Regret
It was strange, Pansy thought, how everything had changed—except her warm whiskey eyes.
The rest had warped into its reptilian parallel. Her supple skin had hardened into sharp scales. Warm blood chilled. A heart once full, now foreign.
Nagini’s spare.
They'd prepared for it. Every slow loss.
A year of watching, helpless, as the girl she loved disappeared.
No curls to twist around her fingers.
No freckles to trace.
No button nose to kiss.
No limbs to entwine with hers.
No sharp tongue—only fangs.
No future.
And yet, she was still there. In the flick of her tail, in the stare that burned through every pretense. Her humanity stubbornly refused to vanish, making Pansy’s regret an unbearable weight.
Because she’d learned to live without her. And now, she had to live with her again.
Coiled around his shoulders. Staring. Canny. Ready.
Pansy braced herself, sword glinting behind her back as Hermione unhinged her jaw, fangs bared for Voldemort’s throat.
For the same witch who had swallowed her pride would now swallow a war.
And Pansy—who'd promised to love her through it—would regret how a promise kept meant a war won, but a head lost and a love severed.