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The sound of his rage fractured and echoed against the glass of the Greenhouse, fragments of terracotta pots and several hand rakes clattered on the ground. That bastard supplier from Diagon Alley was a fraud - a brazen one at that, to think he could sell poisonous flora to Professor Neville Longbottom, a decorated war hero, and get away with it unnoticed.
"Dammit!" Neville growled, dragging his hand through the air in a wide arch, in an impressive show of wandless magic, lifting several more potted plants off the opposing workbench adding to the shattered mess that surrounded him. The source of his rage - blossoming bulbs of colchicum - sat, mockingly, untouched at the centre of his desk and he could swear that the flora emitted a smug aura, perhaps was even smiling at him if he squinted at it right. This species of Colchicum would be of no use to him and the subsequent disruption to his class schedule added fuel to the flames of his frustration.
Neville had met with Mr Armando, a relatively new supplier in Wizarding England, after spotting business advertisements in the Daily Prophet, over 8 months prior. He settled an arrangement with a handsome sum of galleons to secure a shipment of Saffron Crocus. Armando had promised enough bulbs to be re-potted throughout the grounds of Hogwarts, a request of Headmistress McGonagall to add life back to the grounds in the aftermath of the war. The shipment should have included a large quantity of Saffron Crocus already at peak bloom to be used in his 5th-year demonstration next week. Neville didn't have a backup, his class had spent earlier lessons learning and analysing sister plants which if he cancelled would put a term's worth of work in the bin.
Knowing that he only had one option - the option he had been rigorously avoiding throughout the academic year, even going to the lengths to pay ridiculous prices to questionable suppliers. Neville stormed out of the greenhouse, grabbing his trenchcoat in his left hand, wandless magic closing the door behind him - leaving a catastrophe in his wake.
Two hours later, Professor Longbottom sat nursing a tumbler of Fire Whiskey in the farthest corner seat of a dank, dodgy establishment in the heart of Knockturn Alley, his eyes darting restlessly to the door as patrons passed in and out in a flurry of hidden faces. His wand tapped, tapped, tapped against the mahogany table counting the passing seconds.
"Oh my, aren't you a delight for the eyes Professor?" Spoke a voice behind him. Neville could not help the tremor that ran the length of his spine, he was unable to decipher if it was a residual fight or flight response from his formative years or whether hearing the sultry drawl of Pansy Parkinson, saying his name, invoked desire.
"Nice of you to finally join me."
"A woman knows how to make an entrance, Longbottom." She countered, seating herself opposite him, her knees knocking against his own.
The minutes ticked by as they appraised one another. Neville was taller than Pansy remembered, broader too. Pansy's features were softer now, Neville noticed, or perhaps without a perpetual scowl marring her features Pansy looked somewhat beautiful.
"Out with it," Pansy said, drawing him from his musings. "You've been avoiding my services for months Professor and now you request a sneaky meeting in the dead of night. Spill."
And so he did. Neville explained in great detail the mistake he made in trusting a sketchy plants and fungi supplier and his current predicament.
"Now, that is bad business," Pansy said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ears.
"I have seven days to obtain three crates of crocus bulbs and one crate of blossoming saffron crocus." He raked his fingertips through his sandy hair, shooting a pleading glance at Pansy. He could only hope that she might pity him just this once, forgiving him of his cowardice in avoiding her as the dominant Botanical supplier of Britain.
She arched a perfect brow. "Do you know that you are yet to ask me a question?"
"Name your price Parkinson. I'm not here to beg." Although he would if it meant keeping his job, he thought silently to himself.
"I don't want you to beg Longbottom, although I am sure that you look pretty when you do." She replied. "I want to barter."
"Barter? As in negotiate?"
"Call it what you want." She waved her hand dismissively. "I have what you want but I also have a proposition."
"A proposition."
"Yes." Pansy leaned forward, closing in on Neville, slowly, like a Venus Fly Trap. "Take me on a date."
"A date." He repeated, his tone carefully neutral. Fear crept into his veins. Could this be a trap? A twisted ploy, perhaps?
"Yes, Longbottom, a date."
"Why?"
"Why not?" Pansy said. She leant back into her chair, a Slytherin mask of indifference slotting in place.
"You're sick. Do you know that? I am asking you for a favour. I will pay as many galleons as you fucking want, Parkinson." Neville's anger rapidly rose as it did earlier in the greenhouse. "You sure know how to kick a bloke when he is down. I am not a child anymore, Parkinson, and I won't play your mind games."
Standing to his full height he tugged his trenchcoat on forcefully. Pansy stood too, hurt flashing in her raven eyes.
"That, dear Professor, is exactly the point. We are not children anymore. I am not a child anymore. The offer stands, take it or leave it."
"A date?"
Pansy arched her brow once more, turned on her heel and left an exceptionally confused Neville watching her retreating form.
The following morning, Neville owled a large number of galleons to Pansy's place of work which returned, untouched, within the hour. He tried this several times in the coming days, each attempt proving fruitless.
A week later, Neville shuffled into his Greenhouse which glittered, softly, under the spring sun, his head hung low. Dejection was evident in the slump of his neck and shoulders and how his feet dragged with every step. He had no bloody clue how to turn his mess into something useful for his students. His mind whirled in its despair with such ferocity that he did not notice the copious array of Saffron crocus decorating every available workspace until the first set of Hufflepuff's arrived, gasping and cooing at the shimmering petals.
A note lay perched on his desk, shrouded by the petals of a Yellow Crocus, marked with the elegant scrawl of Pansy Parkinson.
Professor,
I am not so cruel as to deprive your cohort of budding herbologists of the pleasures of this flora, despite your brutish attempts to reject me.
I hope to see you at Madam Puddifoot's this coming weekend for you to make good on your end of the bargain.
I am sure that we will have a lot to discuss - the first drink is on me, a gesture of my sincerity.
See you at midday.
(Hopefully) Yours,
Pansy Parkinson.