The Right by Parks and Fiction Chapter 9 Madam Pince is
starting to think of. Bloody hell Pansy, where is all
this ribbon coming from? She sighed as Neville tripped
over yet another box of supplies.
It's going into the fall line, Just watch where you step.
It was his fault for insisting they lived in his tiny cottage
and for not allowing her to make his guest room into her own
workspace. Surely he could transfigure
something into a bed each night if he was that opposed to
sleeping on the couch. One day she'd packed everything
up and brought it into Parkinson Manor so she could spread out.
After an hour of jumping at every little sound and getting
absolutely nothing done, she'd given it up as a lost cause.
Though small, at least the cottage had incredible light,
which came from marrying A herbologist with an unhealthy
plant obsession, but it was a nice benefit.
Her storefront was set to open at the beginning of August, just
after the Hogwarts letters went out.
The bulk of her business was custom work, but ready made
items drew in clientele. A blend of both served more
witches and allowed for customers to see what she had to
offer. She had three weeks left before
opening and furniture was coming the next week.
Prepping the space would take all the time she had, so she
needed to get all the robes done before it arrived.
Even with the school on summer break, Neville was at the castle
every day maintaining the greenhouses or researching or
whatever it was Hogwarts professors did in their free
time. Never seen so much bloody ribbon
in my life. Neville muttered.
Going to start exploring out of every draw next.
She smirked. Now there was an idea.
Are you still scared of her? What, Madam Pince, She said.
She's the only person on staff who you don't call by their
first name. Aside from Hagrid, no one calls
him Rubius, he said. And yes, anyone in their riot
mind is terrified of Madam Pince, which makes me all the
more concerned about her following me around and
wondering why I'm doing so much research in the Restricted
Section. She didn't look up from
supervising her charmed cheers cutting out her pattern.
How many Herbology books are in the Restricted section?
More than you think, but I've already read or own most of
them. He said.
I've been trying to find any information on how to break a
blood oath. Her heart stuttered.
She glanced up, trying not to get her hopes up, and he sat on
the kitchen chair, one of the few available spaces in the
room, and rubbed his face. Nothing.
It wasn't surprising, but she still felt the familiar crush of
disappointment. He drew in a deep breath.
She already knew she was going to hate whatever he was about to
say. If I could ask him, right?
No, he sighed. Pansy, she's your best friend.
The familiar shame turned in her stomach.
Who can't keep a thing from Draco?
If you asked her not to tell him, he's far too clever not to
figure it out. He'd come close enough 5 weeks
ago at card night. Neville let out a sharp hoof.
You obviously were going to tell him before he blew apart his
family ring. The irritation in his voice
grated on her nerves. Were you really going to ask him
to complete the right? He demanded.
Knowing how he feels about Hermione, was he always going to
assume the worst about her? I didn't know about the right.
What? Was there anything more
humiliating than having to explain all of this to him?
My family has more than one. She said.
I thought the blood right. My father performed on me as a
baby. Was it?
Apparently it was just step one. Fucking bastard.
She should have known. I knew I had to be a virgin if I
wanted to choose my own husband, provided he was sacred 28 and
that I'd have to lose my virginity for the marriage to be
considered valid or to invoke a succession clause.
I thought anyone could do it and that would be it.
She said. I didn't know there was another
right? What do you mean you didn't
know? He demanded.
You took a blood oath without even knowing what you were
agreeing to. The condescension in his tone
made something inside her snap. You think my father or the Dark
Lord gave me a chance to ask questions when I was presented
to him like a prized breeding bitch to be put up for auction?
She spat. Neville reared back.
What do you think that a roomful of men, the Dark Lord's closest
supporters, would have done to me if I'd have so much
hesitated? She demanded.
That oath protected me that entire year and bought me time
until I was married off. If she gave away her virginity,
she lost any ability to select her husband, Sacred 28 or not,
and her father got to decide if he would disown her or sell her
off despite becoming used goods. If she was raped, she was
allowed to disinherit and free herself from it, all incentive
for her father or guardian to go to any lengths to protect her.
Purity, because that's what it came down to for them.
Purity. If the Dark Lord won, my fate
wouldn't have been any different anyway.
Not with her father's plans. If he lost, I didn't think there
would be anyone left to enforce it.
Shark gave way to condescension in his expression again.
Blood auths enforce themselves. I'm not Hermione Granger, but
I'm not an idiot. She snapped.
I vowed to uphold my father's will, so far as my father or
guardian instructed not to uphold the will myself.
When Potter triumphed over the Dark Lord and her father died in
the final battle, she had thought she was free.
With her father dead, all she had to do was remain a virgin
until she was 25, if still, and married at that age.
Too decrepit to be worthy of a pure blood match, she would
automatically be disowned from the family.
Not the threat, it seemed, when it meant her magic would be safe
and she could fuck or marry whoever the hell she wanted.
Her life and her magic would be her own if that fucking
solicitor hadn't found Ivan. But he had, and here they were.
If she hadn't been worried that any interference on her part
would have negated that clause, she would have been tempted to
try to manipulate Petro or anyone into forcing her.
One time was better than being married to a man who would rape
her whenever he wanted. But she didn't know how the
magic worked, and that sort of Slytherin pragmatism came too
close to choosing to give it away.
So she was left with nothing. Nothing but the choice between a
blood oath that would strip her magic or a marriage right her
husband refused to perform. Not all of us can pull swords
out of hats whenever we need them, Longbottom.
There was no response as she stared at the mess in her living
room. With a wave of her want, she
halted all production and swept it into a box.
There, she said, Wouldn't want you to worry about tripping on
ribbon again. Without another word, she turned
and stormed out from the house. Despite the late hour, when she
finally returned to the little cottage, all the lights were
still on. Neville was sitting at the
table, several prepared dishes untouched in front of him.
Ah, made dinner. He said, removing the stasis
charms from the table. She dropped into her seat with a
flippant grin. Well, that finally answers the
question of which sob story to tell whenever I get hungry.
He frowned. Bansi, you have to start taking
this seriously. This again?
From what I understand, this dinner was supposed to be you
apologizing for accusing me of not taking this seriously.
She said. Don't ruin this for yourself
now, Longbottom. His face twisted with
frustration, irritation, some sort of displeasure with her.
You're not doing anything to find a way out of the blood
oath, because there is no way out of the blood oath.
She snapped. You're the one rejecting the
obvious solution here, Rejecting her.
I'm not going to beg you to fuck me, Longbottom.
His nostrils flared. She turned back to her meal,
blindly stabbing at whatever he'd made.
I'm not giving up, Pansy. Right, because of his morals.
Fucking Gryffindors. There was only so much rejection
of which could take. She pushed back her plate.
I'm going to bed, Pansy. Good night.
Long Bottom after their conversation never went from
avoiding her to trying to be nice.
Making her cups of tea, preparing meals, buying her a
not inexpensive bottle of wine, pulling out chairs and opening
doors. All that sickening Gryffindor
chivalry. Asking about her line, offering
to help set up the storefront. It was also disgustingly
Hufflepuff. Whether it was out of pity or to
assuage his guilt, she wanted nothing to do with it.
The tea he made ended up spilled on a guest bed when he slept
each night. Breakfast was casually just left
in the reach of a carnivorous plant, drawing its attention to
the even more delicious plant in the next pot over.
The bottle of wine fell off the counter and shattered on the
floor. Chairs and Stoops tripped
Longbottom as soon as she walked past after he tried to help her.
It was petty and childish and vindictive.
She loved every minute of it, watching his frustration grow
and then his noble attempts to suppress it over and over, all
week long until he was about to burst.
When she finished her line on Friday morning, she decided to
treat herself to a little celebration.
Neville came home for lunch just as she was sitting down enjoying
a cup of tea. Let me change, and then I can
make us something for lunch. She gave him a smile.
Sounds lovely. He paused, glancing back at her
with a hint of a grin. There was a new spark in his
eye, a sense of relieved hope that maybe, just maybe, his
constant irritating attempts to smother her were starting to
work. A Slytherin would have seen it
for the warning it was. Longbottom might have lost the
baby fat, but not an ounce of his naivete.
He disappeared into the room with an almost bounce to his
steps. Poor fool.
Moments later she heard a soft pop and his startled Yelp.
The sound of fluttering ceased and was immediately followed by
another pop, this time a growl of frustration.
It repeated 2 more times. She pressed her lips together as
she heard him stomp across the room and slam the closet doors
open, followed by the loudest pop of all.
Bloody hell, Pansy, what the fuck is wrong with you?
Neville stood in the door to the bedroom, panting and glaring.
There were still scraps of ribbon in his hair.
It took everything in her to not burst out laughing at the sight.
Oh, did I get my ribbon in your way again?
I'm done trying to be nice. He seethed, storming to the
kitchen. Make your own damn lunch.
This, this was what she'd needed all week long since the day Ivan
showed up to get back. A sense of power, a sense of
control. If it involved lightly
tormenting someone, all the better.
Oh, no, she said. Whatever will I do without your
mediocre sandwiches each day? Practically snarling, he yanked
open one of the kitchen cabinets.
His only warning was a soft pop, and then an explosion of
colourful ribbon burst forth, showering him with bright satin
strands. The look of dumbfounded rage was
what finally made her break. She burst out into laughter,
doubling over, nearly crying with mirth.
Neville swatted at the strands, trying to knock them off his
hair. The number of scraps left sent
her into peals of laughter again.
You are such a fucking brat. He slammed the door shut.
I can't believe no one's ever taken you over their knee.
And he paused, or the laughter died as a new energy filled the
room. Neville flushed red and his
nostrils flared, her head cocked to the side.
She'd seen him do that before, knew it was one of his towels,
but always assumed it was one of irritation.
Which perhaps was also true. But when she thought about what
she'd said those times, she saw it before.
Pansy Parkinson on her knees, begging.
You kinky? Yes, Sir.
A slow smile spread across her face.
It was always the ones you least expected, wasn't it?
Setting her tea down, she rose and sauntered over to where he
stood. Would you like that?
She asked, taking a bratty little witch over your knee, and
he remained perfectly still, but she caught it.
The nostril flare. She laughed.
You would. She smirked.
Would you believe it? Neville Longbottom, Order of
Merlin, First Class and Hero of the Battle of Hogwarts, gets off
by spanking women. Fast and smooth as a chimera, he
moved, pinning her against the kitchen wall without even
touching her. His hands bracketed her head,
palms pressed flat against the wall.
The muscles in his arms and shoulders bulged even beneath
those terrible robes. Her heart thundered inside her
chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The slow smile spread across his face was nothing short of
predatory. Her mouth went dry, pressing
against the wall, she tried to get space, but he was too close,
breathing down on her, overwhelming her senses with his
scent, the sharp gleam in his eye.
Leaning down, his lips brushed her ear.
Awe, Princess. He breathed, his voice a low,
smooth, near growl. It makes me harder than you
could ever possibly imagine. Without the wall behind her, her
knees would have given out. She locked them, forcing herself
to stay upright, not to let the soft whimper in the back of her
throat escape. Holding her gaze, he moved one
of his hands off the wall. There was space now to run or
flee, but his stare pinned her in place.
Neville's smirk spread. The question, Princess, isn't
what the thought of you over my knee does to me.
Ever so carefully, without touching any part of her leg,
his hand reached down to where her robe hung against her thigh,
bunching it in his hand. She could feel the slow drag of
the hem over her ankle, up her calf.
Her breath hitched. It's what it does to you.
Her robe rose with agonising slowness.
If I were to slip my hand between your thighs, what would
I find? Fucking Merlin.
He hadn't even touched her yet and she was already on the edge.
A brush or two of his fingers and she'd tip right over.
How wet does Pansy Parkinson get at the thought of Neville
Longbottom spanking her ass? Red.
He threw out their names as if he knew the taunt intending to
humiliate would only make her hotter.
Biting back her whimper, she pressed her lips shut, refusing
to answer, refusing to let him know how badly her body craved
this. Answer the question, Princess.
He said, his silky voice sharpening to a command.
She wouldn't, couldn't. Her robe stopped its upward
slide just over her knees. But before you do, just know
that if you lie to me, there will be consequences.
That thought sent 100 different images through her mind, each
one more delicious than the last, and she shuddered.
Fuck it. She met him square in the eyes.
No. He arched an eyebrow, but his
gaze sparked like that was the exact answer he'd expected.
Nor you won't answer the question.
No, you don't make me wet. She threw the light out like the
gaunt that it was. His gaze darkened.
How disappointing. She was practically trembling
beneath him, waiting with bated breath to see what he was going
to do. Yank her robe up the rest of the
way? Find out exactly how much she
was lying? Bend her over the kitchen table
for some of those consequences. Instead of that, he pulled away
so quickly she almost lost her balance.
He adjusted his sleeves of his robes, looking entirely
unaffected. My mistake, What the fuck?
I've got some graphs to check on in Greenhouse 3.
He said. I'll be back in time to get
ready for Theo's tonight. Was he seriously just going to
leave with her trembling, panting, practically salivating
in need, the slightest hint of a smirk came to his expression.
Hope you can find some way to enjoy yourself while I'm gone.
With a crack, he disapparated, leaving her stunned, alone and
wanting. Neville fucking Longbottom.
Fuck.