Chapter Text
Despite having spent nearly every summer in this city since she was young, Pansy had never been to the Universitat de Barcelona. The magical enclave here was well known in wizarding circles — even known in a few muggle ones, she’d heard — tucked into some “abandoned” auxiliary building near the rest of the campus.
“And this is the greenhouse,” said Ignasi Noguera, gesturing to the structure.
It was small-looking from the outside, almost worse for wear. The glass on the bottom panels was filthy, and the lines seemed crooked.
“This is where he's been working on my pet,” said Simone, smiling broadly.
Simone Avery, Pansy’s aunt, was the only one affiliated with her family who stayed in the city year-round. What had once been the Parkinson flat in the magical district was now Aunt Simone’s flat — despite lacking a Parkinson name or any real wealth to afford the rent.
“I was hoping you would like to come in and see,” said Ignasi.
Simone was up against Ignasi’s side now, almost like she was going to place her hand on his spine. He smiled back at her in the same friendly way, though there was a glint in his eye that could have been either excitement or fear.
“Of course. Somebody’s got to inspect your progress.” And with a wink, Simone was through the door.
“After you, Miss Parkinson,” said Ignasi, holding the door open.
Half-shocked at the recognition, Pansy nodded to him. She had spent so much of the afternoon watching the two of them flirt that she had almost slipped outside of herself. In a comforting, sedative way she had been absent within her own frame. There was no hope of returning to that pseudo-dissociative state upon entrance to the greenhouse. As she’d expected, the structure was much larger from the inside — so big that she couldn’t see straight through to the end. And it was hot — hotter and more humid than it had been outside, even.
It looked like it could go on forever. The ceilings were so tall, too, easily two stories. Some plants craned their way almost to the top — these looked stockier, more arboreal. But most were lower hanging, long-limbed. They tickled her as she passed by.
She hadn’t seen Ignasi since before the war — maybe since she was fourteen. It was then that Pansy stopped coming here every summer with her family. Too risky, too much to manage at home all the time. It was also when Simone had moved in permanently. It had seemed very daring at the time, but now, it was clear that the motivation was less anti-war enlightenment and more opportunism. But it was all fine. None of that mattered now. Aunt Simone ran a mostly successful boutique on Passeig del Mag. The rent got paid — mostly because Pansy paid it.
Simone was giggling happily when Pansy caught sight of her, standing in front of some tall, toothed thing. “Is this it?” Pansy looked to Ignasi, almost laughing.
“Yes. It was harder to breed than I would have imagined.”
The tree had been cross-pollinated, she had been told. It was more branchy than leafy. Its ends were punctuated by little balls of foliage, almost like fists. And, of course, the fanged flowers dripping off the branches were beautiful, like lips — or like other, more intimate places.
“It’s beautiful,” Aunt Simone breathed. “And violent?”
“Yes. My poor assistant, Neville, he nearly lost a hand a few times.”
Pansy paused. The name was incredibly familiar — inescapably familiar, even. Aunt Simone went on talking about how good this would be in the back room of her shop where they kept all the extra stock. (“It will really keep the thieves at bay.”) (“And something beautiful for the staff to look at, no? Aside from you, of course.”) The plant was monstrously large, probably half a meter taller than Pansy herself. Ignasi said it was at its full height, probably. The conversation between them continued as he ran through care instructions (“It will best like small rodents, I think.”).
“Neville,” she repeated questioningly. “As in, Neville Longbottom?”
Ignasi, who had been inching his way closer to Simone, stopped. He looked over with his relentlessly charitable smile. “Yes! Do you know him? He should be here somewhere.”
Pansy shook her head. “Not really, we just went to school together. It’s nothing.”
“No, I’m sure he’s here. Neville? Neville!”
From a distance, there was a clattering and a crash. The sound of terracotta shattering against tile. A shouted: “Sorry, just a sec!” and then the clinking of a Reparo mending it all back together. Pansy ignored a familiar twitch of irritation, coming back to her like muscle memory.
“Sorry about that,” he said again, appearing from behind a spill of dark green leaves.
And in a shocking second, everything her memory had offered her about Neville Longbottom meant nothing at all.
Clearly, this was the same man. She recognized his strong cheekbones and the mop of dark hair on his head. The posture had not changed either, hunched and lacking in confidence. But the image was discordant. It no longer made sense. He was tall now, broad and handsome.
But, most shockingly, he was sweaty. He was shining and plastered in dirt. Glowing almost bronze from it all. A white t-shirt clung to him, with muggle work pants tight on his hips.
Pansy fought to keep her jaw closed and her expression neutral.
“Not to worry,” said Ignasi. “This is Lady Avery, who commissioned the Fighting Bombaltree. And her niece, Miss Pansy Parkinson.”
Shock registered on his expression, sending a cold jolt through Pansy. “Of course,” he said, nodding to her. “Pansy and I went to school together.”
“So she said! Why don’t you take your lunch, Neville? I have much to discuss with Lady Avery. Bring Miss Parkinson with you, I am sure she is very bored here.”
Pansy laughed politely. “Oh, hardly, the greenhouse is beautiful, I’m happy to—“
“I insist! I will pay. You must have much to catch up on! Neville, here is some muggle money. You will buy her a nice drink, yes?”
Neville took the crumpled euros from Ignasi’s hand, smiling a little awkwardly. “Yeah, of course.”
Pansy tried to shoot her aunt a plea for help, but Simone was not looking at her. She was looking at Neville, smirking in a very familiar way. When she finally did look to Pansy, it was only to wink.
The lunch spot they chose was in the plaça in front of a muggle art museum not far from campus. In the square, skateboarders did tricks on of the ramp leading up to the building, all laughing and egging each other on. It smelled like heat off concrete and burned tobacco. A smell Pansy had always loved, so dry and summery.
“I like the tapas here,” Neville said. “Is that okay with you?”
She nodded. “Fine. I’m not familiar with the area.”
He pulled out her chair at an outdoor table before going in to wash his hands.
Mentally, Pansy was already composing a letter to Daphne. I ran into Longbottom today. You’ll never believe what he’s like now. Except, increasingly, when Pansy tried to run back the memories of the times she had encountered him at the end of Hogwarts, she kept realizing that this look of his was not so new after all. It made her feel slightly delirious, like she had been living her own life without fully paying attention to it.
It was then that he reappeared. He must have refreshed his clothing in the toilet with a charm or two because he looked much cleaner. The sweat was mostly gone from his skin, along with one layer of dirt. Pansy found herself disappointed, even if his appearance now was sharper, more obviously handsome.
“You look different,” he told her as he sat down. “Did you change your hair?”
She raised a brow at him. The French bob had been her signature look since age eleven. “No. Did you?”
“I Scourgified it, if that counts.”
“Sure, Longbottom.”
He ordered them several things to share, and the drink that he’d promised Ignasi. The smell of fried potatoes had been enticing her since their arrival. She speared one with a tiny fork.
“Good?” he asked.
She bit in. The sauce was creamy and spicy, the potato crispy outside, but soft enough to melt on her tongue after a bite. “It’s incredible. Do you come here often?”
He registered her words with a quirk of his lips. When she realized what she’d said, she didn’t bother trying to feel embarrassed.
“Yes,” he said, the smile audible. “Ignasi brings us here often.”
“There are more of you?”
“Two. My roommates. They’re out today, but we’re all in the mastery program here.”
Pansy sipped her drink, pacing the cool down her throat. “I thought you were an Auror or something.”
He gestured at himself in a self-deprecating way. “Can you really imagine me at a crime scene?”
“Just as well. Horrible waste of your time.”
Neville laughed — a bright, honest sound. Fighting back a smile of her own, Pansy swished the drink in her hand.
“And, ah, how do you know Ignasi?” he asked.
“He’s my aunt’s favorite summer plaything. Though, it seems to have escalated to year-round lately.”
He nodded. “The other students say Lady Avery comes by once or twice a month to check in on him. And the tree, I suppose. Though I think today was a bit of a big reveal. It had been responding really well to the growth fertilizer.”
“She’s just going to let it die and have him make another one.”
“You know,” Neville was laughing, “something tells me he’ll be alright with that.”
She examined him. “But will you? I hear you’ve almost lost a hand on more than one occasion.”
“Battle scars. But that’s okay, I’ve been told they’re charming.”
The lightness in his eyes was contagious, bubbling over into her. She stole a look down at his hands, one on the table, one fiddling with the red label of his bottle. There were scars from thorns and bites and burn marks well past the wrists. Big, calloused, hardworking hands. He ran one finger up the bottle, so unintentionally suggestive, that Pansy had to snap up to his eyes to see if he’d meant it like that at all.
But he was looking at her in an amused, gentle sort of way. The smile lacked in cunning. Sincerity — it rolled off of him like waves of heat.
Pansy took a drink. Deep.
“Have you been up to anything exciting since we graduated?” he asked.
Guarded, she inspected his face. Neville just looked so calm. So happy. Just shockingly beautiful. It didn’t seem like he’d heard anything about her at all.
“Nothing especially noteworthy. How long have you been in the city, then?” Pansy asked him.
“Oh, almost four months,” he said.
“And how long will you stay?”
“Just through the summer.”
And the summer was long, she considered — it was long and it was overdue and it stretched out like the city itself: vast, abundant, monochromatic.
Pansy nodded thinkingly. When she met his gaze again, he was looking at her like he was waiting for something. She held that look as she asked her next question. “And where are you staying?”
Her tongue was in his mouth before they crosssed the threshold. He was fumbling and swearing in between kisses, yanking the door shut, grabbing onto her waist. Bunching up her dress in his big hands. She couldn’t even be annoyed. His touch was burning hot, and she wanted to feel it everywhere.
“Your roommates?” she asked briefly, launching an attack on his jaw.
“Gone — ah, visiting Prague.” He groaned. “Merlin, let me kiss you.”
Daphne, she composed, his mouth tasted like bread in the best way imaginable.
And sweet — like the beer. His mouth was so welcoming, open, licking hers like it wasn’t the first time. Like he knew how to do this quite well, actually.
“Bed,” she demanded.
He led the way, carrying her to double bed in a blue bedroom. She didn’t get the opportunity to look around before he was on top of her, the weight of him delicious and necessary on the parts most demanding attention.
“Pansy,” he told her, “you’re very beautiful.”
She nibbled on his ear. “You know what, so are you, Longbottom.”
That made him laugh; his chest vibrated delightfully against her own. She flipped them around, straddling his hips. His hands followed the form of her exposed thighs, squeezing lightly at the top. Blue-eyed and blinking, he looked at her face with something almost like awe.
He grabbed her face then, tugging it down to him.
As they kissed, her hips bucked almost of their own accord, dragging against his center in a way that made her blood rush. He was hard underneath her, and his hands on her hips seemed unsure as to whether they want to guide her firmer across him or hold her still. At intervals, a hand left her frame to grab her by the jaw.
He offered her little puffs and groans of approval between kisses, which she accepted greedily, drinking them out of his mouth and keeping them in her warming center. She ground herself against him with an almost embarrassing level of enthusiasm. She was riding him like she was sixteen again, dry-humping Draco’s leg in the Slytherin dormitory.
It was preposterous.
It was delightful.
“Pansy,” he whispered, pulling back. “This is great. I mean, really great, but if you don’t stop I’m going to….”
His neck was flushed. His cheeks, too, in splotches.
“Okay.” She scooted back just slightly, removing any contact from the most urgent site. The air felt almost cool compared to the heat of their bodies together. “Do you want to stop?”
“No,” he bursted quickly. “No, er, we can keep going.”
She kissed him again, slower this time, and let her hands wander in the back of his hair, right along the nape of his neck. She was wet in a way that almost warranted a caution sign. The lace of her underwear was undeniably damp against his work pants.
Pansy couldn’t decide what she wanted to happen next. If she should take him in her mouth, or if she should just let him fuck her. The thought of him on top of her again was compelling — she wanted to know what he looked like under these clothes. And yet, she liked this vantage. She liked him under her, looking up like he was waiting — patient, but needing.
She captured his bottom lip between her teeth, biting softly. His hands squeezed her bum, having made their way under her dress now. She smiled at the pressure of it, the heat and firmness of his grip. He groaned, and his hot forehead slipped against her shoulder.
“Merlin,” he said. “This is mortifying.”
For a moment, she didn’t understand what he meant. And then she saw it. There was a wet spot — pronounced, undeniable — on the front of his trousers.
He had warned her, but she hadn’t thought he was really that close.
She stared. Wholly exhilarated.
A door was opening in her mind’s eye.
“It’s not,” she breathed. “It’s not at all.”
She kissed him then, hoping to reassure him with gentle licks against his tongue. And she rolled her hips over the wet spot on his trousers. Damp against damp, sending electricity through her whole body.
“You got home late,” remarked Aunt Simone, sing-songing.
Pansy made a dismissive noise as she set her keys in the bowl at the entry. “Just chit chatting.”
“Any interesting gossip?”
At the table by the entryway, a pile of letters had come for Pansy. She flicked through them, shoulders tense. “Mm? Oh, nothing special. Somebody married somebody else, the usual drivel.”
There had been chit chatting, after. He poured her a glass of wine and chatted amiably about the people they knew from school. He hadn’t been back to England in a year or so, he explained, but his friends kept in touch. And Pansy, still a little punch-drunk from the feeling of his wet trousers, had let him.
“I haven’t sorted through that mail yet,” Aunt Simone warned.
“It’s fine. It’s—“ Pansy stopped just as a curled up copy of The Enquirer hit the floor. The flimsy wax seal cracked, and the image unfurled. It was an old edition, from February. On the front page was the image Pansy had been seeing on the back of her eyelids for months.
Behind bold text was the curve of her own body, naked in black and white, with one hand delicately covering her sex. Her nipples had been blurred for publication, but it didn’t matter much. At the top of the frame was her lower face, some sexy pout aimed at the camera.
PARKINSON BARES IT ALL! read the cover. In the movement of the magical camera, Pansy pursed a kiss at the lens. Someone had sent it to her with a letter attached. She didn’t get a chance to read it before Aunt Simone stood, vanishing the thing with the flick of her wand.
Pansy stared at the empty floor for a few seconds before blinking. A familiar nothingness had begun to lick at the corners of her mind.
“I thought we’d just about gotten to the end of all that,” she muttered dryly.
Her aunt took the stack of letters from the entryway, tucked them under her arm. “Yes, well, that is the thing about being exquisite. People can’t get enough of you, I’m afraid.” Simone hesitated, then said, “I’m off to bed, dear.”
Pansy nodded, pressed a kiss to her cheek.
“Don’t stay up too late, mm? And write that boy. He was something.”
She looked at the notepad and the quill on the entry table, the owl watching her with startling clarity. Get home safe, he’d told her.
“Yeah. Maybe.”