that Hermione was her best friend had insulted her. “And, yes, I am aware I am not her best friend. I probably don’t even rank in the top five. I’m sure even you are above me, but…”
For the first time, it almost sounded like there was a hint of vulnerability in her tone. It was all too familiar to him. He’d been the fifth wheel for most of school. Harry and Ron had each other, and Dean and Seamus were inseparable long before they got together.
But if Hermione really was her best friend, what was she thinking? “Then tell me why you’d marry him.”
“Because I’m a Parkinson.”
Right. Some fucked-up legacy thing. “You just said blood status didn’t matter to you—”
“Once we turn seventeen, Parkinson women have seven years to find a husband.” She continued staring up at the clouds. “Otherwise, our closest pureblooded male relative gets to choose for us.”
Who the fuck was her closest pureblooded male relative? What the fuck was he thinking?
“Of course, there’s criteria a potential husband needs to meet,” she continued. “I can only go against my guardian if I find a man who meets a very specific set of characteristics.”
Fuck. He’d been right all along, just wrong about the why. He glanced down at his ring, finally understanding her fascination with it. “Sacred Twenty-Eight.”
“Not that alone,” she said. “To prevent the risk of intermarrying with blood traitors, he has to either be in possession of his family’s Sacred Twenty-Eight crest ring, or have the blessing of the man in his family who does.”
He crossed his arms. Did she forget who she was talking to? “Longbottoms are blood traitors.” Idiotic of a name as it was.
“Yes, but you have the ring.”
He started spinning it on his finger.
Pansy tilted her head back, staring up at the clouds, looking otherwise unaffected by the conversation. “I assume that clause was added after the Weasleys and Prewetts objected to the establishment of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and rejected their rings.”
While his great-grandfather had kept his, thinking it was an absolute lark.
He ran his hand through his hair. “So if you don’t find someone from the Sacred Twenty-Eight with a ring by your birthday—”
“—three weeks from now—”
Fuck, that wasn’t a lot of time. “—you have to marry the man that just attacked you?”
Her face twisted. “He’s in the market for a fifth wife,” she said. “The first four never lived past thirty.”
What the actual fuck? Someone who not only thought it was okay to force himself on his wife whenever he pleased but would murder her? And she just had to go along with whatever her guardian insisted? “That’s not legal.” He’d get Harry and Ron on it right away. If Pansy testified against him and whatever sorry excuse for a guardian she had, they’d both go to Azkaban. “You’re of age, no one can make you—”
“I made a blood oath on my seventeenth birthday.”
Something twisted in his gut. That was when Voldemort was rapidly taking control. “What kind of blood oath?”
The hand gripping her wand turned white at the knuckles. “Binding my magic to my compliance.”
For the first time, he could see the naked terror on her face. Because that wasn’t a choice at all. Marriage to someone who would abuse and possibly murder her, or life as a squib.
It also explained why she didn’t want the aurors involved. No matter how illegal the situation was, her magic was at risk, and legal scrutiny might prevent her from doing something that could save it.
The crestfallen look she’d had at The Three Broomsticks suddenly made sense. He glanced down at his hand. “So it was my ring.”
Fuck of a different story than the Selwyn girls.
A proposal was on the tip of his tongue, but he remembered the look of revulsion on her face when she’d stood in the entryway of the Three Broomsticks.
There had to be someone else, someone she preferred more. He’d help her with that instead. More than half of the Sacred Twenty-Eight was in Azkaban but surely there was still a decent number. He started pacing. “Who’s left?” It’d always seemed like codswallop so he’d never bothered to pay particularly close attention. “It goes Abbott—”
“Halfbloods now, their rain splintered when they gave up their status.”
Probably when Hannah’s parents got married and her father wasn’t disowned for marrying a muggleborn witch.
“Next is…”
“Avery,” she said. “Azkaban.”
“Bulstrode—”
“Halfbloods.”
Millie had never once mentioned that. Although that wasn’t exactly something people talked about during Seventh Year. For a brief moment, he wondered if that was why she’d snuck them healing supplies and helped when she could—like the night she hid Ginny when Amycus was looking for her—but immediately dismissed the thought. Plenty of halfbloods sat quietly without lifting a finger. Millie helped because it was who she was.
He dug a hand through his hair. “Carrow—” He cringed. That would be worse than whoever she was betrothed to now. “Then…”
“Crouch, all dead,” she said. “Let me save you some time. There are only nine families left of the Sacred Twenty-Eight that are not either extinct, about to become so, or have their last remaining members locked up in Azkaban.”
Merlin, he hadn’t realized the numbers had dropped that low. Of course, if the majority of them weren’t all a bunch of blood supremacists and hadn’t pledged their lives to a psychotic megalomaniac, they might have more of a legacy than their last member dying alone in Azkaban.
Still, that gave her options. “Okay, nine is—”
“Three of those, the Abbots, Bulstrodes, and Shacklebolts are all now halfbloods,” she said. “The Weasleys never accepted their ring. Draco and Theo destroyed theirs in a fit of Gryffindor-inspired passion the day Draco disinherited and he and Hermione got engaged.”
How could they do that to her? Draco was in love with Hermione and Theo was gay, but surely they wouldn’t have chosen to be that selfish over the suffering of their friend. “Did they know?”
A flash of annoyance crossed her face. “I was bucking up the courage to tell them,” she said. “Happened too late, obviously.”
“That’s why you don’t want Hermione to know.” She was trying to protect them from feeling guilty. It was a show of loyalty and selflessness he wouldn’t have expected from her, but he was starting to wonder how well he’d really know her at all.
“Five points to Gryffindor,” she mocked.
Or maybe he still did know her a little bit after all. “So that leaves…”
“Fawley.”
“Sullivan and Eustace are both single.”
“Yes, but even if the Fawley’s still have their ring, it’s likely Grimm who has it and considering my father not only led the raid that killed his parents but personally cast the killing curse on Grimm’s mother, it’s safe to say he won’t be blessing any union between our two families.”
He’d forgotten the Fawleys died in the war. Merlin, they’d lost so many. He drug his hand through his hair, trying to focus back on the matter at hand. Who else?
“Ernie Macmillan,” Pansy prompted.
There it was. “I know I’ve seen him with the ring!”
She scoffed. “He’s gay.”
He blinked. Since when? The more he thought back though, the more it made sense. Merlin, how had he missed that?
“And, more importantly,” she continued, “a Hufflepuff.”
He stared at her. “You’d rather marry a gay man over a Hufflepuff?”
If it was possible to roll your eyes with your entire body, Pansy did. “Hufflepuff loyalty,” she spat as if it was a dirty word. “They’ll never forgive me for who I used to be loyal to so even if we could convince my family solicitor he wasn’t actually gay, there’s no way he’d ever agree to this.”
She’d said there were nine families left. That was only eight. “Leaving only…”
He ran his thumb over the crest on his ring again. He really was her only option. No wonder she’d been so repulsed the other night. She wanted nothing to do with him, but it was him, lose her magic, or get married to an abuser.
Pansy adjusted her dress and pushed herself off the wall. “Not to worry, Longbottom,” she said with a flippant air. “I’m nothing if not a survivor.”
He didn’t doubt that but…Merlin. If there was a time she needed help, this was it. “Why didn’t you tell me that two weeks ago?”
She spun with a glare. “Would you have liked that, Longbottom?” she sneered. “Pansy Parkinson on her knees, begging for your help?”
Fuck. The image that put in his head was…damn. He was certain she’d hex his balls off if he ever suggested as much but if she ever volunteered to get on her knees and beg him—
This was not what this was about.
What the fuck was wrong with him? He was almost as bad as the man who’d attacked her.
Merlin, he owed her so many apologies. “You weren’t the first, you know.”
She tapped her wand against her thigh, irritation spreading.
“After Hermione and Draco got together, he went from being shunned by wizarding society to first name basis with the Minister of Magic,” he said. “All sorts of pureblooded families associated with Death Eaters started sending their daughters after any and all single pureblood members of the Order or Dumbledore’s Army.”
The Selwyn girls being the most predatory about it.
“And how many did you take up on those offers?”
For a moment there, it almost sounded like jealousy. “Being used for social status isn’t really my thing.” Of course, he doubted Pansy Parkinson of all people would be into anything that was one of his things.
Of course, neither had Hannah—
Fuck. He ran his hand through his hair. How was he supposed to explain this to Hannah? They’d been broken up for over six months, but if she got married this soon, it would crush him and now he was going to do it to her. “I always thought Hannah and I would eventually work things out, I just…”
“Well, congratulations on being right about me too,” Pansy snapped. “Something to laugh about at your next Dumbledore’s Army reunion party.”
She marched past him but hardly made it half a dozen steps before he stopped her. “What would it take?”
She froze, the tension clear in every line of her body.
He walked around to face her. “To free you from the blood oath?”
Her face tightened. “I already told you—”
“Aside from having to marry me before your birthday.”
She studied him, her expression one of raw vulnerability. “You made yourself very clear that you wanted nothing to do with me or this pureblooded bullshit.”
He winced at her words. Telling her now that he’d intended to apologize for what he said would just feel inauthentic. “When I thought you wanted to use me to climb back to the top of wizarding society, before I knew how much you needed help.”
Her lip curled into a sneer. “Save your pity for someone else, Longbottom—”
Fuck this. “Oh? Is there another woman about to be sold off in marriage to some minor Bulgarian noble who enjoys forcing himself on women and gets rid of his wives once they turn thirty?”
Her expression fell.
“Details, Pansy.”
She looked completely lost as she stared at him.
“How long would we have to stay married? Or would you go back to your guardian again?”
Her throat bobbed. “Thirteen months,” she said. “If I don’t fall pregnant during that time, you can invoke the succession clause.”
Gran was going to murder him. “Since you obviously won’t be, what’s that?”
Her expression hardened. “I’m not exactly eager to fuck you either, Longbottom.”
How was that all she heard from that? And where did she get the impression he wouldn’t be willing to fuck her the moment she asked?
Merlin, he needed to stop thinking about fucking her. “What’s the succession clause?”
“Declares me barren and unfit for another pureblood match.”
Was that seriously the only worth they saw in women? Just a vessel to carry their pureblood spawn?
“Disinherits me from your family and mine with one diagnostic spell from a healter’s wand.”
Her tone was so flippant, the complete opposite of how he would have thought she would feel about being disinherited. The Parkinson line died with her. If she disinherited, she’d be left completely penniless.
“And you’d be okay with that?”
Her lip trembled for a moment before she cleared her throat and her stoic mask returned. “Yes.” She almost sounded…relieved. Desperate for that.
There had to be a catch. “That’s…easy.”
She shifted. “My guardian can sue for breach of contract and take me back at any point during the first year if he suspects any falsity on our parts.”
“So we’d have to live together, pretend to be in love around our friends, that sort of thing.”
“Yes.”
Great. This was getting more and more complicated by the minute. He wouldn’t be able to tell Hannah anything about it, she’d just have to wonder why he suddenly married Pansy Parkinson after dating her off and on since Sixth Year.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. It was probably a good thing that he hadn’t owled Hannah after all. Because there was absolutely no way he would let Pansy marry that man, not when he was the only one who could stop it.
“I have conditions.”
Pansy’s breath caught. “How much?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Gold,” she said. “We had far less than what we pretended to have before the war, and the ministry has taken at least half of what remained, but I’m sure we can negotiate a price.”
A price? She thought she had to bribe him? That he was the sort of person who would extort money from her when she was desperate to save her life? Did she think that little of him, or was that just all she’d ever known?
“I don’t want your gold, Pansy.”
She arched an eyebrow, but her hands shook as she reached for another cigarette.
Fuck, was she actually scared of him?
He summoned it away. “First, no more smoking.”
She flashed him a smirk that didn’t meet her eyes. “How many ways are you going to try to save me, Longbottom?”
“I can’t stand the smell and smoke could kill one of my plants.” Not that Pansy probably couldn’t kill most of them without smoking anyway. He’d just have to make sure she knew which ones not to touch. Or better yet, stayed away from all of them in general.
Moving them all was absolutely out of the question. It had taken him forever to find the perfect house, let alone landlords willing to allow him to make a few changes. “Second,” he said, “we will live at my place in Hogsmeade.”
“I need to be in London—”
“Then Floo or apparate.” One tiny witch was easier to move back and forth than moving his plants or finding an equally fitting setting for them to thrive. “We live in Hogsmeade.”
She stopped arguing. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” If they were going to pretend this was real, he wouldn’t let her make a fool out of him. “No one else.”
Her gaze flicked up to his, a hint of a question in them.
He stepped forward, remembering once again how tiny she was. “No boyfriends, no liaisons, no secret meet ups,” he said. “Fake marriage or not, you will be faithful to me. Understood?”
For once, she didn’t try to argue or throw out another sarcastic comment. Instead, she simply nodded.
“Good—” Her immediate acquiescence after all her brattiness made something in him purr. “Good girl” almost rolled off his tongue before he stopped himself.
Still, he swore he saw her pupils dilate ever so slightly.
Fuck.
Did Pansy Parkinson have a praise kink? Merlin, what the fuck was wrong with him? The last thing he needed to think about was if she had any kinks or what they were. The next thirteen months were going to be long enough.
She stiffened. “I get to fix your wardrobe.”
Praise kink or not, she was definitely a brat. “Absolutely not.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m trying to start a fashion line, my husband can’t walk around like…” She waved her hand towards him, a look of mild disgust on her face.
He cocked his head. “You’re trying to start a fashion line?” He’d assumed she’d want to be some sort of socialite wife, the kind that hosted teas and luncheons and dinner parties. Perhaps serve on a charity board or two for the sake of appearances.
“Yes,” she said, her voice clipped in a way that indicated he’d somehow insulted her. “Modern designs for the modern witch.”
Modern wasn’t anything he’d ever associated with Pansy Parkinson before.
“Inspired in part by muggle fashion.” She threw out that last comment like a gauntlet.
Well, that explained all the short muggle-style dresses. The fact that she wanted to do more, to make a modern line and take inspiration from muggles wasn’t something he would have ever expected from her. “That’s…impressive.”
“I know, but your clothing choices are not,” she quipped.
He rolled his eyes. There she was again.
“Every one of those eyesore jumpers need to be burnt.”
“They were my father’s.”
Her throat bobbed and she stared down at the grass between them.
Fuck. That had come out harsher than he meant it. If it meant that much to her, he supposed he could compromise. “You can buy me new robes for social events but just don’t destroy or alter anything I already own, okay?”
She glanced up, her gaze questioning.
Was he really being that harsh? He was trying to help her. If her guardian and former betrothed were still at her family manor, however, he needed to start sooner rather than later.
“One last thing.” He tried to hold back his smirk. “You’re not going back to that manor.”
She seemed to almost sag with relief, but trepidation was still in her gaze. “I can’t move in with you until we’re married.”
Most pureblood betrothal contracts had odd requirements. That didn’t worry him at all.
But his solution should probably worry Pansy.
“That’s fine,” he said, beaming. “It’s time you met my Gran.”