THE TOWER AND THE STAR - Pansy Neville (HP)

TW: Mention of Pansy's childhood abuse

There they were—another booooring Sunday brunch with their friends. Except this time, it wasn't boring at all.

Ron had brought Lavender.

Pansy spotted them as they strolled in, and instantly, her eyes narrowed in disbelief. Of all the days to show up looking like that. She wasn't exactly Lavender's biggest fan, but today? Today, she was practically offended. Lavender's outfit was a complete disaster, a crime against brunch fashion if Pansy had ever seen one.

"Honestly, what is she wearing?" She muttered to herself, leaning over to whisper to Neville, her voice dripping with disdain. "That outfit looks like it came straight from a 90's charity shop. And not in a chic, vintage way—more like the clearance bin."

Neville gave her a soft, noncommittal hum, but Pansy wasn't done. Oh no, she was just getting started.

"Who shows up to brunch in that shade of mustard yellow? Is she trying to look like an overcooked egg yolk or what?" Pansy continued, her eyes following Lavender as she flounced toward their table. "I mean, it's one thing to wear an ugly outfit, but it's a whole other thing to look like she lost a fight with a bargain bin. What, did she just close her eyes and grab the first thing she touched?"

Luna, sitting next to Ginny, couldn't help but smile as she watched Pansy roast Lavender. She found Pansy's commentary hilarious, and she was amused by Lavender's obliviousness.

"I think Lavender's outfit is quite unique," Luna said, her voice soft. "It's very expressive, don't you think?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Unique? More like a fashion disaster," she replied.

Luna shook her head. "I think it's beautiful. It shows that Lavender is not afraid to be herself. She's not afraid to stand out from the crowd."

Ginny giggled. "You're too kind, Luna. I think Pansy has a point."

Luna shrugged. "Maybe so. But I think Lavender looks lovely. And that's what matters most."

Ginny, sitting across the table, caught Pansy's eye and smirked. She was clearly enjoying the commentary. "Go easy on her, Pans. Maybe she's going for a 'retro mess' vibe."

She raised an eyebrow, shooting Ginny a sideways glance. "Please, if that's retro, then I'm a Muggle. And don't get me started on those shoes. Merlin's beard, are those...clogs?" She practically gasped. "Clogs, Red! In public!"

He choked on his drink, trying and failing to suppress his laughter. "Sassy," he said, half-amused, half-begging her to behave, "be nice."

But she wasn't done. Oh no. This was a battlefield, and Lavender was walking right into her line of fire.

"I swear, Ron must be blind," she went on, now fully committed to the roast. "He's a Gryffindor, so that explains some of it, but this? This is just tragic. Someone needs to send her a howler. A fashion howler."

Lavender, blissfully unaware of Pansy's ongoing critique, smiled brightly as she approached the table, her mustard monstrosity of a dress swaying awkwardly with each step. Her eyes flicked to Ron, who looked utterly clueless, as if he hadn't noticed the atrocity standing next to him. Of course, he hadn't. Typical.

"Morning, everyone!" Lavender chirped, taking her seat beside Ron, who grinned sheepishly at the group.

Pansy returned her smile with one of her own—a thin, tight-lipped smile that spoke volumes. "Morning, Lav. Love the outfit," she said sweetly, batting her lashes. "So...bold."

Ginny had to bite down on her napkin to keep from laughing out loud. Draco, who had been quietly sipping his tea, smirked into his cup, knowing better than to get involved.

"Thanks, Pansy!" Lavender replied, beaming. "It's vintage!"

"Ah, yes," she said, her voice as smooth as silk. "I could tell. Very...timeless." She took a sip of her mimosa, pausing for dramatic effect. "I mean, it's practically prehistoric."

Neville elbowed her lightly under the table, but it was too late. Ginny had dissolved into barely concealed giggles, and even Ron was starting to look suspiciously at Lavender's dress, as if he was only now realizing her thinly veiled insults.

"Well," Lavender said, oblivious to the shade being thrown her way, "I just thought it would be fun to wear something a little different."

"Different? Absolutely," she agreed, nodding slowly. "No one else would dare."

Draco finally chimed in, his tone lazy but amused. "Bold choice, Lavender. It's not every day you see someone pull off... clogs."

Lavender blinked, glancing down at her shoes as if only now realizing they were the subject of scrutiny. "Oh, these? They're super comfortable."

Her smile was razor-sharp. "I'm sure they are, darling. Comfort over style—always a choice."

Ron, clearly sensing the tension but unsure of how to fix it, awkwardly cleared his throat and reached for a scone. "So, uh... how's everyone been?"

"Oh, just fabulous," she said, her tone dripping with saccharine sweetness. "This brunch just gets more...interesting...every week."

As the conversation shifted, Pansy leaned back in her chair, sipping her drink with a satisfied smirk. Sure, it was just another Sunday brunch with friends, but with Lavender here, it was turning into something far more entertaining.

And really, she thought, glancing at Lavender's outfit one last time, wasn't that what Sundays were for?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If Draco Malfoy was an enigma, a puzzle wrapped in icy coolness and centuries of pureblood mystery, then Lavender Brown was a straight-up bitch—bold, loud, and an absolute conundrum. Trying to make sense of her was like attempting to solve an equation with missing variables, all while she prattled on about the latest trends or some meaningless gossip.

Sitting next to her at brunch felt like pure, unadulterated misery for Hermione. Every high-pitched giggle from Lavender made Hermione's skin crawl. She would honestly rather be Alan Turing, cracking impossible codes for the rest of her life, than endure another minute of this superficial torture. At least cracking codes had a point—sitting next to Lavender felt like slowly losing brain cells to a never-ending stream of inane chatter.

Trapped at the brunch table with Lavender Brown, Hermione could feel a familiar wave of irritation rising like a storm. Draco, for all his cold stares and cryptic remarks, at least had depth—a challenge worth unraveling. But Lavender? She was nothing more than a walking tabloid, spilling gossip and self-importance with every exaggerated flick of her hair. Hermione would have preferred deciphering ancient runes off a troll's backside—at least that would've been intellectually stimulating.

Her eyes drifted to her china cup, feigning interest in the delicate patterns as Lavender droned on. The truth was, she'd rather be interrogating a Death Eater, wands drawn and tension high, than sitting through this mind-numbing drivel. Anything would be better than listening to Lavender's endless stream of superficial nonsense.

Lavender Brown, a human incarnation of a spoiled perfume sample, poked at her lukewarm breakfast. Every saccharine word felt dripping with condescension, a poorly veiled jab at Hermione's perceived social climb. It was a game of one-upmanship, a battle of appearances, and Hermione was growing weary of the charade.

"Alright Granger," Lavender drawled, her perfectly manicured nails tapping a staccato rhythm on the tablecloth. "Fancy seeing you here. Still slumming it with Ministry wages, or have you Malfoy coughing up enough Galleons for caviar these days? I hear the new Auror uniforms are rather...plebeian." Her voice was laced with venom, her eyes scanning Hermione with a predatory gleam.

Hermione, ever the picture of politeness, offered a tightly controlled smile. "It has its adjustments, Lavender. Though renovations can be quite rewarding when you get to personalise the space." Her voice held a hint of sugar, sweet enough to curdle milk, but laced with a pointed barb about Lavender's lack of interior design knowledge.

Lavender's eyes sparkled with a hint of malice. "I bet. It must be so... thrilling to live in such a modern place. All that luxury and, of course, the Malfoy legacy."

The insinuation in Lavender's words was clear. Hermione clenched her jaw, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "Every place has its charm. It's the people who live there now that matter."

Lavender's eyes narrowed, her voice dripping with venom. "Oh, please, Granger. Don't pretend you're some sort of martyr. You married up, plain and simple. And don't think I haven't noticed the way you've been clinging to Malfoy like a barnacle. It's almost pathetic."

Pansy was seething, every nerve on edge as Lavender's grating voice continued to claw at her patience. The woman was insufferable, her presence alone enough to irritate Pansy to no end. Her hands itched to throw a snide comment or two, but before she could open her mouth, Neville's firm grip tightened around her waist, pulling her closer in a silent plea.

"Please, love," he murmured softly into her ear, his voice low and soothing. "Behave."

Pansy shot him a sideways glance, her eyes flashing with defiance. "No promises," she whispered back, her tone sharp as a blade.

She could feel the tension bubbling under her skin, desperate to erupt. Keeping quiet around Lavender was like trying to bottle a storm. But Neville's presence, solid and reassuring, kept her just on the edge of restraint. For now.

Hermione's patience was wearing thin. She could feel her face growing hot. "Lavender, I appreciate your concern for my happiness, but perhaps we should change the subject. This conversation seems to be going nowhere productive." Her voice was firm, but she tried to maintain a polite tone.

Draco's patience, too, was wearing thin. "Lavender," he interjected, his voice low and dangerous, "I believe this conversation has reached its conclusion."

Lavender smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Just curious, Draco. We're all friends here, aren't we?"

"Friends," Hermione thought bitterly. If this was friendship, she'd rather be alone. 

"I would advise your husband to be more respectful and keep his eyes to himself during the meal," Draco said icily, his gaze locked with Ronald's. The atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically, the once hushed conversation turning into a tense silence. Hermione's hand tightened around Draco's, a silent plea for calm.

"Perhaps you should consider keeping your own eyes on your plate, rather than lingering over what doesn't belong to you. Because if I catch that intrusive gaze directed at my wife once more," he continued, a glint of steel flashing in his eyes, "well, let's just say this breakfast might end a bit more abruptly than you'd like." Draco's eyes narrowed. "Admire from afar, Weasley. Or better yet, don't admire at all."

Draco's hand, pale and elegant, closed around the silver knife. Its weight shifted in his palm, a familiar balance. His eyes, icy and predatory, locked onto Ron, a cold, calculating gleam in them. The clatter of cutlery and hushed conversations faded into a distant hum. The world narrowed to two men, a silent promise hanging heavy in the air.

The knife spun lazily in his fingers, catching the light in a deadly dance. Each rotation was a silent threat, a promise of violence should the need arise. Ron's face, once flushed with anger, turned a sickly shade of green. His eyes darted around, searching for an escape, a way out of this suffocating tension. But there was no escape. Only Draco, and the promise of pain that gleamed in his hand.

Ron cleared his throat nervously before responding, "Look, Malfoy, I wasn't—"

Draco cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Save it, Weasley. I know how you used to look at her, and old habits die hard.

"No need for explanations, Weasley," Draco drawled, his voice laced with a silky menace. "We all have a past, don't we? Some are more regrettable than others, of course." He tilted his head slightly, a predator toying with his prey. "Isn't that right? After all, a leopard can't change its spots, can it?"

Hermione placed a calming hand on Draco's arm. "Draco."

Draco's expression softened slightly as he turned to Hermione. "I'm just making sure our boundaries are clear."

Ron nodded, still a bit flustered. "Yeah, I get it. Sorry, 'Mione."

Draco narrowed his eyes, his voice low. "Do not talk to her directly, Ronald. She is mine. She is mine to look at, to talk to. She means nothing to you now and forever. I'm the only one who knows how the golden cunt tastes. Get over her, and get back to that whore of a woman, that you call a wife."

Hermione stood from the table and without a warning apparated them back to their home.

The tension in the room shattered in an instant.

Pansy, without a second thought, lunged across the table, knocking over glasses and sending a wave of mimosa splashing right into Lavender's stunned face.

"HOW DARE YOU!" Pansy shouted, her voice echoing through the room like a crack of thunder, her eyes blazing with fury.

Luna, always calm but not one to tolerate such behavior, stood as well, her expression one of disappointment. "This is absolutely disgusting," she said quietly, but the weight of her words hung heavily in the now-silent room.

Ron, looking completely out of his depth, sat there frozen, his face flushed and confused, like a child caught in the middle of a grown-up fight, utterly useless.

Ginny, however, was livid. Her fiery temper, always ready to ignite, flared in an instant. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped, rounding on Ron, grabbing his arm, and yanking him to his feet with a force that surprised even him.

Without waiting for a response, she dragged him from the table, her expression stormy as they disappeared into the next room, leaving an uncomfortable silence in their wake.

Pansy's voice dripped with venom as she leaned in, eyes narrowed, her gaze fixed on Lavender. "You have no right to talk about Hermione like that. What's the problem, Lavender? Can't handle being a sloppy second? Can't stand the fact that she's always been better than you? And guess what? She'll always be better."

Lavender's face paled, but before she could respond, Luna gracefully stepped forward, her usual serenity replaced with quiet intensity. "You're not even a sloppy second, Lavender," Luna said, her voice calm but cutting. "You were never more than an afterthought. How can you be jealous of someone as kind and brilliant as Hermione? She's a wonderful person—her goodness radiates."

Neville, who had been silently clenching his jaw, finally spoke, his voice calm but filled with quiet authority. "And an incredible friend. She's everything you'll never grasp."

Before the tension could escalate further, Blaise rose from his seat with a cold, controlled demeanor. His gaze flickered to Lavender, and his voice was low, dripping with disdain. "Brown," he said, his words sharp as a blade, "it's time for you to leave. And if you leave so much as a single champagne stain on my rug, you'll regret it."

His eyes narrowed as he added with a biting edge, "Fucking bitch."

Luna and Pansy were seething, their anger palpable. Luna, usually calm and serene, had a rare storm brewing behind her blue eyes. "How could she ruin a perfectly good breakfast?" Luna said, her voice unusually sharp, her usual tranquility nowhere in sight.

Pansy, on the other hand, was pacing, fists clenched and muttering under her breath. "That woman has some nerve. I swear, I'm about to go beat that bitch up." She turned toward the door, fully intending to chase Lavender down.

Neville, sensing the danger, quickly rushed over, wrapping his arms around her waist before she could storm out of the room. "Sassy, darling," he whispered soothingly, though he was clearly trying not to laugh at the sight of his furious wife, "let's just go home, okay?"

Pansy, still glaring in the direction Lavender had disappeared, grumbled, "No! I want to hit her!"

Neville, ever the peacekeeper, pressed a kiss to her temple, his tone gentle but firm. "Alright, love. You can hit the plant when we get home."

Pansy huffed, crossing her arms in defeat. "Fine. But it better be a big one."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They apparated home in a flash of light, and the moment they arrived, Pansy's pent-up frustration bubbled back to the surface. Without a word, she sprinted towards the greenhouse, her expression a mix of fury and determination. The vibrant green of the plants greeted her, but all she could see was the offending lavender that had stirred her ire earlier.

With a fierce shout, she stormed over to the nearest lavender plant, her palm connecting with its delicate stems in a sharp slap. "Take that, you insipid bitch!" she exclaimed, her anger manifesting in a whirlwind of frustration.

He followed closely behind, shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and concern. "Better?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he watched the plant tremble from the unexpected assault.

She paused for a moment, panting slightly as she took in her handiwork. "A bit," she admitted, the corners of her mouth twitching as the adrenaline began to fade.

"Alright, but let's not go abusing my plants anymore, okay?" he replied, trying to maintain a sense of levity in the tense atmosphere. He stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

She turned to him, her frustration giving way to a reluctant smile. "Fine. But you owe me a new plant if I can't get that one to thrive again."

He chuckled, pulling her into a comforting embrace. "Deal. Just promise me you won't go after my prized roses next time."

She smirked, feeling a bit lighter. "No promises. They might be next on my hit list if Lavender continues to annoy me."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She paced back and forth in her living room, her frustration mounting with each passing moment. The tension in the air felt thick enough to cut with a knife as she tried to reach Draco and Blaise. They were usually so reachable, but today they were as elusive as a shadow at twilight. With a huff, she decided to take matters into her own hands and floo-called Theo.

"Pansy," Theo's familiar voice crackled through the flames, but there was an edge of urgency in his tone that sent a shiver down her spine. "What's going on?"

"What the fuck is happening?" she shot back, trying to keep her voice steady despite the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. "I can't reach the other wankers. What's so important that I'm left in the dark?"

Theo sighed, his expression grave. "We're going on a mission. I can't explain everything right now."

"Of course you are," Pansy replied, rolling her eyes. "You always go on a mission."

"Pansy, just pack a funeral dress, okay?" Theo interrupted, his voice low and serious.

Her heart dropped at his words, and she blinked in disbelief. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Listen to me," he continued, his tone turning sharper. "Weasley, we have dirt on him. It's not just about ogling Hermione. It's much more sinister than that."

Her heart raced as she tried to process what he was implying. "Like what? What kind of dirt?"

Theo hesitated, the weight of his silence filling the space between them. "Let's just say he's been less than kind to those around him, Hermione included. He's crossed a line that can't be ignored."

The gravity of his words hung in the air, leaving a cold knot in Pansy's stomach. A flicker of unease sparked within her, but she couldn't bear to dwell on it. Whatever Ron had done, it was serious, and the thought of it made her blood run cold.

Her breath hitched in her throat. "Oh Merlin…" The realization settled in, a chilling dread wrapping around her heart. Ron Weasley, the once-innocent boy she'd grown up with, had become something darker, more twisted. 

"Yeah," Theo replied, his voice steady but laced with anger. "And if we don't do something about it soon, it'll only escalate. We need to protect her. All of us."

She felt a surge of determination mixing with her anger. "What do we do?"

"Now be a good girl and shut your mouth," Theo said, but there was a softness beneath his words, a reminder that he cared for her well-being. "I'll handle the details. We'll need to move quickly."

As the call ended, Pansy took a deep breath, her mind racing. She turned towards her wardrobe, already formulating a plan in her head. The world may have been swirling with chaos, but she wouldn't let it engulf her. With each piece of clothing she gathered, she felt the fire within her igniting, fueling her resolve to protect those she loved and confront the darkness that had taken root in the lives of her friends.

Ronald Weasley. Her former classmate. He had always been a bit peculiar, but this? A sinister man lurking beneath the surface? A war could twist anyone into something unrecognizable. Pansy had seen it happen before—friends turned enemies, heroes turned villains. It made her uneasy, the thought that someone she once knew could harbor such darkness. She couldn't shake the feeling that the war had carved something deep into his soul, a shadow that now clouded his judgment and morals. What other secrets lay hidden behind that familiar facade?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, she found herself standing outside his office, her thoughts heavy with everything Theo had told her. She knocked briskly, not even waiting for a response before stepping inside, her heels clicking as she crossed the threshold.

He was sitting at his desk, surrounded by plant specimens and a stack of parchment, but when he looked up and saw Pansy's expression, his usual warm smile faltered. "Parky, everything alright?"

Pansy strode over and perched on the edge of his desk, crossing her arms, her eyes sharp with purpose.

"Neville, may I ask what you know about Weasel," she paused, her lip curling in disdain, "and the bitch's relationship?"

He raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair, his face creasing in confusion.

"Ron and Lavender?" He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not much, honestly. They've always been... hectic, like fire and gasoline."

She rolled her eyes dramatically, letting out an exaggerated huff of frustration.

"Nevie, don't insult my intelligence, or my eyes for that matter." Her voice was sharp, but there was an edge of vulnerability hidden beneath the bravado. "I know what I saw."

He looked at her, his brow furrowing, but he didn't interrupt. He knew when Pansy was in this mood, it was best to let her continue.

"We both saw the bruise on Lavender's wrist at brunch last month. You can't tell me that was nothing."

He sat up straighter, his expression serious now. He hated gossip, but there was no denying that she had a point.

"Yes, love, I saw it too." His voice was quiet, thoughtful. "But what do you want me to do about it? None of us particularly like Ron or Lavender. And Lavender isn't exactly... forthcoming."

Her eyes narrowed, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She couldn't believe how dismissive he was being. Neville was always calm, always measured, but this wasn't the time for that.

"Neville, this isn't about whether we like them or not! That bruise wasn't from a Quidditch match, and it wasn't an accident." Her voice dropped, the urgency in her words unmistakable. "What if… what if there's more to it?"

His expression softened, but his voice was still cautious.

"Pans, we don't know the full story. Maybe it's not what we think. Lavender can be… volatile, but Ron… I don't think he'd…"

She cut him off, her frustration bubbling over.

"Don't be naive. You don't think he'd what? Hurt her? He's a bloody Weasley. Just because they're Gryffindors doesn't mean they're incapable of being cruel."

"I'm not saying that, Pansy, but—"

"Was he abusive toward Hermione? When they were together, did you ever notice anything?"

That question landed like a bomb. His eyes widened, and he leaned back in his chair, looking genuinely taken aback. Hermione's name brought a new tension to the conversation, and she could feel it in the way the air in the room seemed to still.

"Hermione? I… I don't recall anything like that happening. She was always so… busy when they were together." His voice was careful, almost too careful. "She was always off at the Ministry, or working on some project. I don't think Ron ever had the chance to be… well, anything. He was just there."

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with that explanation.

"Busy? Please, don't feed me that rubbish. Hermione was always 'busy,' but that doesn't mean there wasn't something else going on. Did you ever stop to think that maybe she was avoiding him? Maybe she was 'busy' to get away from him?"

Neville looked thoughtful for a moment, but then shook his head.

"I don't know, Pansy. Hermione never mentioned anything to me, and she wasn't the type to keep quiet if something was wrong. If Ron had hurt her, I'm sure she would've said something. She's strong like that."

She scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"Strong? Please. Just because Hermione is the smartest witch of our generation doesn't mean she'd broadcast her problems for everyone to see. She's prideful, Neville. She wouldn't have wanted anyone to know if she was suffering. Not with him."

His frown deepened, and he stood up, walking over to her. He gently placed a hand on her arm, trying to calm her down.

"Pansy, I get that you're worried. But we can't jump to conclusions without knowing the full story. Hermione would have told someone if Ron had hurt her. She's not the type to keep that to herself."

She stared at him for a long moment, her gaze hard and unrelenting. She knew Neville meant well, but his faith in people's honesty was sometimes infuriating. He didn't understand how deep certain wounds could go, how well people could hide their pain.

"I'm not jumping to conclusions. I'm asking questions because I don't like what I'm seeing. Lavender's a mess, and now you're telling me Hermione was always 'busy' when she was with Ron? Something doesn't add up."

He sighed, pulling her into a soft hug.

"I know, love. But let's not get ahead of ourselves, alright? We don't know what's really going on, and we don't want to make accusations without proof."

She didn't respond, but her mind was already racing, trying to connect the dots. She wasn't one to let things go, especially not when she sensed something was off. She rested her chin on his shoulder, but her eyes remained cold, distant.

"Nevie… I can't just sit back and do nothing. There's something wrong, I know it. And if no one else is going to do anything about it, I will."

He pulled back slightly, looking her in the eyes.

 "Just promise me you won't do anything rash. Let me talk to some people, see if there's more to this. Don't go charging into the middle of it."

Pansy smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"Since when have I ever done anything rash?"

He chuckled softly, shaking his head.

"Fair point. But still… just be careful. You know how messy things can get when you start digging into other people's lives."

She nodded, though her thoughts were already far ahead of her. She had a bad feeling about all of this—a feeling she couldn't shake. And when Pansy Parkinson had a bad feeling, it usually meant something dark was lurking beneath the surface.

As she left his study, she made a silent vow to herself: she was going to find out exactly what was going on between Ron and Lavender. And if it was worse than she feared, well… Ron Weasley wouldn't know what hit him.

Hours later, something shifted within him. The conversation with Pansy had been gnawing at him, pulling at threads of concern he hadn't fully unraveled before. His mind replayed moments, memories—glimpses of her reactions when certain topics were raised, the way she sometimes shut down, her sharp tongue hiding something deeper. He couldn't let it rest. There was something more to her, something she had hidden away, and the thought made his heart ache.

He moved quietly, as if approaching a skittish creature, making his way to the living room. She was stretched across the sofa, her legs elegantly draped over the armrest, her fingers lightly grazing the fur of Lady Lemongrass, who sat contentedly at her feet. The pug snorted softly in her sleep, and she was absentmindedly stroking her, her mind far away.

He stood there for a moment, his eyes soft as he took in the sight of her. There was something fragile about her in that instant, something that made his chest tighten. He crossed the room slowly, his movements deliberate, and sat down on the edge of the sofa, not quite touching her but close enough that she could feel his presence.

"My love," he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. He waited for her to look at him, her sharp eyes locking onto his. He hesitated for just a moment, unsure of how to approach the storm that was brewing behind those eyes. "Has anyone… ever hurt you?"

She raised an eyebrow, her expression hardening as if his question had struck a nerve. She shifted slightly, the weight of his words pressing down on her.

"A lot of people have hurt me, love." Her voice was clipped, guarded. "Be specific."

He frowned, the softness in his eyes deepening. He hated seeing her like this—defensive, on edge, always ready to lash out to protect herself. He reached out, placing a hand gently on her knee, grounding her in the moment.

"Did anyone ever… hit you?" The words were spoken softly, but they hung heavy in the air, as if the weight of them could shatter something between them.

Her reaction was immediate. Her body stiffened, and her jaw clenched tightly. She sat up, swinging her legs off the couch, distancing herself from him. She folded her arms across her chest like armor, her eyes flashing with something raw and unspoken.

"YES." Her voice cracked, but it was sharp as a blade, cutting through the quiet of the room. "Yes, alright? Happy now?"

He flinched at the venom in her voice, but he didn't retreat. Instead, he reached for her again, his hands gentle but firm as he pulled her closer to him. He wasn't going to let her shut him out, not now.

"Baby, please." His voice was soft, pleading. He carefully wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest, holding her like she was something precious and breakable. She resisted at first, her body rigid against his, but eventually, the fight drained out of her. She melted into him, her head resting against his shoulder, her hands clutching at his shirt as if she was afraid to let go.

"Would you like to talk about it?" His hand ran soothingly through her hair, his touch light, not pushing her but letting her know he was there—completely there for her, no matter what.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, her shallow and uneven, his steady and calming. She shook her head, her throat tight as she fought back the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

"Nope," she whispered, but her voice betrayed her. It wasn't strong anymore. It was small, vulnerable. She didn't want to talk, but the truth was already leaking out of her in the form of unshed tears. Her eyes filled with water in that instant, her breath hitching as she tried to hold it all in, to keep herself together.

Neville didn't say anything more. He didn't push. He simply held her tighter, his lips pressing softly against the top of her head as she trembled in his arms. He didn't need her to talk if she wasn't ready. He knew she'd been through hell, and if all she needed right now was to be held, then that's exactly what he would do.

Her tears finally spilled over, silently soaking into his shirt. She hated this—hated feeling weak, hated that she couldn't keep her walls up around him. But at the same time, being in his arms felt safe. It was the only place where she could let herself fall apart, where she didn't have to be the sharp-tongued, invincible Pansy Parkinson.

He held her through it all, his heart breaking for her. He could feel her pain, the weight of all the things she wasn't saying pressing down on them both. He wished he could take it all away, but he knew that wasn't possible. All he could do was be there, and that would have to be enough.

When the sobs finally subsided, she pulled back slightly, wiping at her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand. She wouldn't meet his eyes, still too raw from the flood of emotions.

"I'm fine," she muttered, though her voice was still shaky, as if she was trying to convince herself more than him.

He cupped her face gently, tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to look at him. His eyes were soft, full of love and understanding.

"You don't have to be fine, Pansy. Not with me." That was all it took. Another wave of tears spilled from her eyes, but this time, she didn't fight them. She let herself cry, and for once, she didn't feel weak for doing it.

He just held her, murmuring soft reassurances, his fingers running through her hair, grounding her in the warmth of his love.

"You're safe, love. I've got you. You're safe with me."

She clung to him, the weight of years of pain and anger finally beginning to lift. She wasn't ready to talk about it—not yet—but she knew that when she was, Neville would be there, just like he always was. And for now, that was enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pansy had spent the last week in a haze, a persistent fog of fatigue and sorrow that clung to her like a shroud. The early autumn chill seeped through the windows of the Manor, and she could feel its bite on her skin. Days blurred together, each one a shadow of the last, as she found herself curled up on the couch, a blanket wrapped tightly around her, but it did little to warm her.

Lady Lemongrass had sensed her distress, snuggling close, providing a small measure of comfort in the way only a pet could. But even the usually endearing antics of her beloved companion failed to lift her spirits. She spent hours staring blankly at the fire, its flickering flames mirroring the turmoil within her.

The truth was that her malaise stemmed not from any physical illness but from an emotional illness that gnawed at her insides. She was upset at herself, frustrated with the part of her that had become a fortress, so determined to guard its secrets that it had nearly suffocated her. She had spent far too long hiding behind walls she had constructed brick by brick throughout her childhood. Walls built from the hurtful experiences that had shaped her, that had carved deep grooves into her soul.

How could she not share her childhood with the love of her life?

The question echoed in her mind like a haunting melody. She had grown up in a world where vulnerability was seen as weakness, where showing her true self would lead to nothing but mockery and disdain. Her parents had always instilled in her the belief that emotions were a liability, something to be hidden beneath layers of bravado. The relentless pressure to maintain a facade of perfection had left her feeling isolated, even among those who were supposed to be closest to her.

She thought of him, with his gentle spirit and unwavering patience. He had opened himself to her in ways that left her in awe. His own struggles, his own vulnerabilities, he shared with her openly. Yet here she was, clinging to her own secrets, terrified of what would happen if she let them slip. Pansy felt like a fraud, living in the light of their love while hiding the darkness of her past.

The memories flooded her mind, unwelcome and persistent. Her childhood home, with its high walls and cold marble floors, felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. The echoes of raised voices, the sting of sharp words flung like daggers, lingered in the corners of her mind. Her parents had been distant, emotionally unavailable, caught up in their own worlds of prestige and reputation. She had learned early on that affection was a commodity she would have to fight for, a treasure she would never receive unless she conformed to their expectations.

As the week dragged on, she found herself grappling with the heaviness of her silence. She remembered the last time she had seen him, the way he had looked at her with concern when she had brushed off his questions about her well-being. She had wanted to be brave for him, to show him that she was strong, that she could handle her feelings without burdening him with her past. But instead, she had only pushed him away, creating a rift that left her feeling more alone than ever.

What had she been thinking?

Each day that passed without her sharing the truth felt like another nail driven into the coffin of their relationship. The thought of losing him made her heart race with fear. What if he couldn't love her fully if he knew the depths of her pain? What if he saw her as weak? She couldn't bear the thought of his disappointment, the look in his eyes that said he no longer recognized her.

But deep down, she knew that keeping this part of herself hidden was not sustainable. The walls she had built were starting to crack, the pressure building behind them until she felt she might burst. Pansy longed to be free, to breathe in the fresh air of honesty and vulnerability, but every time she tried to approach the topic, fear would seize her heart, and the words would become lodged in her throat.

As she sat there, staring into the flames, Pansy felt a wave of determination wash over her. She had been living under a veil of shadows for too long, allowing her past to dictate her present. If she truly loved Neville—and she did—she owed it to him, and to herself, to share her story.

Perhaps it was time to take a leap of faith.

With a newfound resolve, Pansy rose from the couch, wrapping her arms around herself as if to gather her courage. She glanced at Lady, who looked up at her with an expression that seemed to say, "You can do this." The little pug had always been her cheerleader, a beacon of unconditional love that inspired Pansy in moments of doubt.

She paced the room, breathing in deeply, trying to calm the storm inside her. She would tell Neville everything—the pain, the hurt, the scars that still throbbed under her skin. She imagined the moment vividly, seeing his warm eyes filled with understanding, his gentle smile encouraging her to share the darkest corners of her heart.

But as the day faded into night, doubt crept back in, whispering insidious thoughts that made her second-guess herself. Would he truly understand? Would he see her as she truly was, or would he pull away, terrified of the shadows lurking behind her?

She picked up her wand and absentmindedly twirled it in her fingers, contemplating what to do next. Should she write him a letter? No, that felt too impersonal. Perhaps a more direct approach was needed.

After what felt like hours of deliberation, Pansy decided she wouldn't wait any longer. She would confront her fears head-on and invite him to sit with her. She would find a way to open up, to breach the chasm her silence had created.

With a deep breath, she grabbed her cloak, the cool fabric reminding her of her strength.

"I can do this," she whispered to herself as she stepped out of the manor and into the cool night air.

The walk to his office felt both exhilarating and terrifying, each step a testament to her determination. She imagined how he would react, picturing the moment when she would finally let him into her world, allowing him to see the real Pansy, flaws and all.

She raised her hand and knocked on the door, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night. A part of her wondered if she would turn back, if she would flee back into the safety of her solitude. But as the door creaked open and his familiar face appeared, all doubts melted away.

He looked surprised but concerned, his eyes immediately searching hers for answers.

She took a breath, feeling the gravity of the moment. "Nevie," she said softly, her voice trembling slightly, "can we talk?"

And in that moment, as he stepped aside to let her in, she knew she was taking the first step toward freedom—freedom from her past, freedom from her fears, and perhaps, a new kind of freedom with Neville by her side.

Neville's gentle voice broke the stillness of the room. "My love, we don't have to talk about it if you're not ready."

Pansy had been sitting across from him, silent for what felt like an eternity, her mind spinning with a million thoughts that refused to settle. His words, so soft and filled with concern, washed over her like a wave of comfort, but they also stirred something deeper within her. She had been holding onto this burden for so long, the weight of it pressing down on her soul. It had become part of her, a shadow she carried in the corners of her mind.

But now, here was Neville, the love of her life, offering her an escape from the darkness she had grown so accustomed to. She knew he meant every word—if she wanted to keep it buried, he would never push her. He would let it lie, allow her to hold her secrets close if that's what she needed. But that's not what she wanted. Not anymore.

She looked at him, her heart aching. He was sitting on the sofa, his posture relaxed but his eyes filled with worry. With two fingers, he motioned for her to come closer. The simple gesture was enough to break down her last defenses. She felt a surge of emotion rise within her, a mix of fear and gratitude. Slowly, she stood from where she had been sitting and walked over to him. Her steps were hesitant at first, as if each one carried her closer to an abyss she wasn't sure she could cross.

When she reached him, she didn't sit beside him. Instead, she lowered herself onto his lap, curling into him like a child seeking comfort. His arms wrapped around her, holding her close, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him. It was grounding, soothing in a way that nothing else could be. For a moment, she just let herself exist in that space, feeling his warmth, his presence.

Neville pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her temple, his lips barely brushing her skin. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice hoarse with unshed tears.

"Anytime, my love," he murmured against her hair. "I'm here."

She closed her eyes, letting his words sink in. He was here. He had always been here, patient and unwavering. And he deserved to know. She owed it to him to let him in, to share the parts of herself she had kept hidden for so long.

"It was my parents," she said suddenly, her voice trembling. The admission hung in the air between them like a weight. "They were the ones who abused me."

His arms tightened around her slightly, a silent show of support. He didn't say anything, didn't push her to continue. He simply held her, letting her decide when to speak.

She swallowed hard, her throat constricting with the effort. The memories, the ones she had locked away for years, began to surface. They were hazy at first, like ghosts at the edge of her consciousness, but the more she spoke, the clearer they became.

"I was... so young when it started," she began, her voice quiet, almost detached. "I didn't even realize it was wrong at first. 

My parents—everything they did, they framed it as if it was normal. They were strict, yes, but I thought that was just how things were supposed to be. I thought all children were treated the way I was."

He remained silent, his hand gently stroking her back in slow, soothing circles. Pansy felt the tension in her body ease slightly as she continued.

"They had rules for everything," she said, her voice soft but growing heavier with every word. "How I sat, how I spoke, what I wore, how I walked. Everything had to be perfect, or there would be consequences. At first, it was just the coldness, the disapproving looks. My father had a way of making you feel like you were worthless with just a glance. And my mother... she played her part, too. She was distant, always so concerned with appearances, with making sure we looked like the perfect family on the outside. But inside, it was... it was different."

She paused, her breath hitching slightly as she felt the old memories clawing their way back to the surface. Neville's touch was steady, grounding her, silently encouraging her to go on.

"As I got older, it got worse. They expected more from me. It wasn't enough to just be a good student or a well-behaved daughter. I had to be flawless. I wasn't allowed to make mistakes, to show weakness. If I cried, they'd mock me. If I failed, they'd tear me apart. My father... he was the worst. He'd remind me that I was a Parkinson, that I had a legacy to uphold. He said I should be grateful for everything they were doing for me, that it was all to make me strong."

Her voice trembled, and she fought back the tears that threatened to spill over. She hadn't allowed herself to feel this in so long. It was easier to pretend it didn't matter, to bury it beneath layers of indifference and snark. But now, sitting here with Neville, it was all unraveling.

"And when I wasn't strong enough," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "he made sure I knew it. He wasn't the type to hit me, not at first. He didn't need to. He had his words. He'd stand over me, tall and menacing, and tell me how weak I was, how disappointing. He'd remind me that I was a failure, that I'd never be good enough for him or for anyone. And I believed him."

Her voice broke, and she felt the first tear slip down her cheek. She didn't try to wipe it away this time. Neville was there, his hand still rubbing her back, his other arm holding her close. He didn't say anything, but his presence was enough. He was listening, and for the first time in her life, she felt like someone truly cared about what she had to say.

"The first time he hit me," she whispered, "I was fourteen. I don't even remember what I did to make him so angry. It didn't take much. I must have said something, or maybe I didn't say enough. But I remember the look in his eyes—how cold they were. He slapped me, hard enough that I fell. And when I looked up at him, he just... he just stared at me like I was nothing. Like I wasn't even worth his anger. He didn't say a word, just turned and walked away."

She took a shaky breath, the memories cutting deeper than she had expected. "After that, I was scared all the time. I never knew when it would happen again. Sometimes he'd go days without saying anything to me, and then out of nowhere, he'd snap. He never apologized, never explained. It was like I didn't matter. And my mother... she just let it happen. She never defended me, never even acknowledged it. She just... turned a blind eye."

He tightened his hold on her, his silence speaking volumes. She could feel the tension in his body, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. But he didn't interrupt her. He let her speak, allowed her to let it all out.

"I tried so hard to be perfect," she said, her voice wavering. "I thought if I could just be what they wanted, they'd stop. But nothing was ever good enough. The harder I tried, the more they pushed. And when I finally gave up, when I stopped caring... they called me a failure. They said I was weak, ungrateful."

She wiped at her eyes, the tears falling freely now. "That's why I am the way I am. Why I push people away. It's easier that way, you know? If I keep everyone at arm's length, then no one can hurt me like they did. No one can get close enough to see the cracks."

His heart ached for her. He had always known Pansy was guarded, that she kept her walls up. But he hadn't realized just how deep those walls went, how much pain she had been hiding behind them.

"Parky," he said softly, his voice full of tenderness. "You don't have to be perfect for me. You don't have to be anything but yourself. I love you, flaws and all."

She looked up at him, her eyes red and glistening with tears. "I don't know how to let go of it, love. I've carried this for so long. I don't know how to be... free."

He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing away her tears. "You don't have to let go of it all at once. We'll take it one day at a time, together. You're not alone anymore. You have me. And I will always be here for you, no matter what."

His words, so simple and sincere, broke something inside her. The floodgates opened, and she collapsed into him, sobbing into his chest as years of pain and fear poured out of her. He held her tightly, whispering soft reassurances into her hair, letting her cry as long as she needed.

It felt like hours before her sobs finally subsided, leaving her exhausted and drained. She stayed in his arms, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his body grounding her in the present.

"I'm so tired, Nevie," she whispered, her voice thick with exhaustion. "I'm tired of carrying all of this."

"You don't have to carry it alone anymore," he murmured. "I'll help you. We'll face it together."

She nodded, her head still resting against his chest. For the first time in a long time, she felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, she didn't have to be strong all the time. Maybe she didn't have to keep everything locked away.

With him by her side, she could finally start to heal. And maybe, one day, she could learn to forgive herself for the scars her parents had left behind. But for now, she was content to simply be in his arms, safe and loved.

"I love you," she whispered, the words feeling lighter on her tongue than they ever had before.

"I love you more," he replied, his voice full of quiet determination. "Forever."

And with that, Pansy closed her eyes, letting herself rest in the comfort of Neville's love, knowing that she was no longer alone.