Work Text:
September, 2001
Pansy Parkinson was not the kind of witch who gave a fuck about what anyone thought about her. At least, that’s what she told herself almost daily. Her mantra, really.
She repeated it now to herself as she glanced surreptitiously around the bar, waiting for Blaise to arrive. The place was crawling with Hogwarts alum, she realized with disgust. Faces she never would have willingly subjected herself to, so long as she could help it. Faces that she knew were whispering about her, wondering what she was doing drinking alone.
Why in Merlin’s name had she allowed Zabini to choose the place this time? She should have known better. She should have insisted on picking and ignored his whinging that she always got to choose.
Salazar, she was going to hex him for making her wait so long.
Pansy drained her martini and tucked a sleek strand of hair behind her ear. “Fuck this,” she muttered under her breath, flagging down the bartender.
She’d get the cheque and go back to her flat, where better gin and endless glossy magazines waited for her. Zabini would just have to figure it out for himself when– if– he decided to show up and she wasn’t there. The bartender glanced at her, then turned back around as if he hadn’t seen her. She frowned. Since when had people become so bloody rude–
“Pansy?”
She turned, almost in slow motion, dreading whoever it was that had just approached her. It wasn’t a voice she recognized, that was for sure.
Or a face she recognized. Wait– or did she? Something about the man standing in front of her was vaguely familiar. He was tall, quite so, with dark hair and a chiseled jawline. He had a well-sculpted beard and bright, blue-green eyes, and the first word that came to Pansy when she looked at them was… kind.
How odd.
“Do I know you?” she asked in her best unimpressed drawl.
He smirked slightly, an almost imperceptible quirk of his lips. “You used to. Sort of.”
Pansy blinked at him, and then suddenly it hit her. “Longbottom?”
“That’s right,” he said, flashing a smile at her.
His teeth were quite nice, she thought. She remembered them as being rather awful back at school– he must have had them fixed.
Narrowing her eyes at him, she crossed her arms. “What do you want?”
If she wounded him, he certainly didn’t show it. “It’s been awhile,” he said casually. “Just wanted to say hello. Can I buy you a drink?”
She considered him. He seemed genuine enough, but then again, why would he have any desire to speak to her? What would he gain from buying her a drink, other than maybe winning a bet with his mates or having a laugh at her expense? Pansy glanced behind him, looking for a table of overgrown, rowdy Gryffindors who might be egging him on. She found nothing, but that didn’t mean they weren’t here.
“Nice try, Longbottom, but I’ve got places to be. Tell your mates hello from me,” she snapped, grabbing her purse and slamming a few Galleons down on the bar, forgoing the cheque entirely.
Longbottom tilted his head at her, his expression a mixture of confusion and amusement. “Next time, then,” he called out, though his voice was soft when he said it.
She paused at the doorway for a fraction of a second before rolling her eyes and letting it slam shut behind her.
--------------------------
There was absolutely nothing that a soak in the tub, a strong martini, and some trash magazines couldn’t fix. Another one of Pansy’s mottos. She should make a booklet, really. What would she call it? “ How to (Mostly) Survive a Pureblood Upbringing.” Or maybe “ Lies I Tell Myself to Get Through the Day: Pansy Parkinson’s Version.”
Neither of them had much of a ring to them. Oh well, she thought. Back to the drawing board.
Pansy liked living alone. At least, she liked it better than living with her parents. Anything was better than being under Paulina Parkinson’s thumb.
She liked that she could come and go as she pleased. She liked that she could hang art wherever she liked and paint the walls colors that would make her mother blanch. She liked that she could bring strange men home with her and kick them out afterwards, preferring to sleep alone. She liked that she could sleep until noon and walk naked around the flat or scream at the top of her lungs when she was angry, or just because she felt like it.
Was this how other girls felt, living in their very own flats? She hadn’t the foggiest. Pansy had never gotten on very well with girls. It wasn’t for lack of trying– she’d worked hard to stay in Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis’ good graces back at school. But she’d never quite gotten it right.
She was too sharp and sarcastic. She didn’t know how to sugarcoat things or keep her mouth shut when she was meant to. She felt awkward when people cried in front of her and she didn’t like to lend out her makeup. She cursed like a sailor and let too many boys get under her skirts. She wasn’t a “girl’s girl.” At least, that’s what Daphne had told her, and it had always stuck with her.
It was lonely sometimes, although she loathed to admit it. Her only real friend these days was Blaise, and he hardly had time for her as it was. He was a good friend– loyal, steadfast, and far kinder than one might’ve expected, but he was constantly jetting off from country to country doing important business things she didn’t deign to understand. She was reminded of this moments ago when his owl had tapped insistently at her window, delivering a lengthy and genuine apology for his absence tonight. He'd gotten stuck in a meeting with the Japanese Ministry that had ran several hours over. He promised to make it up to her.
She missed Theo. And Draco.
But she also missed people she didn’t know yet, somehow. She felt the emptiness of her life keenly and often. That didn’t mean she sat around feeling sorry for herself, though. Pansy rarely cried or let herself drown in self-pity. In fact, she was fairly certain the last time she’d cried was at Theo’s trial two years ago. She reserved her tears for very specific things.
She kept busy. She shopped and drank and traveled and helped organize charity events and galas from time to time.
She kept up appearances, even if it was only for herself. And that was just fine.
Still, as she watched the bubbles form around her feet, she couldn’t help but let her mind linger on the strange interaction she’d had tonight. About what would have happened if, instead of being her prickly, acerbic self, she’d smiled pleasantly and said “Sure, Longbottom. Buy me a drink.”
He didn’t seem like the type to have a joke like that, just to poke fun at someone. He’d struck her as rather earnest, actually. But really, she didn’t know him at all. And worse than that, if memory served, she’d been rather awful to him back at school. Not him specifically, but she could recall a handful of times she’d stood in a circle of Slytherins, watching as someone tripped him or called him names. He’d been an easy target back then– awkward, bumbling, painfully shy and eager to please.
It made Pansy feel deeply ashamed, truthfully.
She’d been a bully. Of course, she knew now that she’d behaved that way out of a desperate need to be liked and accepted. By Draco, by Daphne, by her parents. But that didn’t make much of a difference now, did it? She’d been cruel.
Which was why she couldn’t make sense of him approaching her tonight. Perhaps she’d never know the reason, but that didn’t stop her from being curious.
-----------------------
“Pansy!”
What the fuck.
She froze, her hand on the doorknob of her favorite coffeeshop. She glared at him as he approached. “Longbottom. Are you stalking me?”
He laughed, genuine, his eyes crinkling at the sides. “I am not. Just happened to see you and decided to say hello.”
Pansy narrowed her eyes. “Well, you’ve said hello. Now you can go about your day.”
Once again, he seemed utterly unaffected by her lack of friendliness. “I was actually on my way to get a coffee too,” he said, opening the door for her. “After you.”
Gritting her teeth, she practically stomped into the café. She was not going to allow Neville fucking Longbottom to stop her from carrying out her Saturday morning tradition– a croissant and cappuccino at her regular spot by the window where she could read her magazines and people watch.
She approached the counter. “Bone-dry cappuccino and a plain croissant, please,” she said, pulling out her coinpurse.
“Actually, we’re together,” Longbottom said, placing a hand on her wrist to stop her from pulling out her money.
She frowned, jerking away from him. “Actually, we’re not.”
The poor barista glanced between the two of them helplessly. “Erm…”
“She’s just being polite,” Longbottom patiently explained, handing over a handful of Galleons. “A bone-dry cappuccino, two plain croissants, and a drip coffee, please.”
Huffing a breath, Pansy sidestepped him and settled at her table. To her immense annoyance, he sat down across from her. Choosing to ignore him, she pulled out a magazine and began leafing through it. He didn’t attempt conversation, just pulled out a book and began reading. She lasted about thirty seconds before glancing up to see what he was reading.
“Floriography: The Language of Flowers?” She raised a brow. “Seriously? This is what you read for fun?”
He shrugged, his face flushing just slightly. “It’s what I had on me. Besides, it’s interesting.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right. You’re still mad about plants, I take it.”
“I suppose so.” He watched her carefully. “What about you? What are you mad about?”
“Solitude,” she snapped.
She thought she saw the slightest hint of disappointment in his eyes, but it was gone just as soon as it was there. Just then, the barista arrived with their order.
“Can I actually get a to-go cup for this, please?” he asked pleasantly.
“Of course,” the woman said, returning with a paper cup and lid.
Pansy watched him pour his coffee into it, feeling the uncomfortable tug of guilt. “Longbottom,” she sighed. “You don’t actually have to leave.”
He flashed another smile at her. “S’alright, Pansy. I’ll leave you to your solitude.”
She opened her mouth to object, then closed it just as quickly.
“I hope I’ll see you around soon,” he said, and then he turned to go.
Pansy watched him walk out the door and out onto the cobblestone street. “Fuck,” she whispered under her breath.
-----------------------
The next day, Pansy woke up to flowers on her doorstep, a wrapped parcel attached. She frowned as she brought it inside, unwrapping it quickly.
It was a book, his book– “ Floriography: The Language of Flowers.” There were little pieces of parchment folded inside some of the pages, serving as some sort of bookmarks.
She flipped open to the first one. “White roses– sincerity and pure intentions, these flowers convey earnest feelings unclouded by ulterior motives.”
Next– Forget-me-nots: “Tiny and unassuming, they hold the promise of constancy and a heart that does not forget.”
Third was yellow freesia– “A cheerful bloom, freesia represents the warmth of friendship and the foundation upon which a courtship may grow.”
She turned to the next page. Pink camellias. “These blossoms express a gentle but enduring admiration, often offered with humility and deep regard.”
And finally, chamomile– “Associated with endurance and calm, chamomile signals quiet strength and the willingness to wait through difficulty.”
Her heart beating far faster than she’d like to admit, she glanced up at the bouquet. And there they were.
White roses, forget-me-nots, pink camellias, yellow freesia, and chamomile.
It wasn’t the sort of bouquet Pansy would’ve ever chosen for herself. It wasn’t neat or tidy or even very attractive to look at– the colors clashed, the flowers didn’t really compliment each other. But strangely, that made her like it even more.
She walked it to the living room, not bothering to switch out the plain vase for one of the expensive crystal ones she owned. She set it down on the coffee table then sat down on the sofa, staring at the bouquet like it might provide some sort of clarity.
It didn’t.
Pansy stared at the bouquet for a long time, her manicured nails drumming lightly against the glass of the vase. It wasn’t as though she didn’t get it . The meanings of the flowers were obvious enough, spelled out for her in tidy little script on those bits of parchment. She’d been raised to expect flowers when a wizard wanted to court her, had learned the flower language when she was probably twelve.
And yet she couldn’t quite reconcile what this particular arrangement suggested with the man who’d sent them.
What did Neville Longbottom have to gain from… whatever it was he was looking for from her? Were there not an abundance of Gryffindor or Hufflepuff witches he could woo? Witches who hadn’t treated him poorly and allied herself with the wrong side of a war?
She didn’t like feeling unsettled. Pansy Parkinson preferred clarity, control. She was good at dismissing people– better than most, in fact. But there was something about this that lodged beneath her skin, needling at her insistently. It was almost irritating. Almost.
Three days later, there was another bouquet. This time, he’d gone to the trouble of writing down the names of the flowers and including a fucking page number where they could be found in the book.
Merlin.
Peonies– page eighty-eight. “Bashful romance: Tender feelings masked by pride or hesitation, revealing beauty in vulnerability.”
Lavender, page fifty-one. “Soothing in both fragrance and meaning, lavender speaks of comfort, calm, and devotion.”
White tulips, page thirty-two. “Given as a token of apology or reconciliation, white tulips suggest a wish to leave past grievances behind.”
And finally, sweet alyssum– page one thirty-five. “Gentleness of spirit: A reminder that kindness and grace can endure where sharpness once reigned.”
To her own horror, as she stared at the flowers that now sat on her kitchen island, Pansy felt tears prickling her eyes. Tears.
She hadn’t even cried when her mother had called her a disappointment and a stain on the family name after she’d refused the marriage contract they’d arranged for her. She hadn’t cried her first night alone in her flat– she’d drowned herself in gin and blasted the radio as loud as she could to drown out any pesky emotions.
And now here she was, crying over a bloody bouquet from Neville Longbottom.
She needed to get a handle on this– politely turn him down, let him know that while she was flattered, she wasn’t looking for anything serious. She swiped at her eyes furiously, muttering under her breath as she tried to work out why on earth she felt so… affected by the gesture.
Because it wasn’t really the flowers, was it?
No, it was the way they felt completely undeserved.
She couldn’t remember the last time someone had given her something without expecting anything in return. Everything in her world had always been transactional: a compliment to soften a blow, a favor to be repaid later, a gift with strings attached. Even Blaise’s friendship was built on a shared history, a mutual understanding of how the world worked.
But this was different. Longbottom, of all people, was sending her flowers, completely out of the blue. He was using words like comfort, calm, kindness. Words she certainly didn’t deserve, lest of all from him. As if he saw something in her worth offering them to. As if he hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen her at her worst, sharp-tongued and cruel and desperate to belong to people who’d never truly wanted her.
She sank into a chair at the island, absently fingering the sweet alyssum. It wasn’t a particularly attractive flower. Unremarkable. The kind she could walk past a million times and not even pause to look at. But as she examined it closer, she saw something rather endearing about it– small and delicate, clusters of tiny white blooms gathered together like they were huddling for warmth. It wasn’t showy or dramatic like the orchids her mother used to have delivered weekly, nor did it scream for attention the way roses or lilies did.
Tentatively, she leaned forward and sniffed it. The scent was there– faint, soft, the kind of fragrance you only caught if you were close enough to notice. Not cloying or perfumed, but clean. Pure.
There was nothing pretentious about it, nothing trying too hard. It was gentle, unassuming, endearingly simple.
“A reminder that kindness and grace can endure where sharpness once reigned.”
---------------------------
Pansy found herself at the same bar she’d encountered Longbottom at almost two weeks ago now, one chilly Thursday evening.
She told herself it was purely coincidence, that once she finished her shopping she’d just decided to duck into the closest establishment that sold halfway decent martinis and didn’t reek of cologne and spilled vodka.
She was absolutely not watching the door every time it opened. She had certainly not gotten a fresh blowout and bought a new black dress on the off chance a certain wizard might wander in.
And she had definitely not spent days talking herself in and out of this like some sort of madwoman pacing her flat frantically.
She was on her third martini, which was usually not a good sign. She typically tried to cut herself off after two– at least, in public. Behind closed doors was another story. It was nearly nine o’clock now, and the disappointment had begun to settle in. She didn’t even know why– it wasn’t as if she fancied the bloke.
Right?
Of course not. She was just looking for clarity, simply trying to make sense of the odd behaviors and ridiculous bouquets. She was looking for answers, and she was irritated that she couldn’t get them. That was it.
Except, if that was really the reason, then couldn’t she have sent an owl telling him to sod off? If all she wanted was an explanation, did she really have to go to the trouble of turning up at his favorite bar (was it his favorite, though?) and hoping he’d walk in? Because really, Pansy could deny, deny, deny all she wanted, but she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t at least a bit hopeful, a bit intrigued.
The bell on the door jangled and she tried not to look up too eagerly, pretending to be only vaguely curious about who had just entered. And then her stomach dropped.
Because there he was.
Only, he wasn’t alone. He was with– fuck, what was her name? Lovegood?
Yes, that was it. They used to call her Loony Lovegood. And then, beside her– Ginny bloody Weasley.
Pansy wanted to disappear. She briefly considered Disapparating on the spot, but then, for a horrifying moment, his eyes landed on her. And he looked… perplexed. Confused. Likely wondering what the everloving fuck she was doing here, clearly waiting for him.
And frankly, so was she.
She snatched up her coat, blindly throwing a handful of Galleons on the bar before hastily making her way towards the back exit. The cold night air hit her like a wall as she shoved open the back door, her heels clattering against the damp cobblestone. Humiliation burned hot and ugly beneath her skin, winding tight in her chest.
She’d barely made it ten paces before she heard the door swing open.
“Pansy?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
She didn’t turn. Maybe if she just kept walking, he’d get the message and leave her alone.
No such luck.
“Are you alright?” His voice was calm, steady. Infuriatingly kind.
She stopped dead in her tracks, her shoulders stiff. “I’m fine,” she snapped, spinning on her heel to face him. “Absolutely bloody fine.”
Neville stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, expression maddeningly patient. “You left pretty quickly. Thought maybe something was wrong.”
“Nope,” she said, popping the p sound exaggeratedly. “Nothing at all. Perhaps you should waltz back in and join your little friends. I’m sure they’re wondering where you ran off to.”
Merlin, why was she such a cunt?
Instead of rising to meet her sharpness, he simply regarded her quietly. “Why don’t you come back inside? We’re just getting a round in. You could join us if you’d like.”
She stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Join you? I can think of at least a hundred other people I’d rather have a drink with right now.”
His lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but something close. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” she bit out, though it sounded weak even to her own ears.
“Alright,” he said lightly, as if she hadn’t just insulted him. “But I’d still like it if you joined us.”
Without stopping to think about what she was doing, Pansy stomped her foot. She actually stomped her fucking foot . Like a petulant little child. “What the fuck are you doing, Longbottom?”
He didn’t flinch. “Having a pint or two. What about you?”
She exhaled heavily. “Don’t be obtuse. I mean what are you doing being so bloody nice to me?”
“Why wouldn’t I be nice to you?”
“Because I’ve never been anything but awful to you!” she shouted. “Because I’m a frigid bitch and you shouldn’t want anything to do with me.”
Neville’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t even blink, just tilted his head slightly, like he was thinking it over. “I don’t think you’re a frigid bitch,” he said eventually.
“You don’t even know me,” she hissed.
“That’s true,” he admitted. “But I’d like to.”
“Why?”
“Because neither of us are sixteen anymore. Because I don’t hold what you did back then against you,” he said simply.
“You should,” she managed finally, her voice sharp even as it wavered. “You could.”
“I don’t,” he replied, unflappable.
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why the flowers?”
Neville smiled faintly. Not smug, not teasing. “Because I like you, Pansy.”
Her stomach swooped violently, as if someone had pulled the floor out from under her. “You what? ”
“I like you,” he repeated, his voice steady, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “Even when you’re shouting at me in the middle of the street.”
She swallowed. “I’m not having a pint with Ginny Weasley and Loony– Luna Lovegood. I’m not.”
“That’s fine,” he said mildly. “Would you have dinner with me, then?”
She frowned. “Right now?”
“Of course not. I mean a proper date. Tomorrow?”
She pretended to think it over. “Fine. What time?”
“Let’s say eight.”
“Where?” she fired back.
“It’s a surprise, of course.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How will I know where to meet you?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ll pick you up, of course. If you’re comfortable giving out the name of your flat.”
“Fine.”
Longbottom smiled at her again, and she tried her damndest to ignore that obnoxious swooping in her stomach. “See you tomorrow, Pansy.”
-------------------------
Pansy spent the entire next day trying not to think about it.
Which, naturally, meant she thought about it constantly.
She stared at her wardrobe until her eyes hurt, scowling at the endless row of little black dresses staring back at her. What did one even wear to dinner with Neville bloody Longbottom? Something understated, she decided, but elegant. Casual enough that it didn’t look like she was trying too hard, but polished enough to remind him she was still Pansy Parkinson, thank you very much.
By seven forty-five, her flat looked like a hurricane had torn through it. Shoes discarded in a pile by the sofa. Half her vanity cluttered with discarded lipstick shades she’d deemed too much. She’d redone her eyeliner twice, poured herself half a martini for courage, and was currently pacing her living room in a black silk dress that clung in all the right places.
At eight o’clock, right on time, there was a knock at her door.
Pansy froze, heart thudding violently, before forcing herself to move. She opened the door with what she hoped was an air of breezy indifference.
And there he was.
Neville stood in the hallway, clean-shaven and wearing a dark green button-down that made his eyes look unfairly good. And, Merlin help her, he was holding another bloody bouquet.
“For you,” he said simply, offering it out to her.
Pansy blinked, accepting the flowers almost on autopilot. “Do you make a habit of this, Longbottom?”
He shook his head. “Not typically.”
She hated the way that made her pulse quicken.
She glanced down at the bouquet– sunflowers, aster, gardenias. She swallowed, knowing instinctively what they meant without even needing the book. She’d been raised a Pureblood princess, after all.
Hope, patience, admiration.
She let herself meet his eyes for a fraction of a second before turning back to the kitchen, placing the vase next to the other one. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“You’re welcome,” he replied. “You look lovely, by the way.”
How did he manage to do that? Pansy was not a simpering schoolgirl, and yet, she’d practically melted when he said those words. She was a witch who never let a man spend the night, who would happily let one go down on her without bothering to return the favor. She did not get attached, she did not pine or bat her eyelashes. Pansy Parkinson does not give a fuck, she silently reminded herself.
But when she turned back around and saw him watching her that way– not ogling her, not checking her out, but looking at her as if she was something to be earned, something rare and precious and worth the wait– she felt dangerously close to forgetting that.
He offered her his arm, gentlemanly and maybe a little awkward, which somehow made it worse. Or better. She couldn’t decide. “Shall we?” he asked.
“Fine,” she mumbled, taking his arm.
They Apparated to a quiet corner of London and stepped out onto a narrow Muggle street, lined with old lampposts and warm brick buildings. The sort of place she would’ve never found on her own.
Ahead of them was a sleek black door with gold lettering: Juniper & Co.
“Is this a Muggle restaurant?”
He nodded, opening the door for her. “I hope that’s alright?”
“Of course,” she said quickly. “I’m not a bigot, Longbottom. I’m just… unaccustomed to this sort of establishment.”
It was stunning. Soft amber lighting hung from the ceiling like inverted decanters, casting a golden glow across tables dressed in dark linen. The air smelled faintly of citrus and fresh herbs. Shelves lined the far wall, stocked with every kind of gin imaginable, arranged like works of art. And the bar, glowing underlit marble– looked like something from a dream.
She glanced around in ill-concealed wonder. He watched her, smiling. “They’ve got the best gin drinks I’ve ever had. You’ll like it.”
Her head snapped towards him. “How do you know I like gin?”
Neville shrugged as he took his seat across from her. “Course I do. You order them bone-dry like your cappuccinos, with a twist instead of olives.”
Pansy stared at him, momentarily stunned into silence. “You’re rather… observant.”
“I just pay attention,” he said casually, opening the menu.
Her heart did that stupid swooping thing again. She sat down, feigning nonchalance. “Hm,” she said lightly. “Not too bad, Longbottom.”
She looked down at hers, more to collect herself than anything. When the waiter came, she opened her mouth to order her usual, but he interjected. “Try the rosemary gin fizz,” he said, brokering no argument.
She frowned.
“If you don’t like it, we’ll just get you a martini.”
When it arrived, chilled and citrusy and so precisely her taste it was uncanny, she took a sip and found herself speechless. However, she refused to give him the satisfaction.
“Hm,” she said simply, taking another sip.
He smirked knowingly. “Like it?”
“It’s… adequate.”
He tilted his head, watching her. “Adequate. I’ll take it.”
They talked over dinner– slowly, cautiously at first. Neville asked about her work organizing fundraisers and art galas and her most recent trip to Italy. He asked about her favorite painters, what the best meal she’d eaten in Florence was, why she drank coffee over tea. If she liked living alone, why she’d chosen to live in Sable Street rather than Cheshire Grove. It wasn’t performative or forced– he seemed genuinely curious.
She was so used to dates being a performance. Getting sized up, measured, poked and prodded for whatever would make her most compatible, whatever would make the man on the other side of the table want to buy dinner, take her home, tell their mother about her (not that she’d ever let it get that far. It was the principle of it all, really).
Pansy found herself answering easily, sometimes at length. She told him about her favorite spot in the city, the hidden courtyard behind her building that could only be accessed through a narrow alleyway. About how she’d fallen in love with a Muggle painter’s work in Paris and gotten into a screaming match with her mother when she purchased two of his paintings for an “absurd amount of money–” something Paulina would’ve never said had the artist been a wizard. About how once in Spain, she’d once pretended to be an exiled French duchess for over a week, just to say how far she could take the story.
They ordered starters– beetroot carpaccio with goat cheese and mini crab-cakes garnished with lemon aioli. It was light, fresh, and delicious. Not that she’d admit it to him.
She talked and talked, loosening the tight grip she kept on her own story until she realized, somewhere between the entree and the second cocktail, that she didn’t feel judged. Or, perhaps worse, pitied– which was what people usually did once they realized how brittle her world actually was. But Neville just listened, not with the porously intense, needling attention of someone looking for an angle, but with a kind of open, practical patience, as if all her strangeness was an expected part of the evening.
He didn’t ask about the war, or her family, or what she’d done as a teenager. And eventually, she began asking questions, too. At first, it was just to be polite, but at some point in her second cocktail, she found herself interested.
He owned an Apothecary right off Diagon, and lived in the flat above it. He liked routine, though he claimed he wasn’t fussy about most things. He loved the feel of his hands in the dirt, the scrape and pull of roots from soil, the satisfaction of coaxing something living from a shrivelled bulb. He preferred walking over Apparition, if it was feasible. He walked everywhere he could regardless of the weather.
He talked about the rebuilt greenhouses he kept in Puddlemere, the little magical greenhouse cats who kept the gnomes in line, his assistant, a recent graduate from Hogwarts who had once brewed a Dreamless Sleep potion so strong it was banned in two countries.
He baked his own bread and had tea with his Gran twice a week and dinner every Sunday. He fondly called her “ancient” and “a right terror” but claimed she had great taste in plants and whisky.
If he was aware that he was being completely, almost idiotically earnest, there was no sign of it– he told each story with the offhand ease of someone for whom embarrassment had either never been an option or had simply accepted it as something inevitable.
To Pansy’s own distress, she found it shockingly endearing.
Their mains arrived– pan-seared sea bass with fennel and citrus salad for her and grilled polenta with ratatouille for him. He was a vegetarian, he told her. Of-fucking-course he was.
He talked about loss and grief easily– not in an overly blasé manner, but with the attitude of someone who’d known it his whole life and learned to live with it as an extension of his body. He told her about visiting his parents at St. Mungo’s. Pansy was horrified to learn that they no longer recognized him– in fact, that they never had, even when he was a child.
He told her about how he’d first learned the language of flowers so he could bring little gifts to his mum as a child. He didn’t think she knew what they meant, but she was always pleased by them, he told her, and a nurse would press them for her. She still kept them in a book by her bed. His father had liked to read before his memory damage, so Neville went each week to sit with him and read aloud.
Neville spoke so matter-of-factly about things that would’ve utterly shattered her. His words weren’t self-pitying, weren’t wrapped in any of the brittle pride she used to armor herself.
And perhaps this was what emboldened her enough to tell him about her parents.
“My parents,” she began, the words tasting bitter. “Would’ve happily disowned me after the war, I think. They’ve told me as much, more times than I can count.”
He didn’t press or offer platitudes. He just waited for her to continue.
“I got house arrest for six months,” she went on. “Not because I did anything significant, really—I didn’t. But I was seen with Draco enough times to be considered complicit. They wanted names, testimonies, someone to point to when they couldn’t get to the real players. Six months, trapped in that mausoleum of a house, with nothing but my mother’s lectures and my father’s disappointment and my own bloody thoughts for company.”
Neville’s expression didn’t shift, but there was something deeply steady in his gaze that made it easier to keep talking.
“When it was over, they tried to marry me off,” she said with a humorless laugh. “Some French Pureblood heir, ten years older, divorced. Vile. Creepy.”
She shuddered at the memory of him, of the feeling of his hand pressed possessively to her back, his fingers grazing bare skin he wasn’t meant to touch. She’d been eighteen to his twenty-eight.
“I refused, of course. We fought. They threatened to cut me off entirely.” Her mouth curled into a sharp smile. “I told them to go ahead. Erase me. And then I went to Blaise’s flat in my pajamas and a fur coat and never went back.”
She reached for her glass and took a long sip, more for something to do with her hands than anything else.
“They didn’t disinherit me in the end,” she said lightly. “Empty threats, as always. But they hold it over me. Constantly.” She shrugged, placing her drink down.
Neville’s fingers tapped against the stem of his glass, thoughtful. “And you still talk to them?”
“Talk is generous,” she muttered. “I tolerate them. At arm’s length.” She worked to keep the unaffected smirk on her face, feeling her cheek twitch. “I know I should get a job, or something proper, but there’s a certain satisfaction in spending their money on things they hate. Muggle art. Dresses cut indecently high. Donations to half-blood causes that make my mother clutch her pearls.”
Neville gave a quiet laugh, and it startled her enough that she glanced up sharply.
“What?”
“I think that’s brilliant,” he said simply.
Her brows arched. “Brilliant?”
“Taking something they used to control you,” he said, “and using it to make yourself happy? Sounds brilliant to me.”
She searched his face, looking for irony, a tell, some sign that he was winding her up. But she found nothing but the same frustrating, unwavering sincerity she’d noticed from the start.
After dinner, Neville glanced at her, his voice low and warm. “Would you like to walk a bit, or shall we Apparate straight home?”
She was about to snap out a brisk “let’s just go,” but then she caught herself. The idea of cutting the night off here felt wrong, left her uneasy. She was buzzing, but not just from the cocktails. It felt strange and wonderful at the same time.
“I’ll walk,” she said, tossing her hair as if she wasn’t making a declaration. “It’s a decent night.”
Neville’s lips quirked into that maddeningly gentle smile again, and he offered his arm without a word. Pansy hesitated for a beat– pure reflex, really– before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.
She scowled ahead at the streetlights as they stepped outside. “Don’t get smug, Longbottom. This is purely because Apparition makes me dizzy after cocktails.”
“Of course,” he said mildly, as though humoring her.
They walked in companionable silence for a while, and against her better judgment, Pansy let herself relax. The air was crisp, cool enough that she was glad for the warmth radiating off him. He smelled faintly of clean skin, something woody, warm and subtly earthy. It was distracting.
When they reached her flat, she turned to face him, suddenly hyper-aware of how close they were standing. She meant to make some sharp remark, to keep herself from getting swept into whatever this was, but before she could, Neville spoke.
“Thank you for tonight,” he said softly. “I had a really nice time.”
Pansy blinked, caught off guard by how utterly genuine it sounded. “Well,” she said lightly, forcing a smirk, “you weren’t unbearable company.”
He pressed his lips together. “High praise.”
And then, before she could retreat, before she could build another wall between them– he leaned down and kissed her.
The sensation was nothing like she’d predicted. It was not clumsy, nor over-eager, nor even particularly forceful. It was soft, absurdly, shatteringly soft. Gentle pressure at first, like the memory of a kiss, not the thing itself– warm breath, a brush of lips that tasted faintly of juniper, a carefulness that sent a shock of irritation through her nerves.
Did he think she would break? That she was delicate?
She made to pull back and opened her mouth, just slightly, intending to say something cutting, but then his hand came up, palm tentative at the line of her jaw, and the kiss deepened with a slow, deliberate patience that made her knees loosen.
Oh . Oh.
She felt herself flush, heat blooming from the base of her neck to the tips of her ears. Her heart stuttered in her chest, and she was suddenly and acutely aware of the position of her hands, the delicate slide of silk over skin, the way his thumb pressed just a fraction more when he tilted her chin.
Neville broke the kiss first, stepping back with a barely-there smile, his fingers lingering at her cheekbone before falling away. Pansy’s mouth felt strange– tender, swollen, and somehow a little bereft. She opened her eyes and regarded him with all the hauteur she could muster.
“So, this is the part where you try to sleep with me?” she said, arch and cruel and a touch breathless. She watched for the flicker of disappointment or the flash of arrogance– the tells she’d learned to spot in every other man who’d ever tried this with her.
But Neville just tilted his head, regarding her with an infuriatingly serene expression. “That’s not really my style,” he said, voice even, almost mild. “Not tonight, anyway.”
Pansy blinked at him, thrown entirely off balance. “Not your style?” she repeated, her tone sharp to disguise the sudden, bewildering twist in her stomach.
He smiled faintly, unbothered. “I’d rather take my time.”
It shouldn’t have stung. Merlin, she didn’t want it to sting, but something about his easy, steady dismissal– if you could even call it that– felt like a blow. She wasn’t used to men saying no to her. Not to that, at least.
He kissed her again then, slow and deliberate, just as devastatingly gentle as before, and when he pulled back, she found herself nearly leaning into the space he’d left.
“I’ll owl you,” Neville said softly, thumb brushing once more along her cheekbone like he couldn’t help himself. “See when you’re free for another date.”
Pansy stared at him, her mouth working soundlessly for half a beat. “Who says I want another date?” she shot back, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Neville didn’t even flinch. “Do you?” he asked simply.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her brain scrambled desperately for a snide retort, something dismissive, something Pansy, but the words wouldn’t come.
“…alright,” she said at last, her voice much smaller than she intended.
He grinned then– slow, warm, maddeningly self-assured. “Goodnight, Pansy.”
----------------------------
Neville Longbottom truly did "take his time."
He took her out ten times over the two next months, sometimes to fancy restaurants and other times to quiet pubs.
Once he took her to his greenhouses for a picnic, and another time to an art exhibit in Oxford.
Once she’d turned him down and said she was busy just to prove to herself that she was still in control, but she ended up regretting it, much to her annoyance.
And then, he finally offered to cook for her at his flat. He made seared scallops, a homemade baguette smeared with butter and flaky salt, a salad with greens and radishes from his own garden. He even served a dark chocolate tart with candied orange peel and an apple and sage gin gimlet.
It was, objectively, the best meal she’d had in years, and she’d eaten in Michelin-starred restaurants in Milan. Pansy told herself she wasn’t impressed, that it was all just novelty and presentation, but when Neville leaned back in his chair, smiling openly at her like he hadn’t just casually dismantled every wall she’d built around herself, she felt that blasted swooping sensation in her stomach again. She really needed to do something about that.
She stayed late that night– later than she intended to.
They lingered over drinks, sprawled on his sofa, laughing softly over some half-remembered Hogwarts anecdote. When it was finally time to leave, Neville offered to Apparate her home, but instead of saying yes, she found herself hesitating.
And in that hesitation, he simply said, “You could stay.”
She never stayed the night at a man’s place. Never. It was one of Pansy Parkinson’s rules of thumb, in fact. But for some maddening reason, her mouth opened of its own accord and said, “Alright.”
She woke up in his bed the next morning, fully clothed, her head pillowed on his chest, his arm draped loosely around her waist. All they had done was kiss– slowly, carefully, with a patience she didn’t understand. And somehow, it was the most intimate night she could remember.
It was unnerving.
He turned over and smiled at her. His hair was a complete mess, sticking up in soft waves that begged to be touched, his jaw shadowed with stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave yet. His eyes– greener in the morning light than she’d realized– were warm and crinkled slightly at the corners as he smiled, slow and unguarded.
“Good morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep. Merlin help her, it did strange things to her insides.
“Your hair is a disaster,” she said sharply, because she was a bitch, of course.
He laughed lowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yours isn’t much better.”
She scoffed, lifting her chin. “I look perfect at all hours, thank you.”
“Agreed,” he said, his eyes roaming over her face almost reverently. He pressed a kiss to her temple before rolling out of bed, stretching with an ease that made her look away far too quickly.
Pansy sat up, smoothing her hair, fully prepared to make a snide excuse to leave and reassert control over this ridiculous situation. But then he turned to her, casual as anything, and said, “can I buy you a bone-dry cappuccino?”
Her mouth opened automatically with a “no,” the word perched on her tongue. But then– traitorously– once again, what came out was, “Alright.”
Over the next few weeks, the pattern continued. She told herself it wasn’t serious. That she was in control. That it was just fun– harmless, casual, temporary.
Except.
She stayed over again. And again.
And even worse, she let him stay over at hers. She found herself curling into him on the sofa while they drank tea and listened to the rain.
He kissed her forehead once while they were in line at a café, and she didn’t hex him for it.
Perhaps worst of all, they hadn’t even slept together. He never went further than kissing, always gentle, even when it lasted close to an hour.
Somewhere between the sixth bouquet he sent her (sweet peas– “thank you for a lovely time,” hydrangea– “gratitude for being understood,” and yellow tulips– “there is sunshine in your smile”) and the way he once brushed her hair behind her ear when she rambled about French architecture, Pansy felt the denial thinning into something more fragile.
------------------------
One night, lying in his bed with her head tucked under his chin, she realized with horrifying clarity that she wanted him. Not just in the fleeting, physical way she was used to. She wanted this– his warmth, his steady patience, the way he made her feel like she wasn’t too sharp, too much, too difficult.
“Longbottom,” she spoke, her voice sharp in the silence of the room.
“Neville,” he patiently corrected her.
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. What are we– what is this?”
Neville shifted slightly beneath her, but not away. “You mean.. Us?”
“No, I meant the bloody economy,” she deadpanned. “Yes, us.”
He let out a small laugh. “So you’d like to define it, then?”
She froze. “I didn’t say that, exactly.”
“Alright,” he said patiently. “We don’t need to define anything if you don’t want to.”
Pansy frowned. “But what about you? What do you want?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I want you, of course.”
“Of course?” she echoed dumbly.
“Yes. If you need time to make sense of things, that’s fine. But I’ve told you before– I like you. I don’t mind waiting. I’m a patient man.”
Pansy blinked at him, stunned into silence.
He shifted to face her more fully. “You don’t scare me off, Pansy. You never have. You can be sharp or cold, you can bite, you can keep every wall you’ve got standing. I’ll still be here. I don’t need you to be anything but yourself.”
Something in her chest tightened painfully, that awful swooping sensation magnified tenfold. She realized with a strange, sinking feeling that no one had ever said anything like that to her before.
“You say that so easily,” she murmured, her voice quieter than she liked.
Neville smiled faintly. “Because it is easy.” His thumb brushed against her cheekbone, gentle and sure. “You think you’re hard to love. You’re not.”
She couldn't answer. Her throat closed up, and she pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes until all she saw were fireworks on the inside of her eyelids. There was a roaring in her ears, a fizzing, hissing pressure like the pop of a champagne bottle held for too long, and she tried to swallow, but it felt like there was a stone in her mouth.
She tried to say something– a joke, an insult, a nonchalant deflection, but what came out was a thin, unsteady whimper. She rooted for words, for her own name, for armor. Instead, there was only the sharp, burning sting of tears.
Pansy was crying, actually fucking crying, and she couldn't even turn away because Neville was already holding her, warm and immovable, like he’d known she’d come apart in his arms and had been waiting quietly for the privilege.
It was mortifying– no, worse than that, it was catastrophic.
She felt her whole face crumple, as though every carefully curated feature had caved in at once, and she made a sobbing sound so small and hideous she barely recognized it as her own.
And then she waited for the recoil. For the withdrawal, the bracing of his body against her display of weakness. For Neville to freeze, or worse, to offer some placating, trite comfort that would feel like a slap.
But he didn’t.
He just ran one slow hand up and down her back, kept the other knuckled gently between her shoulder blades, and held her the way she’d always wanted to be held– not caged, not coddled, but anchored. For maybe the first time in her life, she let herself be held. She didn’t fight or snarl or even stiffen in those first few seconds. She just collapsed, all brittle scaffolding dropping out as she pressed her face into the scratchy linen of his t-shirt and sobbed, loud and ugly and childish.
When the sobs subsided into hiccups and shaky breaths, Pansy finally forced herself to pull back. Her face was blotchy, her nose probably red, her mascara definitely a mess, and she could feel the stiff patch of fabric on Neville’s shirt where she’d cried into it.
“Fuck,” she murmured, swiping desperately at her eyes. She wanted to make a joke or say something cutting, but it was like she’d forgotten how. And anyways, what was the point? There was no coming back from this. There was no saving face from the fact that she’d just bawled in Neville Longbottom’s arms.
“Pansy,” he said, cupping her cheek with one hand, brushing his thumb slowly under her eye to catch a lingering tear. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
She tried to jerk her face away. “Sod off,” she mumbled, humiliated.
He didn’t let her pull away, holding her face steady– not aggressive or forceful, but gentle and strong. “No,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I mean it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen right now.”
Her stomach twisted painfully, hot and raw, because there was no teasing in his tone, no performance.
He met her eyes again. “You don’t need to hide from me, Pansy.”
Pansy’s eyes stung again, and she hated it. But she also couldn’t look away from him, from the warmth in his gaze, the calm way he said it, like her sharp edges didn’t scare him at all. “Okay,” she whispered.
His face softened. “Come here.”
She let him pull her in, let herself collapse against him, and this time when he kissed her, it wasn’t careful. This wasn’t the hesitant, boundary-testing beginning of a thing– this was the messy, desperate, wild middle, and she knew it.
He cupped her head, fingers threading through her hair, and kissed her like he was trying to memorize every corner of her mouth: the rough seam of her lip, the sharp click of teeth, the taste of salt and gin and tears.
He didn’t ask for permission, didn’t pause to check if she wanted this, because they both already knew the answer.
She kissed him back, hard enough to bruise. She let her hands roam; the harsh line of his jaw, the slope of his neck, the solid breadth of his chest. She dug her nails in and heard him groan, a rough, low sound that vibrated against her palms. He let her bite, let her clutch, let her press so tightly she could feel the wild thud of his heart against her sternum. When she broke for air, gasping, it was only to feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, to feel him press his forehead to hers and whisper her name like it was a spell that could undo centuries of damage. It was so earnest, so completely without artifice, that it nearly broke her again.
He kissed down her throat, biting lightly at the pulse point until her nails dug into his biceps. He was hot and heavy against her, his hands never at rest– one braced above her head, the other smoothing down her ribcage, calluses catching on silk. He felt enormous against her, solid and unyielding, and she realized with a flash of surprise that she loved it– that she wanted to be pinned, to be handled, to be claimed by someone who saw her exactly as she was.
She pulled at his t-shirt, needing it gone, and he obliged her with a quick, practiced movement. He was less pale than she remembered from school– years in the garden had darkened his skin and broadened his shoulders. There was a scar across his collarbone, thin and white, disappearing under the edge of his undershirt. Pansy ran her finger along it, tracing the line, and watched his face for any flicker of discomfort. There was none. He just watched her, steady and open, as if daring her to keep going.
So she did.
She pushed him back, not gently, and he let her, landing among the pillows, moving to straddle him. She yanked off her own pyjama top, the silk tickling her bare skin as it slid off her, and watched his face again, hungry for his reaction.
For a split second, she thought he might look away, that he might be bashful or performative, but all Neville did was drink her in, gaze moving over her slowly, possessively, like he was cataloguing every inch for later. His eyes were darker now, pupils blown wide, and he reached up to run his hands– so large, so capable– over the bare skin of her waist. He didn’t pull her down, didn’t try to take control. He just waited, patient and expectant, until she decided what came next.
Pansy had never felt so entirely in charge of another person’s attention, so wholly seen. She let the feeling surge through her, a heady mixture of power and vulnerability, and maybe that was why she bent down and kissed him, hard and biting, letting her teeth scrape his lower lip.
He didn’t shrink from her, not the way boys sometimes did when she turned feral.
He seemed to relish it, hands gripping her hips as she rocked against him, letting her set the rhythm, letting her grind down until her thighs ached and her mouth was swollen from kissing. He mouthed at her collarbone, at the space under her jaw, tongue hot and wet against her skin, but he didn’t flip her over or take her wrists or try to steer– he just let her claw and bite and rut herself raw against him, breathing her name over and over like it was a song stuck in his head.
Her body was slick and needy, desperate in a way that surprised her, and she let herself indulge every impulse, every sharp edge she’d ever dulled to keep from scaring someone off. She raked her nails down his back and licked the salt from his throat, rolled her hips until the friction made her dizzy.
She reached down and cupped him through the fabric, relishing the hitch in his exhale and the growing heat under her hand. “Off,” she murmured, and he obeyed.
He pushed his boxers down, and she dragged her knuckles along the length of him, feeling a thrill at the way he arched into her palm, the sound he made, raw and involuntary.
She wanted to own every desperate sound he had, every shiver and twitch and throb he could offer up. She wanted to prove to herself that she could, that she was worth all this softness. So she climbed astride him, bare skin on bare skin, and took his face in both hands, kissing him with all the hunger she’d ever denied herself. He groaned, low and guttural, when she rocked against him, and then she bit his lip this time, harder than before, watching his eyes for a flicker of pain.
There was none.
He let her take him in her hand, let her thumb the slick bead at the tip, he let her lean forward and guide him to her, the stretch, the spike of pleasure-pain as she sank down. Pansy heard herself make a noise she didn’t recognize, something animal and open, and Neville’s hands held her steady as she shuddered.
He let her ride him, let her set the pace and the pressure. He let her control the distance between their bodies, let her decide when to arch up and when to collapse against his chest. He touched her everywhere at once and nowhere she didn’t want– palms gliding, trailing, then gripping when she demanded it with a flex of her thighs. She was demanding and bossy and sharp, and he didn’t just allow it– he wanted it, wanted her unfiltered, uncut, mean and beautiful and hungry. It made her want to ruin him.
She was close, so close, her whole body tight as a drawn bowstring, his cock hitting just the right spot with every thrust, his hands braced on her hips, occasionally stroking up her body to cup her breast. She dug her nails into his shoulders. She bit at his jaw, his earlobe, letting herself be as rough as she wanted, and every time she expected him to wince or draw back, he just pressed closer, hands tight at her waist, mouth at her neck.
Her vision blurred, lips parting in a gasp that turned into a ragged moan. Pansy felt the whole world contract to the place their bodies met, to the burn and slickness and the unrelenting, perfect friction. She was going to come, she realized, not with her usual fanfare of laughter or disdain but with a desperate, helpless clench of every muscle in her body.
Closer, closer, and she clawed at his chest, riding him faster, nails raking hard enough to leave marks, and she wanted to scream—
“Say it,” he growled, voice sharp and hungry, different from the gentle patience he wore during the day. “Say my name.”
She almost spat back Longbottom, almost barked an insult, but the look in his eyes stopped her: wild, hungry, and so fucking open, like he wanted her to see every part he’d hidden from the world.
“Say it, Pansy.” He was still beneath her, agonizingly so.
She held his gaze, the air thick and wild between them, and it was like walking a tightrope– one wrong move and she’d plummet and lose the last of her dignity. But the need was greater than the fear, and if she didn’t say it now, she’d die of suffocation or spontaneous combustion or both.
“Neville,” she whispered, then bit it out, “Neville, Neville, fuck, please–”
He moved again, and that was it. The pressure inside her unspooled, every nerve going white-hot. She cried out, loud and shattering, feeling the release tear through her from the top of her scalp to the soles of her feet. She doubled over, breath coming in quaking sobs, her body clutching and clutching around him.
Neville groaned– he’d been holding back, she realized, waiting for her, and when she ground down on him again, greedy for more, he let go with a shudder that rattled both their bones. She felt him pulse inside her, felt the heat of it, and that sent a fresh shock through her, another wave.
She rolled off him eventually, breathless and boneless and utterly spent. Neville rolled to his side, pulling her against him, one arm banded tight around her ribs. For a moment, Pansy wanted to slip free, to reassert her independence, but the warmth and weight of him was so good, so profoundly good, she let herself rest there and said nothing.
Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, her skin damp and buzzing in the aftermath. His face was pressed against her hair, his breath warm and steady where it touched her scalp, and it almost made her shiver.
“Alright?” he murmured, voice low and rough with exhaustion.
“Fine,” she rasped, sharper than she intended. Her throat felt raw.
She wanted to say something clever to restore the balance of power, but she was too tired. Too wrung out. Instead, she burrowed infinitesimally closer, letting his chest press against her back, his warmth soaking through every inch of her. She told herself it was just because she didn’t want to be cold.
Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, every inch of her body lax and molten, the sharp edges of her thoughts blunted. She didn’t even notice the words leaving her mouth until they did, quiet and unguarded:
“Neville,” she murmured.
He stilled, just for a second, his arm tightening almost imperceptibly around her.
“Mm?”
Mortification bloomed hot and immediate in her chest, but she was too far gone, teetering on the edge of sleep. She swallowed hard, lips parting like she might backtrack, but instead she just sighed, soft and small, and let herself drift.
Neville kissed her shoulder, tender and fleeting. “Sleep, Pansy,” he whispered, and she felt the rumble of it against her skin.
--------------------------
They made love again in the morning. This time, it was soft and sweet and slow. This was new and strange to Pansy. The morning light filtered in through the curtains and it was almost unnerving to allow herself to be so intimate with someone else without the dark of night to hide behind.
She’d never understood the appeal of morning sex– her mouth tasted like cotton, her head heavy with sleep, and she’d always thought of herself as someone who required at least three hours and a double espresso before anyone was allowed to look at her, let alone touch her.
But Neville made it so easy.
Letting him see her like this– unguarded, still fogged with sleep– should have made her skin crawl. There was a pinprick of discomfort at first, a prickly, familiar urge to armor up, but it was easier to ignore than before. And she felt herself yielding in a way she hadn’t thought possible.
Her body felt warm and pliant, her breathing slow and even in time with his. There was no rush, no performance, no façade to carefully construct. The sunlight made everything look too real– her pale skin against his, the curve of her hip beneath his hand, the soft press of his mouth against her neck. But instead of fleeing, she let herself sink further into it, into him.
When they were finished, he took her hand and wordlessly led her to the shower. She had never showered with someone before, but she let herself be soaped up, let him run his fingers through her hair and press kisses to the slope of her neck. She even let herself wash him, for Merlin’s sake.
And then he took her to the café and told her to sit while he ordered. Once she’d finished her croissant and was halfway through her cappuccino, she took a deep, steadying breath and met his eyes.
“Alright.”
He quirked a brow. “Hm?”
She nodded. “Alright, we can do this. We can define things.”
Neville smiled. “Is that what you want, Pansy?”
She loved the way he said her name. She loved the fact that he’d always called her by that rather than her surname from the first night he’d approached her at that bar. She loved that he used it more often than necessary, like he enjoyed saying it. It rolled so nicely off his tongue.
Pansy pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to smile. “Yes. That’s what I want.”
Neville didn’t gloat or tease her like she half-expected him to. He just nodded once, his smile soft but sure, as though he’d known she’d get here eventually and hadn’t minded waiting.
“Alright, then,” he said simply.
It was maddeningly anticlimactic, which– Pansy realized– was precisely why it felt so real. No grand declarations, no sweeping gestures. Just two people sitting across from each other at a café, the smell of espresso in the air and sunlight spilling through the window.
Outside, the world went on as it always had– buses rumbling past, shop doors opening, someone laughing on the corner– but inside the café, something had shifted. Not in a way anyone else could see, but something both between them and deep within her.
It felt like standing barefoot on solid ground after years of drifting. And for the first time in maybe her whole life, Pansy Parkinson stopped running.
-------------------------
FIN