I washed my hands of us at the club / You made a mess of me / I pictured you with other girls in love / Then threw up on the street.
The club was suffocating. Not in a physical way, there was enough space, enough flashing lights, enough overpriced drinks, but in the way that Pansy felt the walls closing in on her. The pulsing bass didn’t drown out the thoughts she had been running from for five days. Neither did the shots of Firewhisky Theo kept handing her.
“You’re having fun, right?” Daphne asked, her voice loud over the music, her brows drawn together in concern.
“Of course.” Pansy flashed a sharp smile, swirling the remnants of her drink in her glass. “Haven’t you heard? Nothing says ‘fun’ like drinking until you can’t remember your ex.”
Draco snorted into his own drink. “That’s the spirit.”
Hermione, ever the voice of reason, shot him a glare before turning back to Pansy. “You don’t have to pretend. I know this has been—”
“I’m fine,” Pansy cut her off, more forcefully than she intended. “I’m here, I’m drinking, I’m dancing. What more do you want?”
The group exchanged glances but didn’t push further. Pansy knew they meant well, but she was exhausted—exhausted from thinking about him, from missing him, from replaying the fight over and over again in her head. She had pushed him away. She knew that. And yet, it still felt like he had abandoned her. Pansy’s throat felt tight. She needed air.
“I’ll be back,” she mumbled, setting her empty glass on the nearest table before weaving her way through the crowd toward the bathroom.
The bathroom was dimly lit, the mirror streaked from the grime of too many bodies crammed into the club. Pansy gripped the edges of the sink and finally looked at herself. Merlin, she looked tired. Not just physically, but hollow. Like the life had been siphoned out of her. She tilted her head, as if changing the angle would make her reflection less miserable. It didn’t. Instead, the memory of him flickered behind her eyes.
It had started with something small. It always did. Neville had been quiet all evening, and Pansy had known something was bothering him. But instead of asking, instead of pressing the way she usually did, she had let the silence fester between them. And then he said it.
"Sometimes, I feel like I’m the only one fighting for this.”
The words had made something cold settle in her stomach.
“That’s ridiculous,” she had replied, folding her arms across her chest, already going on the defensive.
“Is it?” Neville had looked at her, expression unreadable. “I tell you how I feel, but you shut down. I try to talk, and you brush me off. You’re—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t even know what you want from me.”
She had hated that. Hated that he made it sound like she was the problem.
“I never asked you to fight for this,” she had snapped, something sharp and cruel bubbling to the surface.
Neville had flinched, just slightly. But she saw it. Felt it.
“Maybe we were never meant to work anyway,” she had added, because she was Pansy Parkinson, and if she was going to lose something, she was going to be the one to throw it away first.
For a moment, Neville had just stared at her, like he was waiting for her to take it back. But she hadn’t. So he had turned and walked away.
And she had let him.
Pansy sucked in a breath, pressing her palms against the sink as reality crashed back down around her. She had won the fight. She had pushed him away before he could push her. So why did it feel like losing? Her throat was thick, suffocating. She turned on the tap, letting the water rush over her hands before cupping it and splashing it onto her face. The cold stung, grounding her back into her body, but it didn’t wash away the weight in her chest. Straightening, she met her own eyes in the mirror again. Red-rimmed. Hollow. Tired. She needed another drink. With one last deep breath, she turned and pushed the door open, heading back toward the bar.
Pansy weaved through the crowd, the heavy bass rattling her ribs, the swirl of perfume and alcohol making her stomach churn. She had barely kept it together in the bathroom, but she was together. That was what mattered. The bartender was taking his time, shaking a cocktail with the sort of leisure that made her want to snap at him to hurry up. Instead, she leaned against the bar, tapping her nails against the counter, trying to focus on anything else rather than the ache in her chest. That’s when she heard them.
“…still can’t believe they broke up.”
Pansy didn’t react—not at first. Breakups were gossip fodder. She knew that. But something about the tone of the girl’s voice made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
“Honestly, it was bound to happen,” another voice chimed in.
Pansy’s fingers curled slightly against the bar. They hadn’t seen her. They didn’t know she was standing barely a foot away.
“They were always such a weird match,” the first girl continued, the laughter in her voice like nails on glass. “I mean, Pansy Parkinson and Neville Longbottom? Come on.”
Pansy inhaled sharply through her nose.
“Poor Neville,” one of them sighed. “He deserves someone more… I don’t know, him.”
And then the words that shattered through her.
“Like Hannah.”
It was thrown out so casually, so confidently, like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious.
“I know, right?” another girl gushed. “They had a thing in sixth year. I wouldn’t be surprised if they got together now.”
Her stomach lurched. She didn’t hear the rest. Couldn’t. The club was spinning, the walls pressing in, the perfume and sweat and Firewhisky suddenly suffocating her. Pansy squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t help. The moment she did, the image of them together slammed into her like a bludger to the chest.
She saw Hannah Abbott, all warm smiles and golden locks of hair, standing next to Neville in some sun-drenched garden. The kind of place he loved. Hannah would understand his love for plants. She’d help him repot something in the greenhouse, dirt smudged across her cheek in a way that wasn’t calculated but effortlessly sweet. And Neville—her Neville—would laugh, that soft, easy laugh he used to reserve for Pansy, before brushing the dirt away with his thumb. She pictured him leaning down to kiss her, the way he used to with her—slow at first, hesitant, like he was still surprised someone wanted to kiss him. Then deeper, more certain, pulling her close like he never wanted to let go. Pansy’s stomach twisted violently. She saw them at the Leaky Cauldron, tucked away in a booth, Hannah’s hand resting gently over his. She was steady, uncomplicated. The kind of girl you settled down with. She could see it so clearly: Hannah laughing at one of Neville’s bad jokes, the way Pansy used to. But Hannah would mean it. She wouldn’t roll her eyes or smirk or pretend she wasn’t charmed. She would just… love him. Openly. Easily.
Pansy had to get out. Her legs moved before her mind caught up, shoving her way through the crowd, not caring whose drink she knocked over or whose complaints she ignored. The air inside was suffocating. She pushed through the doors and into the night, the sudden chill of the London air shocking against her flushed skin. The streetlights blurred. Her stomach twisted. She barely made it three steps before she doubled over, bracing her hands against her knees as her body betrayed her. She vomited directly on the stone street outside the club. She heaved again, her whole body trembling, her fingers curling into fists as if that could somehow hold her together. But she wasn’t together. She hadn’t been for five days. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to stop shaking, but the sob that broke from her throat had a mind of its own.
“Bloody hell, Pansy.”
Draco.
He crouched down in front of her, his wand out, vanishing the mess on the pavement with a sharp flick. Then he hesitated, because this, Pansy Parkinson, a wreck in the street—was something he didn’t know what to do with.
Pansy squeezed her eyes shut. “Go away.”
Draco huffed. “Not happening.”
She felt his hand hover near her shoulder, like he wanted to steady her but wasn’t sure if she’d allow it. Then she broke. A sob wrenched from her throat, sharp and sudden, and Draco cursed under his breath before tugging her forward, wrapping an arm around her. She clung to him. Fingers twisting into his expensive coat, forehead pressing into his shoulder. She was shaking so hard she thought she might collapse.
“I—” she gasped, but she didn’t even know what she was trying to say.
Draco sighed, his hand settling against the back of her head, firm but careful.
“It’s okay,” he muttered.
It wasn’t. Draco exhaled slowly, tightening his hold on her as she shook against him. Her fingers were still twisted in his coat, her breath coming in uneven gasps.
“Well, this is a fucking disaster,” he muttered.
Pansy let out something between a laugh and a sob, burying her face deeper into his shoulder.
Draco sighed. “I told them the club was a terrible idea. I said it wouldn’t help.”
Pansy didn’t respond, just curled in on herself, like making herself smaller would somehow dull the ache in her chest.
“But no,” Draco went on, voice dry but not unkind. “Blaise was convinced this was exactly what you needed. ‘A good distraction,’ he said. ‘She just needs a night out,’ he said.” Draco huffed. “Yeah. Brilliant fucking plan, that.”
“Alright, come on,” he said. “You’re done here.”
Pansy wobbled slightly as she straightened, and Draco rolled his eyes before gripping her arm, steadying her. With a firm grip on her wrist, he turned on the spot, and the familiar sensation of apparition swallowed them whole.
Draco muttered a quick Lumos, casting a soft glow around the dimly lit space. He let go of her wrist, glancing around before turning back to her.
“Alright,” he said, voice softer now. “You gonna be okay?”
Pansy let out a slow, shaky breath. “I don’t know.”
Draco hesitated, then sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Do you want me to stay?”
Pansy shook her head. Draco nodded, like he expected that answer, but he still lingered, watching her carefully.
“If you need anything,” he said, “just—”
“I know,” she interrupted, offering him the smallest, most exhausted smile. “Thanks, Draco.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Go to bed, Parkinson.”
It hits different this time / Catastrophic blues / Movin' on was always easy for me to do / It hits different / It hits different 'cause it's you.
The flat hadn't felt this empty in months. Pansy laid on her back, staring at the ceiling, the dim glow of the streetlights outside casting faint patterns across the plaster. The sheets were cool against her skin, her silk pillowcase smooth beneath her cheek. She rolled onto her side, but it didn’t help. Her head was still spinning, but not from the Firewhisky. That had burned out hours ago, leaving only a raw, aching awareness in its place. His absence had settled into her bones. She closed her eyes, but it only made it worse, it only made her remember how different it had been before. The way he used to be here. Used to fill this space in ways she had never realized until now. She could still picture him, clear as day. Sitting at her kitchen table, stirring his tea with a slow, absentminded motion. His hair still messy from sleep. She could hear his laugh, feel the way his fingers would brush against hers when he passed her a mug. Could still see the soft, sleepy smile he used to give her in the mornings, the one that made her chest feel too full. And now… Now there was nothing. No warmth beside her. No soft breathing in the dark. No presence to reach for when the night felt too long, when her mind refused to quiet.
Pansy exhaled, long and slow, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. She had always been good at moving on. She was Pansy Parkinson. She didn’t wallow. She didn’t mourn relationships. She ended things before they could end on her. She had walked away from boys before, from summer flings and schoolyard crushes. She had tossed sharp smiles over her shoulder and never once looked back. But this? This wasn’t the same. It should have been. She should have been able to shrug it off, to drown it in Firewhisky and bad decisions and Draco’s dry commentary. She should have been able to let it go. But it hit different. It hit different because it was him. Neville, who never let her get away with pretending. Who saw through the smirks and the sharpness and the carefully placed armor. Neville, who had been patient with all the ways she tried to push him away. Who had stayed until she had given him no choice but to leave.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the cool floor, and stood unsteadily. She shuffled toward the bathroom, her body moving on autopilot, the echo of her footsteps louder than the quiet hum of the city outside. The light in the bathroom flickered on. Pansy stood in front of the mirror, staring at her own reflection. Her eyes were bloodshot, the mascara smudged under her lashes from earlier in the night. Her short, black hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction, and she looked tired. So tired. Pathetic. Her gaze moved around the bathroom. His toothbrush was still there. His shampoo, his razor, the little bottle of cologne he always kept on the edge of the sink. All of it was still there, as though nothing had changed. As though he hadn’t left. As though he might walk in any moment and lean in to kiss her cheek like he always did. The absurdity of it hit her like a punch to the gut. She was so fucking stupid. How could she have let it get this far? She had driven him away. Her chest felt tight. A sob built at the back of her throat.
Her chest constricted tighter, each breath a struggle, each inhale harder than the last. The sob that had been building at the back of her throat broke free, raw and painful, tearing its way out of her as her hands gripped the edge of the sink. Why the hell couldn’t she just let herself have something good? Why did she always have to fuck it up? She stared at her reflection in the mirror, eyes red and swollen from tears she had already cried earlier. Her face was a mess, her skin pale and drained. It was pathetic. The reflection was just another reminder of how alone she was. How she had ruined everything. Her hands shook as she gripped the sink harder, knuckles turning white. The noise in her head grew louder, faster. Her thoughts raced—about him, about everything she had thrown away.
A scream clawed its way up her throat, but it didn’t come out as a scream. It was a strangled, desperate sound, too quiet, too small. She couldn’t even scream loud enough to fill the void inside her. And then, in that instant, she couldn’t take it anymore. With a ferocious movement, she slammed her fist into the mirror. The sound was sharp and the glass shattered instantly, splintering into jagged shards that scattered across the sink and the floor. Her breath caught, her body frozen for a split second as she stared at the broken glass, shards reflecting the fragmented version of herself she was becoming. Fucking perfect. Tears spilled down her cheeks, uncontrollable, unstoppable. She didn’t even bother wiping them away. She was a fucking mess, and she was too tired to care anymore. The mirror wasn’t just broken. It was her. Her entire life felt shattered, pieces of herself scattered, and no matter how hard she tried to piece it together, she couldn’t.
A week passed. It was like Pansy had slipped into some strange, numb existence where time moved, but she didn’t. She went to work sorting through ancient magical artifacts in a sterile, cold office. The kind of work that required precision and focus, where every detail mattered, and every object had a story. She had once found comfort in it. The quiet, the routine. The way the artifacts didn’t judge, didn’t ask questions about her life or her decisions. But now, it just felt… meaningless. Each morning, she forced herself out of bed, though she never really felt awake. Her flat had become a ghost town, filled with the remnants of a life she hadn’t fully realized she’d lost until now. Her clothes were wrinkled, her meals half-eaten.
She went through the motions—rummaging through dusty old tomes, sorting cursed relics, filing papers—never fully present, but always there, keeping the mask on, hiding in plain sight. And then, at night, she returned to her flat. Her once-pristine space, always so orderly, was now a reflection of her inner turmoil. Piles of clothes cluttered the floor, books stacked in disarray, empty bottles of Firewhisky rolling under the couch. She hadn’t bothered to clean up. Her bathroom mirror still shattered, shards glinting under the dim light of the room like fragments of her own fractured self. The sight of it always made her stomach turn. The broken pieces stared back at her, mocking her. Reminding her of how broken she was.
The silence of the flat was deafening. It was too quiet without Neville’s voice, without his presence filling the air with warmth. She used to love the quiet, the space to think and breathe. Now it felt like an unbearable weight, like something pressing in on her from all sides. Every night, she sat there in the darkness, waiting for sleep to take her, but it never came easily. Her thoughts would race back to that night. To the fight. To the way Neville’s face had fallen when she had said those cruel words, to the way he had walked away, leaving her to face the wreckage of her own fears. The self-pity was unbearable, but it was all she had left. She hated herself for it, hated how easy it had been for her to push him away, to sabotage the best thing that had ever happened to her. Every day was a new cycle of waking up, forcing herself to get through work, coming home to the same broken flat, the same reflection of herself she didn’t recognize.
Yeah, my sadness is contagious (my sadness is contagious) / I slur your name 'til someone puts me in a car / I stopped receiving invitations.
Pansy sat on the couch, staring blankly at the empty bottle of Firewhisky in her hand. She had long since run out of tears, but the hollow ache in her chest was still there. She didn’t know why it hurt so much. Why she couldn’t just pull herself together. She didn’t know how much time passed before a knock on her door snapped her out of her pity party. Her first instinct was to ignore it until whoever it was gave up and left. But the persistent knocking was too much, echoing through the empty flat. With a sigh, she dragged herself up from the couch and stumbled toward the door. When she opened it, Ginny Weasley stood on the other side, her expression all determination and kindness, flanked by Hermione, Daphne, and Millicent.
"Hey," Ginny said with a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "We’re here to take you out."
Pansy blinked. "Take me out?"
"Yes," Ginny insisted, her voice soft but firm. "We’re getting you out of this flat. You’ve been holed up here for a week, and it’s time you stopped hiding."
Pansy opened her mouth to protest, but thought of her flat behind her—clothes scattered on the floor, the shattered mirror, the half-drunk bottles of alcohol. She needed to get them out of here. She couldn’t let them see this. She couldn’t let them see her like this.
"You’re not coming in," Pansy snapped, her voice a little sharper than she intended. "I'll get dressed," she rushed out before slamming the door shut and locking it.
This wasn’t how she wanted to be seen, not by them, not by anyone. She had already lost Neville, but she couldn’t let them know how far she’d fallen. It would get back to him.
When Pansy emerged, fully dressed but with a quiet, defeated look in her eyes, the girls were already waiting downstairs. She followed them outside, the chill of the evening air biting at her skin, hoping she could make it through the night without completely falling apart like she had the last time her friends convinced her to go out. Ginny had arranged a trip to a bar they’d all been to before, a dimly lit place tucked away in one of the quieter parts of the city. The walk to the bar was a blur. Pansy barely registered the passing buildings, the hum of conversation around her, the distant sound of cars rumbling down the street. She was a little dizzy, still recovering from the weight of the last few days, but she kept her eyes focused straight ahead, hoping no one would see the cracks in her carefully crafted mask.
Inside the bar, it was warm, too warm, but that was the least of her concerns. The room was alive with music and conversation, filled with the murmur of familiar voices and the clink of glasses. It was loud, chaotic, and for a few moments, it felt like a world that could swallow her whole, a world where she could disappear into the crowd and not have to think about Neville or the mess she’d made. Ginny led them to a booth in the back corner, and they all slid into the seats, the low lighting casting shadows on their faces. Millicent and Daphne were already chatting about something, Hermione was lost in her own thoughts, but Ginny was the one who kept her eyes on Pansy, a soft, knowing look in her eyes.
"You okay?" Ginny asked, her voice low.
Pansy nodded but didn’t speak. She didn’t have the energy for small talk, not tonight. Instead, she waved the waitress over and ordered the strongest drink on the menu. The drink came, a deep amber concoction, and she threw it back without a second thought, the burn of it slipping down her throat like fire, but it didn’t matter. She needed it. She needed something to numb the ache. Another drink. And then another. The world around her started to blur, the edges of reality softening as the alcohol made its way through her bloodstream. The laughter of her friends, the music in the background, everything seemed to fade into the distance. Her thoughts were clouded, foggy—too fuzzy to be sharp, too distant to hurt.
Pansy laughed at something Millicent said, though she couldn’t remember what it was. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and smiled, pretending that she was okay, pretending that nothing was wrong. Ginny watched her with concern, but even she couldn’t stop Pansy now. She was far beyond any of their help. The drinks kept coming, and she kept drinking them, faster now, needing the buzz to drown out the guilt, the regret, the pain. And then she was up, swaying a little too much, pushing her way to the bar, ordering yet another drink before anyone could stop her. She needed it. She needed something to take the edge off, to silence the voice in her head that kept whispering that she had ruined everything, that Neville would never look at her the same way again.
At the bar, she grabbed a seat and sat, staring into her drink, the glass reflecting her tired face. She barely noticed the man next to her, leaning in, talking, but she couldn’t hear him. Her vision swam, and she felt like she was floating. Nothing mattered. Not the world around her, not her broken heart, not the fact that she was completely fucking falling apart.
"Another?" the bartender asked, his voice distant, like he was a lifetime away.
She nodded, too exhausted to say anything, her hand reaching for the drink as it slid across the bar.
And then Ginny was there, standing beside her, a hand on her arm. "Pansy, that’s enough," she said, her voice sharp but full of concern.
Pansy shook her head, her mind swirling in a haze of alcohol. "I’m fine," she slurred, lifting the glass to her lips and taking another long swig. "I’m fine… I don’t… I don’t need anyone… I don’t need him."
Ginny’s expression softened, but there was nothing she could do. Pansy was too far gone. With a gentle but firm grip on her arm, Ginny guided Pansy back toward the booth, keeping a steadying hand on her shoulder as she stumbled in the opposite direction. "Come on, Pansy. Let's get you back to the table."
"No, I’m fine," Pansy slurred, swaying dangerously as she tried to yank her arm free. "I’m fine, I swear. Just leave me alone, Ginny. I can handle this—"
Ginny tightened her grip, not letting her break free. "You’re not fine, Pansy. You’re way past ‘fine.’ Come on, let’s just sit down."
"I said I’m fine!" Pansy snapped, her words coming out jagged and thick. "I don’t need you to take care of me, okay? I don’t need anyone!" She struggled against Ginny’s hold, her movements erratic as she pushed at Ginny’s hand.
Ginny’s face softened with sympathy, but she kept her voice calm, steady. "Pansy, you’re drunk. Just sit down before you hurt yourself."
Pansy shook her head, her face flushed with frustration. "I’m fine! I don’t need you—I don’t need anyone! Not you. Not—" Her voice cracked, and she stumbled, her words slurring again, "Not Neville." The name tumbled out, unexpected, like a whisper in the middle of the storm. "Not him. Not anyone." She barely seemed to notice how the name escaped her lips, the way her chest tightened when she said it. "I’m fine," she repeated, but the words felt hollow.
Ginny froze for a second, her eyes softening. She had a feeling the alcohol wasn’t the only thing clouding Pansy’s judgment. She wanted to push the subject, ask what had happened with Neville, but she knew it wasn’t the right time. Pansy wasn’t ready to talk about him, or about anything, really.
"Let’s just get you back to the booth," Ginny said quietly, her tone laced with a mixture of frustration and care. "You need to sit down."
But Pansy wasn’t listening anymore. She was beyond caring, her body trembling slightly as she muttered more incoherently. She shook her head, her breath thick with the stench of alcohol. "I told him... told him I didn’t need him... and now… now he’s gone." She swallowed hard, her lips trembling as she tried to steady herself. "I fucked it up. I always do."
Ginny’s heart broke for her. She could see Pansy’s eyes, distant, lost, somewhere far away, locked in a place of regret and confusion. This wasn’t just a night of reckless drinking. It was a night of unraveling, of trying to escape the reality she didn’t want to face.
"Okay, we’re going back to the table now," Ginny said firmly. She didn’t wait for Pansy to respond, guiding her by the shoulders toward their booth once again.
Pansy wasn’t even resisting anymore. She was a ragdoll in Ginny’s hands, her feet dragging behind her as she leaned against the side of the booth once they reached it. She slumped into the seat, her face pale now, her eyes unfocused and distant.
The girls, who had been chatting amongst themselves before, all turned their attention to her when they noticed how she looked. Millicent’s eyes narrowed in concern. "Pansy, are you feeling okay?" she asked, her voice soft with worry.
Pansy blinked, the question seeming to rattle her from her stupor. She wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand, smearing makeup and tears across her skin. Her eyes swam with the haze of alcohol, but there was a vulnerability in them that none of them had ever seen before.
"I'm fine," she slurred, her voice thick. "I’m just... just fine," she repeated, but it was obvious that she wasn’t. “Neville, he—" She hiccupped between sentences, wiping at her eyes angrily, the alcohol making her movements clumsy. "He was never going to stay, right? Not with someone like me."
The atmosphere around the table shifted immediately. Ginny stiffened, glancing at the others, who exchanged uncomfortable glances. Hermione looked like she wanted to say something, but was unsure how to approach it.
She slumped forward, elbows on the table, her face in her hands. "You guys, you don’t get it. He was the only one who ever—" Her voice broke off into a pitiful, drawn-out sob. "I’m so stupid."
Millicent shifted uncomfortably in her seat, clearly trying to find a way to salvage the mood. "Maybe we should get her some water," she suggested quietly, but Pansy wasn’t having it.
"No," Pansy shot back, her voice slurred but sharper than before. "I don’t need water. I don’t need anything. I just need—Neville." She hiccupped again, and there was a bitter edge to her tone.
The group fell into an awkward silence, no one sure how to react to the mess that was unfolding before them. Ginny's jaw tightened as she shot a warning look at the others. They knew better than to say anything dismissive, but the mood in the booth had soured completely. Pansy wasn’t just drunk anymore; she was unraveling, her sorrow spilling over with every word she slurred.
Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but Millicent cut in, her tone soft but pointed. "This isn’t helping, Pansy. You can’t keep doing this to yourself."
But Pansy wasn’t listening. She wasn’t listening to any of them. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs that wracked her body. "I hate myself," she whispered between sobs, her voice breaking. "I fucking hate myself."
The girls exchanged uneasy glances, unsure how to help or whether they even could. The silence stretched, only broken by the occasional sniffle from Pansy.
Ginny was the first to speak, though her words were heavy with reluctance. "Alright, we need to get her home."
With no other option, they helped Pansy into a cab. She continued to mutter his name, slurring it over and over, as though the mere repetition of it would bring him back to her. Ginny glanced at the others, her face set in a grim line, while Millicent and Daphne were too uncomfortable to speak, watching Pansy in pained silence. Hermione's jaw tightened as she tried to make sense of the situation, but there was no quick fix. No simple words could erase the mess Pansy had made of herself or of her relationship with Neville. The ride was painfully quiet, the thrum of the cab’s engine and Pansy’s drunken mumblings the only sound that filled the air. When they arrived at her flat, Pansy barely had the strength to lift herself from the cab. Ginny, frustrated but still trying to help, guided her up the stairs, but Pansy was starting to become more and more unraveled with each step.
As soon as they reached the door, Pansy’s movements became more erratic. She jerked away from Ginny’s grip and stumbled toward the entrance. "I just... I need to be alone," she slurred, fumbling with the key. The others tried to intervene, but Pansy was too quick, too focused on getting inside.
In one quick motion, she slammed the door shut behind her, the sound echoing down the hallway. Ginny, Hermione, Daphne, and Millicent stood there for a long moment, stunned, staring at the door she’d just locked them out of.
"Great," Ginny muttered under her breath, her tone sharp. "That’s exactly what we didn’t need."
Millicent stepped forward, her voice quiet but full of concern. "She’s not okay. We can’t just leave her like this."
Daphne nodded, her arms crossed. "We can’t just barge in there, though. She’ll hate us for that." They all stood in the hallway, unsure of how to proceed, knowing Pansy wouldn’t welcome them in her fragile state.
Ginny sighed deeply, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "We can’t fix this tonight."
After another long pause, Hermione spoke, her voice almost a whisper. "We’ll have to give her space... But we can’t let this go on for too long."
The four girls lingered outside the door for a while longer, knowing there was nothing they could do but leave Pansy to her emotions. Eventually, they gave up, leaving Pansy to her solitude, and made their way down the stairs and out of the building.
Inside, Pansy slunk onto her couch, burying her face in the cushions. Her flat was empty, echoing with the silence of a life that had once felt full and now felt hollow. She didn’t even bother to change out of her clothes, the fabric still clinging to her as she curled into herself. Her body was numb, but her mind wouldn’t stop spinning, and all she could think about, even as her thoughts blurred in and out, was Neville. His absence filled every corner of the flat, every crack in her heart. The familiar ache was sharper now, the raw emptiness so overwhelming that she couldn't find the words to explain it.
As the days passed, Pansy noticed a quiet shift in the world around her. The invitations to go out, to join the others for drinks or dinner, slowly stopped coming. At first, she thought it was just coincidence, but it became clear that people were avoiding her. Her sadness, so raw and all-consuming, seemed to hang over her like a storm cloud. Maybe they thought it was contagious, or maybe they just didn’t know how to deal with the broken version of herself she had become.
Dreams of your hair and your stare and sense of belief / In the good in the world, you once believed in me.
Time had become a blur, each day bleeding into the next. Pansy had settled into a routine of waking up with the same aching emptiness in her chest, dragging herself through work, and then retreating into the hollow silence of her flat. The nights seemed to stretch longer, the emptiness creeping in like a slow tide that refused to recede. After crying herself to sleep for the nineteenth night in a row, she found herself standing in the middle of Neville’s flat. The familiar, cozy space smelled faintly of earth and fresh herbs, like it always did. His plants were everywhere—some on the windowsill, others in the corners of the room, all thriving with the care he’d always put into them. The soft glow of the lamp by his couch cast a golden hue across the room, giving it a peaceful feeling. The curtains were drawn back just enough for the moonlight to shine through, filling the room with a soft, silvery light.
And there he was standing by the window, gazing out into the night. His brown hair slightly curling at the humidity in the night air, his forearms flexing as he leaned on the windowsill. He was exactly as she remembered, a man who saw the the good in the world, who had such unwavering faith in her even when she didn’t have it in herself. The way he carried himself was gentle but strong, a quiet kind of confidence that she had missed so much.
She could feel the warmth of his presence even though he wasn’t looking at her. She stepped closer, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, but her feet moved slowly, almost cautiously. She didn’t want to break the delicate balance of the moment.
“Neville?” Her voice was soft, tentative. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to say his name until it left her lips.
He turned around slowly, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was small but genuine, the kind of smile that made her feel like the world was still full of possibility. The light from the window caught the warmth in his eyes, and for a moment, Pansy thought she might drown in the depths of them.
"Hey, Pansy," he said quietly, his voice steady, but there was an undercurrent of something softer, something that made her want to stay in this moment forever. "You look... beautiful."
It wasn’t a line or a compliment out of obligation. He meant it. She could tell by the way his eyes lingered on her, the softness of his tone. It was as if he was seeing her for who she truly was, not the walls she had built around herself. Pansy’s heart fluttered in her chest. She stepped closer to him, closing the small gap between them. Her fingers brushed his arm, and he didn’t pull away. The contact was so natural, so easy.
"I miss you," she whispered, her voice a little shaky as she fought back the sudden rush of emotions. "I miss you a lot."
His hand reached out, finding hers, their fingers intertwining without a second thought. His touch was warm, grounding, and Pansy felt like she could finally breathe again.
"I miss you too," Neville said, his voice steady. "But we need to fix things, Pansy. We can’t keep living in the past." His words were soft, but there was a firmness to them, a quiet understanding that they both had to move forward—together.
Pansy nodded, feeling her chest loosen just a little. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to apologize for. She had been so afraid of what they could become, but in this moment, all of that fear seemed so far away. He believed in her, and he believed in them. And as he looked at her, really looked at her, she realized that she still believed in them too.
Neville smiled, that soft, real smile again, and then gently pulled her closer. “Come here,” he murmured, his voice warm with affection. Without thinking, Pansy leaned into him, her head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
Pansy woke with a start, her breath catching in her throat as she sat up in bed. The familiar weight of the sheets around her, the cold air against her skin. She blinked in the dark, her mind racing, the remnants of the dream still clinging to her like a soft fog. Her heart was pounding, her chest tight as she tried to shake off the vivid sensation of Neville’s warmth, the feel of his arms around her. The echo of his voice, soft and gentle, calling her closer, still lingered in her ears. But reality crashed in. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t next to her, holding her, whispering words of comfort. It had all been a dream.
Her hand instinctively reached for the empty space beside her on the bed, a futile search for the warmth that had felt so real. The cool sheets under her fingers felt like a cruel reminder of what she had lost. The ache in her chest returned with a fierceness that made her gasp. She could still feel the remnants of his embrace, the way he had held her so easily in the dream, as though it had been the most natural thing in the world. But it wasn’t real. She was alone. Her hands trembled as she ran them through her hair, trying to steady herself, trying to make sense of the broken pieces inside her.
Bet I could still melt your world / Argumentative, antithetical dream girl.
The fluorescent lights of the small grocer flickered overhead as Pansy trailed behind Draco and Blaise. She had managed to pull herself together—at least on the outside. Her makeup was done for the first time in weeks, concealing the dark circles under her eyes. Her outfit was put together, her posture straight. If someone had passed her in the aisle, they might have thought she was just another shopper, leisurely browsing. They wouldn’t have known that this was the first time in days that she had stepped outside for something other than work. Draco had shown up at her flat that morning, his expression determined as he leaned against her doorframe.
"You’re coming with us."
"Am I?" she had muttered, arms crossed over her chest.
"Yes. Now put on some real clothes, fix your face, and let’s go."
And somehow, despite every instinct telling her to crawl back under her duvet, she had listened. Now, she stood in the middle of an aisle, staring blankly at a row of imported wines while Blaise examined different types of coffee beans with far too much enthusiasm.
Draco was beside her, arms crossed, his sharp gaze flicking over her face. “You look like you’re thinking too hard,” he remarked.
She blinked. “I’m just standing here.”
“Exactly,” he deadpanned.
Blaise reappeared with a bag of coffee in hand, raising a brow at the two of them. “Are we having a moment?”
“No,” Pansy muttered at the same time Draco said, “She’s brooding.”
Blaise snorted. “Of course she is.”
Pansy rolled her eyes, reaching for a random bottle of wine, if only to give herself something to do. She examined the label, pretending to care about the notes of the beverage.
Blaise peered over her shoulder, glancing at the label before scoffing. “That one’s piss poor, Pans. You might as well drink vinegar.”
Pansy arched a brow. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I ask for your sommelier expertise?”
Draco, who had been perusing the shelves with mild disinterest, sighed. “Here we go.”
Blaise smirked, plucking the bottle from her hands and examining it as if it personally offended him. “I’m just saying, if you’re going to waste away in your flat drinking yourself into oblivion, at least do it with something that won’t strip the enamel off your teeth.”
Pansy scoffed, snatching the bottle back. “You have no taste, Zabini. I bet you drink overpriced elf-made swill just because the label looks pretty.”
“I have excellent taste,” he countered, reaching for a different bottle and holding it up. “Unlike you, I don’t settle for something that was probably brewed in a dungeon.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, crossing her arms. “Oh, so now you’re a wine snob?”
“Always have been,” he said smoothly, placing his selection into the basket. “But you wouldn’t know that, considering you never listen to me.”
Draco made a dramatic show of rubbing his temples. “I can’t believe I subjected myself to this.”
Pansy ignored him, lifting her chin at Blaise. “I bet your so-called refined palate couldn’t even handle Firewhisky properly.”
Neville hadn’t meant to stop. He had only come in to pick up tea, some bread, maybe some honey. But the moment he heard her voice, sharp and teasing, he froze mid-step, his fingers tightening around the basket in his hand. Through the gaps between bags of flour and stacked jars, he could just barely see her. Pansy. And fuck, she looked gorgeous. She was radiant. Untouched. Meanwhile, Neville looked like absolute shit. The circles under his eyes were dark, the remnants of sleepless nights spent staring at his ceiling. His clothes were wrinkled from grabbing the first things in reach that morning. He hadn’t even bothered to shave, and his face felt heavy with exhaustion.
His friends hadn’t told him how she was doing—not really. Radio silence. Ginny had avoided the topic altogether. Draco, the most likely to rub salt in the wound, had given nothing. Hermione had been the only crack in the wall. She hadn’t said anything outright, but her face had given her away. That pained, guilt-ridden look she’d given him the last time they spoke about Pansy, one that could only mean she’s doing just fine without you.
Neville couldn’t stop watching her. She was still bickering with Blaise, arms crossed, an exaggerated roll of her eyes making her exasperation known. It was familiar—so painfully familiar. He could almost hear the way she used to argue with him in that same half-teasing, half-exasperated way.
Blaise scoffed, placing a hand over his chest as if deeply offended. “Excuse you, I have impeccable taste. Unlike you, who was just about to buy that piss-poor excuse for wine.”
Pansy glanced down at the bottle in her hand, then shrugged. “It’s drinkable.”
“It’s piss.”
Draco groaned, already exhausted. “Merlin, can you two not do this in public?”
But they ignored him, their bickering escalating.
“I think it’s cute that you act like you know everything about wine,” Pansy mused, placing the bottle back on the shelf.
“And I think it’s tragic that you don’t,” Blaise shot back.
Draco exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “For fuck’s sake.”
Neville, still standing frozen in the next aisle, could almost laugh at how little things had changed. Except everything had.
“Okay, okay," Blaise waved his hand, as if waving off the whole argument. Neville smiled slightly to himself, knowing the gesture was making Pansy fume under the surface. "Theo’s birthday is next week, and he specifically wants cupcakes in the shape of a dick.”
Pansy blinked. “...A dick?”
Draco groaned, rubbing his temples.
Blaise continued, undeterred. “And I’m not about to go to some bakery like a peasant and ask for that, so obviously, we need to bake them ourselves.”
Pansy snorted. “Obviously.”
“Which means,” Blaise said, waving a hand dramatically, “I need baking supplies.”
And that was when Neville realized. He was standing right in front of the flour. Shit. Before he could think, he turned sharply, gripping the handle of his basket as he hurried down the aisle, heart pounding. Don’t let her see you. Don’t let her see you. He nearly made it, until he turned the corner too fast. And slammed straight into Pansy, Draco, and Blaise. Neville barely had time to curse his luck before he was face-to-face with her. Pansy stumbled back a step, blinking up at him in surprise. He felt his throat go dry. This was the first time they had seen each other since the breakup. And now here they were, standing in the middle of a bloody grocery store, with Draco and Blaise looking between them like they’d just witnessed a crime scene.
Silence. Painfully awkward, tension-filled silence.
Neville’s grip tightened around the handle of his basket. He knew he looked like shit—had felt like shit for the past weeks—but it didn’t matter because she looked perfect. Not just good—stunning. Like she hadn’t been falling apart at all. Like she’d moved on. Like she hadn’t spent weeks thinking about him the way he’d spent every waking moment thinking about her. Pansy was the first to break the silence. Sort of.
“…Oh.”
Oh. That was all she said. Just oh. As if running into him was some mild inconvenience.
He cleared his throat, shifting his basket from one hand to the other. “Hey.” His voice sounded hoarse. Stiff.
More silence. He should leave. Say something else, or just bloody leave. But his feet wouldn’t move.
Blaise, ever the opportunist, arched an eyebrow and drawled, “Longbottom. Fancy seeing you here.”
Neville ignored him, eyes still on her. She was studying him, her expression unreadable, except, her fingers twitched. It was the smallest thing. Barely noticeable. But he caught it. The way her fingers curled at her side like she wanted to reach for him, even as the rest of her remained impassive. It sent something sharp through his chest.
Draco, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire situation, exhaled and crossed his arms. “Well, this is fucking awkward.”
Blaise hummed. “Painfully.”
Pansy shot them both a glare before returning her gaze to Neville. “What are you—” She hesitated, faltering for the first time. “What are you doing here?”
He swallowed. “Shopping.” Idiot.
Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank you for that brilliant observation.”
Neville ignored him, focusing only on Pansy. She looked conflicted, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to keep standing here or run in the opposite direction. He knew the feeling.
“Right,” she said finally, voice clipped. “Well. We won’t keep you.”
It was a dismissal. And Merlin, did it hurt.
But Neville only nodded, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral. “Yeah. See you around.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Pansy standing there, staring after him. Pansy stood frozen, staring at the empty space Neville had occupied just moments ago. Her heart was pounding. Too fast. Too loud. She felt like she was suffocating. She tore her gaze away, blinking rapidly as if that would make the whole encounter disappear. But it didn’t. The image of him was seared into her brain—his tired eyes, the way his jaw had tensed, the awkward shift of his basket in his hands. He looked… rough. Not just in the sense that he needed a proper night’s sleep, but in the way that she looked most days, like someone barely keeping it together. It made her feel sick.
“Okay,” Blaise drawled, dragging her out of her thoughts. “That was painful to watch.”
Pansy didn’t respond.
Draco sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “That could’ve gone worse, I suppose.”
Pansy scoffed. “Oh, could it?”
“Yes,” Blaise said. “He could’ve called you a heartless wench and stormed out. Instead, he just looked at you like a kicked puppy and walked away. Which, honestly? Worse.”
Pansy clenched her jaw. “Drop it.”
Draco and Blaise exchanged a look but said nothing. And Pansy? She forced herself to turn back to the shelves, grabbing the nearest bottle of wine without even looking at it. Her fingers trembled around the neck of the bottle, but she ignored it. Just breathe. Just pretend that didn’t happen. But it did happen. And no matter how much she tried to push it down, she couldn’t shake the image of Neville—standing there, tired and quiet, looking at her like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to run toward her or away from her.
Neville stepped out of the shop and into the cool evening air, exhaling sharply. He hadn’t realized how fast he was walking until he felt the burn in his calves, the weight of his shopping bags bouncing against his leg with each hurried step. But it didn’t matter how far he walked. The image of Pansy was still there, burned into his brain. The perfect tilt of her chin as she bickered with Blaise. The way her lips curled in a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The effortless way she held herself, like she wasn’t unraveling on the inside, like she wasn’t haunted by the same ghosts he was. Sharp tongue, sharp mind, sharp edges—and he’d fallen for every single one of them. Neville ran a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck as he walked faster, like he could outrun the thoughts clawing at him.
I heard your key turn in the door down the hallway / Is that your key in the door? / Is it okay? Is it you? / Or have they come to take me away?
Pansy had made it exactly six minutes in Blaise and Draco's company after leaving the shop before she’d given up pretending she could stomach it. The weight of Neville’s presence, or rather, his absence now that she’d seen him, was pressing too hard against her ribs. So, she’d done what she did best. She made an excuse, tossed out some half-hearted claim about unfinished work, and left Draco and Blaise behind without giving them time to argue. Now, back in the quiet of her flat, she set the bottle of wine on the counter with a dull thud.
She did have work to do. Technically. A pile of notes sat abandoned on her desk, documents about newly acquired historical artifacts from a dig site in the Mediterranean. Some jewelry, an enchanted mirror, even a goblet with suspected links to the Peverell family. Normally, she would’ve lost herself in the research, let herself sink into the comforting world of facts and history. She couldn’t think about ancient relics when her mind was trapped somewhere else. Her fingers trembled as she twisted the cork out of the bottle, pouring herself a generous glass before kicking off her shoes. She took a long sip, ignoring the burn as she padded over to her desk, eyeing the stack of parchment like it personally offended her.
She sank into her chair, quill in hand, and stared at the words in front of her. And yet all she could see was him. The way he had looked at her. The exhaustion in his eyes. The way he had hurried out, like standing in the same space as her was too much. She squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling sharply before setting her glass down with too much force, liquid sloshing over the rim. She had spent the last weeks convinced that she was the only one suffering. That he had gone on with his life, just as Hermione’s guilty expression had led her to believe. But tonight—tonight had changed that. Because he looked awful. Dark circles under his eyes, the slump of his shoulders, the way he wouldn’t even meet her gaze for more than a second. He wasn’t fine either. And somehow, that didn’t make her feel better. She stood abruptly, glass in hand, and paced to the kitchen. Another gulp of wine. Shit, Blaise was right, the wine was piss.
She reached for the bottle and poured more into her glass, not bothering to be careful this time. Drops of red splattered onto the counter, and she absently wiped at them with the sleeve of her jumper before making her way to the couch. She sank into it, curling into herself as she took another drink. The apartment was so silent. She had never realized how much space he had taken up, how much life he had brought into these rooms, until he was gone. His laughter, his humming in the kitchen, the sound of him flipping through pages of a book as she worked late into the night. Now, it was just her. The broken mirror in the bathroom, still shattered from that night she lost control. The pile of unwashed dishes in the sink. The paperwork on her desk, untouched and meaningless. She exhaled sharply, rubbing her hands over her face.
Neville sat at a round table in the dimly lit wizarding bar, his glass of butterbeer sitting untouched in front of him. The chatter around him was light, filled with the usual banter of Ginny, Harry, and Luna, but Neville’s mind kept drifting. He couldn't stop thinking about Pansy after seeing her earlier that evening.
“So,” Neville said, his voice hesitant, “I ran into Pansy earlier today. With Blaise and Draco at the shop.”
Hermione looked up, her expression neutral, but there was something in her eyes, something that made Neville pause. He leaned forward slightly, unsure whether he should continue, but his curiosity got the best of him. “She looked... well. Like she was doing okay."
Hermione didn’t say anything right away. She shifted in her seat, her fingers nervously twisting the stem of her wine glass. There was a brief flicker of something on her face, a flash of pain that quickly disappeared, but it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Neville.
Ginny, sitting beside Hermione, gave him a sharp look and then shot Hermione a pointed glance. “Neville,” she said softly but firmly, “You don’t want to go down this road right now.”
Neville blinked in confusion, unsure of what Ginny meant. “What? I just thought it was worth mentioning. She’s doing fine?”
Hermione’s lips pressed together tightly, and her eyes lowered. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, and Neville suddenly felt like he was intruding. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Hermione finally spoke, her voice quieter than before. “She’s not doing fine, Neville.”
Neville froze. He hadn’t expected that. His heart thudded in his chest, his stomach dropping. “What do you mean? She seemed... okay when I saw her. I thought she was—”
"Hermione," Ginny hissed, warning her of what an intrusion it was to be speaking about Pansy's dwindling sanity.
Ignoring Ginny's sharp warning, Hermione continued, "She’s... been isolating herself. Not eating. Drinking too much. Avoiding everyone. She’s been shutting down.”
The words hit Neville like a bucket of ice water. His mind raced, trying to piece everything together. He had seen her—she hadn’t seemed like that at all. But now, hearing this, everything felt off, like he had missed something important.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
Hermione’s face looked guilty, but there was a kind of quiet resignation in her gaze. “None of us really knew how bad it was. I didn’t want you to feel responsible, so I didn’t say anything. But she’s not okay, Neville.”
Neville sat back, feeling his chest tighten. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been assuming things about Pansy—about everything. It had never occurred to him that she might be hurting this badly.
“Right,” Neville said quietly, his mind spinning. He stood up slowly, pushing his chair back. “I think I... I think I need to go.”
Hermione opened her mouth as if to say something, but Neville was already walking away. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he couldn’t sit there anymore, couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t. Ginny’s voice called after him softly, but he didn’t turn back. His thoughts were already consumed by the idea of Pansy, her face, her eyes. Was she really in that bad a place?
Pansy sat on the floor of her living room, her legs tucked beneath her, her back pressed against the cold wall. The dim light from the single lamp in the corner cast long shadows across the room, the silence thick, almost suffocating. Her fingers traced the edge of Neville's stupid burgundy Gryffindor scarf. Her fingers brushed over the knitted fabric, and the ache in her chest grew, so deep it felt like it might swallow her whole. She inhaled sharply, but it only made the tears fall faster, hot and salty down her cheeks. How had she gotten here? How had she let it get this far? She had ruined everything. The loneliness of her apartment felt so vast, so overwhelming, and she was drowning in it.
She pressed the scarf against her chest for a moment, clenching it as if holding onto the last part of him she had left. In her numb, drunken haze, she tipped her glass of wine. It splashed across the floor, spilling a dark, red stain into the rug beneath her. The liquid spread quickly, soaking into the fibers, leaving an ugly mark. Pansy stared at it, the sight of the stain almost symbolic of everything that had gone wrong, her inability to hold things together, her tendency to destroy anything that came near.
She laughed, but it was bitter, harsh, and filled with self-loathing. "Great," she muttered to herself, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, smudging the tears. "Perfect."
The wine stain mocked her. Everything in her life felt like a stain now, something she couldn’t clean, couldn’t fix, couldn’t make right again. She couldn’t stay in this apartment, in this mess, surrounded by memories of him. She stood abruptly, the scarf slipping from her fingers to the floor as she walked toward the balcony doors. Her feet barely made a sound against the hardwood floor, her movements slow, her own body exhausted. Opening the doors, she stepped out into the cold night air. The sharp bite of it against her skin was a welcome distraction, the chill biting into her exposed arms and face. The city around her hummed with life, but she felt distant from it all, as if she were observing from another world. The moon cast a dim, pale light over the streets, and she rested her arms on the railing, staring out into the dark, wishing for some kind of release from the turmoil inside her.
She didn’t hear the knocking at her door. Didn’t hear the gentle, repeated raps against the wood. Too caught up in her own spiral of sadness, too caught up in the echo of his absence. She leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the balcony, closing her eyes, letting the wind tug at her hair. Her chest felt tight, her breath shallow. After a long pause, she stood up, feeling the coldness from the night air seep into her skin, and moved back toward the apartment.
The sharp sound of metal in the lock made her freeze. Her heart skipped in her chest, and for a split second, her mind went completely blank. Who was trying to get into her apartment? Her hand shook. Had her friends had enough? Was it them, trying to force their way in to “help” her? Were they coming to drag her out of her misery, lock her up, keep her from wallowing in her own self-pity? The thought made her stomach twist into knots. Her eyes darted toward the door, and she took a step back, holding her breath as the key turned, the faint creak of the door handle slowly turning with it.
“Pansy?” A voice broke the stillness, gentle and cautious, and her heart lurched in recognition.
It wasn’t Blaise. Or Draco. Or Theo. Or Daphne. Or Ginny. Or, or, or. She felt her pulse race as the door opened just a crack, the shadow of a figure standing there. Then the door was pushed wide enough for him to slip through. Neville. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. Her breath caught in her throat. Neville’s eyes met hers, soft and concerned, and in that moment, she wanted to scream and beg him to leave, to not see her like this—broken, a mess, spiraling. But instead, she stood frozen, staring at him as he closed the door behind him, the lock clicking into place.
“Pansy…” he whispered, his voice full of quiet sorrow.
She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came. Instead, she could only stare at him as her hands trembled, her whole body shaking under the weight of everything she’d been carrying in silence.
Neville’s heart ached as he stepped into her apartment, his gaze immediately sweeping over the disarray. The living room looked like it had been forgotten, a stark contrast to the pristine, carefully curated space he remembered from before. There was a glass of wine spilled across the rug, staining it with a deep crimson. Empty glasses, half-drunk and discarded, littered the coffee table. Her couch, once meticulously arranged, was now just a jumble of cushions and blankets, as though she had been seeking comfort in them but hadn’t found it. The silence between them was thick, heavy, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. Neville’s eyes moved slowly over her. She was standing there in the center of the room, her posture slouched, her face pale. Her usual air of confidence was gone, replaced by something he could only describe as fragile. There was a tear streak down her cheek, and though she hadn’t made a sound, it was enough for him to realize how deeply she’d been hurting. She looked broken.
Her eyes locked onto his, and for a split second, Neville thought she might say something, might yell at him to leave, to give her space. But no words came. She just stared at him, her breath shallow, as if she wasn’t sure what to do with the person standing in her doorway. He felt his own chest tighten. He hadn’t meant for it to come to this. He’d only wanted to know she was okay, to make sure she hadn’t fallen too far into herself. But looking at her now, standing in the middle of this disarray, he realized that okay was far from where she was. He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to move closer. His eyes softened as he crouched down to pick up the discarded wine glass, carefully setting it on the coffee table. He didn’t want to make any sudden movements, didn’t want to make her feel cornered. He took a breath, then gently said her name, testing the waters.
“Pansy...”
The sound of his voice seemed to break something in her, but she didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she lowered her head, her hands clenched tightly at her sides, and for a moment, Neville thought she might collapse under the weight of it all.
“Pansy,” he repeated, his voice quieter now, softer.
“I… I didn’t want you to see me like this,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if saying it out loud would make the whole thing real. She wiped at her cheek, smudging the tears there as she avoided his gaze.
Neville’s heart broke at the sound of her voice, so small and fragile. He reached for her then, but stopped himself before his hand could touch her arm. Instead, his eyes drifted downward, catching sight of something familiar on the floor, his scarf. He bent down slowly, picking up the scarf. His fingers lingered over it for a moment, tracing the soft fabric. Looking up, he met her gaze again. Her eyes were still red from crying, her face flushed from the emotional weight she’d been carrying. She hadn’t moved.
“I didn’t want to leave,” Neville murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper as he placed the scarf on the busy coffee table. “I never wanted to leave. But I didn’t know how to stay.”
Pansy’s lips trembled as she looked at the scarf, then back at him. She seemed to be fighting something—an urge to push him away, perhaps, or to make him understand just how much she’d been through without him. Her eyes softened then, just for a second, and Neville could almost see the wall she’d built around herself start to crack, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her despair.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she said, her voice shaky, barely audible as she finally spoke up. “I didn’t mean for you to leave. I... I never wanted to hurt you.”
He stepped closer, moving toward her slowly, cautiously, as if she might disappear the second he got too close. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, his hand hovering near her arm, waiting for her permission.
“You don’t have to apologize, Pansy,” he said quietly, his voice earnest, filled with the kind of sincerity that only came with time and pain. “I was the one who walked away. I was the one who let us fall apart. I never should’ve left.”
“No,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I should’ve fought harder. Against my family, against my doubts… I should’ve fought for you. For us. I just... I let everything fall apart. I let them get in my head. I let my insecurities and my fear... stop me from trusting you. I was so scared, Neville. Scared of being vulnerable, scared of being hurt. But mostly, scared of how much I loved you.”
Her eyes squeezed shut, trying to block out the crushing weight of it all. She had failed. Not just at keeping him, but at being the person he deserved. “I should’ve fought harder,” she repeated, her voice breaking as she let the confession spill out, a flood of regret she couldn’t hold back any longer.
Neville didn’t hesitate. Without a word, he stepped forward, closing the space between them. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her into his embrace with a tenderness that made her feel safe, held. The warmth of his body against hers was a stark contrast to the chill that had settled inside her, and for a moment, Pansy just let herself melt into him, letting the sorrow wash over her like a wave that was finally allowed to break. Pansy let out a shaky breath, her hands finding their way to his chest, clutching at him as if she might crumble otherwise.
She reached up, cupping his face gently in her hands. “I don’t deserve this,” she whispered, her voice breaking again as tears slipped down her cheeks. “I don’t deserve you, Neville. After everything—after pushing you away…”
He shook his head, his hand brushing away her tears, a tender smile curving at his lips. “You’re wrong,” he said softly. “You deserve all of this. All of me. I never stopped loving you, Pansy.”
His words struck her deeply, like a lifeline she hadn’t realized she needed. Her hands trembled as they moved from his face to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, needing him near. She pressed her forehead to his, letting herself breathe him in, feeling his warmth, his presence grounding her in that moment.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, the words pouring from her.
Neville’s hands slid to her back, pulling her tighter against him, his lips brushing her forehead in a soft, lingering kiss. “You don’t have to apologize,” he murmured.
The air between them felt charged, heavy with the weight of all they had gone through, but also lightened by the relief that came with finally letting go of the hurt. Slowly, almost as if afraid to break the fragile peace between them, Neville leaned in, his lips meeting hers in a soft, tentative kiss. It was gentle, full of all the things they hadn’t said, all the things they hadn’t allowed themselves to feel. Pansy responded in kind, her arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss as if trying to make up for lost time, for the distance they had let grow between them. The kiss was slow and soft, tender in a way that made her feel like everything they had been through was finally mending.