Devotion
She doesn’t say it, but Neville doesn’t need her to.
She shows how she feels. Every day. In the drag of her hand across his hip in the still, dark hours of the morning. The way she refills his tea in the greenhouse before he notices it’s almost empty. How she takes care to pretty herself in all the ways he’s complimented before, even if he thinks she’s perfect just the way she is.
Because Pansy is, as her name suggests, a vibrant witch who commands his every thought and dream. He adores all parts of her, particularly when she blooms beneath his hands, unfurls to his tongue, gives up her nectar to his careful ministrations.
That she lets him–no, begs him, when she begs for no one and nothing, to unmake her fills Neville with an almost terrifying joy. Her devotion is nothing short of miraculous. He’ll do anything to protect it. For her, for himself.
For them.