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Pansy had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. After the night at Neville’s apartment—after she’d spilled everything about her report to the NCA, after she’d felt the weight of his hands around hers. But it never came. If anything, life had crept on almost disarmingly normally. She had started her new job at Anthony Goldstein’s firm not long after, diving headfirst into cases that kept her too busy to dwell on everything else during the day. But at night, when the distractions fell away and the stillness of her flat settled over her, she lay awake staring at the ceiling, mind racing. She thought of everything teetering on the edge of collapse. Her old firm discovering her betrayal, whispers turning to condemnation, her name blacklisted across the legal world. Some nights, she imagined the headlines; other nights, she imagined the faces of her former colleagues twisted in cold satisfaction.
And threaded through the panicked thoughts, there he was: Neville. Always there. As much as she tried to push him from her mind, he lingered like a shadow at the edge of every thought. She wondered what he thought of her now. She wondered, too, how she could possibly move on when he seemed to be everywhere—in their group chats, at their ever-increasing group gatherings, in her mind even when she was alone. No matter how far she tried to shove her feelings aside, he remained like a stubborn ember, refusing to burn out. Draco and Hermione's hellbent mission on organizing constant friend group activities only made the ember grow stronger. Pub nights. Sunday brunches. Midweek dinners. And tonight, predictably, a game night that screamed Hermione’s particular brand of enthusiasm: structured, rules-forward, likely far too competitive.
As Pansy sat in Hermione's living room, sipping a glass of Pinot noir while Theo tried, and failed, to decipher the game instructions, Pansy found her attention drifting. Not to the complicated rulebook, not to the predictable banter between Draco and Potter—but to Neville, across the room, where he was helping Hermione set out game pieces with that infuriating steadiness of his. She didn’t mean to stare, but it kept happening anyway.
Meanwhile, Neville had told himself it was better this way, to keep things steady, keep things simple. He didn’t want to push, not after everything she’d trusted him with. He hadn’t known what would come after that night in his apartment, when she’d confessed to bringing her own firm under scrutiny. But he’d known what he wanted: to keep her close, to stand by her even as the ground shifted beneath them both. So far, it had worked. In their circle of friends, in these silly, noisy gatherings, they’d found a kind of easy rhythm. Casual glances that lasted a beat too long. Brief brushes of hands when they passed each other wine or a snack. He wasn’t sure when those small moments had started feeling like the highlight of his week. But they did.
Hermione glanced up from the game board with a frown as another piece tipped over. “Theo, could you get the other bottle of wine from the kitchen? The corkscrew is in the drawer to the left of the sink.”
Theo gave a salute, dropping the instruction booklet, "At your service."
Pansy was too aware of Neville’s gaze flicking toward her at the exact moment Hermione had spoken. Their eyes met, just for a second, and it sent a sharp prickle of heat up her neck. She could feel the unspoken question in his look, though he said nothing. “I’ll go with him,” Pansy said quickly, setting down her glass and rising a bit too fast.
The kitchen was dim and warm, lit by the faint under-cabinet glow. Theo rummaged around in the drawer while Pansy leaned her hip against the counter. “So,” he said, as he rummaged through Hermione's kitchen, “three weeks in. How’s the job?”
Pansy shrugged, though the faint pull at the corner of her mouth gave her away. “Good. Really good, actually.” She paused, as if admitting it too freely might unravel the spell. “Not that I’d go shouting it from the rooftops or anything.”
Theo shot her a sidelong look, lips curling into an easy smirk. “Please. Pansy Parkinson? Showing enthusiasm?"
She gave him a withering look but couldn’t suppress a huff of amusement. "Contrary to the word on the street, I do have feelings, Nott."
"Merlin forbid," he replied dryly, finally finding the elusive bottle opener and pulling it out of the drawer. "Next thing you’ll tell me is you care about justice and all that righteous nonsense.”
A laugh, quiet but real, slipped out of her before she could stop it. "Don’t be absurd," she said, though there was a softness beneath her usual sharp edges. “But… it matters. This work. It feels—” She trailed off for a heartbeat, searching for the word. “It feels like I’m doing something good. Like I should’ve been doing this all along.”
Theo’s hands stilled for a moment as he grasped the wine bottle, and he glanced at her, not teasing this time, but genuinely warm. “I’m glad for you, Pans,” he said.
What she didn’t see was the figure paused just outside the kitchen doorway. Neville stood there, forgotten crisps in hand, his chest tightening and easing all at once at the sound of her words. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, really. Hermione had just sent him to grab more snacks, and he’d turned the corner in time to catch her saying good. 'Really good, actually.' And then he’d frozen, rooted to the spot, unwilling to miss a single word more. Hearing her say it so plainly, that she liked her work, that it mattered, it did something to him. She was happy. Really, genuinely happy. Even if she 'didn’t shout it from the rooftops.'
Theo caught sight of him first, of course. He arched a brow, half amused, half exasperated. “You planning to just lurk there forever, Longbottom?” he drawled.
Neville blinked, startled from his thoughts, then lifted the crisps like a shield. “Snacks,” he said, by way of explanation.
“Sure,” Theo replied, deadpan. “Snacks. Come on in.”
Neville stepped fully into the kitchen, eyes flicking briefly to Pansy as he set the crisps down on the counter. She met his gaze for the barest moment. Before anyone could say more, Draco’s unmistakable voice rang out from the other room. “Theo!"
Theo rolled his eyes skyward in exasperation. “Merlin give me strength,” he muttered, passing the uncorked bottle to Neville. "Longbottom, you deal with the wine," he said, already striding toward the door. The hum of conversation from the living room faded into the background as Neville shifted awkwardly, holding the bottle like it might spontaneously combust. Pansy watched him, her arms folding loosely across her chest, a brow lifting in quiet amusement.
"You any good at that?" she asked, nodding toward the bottle in his hand.
Neville cleared his throat, setting the crisps aside. "At pouring wine? I have basic motor skills, if that’s what you’re asking."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Neville grabbed the forgotten bottle opener, inserting the corkscrew into the top of the wine bottle. "I heard what you said," he admitted, keeping his tone even as he twisted the corkscrew. "About your job."
"Did you?" she replied, looking away from him and at the magnets on Hermione's fridge, fearful that he would be able to read everything about her if she met his gaze. He seemed to be infuriatingly good at reading her.
Neville gave a small, genuine nod. "I’m glad," he said simply. "That you like it. That you’re… happy."
Pansy’s eyes lingered on the magnets for a moment longer, her emotions and thoughts tangling into a jumbled ball. She didn’t know why it felt so hard to just say the words aloud. It was easy enough to tell Theo, easy enough to nod when someone else asked, but with Neville, everything felt a little too close to the heart.
“I am,” she said finally, the words almost a whisper. “Really, I am.”
The silence that followed felt comfortable, but it wasn’t the kind that made her anxious. He wasn’t pressing, wasn’t pushing her. He was just there. Like he always seemed to be, in all the right ways, in all the small moments.
Finally, Neville shifted, breaking the stillness. “We should probably get back. You know, before Draco comes in here to heckle us for being slow.” He smiled lightly, his hand brushing the side of the bottle as he readied it for the walk back to the living room.
“Yeah,” Pansy agreed, her voice steadier now. “Can’t have that.”
As they reentered the living room, the game was already set up. The scattered pieces of Settlers of Catan lay across the coffee table as their friends crowded around the table. Hermione had insisted they play Settlers of Catan, which Pansy had scoffed at. Pansy had tried to play it a few times before and, to her great shame, still hadn’t quite grasped the rules.
“About time you two got back,” Draco remarked with a playful smirk, his eyes flicking between them. “We were starting to think you’d gone off and had your own little game going on in the kitchen.”
Pansy rolled her eyes, but before she could snap at him, Hermione spoke up. “The teams are already decided,” she said, pointing to the seating arrangement.
Draco and Hermione had already claimed their spot as a pair, naturally. To Pansy's dismay, Harry and Theo had been assigned together, Theo’s face scrunched in confusion as he looked down at the game board. “I’m going to need a guide for this,” he muttered.
Which left her with... Neville. Her eyes met Neville’s, who was already giving her a small smile. She couldn’t help the brief flutter in her chest.
“Well then, looks like it’s us,” Neville said softly, giving her a slight, encouraging nod.
Pansy gave a short, nonchalant laugh to cover her sudden nerves. “Guess we’re stuck with each other.”
With no more fanfare, the game began. Pansy quickly fell into the routine of playing with Neville—easy, smooth, as they discussed their next moves in quiet murmurs. As the night went on, their dynamic was seamless, with Pansy finding herself focusing on the game less and Neville’s calm demeanor more. The way he handled every question and move with patience, the subtle way he would tilt his head when explaining something she didn’t quite understand, it made her feel like she didn’t need to try so hard. It felt comfortable. As they crowded around the game board, Pansy was acutely aware of how close they were. With each move, their shoulders brushed, and their arms occasionally bumped as they passed the pieces between them. Every time it happened, she tried to focus on the game, but it was hard not to feel the heat radiating off of him, the warmth of his presence. Her heart felt it was going to jump out of her chest and onto the game board in front of them.
Neville, for his part, tried to keep his focus on the game. But every time Pansy’s hand brushed against his, or when they leaned in closer to examine the board, his mind wandered. He wasn’t sure if she was aware of how much they were pressed together, but he couldn’t ignore the way her proximity seemed to affect him. His pulse quickened each time she leaned over to move a piece, her perfume faint but intoxicating, the soft curve of her body just a bit too close. He’d spent enough time with her recently to feel comfortable, to feel like their dynamic was easy, natural even. As the game continued, Neville couldn’t help but notice how she kept glancing at him, trying to hide the occasional smile or look of concentration. There was something in the way she caught his eye, something that made him wonder if she was feeling the same pull he was.
As the night unfolded, it became clear that the game had boiled down to a fierce race between two teams: Neville and Pansy, and Draco and Hermione.
“Bloody hell, Theo,” Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face as Theo once again attempted a trade that left them painfully short of resources. “We needed brick. Brick. What part of that is unclear?”
“I thought we needed wheat!” Theo protested, tossing his hands in the air, looking scandalized. “You said wheat!”
“I said brick!” Harry snapped back. "This is why we're losing!"
“You said brick!" Theo shot back, exasperated. "Maybe if you diversified our strategy, we wouldn’t be in this mess!"
Pansy, sharp and competitive by nature, was fully locked in now. Her usual detachment had vanished, replaced by a quiet intensity as she leaned over the board beside Neville. They consulted in hushed voices, and as they crowded over their territory, Pansy felt his shoulder brush against hers yet again. Heat flared across her skin, but she kept her expression carefully composed.
“Okay,” Neville said softly, his eyes scanning the cards in his hand before flicking up to meet hers. “If we trade for wood, we can lock down this road and block Draco and Hermione from expanding.”
She grinned, sharp and bright. “Do it.”
Pansy’s pulse thrummed with the thrill of competition and something else, something undeniably warmer and far more dangerous, as Neville’s fingers brushed over hers while passing the resource cards between them. She didn’t look at him right away, didn’t trust herself to, but the warmth of his quiet presence beside her was impossible to ignore. Neville was equally aware. Every glance Pansy cast at him sent a flicker of heat beneath his skin. He told himself to focus, to keep his attention on the game. But the way she leaned in to study the board, the way her lips quirked when she figured out a clever move—it was all maddeningly distracting. And as they set their final pieces in place for what could be a winning play, their hands brushed again.
“That’s it,” he said, almost disbelieving. “We’ve won.”
For a heartbeat, there was silence around the table. Then Pansy’s eyes lit up with fierce, uncontained glee. “We won,” she echoed, and without thinking—without hesitation—she threw her arms around Neville, pulling him into an exuberant hug. She didn’t even care about the startled beat of pause in him before his arms, strong and sure, wrapped around her in return. She was too busy grinning wickedly over his shoulder, eyes flashing toward Draco.
“Ha! Take that, Malfoy!” she crowed, her voice full of smug delight. “You can’t beat me, not even with Granger glued to your side!”
Draco scowled, crossing his arms in irritation, while Hermione sighed with a begrudging, tight-lipped smile. “They played well,” Hermione admitted, though her gaze lingered on the board, already dissecting where they’d lost their edge.
Pansy, still flush with victory, held onto Neville for a beat longer than was necessary, the adrenaline of winning mingling with a new, warmer rush beneath her skin. Only when she realized she could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against her own did she pull away, too-fast, as though burned by her own impulsiveness. Neville, cheeks slightly pink, met her gaze with a spark of something he hadn’t dared show before: quiet pride, yes—but something warmer too. Something hopeful.
“Right,” she said briskly, her voice clipped in an attempt at nonchalance. “Well, someone had to show them how it’s done.”
The others began packing up, conversations shifting to plans for future game nights, half-hearted excuses from Harry and Theo about why they’d lost so spectacularly. Coats were fetched, lingering goodbyes shared, and one by one, the group trickled out into the cool night. Neville lingered by the door as Pansy adjusted her jacket, her movements just a little too brisk, as though she could shake off the flush still warming her cheeks.
“Do you want me to walk you back?” His voice broke through the hum of her thoughts, low and genuine, with none of the teasing she half-expected. “It’s late.”
She hesitated, caught between her instinct to brush it off and something softer beneath her ribcage—an unfamiliar pull. Her eyes flicked to him, and for once, she let herself exhale, dropping the guard she’d so hastily rebuilt. “Alright,” she answered, quieter this time, the corners of her mouth lifting despite herself. “Yes. If you’re offering.”
“I am,” Neville replied simply, holding the door open for her.
They stepped out into the chilled air, the door shutting softly behind them. They walked in easy silence at first, the sound of their footsteps soft against the sidewalk. Pansy risked a glance at him, catching the way his gaze flicked upward to the sky, the way his breath fogged in the chill air. He looked at ease in a way that made her chest tighten unexpectedly. He wasn’t rushing to fill the silence. He wasn’t fidgeting or forcing conversation. He just… walked with her. Present, steady. Her eyes darted away, forward again, but she felt her mouth pull into a small, unbidden smile.
“I think Harry might actually throttle Theo at the next game night,” Neville finally said, breaking the quiet with a small, rueful chuckle.
Pansy’s lips curved further. “I’d pay to see it,” she replied, her voice softer than she intended, though it wasn’t teasing. More thoughtful. “I’ve never seen Potter look so distressed over something so trivial.”
Neville gave a quiet laugh. “He’s a sore loser. Worse than Draco, honestly.”
That drew a genuine laugh from her, light and surprised, carried away by the cool night breeze. She tilted her head toward him, her eyes bright beneath the streetlamps. “That’s bold talk, Longbottom.”
“I’m just stating the obvious,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. His gaze flicked to her for a heartbeat longer than necessary before returning to the path ahead.
“But,” he added, his voice a touch warmer, “I will say—I liked winning with you.” His smile deepened, a quiet sort of confidence behind it. “Theo’s not going to be able to steal my partner back that easily.”
Pansy felt her cheeks warm again, and she was grateful for the dimness of the streetlights as they walked. “Good,” she managed, trying to keep her tone breezy. “I’d hate to be stuck with Theo. He barely knows how to play.”
“Besides… we make a good team,” Neville replied.
Her heart stuttered in her chest at the way he said it—so casual. She forced herself to look ahead, her voice just steady enough when she hummed in agreement, “Yeah.”
They lapsed into a comfortable, if slightly charged, silence as they continued the short walk to her flat. The only sounds were the soft echo of their footsteps and the occasional distant hum of traffic. Pansy kept her gaze ahead, though she was hyperaware of Neville’s presence beside her. When they reached her building, she slowed to a stop at the bottom of the steps leading to her door.
“Well,” she said, folding her arms loosely over her chest, a thin shield against the flickering vulnerability creeping in. “This is me.”
“Right,” he said, his voice lower, rougher with hesitation. His gaze flicked to her door, then back to her face. “I—” He hesitated, the words almost there, perched at the edge of his tongue. Should he say it? Should he ask if she wanted him to stay for a bit longer, maybe grab coffee tomorrow, maybe something—anything—that would keep this from ending?
But before he could decide, Pansy stepped back, her hand already on the railing. She forced a polite, practiced smile. "Thanks for walking me back," she said quickly, too quickly, a little too bright. "Goodnight, Neville."
And with that, she turned and climbed the steps, leaving him standing at the bottom. Neville watched her go, a quiet exhale escaping him as the door clicked shut behind her. For a moment, he lingered, his hands stuffed in his pockets, a twinge of disappointment settling in his chest. What he didn’t see, from behind the door, was Pansy pressing her back against it, closing her eyes and letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her heart still fluttered in her chest, but she shoved the feeling away, convinced he was just being friendly. Just polite. Just Neville. And she would not embarrass herself again. Pansy pushed off the door after a moment, peeling her coat off and draping it on her coat tree. She wandered to the kitchen, filling a glass of water just for something to do, but her mind kept drifting back to the walk home—the way his voice had dipped just a little when he said they made a good team, the way he’d looked at her like he wanted to say more. She shook her head sharply, as if she could physically dislodge the thought. Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself. He’s just friendly. Friendly and polite. She took a long sip of water, then set the glass down with a soft clink, glancing at her phone on the counter. She thought about messaging someone, distracting herself, but couldn’t bring herself to. Instead, she flipped off the lights and retreated to her bedroom, laying on top of the covers of her bed and staring up at the ceiling. No matter how much she told herself to let it go, her mind replayed every brush of his arm, every glance, every soft-spoken word between them.
Neville stood there for a beat too long after her door shut, staring at the smooth surface as if it might swing back open. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly into the quiet night. Idiot, he thought. Finally, he forced himself to step away from her door, his footsteps echoing softly down the street. The chill of the night air bit at his skin, but it did little to clear his mind. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets as he walked, head down, brow furrowed. He kept replaying the evening—the victory, her bright laughter when they won, the way she had embraced him.
Even as he unlocked the door to his flat and stepped inside, dropping his keys a little too carelessly on the counter, Pansy lingered in his mind like a shadow that wouldn’t fade. His mind drifted, unbidden, to that night. When she had kissed him. It had been impulsive. Messy. She’d been drinking, they both had, but he remembered the heat of her lips on his, the sudden rush of it catching him completely off guard. He’d frozen at first, shocked, and then gently he had pushed her away, muttering something about Hannah. About how it wasn’t fair. He’d still been tangled in a relationship then, clinging to something familiar even as it quietly unraveled. And ever since, he wondered if that moment had changed things between them irrevocably. Maybe she’d only kissed me because she was drunk, he thought bitterly, wrangling off his boots and pacing across his living room. Maybe it hadn’t meant anything at all. If anything, she seemed determined to keep things light and easy between them. Like they were just friends. Good friends. Teammates. The thought lodged in his chest uncomfortably. Maybe I made it worse, he thought, running a hand down his face. Maybe she decided right then that I wasn’t interested, and she’s just been saving face ever since. The idea sat sour in his stomach as he sank onto his couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. He had been interested. He was interested. But now… maybe it was too late.