Chapter Text
The Daily Prophet: RECONCILIATION ACT PASSES: MINISTRY-MANDATED MARRIAGES TO BE ANNOUNCED
THURSDAY JULY 10, 2003
Neville was fifteen minutes early. The bell above the door rang as he ducked his head under the lintel and then a delicate woman robed in mauve was approaching him, her hands raised as though to clutch her neckline. Neville hadn’t brought any of the field or greenhouse with him—he was bathed and freshly shaven and wearing his town clothes—but it was clear he wasn’t her usual clientele.
“May I help you?” she asked, doubtful.
“I have an appointment,” said Neville. “One o’clock.”
“I don’t believe—”
“Under my fiancée’s name,” said Neville.
Raised eyebrows. A tilt of her head.
“Parkinson.”
Her mouth opened with her inhale. A sharper angle to the tilt of her chin. She closed her mouth and blinked in surprise.
Neville agreed to wait on the cream-colored loveseat, nudging one end forward on the cream-colored carpet so he could see the entrance from the corner of his eye. He declined the glass of champagne. He read the letter he had in his pocket—nothing much of note—and vanished it. Then the bell rang, and he looked over to see Pansy Parkinson coming through the door.
She was in black. Precise black bob, tight black dress, black high heels, black varnish on her nails. The bra earning its keep under that deep box neckline would also be black, Neville guessed, with knickers to match. When he met her gaze, she was smirking. She shook her hair into place and strode into the shop as he stood.
“Hiya,” she said, looking up at him.
“Hiya,” said Neville, smiling a little.
A hand on his arm as she went on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He could smell her perfume—coffee, vanilla, jasmine, patchouli, orange blossoms. Something complicated and muggle.
“Cosette.” More kisses on cheeks. Then Pansy’s hand was back on his arm, her hold on him light but proprietary. “I see you’ve met my intended, Neville Longbottom.”
The night before, Neville had been standing by his bedroom window, going through the evening post, when she’d stepped back from his closet and said, “Where’s the rest of it?”
“The closet?” The closet was so shallow it only fit hangers at an angle. It was perhaps not unreasonable to wonder where the rest of it had gone. Currently, it held his old dress robes and five shirts.
“Your wardrobe!” She’d looked to him. “Where are the rest of your clothes? Where’s your dressing room?”
“That’s it,” he’d said, nodding toward the chest of drawers she’d already been through.
Pansy’s chin had lifted as her back stiffened. “This is worse than I thought.”
Neville had smiled, stifling a laugh. He had as many clothes as he needed.
“I’ll have to make a list,” she’d muttered. She’d turned back to the closet and poked at the hangers with distaste. “You don’t own a muggle tuxedo, do you.”
“No.” He’d sat on the wide sill, his long legs crossed at the ankle. He’d set aside the post to watch her.
“Well, they’re only recently on-trend.” A wry expression—they’d both known that wasn’t why he didn’t own one. “It’s no matter. I’ve made an appointment at T&T. For tomorrow. One o’clock.”
She’d looked over, her eyebrows raised, as though she expected immediate protest. Neville had said nothing.
“Our top priority is the tuxedo for the Ministry reception. We’ll do a few suits as well. We can start with summer weight and go from there.” Her lips had pursed and she’d looked the closet up and down as though everything in it was about to be incendioed.
“Pansy,” he’d said firmly, and her head had swiveled toward him. “You can’t throw out anything my mother or gran gave me.”
Her expression had faltered.
“Even if it looks like rubbish to you.”
“I—I understand that, Longbottom.” She’d gone fidgety, wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Pansy.” Neville had tilted his head. “I’m not angry. Just don’t throw out my things.”
“All right,” she’d said, a touch sulky. “I wasn’t going to.”
She’d been planning to, then.
“Come here,” Neville had said lightly, watching her chest rise and fall in her tight dress.
A beat and then she had done. It was a small room—only a few steps. He’d uncrossed his legs and pulled her in, his hands on her ribs. He’d already fucked her once—this conversation was overdue.
“Pansy,” he’d said softly, “we should talk about your rules.”
She’d looked at him blankly. Her kohl-rimmed eyes were so big. Mesmerizing. But she’d looked mesmerized by him.
“Your rules for me,” Neville had said. Then: “Hard nos.”
She’d taken a breath. She’d said it quickly then: “You can’t hit me or come on my face.” Her chin had lifted like she’d expected an argument.
But Neville wouldn’t hit her—even if she wanted him to. And he would only enjoy coming on her face if she enjoyed it too. He knew the appeal, for a lot of men, was the opposite. They wanted to get a woman to do something she didn’t want to do. They wanted to humiliate her because they didn’t like themselves. He wasn’t one of those men.
“All right,” he’d said, his hands flexing on her ribs to let her know he was still with her.
“What are your rules for me?” she’d asked, her mouth tense.
“You can’t throw out my things,” he’d said. “You can’t tell anyone my business.” He’d canted his head, watching her. “If I tell you not to touch a plant, don’t. And if you choose to sleep with other people, I won’t have sex with you. If I’m fucking you, I’m the only one.”
Her lips had parted as she considered him. She’d looked like she was trying to work something out.
Neville had said, “Just because the Ministry matched us, you don’t have to—”
“I choose you.”
Neville had felt his jaw clench. His stomach tighten. Just like that, she’d broken him.
Her gaze had been unblinking. A challenge.
Neville had squeezed her ribs. “Pansy,” he’d said. “I won’t come on your face. But I’m going to fuck your cunt—”
He’d felt her ribcage expand with the breath she took.
“And come in your mouth.”
He’d paused but she hadn’t objected.
“And then we’ll go to your tailor tomorrow, and I’ll pick out whatever you want me to pick out.”
She’d gazed at him, her mouth softening. Finally, she’d said, “Unzip me?”
“Turn around.”
She’d obeyed, standing between his legs, her head bowed.
Now Neville stood, obeying orders to lift his arm as Cosette took his measurements. Pansy watched from the loveseat, sipping champagne, her eyes roving over him.
The night before, Neville had unzipped her dress and murmured, “Strip,” and she’d done so—laying her dress across the back of a chair, shimmying out of her underthings so that her breasts jiggled—and Neville had watched while he took off his own clothes. Her eyes had moved over his body then too. Her gaze had lingered on his shoulders, his chest, his cock. She’d watched his hands.
Neville was no longer self-conscious about his body—it was just a body. He had a tan line on the back of his neck and hair on his chest and scars on his hands and arms. He and Seamus had got good at healing each other, back in their bomb-making days, but the plants had left permanent marks. He worked with his body—that was part of the appeal of the work he did. Much of it had to be done by hand. He didn’t grab his wand every time he needed to shift a pot. He got dirty and he sweated a lot. It was very likely that Neville wouldn’t get old—that he’d make a mistake and die horribly, by a slow-acting toxin or a quick curse—and so he used his body while he could.
Still, he wasn’t sure anyone had ever looked at him like she did. Maybe Pansy didn’t usually sleep with men who worked with their hands. She was probably used to aristocrats.
“On the bed,” he’d said, watching as she did what he said.
Now Neville watched as Cosette brought out sample after sample. The sample tuxedo jacket was already on the form. But as she held up different options, its details changed. Neville hadn’t known how many options there were: fabric, buttons, thread, lining, vents, pockets, cuffs, the cut of the lapels.
Pansy sat straight-backed beside him, handling the swatches and buttons with a kind of professional aplomb. She looked over at him, eyebrows raised.
He looked at her face. This was important to her.
Neville took it seriously. He considered the samples. He made his selections. He could feel her body shifting beside him, her shoulders tensing when she disagreed.
Neville watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was being careful not to contradict him. Hannah would have been taking the piss out of him—the Abbotts priding themselves on being too down to earth for custom clothing. His gran would have told him to wear his dress robes. Luna would have explained how fashion was a means of social control.
Neville looked on as the tuxedo jacket updated itself and he saw . . . a tuxedo jacket. He knew this was how other people saw plants. They saw a rose bush. Neville saw bracts and buds and canes and leaves and petals and thorns.
The night before, Neville had joined Pansy on the bed and kissed her for a long time while he touched her nipples and clit. She liked a lot of stimulation—he’d pinched her nipples harder and harder and she’d only kissed him more ardently. She’d been squirming on his hand by the time he’d gone down on her. He’d worked his thumb into her warm, wet cunt and licked and sucked on her clit and she’d pushed into him.
“Like that,” she’d said, breathy. “Do . . . that.”
He’d listened to her until she’d climaxed.
Then he’d kissed her inner thigh and said, “Pansy, I’m going to fuck you now.”
“Mm-hm,” she’d said, like she didn’t care what he did next.
He’d got to his knees and taken his cock in hand. The head had been wet with pre-come and he’d wiped a bead of it up with his finger and then leaned over her and held his finger to her lips. Her tongue had darted out and she’d licked his finger clean, looking up at him with those big, kohl-rimmed eyes. Godric, she’d be the death of him.
He’d jerked her up by the hips and fucked her hard then, her breasts bouncing, her eyes heavy-lidded.
“Pansy,” he’d said, slowing as he got close.
She’d pushed up onto her elbows, her lips parted.
Godric.
Neville had pulled out of her cunt, his hand tight on his cock, and moved on his knees, over her leg—
She’d opened her mouth—
Merlin.
He’d pushed his cock between her bee-stung lips and she’d looked up at him and swirled her tongue—
That had done it. She’d swallowed, willing, blinking and looking up at him as he pumped come down her throat, breathing hard, his whole body pulsing.
When he was done, he’d pulled back and lowered his head to kiss her. One of Luna’s rules—if he came in her mouth, he had to kiss her; if he came on her body, he had to lick it off. It had been four years and a failed engagement since Neville had had sex with Luna but she’d been his first and certain habits had stuck.
He’d tasted his come on Pansy’s tongue but she hadn’t held it in her mouth until he kissed her, the way Luna would have done. If you want me to swallow something, you should be willing to swallow it too.
He wouldn’t have come in Hannah’s mouth at all.
Neville hadn’t had sex with a lot of people. He’d mostly had a lot of sex with two people. Luna for one year, and then Hannah for two years after that. They’d liked different things. He was still learning what Pansy liked. So far, she liked to pretend he was in charge.
Now Neville looked at the tuxedo jacket and then over at Pansy. “All right,” he said. “Change what you want to change.”
She sucked in a breath, her lips pursing.
He leaned closer and said, “I can tell there’s something here you want to fix.”
She looked at him, calculating.
“Go on,” he said.
She straightened and spat out commands rapid-fire. Neville saw at least five things shift. The result looked like . . . a tuxedo jacket. But Pansy had lifted her chin. Her body beside him thrummed with energy as she did a little wiggle of satisfaction.
Neville found himself swallowing a laugh. He saw a tuxedo jacket, but she saw a rose bush that had been properly pruned.
Neville said, “Thank you, Pansy,” and she looked up at him, her mouth quirking as she tried not to smirk.
“You’re going to look very handsome,” she said archly.
Neville smiled. He was going to look like himself in a tuxedo. But he liked the way Pansy looked at him when she got her way. She was pleased with herself. She was pleased with him.
He leaned in, and said low, near her ear, “You look like you need to be fucked.”
He pulled back and looked at her.
“Oh,” she said, nodding. “I do.”
When Neville had unrolled the Ministry scroll to see Pansy Parkinson’s name, his first consideration had been whether he would kill her.
Pansy’s name had not come up directly in the whisper networks, but her mother’s certainly had. Pansy’s Death Eater father was currently doing life in Azkaban and her mother was currently living with a fascist playboy in Spain.
Pansy seemed to be spending her time with Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott—presumably having resumed her relationship with Malfoy upon his release from Azkaban. The fact that they hadn’t married probably had to do with protecting her assets from search and seizure when he was arrested again.
Malfoy had, by Slytherin Sacred 28 standards, kept his nose clean after serving two years—which was to say he was knee-deep in illegal activity. Malfoy was a millionaire, brought up in a family of domestic terrorists, who—as his legal enterprise—ran ships through largely lawless seas. It went without saying he did not think the law applied to him. (It didn’t, short of incarceration. With his wealth, legal fees and fines were merely a business expense.) It also went without saying that a large majority of his contacts had Death Eater ties. The most Neville could say for Malfoy, then, was that none of his activity—at the moment—appeared to be ideologically motivated. There was overtly ideological action to be had. Either Malfoy was not interested in committing more war crimes or he’d got much better at hiding his tracks.
Nott was both harder and easier to pin down. Harder because he showed up everywhere. Easier because . . . he showed up everywhere. He’d started running errands for Malfoy during Malfoy’s two years of post-prison house arrest but otherwise had a reputation as an unaffiliated chaos agent, despite living in a Death Eater mausoleum. He was, unaccountably, liked by most of the antifascist mercenaries who crossed his path. Maybe because he had no problem selling dark artefacts to Order members who would reverse-engineer them or turn them in. (Maybe because he had a habit of sleeping with his trading partners.) He was reportedly mildly fascinated by clocks and locks. (Neville viewed this as less of a quirk and more of a ticking bomb, given the existence of time-turners behind warded doors.)
At any rate, Neville didn’t think that Pansy Parkinson was quietly funding the revival of blood supremacy as purists recruited true believers to wage a Third Wizarding War, but it was possible he’d missed it. He was part of an underground network—he wasn’t omniscient. He’d used a public owl to send a note to Bill Weasley, suggesting a date and time, and then gone to Gringotts and wended his way to the cursebreaker’s office, ducking his head in several low passageways.
Bill had cleared off a chair—moving maps and a chalice made from a gilded skull—and thrown himself into the seat behind his desk, his ankle on his knee, his long hair tucked behind his ears, exposing his earrings and his heavily scarred face.
“I’ve looked at what I can see,” Bill had said. “As far as I can tell, Pansy took over day-to-day management of the Parkinson estate almost two years ago and put her mother on an allowance. That will have hampered Violet’s ability to bankroll her new friends.”
Neville had nodded. By all accounts, the Spanish revivalists were idiosyncratic and shoestring—and Violet more interested in sun and social invitations than dirty work after shedding her much older husband. Neville mostly heard about dinner parties and game hunts after a flurry of activity a few years back.
“There’s no indication Pansy has ideological interests of her own,” Bill had continued. “She donates to all the right causes in lockstep with Narcissa Malfoy—”
“Rehabilitation campaign,” Neville had muttered.
“Right,” Bill had said. “Not that they’re taking much advantage of it. She and Malfoy must stick to Muggle London.”
Neville had nodded—it was a familiar irony now. The supremacists had suddenly found muggles tolerable when the alternative became being spat on in shops. “Any sign this has pushed them to marry?” he’d asked.
“No asset transfers or new keys.” Bill had shrugged. “But Malfoy recently visited the vaults. He may have been retrieving rings.”
Neville had gone about his business then, expecting a notice that he’d been rematched after Parkinson and Malfoy took themselves off the market. But Pansy had surprised him. She’d marched into his greenhouse and announced—in her own way—that she needed his attention.
“Oi, plant daddy. You got the Death Eater bitch.” That was what she’d said.
Neville had huffed a quiet laugh, his back to her. Calling herself names before he could. Pansy Parkinson was feeling insecure.
He’d stood from the venomous tentacula he was tending and brushed off his hands. Stepped closer to take in her dark red lips, her pale skin, the jut of her chin. She’d already dropped her handbag onto the tile and cocked her hip. He was a foot taller than she was in heels.
“Pansy Parkinson,” he’d said, canting his head.
He’d been so afraid of her in school.
“You know,” he’d said, “plants do better when you speak to them nicely. You can call me Daddy if you want to—”
Her lips had parted. Her eyes had been drinking him in.
“But don’t talk about yourself that way. Not in front of the plants. Not in front of me.”
She’d blinked, her nose wrinkling. “Well, I’m not nice.”
She wasn’t. But he didn’t like listening to people talk down on themselves. Neville had been bullied a lot when he was younger—he knew what it sounded like. He’d give her the chance she wasn’t giving herself.
“Spiky? Thorny? Venomous? Deadly?” He’d smiled a little. “I can still take care of that. Every plant is nicer when its needs are met.”
“You don’t know anything about me, Longbottom,” she’d said coolly. “And I can talk however I want.”
“You can.” He’d shrugged. “And I can walk away. We can try again later.”
Because, apparently, there would be a later. She’d said: You got the Death Eater bitch. Not: Don’t bother yourself. Malfoy and I’ve wed.
He’d walked away then.
He hadn’t heard her heels on the tile.
“C’mon, Parkinson,” he’d called over his shoulder. “I’ll make you some tea.”
“Trying to poison me already, Longbottom?” she’d called to his back. “I’ve heard about you.”
He’d stopped then and turned with a laugh. Was Pansy Parkinson afraid of him?
“Are you here to extort me?” he’d asked. “I’ll make it in front of you. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t trust me yet. C’mon, Parkinson. Come tell me about your needs. Ideal growing conditions. What it’ll take to make you thrive.”
The look on her face. He’d been half taking the piss but he’d seen it then—she was miserable.
“What do you care?” And she’d crossed her arms tighter against her chest.
He’d shrugged, amused. Why was it so hard for the snakes to fathom? “I like taking care of things.”
And he did.
She’d looked so sad and unsure then. And the feeling had washed through him—the calm certainty he experienced when he saw an unhappy plant and he knew he could help it.
People weren’t plants. He couldn’t save Pansy. He couldn’t fix her. Sometimes he did everything he knew to do and even the plants resisted him. Sometimes he fed and watered and coaxed and bled and they were still determined to die.
But . . .
Sometimes a plant just needed a little attention.
“Pansy,” he’d said gently. “Come with me.”
She’d hesitated, her mouth twisting.
He’d waited while she decided. This was as far as he’d go. He wouldn’t force a witch who wasn’t willing.
Then she’d picked up her handbag—and she’d followed him.