"He makes her happy, even though he's a huge dickhead that I hate with a burning passion of 1000 fiendfyres. Whatever. I don't make her happy, so what can I do about it? Ima sing power ballads until I die, that's what." - Neville, after waaay too many drinks and a karaoke session that shall never be mentioned again. Never.

"Explain it once more."

Hermione sat in the formal living room, a room Neville usually ignored. It had gathered a healthy amount of dust in the several months since his Gran moved out and in with Erasmus. Green plaid with white stripe curtains covered the windows, which Pansy had insisted remain closed, and entire shelves full of wooden mallards covered every other wall of the room.

Ducks.

They freaked Neville out.

He sat beside Hermione, head in his hands, arms braced against his knees, entire body throbbing in the worst way. But mostly the ache came from his poor, abused head. The fourth knock, delivered by the tall bodyguard named Gerry, managed to get that nagging voice out of his head and make him realize he was straight snogging Pansy Parkinson.

Though she was the one that initiated the session, somehow someway he was the one that got bumped on the head by a 7 foot blue-eyed Viking.

This day SUCKED.

Across from him Draco and Pansy both sat looking as uncomfortable as he felt. But at least he had his own legal representation now. And he'd rather have Hermione anyways. She was a wiz in court though her usual clients were abused werewolves or unpaid house elves.

"I told you," he said again. "Ginny came to see me this morning and together we decided to go to Diagon Alley to get ingredients to make Dreamless Sleep Potions."

"Because you haven't been sleeping lately?" Hermione reiterated.

"Yes, I've been having-" he glanced at Pansy, who turned a bright pink at his attention. "Sex dreams that have kept me awake for weeks now."

"And Ms. Parkinson has been experiencing the same," Hermione paused and looked around. "Symptoms."

"Yes," Pansy covered her face. Suddenly shy again.

"At the supply shop you saw Ms. Parkinson and lost conscious control of your body."

"I'm possessed," Neville snapped, his mood turning more and more sour as the day went on. "I think Ms. Parkinson is possessed too."

"Don't say my name that way," she uncovered her face and glared rather angrily toward him. "I did not ask for this. This isn't my fault! Please don't blame me for this. Don't even think it."

"No one is blaming you, Pansy, as you are clearly a victim here," Malfoy glared at everyone in the room to make his point.

"But I'm right, aren't I? ... Stella?" Neville caught her gaze, looking for forest green and finding only pure silver.

"I don't appreciate your tone, Mr. Longbottom, after all you were first to assault my client," Malfoy warned him in a voice that didn't sound like a threat but clearly was.

"Yet somehow my client has been hit three times in the head today, by two of Ms. Parkinson's hired guards and once by her herself."

"Four!" he shouted.

"Stop stop," Pansy waved her hands between them. "Please I don't want any more aggression."

The look she gave Malfoy said there was more at play that they were revealing, but Neville couldn't guess at what it could be. After a tense moment Malfoy nodded and Pansy turned back to them. "Yes, I think I'm also possessed as Nev-Nev-Longbottom-Mr. Longbottom said."

The fear was back, she couldn't even say his name. She continued, "By someone named Stella… she… you know she kind of speaks like Wayne."

Draco's eyebrow raised. "You're sure?"

"Who is Wayne?" Hermione asked pleasantly.

"My third bodyguard."

"Why the hell do you have three bodyguards?" Neville wondered out loud, sounding as frustrated as he felt. Like the Viking and Bubblegum Girl weren't enough already? Suddenly he realized there was a third person probably out to hit him now. Great. Juuuuust great.

"Don't answer that, Pansy," Malfoy insisted. "Not until he answers my earlier question."

"What question would that be?" Hermione asked.

"What does Wayne sound like?" he asked, not really following the conversation. His mind was going too fast. He was too worried about these bodyguards.

"Wayne was born in Texas, USA," Pansy told Neville.

My wife is not from Texas, Gus scoffed. Straight up. Neville heard it as clearly as his own thoughts.

"Whether or not he has any association with The Brotherhood of the Chosen?" Malfoy continued.

Then he looked at Neville, who looked at Hermione, who looked at Pansy with her head tilted to the side and questioning look on her face. A look Neville knew pretty well. Finally Hermione said, "Do you Neville?"

"I don't even know what that is," he admitted, frustrated. He was still stuck on this Wayne fellow. And Gus. And TEXAS. And on the throbbing in his head. Seriously, he'd never had a migraine before and didn't often get headaches. Was it always this awful!?

"He doesn't even know what that is," Pansy repeated to Draco. Slowly. As if she couldn't believe it. She took a deep breath, her mouth forming a perfect O shape before she let it out.

"It's a cult," Hermione informed him on the tail end of Pansy's words. "They worship Harry, they see him as a destined Hero because of the prophecy about him."

"The one that could've been about me?" Neville asked.

"Yes. But it's not," Hermione reminded. "They are fanatic sure, but harmless."

A taut silence as everyone who wasn't Neville or Hermione stilled.

"Harmless?" Pansy's voice raised for the first time. The fear was gone at least. "Harmless!"

"Calm down Pansy!" Draco insisted.

"I will not! Those people aren't 'harmless'! They've tried to kill me three times!" she wrenched the collar of her shirt down and revealed a spattering of burn marks all across the right side of her chest and, from what wasn't covered by her lacy purple bra, on her breast as well.

"Spitting Fire Beetle! Not so harmless after all!"

So maybe she usually was shy, but when she got going, Pansy really got going.

"Pansy, please," Malfoy dropped his parchment and quill and swiveled around to help button up her shirt. Again he put himself between Pansy and everyone else. "Lowlife fanatics who have nothing better to do with their time than worship a false deity don't deserve your anguish."

"That's good advice," Neville told Hermione in a whisper.

She nodded. "Pansy, you're saying members of this cult have tried to kill you three times? Do you have proof?"

"Yes." This from the Viking, who stood guard at the doorway. "The Ministry has all the evidence, I'm the one that collects and delivers it. Mostly hate mail and angry letters. Three cursed trinkets, unsuccessful, but also one squashed beetle, a Self-Cutting Knife, and one cursed bird feather."

"So that's six attempts," Neville folded his arms across his chest and finally leaned back in his seat. Not three, was she trying to downplay it? He dared to look at Pansy again and decided yes, based on her red tinted cheeks and a look on her face he was all too familiar with. She didn't much enjoy attention. "I see why you have bodyguards. But why? What possible reason do they have to want you dead?"

"She tried to sell out Harry during the Final Battle," Hermione answered for her.

"Now that we've established Mr. Longbottom isn't part of the cult trying to harm Ms. Parkinson, maybe we can get back to the original topic."

"Actually," Neville stood up. "I want a minute alone with you."

He said it to Pansy. And he wasn't sure if it was him... or Gus.

She stood up, silver eyes swimming in fear but chin turned up stubbornly. He didn't need a voice in his head telling him she was breathtaking. "No."

Then she left.