Testing

by IAmBuckeye

Summary:

testing

https://64.media.tumblr.com/01f4767f61a402f154c3f3298d7aa04c/1933ccff4ac05345-71/s500x750/5c7c017db4cca11c875710f4130b83f8541d9c2c.pnj

 

A series of one-shots around Pansy Parkinson's post-war life and how she finds herself entangled with the most unexpected people.

It begins as most terrible jokes do, a Death Eater's daughter and the Boy-Who-Lived walk into a bar...

Work Text:

 

Pansy Parkinson was not a glutton for punishment but she never undervalued the impact of a good reminder.

Despite the amount of self reflection and evolution she’d forced herself through post-Hogwarts, she understood and accepted that she’d never be accepted by Wizardkind in England and that was due to her own actions so she couldn’t be mad about it. She may have been young at the battle but she’d not been a child and she had wanted to save herself more than save the world, and she wasn’t sorry for that.

On Fridays she came to this small wizarding pub on the edge of Diagon Alley to show her face in Wizarding London and to remind herself that actions have consequences. She sat at the booth in the middle of the wall across from the door and she ordered negroni and watched as every person who walked in saw her, avoided her, and then whispered about her as if she was something other than a fixture here on the weekends.

No one approached her other than the server, and even he did so with a distinct moue of disdain. Enough disdain to dislike having to serve her, but not enough to deny her money, and it was how she preferred it.

It was much to her astonishment a late Friday evening in January of 2001 when Harry Potter walked in and sat down across from her as if he were expected.

She was honestly so surprised by the action that she could only stare at him placidly as he shrugged off his coat and flagged the server down and ordered an ale with a courteous smile that faded when the man walked away. He met her gaze with a stony one of his own.

He didn’t say anything to her as he drank.

When he was done he pulled his coat back on, left a galleon on the table, and left as quietly as he’d arrived.

It was the beginning of a series of strange encounters with the Boy-Who-Lived.

She was not going to change her routine if this was an attempt to intimidate her, she stubbornly returned every Friday, took the same booth, ordered the same drink, endured the same stares and whispers, and stared him down each time he appeared and refused to engage in whatever it was he was doing.

She’d seen the boy wonder at his worst and at his best and she was not cowed by him anymore as an adult than when he’d been a too-skinny first year scowling at Slytherins through round glasses.

Not being intimidated and not being curious are two very different things, however, and Pansy slowly began to think that his presence at her booth was less about her and more about him. The Prophet was rife with rumors of discord in his marriage, even if they still heralded his success as an Auror chasing down criminals and implied that a run for Minister was in his future. Some weeks he looked haggard when he arrived, dark circles under his eyes and a stubble across his cheeks; other weeks he looked well kept, clean-shaven and energized. He spared a smile to the people around the pub who caught his eye, was polite and well mannered to the pub servers who brought him exactly one pint before he stood and left again.

For Pansy he met her eyes and didn’t smile, just pursed his lips and continued to sip deliberately and measured of the ale before he stood, nodded his head and gathered his things to leave.

It was a night in March before Pansy broke her silence.

“What are you doing, Potter?” She asked, finishing her third negroni and feeling the pleasant buzz of gin and swiping her tongue across her teeth chasing the sweetness of pomegranate. She always stopped at three drinks. It was just enough to make her feel lightheaded but not enough to stop her from apparating home.

“Having a drink, Parkinson,” he replied calmly, nodding at her before continuing his exit. He waved at the barkeep who had never managed to keep the hero worship off his face. Very few could.

She wondered if the criminals saw him coming and threw themselves at his feet, so desperate not to face the wizard who’d defeated the most powerful dark wizard in history, the boy who lived thrice, the Chosen one. Pansy thought rather snidely that was likely what made him such a good Auror, because deductive abilities had not seemed to be his strong suit if the post-war historical texts were to be believed.

She’d rather liked Rita Skeeter’s version that had been co-written with Hermione Granger and so was considered to be the most accurate and most entertaining retelling of the Second War. It’d given more grace to Slytherins in the war than she’d expected, and had minimally included her which both offended her pride but also relieved her.

It was very clear from the book however that he’d relied entirely on Hermione’s intelligence and Ron’s strategy to survive; he brought reckless bravery and spirit to the battle and in the end a good heart that had trumped any dark avarice Lord Voldemort had thrown at him.

“I’m not going to apologize to you.”

“Good, I don’t want one,” Harry answered the next week, setting down his half-empty pint glass with a small smile.

It was one of those Fridays where he didn’t look well, his eyes glazed over by exhaustion and not booze, his chin rough with stubble, and her keen eyes noticed that his button-up was rumpled and the robes were doing a bad job of hiding it.

“Potter-”

“Stop talking.”

She gaped at his command, unused to the steel in his tone. She drained her last negroni of the evening and set it down with a sharp sound, glaring at him but not saying anything else. There were very few people that dared to give her orders; she was inherently contrary and would often do the opposite just to provoke reaction.

“I just wanted a drink,” he explained more quietly, down to a quarter pint now. “No one bothers you. You sit here and you drink and no one bothers you. No one asks for you to tell them about the battle, no one shakes your hand, no one buys you drinks, no one wants an autograph or a photo, no one cries on your shoulder about the people that died or tells you that you saved their lives.”

“Because I didn’t do any of those things,” Pansy pointed out, biting her bottom lip and gesturing for the server to bring her another drink. She’d break her rule tonight and have a fourth. She could always floo if apparating was out of her capabilities.

“I wanted to test if they’d leave me alone if I sat with you,” he confessed, finishing off his drink with a grimace and standing to leave.

“If you really wanted a quiet drink, you’d go to a muggle pub.”

“I don’t like their ale,” he explained with a shrug. “This works well enough.”

“Maybe I don’t want you interrupting my quiet drink.”

“Drinks,” he corrected, waiting until the server had set down her fourth, before handing the wizard two galleons to cover his drink and her new one. “Good night, Parkinson.”

She hated when someone else had the last word.

“Good night, Potter.”

Her voice echoed through the bar after his back and he didn’t pause but everyone else did. They watched with wide eyes as she finished her drink in several big gulps before standing on slightly unsteady feet and making her own way out the door. With her luck it’d be on the front cover of the paper tomorrow, she could already see the headlines: Parkinson Pariah and Potter Spotted. Then they’d start digging as reporters were wont to do and she’d get dragged into the muddy spotlight, and any progress she’d made at building a life would be wiped out as swift as an avada .

She didn’t come the next Friday.

Or the Friday after that.

The third Friday after their conversation was also Good Friday, April 13, and Pansy was exhausted. She’d been working non-stop this week so that she was well prepared ahead of the holiday weekend and somehow she’d still sold out of everything and had to deal with at least a dozen clients who had expected her to pull a miracle out of her arse to cover their lack of planning.

Harry was sitting in her booth when she arrived and three people stood at the edge of the table speaking over one another and asking if they could sit with him, and could he tell them what it was like to battle a dark wizard, and congratulations on the Dolohov arrest last week, had he ever thought of trying Septimus’s Scar Removal Serum, such a shame what was going on with he and his wife but true love always won out and he should take her some flowers, witches love flowers-

“Sod off, you wankers.”

They took one look at her face and scattered and didn’t that stroke her ego? She tossed a small white baker’s box onto the table next to Harry’s still full pint and lowered herself gracefully into the booth across from him. Within a minute her usual drink was on a coaster in front of her and she was sipping at it delicately.

Harry studied the cellophane window of the box with mild interest and slowly reached for it. “Hot cross buns?”

“They’re one of my most popular bakes. That’s the last box in London, you’re welcome.”

“It’s a muggle thing.”

“I run a muggle bakery.”

“You…” he paused, his eyebrows shooting up, “run…a…muggle…bakery.”

She blinked slowly, raising her eyebrow at him and implying silently that he was ridiculous for even questioning such a thing.

“This is one of those times where words aren’t making sense,” he decided, reaching for his pint and taking a healthy sip while fingering the label of the box and the watercolor pansy painted there.

“It doesn’t have to make sense, Potter. It just is what it is.”

He nodded and pried open the box and leaned over to inhale the aroma, a small smile forming as the delicate aromas of orange and fresh bread wafted out. “I’ve never seen chocolate ones before.”

“And you’re not likely to, it’s exclusive to my shop.”

“Your bakery.”

“Did you damage your brain one of the many times you died? Please keep up.”

“Why a bakery?”

Pansy finished drink #1 and waited until the server dropped drink #2 before speaking. “Baking is a lot like potion making, it requires precision and patience. I did not have a lot of opportunities after the war. No one was willing to take me on as a potions apprentice for a mastery and there were no marriage overtures.”

“Weren’t you engaged to a Bulgarian lord right after school?”

“I was, and he only had to hit me once before we broke that contract. Apparently witches in Bulgaria aren’t as retaliatory as I am.”

“Good for you,” he commended, closing the box and setting it on the bench beside him. “Why bring me this?”

“You won’t find those in Wizarding London and I doubt the Weasleys would think about the muggle holiday. You grew up in the Muggle world and I had extra left, might as well give them to a needy cause.”

“I did grow up in the muggle world, but my cousin would never let me have any.”

“Don’t do it,” she admonished, scowling at him across the table.

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t play little orphan Harry, the perpetual victim. It doesn’t suit you.”

He scoffed but she could tell it was more amused than insulted. “I had a terrible childhood, Parkinson.”

“Yes, I know, we all read the book. We remember your closet bedroom and the starvation and how unloved you were. I would think in hindsight you’d be a little more understanding of the circumstances.”

Now he looked insulted. “The circumstances?”

Pansy rolled her eyes, and finished her drink, and decided two was enough for today. She grasped her purse and eyed the crowd in the pub, visually accessing her exit route. “You were a horcrux, Potter. Of course they were cruel to you, Dark Artifacts bring out the worst in people.”

He gaped at her wide-eyed and Pansy knew immediately he’d never made the correlation.

She was reminded again why Hermione was the brains of the trio.

“I really wish you’d stop sitting here.”

He shook his head as if to shake off the maudlin thoughts she’d provoked and smiled bitterly. “What’s my motivation? You showed up and scared all my fans away, and now I can have a pint in peace.”

She glanced at him skeptically. “I’ve never known peace, but even I know this isn’t it, Potter. This is escapism.”

He nodded and didn’t reply, they both knew she wasn’t wrong. She left him there and even as she was walking out the door she saw several people approach the table, one was even so bold as to slide in across from him without invitation. He smiled grimly but politely and didn’t ask them to leave.

The next week she stayed an extra half hour nursing a half finished drink, observing the patrons of the pub and their dynamics without speaking to the wizard across the table. The bartender was in love with their male server, and she spotted him sending longing looks the wizard’s way through the night. He’d even gotten so distracted by the man’s wide smile he’d dropped and broken a highball glass and had to reparo it with a sheepish look. There was a couple arguing quietly in the corner, the woman nursing a pumpkin juice while the man threw back shots of firewhiskey. It appeared to Pansy they were arguing about the woman’s pregnancy, though she wasn’t showing she did drop a hand to her stomach several times during the discussion. The duo left after the woman hexed him off the barstool and left him sprouting horns from his head and moaning drunkenly on the floor. Harry observed the interaction with the keen eyes of a peacekeeper but didn’t interfere since it wasn’t a particularly vitriolic or violent interaction. Several of the other patrons applauded the witch as she stormed out and Pansy smiled and finished her drink.

Harry left without saying goodbye, just dropped a coin on the table and left out the side door.

The next Friday he was back again, dark circles and scruff, and surly to boot. She’d never seen him so terse and it was oddly fascinating to watch him sass people. It was like watching a unicorn try to maul people with its horn, inherently unnatural but impossible to look away.

“What’s crawled up your arse?”

“You’re not my therapist, bugger off, Parkinson.”

“Oh, wee puppy is showing its teeth. Isn’t that adorable?”

“Why are you-”

“Bitchy? Mean? If the truth hurts, it’s working.”

He glared and raised his hand for the server to bring him a second ale. “You’re not supposed to talk, you’re supposed to sit there and use your inimitable presence to keep people away.”

“I tried that, but you kept sitting here anyways,” she pointed out. “I didn’t ask for your companionship, you choose to keep coming back.”

“Next week is the anniversary,” he announced, clasping his hands on the table and staring at his calloused fingers, passing his thumb over a small cut on his thumb so many times it reopened and slowly began to well with blood again.

“I’m aware. I’ve blocked the owl post, I always get at least a dozen howlers and a few acid laced envelopes this time of year.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You know better than most that life isn’t fair.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

She paused mid-drink, so startled by the statement the liquid sloshed at her sudden movement and spilled on her chin. She wiped it off with the napkin and eyed him suspiciously. “What nonsense are you spouting now?”

Harry finished his second ale and gestured for another. The server had it in front of him within seconds, only the best service for the Golden Boy, but Pansy eyed the server and shook her head minutely, silently ordering him not to bring another. She’d never seen Harry drink more than one.

“You wanted to give me over to Voldemort before it started. It was the right thing to do and if we’d done it, people would still be alive today. Remus, Tonks, Fred, Lavender, Colin. Teddy would have his parents, Molly her son-”

“What a bunch of gobshite,” she interrupted, shaking her head at him in disappointment. “The Dark Lord was always going to execute everyone in the Order of the Phoenix. Whether or not you walked out those doors before the fight or after, he was going to let the Death Eaters wipe them out. The Weasleys are lucky they didn’t lose more of their family, given that 1 in 4 died, and they had eight in the fight. And as far as Remus and Tonks, you don’t get to feel guilt over the decisions they made. If Tonks had stayed home with their baby like she’d agreed, at least he’d have a mother if not a father. That was her shitty decision, not yours. I told you to stop playing the victim; the only one responsible for the deaths at Hogwarts were the ones who cast the spells.” She paused and fingered her empty glass, spinning her finger around the rim and listening to the soft hum she created. “As far as the dead students…they chose to fight. Just like I chose to be a coward and leave. We all live and die by our choices, you don’t get to feel guilt for what other people do.”

“But-”

“Nope, shut up,” she wagged her finger at him. “This is not a dialogue, you don’t get to respond. Just sit there and get pissed and wallow in your self pity.”

He nodded slowly, tilting the pint glass and observing the foamy dregs at the bottom. “Not sure I can apparate home.”

“Send a patronus to your wife to come get you then,” Pansy directed, setting her half finished drink aside and conjuring a menu. “Have you even eaten dinner? You can’t drink that much without food on your stomach.”

“I usually only have one and then I go home for dinner with Gin.”

“You’re a lightweight,” she accused, summoning the server with a crook of her finger and pointing at the bangers and mash on the menu silently and pointing at Harry. She never ordered food out and could only hope that indicating it was for Harry would keep the kitchen from spitting in it.

“And you’re a lush,” he accused back, leaning back against the seat and trying to focus his eyes on her. The server placed the food in front of him and for several seconds Harry smiled charmingly at the man before reaching for a fork and diving in.

“I’m not a lush, I’m a social drinker.”

Harry eyed her dubiously, mouth full of sausage he chewed slowly and deliberately while he raised an eyebrow at her. He silently looked around at the booth empty except for the two of them and tilted his head skeptically.

“It’s a place for socializing where I come and have a drink on Fridays. I have three drinks between 6 p.m. and 7 p.m. before I return to my home as I have to be awake at 3 a.m. to start baking. This? Is as social as I get these days.” She snarled at him when he chuckled. “And I like it that way. I thought you were going to call your wife to come get you?”

He was carelessly talented at magic when he slanted his wand towards the door and sent a patronus sprinting through it in a rush of blue power. She eyed the corporeal enchantment bitterly and didn’t say anything as he focused back on his food. She could see it sinking in, the glaze from his eyes clearing out the longer they sat.

“Does she even know that you've been doing,” she paused before gesturing between them with one hand, “this?”

“I don’t hide things from my wife,” he explained before shrugging and pushing the mostly finished plate away. “And it was in the Prophet so-”

“It was in the Prophet?” She quietly screeched, something Harry didn’t even think was possible.

He winced as she glared at him, though the grimace became a beaming smile when the door to the pub burst open and the whirlwind that was Ginevra Potter stomped in. She looked irritated but not truly angry, and Pansy clearly did not have any idea of the dynamics of the relationship because if she’d found her husband in a dark pub booth with a witch she would not be that calm.

Especially if it was a witch as exceptionally beautiful as herself.

“Merlin, Harry, you’ve not been this pissed since your stag night.” The tall redhead turned to address Pansy with a neutral expression. “Hello, Pansy.”

“Please…call me Parkinson,” she countered, “I decline to be on a first-name basis with Gryffindors.”

“Deal,” Ginny agreed, before turning back to her husband with an amused smile. “How many did he have?”

“Three pints.”

She snorted, reaching over and pulling him up by the sleeve. “You’re such a lightweight, Harry.”

They left without paying the bill, so Pansy begrudgingly covered it.

She decided she’d sent an itemized request for reimbursement tomorrow.

Instead, Pansy was elbow deep in kneading bread dough in the kitchen of her bakery at 5 a.m. the next morning when there was a knock at the front door. With a huff of frustration, she’d only just gotten the gluten developing properly, and grabbed a towel to clean her hands as she rushed through the swinging door to the public area.

She stumbled to a stop by one of the dining tables when she spotted the redhead in the early morning light on the other side of the glass pane. Her eyes narrowed and Pansy considered not opening the door, sure that Ginny was here to warn her to stay away from Harry. She might not take the Prophet or any wizarding publications anymore, but she knew gossip to be a malicious monster and didn’t even want to imagine what they were saying about Harry’s habit of drinking with a Death Eater’s daughter, not to mention the witch who tried to offer him up on a sacrificial platter to the Dark Lord.

But Pansy didn’t want to be a coward anymore and resolved then and there to do the things that scared her.

She opened the door with darkly glowering eyes and a sneer. “You owe me three galleons and two sickles for your husband’s drinks and dinner last night. I don’t accept I.O.U.s.”

“It smells good in here, do you have any tea?”

Pansy stepped aside and allowed the witch to enter, her bristling subsiding as the redhead gracefully moved through the dark shop and towards the brightly lit kitchen. “What do you want, Mrs. Potter? I have a busy morning ahead. I’m afraid I can only spare three minutes for your confrontation before I have scones to take out of the oven.”

“Is that what I’m smelling? Can I have one? I’ve got practice in Holyhead in half an hour and I’m starving.”

Pansy took a deep breath and closed her eyes; she visualized the ocean, imagined she could feel the gentle salty breeze on her face and the sand under her feet. It was her happy place, quiet and peaceful, a place where nothing could be wrong, and no one could hurt her. “Are you trying to drive me crazy before the sun has even come up?”

Ginny smiled widely, malicious humor dancing in her eyes. “A little bit, but I’ll stop now if you feed me. They really do smell good. If they’re as good as those bun things you gave to Harry, I’ll even promise not to use your first name.”

Pansy pulled the baking trays out of the oven, sliding them into a cooling rack and quickly grabbing one and plating it before sliding it across the counter to the witch, gesturing with her chin towards the kettle on the stove that was still steaming. She grabbed new gloves and went back to her bread, kneading for several more minutes before grabbing the bench knife and starting to separate the dough into neat bundles. She’d done this so often she no longer needed to weigh them to ensure they were even amounts, she could eyeball it and get the baking time close enough for all of them to come out at the same time.

She ignored the woman across from her who was making very deliberately loud and appreciative noises as she ate. “This is amazing, what flavor is that? I can’t figure it out.”

“Chai pear,” Pansy explained, sliding three racks of brioche buns into the oven and clearing her workspace with a quick wave of her wand. She summoned mini tart shells and the pre-chilled dough from the fridge with another gesture. “Are you ever going to get around to why you’re here?”

“I wanted to thank you.”

Pansy paused and scoffed. “For what?”

“For sitting in a pub with my husband and letting him be…Harry. Not the savior of the Wizarding world, not the Boy-Who-Lived, just Harry.”

“He shouldn’t have to sit with a stranger to be himself.”

“I know,” Ginny retorted, pushing away the plate that only held crumbs now. “Did you know he came home three weeks ago and wanted to talk about his aunt and uncle?”

“And?”

“He never wants to talk about it. He wouldn’t even talk about it when we were in school, he just wanted to put it out of sight, out of mind, and move on. Let the past be the past.”

Pansy finished pressing the dough into the shells and summoned the lemon curd piping bag wandlessly and fit a nozzle onto the end and began to pipe into the tart shells. “That boy needs therapy.”

“He tried it, he hated it and wouldn’t go back,” Ginny defended. “I know he has survivor’s guilt-”

She snorted and shot Ginny an incredulous look. “That’s an understatement, Weaslette. He’s gone past survivor’s guilt and straight into Atlas level guilt. Do you know he had the doldrums last night and told me I was right at the battle? That we should’ve tossed him to Lord Voldemort at the beginning of the battle and everyone would be alive if we had. He’s such a numpty.”

Ginny pursed her lips and bit back a smile, shrugging. “He told me last night, drunkenly mind you, that you told him it wasn’t his fault.”

“It’s not,” Pansy repeated, finishing off the tarts and decorating them with a small mint leaf and a white chocolate covered blueberry before sending the lot of them into the industrial sized cooler to set. She turned back to Ginny and eyed her dubiously. “I thought you had practice?”

“Thank you for being his friend.”

“Ew, take that back.”

Ginny laughed and left, stealing another scone on the way out the door.

Pansy added the cost of them to the itemized bill she owled over later that evening.

The next Friday he was sitting in their booth when she arrived. He bought her drinks and dinner to pay her back, though she made it very clear that in the future she would prefer the galleons to the terrible attempt at pasta the kitchen sent out.

 

It was late enough in the autumn months that Pansy knew she’d not see the sun until at least an hour after she opened the bakery. She was used to arriving in the dark, a necessary evil of her career, and she moved through the dining area with no need for light. She’d arranged the shop herself and knew where each table and chair was and knew exactly when to twist her hips to slip through the narrow space between the glass display and counter where her part timers cashed clients out with their treats.

As the weather changed she slowly transitioned her product from the light flavors of summer, strawberry and lemon and meringues, to a mix of savory and sweet to carry people through the cold of the days. Her tarts ranged from the sumptuous reds of cranberry to transitional fall blackberry to this gorgeous spiced plum one she’d invented last week that had sold out every day since. She had her mind turning around a new recipe for canelés, and was giving serious thought to adding a whole subsection of them to her menu. Most other patisseries offered small treats in addition to the larger tea-sized servings, but she’d never been very good at macarons, could never get the feet right. She had however commissioned a custom set of silicone canelés molds that emulated a pansy and today she wanted to test if the altered size and shape would still allow for the caramelization of the outside and would maintain the custard-like inside, but she had her everyday basic bakes that needed tending to first. She only had three hours before her cashier Laurie would arrive at 6 a.m. to open the bakery to the public.

Pansy never felt so settled as she did at the shop. She’d used a fairly large chunk of her inheritance to purchase the building, and had set up every aspect herself. She’d chosen the clean white surfaces of the kitchen, the copper instruments, designed her own logo and found the right suppliers for her ingredients and packaging. For the last three years, she’d poured all her energy into seven days a week of baking, advertising, hiring, firing, and scoping out the competition so she could innovate and do it better. She didn’t regret a single second of it.

This was hers.

She made this with her hands, her sweat, her tears.

It was more satisfying knowing that she did it all without magic. She used some of it casually to speed up her processes, but magic interfered with cooking so most of it was done the muggle way. Not to mention, her employees were muggles and she had no intention of getting caught up with the Ministry over violating the Statute of Secrecy. It’d been harder when she’d first began, her instincts charging charms without thought, her hands conjuring her wand silently as her thoughts moved, but she’d been able to suppress those instincts with concentration and dedication.

She was always wary though when the muggles mentioned magic. It was disturbing to her how often they spoke of it, used it as a metaphor with no understanding that it existed, that it was all around them and they were blind to such an intrinsic part of the world. Her father looked down on them for their blindness, had preached that it made them less , that they couldn’t see magic, couldn’t use it. The Parkinsons had long subscribed to the old ways of magic; they recognized that it was an element of nature. For her father, muggleborns were a perfect example of the unpredictability of magic; not a sign that muggles were stealing magic, only that they were empty vessels that magic sought to fill. After all, it was how the sacred Families had been formed; magic had sought them out and given them the gift of knowledge.

Like Eve and her apple, Pansy always opined.

She set music to playing and started to pull together the ingredients for scones, deciding quickly that today felt like a three flavor day; pumpkin, butterbeer (though the muggles called it butterscotch), and apricot. She could quickly throw together 4 batches of each and that’d have her with almost 150 scones to last the morning. While those were baking, she could start the folding process for croissants. She’d need at least two hours to complete the folding for a beautiful array of layers in the pain au chocolat. If she timed things just right, the enticing baking scent of warm chocolate and crisping edges would waft into the public area and they’d move fast. Croissants were always best eaten the day they were made.

She was singing softly along with the CD playing when she heard footsteps carry through an empty shop outside the swinging door and without stopping summoned her wand from her pocket. It couldn’t be her cashier, Laurie wouldn’t arrive for at least another hour and a half, and besides that she knew the front door had been locked behind her and she trusted no one with keys besides herself.

Whomever it was knocked on the swinging door before pushing it open and she glared at the bespectacled fool standing there. He smiled in greeting but didn’t step over the threshold. “Permission to enter, chef?”

“It’s 4:30 in the morning, Potter, what are you doing here?”

“Just got off an overnight operation and Ginny is out of town at a game,” he explained, crossing to the opposite side of the island where there was a stool hidden just under the counter for when she was doing detail work. “Wasn’t really ready to go to bed and I knew you’d be awake.”

“Awake and fit for company are two very different things.”

“You let Ginny pop in on you in the mornings!”

Pansy scoffed and cast a renewed cooling spell on the marble slab she was using to laminate her croissant dough. She folded it over carefully, ignoring Harry, and only when it was formed into another perfect rectangle and wrapped in cellophane and returned to her industrial refrigerator did she reply. “I don’t allow your wife to pop in, she does it heedlessly of any warnings I give. She’s also a thief, might I add, I’m always three scones short when she leaves.”

“Speaking of my wife,” Harry segued, “we’re throwing a party for the end of quidditch season and Gin wanted to know if you could make a dessert.”

“ Can I? I can make a dessert, it is my profession.”

Harry rolled his eyes, “ Will you make a dessert for the party?”

Pansy sighed and nodded. “Do you know what she wants?”

“Something with chocolate.”

“Thanks for narrowing down, Potter.”

“You’re welcome.”

Pansy removed a batch of breakfast pastries from the oven and considered it a job well done when Harry leered hungrily at the creations. “Would you like one?” She asked snottily, easily snagging one with a spatula and setting it in front of him.

“What is it?”

“An eggs benedict breakfast pastry, I just need to add some hollandaise sauce. We serve them warm so this is the perfect time to try it. You can be my edeatroi ,” she named with a mischievous look.

Harry squinted nervously at her through the round frames of his glasses but still reached for a fork to try it. Pansy snorted and slid the baking tray into a cooking rack to finish setting before she’d put them into the display tray for the glass counter outside.

“If I invited you, would you come to the party?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Swallow before speaking, you plebeian,” she admonished, pouring them both a cup of black tea and waving her hand wandlessly to bring it back to the perfect temperature.

He repeated the question with a clear mouth and Pansy slid a cup of tea in front of him and sat down on a stool, already shaking her head. “No.”

“Give me a reason.”

“I don’t have to, no is a full sentence.” Pansy refused to look at him, she already knew he was giving her puppy dog eyes. Unlike the rest of his compatriots, she was a snake at heart and viewed cute creatures as food and it would not have the effect he desired. “I’m usually in bed by nine, Potter, early morning wake-up remember? Not to mention, I doubt your usual crowd would want to be around me. I distinctly recall being on the bad side of their wands in the not-so-distant past.”

“That was years ago, and they know we’re friends.”

“Stop saying that.”

He laughed, pushing the empty plate away and standing with a stretch. “What else would you call it?”

“Commensalism.”

“Words aren’t making sense again,” he decided, shaking his head. “I can’t tell if you’re using words too big for me or if I’m getting sleepy and just not hearing right.”

“Go home, Potter.”

Three days later Ginevra Potter came striding into the bakery at 2 p.m., just as Pansy was making the call to shut down for the day as they’d cleared most of that day’s stock. Laurie was bagging the last of the canelés for a customer and Pansy hovered near the door, preparing to throw the deadbolt behind the last one when the redhead pushed in instead. She didn’t even have the grace to come alone, much to Pansy’s dismay.

Ginevra had brought Hermione Granger with her.

“I’m here to talk about the party next week, Harry said you needed to know what to make, and what’s this about you not coming? I want you to come. I’m tired of having to hear your witticisms second hand from Harry, you know he’s terrible at telling jokes, the wizard always tells the punchline first.”

Pansy gritted her teeth and cut her eyes toward the customer heading their way with her employee just behind him. “Do you not see the muggles, you plonker?” She hissed, grasping Ginny’s arms and pushing her out of the way of the door. “Have a good day, sir. Laurie, you can go, I’ll take care of clean up. Thank you for today.”

Her employee beamed at being told she could leave early and snagged her purse from under the counter and was out the door within a couple of minutes, leaving the trio of witches in the now empty shop. Pansy flipped the sign and locked the door, sighing heavily and fighting the urge to bang her head into the window. “Three years of not violating the statute and you come bursting in shouting about wizards, Merlin! Was this the plan all along? Lure me into complacency then have me tossed in Azkaban?”

“Oh, calm down. ‘Mione is in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement now, she’d smooth things out if you got in trouble.”

Pansy scanned the muggleborn with a gimlet eye. “I sincerely doubt that.”

Hermione had a matching dubious look and clearly agreed. She stood stiffly beside Ginny, turning to take in all the details of Pansy’s shop and Pansy bristled, all the little hairs on her neck rising as she felt her tongue heating up for a scathing rebuke of whatever nasty thing Hermione was going to say.

“This is a nice shop, I like the colors. I was kind of expecting green but I think the navy and yellow look lovely.”

Pansy was biting her tongue so hard she was certain any second now she’d taste blood.

“Thank you,” she replied slowly, deliberately turning from her former rival and focusing on the redhead. “The only thing Potter said was you wanted chocolate. I have an idea but since you’re paying for it, you’ll need to approve the design.”

Ginny nodded and tossed her bag onto one of the tables. “Are you really out of food? Or did you hold some back?”

“I’m out of most things, but we never really sell completely out,” Pansy explained, shaking her head when Ginny headed straight to the glass display case and started to look at what was left. “Are you always hungry?”

“I’m a Weasley.”

“She’s a Weasley.”

Pansy rolled her eyes at the mirrored answer and slid behind the counter to pull out the few pastries that were left. “I don’t think I’ll keep making this mille feuille , it’s not selling very well. It won’t keep, so you can have it.”

Ginny bit her lip greedily, stretching her hands out and wiggling her fingers in a universal ‘give me’ gesture. “What flavor?”

“S’mores, it’s an American thing. It’s chocolate and marshmallow.”

Hermione popped up next to Ginny, looking with interest at the dessert. When Pansy plated and held them out, the two ladies both snatched them up quickly and moved to a table. Pansy snagged the last slice of karpatka and forced herself to sit across from them.

“Have you ever heard of a croquembouche?” She asked, neatly spearing the tip of the slice into a fork and sliding it delicately onto her tongue.

“I have,” Hermione offered, chasing several crumbs from the pastry across her bottom lip, smiling in pleasure at the taste.

Pansy noted that she liked the bake and felt like that was the best revenge she could hope for today.

“I have not,” Ginny denied, already halfway through the plate and not slowing down.

“It’s like a tower of ball-sized cream puffs; crunchy and delicious and can be filled with pretty much any flavor you want. And…they kind of look like a snitch. So I was thinking I could make a croquembouche, paint them with edible gold, and then they can be enchanted to have little snitch wings that flutter,” Pansy described, idly wishing she’d thought to grab her notepad from the back with her drawings. She was hesitant to show how excited the idea made her; the intrigue of combining magic and pastry to create something new was scintillating. It was something that had never been done before and this was the first time it was something she could consider. Most of her custom requests were for muggle corporate events, no opportunity to really play with concepts.

“Could you charm them to fly too?”

“Self sustainably? I don’t think I know how to do that.”

“I do,” Hermione offered, rapping Ginny’s hand with her fork when she tried to reach over to take her plate. “I can teach it to you. We use it at the Ministry to send memos.”

Pansy considered the offer and kept her face neutral. “That would be helpful, thank you.”

Ginny gave up on stealing Hermione’s plate and eyed Pansy’s instead. “Then it’s settled. I think it’s clear that you’ll need to be there to supervise.”

“This reeks of a set-up,” Pansy griped, her appetite gone as she started to think about the mechanics of the centerpiece. She pushed the rest of her cake towards Ginny and allowed herself a small smile when the witch moaned around the first bite.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you Daphne would be there?”

“Greengrass?”

“The very one,” Ginny affirmed, “she’s the Harpies’ healer now, went on retainer last season. Wickedly proficient at healing broken bones, I snapped my right arm three weeks ago and she had it fixed in ten minutes. She’s coming and I think she’s bringing her wife, Millie, too.”

“Her wife?” Pansy was shocked, last she heard Daphne had been contracted to marry Theodore Nott.

“Do you have a problem with that, Pansy?” Hermione inquired, twerking her eyebrow as if begging for her to say something worthy of judgment.

“Having to share a bedroom with me and see all my glorious nakedness for years, I’m not surprised she found herself turned to women. Unfortunately, I’m a hard act to follow,” she said drolly, tossing her hair over her shoulder coquettishly. “Best to avoid them lest I cause marital strife. I decline to attend.”

“Come on, Parks-”

Pansy shook her head and stood. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish the closing process by myself because I had to let my help go early. I’ll owl you the cost of the centerpiece, Lady Potter.”

“Ohhhh, Lady Potter, kinda like that one.”

Ginny tittered her way out the door, but Hermione paused at the frame, turning back to advise, “I’ll send an owl when I’ve got some time to come by to show you the charm. I don’t think it’ll take you long to learn it, you were good at charms in school.”

“If you tell me the name of the charm, I can look it up and learn it myself.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Hermione jested. “I will only accept payment for my tutelage in food form.”

 

Two Sundays later Pansy was indulging in a strong cup of earl grey before she tackled making choux pastry, she was thoroughly burnt out on that particular delicacy after the massive creation she’d made for the quidditch party last night. Even so she was pretty pleased with how it turned out, the charm Hermione had come by two nights ago to teach her had worked perfectly, though she’d ended up having to charm the treats to send itself to every party attendee to get the missive spell to work correctly. The sugar work of the wings had been particularly difficult, but was gorgeous and delicate in the end.

She glared down at the picture in the newspaper in front of her, because the photographer at the party had caught the moment the wings unfurled and the pastries took flight perfectly. The slight shine of the wings, the graceful lift, and even the awestruck looks of the patrons in the background. It looked transcendent and Ginny had made sure to notate exactly who had created the masterpiece to the reporter.

The Prophet was a balled up missile that hit perfectly on the Boy-Who-Lives scar when he let himself into the kitchen half an hour later. “Oi! What’s that far?”

“My name is in the society pages, Potter,” Pansy declared through grinding teeth. “Front page, they even helpfully included the address of the bakery.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” He asked, rubbing his forehead with a small pout.

She bit back her scream of frustration though a high pitched whine still made her past her clamped lips. She took a deep breath and set down the wooden spoon in her hand before she snapped it in frustration. She exhaled and pointed towards the window of the kitchen where four owls were lined up; she’d only removed two of the scrolls so far but they had not left yet as they were waiting for her reply as their owners had instructed. “ Those …started to arrive last night.”

Harry ambled over, pausing briefly to sniff at the pot of simmering fruit compote on the stove. It was a good reminder to Pansy not to burn it so she scrambled around the kitchen island to pull it off the heat. While Harry skimmed one of the scrolls resting on the counter, she tested one of the pears and found it perfectly tender and decided she rather liked the way the cranberry color had leached into the fruit.

“People want to hire you,” Harry concluded, reaching up and pulling the unopened scrolls down and skimming them. “That’s…terrible! How dare they!”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I don’t understand why you’re upset,” he retorted glibly, tossing the scrolls onto the counter and ambling over to the cooling rack. “I’m betting Ginny is going to be hungover this morning, she finished a champagne bottle by herself last night, do you have anything that she could eat that won’t upset her stomach?”

“Don’t you have a house elf?”

“Kreacher isn’t exactly Gordan Ramsay. And she prefers your stuff. Says she likes the spite you bake into it, leaves a nice aftertaste.”

Pansy pursed her lips and considered that with slit eyes. “I think there was a compliment in there somewhere.”

“There was.”

“You can have some of the beignets, they’re on the top rack. Take the six at the front, they’re slightly overdone, I was going to toss them. They’re not good enough for the clients.”

“Good enough for the Savior of the Wizarding World though?”

“Didn’t you used to eat table scraps under the stairs?”

“Touché,” he said with a laugh, snagging one of her bakery boxes and reaching for the top rack.

“Use gloves or tongs, you heathen.”

“Why are you mad about the owls? Your croke-a-bush was awesome, nobody could stop talking about the flying snitches for hours afterwards.”

“Croquembouche,” she corrected, using her forearm to push back her bangs which were slowly thickening with sweat as she stood over the stove. “I don’t want anything from wizarding society, Potter. I’m perfectly happy with how my business is going now.”

“Well, just more business isn’t it? Isn’t that good?”

“Oh yeah, it’s all well and good now that I’ve got the Golden Couple’s Stamp of Approval. I’ll have owls in and out of the kitchen, which is entirely unsanitary; they’ll herald themselves as patrons of lost souls. How good of them to patronize poor pariah Pansy’s shop? How charitable of the Potters-”

“It’s not charity,” he interrupted, trying to keep her from getting a good head of steam going but she was already leaning into the rant that had been building all morning.

“They didn’t want me after the war, and I don’t want them now,” Pansy proclaimed, fisting her hands on the edge of the counter. “I didn’t even do anything to anyone at Hogwarts, I was a prefect but the worst thing I did was take points! I didn’t hurt anyone at any time, but somehow I’m outcast and Draco effing Malfoy is the redeemed anti-hero and every other branded teenager is having a fucking renaissance in the Prophet. They got to tell their side of the story and I’m not even in the damn story but I’m still the bad guy.”

“Tell us you really feel,” Harry encouraged, setting down the bakery box carefully and pulling the stool around the island and sitting down next to her.

“Stop coming around. Stop meeting for drinks. Tell your wife to stop invading my shop at all hours of the morning, you both know damn well I can’t put wards up on a muggle building. I just want to be left alone. I just want to be here, I want to listen to my music and bake and not have to worry about what other people think or feel about all of the things that were out of my control yet somehow my fault.”

“Are you done with the pity party?”

“Excuse you!” She wished she still had the wooden spoon, she’d hit him with it.

“Stop playing the victim,” he parroted back to her the words she’d delivered to him all those months ago.

“I’m not the victim!”

“No, you’re not,” he agreed reasonably, smiling at her in that daft charming way he had. “You’re mad you didn’t get to have the big splashy redemption story in the paper like the other Slytherins, but you didn’t need one. You didn’t do anything wrong, Pansy-”

“Don’t call me Pansy.”

“Parkinson, no one gets to judge you for how you survived a war, least of all the stuck-up people who weren’t even there.”

“And those that were?”

“I already told them that if I’m not mad at you, they don’t have the right to be mad at you.”

She hummed, visualizing banking a fire in her head until the anger was once again smoldering and hissing in the back of her mind. “I’m not mad I didn’t get public redemption. Screw the public.”

“Then what are you really mad about?”

“You’re not my therapist, Potter. And we’re not friends. I don’t want to confess my feelings to you, Merlin, the thought of it makes my skin crawl.”

“Okay,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug. “You really need to stop saying words that don’t make sense, you know.” He stood and snagged the bakery box, pausing at the door for one last quip before leaving. “I think by even the loosest definition, we’re friends.”

“I feel…good here,” Pansy confessed, not looking at him. “I don’t feel good in the Wizarding world. I feel dark and bitter and out of place. I don’t want the magical world invading this space. I don’t want anyone in this space. It’s mine.”

Harry spun on his heels, considering her words as he leaned into the door frame, jumping when the swinging door bumped back into him. “Gin probably won’t keep coming by in the mornings now that the season’s over. If it bothers you, I won’t stop in unexpectedly either.”

Pansy swallowed and reached for the compote, stirring it idly and refusing to look at him. “I don’t mind when it’s just you. And Lady Potter is barely even here, she walks in, steals scones and walks out. Don’t bother telling her not to come, she’s contrary and she’ll do it anyways and probably more often if you tell her that.”

Harry nodded, a small smile growing. “Okay, we’ll stick to the status quo then.”

Pansy waited until he turned away, a jaunty whistle echoing through the empty shop as he headed for the door. “I am going to start billing you for all the pastry theft, though! I’m running a business, Potter, not a feeding line.”

She tossed the scrolls into the bin and shot sparks until the owls left.

She felt better afterwards.

 

Despite the lack of dementors, the atmosphere of Azkaban had not improved with recent reform. Pansy had never visited any other prison so she wasn’t in a position to assume that the unrelenting melancholy that buffeted her when she arrived was normal for establishments of this nature, but the wizarding prison felt exceptional.

The sea around the island was particularly rocky today, the boat bobbing back and forth so hard that for a few seconds she thought this would be the trip where she was tossed into the water. She calculated the distance to shore and compared it to her swimming stamina and found it lacking. Luckily the auror at the helm shouted a brief spell and the boat stabilized, though the green look on the face of her two fellow passengers showed they were no more comfortable than she was.

She made this trip once a month but it never got easier.

“You look well, petal.”

Her father looked nothing like the wizard she’d known as a child, before Hogwarts and before the Second War.

“How is the, um, the business?”

He’d always been a solid presence, tall and firm, with a kind smile for her when she wrapped her thin arms around his legs. The way his hands had gently lifted her up, teasingly tossing her in the air before catching her close, it was a feeling she’d never been able to recreate. It was so easy to feel weightless when you knew someone would catch you, when you didn’t have to make decisions or bear your mistakes.

“It’s good, I think if the traffic stays steady I’ll be able to repay my inheritance within ten years,” she replied with a tight smile. She felt overwound, her skin too tight, her muscles twitchy, but she didn’t betray that feeling to him. It’d only make him feel bad to know how anxious these visits made her. Instead, she sat cross-legged in the wooden chair across from him, her hands firmly knotted in her lap because touching is forbidden and the urge to smooth the wrinkled lapels of his prison uniform was instinctual.

“That’s great! Have you made any new recipes lately?” He’d lost weight, his face thinning out but not yet gaunt. She knew the conditions here were better than they’d been before the war but a prison was still a prison, it wasn’t intended to be comfortable.

“I did, it’s almost spring so I’ve started experimenting with strawberry and rhubarb, it’s the freshest crop right now. Strawberries sell really well, but some clients seem to have a grudge against the rhubarb so I try to use it sparingly but it’s delicious. Honestly sometimes I just want to grab their little faces and make them try it. It’s just senseless prejudice.” She bit her tongue at the jibe but couldn’t take it back. Luckily her father ignored the familiar words; he was acting on his best behavior this visit and Pansy was grateful for it.

“You always had a sweet tooth, petal, I don’t know that I expected you to make a career of it though.”

“I’ve made the best of my options, father, and I enjoy it. I know it’s shocking but I like working with my hands. It makes me happy. Satisfied, to see the things I’ve created, the things people enjoy so much they’re willing to pay me for them.”

“Have you given any thought to moving the shop to Diagon-”

“Stop.”

“Pansy-”

“Stop.”

They stared at each other in silence for several seconds, letting the unfinished question fade away. Pansy finally swallowed and stood, gesturing to the table near the wall. “Would you like to play chess? I promise not to let you win this time.”

“You never let me win, my girl, you’ve got no head for strategy. I’ll give you a two move handicap though.”

_____

The walk down to the dock was precarious at best, dangerous in worse conditions. The stone walls of the staircase were perpetually wet but as long as you kept to the middle of the stairs you avoided most of the slick. During storms that was impossible, as a veritable waterfall from the surface of the island came down into the dark. She had no idea how the aurors traversed them then, even now she had to run her hand along the damp wall to keep her balance and it wasn’t bad weather, it was actually quite beautiful. The sun was shining and the wind mild, but she could only wish the water had settled for the ride back.

The part of the sea visible at the opening of the cave that sheltered the dock did not give her much hope, the waves crashing into the rocks outside harshly and spraying her with mist.

She sat herself down on the bench along the wall and settled in to wait for the auror who’d be guiding the boat back to shore. A glance at her watch told her that she had about fifteen minutes before it was scheduled to depart and it looked like she’d missed the exit of her fellow passengers from the morning. Her wand poked her thigh obnoxiously so she shifted her legs to ease the pressure, and wondered why she bothered to bring it given it wouldn’t work on the island. The ministry had instituted an anti-magic barrier on the island that kept the inhabitants from using magic, but also kept the dark creatures that fed on despair away. The dementors had tried to return post-war to their nest but the Ministry no longer trusted the dark beings with the guardianship and had provided them a different haven far away from humans. She’d overheard somewhere that they kept trying to return but no one was certain if it was because of the emotions projected by the prisoners or because the island was their home and the dementors weren’t explaining anything to the liaison the Ministry kept sending.

The other consequence of the barrier was that the only magic allowed was from the aurors, so the urge to cast an impervious charm to stay dry was a moot point, she couldn’t even if she wanted to.

Steps echoed down the stairs and she tilted her head, anticipating the helmsman arriving but instead catching the eyes of a familiar gray-eyed platinum haired Pureblood prince. “Hello, Draco.”

He paused on the last step, clearly surprised to see her. “Hello, Pansy.” Deeply ingrained etiquette had him crossing the space, intending to brush a kiss across her cheek but she threw up a hand and stopped him in his tracks.

“No, thank you. Let’s not pretend this is pleasant happenstance.”

“While the circumstances leave much to be desired, it’s always a pleasure to see you.”

She arched an eyebrow at him and didn’t reply, instead shifting her eyes back towards the cave opening and the unending blue that stretched to the horizon. Luckily Draco was smart enough not to take a seat beside her, instead shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and studied her hard enough that she could almost feel the weight of his gaze.

“How have you been?”

She didn’t answer.

“We’re out of school, Pansy, don’t be childish.”

She took deep measured breaths and found that she was enjoying the cool mist of the water as it dusted her face. Her growing ire was making her feel flushed and it brought her temper down.

“Mother sent an owl requesting an audience, wanting to hire you for a party. You never responded.”

“Please tell Narcissa I send my regrets, but I don’t cater for wizards,” Pansy explained calmly, proud of herself for the even keel of her voice.

“You catered for the Potters.”

“I catered as a personal favor, I do not conduct business in Wizarding London.”

“A personal favor for the Potters but not as a favor for me?”

She turned her head and met his eyes, curling her lips in a smirk. “No, I owe you nothing.”

“Pansy-”

“We’re not friends. You don’t have the right to call me by my first name any longer.”

Draco seemed so surprised by her statement that he rocked back on his heels, his head shaking as if he’d misheard. “Pans-”

“Cease and desist, Draco.”

The auror tripped down the last couple of stairs and right into the middle of the tense awkward air in the room. “Ready to go then?”

Pansy stood and moved towards the dock, holding her hand out for the auror to help her down into the vessel. “I’m ready but he’s decided to take the next one.”

“Are you sure, sir, there’s plenty of-”

“He’s sure,” she interrupted, glaring at the wizard to get on with it. “We’re not good company, he and I. Best we stay separate.”

_____

She wouldn’t mention the interaction when she wrote the letter to her mother; the witch had never forgotten the brief dalliance that had given her dreams of a huge Parkinson/Malfoy wedding and Pansy did not want to fan those flames again. Her mother had been devastated when she and Draco had broken off their fling in fifth year, though she’d become quieter about it when sixth year had happened and his role in that mess had come to light.

Then post-War he’d been acquitted by the Wizengamot and the Prophet had romanticized his role in the war and all those fairy tale romance novels her mother preferred had reared their ugly heads and polluted her mind with ideas of reconnecting, of healing each other, of little blond haired babies with slanted dark eyes.

The first time she’d seen him since the Final Battle she’d been standing outside a courtroom, preparing to go inside for her father’s trial. He’d looked better, had filled out from the gaunt teenager who’d thrown Harry Potter his wand to fight the Dark Lord, but he’d still had shadows under his eyes and a frown so deep it looked permanently etched on his face. It’d felt so fortuitous to see a familiar face that day, she’d been dreading it so badly, and she’d stepped forward and called out his name as he walked by.

He turned his head and she knew he saw her, their eyes had met, but he kept walking and didn’t acknowledge her.

She listened as his voice faded, explaining to the reporter that was jogging to keep up with his long strides that he was so very pleased the Wizengamot had seen reason and understood he’d been under such terrible blackmail and he was looking forward to heading back to Hogwarts to finish his education, and no, he’d no idea that Harry and Hermione were going to testify for him and while they weren’t friends, he was grateful to feel truly seen by others after feeling so alone the past few years.

An hour later the court had sentenced her father to life in Azkaban.

She’d been sad about the judgment but not surprised; her father had told her to expect this and to prepare herself for it but the harsh finality of the gavel hitting the podium was something that haunted her. It wasn’t that her father didn’t deserve it, he’d done unforgivable things under Voldemort’s instruction and even now she knew he’d not changed his mind about the beliefs that led him to follow that abomination into ruin.

He was still her father.

He was still the man who’d ran to her side when she’d fallen off her toy broom and skinned her knee. He was still the man who’d let her sneak into the kitchens to watch the house elves cook, and who’d never tell her mother when he found her under the table at galas, hiding because none of the boys had asked her to dance.

He always told her the same thing as he stood her up, combing steady fingers through her hair until it lay smooth, and chucking her under the chin so she’d smile: take purpose from pain, it’s the only way we learn.

Her relationship with her mother was less strained but carried the same distance. Her father’s prison sentence had been very hard on her mother, who’d come to England from Korea following him, loving him so much she was willing to leave her entire life behind and adopt a new one. Being a pureblooded witch from another country made her exotic and palatable to the Sacred Twenty Eight, but sometimes Pansy wondered if her mother had felt as alone as she always had.

There’d been no one in Slytherin House who looked like her. Very few in Hogwarts at all, but certainly none who’d want to be her friend. It’d been exhausting to be compared to beauties like Daphne or Ginny knowing that they shared no features. Wizards wanted pink flushed cheeks and light eyes, noses turned up just so, cupid’s bow lips; all the things she didn’t have.

She knew better now, knew that she’d held herself to standards that weren’t attainable, and that she was a beautiful witch. She wasn’t an English rose, nor was her mother, but there was nothing wrong with being a pansy.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that her mother felt the dissonance with wizarding society though, the same one she felt these days. After her father’s incarceration, she’d moved back to Korea and only returned once a month to visit her husband and her daughter.

Pansy refused to acknowledge that her mother seemed so much more at peace now, less fretting over how she looked, no more practicing her conversations in the mirror when she thought no one was around, no nervously twisting her fingers when out in public. She knew it wasn’t being away from her father because she had never doubted the deep love of her parents, the easy affection between them and the way he’d always protected her had been the ideal she wanted for herself. Even now her mother took three portkeys to get here from Korea so she could spend six hours a month with him before trekking back. Without fail, without complaint, but with the gracious understanding that this was their new reality and just maybe, this was a form of penance for her too.

She sat down at the desk in her sitting room and picked up the quill, sorting her thoughts as she struggled to find a way to start off her weekly letter. She and her mother rotated visiting her father as only one person was allowed to visit every two weeks but she always wrote to her after the visit so she’d know that he was doing well and looking forward to seeing her soon, because he was.

Dearest mother,

Father continues to best me at chess and his determination to not gloat about it drives me mad. He told me he sometimes plays with Ronald Weasley when he’s there for an auror rotation and that he’s not yet beaten him, but he’s going to keep trying.

_____

Pansy waited until the boat had been anchored to the dock before lifting her eyes from her seat, the summer storm outside had been particularly rough on her and her waterproofing charms had faded as soon as they’d crossed the wards of the prison. She was vaguely nauseous from the movements of the sea and the thought of getting on solid ground had her grasping for the auror above and letting them help her out of the boat.

“Hey, Parkinson, didn’t know you were coming today.”

“Hello, Potter. Being the Chosen One doesn’t get you out of Azkaban duties?” She strode past him, pausing when her shoes met rock and her body finally started to shed the jitters.

“I’m not special-” to which she snorted, “-and I take on all the same tasks as my coworkers.”

She finally felt well enough to meet his gaze and immediately noticed how out-of-sorts he looked. He needed a shave and from the state of his clothes a shower. “You look horrendous.”

“Yeah, I need a drink,” he sighed, shrugging his shoulders and a crack could be heard as the tension shifted. “Not my favorite assignment.”

“This is why you sometimes show up on Fridays looking like you were hit by a bludger,” she surmised, crossing her arms and studying him more closely. “How long are you stuck here?”

“Three more days and then I won’t have to come back for two months. It’s not too bad, I can deal with it.”

“Even without the dementors, this place is depressing. If there was ever a time to play the ‘savior of the wizarding world’ card, I’d say do it for this.”

“I don’t ask anyone to do anything I’m not willing to.”

“Have you met yourself? I’ve never seen anyone with less self preservation and more predilection for throwing themselves in front of killing curses. You are not the example that people should be following.”

He laughed and gestured towards the stairs, something Pansy immediately eyed dubiously as she could already see the thin layer of rain water that was cascading down from above. Her wellies could handle water on flat ground just fine, but nothing was suited to water on wet stone stairs. “After you.”

“We’re not done talking about this, Potter.”

“Don’t know what to tell you, it’s my job.”

She scoffed and found a handhold in the wall and started up. The walls were luckily not smooth, and in fact looked like they’d been clawed out of the island, but it provided vertical grooves that she could use to give herself some stability as she climbed. “You don’t even like this job.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I know that, not think that. And everyone who barely knows you can tell. Every time you do an interview you get that pinched look on your face like Trelawney just found a grim in your tea. When you’ve captured a criminal and had to duel, you drink two ales instead of one and don’t even try to talk to me. What I don’t understand is why you keep doing something you don’t like?”

She could hear him scuffling up the stairs behind her but he didn’t speak for several minutes. When he finally did, it was not what she expected.

“Ron put in his resignation a few weeks ago.”

“My father will be disappointed, he’s the only guard who’ll play chess with him.”

“He’s going to go work with George at the shop.”

“Good for him,” she replied, her tone only slightly snide but heartily implying she could care less about the Weasley boy’s future career.

“He didn’t even talk about it with me,” Pansy turned her head just enough to catch a glimpse of the stony look on Harry’s face, “but he’s always been like that. He puts himself first and only thinks about others later. Which, to be fair, he does eventually think about other people but it’s always secondary to his needs.”

“So you stay in a shite job to prove you’re not as self-involved as your best friend?”

“No,” he denied, snorting a bit and shaking his head. “Afterwards, Chief Auror Robards clapped him on the back and wished him luck, then pointed at me and told me I don’t get that option. I’m important to the public perception of the Aurors and in making the public trust us, you see.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes at his paraphrasing but shook off the flare of annoyance. “Do you know who that sounds like?”

“Who?”

“Dumbledore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Making you the focal point of a cause, putting that expectation on you knowing that you’re too good natured to call them on it. And if you die on the job, you’ll become the martyr that spurs the crusade even further.”

“I don’t-”

“It’s like they want you to die. You’re a better story as a dead hero than a live one, you know.”

“That’s a little harsh.”

Pansy reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the soft rain soaked light. “Am I wrong?”

_____

Today was not a good day.

“-magic is like water, it will fill any opening it can find but that doesn’t mean the vessels are worth what they carry. He had it right, we needed to take it back and protect it as the valuable resource it is.”

“I’m not doing this with you.”

“Pansy, don’t be foolish. This isn’t a theory, this has been proven. Magic is finite, we could not afford to let it be wasted on-”

“I’m not doing this,” she repeated, standing and circling around her chair, pushing it under the table and fisting her hands on the back of it. She stared steadily at her father and saw the pulse ticking under the skin of his throat, the steady seriousness of his eyes, the way he huffed out in exasperation. “We have such limited time together, why must we argue about things we’ll never agree on?”

“You’re not safe in that world.”

“I’m safer there than I ever was in yours.”

She’d shocked him, she’d never said such a thing to him before.

“I won’t go in circles with you. Voldemort was a mad man,” she whispered, her eyes shining with tears she wouldn’t let spill, tears she never felt like she had didn’t the rights to. “He released werewolves and dementors and giants onto a school of children. He could not have cared less about purebloods, half bloods, or muggleborns. It was all a strategic move to get him power and you were all fools he tricked into being his army. And I love you. I love you so very much. But you deserve to be here.” She paused and slipped on her jacket. “I’ll see you in a month.”

She stomped her way through puddles in the courtyard back to the infernal staircase that would lead her to the only exit on the island. She was upset but not as grandly as she’d been the first time he’d gone off on a tangent. It was a hard potion to swallow, knowing that her father was literally in prison for being so wrong but was incapable of understanding that. He’d waste away here, old fashioned and out of style, and she was still floundering with reconciling herself to that.

She was halfway down the stairs when she slipped, her rubber boots flying out from underneath her and she was airborne. In a flash she could see herself tumbling down the stairs, head over arse, landing a bloody broken mess at the bottom and for just a moment, it felt like fate. She and her father dying in the same cavernous tomb.

Then hands snatched her arms and brought her back to the ground with a rough pull and she was safe. Her heart was still racing, her breath catching in her throat, and she spun around to find her savior was none other than a certain messy haired Johnny-on-the-spot.

“I got you, are you okay? Bloody stairs are a hazard. Don’t know why we can’t install an elevator.”

“Must you save everyone, Potter? Do you have a sixth sense or something?”

“Well I was trying to catch you before you got too far but you didn’t hear me,” he explained, ruffling his hair into a somehow even messier state. “Boat can’t leave for another forty five minutes, no point in sitting down there alone.”

“I like to be alone.”

“Or I could show you something cool?” He offered with a plaintive look, shifting to the side and indicating they should go back up.

She sighed and nodded, pushing him ahead of her and following slowly and carefully. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

“Ohhhh, Shakespeare reference. Hermione would applaud. You know a lot of muggle stuff for not having taken muggle studies in school.”

“I have this thing called a computer, and there’s an amazing invention called the internet.”

“You have a computer?”

They were back in the courtyard and she glared at him with a dubious look. “I work in the muggle world, Potter, of course I have a computer. I use Quickbooks for my business, and ordering supplies is easier online.”

Harry squinted at her so hard she thought for a moment he needed a new prescription because he was acting like he’d never seen her before. “That doesn’t explain the other muggle stuff.”

“I also get bored sometimes and ‘surf the net’.”

“Can I come play with it?”

“It’s not a toy.”

“I’ve never seen one.”

“Yes, you can come use my computer. Only after hours, though, the dial up blocks my line and I can’t afford to miss any orders.”

He grinned at her and pointed to the far side of the yard, a small black barred gate built into the wall. They walked over and he unlocked it with a small waive of his wand and a whispered passcode. Barely ten feet on the other side the island dropped into a sheer cliff and the wind was stronger outside the walls of the prison but Pansy barely noticed, her eyes were on the view beyond the edge.

She was too scared to step closer to the edge, they hadn’t even built any railings, but the view was breathtaking even from where she rested against the wall. The sea stretched unending into the distance, blue and frothy white, and she could see so far that she could even see the end of the storm miles away and the sun sparkling on the other side.

“It’s so weird.”

“What?”

She bit her lip and smiled for the first time that day. “Dichotomy.”

 

Notes:
I will not deny there is some self projection here. This one got surprisingly emotional for me.

On a lighter note, if things work out the way I think...we'll see Neville in the next one shot and the Panville of it all will get kicked off. I have some very specific themes and scenes I'm working towards and I think you'll enjoy them.

 

Pansy stretched around her part-timer and grabbed a flat bakery box and contorted it into shape with expert fingers; she'd gotten so good at it she didn’t even need to look anymore. “What can I get you?”

The patron started to point at multiple items, chirping out the wants with a perky tone and hungry eyes and Pansy moved from tray to tray gracefully, placing each item carefully and keeping thin tissue paper between them to maintain the aesthetics as best she could during transport. She passed the box to her employee, knowing the woman had been listening and tallying the total as she packed it. This was the part of owning a bakery that she wasn’t as fond of; the mid-morning rush of parents fresh from dropping children at school, commuters grabbing a treat before heading into work, or the late risers who planned to snag a table and slowly sip at tea and nibble before preparing for whatever it was they got to sleep in until ten before doing. She liked the money it put in her tills but many clients demonstrated a horrible lack of manners.

She’d never had to take it so far as to ask anyone to leave but it was only a deeply ingrained sense of decorum and plenty of practice at snidely putting people into their place (learned at the tables of Sacred Twenty Eight tea parties) that kept her from doing so.

Forty minutes later the clock ticked over 10 a.m. and the crowd dissipated, taking most of that day’s production with them. Not enough to close the doors early, there was still plenty to do before she could leave the shop in Laurie’s hands. Wiping her hands on a nearby tea towel, she showered Laurie with a grateful smile and tilted her head from side to side, sighing softly at the relief of cracked tension.

The phone on the wall began to ring insistently and she waved Laurie back to the register and the client who’d stepped up, reaching for it herself. “Thank you for choosing Pansy’s Patisserie, how can I assist you today?”

“Pansy, it’s Harry.”

She rolled her eyes and leaned back against the wall, turning around to observe the dining area and tagging which tables needed a clean before a new client could sit there. “Why are you calling me, Potter?”

“You told me not to send a patronus when the shop is open anymore.”

“Yes, I did,” she replied with forced calm, “but that doesn’t answer why you’re calling me during my busiest time of the day.”

“Do you make cupcakes?”

“I don’t have them on the menu but I do know the mechanics of making them.”

“Ginny wants some for the baby shower and she’s trying to avoid having Molly make them. Her mum is convinced that eating carrots will help her have a girl so she’s decided she’s going to make carrot cake cupcakes.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Ginny hates carrot cake.”

“Then tell the Mother of Weasels not to make them. There, problem solved.” She hung up and moved to the dining area, snagging a dry rag and spray cleaner. When it got closer to the end of her day, she’d most likely shut the blinds and use a spell but for now she’d work through the clean up like a muggle. You’d never get her to admit it but she didn’t mind the hard work that came with running a non-magical business. When she was younger she didn’t have the perspective to understand but having lived with the difference she now saw that magic was sometimes almost too easy and could feel like it took the value of hard work out of the task. Muggles had to dedicate time and effort to get to the same places that magic could accomplish within seconds. They had to develop technology and knowledge to improve their world and make their lives easier.

When you looked at where muggles and wizards had been several centuries ago, wizardkind had stagnated but muggles had evolved. Wizards were stuck in the past with their owlpost and floating candles, with robes and scrolls, the deeply borne prejudice that was just a symptom of inherited fear. The fastest way to communicate with another wizard was a patronus charm, which only a third of the population could even produce corporeally (and she was not one of them).

Muggles had phones. Muggles had email. Muggles had televisions and cable. Even more important, muggles had Dior and Givenchy.

She didn’t really have the time or places to wear such beautiful clothing but she wasn’t above indulging once a month with a small shopping excursion and several hours in the ready-to-wear section of Harrods, and if the personal shopper there knew her by sight and often asked for her opinion on accessories and she deliberately ignored that it was an attempt to entice her to buy them, well it was her little secret.

They also kept it secret that the personal shopper had held back one of the snakehead Gucci handbags from last season so Pansy could buy it at a more affordable price point as the seasons switched over. She had fallen in love with the green gem embellishments but had not been able to pay full price on the budget she’d set for herself.

Muggles also had kindness.

She’d gotten so used to the mindset of the Wizarding world, to the narrow views of Hogwarts houses, to the way wizards loved to place people in categories and leave them there. To move in a world full of such open possibilities, to build and create herself in reputation and spirit amongst these people, to break the mold and be something other than cunning, ambitious, and resourceful; she’d never known how stifled she’d felt until she’d planted herself here.

_____

Two weeks later, the sun had just barely set and she was ten minutes into a facial mask when the phone began to ring downstairs in the bakery. Huffing a sigh and setting her book aside, she thought seriously about letting the machine get it, but she was waiting on a confirmation call from IXICO about their inception meeting.

She didn’t want to miss the opportunity so she hustled down the stairs from her flat and snatched up the phone on the 14th ring. “Thank you for choosing Pansy’s-”

“It exploded.”

“Potter?”

“It looked easy when the naked chef did it.”

“He’s a professional chef, everything he does looks easy.”

“I’m not new to cooking, I cooked meals for the Dursleys most of my childhood!”

“I’ve seen how many cauldrons you exploded in potions; I thought that part of the biography was hyperbole.”

“Ginny is having a craving for pot pie and we got his cookbook last year and the recipe has five ingredients! And somehow it’s in pieces in my oven.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“How do I fix it?”

Pansy huffed a laugh and almost hung up on him again but she was mellow enough from the hour long bubble bath and smutty romance novel that she’d endure it. “How should I know?”

“You can cook!”

“I can bake! There’s a difference.”

“No there’s not.”

“Yes there is.”

“No there’s not! I’ve seen you doing…stuff…on the stove too.”

“Bare minimum, Potter. The very least that I can get away with. My dinner comes in microwavable containers most of the time.”

“What am I gonna do?” He whispered incredulously, “I have to feed my pregnant wife. She’s getting mean, Parkinson. I do not want to be on the bad side of a Weasley witch.”

“Potter-”

“Her mum killed Bellatrix, you know, disintegrated her. That’s who my wife shares genes with.”

Pansy was full out giggling now, unable to keep the sound contained as Harry shifted from pleading for help to panicking. “I think I have a Swanson frozen pot pie in my freezer?”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

_____

Depending on how quickly the stock sold, the bakery had been known to close anywhere between 1 and 3 p.m. though there’d been a couple times she’d closed as late as 4 p.m. As long as she was in bed by 9 p.m. at the latest, she was back on her feet and in the kitchen by 4 in the morning to get cracking on the next day’s work. She took an hour after closing to complete her accounting for the day and to walk over to the bank to make the daily deposit. If the day hadn’t been too draining, she’d usually have enough allowance left in her people meter to endure dinner at a restaurant, otherwise she’d eat one of the nifty frozen meals she’d told Harry about last month.

At least once a week she’d make her way to the local farmer’s market to speak with her vendors and discuss what deliveries she wanted that week, and if on the way she stopped into a competitor’s storefront to see what they’d added seasonally, that was just good business sense.

On Fridays she sojourned into Diagon Alley and claimed her booth for an hour, had two negronis, ignored or was ignored by Harry Potter depending on who was in a surlier mood, before coming home. She usually wrote her mother a letter that night, when she was mellow from the gin.

Pansy liked patterns. She liked routine. She liked knowing what to expect and what to do; no room for surprises either pleasant or unpleasant.

Five years ago she’d have considered this a boring life, plebeian at its worst. In school she’d imagined society galas and an adoring husband who bequeathed her jewels and lush clothing on a whim. She’d thought she’d join a few charitable boards to occupy her time before she acquiesced to birthing an heir and a spare, two years between them so the elven nanny could dedicate the right amount of attention to each infant. She dreamt there’d be vacations to exotic places, a second home in South Korea, a third one on the Isle of Crete, and at least two here in England for when she wanted time away from family life.

Now she wanted a new professional mixer that had the bread kneading attachment because some days she felt like swearing the dough off entirely.

Though it had toned her upper arms in a way she didn’t hate.

Today they’d closed on the earlier side of the spectrum so after totalling out the till and inputting the numbers into her software, Pansy locked up the bakery behind her and strolled towards the bank. It was a bright and sunny June day and she’d indulged in a cotton sundress in bright teal to embrace the blush of summer that was swelling in London. All around her people were shedding the dark pants and sweaters of the chilly spring and color was popping up like flowers in a meadow. Summer had always been her favorite season as a child; the days at the beach, lazy afternoons in her manor garden reading or attempting to paint, lay-in mornings between school sessions where she had nowhere to be and nothing to do.

After exchanging cash for a receipt, she stashed it in her bag and struck out for a walk around the neighborhood. There was still at least an hour before commuters would leave work and start rushing home, flooding the commercial part of the avenue with traffic and pedestrians finishing errands before heading home, so she took her time window shopping and stretching her legs. It was Friday but Harry was on assignment this week and had warned her he wouldn’t be joining her for a drink so she wasn’t in a hurry to apparate to Diagon Alley, at least not before dinner. She still didn’t trust they wouldn’t poison her food without the presence of Harry to deter it.

By the time she finished her circular tour of the district the sun had shifted obviously into late afternoon and short shadows were stretching across the sidewalk. There was a man sitting at the table in front of her shop, something that irritated her to no end as she was clearly closed and she disliked when strangers used her outside seating without permission, but much to her surprise as she approached she recognized the person sitting there and they were pretty close to being the last person she’d would have expected.

“Neville Longbottom, I fear your comprehension skills have regressed since school, the bakery is clearly closed.”

His head jerked up, red flushing his cheeks as he smiled tightly and stuttered out, “Ginny sent me.”

He hadn’t even finished speaking before she was rolling her eyes. “She’s got you running her errands since Potter is out of town? Don’t you have a job? Forget I asked, you’re a pureblood you probably don’t. ”

“I’m a professor at Hogwarts,” he explained, his tone tightening up and losing the stutter as he gained his footing in the conversation. She almost missed the stutter, it reminded her of the pudgy boy chasing after a toad from the early years. He continued, “but it’s N.E.W.T.s week so the Ministry proctors are handling things. She owled it was an emergency,” he explained, pushing himself up from the table and Pansy’s eyes almost crossed as he towered over her, easily inches taller than the last time she’d seen him, before the Final Battle. He’d at least had the good sense to leave the robes at home and instead wore a button-up and slacks and despite being the most boring outfit a man could wear, she had to admit he wore it well.

“And just what is the emergency that requires my involvement?”

He patted his pockets distractedly before pulling out a small scroll and reading it verbatim: “Ask Pansy if she’s got any of that dark chocolate and orange mousse from last week. Or the chocolate croissants. Or those little bite sized chocolate caramel things. Chocolate, Nev, anything chocolate. I’m growing a tiny wizard here, I’m horny, and my husband is out of town. If I can’t have cock, I want chocolate.”

Pansy laughed and snatched the note from his fingers, not noticing the way he stiffened as she swayed in front of him, closer than they’d ever been in school. “She’s a mess, bad enough she sends Potter all this way to buy food, now she’s got you doing it too.”

“It’s not so bad, it’s only a few hundred feet from the apparition point,” Neville defended, shoving his hands into his pants pockets and rocking back and forth on his feet in discomfort.

Pansy tilted her head and gazed up at him. “What are you talking about? Nearest apparition point is a mile that way.” She gestured carelessly north before bracing her hands on her slim hips.

“No, it’s around the corner. There’s a closed up doorway in the alley, a bit of a tight squeeze, but as long as the notice-me-not charm is reapplied regularly it seems like it’ll do just fine. Hit my head on the doorway when I landed but I’m taller than most.”

“That little arsehole,” Pansy swore, her good cheer fading, “he did that on purpose!”

“Harry?”

“Now I’ll never get rid of the Potter Plague,” Pansy announced, tossing her hands in the air and turning to the door of her shop, pulling out the key and unlocking it roughly. “Might as well key him into my wards so he can just come right in.”

“I didn’t realize you and Harry were friends,” Neville noted as he followed her inside, his eyes immediately going to the potted pansies in the window that were wilting and in need of water and a little bit of fertilizer.

“We’re not.”

He moved to the plant, waving his fingers over the soft leaves and wandlessly conjuring water to sprinkle over the pot. “Do you carry coffee here?”

Pansy eyed his actions closely, satisfied when he didn’t overwater her latest attempt at greenery in the customer facing area. “I do.”

“You should take some coffee grounds and sprinkle it into this soil. Once a month would be fine, not too much,” he instructed, turning back and nodding to himself.

“Herbology professor?” She asked, crossing her arms and leaning back against the counter. She knew she made a pretty picture; she’d worn her favorite silk blouse for the afternoon walkabout and her hair always looked sleek and startling against the white. She was rather startled to find that she wanted to look pretty in that moment, standing before this old schoolmate.

He nodded, ducking his head and not meeting her eyes, suddenly nervous again.

“Merlin, Longbottom, I don’t bite. Anymore. Come back to the kitchen, I’ve got something you can take to the Pregnant Potter.” She lifted the counter latch and stepped through, snagging a bakery box and deliberately not checking that he was following. He was large enough he couldn’t hide his footsteps if he wanted to and they were steady behind her as they walked along the backcounter to the swinging door. She crossed to the large refrigerator and pulled open the doors to look at the contents, shifting past setting puddings and chilling doughs to pull a tray towards her from the back. It was delightfully marbled on top, white and dark chocolate ganache swirled carefully and littered with toasted pecans. Sometimes she made items so dang pretty she didn’t want to mar them and this was one of those times. The ganache wasn’t even fully set yet, but needs must.

She set the tray on her butcher block topped island and snagged a large knife, nodding towards the bakery box. “Bring me the box. She can eat this now but it’d be better if it spent a couple more hours cooling.”

“It looks good.”

“You sound surprised,” Pansy observed with a slightly malicious grin, pausing in her cutting to shift sharp eyes towards him. “Unlike what the papers like to imply, I’m good for something other than laying on my back, Longbottom.”

“I didn’t-”

“Don’t worry about it. You can’t hurt my feelings.” No one could, she repeated in her head, as if wishing it enough would make it true.

He huffed, pulling his hands from his trouser pockets to cross over his chest and glare at her. “I know you’re not like that.”

“How would you? You don’t know me,” she replied, placing two servings of the nanaimo bars into the box and deciding best not to cover it with paper, the ganache would just stick to it.

“Harry wouldn’t be friends with you if you were anything like-”

“Like I’d been in school? Cruel? Self-serving? Ruthless?”

“Do you always interrupt others when they’re talking?”

“Only when I know what they’re going to say.”

“I don’t know you,” he acknowledged before leaning close, meeting her dark eyes with sincerity in his green eyes. “But you don’t know me either.”

Her lips curved but she didn’t rise to the silent challenge. Instead, she closed the bakery box and used a small bit of tape to keep it closed before casting a cooling spell on it. She pushed it across the counter and cleared the mess with a wave of her wand before returning the tray of dessert to the fridge. “Goodbye, Neville Longbottom. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

The note she sent the next day to Ginny used several choice words for her springing one of the victims from teenage hellion days on her with no warning and a demand for payment for the treats; cutting the bars early had led to most of the ganache pooling in the hole and ruined the whole batch.

She only charged her for the two she sent.

She ate one of the ruined ones herself and gave the rest to Laurie to take to church on Sunday. Never hurt to curry favor with a foreign god, just in case.

A week later she was standing in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, carefully lifting small petit fours out of a box and onto a two tiered display to be placed in the sitting room in the next hour. She wasn’t staying for the baby shower and this was as far as she was willing to go as far as a gift went. She’d strutted into the Potter household at noon, pushing past a grinning Harry and demanding to know where the kitchen was. She’d had to conjure a two-tiered display tray, the Black family had not been entertainers by any stretch of the word and lacked the necessary components.

“Those look lovely, Pansy.”

She froze mid-movement, her eyes shifting slowly to the corner of her eyes to test if Molly Weasley was being genuine or facetious.

She cursed silently, the Weasley matron appeared to be serious.

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” she demurred, focusing her entire person back on the task of artfully arranging the brightly colored treats on the platter. They were alone in the kitchen and she could not recall a time in her life when she’d been more uncomfortable. And she’d spent several memorable dinners dining with Lord Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange.

“What flavors did you make?”

“These are petits fours glacé ; this one is a brownie one, that one is a german chocolate. Given her cravings, half of them being chocolate seemed a good idea. I also made a strawberry with white chocolate and a bit of jam here, and that one is lemon.”

“Oh, I love lemon! Can I sneak one?”

She nodded tightly, freezing as the matron reached over and snatched up one of the bright yellow fondant enrobed treats. She bit into it and moaned in delight at the flavor and Pansy felt the weight of approval settle into her bones, relaxing her shoulders as she smiled tightly in satisfaction.

There was something about old adversaries having to admit her talent that made it all worth it.

Not that Molly Weasley had ever been an adversary; just an intimidating and disapproving presence on the train platform whose frowning eyes always revealed that she knew of the antics that happened in Hogwarts and did not appreciate how her children were often the butt of it.

“That is delicious, Pansy!”

“How come she gets to call you ‘Pansy’ and I don’t?” Ginny complained as she ambled in, cradling her large stomach and zeroing in on the chocolate cakes with a hungry look.

“You’re supposed to be resting, Ginevra! Why we’re having this party so close to your due date, I will never know, should've been held months ago…” Molly caught a rhythm in the rant and kept going, though neither of the younger witches were paying her much attention anymore.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Ginny admitted, sitting herself down in a sturdy kitchen chair and sighing, looking at the cakes wistfully. “I think I’m going to eat that top tray by myself.”

“I’m not staying,” Pansy justified, completing the plating and vanishing the now empty bakery box. “Just dropping this off before heading back to the shop.”

“Should be a nice time,” Ginny offered with a teasing shift of her head, “there’s going to be party games.”

“I’m good,” she retorted, leaning back and shrugging, “babies are contagious, you know. People start seeing the new baby stuff and smelling that baby smell and they start popping out left and right.” She deliberately shivered, emulating disgust. “I’d rather adopt a dog.”

“Ooooh, you should! Hermione just rescued this really cute crossbreed of crup corgies that don’t have the aggressiveness towards muggles, she’s been looking for people to adopt them!”

“Do they have forked tails?” She couldn’t believe she was actually considering it.

“They don’t.”

“I’ll think about it,” Pansy decided with a small nod; non-magical creatures did not respond well to magic so a muggle creature was out of the question even with the small amount of magic she used in her day to day life. “I’m not charging you for the cakes, consider it my gift.”

“Thank you, Pansy,” Ginny tried before shaking her head, “nope, can’t do it. Thanks, Parkinson.”

She was grinning as she made for the front door, yanking it open right as a person on the other side raised their hand to knock. Her grin faded and she cocked her hip, running her eyes from the wavy dark hair down slightly crumpled button up to the scuffed oxfords on his feet. There was an obnoxiously bright gift in his hands that had brooms racing back and forth. “Hello, Neville Longbottom.”

He didn’t seem nervous at all as he smiled broadly at her, his own eyes tracing her features and down the flirty yellow sundress and back again. “Hello Pansy Parkinson.”

 

Notes:
If you're following the timeline we started out in early 2001 and we're now in mid-summer 2004. I'm keeping the movement as subtle as they can as I hate to lock myself into specific dates but I am aiming to weave in and out of known events to keep close to canon.

Fun Fact that have yet to make it into the series:
Pansy's drink of choice is called Deatheater's Negroni: https://www.halfbakedharvest.com/death-eater-negroni/
(And yes, the bartender did rename it on the menu after she started ordering it.)

 

He was conventionally attractive; wavy brown hair and silvery blue eyes, straight teeth and a ready smile with the hint of a dimple that made him more boyish than manly. His suit was just rumpled enough to tell her he’d been wearing it all day, but still showcased a basic sense of style that wasn’t unappealing.

Unfortunately he was a talker.

“-so I told him, ‘Listen you wanker, that is not in the contract and we’re not going to-”

She smiled tightly, nodding her head as he droned on, completely ignorant that he’d lost her interest somewhere around explaining his job twenty minutes back. She was a little irate that she’d wasted a perfectly sexy little black dress, not to mention immaculately hairless legs, on a pompous muggle full of self-importance. Her last date had been a sassy red sundress and a classically alluring tousled updo and an equally wasted night with a former Ravenclaw working in the Ministry’s law offices who’d spent thirty minutes talking about his career aspirations and had finished the night off with his hand creeping up her skirt and a harshly applied stinging hex that left blisters. The one before that she’d worn a backless halter top and midi skirt in emerald green while with a personal trainer from the local gym that at least resulted in one night of fun before an earnest but unwelcome comment about her bum size during breakfast the next morning ended that interlude. Her latest series of bad choices was almost enough to put her off dating. Almost.

She enjoyed the lead-up too much, the pampering, the primping, the shopping.

Pansy gestured for the server to bring the bill, pushing her plate away half-eaten. She’d cover her own portion of the food; her faith in men had swung downhill over the last few years of dating and she found herself on better footing when she covered her own way. Even outside of trying to find a relationship, she preferred to owe no one, and these encounters really only inspired her to double down on the sentiment. “Listen, Paul-”

“My name is Preston.”

She rolled her eyes, of course his name was as pedantic as he was. “Preston. I have to be up early for the shop, I’m going to go. Enjoy the rest of the meal, you should invite the blonde at the bar you’ve been side-eyeing for the last half hour to join you.”

He sputtered and started to stand but she had already stepped away and with a patronizing smile carelessly waved him off and headed for the door. It was a nice summer night, warm but tolerable with a soft wind that was sweeping into London, and instead of calling a taxi or apparating she set off towards her home with a long sigh. The charms on her heels would make this as comfortable as being in sneakers, but the click-clack of the pumps gave her confidence no sneaker ever would.

Pansy enjoyed dating. She liked catching a man’s eye, whether magical or muggle, and watching how they responded to her flirtation. The way their eyes narrowed and fixated on her’s, how a smile twisted their lips when they couldn’t help it, their body language shifting as sexual interest rose. They’d lean towards her and their cologne would drift across her senses and if she liked it she’d reciprocate, leaning towards them as well and sometimes coquettishly twirling a strand of hair around a finger. If she was really intrigued, she’d bite her lip and wait until she knew it was red and moist to pout at them, and could see the effect in the way their eyes would dart down and then back up to meet her own. She may not have the cleavage to draw the male eye, but she knew how to catch attention when she wanted it.

The issue was not that she could not hold their regard; Pansy was trained in the art of romantic warfare by the best in society, pureblood witches of the Sacred Twenty Eight. Some families were known to have infidelity curses built into the marriage contract, notably the Malfoys and the Blacks, that would melt the skin from adulterers at the least, and inflict death in the extreme. Those that didn’t practice such absolutist negotiations learned how to keep their husbands’ attention, as it wasn’t unheard of for wives to mysteriously pass when wizards had grown tired of routine. Girls were taught and trained at an early age to discover and capitalize on what wizards found attractive.

It was thoughts like that which sent Pansy looking at muggle men instead of giving in to her mother’s wishes for a proper courtship. Her mother wasn’t as prejudicial as many in wizarding society had been and many still were; her objections were more inclined to be cultural than blood. She’d be over the moon if Pansy were to marry a nice Korean boy, whether magical or muggle. If that meant she’d move back to the continent with her, far enough away that they both had their space but close enough that visiting potential grandchildren would be easy; it was the dream her mother espoused in the letters she sent and always briefly touched on during visits.

The last thing she wanted was to move to Korea. Not only would being in the same country be too close for comfort with her mother, but palate-wise she was not a fan of the cuisine. Her father hadn’t been a fan and so she’d eaten it only rarely as a child and had never been as fond of vegetables and rice as her mother wished. Her mother had been labeled a vegetarian by most of her friends, it was easier for them to assume that and not get into the difficulties of cultural differences.

No wonder she fled for her home country as soon as she’d been able.

Pansy sometimes felt guilty for being so very much her father’s daughter, for not being able or willing to identify as strongly with her Korean heritage. As a child she’d wanted to fit in, wanted to look and be like the other girls in school. She’d wanted sandwiches and crisps for her lunch, not a house elf dropping off rice and kimchi and having to deal with the looks and the questions and so by the time she was seven, her mother had stopped trying.

When Pansy refused to speak Korean with her at home, never admitting that she struggled with it, only saying that she was English and lived in England, so why did she need to know Korean?

Her mother stopped trying to teach her.

In fourth year for the Yule Ball, her mother had written and offered to have a hanbock made just for her and Pansy had wanted it. She’d seen the traditional hanbock her mother had worn to marry her father and had always loved it. Modest and draping like a witch’s robes but more stylized and feminine, her mother had glowed in radiant red and her father had matched in a blue samogwandae. Her father had once told her that he’d worn the Korean garments to appease her grandparents before he’d swept his wife back to England; one of the requirements of the marriage contract was a traditional Korean magical ceremony, with the binding unbreakable vow.

She’d always wanted a hanbok of her own.

She’d seen the dress catalog the other witches were ordering from and knew wearing one would make her stand out, and not in a good way, so she’d told her mother no.

Her mother had never offered again.

Pansy let herself into her flat after forty minutes of walking, more morose than the failed date should have made her. One of the consequences of living alone was that when the melancholy struck there was no one around to distract her from it and all the ways she had erred in her life. She didn’t believe in regret, all the decisions she made were made for a reason that made sense to her at the time, but she recognized that some of her decisions had been wrong.

Thinking back she couldn’t say that if she lived it all again, she wouldn’t make the same ones. Even now knowing the consequences. The muggles had a saying that hindsight is 20/20 but in the end the people she loved the most were alive, and she was alive and content. There was nothing to say that if she’d made different choices, her world wouldn’t be worse for it.

Pansy pulled down a bottle of wine and poured herself a glass, knowing the maudlin nature of her mood tonight would be suited by the sultry red. She carried it up to the roof, bringing the bottle because it was very much one of those kinds of nights. She’d only just settled into the patio chair that looked out over London when she heard the telltale pop of apparation.

The fact that only a few people had been allowed into the wards on her flat and the heavy stomping on the stairs told her who it was.

“I’m not in the mood, Potter. Crawl back into the rabbit warren you came from.”

“I’m not in the mood, Parkinson. Tell me you’ve got something better than juice to drink.”

She glared and pointed back towards the stairs and the kitchen below, before stretching out and dangling her head over the back of the chair and staring up at the inky darkness that never displayed the stars here. The lights of London were too bright, she could only ever see the brightest ones and even they were hard to find.

He reappeared with an ale in his hand and threw himself into the chair next to her, curling over and resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at the skyline. She had a rather nice view of London from her roof patio, she usually spent most summer nights up here and had even started adding small plants that could take the full day sun and give it a bit of life.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” She finally asked, two glasses later. Harry had finished his ale and cracked another, finally unwinding enough tension to sit back and relax into the chair.

“Ginny is mad at me.”

“What did you do?”

“What makes you think I did something?”

“You’re a man.”

“Date went that well, huh?”

“Don’t deflect.”

He sighed, considered the drink in his hand before setting it aside and shaking his head. “I shouldn’t drink anymore, I have to be able to apparate in case Ginny goes into labor.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you can just say that. It’s not like we’re besties. Drinking buddies at most.”

“I tried talking about it with Hermione and…”

“And…”

“Hermione is mad at me.”

She snorted before crossing her arms and studying him. “Merlin, Potter, you’ve got two powerful witches mad at you tonight, no wonder you’re hiding here. I don’t have a guest room, you will need to leave at some point. My couch is designed for aesthetics, not wayward wizards.”

“Do you ever think about having kids?”

“I’ve spent months thinking about getting a dog and even then I backed out. Kids are above my paygrade, Potter.”

He inhaled slowly and exhaled the confession, spitting it out like it’d been bottled up and waiting to explode. “I’m not excited about having a kid.”

“Okay, and?”

He blinked, surprised at her lack of reaction she was sure. He stared for several minutes, waiting for more of a reaction from her but it wasn’t coming. She sipped what was going to be her last glass of the evening and kept her eyes trained on the glittering lights of the traffic down the road. “Does that make me a terrible person?”

“No. I wouldn’t be excited over having a kid either.”

“You’re not married, Parkinson, and honestly, we planned for this. We talked about it for weeks before Ginny stopped the potions and I thought I was ready, I thought this was what I wanted, but now he’s almost here and I’m dreading it.”

“And you told Ginny that?”

“Yeah. She knew something was bothering me so I told her.”

She stared at him blandly, arching an eyebrow and sipping slowly. “How’d that land?”

“Badly.”

She nodded slowly, and could well imagine how the tempestuous redhead had responded to that kind of asinine admission. She shrugged and shook her head, finishing off her wine and setting it aside. “Well that sucks, Potter. It’s getting late-”

“Can I ask you something?”

Pansy settled back down with a sigh, crossing her arms and glaring at him. “I am not your sounding board. I do not have the emotional capacity tonight to bite my tongue.”

“You’ll tell me the truth though, even if it hurts. Hermione won’t do that. She placates me, but she loves me and she keeps things from me if she doesn’t think I’m ready to hear it.”

“Is that why she’s mad at you?”

“Mostly. She tried to tell me I was scared and anxious and wouldn’t listen when I tried to explain that wasn’t it. I hurt her feelings, and so now she’s mad and Ron is mad and Ginny is mad. If it made it to the Burrow I bet Molly is mad too.”

“Alright, I’m listening.”

“I don't know how to be a father. The closest I ever got was Remus, who was so full of self-loathing that he barely knew how to be happy. There was also Sirius, who wanted to be my friend more than a parent. Hagrid, he cared but it mostly felt like he never truly grew up. And we won’t talk about Headmaster Dumbledore.”

“Little need,” she agreed, crossing her legs and studying him as he sprawled pensively.

“Hermione bought me books about being a father, but I could barely get through a chapter. Ginny is so excited and I was too at first but then it all started to jumble together. They’re going to need me. I’ll have to feed them, bathe them. I’ll have to teach them and keep them safe. It’s going to be unrelenting.”

“Sounds depressing.”

“What kind of father will I be?”

“You’re going to be a terrible father,” Pansy decided, crossing her legs and leaning forward, intently catching his gaze until he focused on her again. “You’re going to struggle to discipline them because you’ll want them to know they are loved, above all else. You’ll spoil them with little things, but not big things, because it’s the small stuff that matters the most to you. Not big gestures, not presents and vacations and things , but the routine. Dinner together at night, hearing about their spelling tests at school, being at the kiddie quiddie games. And you won’t know how to help them deal with being famous for being your kid because you don’t know how to deal with being famous.”

“I-”

“I’m not done. They’re going to hurt your feelings because children do that. You’re all caught up in all the ways you could inadvertently hurt your child; you haven’t even thought about all the ways they can hurt you. That they’re going to blame you for being ostracized at school for being the child of Harry Potter, the shadow you cast that will be inescapable. Or maybe they love it. Maybe they use it to be popular and to get ahead and become everything you hated in school. What are you going to do then? Are you still going to love them or will you look at them-”

“I’ll love them. No matter what, I'll love them.”

She sat back, smiling grimly. “But will they love you? When you don’t agree, when you argue, when you can’t even look at each other because of the disappointment and disgrace, will they still love you? Will the way you held their hands on their first broom flight be enough? Will the nights reading fairy tales until they fell asleep, be enough? Are the quiet moments enough to keep that love alive as you grow further and further apart?”

“You’re projecting,” Harry pointed out, smiling tightly back at her.

“Go home, Potter. You’re not dreading being a father, you’re just a bloody coward. You may not have had a father, but Ginny did and anything you don’t do well, she will.”

“Do you want to talk-”

“We are living proof that no matter how horrible a person a parent can be…we still love them.”

Pansy stood and with a sharp sweep of her wand sent the empty wine bottle and glass and his half-full ale down the stairs and into her flat. “I have to be awake in four hours to begin baking. When my sales are atrocious tomorrow, I am billing you the difference.”

“You’d be a good mother.”

“That is easily the third most idiotic thing you’ve said tonight.”

Two weeks later she was sitting in the same place but this time under the bright London sun. She’d dressed herself carefully today and had laid out what she considered to be an impressive spread of food as she waited. She considered it a good sign that her mother was only twenty minutes late when she arrived.

“Pansy?”

“Upstairs, Mama,” she called back, allowing herself a small show of nerves as she ran her fingers down the soft pleats of her skirt. “I thought we could take tea on the patio before your floo appointment.”

“That sounds lovely. I’m going to file another complaint with the Ministry about the transportation restrictions of Azkaban, this is the third time…” her mother trailed off as she climbed high enough on the stairs to catch sight of Pansy and her eyes widened. “What’s this, sweet girl?”

“I know Chuseok was last week but since we couldn’t celebrate together then, I thought we’d have a small celebration now.” She didn’t give her mother a chance to reply before rushing on, “I made your favorite, Ggul Tteok, though I had to grind the rice myself. I could not find a vendor that carried it. I also made hwajeon since I had so much flour left.”

“You decorated them with pansies?”

“Seemed appropriate,” she explained with a slight grin, “I had enough left over I sold some in the bakery today and they actually sold out. I might add them to the menu.”

“And what else?”

“I also made yakgwa, though they’re a little burnt, and some hwachae to drink.”

Her mother’s eyes carried across the table and Pansy held her breath. She sat there, poised in her pureblood best, ankles crossed modestly, hands clenched in a knot though she’d deliberately loosened the grasp so her skin wasn’t so obviously taut.

“ Nae ttal-a, chuseog jal bonaelyeom .”

Her response was stuttering but her smile was wide. “ Geuligo dangsin-egedo, naui eomeoni .”

Her mother took a seat next to her, their knees grazing as they each summoned treats to their plates, taking small bites before shifting to face one another. Her mother set down the half eaten honey cookie, and took a deep breath before reaching over and laying a surprisingly frail hand on her forearm. “Perhaps next year you could come to Uiseong, and celebrate the true harvest with me?”

“I’d like that.”

 

Notes:
This is really a turning point in the story for me, I don't think we'll see much of her parents as we move forward except in a couple of very specific scenes that are coming.

The next one-shot is going to kick off the Neville/Pansy of it all, and I am very much looking forward to it.

 

The Surprising Parallels of Pureblood Power Plays
coldqueen5
Summary:
A series of one-shots around Pansy Parkinson's post-war life and how she finds herself entangled with the most unexpected people. Sixth in the series...

She supposed it's not fair to denigrate the vulture hat when her favorite designer purse has a snake on it.

Notes:
(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

 

“You said you couldn’t cook.”

“I can’t,” she confirmed, glancing over her shoulder to where Harry leaned against the doorframe and looked exhausted. “I was dropping off a week’s worth of breakfast and Mrs. Weasley asked me to cut these vegetables while she ran home to grab something.”

“And you agreed?”

“I’m not doing anything else this morning,” Pansy reasoned, finishing her perfectly cut carrots and pushing them aside to begin on the celery. “Looks like she’s planning to make soup.”

“What’d you bring us?”

She nodded at the box on the counter under a stasis charm. “Just what I had leftover that no one wanted. There’s some truly shite cinnamon rolls in there. I recommend dunking them into tea before attempting to chew them.”

“They weren’t that bad last week.”

“I made them last week.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” Harry admitted around a mouthful of roll, “but you’re not charging me for stale pastries.”

She shrugged, “That’s fair.”

They stayed in silence for almost twenty minutes before the piercing cry of a newborn echoed down the stairs. Harry leapt up and disappeared upstairs as fast as apparating while Pansy’s heart was still settling from the jump scare. She finished cutting the vegetables while idly listening to the soft whispers that carried down from the nursery. There was a handwritten recipe that Molly had left on the counter so it was easy enough to throw all the vegetables in a pot and get them simmering in the beef broth. Pansy did not season it, she wasn’t foolish enough to try as the recipe instructions left a lot to be desired for precision of measuring.

She hated recipes that called for “seasoning to taste”. She’d rather season to the appropriate amount as decided by the creator, thank you very much.

She was washing her hands and planning to grab her bag and head out the door when it opened from the outside, but it was not Molly Weasley as she expected.

“Good morning, Professor Longbottom.”

He smiled tentatively back, his eyes immediately scanning the space for Harry or Ginny, or probably any other friendly face he could think of, before landing back on her. “Good morning, Pansy.”

“Try to be quiet, the spawn only just started to settle back down and the She-Potter is still sleeping.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to be here. Are you here to meet the newest Potter?” He asked quietly, closing the door and moving through the kitchen, striding closer so he could keep his voice low. Pansy found her back stiffening the closer he came, her defenses rising at the same pace.

“I’m not. I’ve never even seen the wee little beast. Potter asked if I’d drop them off breakfast for a few weeks. Mrs. Weasley is handling dinner and cleaning for them. Shouldn’t you be at Hogwarts babysitting?”

He leaned against the island across from her, sliding low enough that her neck no longer hurt looking up at him. “It’s my Sunday off,” he explained and his smile went from nervous to genuine in the blink of an eye. “Told Gin I’d come by and do some yard work. Want to help me pull weeds?”

“I have never wanted anything less in my life. And at one point, my parents were thinking of betrothing me to Corban Yaxley, so that’s saying something.”

He laughed lightly and ducked his head, tilting it charmingly as he looked back up. “How are the pansies at the bakery doing?”

She rolled her eyes and pulled off the apron, tossing it on the kitchen island and crossing her arms with a glare. “Passable.”

“Blooming still?”

“Yes.”

“They were already overcrowded in the pot, you should cut them back or propagate them.”

“Don’t tell me what to do with my flowers.”

“A friendly suggestion.”

“Do you want to know what you can do with your friendly suggestion?” She asked slowly and deliberately, her dark eyes keen and her smile flashing bright and sharp.

“Come by and do it myself?” He offered, stepping back with his hands out in surrender.

“Shove it up-”

“Good to see you getting along with other Gryffindors,” Harry complimented as he tiptoed back into the room, a swaddled baby in his arms that he rocked unconsciously back and forth to keep quiet.

“This is not getting along.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Neville denied, striding across the room to look down on the dark haired babe in his friend’s arms. “James looks a lot more like a person now, less flobberworm-like.”

“Yeah, Ginny says he looks more and more like me everyday.”

She wanted to see. It was only a mix of stubbornness and anxiety that kept her on the other side of the kitchen. She could see from here the poor tyke had inherited Harry’s hair, but would he also have his green eyes? Weren’t babies born with blue eyes and they turned their final color later? She’d never been around babies but she felt like she’d heard that somewhere.

“I always thought you bore a strong resemblance to a flobberworm,” Pansy described, her hand drifting up to tug at her ponytail, anxiety curling her finger around the strands as she strategized how to make it to the door.

“You want to hold him?” Harry asked with a playful glint in his eyes, taking exactly one step forward and leaning forward like he wanted to hand the thing to her.

“No.”

“Come on, you know you want to.”

“I really don’t,” she denied, slowly sliding along the counter and keeping the island between them as she moved closer to the door and summoned her purse from the chair.

“Are you scared of children, Pansy?”

“No.”

“Nev, you can’t call her Pansy, she hates that. Doesn't let any Gryffindors call her by her first name,” Harry chastised with a grin, still stepping towards her and quietly following as she continued to ease towards the door. “Come on, hold my son. You might even like it.”

“You and I are going to have a long conversation about consent and what it means. In the meantime, full disclosure, if you try to hand me that creature, I’m dropping it. On purpose.”

“I don’t think you will.”

“We are reminded once more how little you know me.”

Harry sighed and stepped back, leaving them at an impasse with her only feet from the door and him leaning against the counter. “Alright, I won’t make you hold him. Aren’t you at least curious to see him?”

She pursed her lips, her eyes darting to Neville’s amused face and back to Harry’s earnest one. With a sigh she came closer, looking down and snorting lightly as she finally saw the baby’s face. “I’m not surprised he inherited dark hair considering how much chocolate his mother ate the last few months.”

James Sirius Potter did in fact have Harry’s green eyes.

It was fairly close to the green of the apples she was using to make autumn pies she thought weeks later. She had one that used red apples, more mellow and spicy, but this tart sharp one was her personal favorite. Pansy adjusted it just so, allowing the display light to catch the leaf design around the edge and cast appealing shadows on the buttery brown surface of the crust.

“That looks delicious.”

She knew that deep tone, the rumble and huskiness of it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She took her time rising from her crouch, brushing her hands across the black apron before meeting Neville’s gaze. “Thank you.”

“What do you think, Nan? A piece for both of us?”

“I’d rather the fruit tart I think.” Pansy’s eyes shot to the left and found Lady Longbottom at her grandson’s side, sliding her steely blue eyes across the display before settling on one of her stone fruit tarts. “I thoroughly enjoyed the treats you made for the Weasley girl’s, what was it called, Neville?”

“Baby shower.”

“Yes, the cakes for the baby shower. Is that tart going to be just as good?”

“I like to think so,” Pansy replied dryly, keeping her smile pasted and professional. “I’ll plate it for you. Professor Longbottom, what would you like?”

“A piece of the apple pie, please, Pansy. You’ve expanded since I was last here.”

She nodded, turning her back and focusing her attention on plating. “I’ve hired a barista for the drinks, and had to give up some client seating for that equipment.”

“Does he know how to make proper tea?” Lady Longbottom asked, and Pansy could hear the way her head tilted in judgment and could picture the aristocratic look that she’d see sometimes in people who doubted the quality of what she could provide.

It was usually muggles who had no idea who she was.

It was surprisingly sharper when it came from someone who knew exactly how far she’d fallen and clearly expected her to still be lacking.

“Yes,” she replied simply, carrying the plates further down the counter and meeting them as the register. “I’ll have him make a pot of darjeeling, it will go well with both of these. If you’d like to pick a table, Louis will bring it over when it’s done steeping.”

Her cashier rang the two of them up and Pansy returned to her display, rearranging and refilling in preparation for the lunch rush that was sure to come. Her eyes kept creeping over to the two patrons sitting near the window, though, and more than once she found herself paused in her work as she got caught up observing their behavior.

Everyone knew who Augusta Longbottom was. She was one of the few society ladies who outlived her husband and never took another, instead claiming and running Longbottom House and its investments with an iron fist. She’d been a cornerstone of Wizarding Society for decades, refusing to cower to anyone in polite society, in political arenas, and in warfare. She also had highly questionable sartorial choices but since Pansy was prone to green snakes she couldn’t exactly naysay the vulture hat.

Neville didn’t dote on the elderly woman but he was attentive. He listened to her when she spoke and she could tell from the way he shook his head he was disagreeing with her, but quietly and respectfully. Since she’d only ever had raging scream-filled disagreements with her parents, she couldn’t fathom his composure.

An argument wasn’t worth having unless it got the blood pumping in her opinion.

“Who’s the fox?”

“Lion.”

“Huh?”

Pansy shook her head to clear the idle daydreaming and grinned at her cashier. “Nevermind. He’s an old school friend.”

“He’s cute.”

“He’s grown into the teeth at least,” she allowed, crossing her arms and deliberately turning away.

“Is he single?”

“You’re his mother’s age.”

“That man reeks of having mommy issues,” Laurie announced, nodding her head knowingly. “I’d let him suckle at my-”

“Laurie!” Pansy interjected with a bark of scandalized laughter, “Too much information! You do remember I’m technically your boss, right?”

“Technically, schmectically. I only work here for the free dessert.”

“Go do some work or I’m going to forget where I hid the last piece of fiadone. And stop flirting with the patrons. And Louis! He’s going to burn himself again if you keep it up.”

“I’ll stop flirting when you start,” Laurie compromised while rolling her eyes and stationing herself at the register. “And I don’t mean with Mr. Abioye; you’re worried about me being old enough to be someone's mother, that man is old enough to be your great grandfather.”

Pansy threw her hands up with a laugh and ducked into the kitchen, slowly pulling clean dishes from the dishwasher to put them away, singing softly to herself under her breath as she worked through the monotonous task. Through the partial door and soft chatter of the other patrons, she could still catch a hint of the soft northern accents of Neville and his grandmother so she noticed when they stopped and slowly faded away as the front door shut behind them.

Lady Longbottom returned the same day the next week, this time alone. She ordered a slice of fig clafoutis and was clearly pleased with it as she asked for another slice packed to go.

The fifth week she came there was an early snowstorm hitting the city and Pansy had cut her typical production in half assuming she’d not see very many people that day. She’d called Laurie the night before and told her to stay home, it was already Louis’s day off so she spent the morning alone in the shop nursing a hot cup of jaekseol tea her mother had sent her to try.

“Wasn’t expecting you today,” Pansy greeted, her brow furrowed as she took in the dusting of snow across the older woman’s fur coat. Muggles wouldn’t recognize it but she knew moa fur when she saw it; it was reprehensibly expensive and they were protected these days by the Ministry as endangered so getting a new winter cloak made from it was impossible. It was a power move to wear it, a clear announcement that she was old money and had lots of it.

“Duty doesn’t wait for weather,” Augusta replied, carelessly tossing the cloak back and knocking the rapidly melting snow to the floor. “Is anyone else here?”

Pansy eyed her narrowly but shook her head to confirm their solitude. Augusta’s wand slid into her hand smoothly from a hidden forearm sheath and she dried her clothing with a whispered enchantment before returning the wand to its holder. “That’s better,” she declared before striding to the counter and looking at the contents there. “This is more sparse than I’ve come to expect from you, Ms. Parkinson.”

“I’ve found that bad weather keeps most casual diners away. You’ve really only just caught me; I was about to close up and spend the rest of the day hiding under the covers with a book.”

“Excellent, you can join me for tea.”

“Pardon?”

Augusta met her eyes with a flash of mirth. “We should finish off those spinach cheese puffs. Be a dear and heat them up a bit.” She turned away and tossed her cloak off, letting it land on the back of a chair before sliding into an empty seat near the window with a good view of the street. “I’ll have a cup of whatever you’re drinking as well.”

“It’s Korean tea.”

“Delightful, does it need milk? I don’t like my tea sweet.”

In the space of ten minutes Pansy was sitting across from her, a plate of warm savory treats on the table and a fresh cup of tea in front of her unexpected companion. She’d locked the door and flipped the sign to closed and with a whispered spell set the kitchen to cleaning itself. She took the seat that Augusta nodded to and resolved herself to taking control of the situation; this was her place of business, her home, and she was not going to cede the power position to this pureblood matriarch.

“How long have you owned this shop, Ms. Parkinson?”

“Approximately five years.”

“And it’s successful?”

“Yes, very,” Pansy replied, breaking off a small piece of a puff and chewing mindfully. She remained poised, her back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, her hands falling to her lap when she was not drinking or eating; perfect picture of a placid pureblood princess.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“I do. You seem to enjoy it as well, you’ve become a staple visitor on Thursdays.”

“Your servant makes an excellent cup of tea.”

“Not my servant, my employee. And yes, he does.”

“Many of my friends have passed on, from age and war. With Neville at Hogwarts, I find myself splitting time between my garden, the Wizengamot, and weekly visits to St. Mungo’s. Your shop is charming and I enjoy spending time here.”

Pansy’s facade broke a bit and she smiled, casting her eyes at her plate. “Thank you for saying so.”

“It’s not what I would have expected of you, given what I know.”

“And what would that be, Lady Longbottom?”

“I could list the incidents by school year or-”

“You judge me by who I was, then, and not who I am.”

“Are they different?”

She sipped slowly, her dark eyes meeting blue ones unwaveringly. She set the empty cup down with a soft clink that she let ring through the empty shop for a minute before speaking. “They are.”

“Good.” August nodded slowly, before repeating more softly. “I don’t imagine life has been kind to you. It rarely is for women. Even less so for witches.”

“I did not have a terrible childhood,” Pansy countered, her temper slipping as she frowned. “I wouldn’t change anything about how I was raised.”

“But it wasn’t the life you wanted.”

“It wasn’t the life I needed.”

Augusta nodded again, finishing her own tea slowly before standing. “I know what it’s like to buck tradition when everyone is expecting you to be a certain way, to do a certain thing.” She paused, “Good for you, Ms. Parkinson.”

Pansy cleared the table with a swish of her wand and suspiciously gauged the weather outside. “I think the storm has gotten worse. Rather than walk to the apparation point, you can use my floo. Let me adjust my wards and we’ll head up.”

Augusta followed Pansy up the stairs to her flat silently, but Pansy knew she was taking in every detail and judging. She imagined the decor was too modern for her tastes, but Pansy liked the fresh feeling of modern aesthetics. It was so unlike everything she’d known growing up.

“Thank you for the offer of your floo, Ms. Parkinson. I’ll see you next Thursday.” Augusta hesitated, hand full of floo powder. “It’s Alice’s birthday so Neville and Minnie will be joining me. Do you know how to make sticky toffee pudding?”

“I do.”

“It was Alice’s favorite.”

Pansy understood it was a request without saying. “Mine, as well.”

The flames were just fading from green when the rest of Augusta’s statement sank in and her eyes widened.

Minerva McGonagall was going to be in her shop next week. Eating her food.

Well, that was horrifying.

Notes:
Fun Fact: If this were the movies, Pansy would be played by Shin Min Ah.

Other fun fact: I'm thoroughly enjoying researching Korean culture, which is why you're getting so many culture sprinkles on this fanfic cupcake.

 

The Intriguing Interlude With An Unexpected Suitor
coldqueen5
Summary:
A series of one-shots around Pansy Parkinson's post-war life and how she finds herself entangled with the most unexpected people. Seventh in the series...

She thought she knew what she wanted, in life, in men; as always the universe likes to surprise her.

Notes:
(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

 

It was her first vacation since she’d graduated from Hogwarts and she was fully intent on enjoying it. She’d closed the shop temporarily while she was gone and though it hurt her a bit in the vault to give up a week’s worth of revenue, she needed the reset and recharge time.

The Isle of Avalon was considered by muggles to be nothing more than marshland; anti-muggle charms had imprinted that perception onto the world long before modern times. It was a charming wizarding island not far from Glastonbury Tor, so wizarding tourists could easily apparate across the bay and enjoy muggle amenities and be back in time for tea.

It was also one of Pansy’s favorite places in the world. Her family used to hold a manor on the western side of the island that overlooked the Bristol Channel but that had long been seized by the Ministry for reparations. Last she’d heard, Ministry officials used it as an unofficial vacation house for Wizengamot members. She wanted to be angry about it, but post-war she’d need the family galleons, not a good view.

She’d booked a suite in the inn and spent most every afternoon that week walking along the snowy beaches. Spring was coming, she could feel it in her bones, the cold just wasn’t sinking as deep as it had the last few months. March was really her only time to feasibly close the shop; soon enough it’d be Easter and that would kick off the busy season for catering. Despite the fact that she couldn’t go into the water, she still loved the sight of it, the smell, the way the wind sliced through her hair and provoked shivers along her skin; she wasn’t going to pass up the chance to be here despite the lingering whispers of winter.

Each day she walked far enough to catch a glimpse of Morgan Le Fay’s grave but she never approached, the United Kingdom’s only dragon sanctuary was on the other side and she’d seen enough dragons in fourth year to satisfy any curiosity she had. Every once and a while the echoes of dragon roars would carry to the village and all the townspeople would pause, look to the sky, and when fire didn’t appear carry on. The threat was implied and ever present, but they’d lived with it so long it was a matter of routine to them.

It was part of why despite loving the island so much, Pansy didn’t visit often. She never wanted to feel apathetic to danger and violence again; the way her hands shook when the sound carried and everyone froze reminded her that it was supposed to affect her, she was meant to feel it.

On her third night on the island she was nursing an ale at the local pub, having finished a surprisingly excellent fish stew, and was dreaming of a nice relaxing bath in the slightly too shallow tub back in her room, when a truly gorgeous male specimen came stomping in from the street. He was shaking his boots, dislodging the muddy snow at the door and calling out a greeting to the barkeep when their eyes met. She instinctively swiped her tongue across her top lip and smiled flirtatiously before shifting her attention back to her drink.

She wasn’t surprised when he dropped into the seat next to her at the bar, casually ordering an ale for himself. “My name is Charlie.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“What’s your name?”

“I didn’t offer.”

He chortled, nodding his thanks for the drink to the server, and twisting to face her directly. “I’ve seen you walking on the beach the past few days, visiting for long?”

“Just the week, then I’ll be heading back to London.”

“I could give you a tour of the reserve if you wanted?”

“You’re a dragonkeeper,” Pansy noted obviously, running her eyes along the dragon tattoos that covered his forearms as well as the long slightly tangled red hair. “Does that line work on most women?”

“Do I look the type to use lines-”

“Yes.”

“I am offended.”

“No, you’re not,” she interrupted with a laugh, finishing her drink and pushing it away, dropping several galleons on the bar to cover her bill. She ran her eyes over him, hair to boots, and smiled knowingly. “Ginger wizard with a terrible sense of humor, you’re a Weasley.”

“Not all redheaded wizards are Weasleys.”

“I’ve yet to meet any that aren’t.”

“You know my family?” He asked with a more genuine smile, his eyes lighting up as the flirtation faded in the light of connection.

She didn’t want that. “I do. I’ll even sleep with you despite that.

“Despite knowing my family?”

“Yes, very much despite it.”

“So, shall we shag now or later?”

“You should eat, you’ll need your energy.”

He did not, in fact, need any assistance with his energy. Alternately running from and chasing after dragons was excellent cardio and his stamina reflected. Pansy was feeling loose-limbed and satisfied as she sat cross legged in the middle of the bed, watching him doze lightly next to her. He wasn’t her usual type; she’d long assumed she preferred her partners tall and lanky, firm sinew and lean muscles and stylish clothing. There was something warm and inviting about Charlie that called to her in a very surprising way. He was strong, that was true, but he wasn’t defined in the chiseled way that graced magazine and romance novel covers. He was sturdily built and firm and he radiated heat in a way that made her flushed and lazy in the cold morning air.

“I think I know who you are now.”

“I would hope you’d know who I was several hours ago when we fell into bed, Charles.”

“There’s knowing you, and knowing you. I knew you then but now I know you.”

She turned her head and smiled down at him, not quite stifling a yawn that swelled. “It’s too early for word games.”

“You’re Harry and Ginny’s friend, the one who owns the bakery.”

“Clever boy,” she described, running her fingers through his red beard and tickling him under the chin. “Is this where you ask me not to tell your sister about that Mum tattoo?”

“I’m not embarrassed about any of my tattoos.”

She grinned and pointed out, “It’s on your bum.”

“You think my family hasn’t seen my bum?” He asked with a snort, stretching and sitting up, the blanket pooling in his naked lap and no longer hiding his morning salutation.

“Having siblings sounds so weird,” she admitted, turning away from the enticing sight of him. “What time do you have to be at work?”

“Around six or so,” he glanced over at the bedside clock, “I’ve got some time.”

She nodded and rested her arms on her bent knees, clenching her toes in the warm sheets before sliding down onto her back and gazing up at him. “How much time?”

“More than enough for what you’ve got in mind, sweet girl.”

She thought of those last few lazy mornings very fondly in the coming months as she pushed through rising before the sun to bake that day’s offering, pushing through the lonely nights with just a smutty novel and a magically operated boyfriend, pushed through the dinners alone in her flat when the idea of getting a dog kept creeping back up to be considered and disregarded again.

Eventually that feeling of restlessness had settled back under her skin and she found herself indulging in some ideas that had been suggested to her before but she’d never given much credence. Even now, the thought of learning to rely on others, to trust that they would not only be able but also willing to help her, was unsettling.

“I think the idea of hiring someone to help out is a great one, you’re working yourself to the bone, Pansy dear,” Augusta declared, reaching over and patting her hand in reassurance. Somewhere in the past six months, Pansy had found herself fond of the older woman and her domineering ways. When she had company, Pansy would sit with them for a few minutes before going back to work, but when she came alone she’d dally longer. Neville joined his grandmother every other month and on those days she stayed away, for propriety and for her own sake.

Headmistress McGonagall nodded in agreement, setting down her near empty tea cup with a sharp clink. “I have a graduating student who you might want to interview for the position. Last I heard, she didn’t have anything lined up after school but I have caught her in the kitchens with the elves several times and she’s fond of using homemade treats to get leniency on her exam scores.”

“Slytherin?”

“Hufflepuff.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Pansy sneered, tossing her hair back and side-eyeing the Headmistress. “How good were the treats?”

“I wouldn’t say at your level, but she’s young and has much to learn.”

Pansy considered it, tilting her head and thinking through the logistics of having another baker in the shop and how much of her time she’d add back into her day if she did. “I’ll think about it.”

Minerva smiled knowingly. “I’ll send her your way after graduation. Do be nice, she’s got a good heart.”

“You know when people say someone has a good heart it usually means they’re dumb as a box of rocks.”

She was not the second coming of Hermione Granger, that was for sure, but she wasn’t as bad as Pansy predicted. Pansy didn’t mind that because the Headmistress was right, the girl had the beginnings of a good baker. She was also muggle-born, so she wasn’t afraid of getting her hands dirty and as long as she had recipes to refer to, she was more than capable of taking on some of the daily tasks of the shop.

Even better, she wasn’t a talker.

They worked companionably in silence most mornings until Cecilia had the regular recipes memorized and could make them without supervision. Pansy shifted the newly freed time to recipe creation and running the front end of the bakery, and ultimately filled that freed time right back up. Laurie officially retired but still stopped in from time to time to harass Louis and embarrass Pansy. She found herself missing the older woman terribly on days like today.

“-he’s a slytherin,” McGonagall explained, biting into an eclair delicately and gazing at her with steely blue eyes. “He’s, as you so eloquently put it, dumb as a box of rocks. He is, however, very charming and well spoken. Perfectly capable of working in a retail shop.”

“I’m not running a half-way house for Hogwarts alumni, Headmistress.”

The two octogenarians looked around the bakery, pausing on Ginny Weasley and little James Potter gazing rapturously into the display, Harry at their side. At a table near the window Susan Bones was sitting with Cecilia, quietly discussing their mutual House. Augusta suddenly smiled as she caught sight of the tawny haired Wizard that opened the front door and waved at them before joining the Potters near the display.

“Voluntarily,” Pansy clarified, scowling at all the wizardkind in her shop that afternoon. “I’m not voluntarily running a half-way house for alumni.”

“He's half blood with no career prospects, Pansy,” Augusta said sternly. “And you’ve not hired anyone yet.”

She could feel a headache brewing between her eyes, and she squeezed the bridge of her nose tightly. “If I say no, he’s going to show up anyways isn’t he?”

“Of course,” the two ladies replied with a matching smirk.

“You two must have been hell on brooms in school.”

“We had our fun,” Augusta admitted, finishing her tea and raising her voice, “Neville, do bring a fresh pot of tea over.”

“Alright, send him here on Monday, but I make no promises. The register doesn’t add and subtract on its own, he’ll need some basic math skills.”

Neville joined them quietly, setting the hot kettle on a pad on the table and snagging a chair to join them at the small table. He scooted closer, his knee brushing against Pansy’s and it was only sheer stubbornness that kept her from flinching away at the unexpected touch. “Good afternoon, Nan, Headmistress, Pansy.” He nodded at each in turn, reaching out and politely refreshing each of their cups before pouring his own. “Did you talk to Pansy about Robert?”

“I did, and she’s agreed to give him a job.”

“A chance. I said I’d give him a chance.”

“He’s a good kid,” Neville paused, catching Pansy’s eye over the rim of his cup before he sipped, “for a Slytherin.”

“Nice isn’t in the description of my house. No wonder he’s got no prospects,” Pansy snarked, crossing her arms and glaring at the three Gryffindors. “Finish your tea, I’ve got to start shutting down soon.”

She stood and moved back behind the counter, waving Louis back to cleaning his beverage equipment and taking over the Potter order. “Merlin, Pottess, this reminds me of when you were eating for two. You do realize pastries will go bad fairly quickly?” Pansy hefted the heavy box over to the register, pausing when she saw the huge grins on the couple’s faces.

Harry leaned in conspiratorially, “We’re not planning to announce it until after James’ first birthday later this summer but…she is.”

Pansy arched an eyebrow, pursing her lips in an almost smile. “Thanks for the warning, I’ll stock up on more chocolate.”

“Appreciate it, Parkinson. We’re not going to have another baby shower, but feel free to gift me as many of those little cakes as you’ve got.”

“I’m not certain the world really needs another Potter,” she said snidely, handing their change back to Harry and rolling her eyes. “Please tell me you’re not aiming for Weasley level of procreation, Potter.”

“No,” he laughed, handing the box over to Ginny and waiting until she and James slowly made their way to the Longbottoms before turning back. “We’ve decided that if this one isn’t a girl, we’ll try one more time for that, but three is our limit.”

“Congratulations,” she said sincerely, catching his eyes and actually smiling this time. No teeth, because smiling with teeth was gauche.

“Soooooo, Charlie is coming to town next weekend. Want to come over for dinner?”

Pansy snapped up a mental block in the blink of an eye and emoted the nonchalant apathetic facial expression that she sometimes practiced in the bathroom mirror. “Not particularly. Is there a reason I should care that Charles Weasley is coming to town?”

“Well, since you-”

The way she leaned onto the counter, resting on her elbows, telegraphed danger. “Since I what?”

Unfortunately Harry was inured to danger. “Since you practice Weasley procreation as well, thought you might want to see him.”

“A fling does not make a relationship.”

“But-”

“Just a really good time,” Pansy continued, ignoring his attempt to argue. She tapped her finger on her chin and raised her eyes thoughtfully. “He was really good with his-”

“Stop! Okay, geez, I do not need details.”

“I don’t need matchmaking, Potter. Not everyone is meant for the picket fence and 2.5 kids schtick.”

“He asked about you in his letters,” he offered, hands up in surrender. “Just thought you should know.”

She scowled, wiping at the counter aggressively with a cleaning rag. “Tell him to stop.”

Hours later the building was empty, her employees long gone, and she was almost done tallying up the day’s take when there was a soft tap at the door. She sighed at the hangdog brown eyes gazing at her through the window and opened the door with a wave of her wand. “How can I help you, Longbottom?”

“My nan sent me back for her gloves, she left them on the table,” he explained, pointing at the table across the room that Augusta had claimed as hers.

Pansy nodded and gestured for him to go on, turning her attention back to the receipts on the counter and the open register next to her. She was slipping back into calculations, fully expecting him to grab the accessories and roll back out the door when she was startled by him speaking again much closer to her.

“Thank you for being kind to my Nan, I know she can be a lot to handle.”

“Don’t thank me for being kind, I’m just treating her with basic human decency.”

“You call it basic, but my experience is that kindness is anything but.”

“Then you’ve been hanging out with the wrong people,” she retorted, raising her dark eyes and meeting his. Where her brown eyes were so dark they were almost black, their dimensions only coming from the reflection of light, his were faceted like fire agate, striations of dark and light brown with a hint of enough green that in this light they looked more hazel than brown. “You never finish your food.”

He blinked in surprise, defaulting to an affable easy going smile. “I’m sorry?”

“You come here every month at least once a month with your grandmother. You both order something, and you take two bites and you push it away. Is my food not to your liking?”

He kept smiling but she could tell he was clenching his teeth. “It’s delicious.”

“Then why do you not finish it? Food waste is a serious issue in the world, Longbottom. There are starving children in Africa.”

“And do you send your unsold pastries to them?”

“No, I send it to White Chapel, for the homeless.”

“Really?”

She was now clenching her teeth, his incredulity bald on his face. “Yes. It’s a tax right-off.”

“I don’t think you do it for the taxes.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’d like to.”

Now she was shocked into silence. “Why?”

“My nan likes you, and she’s the best judge of character I know.” He shrugged, idly played with the gloves in his hands and betrayed his nerves. “Harry, not so much, he has the tendency to see what he wants to see. Ginny is pretty good, and she trusts you around James and that is hard to fathom because she’s very protective. And the Headmistress is proud of you and what you’ve done. She wouldn’t come here if she didn’t approve and definitely wouldn’t send you some of her favorite students if she didn’t trust you.”

“You don’t have to get to know me because other people chose to do so, their decisions don’t have to be yours.”

He nodded and shrugged. “It makes me think about it though and make my own decisions.”

She pursed her lips, crossing her arms and staring him down across the counter. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” he denied with a soft smile, stepping back and then again towards the door. “Just wanted to explain, you'll start seeing more of me. I’ve decided to start joining Nan on Thursdays, she’s having a bit more trouble getting around now than she used to.”

“I told her she can use my floo,” Pansy pointed out, her stoicism ruined by the pang of concern for the older woman.

Neville hesitated before exiting, smiling brightly at her. “I know you did.”

 

Notes:
Just a sprinkle of Chansy, but I promise there is a reason for it. He may pop up again but I'm really just using him as a plot device. Don't get your knickers in a twist. :P

Fun Fact: Celestina Warbeck is to the wizarding world what Patsy Cline is the (American) muggle one. Pansy likes to listen to her in the morning while she's baking. It reminds her of Grandmother Parkinson, who loved the singer.

Could not find a place to incorporate that but I've seen Pansy in my head baking enough to know it's a fact.

 

The Arduous Occasion of Making Nice
coldqueen5
Summary:
A series of one-shots around Pansy Parkinson's post-war life and how she finds herself entangled with the most unexpected people. Eighth in the series...

She could do this. She could...be nice.

Good thing she only promised she'd try.

Notes:
(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

 

Pansy stood outside the Potter home for fifteen minutes before conjuring the energy to knock on the door.

It wasn’t that she was scared; she made a point of not being intimidated by anyone and if she had a whisper of thought that she might be, she was as off putting as possible to make that person defensive. Offense was the best defense, as the Quidditch adage went.

No, she was not scared, she was merely gathering the energy she’d need to endure. Inside those four walls were former classmates, some she had interacted with in recent years but many she had not. Despite her tongue’s predilection for sharpness, she’d told Harry she’d do her best not to eviscerate moronic Gryffindor’s egos until at least after lunch.

Speaking of…

“You made it!” He boomed, throwing open the door. “I told you to just come on in when you got here.”

“That would imply open invitation to your home, I decline that level of familiarity, Potter.”

“You only talk prissy when you’re nervous,” he pointed out, stepping into the door so she had enough room to enter.

“I’m not-”

“Don’t lie, Parkinson, you’re not very good at it anymore,” Ginny interrupted, stepping into the hall from the sitting room and grinning at her. “At least you’re smart enough to show up.”

“You blackmailed me,” she retorted, crossing her arms and glaring at her. “Something along the lines of either I come here or you’d invite everyone to my shop instead.”

“Hey, who doesn’t love a good catering job?”

“You’ve yet to pay a single invoice I’ve sent.”

“Invoices? I thought those were love notes,” Potter joked, shutting the door and shuffling the two women towards the patio. “Most everyone else is already here, we’re just waiting on Nev and Susan. The food should be ready in about thirty minutes, Kreacher is just getting ready to start grilling.”

That was how Pansy found herself seated at a patio table in the backyard of the Potter estate, sipping a Pimm’s and discussing the latest fashion trend of low rise trousers with Padma Patil, who did part time reporting for the Daily Prophet as well as Time Out London, a muggle magazine. It would’ve been surreal if she’d allowed herself to think about it, but honestly the two of them shared similar opinions of muggle fashion, a fascination with the art tempered by a bit of incredulousness at the levels of immodesty prevalent. Padma’s Indian upbringing shared the conservativeness that Society required of pureblood women and the two of them had a surprisingly enjoyable conversation that lasted until Padma’s twin called her sister to join her across the garden.

Pansy sipped her drink and watched as Neville finished his conversation with Dean Thomas, though he met her gaze and smiled in greeting as he slowly strode across the garden towards her. He looked good, his tawny hair ruffled by the wind and showing off the blond highlights from too much time spent under the summer sun. She knew from Augusta’s complaints that he’d been spending more time than usual outside this summer, escaping into the manor gardens to avoid everything now that the school session was over with.

“Hello Pansy,” he greeted, surprising her by leaning down and brushing a kiss across her cheek. She told herself she imagined the way he lingered an extra second, his nose just barely brushing her cheekbone, before he settled onto the sofa in Padma’s now vacant seat. “I see Ginny succeeded in getting you here.”

“She’s surprisingly adept at blackmail, almost Slytherin like. I blame having Voldemort in her head for eight months.”

Neville snorted his drink through his nose, coughing out a laugh and reaching for a handkerchief to wipe up the mess he’d made of his shirt. “Merlin, Pansy, warn a bloke before saying stuff like that.”

She tilted her head, acknowledging the request even if she never would. She enjoyed provoking a reaction; in school she aimed for tears, but she found herself more satisfied with amusement these days. “Has anyone asked how you’re doing?”

“I’m doing just-”

“I wasn’t asking, I was asking if anyone had asked you.”

“You know they have.”

She nodded slowly, glancing at him under heavy lidded eyes. “I’m not going to, so you can relax.”

“Not asking because you don’t care?”

“Not asking because you’re going to lie no matter who asks.”

He didn’t answer, just finished off his ale and set it on the table before turning his body to face her fully. “How much has Nan told you?”

She grinned wryly with just a touch of levity. “Everything, naturally. Augusta likes me.”

He sighed, running his hand down his face and holding it over his eyes before dropping it again. “I am truly fine.”

“Of course you’re not,” she scoffed, breaking eye contact to gesture to Harry she wanted another drink. Like a good host, he waved his wand and the Pimm’s refilled magically, and she took a sip to confirm it was still excellently balanced before continuing. “Your life sucks.”

“Well that’s harsh.”

She balefully glared at him, lifting an eyebrow. “You’re getting a divorce, Professor Sprout has put off her retirement another year so you’re stuck as an adjunct professor, and your father is having health problems and the healers are saying he’s not likely to survive the year. You’re spending your summer vacation renovating the House gardens to avoid having to deal with any of it, and hurting your Nan’s feelings by refusing to go to St. Mungo’s with her. You’ve also not told any of your friends about your father, though they all know about the divorce because Hannah was overheard at the Leaky and it made the papers.” She paused, sipped her drink, and studied his stony face. “Have I missed anything?”

“I stubbed my toe this morning on the dresser.”

“And your foot hurts,” she added graciously with a small nod.

He sighed, leaning back against the seat and crossing his arms with a sullen look that he quickly camouflaged with a deceptive smile. “I don’t know that I like the way you and Nan are friends.”

“Too damn bad, I’m keeping her. Did you know she was almost put in Slytherin in school? She said the only reason she ended up in Gryffindor is because Headmistress McGonagall was sorted there first and she wanted to be in the same house as her friend.”

He shook his head with a small laugh. “It doesn’t surprise me. Why is it you can call Nan by her first name, but no one else?”

“Because I want to,” she deflected with a grin, brushing her hair over her shoulder to bat her eyes flirtatiously at him. “And I always do what I want. Why won’t you go to St Mungo’s with her?”

“You want the truth?”

“Always,” she answered seriously, her smile sliding away as she met his eyes.

“I’m not sad, not the way Nan is. I don’t want her to see that and be disappointed in me.”

Pansy swallowed back an immediate response, instead looked away and ran her finger around the rim of her glass and listened to the soft ring of noise it made. “Fake it.”

“What?”

She pursed her lips in a grim smile and repeated herself, “Fake it. You don’t have to feel it, Longbottom, but you can fake it.”

“She’ll probably see through it; she raised me, Pansy, she knows when I’m not being truthful.”

“Maybe she will, maybe she won’t,” she shrugged, “but more likely she’ll see what she wants to see. If it helps, I don’t think she’s expecting you to be devastated but she is . She’s losing her son a second time. She’d really like it if you’d be there to hold her hand while she says goodbye.”

Neville considered the words for a few minutes. “How is it she can tell you all this but she can’t tell me?”

Pansy sighed heavily before explaining, “Augusta is a woman’s woman. Maybe it was the way she was raised, maybe it’s a learned behavior, but she’s more comfortable confiding in other women than in men, even you. Pureblood women are trained to keep our thoughts to ourselves; wizards have no interest in their wife’s thoughts. Only in-” She broke off, bitterness leaking into her words. “Nevermind that.”

“You’ve never hesitated to share your opinions.”

“I’m a bad girl,” she submitted, breaking the maudlin mood with a wink and a saucy leer before turning her eyes back to the party. “And I like it. I’ve done nothing but break tradition since I came of age.”

“I’ll talk to her,” he decided, leaning forward to rest on his knees and run his hands through his hair, ruffling it even more. Pansy stretched her fingers, dispelling the almost itching desire to sift the golden strands back into order.

They were only sitting in silence for a few minutes before being joined by Weasleys, Ron taking the seat next to Neville and setting a plate full of food on the table in front of him and seemingly determined to keep his mouth full of food. Charlie Weasley squeezed himself into the sparse room between Pansy and the armrest of the sofa, casually throwing an arm around the back of the seat and pressing his body against hers carelessly. “Hello, darling.” He too brushed a kiss against her cheek but lacked the finesse of Neville’s greeting, and she barely resisted the urge to wipe at the spot.

“There are other seats, Charles.”

“Nah, this is the best one in the house,” he denied with a smile, winking at her, and despite her concrete decision not to dally with him again, she still blushed lightly.

“I didn’t know you and Charlie knew each other,” Neville observed, his eyes lingering on the closeness with which they sat. Pansy thought she saw a small wrinkle of dislike in his brows but it eased away in seconds, even if he was clenching his hands slightly tighter than before the two men had joined them.

“We met earlier this year,” she explained, elbowing the redhead when he chortled at the description.

“And she’s been ignoring my owls ever since.”

“I’d tell you to take a hint, but given what I know of your family it’s going to need to be a bludger to the head,” Pansy announced, throwing her hands into the air and twisting her body to glare Charlie in the face. He only grinned and pinched her chin teasingly. “Move.”

He did as she asked and she stood and stormed away, deciding that joining the slightly pregnant Ginny and the very pregnant Hermione on a blanket in the grass was preferable to sitting between two testosterone emitting wizards, at least for a short time.

She was not surprised when Charlie followed twenty minutes later, throwing himself across the blanket as soon as she was left alone as the babymakers went in search of another round of grilled sausages. “Why won’t you go on a date with me?”

“As much as I enjoyed your cock, Charles, I’m not a fan of your lifestyle.”

He looked surprised, leaning on his elbow and asking, “My lifestyle?”

“You’re a dragonkeeper, you thrive on danger. I’d no more date you than I’d date an auror.”

“It’s not that-”

“No. I don’t want to spend my days wondering if my lover has been eaten by a beast or burnt to a crisp,” she explained, staring intently at him so he’d understand she was serious. “My childhood was stressful enough, I won’t live like that anymore. The only stressful thing I’m willing to endure these days is a healthy bit of edging before a good shag.”

“Okay,” he accepted, a small moue of disappointment that slid into a lascivious look in seconds. “Can I get a goodbye kiss?”

She laughed but shook her head. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You like it.”

Since he wasn’t wrong and she honestly had been quite flattered by his pursuit she allowed the observation, smacking him lightly on the arm as he rose from the blanket and left her alone, finally.

“I guess this means you won’t be my sister-in-law.”

“How much of that did you hear?”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Walked up right around you saying how much you liked his cock.”

“I did, I really did,” she lamented, gazing skyward with an exaggeratedly sad face. “Darn the Weasley genetics and their predispositions towards matrimony.”

“He just wanted a date,” Harry corrected, shaking his head at her dramatics, waving at Ginny and indicating he’d be right over.

“It’s never just a date, Potter. We’re purebloods, there is no such thing as casual,” she lectured, nodding at his wife. “You think you’d have known that given you married your first girlfriend.”

“Ginny wasn’t my first girlfriend.”

Her eyes rolled so hard she gave herself an immediate headache. “Please tell me you’re not referencing that travesty of a courtship with Cho Chang.”

“Technically-”

“Two kisses and three instances of holding hands does not a relationship make.”

“It was more than-”

“Ooohhh, do tell! Did the book leave out the juicy bits?”

“Only juicy bits were all the crying she did,” Hermione interjected as she returned to her seat on the blanket, wordlessly taking Harry’s hands so he could help her sit down. She smiled in amusement as she joined the conversation. “I left that out.”

“Girls aren’t supposed to cry when you kiss them, Potter.”

“Yes, I am aware-”

“Does Ginevra cry when you kiss her?”

“Only when he kisses me in a very specific place.”

Pansy twisted her face in disgust and was pleased to see it mirrored on Hermione’s face. “Ewwww, I did not need to know that.”

Hermione grimaced, “Agreed.”

Harry shook his head and scarpered away, red with embarrassment even as Ginny laughed riotously and sat herself down on the blanket. “I hope he never stops blushing like that, it’s so cute.”

“I’m not cute!” He called back, just barely hearing his wife’s compliment as he hightailed it towards the edge of the patio where Neville and Ron were sitting and quietly talking.

“He is,” Ginny disagreed, setting down the plate of nibbles and stretching before settling in. “I saw Charlie finally cornered you.”

“Through your machinations, yes he did,” Pansy allowed, mock glaring at her even as she stole a pig-in-a-blanket from her plate.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Are you going to go on a date?”

“She told him no,” Hermione answered for her, breathing deeply and rhythmically as she cradled her baby bump next to Pansy.

She eyed her dubiously, her breathing seemed very purposeful. “What are you doing, Granger?”

“I’m experiencing Braxton Hicks contractions, so I’m practicing my breathing.”

Pansy’s eyes widened. “Contractions? As in…baby? Coming out of your…” She gestured to her lap.

“Not yet,” Hermione answered with a huffy laugh. “My body is getting ready.”

“My body is horrified. Goodbye.”

Pansy was pretty sure the last time she’d exited a situation that fast was the final battle at Hogwarts, and honestly felt just as uncomfortable now as she had then. She visibly shook off her anxiety and figured since she was alone and moving, it was a good time to move out the door and head home. She’d given the party an hour longer than she’d told herself she’d stay.

“You’re leaving already?”

She shut her eyes and bit her lip before turning back, she’d been so close to the door. “I’ve hit my quota for niceties. Best I go before I start hurting feelings.”

Neville softly shook his head, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “If Charlie is making you uncomfortable-”

She snorted before she could help herself. “Charles is a bleeding heart beast rights activist and he knows if he stepped out of line, I’d put him in the ground.”

“Ahh, so you and he…” He trailed off but the question was clear.

“Briefly,” she surprised herself by answering and took the tense seconds after it to ponder the dynamics of her new connection with Neville. He was a man who’d very much left the vestiges of childhood behind, attractive in a way that stirred feeling in her chest. There was strength in him that was tempered by tenderness and a quiet spirit that she felt truthfully mirrored the quiet nature of her own. For all that she was loud and sharp when she was around others, in her private time she was content with her homely life. She was rarely so happy as when she was in her kitchen baking or sitting on her rooftop patio reading a book.

“That’s, um, unexpected I guess?”

“Why?” She asked with an irritated lift of her eyebrow, tilting her head as she waited for his answer. He shuffled on his feet, uncrossing and recrossing his arms before finally answering.

“He doesn’t seem like your type.”

“Handsome? Funny? Gallant?”

“He’s, I don’t know, earthy. You always seemed to like blokes who were athletic and smooth in school. The kind of blokes who wear suits for work now.” The kind of men who were nothing like him, Pansy gathered from his description, for he and Charlie were quite similar. Both were more likely to be in jeans and t-shirts, dirt on their skin and hair from tussling with dragons (or in Neville’s case plants).

He wasn’t wrong, for a long time that was almost the exact description of the kind of men she had dated. She’d gone after the heirs and the spares, the ones with hefty inheritance and an inclination to spend it on her.

“Not that it’s any of your business, Longbottom,” she started, narrowing her eyes and stepping closer, poking him in the chest with a pointy black-painted nail, “but I happen to enjoy my men brawny nowadays. Charles opened my eyes to the joy of a man with…meat on his bones.” Her smile was all teeth and more than a fair bit of mischief. “The kind I can sink my teeth into.”

He gaped down at her and she enjoyed the sensation of having shocked him into silence.

“Have a good day, Longbottom. Tell Augusta I’ll see her on Thursday. I think she’ll like the apple and pear galette I’m planning that day.”

Notes:
This one took longer to get out, I was on vacation last week and had no access to my laptop. I've been looking forward to this though, this is the point where I get to really start having fun. *evil laugh*

 

The Melancholic End of One Love Story (And The Beginning of Another)
coldqueen5
Summary:
A series of one-shots around Pansy Parkinson's post-war life and how she finds herself entangled with the most unexpected people. Ninth in the series...

Pansy didn't reach out to people, she kept her defenses high and her hands to herself.

There are exceptions to every rule.

Work Text:

 

The two of them surreptitiously watched the trio behind the counter from the corner table, sipping their tea slowly to better hide their study before stifling snickers.

“It’s just so surprising, I didn’t think people did that sort of thing anymore.”

Pansy curled the corner of her mouth in a hidden smile, deliberately turning her head to speak so the objects of their perusal didn’t catch on. “I thought for sure it was going to be a love triangle, she clearly liked them both.”

“Good for her,” Augusta decided, nodding her head and setting her teacup down. “I didn’t think a Hufflepuff would have it in her. You know, once my husband John and I attempted a triad-”

“Please stop.”

“I may be old, young lady, but I had my adventures.”

Pansy shook her head slowly, gazing balefully at her companion. “I don’t doubt it, but that last image I want in my head is you and your husband engaging in sexual deviance.”

“It wasn’t deviant, it was beautiful. A fertility ritual during the summer solstice of 1957. It’s how we finally conceived Frank. She was an Italian alchemist working at the Ministry-”

Pansy tuned her out but didn’t interrupt. She knew that Augusta really wanted to talk about her son, not about her sex life. Neville’s father had hung on for the last several months but she could tell from the way Augusta looked a bit more downturn each week that time was growing shorter for the wizard. Neville had joined his grandmother several times but he couldn’t, maybe wouldn’t, go every week. Sometimes Headmistress McGonagall went with her, sometimes a member of her extended family like her brother-in-law, or a distant cousin, and once memorably Minister Shacklebolt who’d worked as an Auror with Frank and Alice before the incident .

After each visit, Augusta would come to the bakery, take her reserved seat at the corner table, order a kettle of tea and a small treat and then she’d sit for a spell, as the muggles would say.

Sometimes her companions joined her, sometimes she came alone; either way Pansy would pour herself a cup and join her. They’d talk about anything that struck their fancy, from issues in front of the Wizengamot and the political machinations Augusta was enjoying to the latest gossip and anything else besides. Augusta was sharply observant and could tell from a kilometer off when someone was trying to manipulate her and thoroughly enjoyed calling them on it, and would often boast of who she’d rooted out most recently. Sometimes Pansy would tell her about the developments in the courtship of her employees, Cecilia, Louis, and Robert. She wasn’t certain how it worked but somehow the three of them had started a relationship but not even prurient curiosity was motive enough for her to ask what the exact configuration of the triad was.

Was Louis into Robert, or into Cecilia? Did Cecilia sleep with them at the same time, was there a schedule or was she the outlier and one of the men slept with the other man and then with her sometimes?

Did they engage as male-female-male, or male-male-female?

Pansy had read enough naughty romance novels to know that there were different ways threeways worked, depending on participant preference but the three of them were so private and quiet it was impossible to deduce from observation how their leanings exactly worked, and it really wasn’t her business, not just because she was their boss but also because it just really wasn’t .

“Are you listening to me?”

“No,” Pansy admitted, finishing her tea. “Thoroughly distracted. What were you saying?”

The older witch huffed and blinked at her stonily. “Am I not entertaining you?”

“You are absolutely the most fascinating witch I have ever known,” Pansy complimented, pairing the genuine sentiment with a smirk that tempered the honesty.

Augusta rolled her eyes, something she’d recently learned from Pansy or so Neville alleged, and stood, gathering her things. “Clearly you need to return to your tasks. I will see you next week, Pansy.”

“Have a good day, Augusta. I’ll make you something special next week.” Wordlessly expressing she was sorry for her inattention without saying it, the pureblood way.

Augusta nodded and waved her hand to indicate acceptance of the platitude, stalking out of the bakery with assertive confidence echoing with each boot step. Patrons scrambled out of her way, not even realizing they’d been intimidated by an eighty year old woman, before lining back up to clear Pansy’s racks of any remaining food from that day’s production.

Except the next week Augusta did not come.

Pansy waited, two ramekins of pumpkin creme brulee hidden in the kitchen, but the afternoon droned on with no sign of her. Augusta hadn’t missed a visit to the bakery in two years, every Thursday without fail, no matter the weather or her mood.

It was surprisingly easy for her to leave the closing process to Cecilia and Robert, snagging her wand and walking determinedly to the apparation point around the corner and steadying herself with a hand on the doorframe of the warded spot. It was there that she hesitated, gathering her thoughts and wondering if she really wanted to seek out the Longbottoms.

Reaching out to others didn’t feel natural for her.

For years, out of self preservation and more than a little anger, Pansy was content to isolate. She tolerated when others came to her, when they took the first steps; she could reciprocate when she knew she wasn’t unwelcome but only when she was absolutely sure of it. In school she’d always felt like she was chasing after others, forcing herself where she wasn’t wanted, and the way it had affected her self esteem had left her cruel and bitter.

She wasn’t that girl anymore, she had worked hard over the years since Hogwarts to accept every acerbic puzzle piece of herself and to understand how those pieces fit together with the newly created ones. She discovered that she loved to bake, she uncovered a weakness for salacious novels and self-pampering with exorbitantly expensive beauty products, and she learned that being alone didn’t mean lonely, but that human connection was important and could be a balm to the soul when days were hard.

Pansy thought of the small town of Appleby where Longbottom House was located and with a spark the magic constricted around her, feeling like a very big person squeezing through a very small tube as she shifted from London to the small wizarding village further north in the middle of the island country. She’d never been to Appleby before but using the apparation points installed by the Ministry meant she didn’t need that reference, they ensured that wizards got where they wanted with no previous knowledge. Apparating blind was always a risk even knowing where you were going as a memory of a place didn’t mean that place was still the same; wizards had been known to apparate into new objects/buildings if they didn’t use the cleared points.

She shook off the claustrophobic feeling from the journey and realized she was standing on a small flat stone platform in the middle of a meadow, green stalks of grass swaying gently in the breeze as she looked for a way to the houses in the distance. There seemed to be a small dirt road not far and she cautiously made her way over before heading into town, minding the potholes full of mud with a sneer of disdain.

Luckily she ran into a muggle almost immediately and could ask for directions to Longbottom House and it was only about ten minutes away. She was standing in front of it in a very short time and studied the old home with a keen eye. It was as old as Malfoy Manor but was vastly different in styling. Whereas the ancestral home of Malfoy was intimidating and dark, surrounded by forest and reeking of dark magic, Longbottom House was welcoming and lush with greenery. That was likely thanks to Neville’s time and attention, but the overall effect was warm with life and inviting.

The wards however were not.

Pansy brushed her hand across the warding at the front gate, flicking her finger against the magic in the equivalent of a knock and waited for a response.

She’d rushed over here and now realized they might not even be home. Within a few minutes though a familiar figure approached the front gate, stumbling just a bit when he got close enough to recognize her through the wrought iron fencing.

“Hello, Pansy.”

“Hi, Longbottom. Your grandmother didn’t come to the shop today,” she greeted, nodding at the gate for him to open it, which he did without comment, swinging to the side and inviting her in. The wards felt his intention and eased away and Pansy stepped onto the property with a small reactionary shiver of recognition. Having been accepted by the heir, they’d allow her entrance in the future as well, unless Neville deliberately blocked her.

He hummed his acknowledgement of her statement and slowly led her back towards the house. He was really ambling more than walking with purpose, and Pansy felt a bit impatient but she was a guest and swallowed back the instinct to move faster. “She’s upstairs,” he finally said, shifting his head from side to side and slowly cracking tension away. “I made her some tea and lunch a while ago but I don’t think she’s eaten.”

“Your father,” she hesitated to ask but was compelled anyway, “he’s gone?”

“Yeah. Yesterday afternoon.”

“Were you there?”

“No, we were here. It was sudden and there was no time to get there,” Neville explained with a frown. “By the time we got the message from the healers, he’d already passed.”

“I’m sorry. I know being there was important to your grandmother.”

“It was,” he agreed, stopping in front of the house and opening the door. They stepped into the foyer and left the heat of the October sun behind them, Pansy relaxing a bit as the cooler air inside settled over her. She’d perspired in all her hustling around the village and waved her wand for a quick refreshing spell as she took in the entrance to the house.

There was a large family portrait on the wall opposite the door; Augusta with her son Frank and daughter-in-law Alice, and a toddler Neville bouncing on his mother’s lap. Confronted with the image of the recently deceased wizard, Pansy realized that Neville was a unique mix of his parents. Built tall like his father, but lacking his bulk; he had his mother’s smile and the Longbottom eyes and coloring, and the sharp nose of Augusta that sloped down with an intense gaze that felt like it saw too deeply.

Neville shared that intensity with Augusta, Pansy often felt like the two of them had more insight into her thoughts than a non-Legilimens had any right to.

She turned away from the smiling visage of the broken family and turned back to him. “How are you?”

Neville shrugged, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’m more worried about Nan, honestly. She’s been quiet. She’s never quiet.”

Pansy nodded and pointed towards the staircase. “She’s upstairs?”

“Yes, her sitting room is the third door on the right. Headmistress McGonagall is coming over tonight to spend the weekend with her, I think she’ll like that.”

She was walking up the stairs before he was done speaking and in a show of trust, he didn’t follow. She felt him watch as she ascended and she briefly turned back to catch his eyes and smile tremulously, seeking out the door he’d instructed.

Pansy knocked softly as she entered, immediately finding the solemn form of Augusta sitting on a small settee near an open window. The wind shifted the sheer curtains and Pansy could see the extensive gardens at the rear of the house and the harsh glint of the greenhouse glass in the distance. There were freshly cut gladioli in a vase on the table nearby, a cold untouched cup of tea and sandwich as well.

The gladioli caught her eye first, the beautiful white stalks bright in the sunlight from the window. It affirmed that even if Neville’s focus was his grandmother, he was grieving too in his own way. She didn’t doubt that he’d placed the flowers there.

She set her purse and wand down on the table, settling herself onto the sofa beside Augusta and considering her words. The older witch looked worn, her skin somehow thinner and more translucent than it had been last week. She didn’t show signs of tears, no puffiness or redness, no tracks of wet down her cheeks, but she looked as if she’d fall apart at a single touch.

“You look tired.”

She shifted her empty gaze from the window and to Pansy, quirking an eyebrow at her presence. Her voice was husky from disuse as she asked, “Did Neville bring you here?”

“No.” She left it at that.

Augusta nodded slowly and returned her eyes to the garden outside. They sat in silence for ten minutes, then twenty, and Pansy wondered if she was even doing anything by being here, if she should leave the witch to her grief-

Augusta sighed and let her head droop, her chin resting on her chest as she slowly eased back against the settee before she turned her whole body and slid down, finally settling with her head on Pansy’s lap. She closed her eyes and seemed to relax, and without thinking Pansy rested her hand on the woman’s hair, slowly pulling hair pins out that surely had to be digging into her scalp in this position.

“I am tired.”

When Neville peeked into the sitting room an hour later Augusta was sleeping and Pansy was gazing out the window, the wind from the open window ruffling the curtains and her long dark hair back from her face which glowed in the dusky sunlight.

Pansy turned her head and pressed a finger against her lips, telling him wordlessly to keep quiet if he was coming in. He left the door cracked behind him and pulled his wand, gesturing towards his Nan and then to the bed through the open door across the room, asking if she wanted him to levitate the older woman into her bed so Pansy could get up but she shook her head with a small smile.

Pansy watched as he slowly sat himself down on the table in front of them, folding his hands over his knees as he observed his grandmother’s sleeping form. He cast a muffliato around their upper bodies, leaving his grandmother sleeping just below the bubble of magic. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this way.”

“Sad?”

“She’s always been sad, Pansy,” Neville denied. “But she was always in control of it, used it like a weapon, sharpened it until it was just another facet of who she was. This, though-” he waved his hand at Augusta’s disheveled state, wrinkled clothes from yesterday, hair undone, “-I’ve never seen her like this.”

She bit her lip, meeting his eyes and decided she’d say what she was thinking. “She doesn’t have to be strong anymore, Neville. She doesn’t have to think of anyone else before herself. She doesn’t have to think of the bigger picture because she knows you’re going to make sure everything else is fine. She can just feel it without having to fix it.” She paused, breathing deep and tilting her head as she watched the words sink into him. She continued, “I think she’ll be okay, but it’ll take some time.”

“Thank you for coming here.”

“Well, she is my favorite customer.”

Neville smiled for the first time since she’d arrived. “Is that all?”

She didn’t answer, just turned back to the window and continued to twirl her fingers through Augusta’s softly curling, steely gray hair, letting the sunlight and wind brush over her.

The next Thursday Augusta came through her bakery doors with Neville, the two of them waving in greeting over the crowd of late lunch patrons, settling into the corner table and waiting patiently for her to come over. Louis dropped off a warm kettle of chai and teacups, Cecilia took over some caneles when Pansy had a moment between customers to plate them, and twenty minutes later Pansy took herself to the table, settling into the seat next to Neville with a sigh of weariness.

“It’s been a long day.”

“Every time I come in it seems like you’re busier than the time before,” Neville observed, sipping the chai with an appreciative look. His leg brushed against her’s under the table and for the first time, Pansy deliberately did not shift away, instead enjoying the warmth of it. The weather was turning from pleasantly cool to the biting cold of winter; it was her least favorite time of the year. She wasn’t sure why but Neville seemed to radiate heat and this wasn’t the first time she’d found herself wanting to seep herself in it.

“We are,” Pansy supplied, reaching for a cup and pouring herself some of the tea. “My vaults love it. My calves do not.”

“Neville could help with that,” Augusta suggested, a mischievous look in her eyes as she looked between the two of them. “He gets sore from working in the garden, you do that, what’s it called, stretching thing to feel better.”

Neville blushed, glaring at his grandmother but still supplying, “Yoga. I do yoga to help with sore muscles.”

Pansy grinned at him, concern and tension easing away at Augusta’s teasing of her grandson. She looked drawn thin, but there was energy in her demeanor that hadn’t been there last week. “You do yoga, Longbottom? Do you wear those tight pants while you do it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He teased back, keeping his eyes averted and still blushing.

She would, actually, but she didn’t admit it.

She changed the subject. “How is Alice doing?”

Neville snorted, “You’re the most direct person I know.”

“I like it,” Augusta admonished him, before answering, “Unfortunately, because of her condition, we’re not even sure she understands that Frank is gone.”

“I think she knows,” Neville mused, pursing his lips as his eyes glazed over as he got lost in his thoughts. “Or maybe I just like to think that.”

“I like to think that too,” his grandmother agreed, and Pansy felt like she was intruding so she stood and dusted off her apron, smiling tightly in discomfort.

“I’ve got to get back there before Cecilia gets overwhelmed and starts crying again,” she explained, turning away and casually telling them over her shoulder, “tea and cookies on me today.”

Later when the shop was closed and she was alone, she was absolutely not surprised to hear a knock and see Neville at the door. She waved him in, had left the door unlocked for just this purpose.

“What did she forget this time?”

“She thinks she dropped an earring while she was here.”

Pansy couldn’t stop the quiet laugh, shaking her head slowly. “For someone who considers herself so good at identifying manipulations, she’s being very blatant.”

He shuffled his feet and shrugged, returning her smile. “She’s got a good heart.”

“And a hard head.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Neville pointed out, very directly looking at her.

She waited until his back was to her and he was looking on the ground around their corner table to stick out her tongue at him.

“Found it,” he announced, leaning down and grabbing the pearl earring hiding just under the table. Pansy noted appreciatively that his trousers tightened around a very respectable bum as he did.

Gardening kept everything nice and tight on Neville Longbottom.

“Why haven’t you asked her to stop?”

“Why haven’t you?” He parried back, coming over and leaning onto the counter into her personal space.

He smelled like plants and a hint of oaky cologne. Pansy kept her eyes on her calculator, her fingers flying over the keys as she tallied the day’s card sales. “She’s your grandmother.”

“She’s your friend.”

“I have respect for my elders,” Pansy replied snootily, somehow managing to look down her nose at him even when she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

“I have respect for witches who can decimate groups of Aurors casually before disappearing into the wilds of Lincolnshire. My nan is scary, I’m not telling her to do anything.”

Pansy smiled widely with a laugh, “She did do that, didn’t she? I think I forgot about that.”

“You’re beautiful when you smile.”

“Merlin, Longbottom, don’t let Augusta get into your head. You and I are a terrible idea.”

He ignored the statement. “Nan wanted me to invite you to dinner next week. Tuesday at seven.”

“I’d rather-”

“I’ll let her know you accept,” he cut her off, spinning around and striding quickly to the door, continuing to talk over her declines as he went. “It’ll be casual, nothing formal, I think she’s inviting a few more people too, but I don’t know for sure. The wards are open to you now so you can apparate straight there, or if you’d prefer I’ll add an allowance to the Floo so you can come that way.”

“Neville-”

“See you then,” he finished with a now familiar crooked smile, a small dimple taunting her in his left cheek. He started to swing the door shut, adding, “Make sure you lock this behind me.”

She wore a sweater dress in emerald green, with ribbed black tights in deference to the season. She pulled her hair half up, leaving most of it to lay smoothly against her back with only a few choice pieces to frame her face. She’d used a spell to add in some caramel highlights that she thought were flattering. Her ankle boots were an inch higher than she’d normally wear in winter, but it bolstered her confidence and the sharp clip as it hit the pavement outside the front door made her smile.

She had prepared for tonight like a warrior prepared for battle. She was armed with weapons of feminine choice and a red lipstick that was a warning sign in and of itself.

Neville opened the door before she knocked, smiling at her brightly but she could see small lines at the corners of his eyes betraying his nerves. “Hi, Pansy. Good news and bad news, Nan double booked and had a Wizengamot event to go to. Just you and me tonight.”

…she wasn’t surprised by this either.

 

The Ambling Ambiguity of Falling In Love
coldqueen5
Summary:
A series of one-shots around Pansy Parkinson's post-war life and how she finds herself entangled with the most unexpected people. Tenth in the series...

Pansy had always assumed that falling in love would feel like a whirlwind, like falling and never hitting the ground. She was pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn't; it grew slowly in the cracks of her life until it was everywhere she looked.

Notes:
(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1
Chapter Text

 

Having spent years slowly becoming tangentially entangled in a friendship, the beginning of a romantic relationship for Pansy and Neville was achingly slow.

Their first date (an ambush, as Pansy usually described it) happened shortly before Halloween, and during the school year, even as a junior professor, Neville’s time off was limited. He had one Saturday off a month and half days every other Thursday. One of those Thursdays he went to St. Mungo’s with his grandmother, the other was usually spent at Longbottom House performing maintenance on the house and toiling in the gardens. As the heir he was required to spend a certain amount of time within the wards or they would begin to weaken and leave it vulnerable to infestation of pests like doxies, boggarts, and dark wizards.

His Saturday off became hers.

Theirs.

They rotated who picked that night’s activities and as much as Pansy was tempted to choose things of a carnal nature, she was enjoying the process of getting to that point. She enjoyed the ritual of getting ready for a date; pampering herself with a bath or shower and then sumptuously silky lotions that hinted at exotic flowers, picking out the outfit that she felt would provoke the response she wanted, applying cosmetics that would highlight the feature she wanted attention on.

Pansy had always wanted the best of everything and even as an adult who had to spoil herself now, she wanted what she wanted. She wanted silks and gold, rich food and opulent wine, and the singular attention of the man she desired.

Neville was nothing if not attentive.

He had a way of touching her that made her skin shiver and every muscle tighten with tension before melting in an instinctive desire to lean against his strength, to feel his body against hers. It wasn’t even the passionate caresses that she felt so deeply. It wasn’t the way he kissed her, always tentatively and his aim just a bit off, the first closed mouth affection brushing the corner of her mouth before she grasped his shirt and pulled him closer and made sure that the next was on target, her tongue briefly caressing his plump bottom lip before dancing with his own. She could do that for hours, chase the taste of wine on his breath and feel the heat of him against her as they stood on the front steps of her bakery. The longest she’d been able to tempt him into staying was twenty minutes, pressed against the doorframe and cold because the warming charms had faded away while they’d been distracted.

He inevitably left, clearly was no legilimens otherwise he’d toss her over his shoulder and take her up to her flat where she’d comfortably ensconce him in her bedroom and never let him leave.

No, it wasn’t the way passion shook his fingers as he slid them through her hair, parting only to take a deep breath before kissing her again. It wasn’t even the gentle way he skated palms down her arms, barely brushing the sides of her breasts and making her gasp as her nipples tightened against the lacy bra she’d worn in cautious hope, before tightening the belt of her coat and gruffly telling her she should get inside and that he’d floo call when he was back at the castle.

No, Pansy felt most irrevocably changed by the small casual ways Neville touched her, when people were watching them, when he wasn’t thinking, when he was just instinctively wanting to feel that connection and each barely there touch felt like a live wire was hooked into her spine. It left her hyper aware of him, sensitive to the smallest brush of his breath against her cheek, and more than a little defensive of the softness he evoked within her.

“You look happy.”

“Shut up.”

Pansy scowled at Harry over the table, crossing her arms sullenly and refusing to look over at the bar where Neville was standing, ordering himself an ale before joining them. He’d switched night duties with one of the other professors at the last minute and had owled that he was going to try and join her at the pub tonight with Harry if she was okay with it. Despite floo calling nightly, she saw him only a few times a month and was not going to decline that kind of offer.

“I’m just saying, you’re good for each other,” Harry continued, grinning at her. He’d already finished his drink and really should have left by now but when she’d admitted Neville was coming he’d opted to stay a bit longer.

“Don’t you have babies at home to take care of? Not even two months after the birth of your second child and you’re already becoming an absent father.”

“Well, it’s likely only going to get worse from here on out,” he admitted with a resigned look, clearly wanting her to ask why but Pansy mentally refused. If she asked him about it, he’d stay longer and bore her to tears and Neville was too good of a guy to tell the Chosen One to bugger off so he could flirt with his girlfriend.

Pansy startled as the thought occurred, girlfriend . She’d just called herself Neville’s girlfriend. She’d just self-identified as being in a relationship with the snake-slayer himself. She’d just admitted to herself that this liaison was serious enough to warrant a label .

Neville appeared next to the booth as if summoned by her thoughts, smiling at them widely and nodding at Pansy’s side of the booth in question. She shifted wordlessly deeper into the bench seat so he could join her, and she was pleased when he leaned in and brushed a brief kiss across her cheek but refrained from laying his long arm along the back of the bench possessively. She always hated stereotypical claiming body language from male paramours and that Neville didn’t feel the need was incredibly enticing.

She had no compunction however and slid closer when he settled, pressing her knee against his thigh until he glanced over at her with a small smile and settled one of his large hands over it and turned his attention back to Harry. They were talking about people from Magical Enforcement, where Neville had worked for a couple years after school before moving back to Hogwarts to apprentice under Professor Sprout.

As he spoke his thumb slowly swept back and forth over the small hollow of her knee, a small callus on his finger catching on the thick tights and pulling a bit and she felt every small thread that snagged and seemed to reverberate through her skin and up to her throat. She was so caught in the movement, the slow sway of his finger, that she almost missed it when Harry spoke directly to her.

“I was telling Pansy that I’m probably going to be away from the house a bit more starting soon.”

“What’s hap-”

“Don’t ask him,” Pansy interrupted, elbowing Neville lightly until he winced playfully and laughed.

“Why not?”

“Then he’ll have to tell us the whole story and he’ll never leave,” she justified, side-eyeing Harry who was agreeably nodding at her claim.

“Harry,” Neville started, eyes locked with Pansy’s daringly even as he spoke to his friend, “What’s happening?”

“So I’ve been offered a promotion!”

“Oh, Merlin, they’re putting you in charge?”

“Congratulations,” Neville added, squeezing her knee lightly in his excitement. “When do you start?”

“It goes into effect next month, and I’ll have a steady schedule which will be nice but it’s longer shift hours than-”

He did in fact talk for another hour about it.

Pansy tried to be forgiving about him monopolizing her and Neville’s night because Neville was genuinely involved in the conversation, not just placating him as she would have. It droned on a bit, however, and when she yawned for the third time in ten minutes and let her head rest against Neville’s shoulder the two men seemed to realize that it was pretty late for her.

“Make sure you invite us to the party,” Neville reminded Harry, sliding out of the booth and grasping her hands as she followed. “I should get Pansy home, she’s got an early start.”

“All my starts are early,” she snorted, reaching for her coat but letting him assist her with putting it on. She enjoyed how precisely he moved down the front buttons, smoothing the lapels and pulling the hood up over her head before spinning his wand in a quiet warming charm that settled over her with a small hint of his magic.

“That’s true,” he conceded as he put on his own coat, not bothering to button it up. He reached over and shook Harry’s hand, congratulating him again. She only tilted her head and raised an eyebrow at Harry but his smile told her he knew that while she wasn’t happy for him (she really didn’t feel that strongly about his employment) if he was pleased then she was pleased.

They apparated to the point not far from her shop and walked the London street silently, hands twined and swinging softly in the night air. They paused outside her front door only long enough for her to unlock it with her muggle key before stepping inside in deference to the soft snow that was falling. It was likely to be the last snow of the year, sometime this month the weather would shift over to spring and then Pansy would finally feel like the world had shaken off the sleepiness of winter.

Neville usually exited before this point, leaving her flushed and aching on her front step. Tonight he stood in the shadowy interior of her bakery and didn’t seem to want to let her hand go, let alone leave her there in the dark.

She pulled him towards the back of the shop wordlessly, knowing he had no idea the door to her flat was just off the kitchen in a small entryway. “You should stay,” she decided impulsively, glancing at him beneath sultry lashes, thickened just so with a magical mascara.

“You’re awful tired and have to get up early,” he pointed out and even in the dark light of her kitchen she could see the blush rising up his throat and flooding his cheeks.

“I said stay, Nev, not shag,” she teased, pressing her back against the wall beside the door to the staircase that leads up to her flat. She leaned up and nipped lightly at his stubbled chin. “Maybe a bit of slap and tickle if you’re a good boy.”

He shifted against her and she felt him respond to the good boy comment and it felt like he was planning to be a very good boy, indeed.

“Are you sure?”

She bit her lip and slid from between him and the wall, pulling him up the stairs with a soft laugh. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Pansy was more sure of him than she’d been of any man, muggle or wizard, before. She’d never let anyone sleep with her in her bed, in fact had only allowed a few choice people in her flat for small things. Harry had been by several times, usually only when he was in trouble with his wife. Her mother had come for visits, meals or small interludes, before her portkey back. Augusta used her floo connection sometimes when the weather was bad.

It was her sanctuary. It was her safe space where she went to recharge after putting so much of her energy and care into the bakery; she’d crafted this environment as carefully and deliberately as she had the kitchen below.

He fit into the space like it’d been designed for him. She’d embraced an open airy space, minimal furniture, clean lines. She’d brought some of her deck plants inside for the winter, wasn’t inclined to maintain a warming charm up there, and the greenery livened up the sitting room and drew his eye. He didn’t comment though, really did no more than glance around before she was using her hold on his hand to pull him towards the bedroom.

“Do you sleep on the left or right side?” She asked coquettishly, magically sending their coats into the closet without breaking a stride. She laid the wand on the dresser just inside the door and finally released his hand, reaching for the bottom of her sweater and sweeping it over her head.

“Um, the right side,” he offered, nervously twitching his fingers and making no move to disrobe. “What side do you sleep on?”

She slid her tongue along her teeth in a mischievous smile, biting the tip before answering, “I usually sleep in the middle. I may get clingy in the night, full disclosure.”

He nodded slowly, smiling shyly but his eyes were shining with mirth. “I might get clingy too, it's been a while since I’ve slept with someone else.”

“I’ve never slept with anyone else, so you’ll have to tell me if I snore.”

It broke the tension that’d been rising and he barked a laugh, rubbing a hand on his neck tiredly before reaching for his shirt buttons. “I’ll just cast a silencing charm if you do.”

Pansy stepped closer as his shirt slowly opened, biting her lip as she tentatively ran her fingers through the light dusting of hair that was revealed. “Of all the things I was hoping you’d do to me, a silencing charm was not one of them.”

“All the things?”

“I have a list,” she tantalized, enjoying the way his hands gravitated to her waist after he dropped his shirt to the floor. They stumbled a bit towards the bed, clothing dropping off, but made it there without falling. “You don’t?”

Pansy had not had enough sleep for the momentous day she had ahead of her, but she still woke before her alarm that morning. Normally she’d get to her feet and start a strong batch of tea before heading downstairs but today she had every reason not to get out of bed.

Her bed was too short for Neville so he’d slept at an angle and in the night she’d curled her body into his chest, their legs slotted together under the blankets comfortably. She was still impeccably hairless and smooth on her legs, the charm lasted twelve hours, but it left her sensitive to the tickling sensation of the dark hairs on his legs as he moved in dreams. Pansy imagined that might have been what woke her before the alarm, she didn’t usually wake without prompting.

As if he knew she was preparing to get up, his arms tightened around her and shifted her somehow closer, which seemed hard to do given they were tangled so tightly. Pansy twisted until she could see his face and he looked so incredibly soft and warm against her white sheets she gave serious thought to sending Cecilia a note that she wasn’t feeling well and staying here with him, cocooned and satiated until the sun was high in the sky.

She wouldn’t do that, though, she had a business to run and Saturdays were a big revenue day.

She extricated herself carefully and left him sleeping. He pulled her pillow into the chasm she left behind and snuffled into it and she lingered in the door, the barest hint of sunlight creeping across the dark room.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she went back and brushed a kiss across his forehead, her fingers softly brushing a curl behind his ear. He slept none the wiser and she shifted her attention to the day ahead, dressing in the sitting room and casting a silencing charm between the bakery kitchen and the stairway upstairs in deference to his peaceful slumber.

She was elbow deep in laminating dough, flour everywhere because Cecilia had a clumsy moment and had dropped the container earlier, when she felt the charm shatter as he passed through it heading down. She glanced at the clock, it was only 6 a.m., still quite early though she was officially open already. Given how exuberant they’d played the night before, she’d thought for sure he’d sleep until mid-morning.

He was still blinking sleep from his eyes when he stepped into the kitchen, deliciously bare chested though his shirt was in his hand. “Good morning,” he greeted quietly, almost a whisper as he yawned.

“Good morning,” she greeted back, almost moving to kiss that drowsy look away but she was quite messy and in the middle of a task.

Cecilia popped her head through the door frame, bright eyed and a lot less flour-covered since Pansy had tasked her to run the front end. “Good morning, Professor! I didn’t know you were here!”

Neville’s eyes widened, startled out of the slow waking and pulled on his shirt lightning fast even as Pansy started to laugh at the blush that was spreading across his face. “Good morning, Miss Roberts.”

“Cece, back to the front please,” Pansy admonished, cutting a glance at the girl who knew exactly what she’d done. “You’re up early.”

“Used to it from the school year,” he explained, eyeing the empty doorframe suspiciously before coming over and kissing her in greeting. “I forgot Cecilia was going to be here.”

“I noticed,” she tittered, “too bad, I enjoy a bit of eye candy with my morning baking.”

“I’ll get out of your-”

“You’re not in the way,” she cut him off, pointing a flour covered finger at the stool on the other side of the island. “Sit down and I’ll grab you something to eat. What do you feel like? I made a Quiche Lorraine today and there’s chaussons aux pommes , you like apples don’t you?”

“I do, but I usually just have a smoothie for breakfast.”

“That doesn’t seem like very much,” she observed, quirking an eyebrow at him. “Especially given how much work you do in the greenhouses.”

He shrugged nonchalantly but she could tell from the lines around his eyes he was uncomfortable. “I got used to it. Hannah and I followed a pretty strict diet.”

“Well, you’re with me now, not her, and I’m going to feed you,” she decided, pointing at the quiche cooling on the corner. “If you don’t want heavy pastry, have some quiche.”

He mumbled a thanks and served himself a slice, tucking in with enough verve that Pansy could tell he had been hungry and was enjoying it. “If she’s such a health nut, I wonder why she serves such terrible food at the Leaky,” she muttered, carefully wrapping the now laminated dough to be returned to the fridge for twenty minutes before it’s last turning.

“It was more for me than anything,” he explained between bites, reaching over and snagging her half-drunken cup of tea and finishing it off.

“You like health food?” She asked through a look of confusion, none of the meals they’d shared had indicated a preference for such a thing.

He froze, clearly felt like he’d been put on the spot, before pushing the empty plate away and standing with a stretch. “Not really.”

She really felt like she was missing something. “Then why would you be on a diet, Neville?”

“You remember what I was like in school, I was pudgy. After I left the Ministry, I started putting on a bit of weight and Hannah said changing the way I eat would keep it off,” he explained, crossing his arms defensively.

Pansy was starting to get a picture she didn’t like. “Did you think you needed to lose weight?”

He shrugged again, “I didn’t really think about it.”

She took a breath and washed her hands as she thought of how to say the thought in her mind. Normally she was relentlessly direct but she liked Neville and was honestly still a little blissed from the two orgasms he’d given her five hours ago.

“You’re built like your dad, Neville,” she vollied, turning and fisting her hands on her hips, looking at him sternly. “I’ve seen the pictures, he was not a small man. You are not a small man, which I thoroughly enjoy by the way,” she added with a wink. “If you want to eat rabbit food and have no body fat, okay, that’s fine. But don’t do it because it will make your ex-wife happy. Do it because it makes you happy.”

He frowned and explained, “It wasn’t just about Hannah, Pansy. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Why not?”

“You’ve always been beautiful, able to get attention when you wanted it. Girls didn’t look at me at Hogwarts. Women only looked at me after I killed the snake and…looked like this.” He waved his hand towards his body, stretched out in all its lean lines against her counter.

“I will look at you,” she stated, crossing her arms resolutely. “No matter what you look like.”

“You say that now…”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” she filled the silence, stepping around the island until she stood in front of him, reaching up and curling her fingers in the nape of his hair and draping her arms around his shoulder. “And I’m telling you right now, if any other witches look at you, I’ll be clawing their eyes out.”

He beamed down at her and then impulsively brushed his nose against hers affectionately before sinking into her embrace, pulling her up the scant inches needed to kiss her fully.

Pansy broke the embrace and leaned back so her voice would carry. “Cece, you’re in charge today. I’m going back to bed.”

“You got it, boss!”

Neville didn’t toss her over his shoulder and carry her back upstairs, despite her fervent fantasies and how strongly she was telepathically projecting them towards him.

Instead he lifted her up until her legs wrapped around his waist and slowly ascended, nibbling on her neck as he went. And he only dropped her once.

 

The Ambling Ambiguity of Falling In Love
coldqueen5
Chapter 2: Interlude
Summary:
An in-between scene for the next one-shot...

Chapter Text

 

They learn quickly that it works best in bed if she’s on top.

 

Not that Pansy doesn’t thoroughly enjoy the weight of him on top of her, how protected and surrounded she feels when he’s fisted his hands in the sheets on either side of her and moves so intently.

 

Mutual satisfaction leaves their limbs weak and their breath caught in their throats and collapsing into the bed works best when she’s not being smothered by his broad chest post-coitally. Besides, she enjoys the skin contact; all that bare flesh pressed together, the contrast of his soft body hair against her smooth skin, the idle way he runs calloused fingers along her back as she lays her head on his chest, her own fingers spiraling through the lightly curling hair that covered his sternum.

 

That’s not to say he didn’t get his turn of being in control, he’d been known to seduce her in places other than the bedroom and those places always lent themselves more to his dominance instead of hers. She could safely say that she and Neville enjoyed a voracious and energetic romantic life that showed no signs of waning as their relationship aged.

 

The way he integrated into her life felt like a quiet keening, a need clawing at her throat that couldn’t be voiced but hissed into the air anyways. It was in the way she made him tea and left it next to his breakfast under a warming charm when she had to leave him in the morning. It was the hidden smile when she joined him and Augusta for afternoon tea and he casually reached over to pull her chair closer until their thighs were flush and he could rest his arm along the back of her chair, tugging lightly at a lock of her hair teasingly. It was how he would dance with her on the patio on nights when she felt melancholy, when the music was low and mournful, and the sky dark and lacking stars, her feet on top of his as they swayed slowly, and how she trusted him to be her comfort when she’d never let anyone be that close.

 

“You’re cooking?”

 

She didn’t take her eyes off the pan, poking at the sizzling contents with a moody pout. “I’m trying.”

 

She heard rather than saw him come over, his arms sliding around her waist as he rested his chin on her shoulder. “I love bacon.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Want me to take over?”

 

“Thank Merlin,” she exhaled, handing him the spatula. “If I get popped and burnt one more time I was going to evanesco the entire thing and we were going to the Wolseley.”

Neville takes over seamlessly, checking the bacon and the roasted potatoes easily; he was definitely the chef out of the two of them. Pansy’s diet had expanded since they’d started seeing one another, and she ate more vegetables now than she ever had before. It was only minutes later that he’d dished up the day-starting meal and hands full nodded towards the stairs so they could eat al fresco.

 

Pansy set down their tea and summoned napkins and cutlery, arranging them and nodding approvingly as Neville set down the plates, before also summoning a small vase and picking a daisy from her rooftop garden to place on the table.

 

It was a perfect morning; the weather of late spring was beautifully neutral, not too hot or too cold, and the sky was bright with light and no clouds. The bakery was closed so she had all day to do anything she wanted, and Neville had no plans except to be with her.

 

“Good morning,” he greeted sheepishly, leaning over and brushing a kiss across her cheek.

 

She turned her head and met his lips instead, smiling back. “Good morning.”

Notes:
I tried to handle the Neville body image issue as delicately as I could, but I am definitely one of those people who believes that popular media is rapidly catching up on causing body dysmorphia in men the same way it's spent centuries causing it in women. I really feel bad for Matthew Lewis the actor because he got pumped up so much by media for his "glow up", there's no way to keep up with those kind of expectations, it's unrealistic and damaging.

 

The Surprising Serenity Of Not Having To Say Yes
coldqueen5
Summary:
A series of one-shots around Pansy Parkinson's post-war life and how she finds herself entangled with the most unexpected people. Eleventh in the series...

Everything about it felt inevitable, and for a modern woman completely in control of her life, her business, her future, she was surprisingly okay with not being asked.

Notes:
(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

 

Pansy trailed behind him as he examined the gardens behind the manor, kneeling into the dirt regardless of the nice slacks he wore, and pulled weeds from between the beds with his bare fingers. They’d come today for a nice luncheon with his grandmother and Headmistress McGonagall, and left the two octogenarians cackling in the sitting room after too many mimosas.

“Was your grandmother this insistent with Hannah?”

“Yes,” he answered with a tight smile, shaking his head sheepishly. “I’m sorry if she made you uncomfortable.”

“Little makes me uncomfortable, Nev, I probably know more about your grandparent’s sex life than-”

“And now I’m uncomfortable.”

She snorted and reached over to ruffle his hair, conveniently in reach since he was kneeling and wrist deep in dirt. “It doesn’t bother me, I’m a modern girl, sexuality is a part of the world and there’s nothing wrong with talking about it, Dr. Ruth says so.”

“ We’ve never talked about it, though,” he pointed out, standing and brushing at his knees futilely. A quick swing of her wand set his clothing back to rights and he brushed a kiss across her cheek in thanks. “Do you want children, Pansy?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, running the pads of her thumb along the soft petals of a daisy. “I’ve never put much thought into it. Do you?”

“Want them? I’m not sure either. It’s always been, I don’t know, assumed I’d have them. Need an heir, and all that. Hannah wanted them but I guess it’s lucky we didn’t try since we divorced.”

“You’ve never told me why you two didn’t work out.”

“I’m surprised you don’t know, honestly,” he replied, linking their fingers and pulling her further into the garden, keen to show off all the beauty his hard work had grown. “When we got together, I was an auror and she liked it, liked that life, like being a peacekeeper’s wife. I hated it. She wasn’t happy when I quit to be a professor, didn’t want to live in Scotland, and we both realized that she didn’t really want me . She wanted the auror , the snake-slayer.” He hesitated before explaining, “It’s something I did. It is not who I am.”

She nodded slowly, before pulling him to a stop and wrapping her arms around his neck until he looked down at her. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“Are you staying here tonight?” He asked, gently bumping his nose against hers and that such a simple act of affection could make her breath stutter was something she’d never get a handle on.

“I was thinking I would, but that was before your grandmother tried to teach me a new contraception charm that was really a fertility charm. The counter-clock motion of the wand gave it away. I’m a bit worried the wards might respond to her wishes.”

“Pansy,” he gasped exaggeratedly, “We will not be having sex in the same house as my Nan.”

Her laughter echoed through the garden and she felt wonderfully happy and light when he picked her up and spun her around teasingly. “Is that a challenge, Longbottom?”

She was thinking of the carefree afternoon weeks later as she stared at the silhoette of Hogwarts warily. Neville was inside waiting, likely in the Great Hall since she’d promised she’d be there well before the dinner started so he could show her the greenhouse renovations he’d worked on all summer.

Today was the exact opposite of that summer day; the effervescent lightness of being in love and being surrounded by people she liked soured into a knot in her stomach as the overwhelming feelings of inadequacy that she’d struggled with so badly as a teenager choked her. She felt like that girl as she stood there, small and inconsequential and bone-deep mean, the urge to lash out and hurt someone before allowing anyone to know that she herself was hurting.

Pansy took a deep breath and looked away, brushing her hands along her robes and looking at the stylish but sensible boots she wore. The dark of the leather contrasted the brown dirt and grass of the path, and she focused there instead of on the castle ahead.

She exhaled and considered the black leather, the planes of grass that drifted to and fro against them, a bit of dew lingering on the leather before beading and sliding away.

She inhaled and could smell the pine of the surrounding forest mixed with petrichor. The morning’s rain had soaked into the ground but was threatening to come back around again, she could tell. Years of experience had her eyeing the low clouds over the mountain range across the lake and accurately predicting there was an hour or two before the storm front swooped down over them and opened up again.

She exhaled and closed her eyes, listening to the soft footsteps that came closer and recognized the firm cadence as that of her lover.

“I haven’t been back here in almost ten years.”

“I don’t think I knew that,” he admitted, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his face softly rueful when she opened her eyes. “You don’t have to come inside.”

“I want to come inside,” she admitted with a tight smile. “It’s your first year as a tenured professor.”

It was tradition that the teachers held a dinner the week before the school term started, inviting their spouses and having one last hurrah before the hordes of children descended on the boarding school. They’d eat, drink, and be merry; letting loose before all their focus shifted away from personal lives and their families back to Hogwarts.

Neville and Pansy were fast approaching their one year anniversary, and he’d asked her to attend with him. Her mouth was already forming the word no when she hesitated and forced herself to think about it.

Was her discomfort more important than Neville’s desire to have her there with him? It wasn’t just that this was the first time he was attending as a full professor, but it was also the first time he had someone to bring with him, even if he didn’t admit it. Pansy surmised from the timeline of his career that he and Hannah had already been separated by the time he was getting ready to start as an adjunct professor and thus he’d come alone, and had done so every summer since.

He’d asked her so casually, fingers entwined as they walked through the estate gardens, but she could feel that he held her hand tighter when he asked, the only betrayal of nerves she could find since he was looking away and into the distance when he asked.

It was easy for her to say yes at that point, to rub her thumb along the outside of his hand and reply imperiously, her nose in the air but her smile pleased as she focused on the fact that he wanted her with him.

“Take me to the greenhouses first?” She asked, holding out a hand and silently asking him to guide her. “We’ll work up to going inside.”

“It’s a plan,” he agreed, sliding his longer fingers into hers and tugging her towards the path that would take them around the castle. “Headmistress McGonagall has okayed linking the staff room floo to your flat…” he trailed off and grinned at her slyly before continuing, “-with conditions.”

“Oh, Merlin, do I even want to know?”

“She’s fine with it, but says she wouldn’t mind if appreciation was shown with a monthly delivery of palmiers.”

Pansy shook her head and laughed lightly. “Did she indicate a preferred flavor during negotiations?”

“No, but she did say not to let Cecilia make them. She says she doesn’t get the right level of crispness.”

“Cecilia does it perfectly fine, I’ve taught her how to make them myself.”

“I’m just passing the message,” Neville replied, swinging their hands in the air as they swung around the corner and came into sight of the greenhouses. “Ready to see my masterpiece?”

It really was a masterpiece, Pansy thought with wonder as he guided her through each room. Instead of a haphazard hodgepodge of plants coming together chaotically, or as Professor Sprout liked to call it “as nature intended”, Neville had filtered the plants through each house by their type. Green House 1 was full of native plants, perennials and trees, and he’s restructured the building to accommodate long term growth. The panes of glass and metal could be removed to allow the trees upward growth and he’d spaced them so that the native plants could be grown in the ground rather than pots, allowing for a more organic space that could better emulate foraging as their ancestors had done. There were no pots in Green House 1, just a long table along the center of the building that would be used for working with the ingredients. He explained that if all went well, within five years it’d be self-sustaining and would no longer need magical aid to flourish.

Green House 2 was for the tropical plants, and the charms mimicked the heat and humidity of the needed environment well; Pansy was sweating before she’d gone ten feet inside. The air was perfumed with the husky scent of flowers and the bright red blooms hovered at eye level and brushed against her hair as they wandered. There was more structure here than in the first, but he had tried to keep it as close to the natural milieu as possible, had even cast a charm on one of the walls to project a visage of a jungle stretching into the distance.

The third greenhouse mimicked cave like conditions, wet and dark with just enough sunlight coming through for photosynthesis, walls covered in mushrooms and algae, the leaves of the ground plants large and oversized as they sought out as much nutrients as they could. Roots cracked down through the darkness of the ceiling overhead and at a glance it looked like dirt, smelled like dirt, but she wasn’t certain how he’d managed to marry the earth and the structure she’d seen from the outside. He guided her further into the dark room and the sunlight faded only to be replaced by bioluminescent glow.

“What is that?”

“Worms from Australia on the walls. Firefly squid from Japan in the water. Hagrid is going to help me link this house to the lake so that I can expand, but we’re putting that off for next year,” he explained, slightly distracted as he studied the movement of the glow worms along the wall, “I think then I’ll add a lesson on underwater foraging. I spoke with Professor Flitwick about partnering during the bubblehead charm sessions.”

“This is beautiful,” she described, fighting the urge to touch the glowing creatures on the wall but knowing herself well enough to know she did not want to touch a worm even if it looked otherworldly.

Even in the oddly colored light she could see he was blushing. “Thank you.”

Afterwards he guided her towards the castle, hand resting on the small of her back, but Pansy noticed immediately he avoided the pathways the students used. Instead he led her to the teacher passages, routes through the school that required a professor to unward, hidden behind walls and paintings. He explained that it allowed them to move through the school with greater speed when needed, and that they patrolled the halls during the school year to keep an eye on the rambunctious kids, not out of necessity.

It was just what she needed to be reintroduced to Hogwarts.

Unfamiliar rooms and hallways, paintings she’d never seen before with people who waved a greeting but didn’t sneer, a smell from the stone that was more aged and stale than sour with teenage hormones and badly crafted potions.

They approached the door to the staffroom and she slowed until they walked side by side, Neville reaching over and casually pulling it open and allowing her to enter before him. She paused just inside the door and waited for him to join her, deliberately not meeting any of the eyes of her former teachers and the other strangers that milled about inside.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and they circled the table and ran straight into Professor Slughorn, who tilted his head in greeting and was clearly struggling to recognize Pansy, something which caused her to bristle considering she’d been one of his best students in her year. “Hello, Neville! And who is this young lady?”

“Hello, Professor Slughorn, this is my girlfriend Pansy. I’m surprised you don’t remember her, she was fantastic at potions when we were in school,” Neville complimented offhandedly, and she gazed at him a bit askance but flattered that he remembered.

“Oh, Miss Parkinson! Forgive an old wizard, my eyes aren’t what they used to be. You brewed the truly divine Mopsus Potion, from what I remember? Why, Sybil couldn’t stop raving about it for months afterwards, said she had some of the clearest visions in years when using it. Kept predicting my death, but that’s just like her, isn’t it?” Horace chortled, sipping at the ale in his hand before continuing, “I wrote you a recommendation for the Teutons Lehre program, how was it?”

“I wasn’t accepted, unfortunately,” Pansy explained but forced her smile to stay. “I decided to start my own business instead.”

“An entrepreneurial spirit, how wonderful! What do you do?”

“I run a bakery in muggle London,” she announced, back stiff and chin held just-so, defiantly.

“One of these days you should join Augusta and I, Horace. You’ve got a weakness for pastries, and Pansy’s are excellent,” the Headmistress offered as she joined them, her hands clasped in front of her even as she looked down on them all over the half moon of her glasses. “I’m glad to see you were able to coax her away from her kitchen, Neville.”

“Wasn’t as hard as you and Nan thought it would be,” he admitted, reaching over to the table and snagging himself an ale and summoning the hovering platter that held cocktails for Pansy to peruse. “I find that if I ask nicely, she’s usually pretty amenable to spending time with me.”

That was true so she didn’t bother to deny it.

She had a surprisingly good time that night. The few professors who remained from her time as a student didn’t make mention of any of her childhood mishaps, instead greeted her with fresh eyes and a willingness to let her be who she was now. Neville stayed at her side, introducing her with a proprietary hold and a proud smile and with each interaction she relaxed into it, into the role of his girlfriend, the witch on his arm, into the expectations that she’d be back, that she’d be even peripherally involved in the lives of the people in this room.

He escorted her home hours later, casting a spell to keep the rain off, and following her inside without comment. He settled into her home like he belonged there, the hook on the wall for his cloak empty and waiting, conjuring a glass of water for her bedside table because he knew she got thirsty in the middle of the night.

The side of the bed closest to the door was his, though in the mornings when she got up to start work she’d inevitably turn back and find he’d rolled into the warm hollow she’d left and was wrapped around her pillow.

Some mornings she lingered in the predawn light and embraced the surreality of the moment.

If you asked her she couldn’t explain how it happened, how they’d evolved so far from the cordial civility of their first post-Hogwarts interactions, how the sharp edges of her puzzle pieces made perfect sense with the gentle curves of his, and together they made a whole picture.

Even when they slept together, every movement felt natural and intuitive; she stretched while he curled around her, nuzzling the soft spot behind her ear before settling back into slumber, he rolled over and her back fit perfectly against the strong lines of his, her feet pressed under his thigh for warmth.

She woke up on Monday morning, the bakery was closed so she wasn’t urgent to rise, and rolled onto her back to gaze up at the streams of sunlight that stretched across her ceiling. She could hear Neville in the kitchen trying to very quietly make breakfast, giving away his plot with the soft clinks of silverway against plates as he worked.

Normally she’d get up and take over but today she was content to lay idle, her fingers tracing the folds in the sheets. She’d splurged on the Egyptian cotton and normally she loved the feel but this time they kept catching on her fingers, like she had a rough spot in her nails. She’d just gotten a manicure so that shouldn’t be it, and yet she felt the way the cloth stuttered across her skin.

With a maligned sigh she looked down at her hand…and paused at an unexpected sight.

Neville pushed open the bedroom door with a wide grin. “Good morning, beautiful,” he greeted, pressing a kiss against her cheek before settling a lap tray down across her legs. There were pancakes (slightly burnt), bacon (underdone), and freshly squeezed orange juice (a bit too much pulp left but she immediately forgave him). He slipped back into the sheets and settled next to her, reaching for the glass and sipping tentatively before nodding approvingly and handing it over. “I figured we’d have one last lazy morning before I’m confined back to the castle.”

“It looks good,” she complimented, reaching for the fork and spearing a bite of syrup soaked pancakes. He’d used strawberry syrup instead of the maple he liked, he knew she preferred the fruity version. He’d added a few fresh ones to the side of the plate, too, more for presentation than eating but it made her smile. “You’ve been very busy this morning.”

“You were sleeping pretty hard,” he replied, wiggling his eyebrows, “you had a few more martinis than you usually do with Professor Slughorn. What were you two talking about so intently?”

“The efficacy of potions when applied to food pre-cooking vs. post-cooking.”

“Poison?”

She thumped him in the arm. “Medicinal. Some potions are…truly nauseating. One of the theses I used to apply for potion programs after Hogwarts was an examination of new methods for delivering potions when the ingredients required caused…flavor issues. He remembered and was curious if I’d done any further study.”

“Have you?”

“No,” she shrugged, forking a bite and feeding it to him before continuing, “I’m busy enough with the bakery, and I don’t feel the need to pick up old projects.”

He nodded, sliding further into the bed until his head rested against her arm as he yawned and blinked slowly at the open window across from them. “I think we should stay in bed all day.”

“I second that idea,” she agreed, using her wand to shift the now depleted tray back to the kitchen before rolling to her side and resting her elbow on his chest as she looked down into his face. “Are we going to talk about this?” She rested her head on her hand, stretched her fingers and curled them along her cheek so that the newest addition could sparkle in the sunlight and catch his eye.

He reached over and ran a calloused finger along the round cut emerald, clearly admiring it. “I think it suits you.”

She hummed in agreement, but quirked an eyebrow at him. “Neville-”

“I didn’t want to ask,” he explained, his finger moving from caressing the ring to slowly sliding a strand of her hair behind her ear and falling back to his side. “I thought maybe you could wear it and see how it felt.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as you want to,” he clarified with a sheepish grin.

Pansy shifted so that she could lay her head on his chest, drawing her hands up so she could look at the ring on her left hand as well. “Okay.”

“If you really want me to ask-”

“Nev, don’t ruin the moment.”

 

Notes:
I knew August was going to be rough for writing, but even I didn't think it'd take me this long to get this put up. Sorry! Good news...next one-shot will be the last. I've been working towards the final scene for months now, laying threads and I hope this culminates in a way that you enjoy because I'm pretty happy with what I've done here.

 

The End
coldqueen5
Summary:
A series of one-shots around Pansy Parkinson's post-war life and how she finds herself entangled with the most unexpected people. Twelfth (final) in the series...

People liked to think of their life happening in chapters, the end of one is the beginning of the next, but to Pansy it felt like everything was intertwined, nothing ever truly ended, life just evolved into something different.

Notes:
(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

 

Harry thrummed his fingers on the tabletop, his eyes flicking down to her newly adorned finger every few seconds before coming back and meeting her eyes intentionally, pointedly.

Pansy sipped the last of her negroni and ignored him. She was perfectly content to watch the bartender flirt with the new server, a nervous younger wizard who fumbled the tray full of drinks when the man smiled at him flirtatiously. She watched her third negroni tip over the edge of the tray with a small smile and roll of her eyes before turning back to Harry. “Alright, go for it.”

“I’m so happy for you! How did he ask? When’s the wedding? He was so nervous about it, Ginny had to talk him down like three nights in a row-”

“Thank you,” she interrupted, smirking at the server who finally brought her a refill and sat it down with only a small spill. “The wedding is going to be at Longbottom House, they’ve got a ceremonial altar they’ve used for all family rituals going back centuries. Plan is to have it on the summer solstice and yes you’re invited.” She paused before continuing, “And he didn’t ask, he was too nervous.”

Harry shook his head, “Do you know how many times he practiced the question on me?”

She laughed loudly, drawing the gaze of several other patrons who had never seen the witch so expressive, “Why you, and not your wife?”

“I’m not letting another man propose to my wife, Parkinson,” he denied vehemently, finishing his ale and setting the empty glass down forcefully. “Got to have some standards.”

“But you let him propose to you?”

“Ginny is more secure in our relationship, pretty sure he won’t steal me away.”

That only made her laugh harder. “But it is possible?”

“Neville is…” Harry paused, squinting one eye as if trying to find the words, “very charming. And tall. Gin says he’s ‘a catch’.”

“Well, he’s mine now,” Pansy allowed, pushing her drink away half done. “Tell the mistress of the house not to show up at 6 a.m. tomorrow. Cecilia is too easily distracted and needs to focus before we open.”

“You’re not working tomorrow?”

“No,” she explained, standing and biting her lip before continuing, “I’m going to meet Neville’s mother.”

Even knowing the woman’s circumstances wasn’t enough to dispel her nerves, so when Neville reached over and tangled their fingers together as they entered the long term care ward at St. Mungo’s the next day she let him. Augusta walked ahead of them, barking questions and demands to the staff, showing her concern and care in overbearing actions rather than words, as was her way.

Neville led her to his mother’s space, it couldn’t really be called a room when the walls were made of hanging cloth. “Before my father passed, the curtain between their beds was left open. The healers said they slept better that way.”

She nodded that she’d heard him, she really wasn’t certain what to say or if the statement needed a response. It’d been well over a year since his father passed, but she knew for Augusta it was a loss she still felt keenly. Neville didn’t say much about it, having never felt like he truly had a father, but she knew he felt some kind of way about it that was not easily defined.

He took one of the two chairs in the space, using his hold on Pansy to draw her into his lap, leaving the second chair for Augusta. “Mom, I brought someone for you to meet. This is Pansy, she’s going to be my wife.”

Pansy smiled tightly, knotting their hands together on her lap as she studied the frail woman sitting on the bed, twisting a candy wrapper in her fingers. Alice didn’t respond to Neville’s announcement, instead delicately removing the candy from the paper and placing it in her mouth, her head turning away from them towards the softly moving cloth that separated her bed from the bed next door.

Augusta took a seat in the tense silence, huffing a dissatisfied sigh. “You’d think with how much money is subsidized for St. Mungo’s each year by the Wizengamot they could use some of that to improve the facilities. I’m going to demand an audit of the spending in the next session, mark my words. That board is full of old money wizards, I guarantee they don’t know half of what happens with the galleons sent here and they’re likely pocketing the other half.”

“Nan,” Neville interrupted, shaking his head minutely. “You complain about this every time we come, and you’ve never actually done it.”

“I’m going to this time, Neville,” she declared, removing her vulture hat and tossing it carelessly onto the bed. “Reprehensible treatment of heroes of the war.” She shifted her attention to Pansy, reading her discomfort in her stiff posture, and reaching over and patting her hand comfortingly. “Don’t be offended by her lack of response, Pansy dear. Alice has drifted only further away with Frank’s passing. I think we’re all surprised she’s still here; without him even the healers thought she’d go soon after. But, even in this state, she’s stronger than anyone thought.”

Neville muttered a profanity under his breath, pressing his head into her shoulder wearily, but Pansy was well-used to Augusta’s abrupt and sometimes tactless ways so she wasn’t put off by her words. “Well, I hope she stays around long enough to come to the wedding,” she pointed out, shifting so that she could wrap an arm around Neville’s shoulder and settle into a more comfortable position, shivering when he ran his nose along the curve of her chin affectionately.

“To the wedding?” Augusta responded with surprise. “You want her to-”

“Yes. It’s traditional for paebaek that parents are there. My father, clearly, won’t be able to attend, so I wanted to at least have the few parents we could have there.”

Neville swallowed heavily, gaze intense as he tilted his head so he could meet her eyes. “That’s the private ceremony where you’re welcomed into my family, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it takes place after the main ceremony. Anyone can attend that one, but for this one, it’s really supposed to just be the bride and the groom’s family but I want my mother to attend all of the ceremonies.”

Augusta frowned sympathetically. “I don’t know that Alice is going to be able to-”

“We’ll make it work,” Pansy interjected, her mouth set in a firm moue, “I want her there.”

Neville nodded his agreement, even if he didn’t vocalize, and his grandmother settled back against the chair and studied the two of them. She didn’t argue that Alice and Frank hadn’t attended Neville’s first wedding, Pansy already knew that. It’d been more an elopement than a wedding with very few people attending, but by its very nature Korean weddings were large and inclusive, there had never been a question for Pansy that Neville’s one remaining parent would be there.

The other great thing about Korean weddings? Everyone was invited.

Literally everyone.

“How are you going to feed that many people?”

“Buffet style,” Pansy answered, sliding the lemon pastry across the table to land in front of Ginny. “We’re honestly just lucky that my mother no longer associates with most of the Sacred Twenty Eight or we’d have had to invite most of them too. In Korean culture, it’s expected that the parents invite everyone they know, so most weddings tend to number in the hundreds. And the bride and groom have to greet them all personally,” she failed to hold back a cringe. “We’re not going that far, but Neville and Augusta like the idea of just inviting everyone and not having to figure out how to cull the list down.”

Ginny stuck her finger in the lemon cream slowly oozing from the pastry. “Wish I'd known about this when I married Harry, you can’t even imagine how many fights me and my mum had about the guest list. Harry is important, you must invite the minister! ” She pantomimed her mother’s nasally voice with crossed eyes, but moaned in pleasure as she tasted the treat in front of her. “Well, that is glorious. I’m going to need another one of these before I go.”

“It’s a lemon cream kolachi roll. You’ve been craving lemon things lately, I saved you a piece. One piece.”

“I might cry, are you going to make them again?” Ginny replied with a pout, tucking in with her spoon ravenously.

“I might be persuaded…if you tell me when you’re due.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking-”

Pansy arched her brow and sat back, crossing her arms imperiously. “I’ve been subjected to the whims of your pregnancy cravings off and on over the past five years. You think I don’t recognize when you’re up the duff?”

“Alright, alright…November. No worries, I won’t even be showing at your wedding. I’ll fit perfectly in the bridesmaid gown.”

“I’m not having bridesmaids,” Pansy retorted, smiling to herself as Ginny inhaled the lemon treat.

“Thank god for that. Harry was going to be disappointed if he didn’t get invited to be one.”

Pansy pictured him in a puffy pink dress and snorted. “The sad thing is you’re probably not lying.” She stood and dusted off her apron, gesturing to Cecilia that she’d be back to help out with the slowly growing line in a second. “With the way you’re eating, I’m gonna put a galleon in the baby pool. It's a girl.”

“What makes you think it’s a girl? And who the hell is running a baby pool? I swear if it’s Charlie, I’m going to-”

“For James and Albus, you did nothing but ate chocolate for 9 months. This time, you’re eating citrus like it’s going out of style. I literally had to order more lemons when you wiped out my lemon poppy seed scones last week.”

“I come from a family of sons, I doubt I’ll be lucky enough to get a girl on the third try,” Ginny groused, pushing her empty plate away. “I’m a boy mom, Parkinson, I wouldn’t even know what to do with a girl. I was barely a girl myself.”

“If you have a girl,” Pansy offered as she walked towards the counter, waving goodbye nonchalantly, “I might be tempted to hold it. Once. And only if it’s sleeping.”

A month before the wedding, her mother arrives in a whirlwind of activity, bringing with her Pansy’s wedding gown and a list of pre-wedding duties that she was insistent she ‘help’ with. Naturally she and Augusta conflicted at first, in that way that perfectly trained society ladies do. Polite barbs and sly witticisms that eventually segue into mutual respect and understanding; Soo-ah Parkinson liked Neville and thought he was an excellent match for her daughter, and likewise Augusta loved Pansy and thought that she and Neville made perfect sense, a much better pairing than he and his first wife.

“I’ve seen how he cares for her, perfectly solicitous and respectful. I doubt a wizard from my culture could do better.”

“She challenges him,” Augusta countered, sipping her tea and joining the other witch in watching Pansy as she was fitted into her gown. “She makes him better, that’s a woman’s place in the marriage. Not to be taken care of, but to compliment and further the family’s ambitions and fortunes.”

“If done right, why can’t it be both?” Soo-ah replied tartly, picking up her tea and arching a brow challengingly.

“Can you two stop sniping for even a few minutes?” Pansy demanded, running her hands down the lace of the gown and studying the lay of the fabric in the mirror. “What do you think?”

The hanbok was bright white, not the traditional red, but Pansy was trying to blend Korean and English tradition and she was honestly quite pleased with how this had turned out. The sleeves of the top were sheer, so not quite as modest as a traditional hanbok, and she even planned to remove it during the reception. Without it the gown would resemble a more modern wedding gown with spaghetti straps and a high waist, and she’d be far more comfortable if the weather got as hot as they were predicting.

“Where’s the veil?” Augusta demanded of the attendant at Madame Malkin’s, sending the witch scurrying through the doorway to find the accessory. The older women set the tea aside and came closer, studying the intricate detailing on the dress, the small pearlescent beads and delicately tatted lace, and the witch finally returned with the matching veil, sliding the comb into place in Pansy’s low bun and stepped back, spreading the veil out along her gown so it trailed off the pedestal.

“You look-”

“-beautiful.” Pansy’s mother finished, her hands clasped before her mouth, her eyes suspiciously shiny.

“Don’t cry,” Pansy told her, glaring at her lightly, still running her hands over the beadwork because she honestly couldn’t stop herself.

“ Ul-eodo dwaeyo. Je agiga gyeolhonhageodeun-yo ,” her mother said, and despite Pansy’s order a tear did in fact leak out.

“Not sure what she said, but me too,” Augusta added, smiling slightly as she reached over and patted the mother of the bride’s shoulder lightly. “Neville is going to swallow his tongue when he sees you.”

Pansy smirked, running her tongue along her teeth as she remembered the salacious lingerie under the gown and knew that if the dress failed to do so, then the wedding night surely would. “Good.”

It felt like time flew by, but less than a month later she was standing in one of the manor’s bedrooms and was back in the dress. She’d let her mother primp and pamper her all morning and had only just managed to convince her to let the stylist have a go at her own make-up and hair so she’d too be ready for the afternoon ceremony and give her a bit of peace. She’d be lucky if she got ten minutes of privacy before someone came in again.

Shuffling to the window, she pulled back the curtain and observed that Neville was in the garden directing elves, placing the chair and flowers in front of the oak tree where the public ceremony would be held. He’d thrown on his tuxedo pants but not the button up or bow-tie, and she was actually thankful for that because not even magic could get dirt completely out of a white shirt.

She didn’t even get ten minutes because seconds later she heard the door swing open and the quiet schnick of a camera shutter. She turned her head and furrowed her brows at the person standing there. “Did you just take a picture of me?”

“I did,” Harry acknowledged, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. “I’ve got something for you.”

“We said we didn’t want presents,” Pansy reminded him, releasing the curtain and turning back, crossing her arms sternly as she pursed her lips at him disapprovingly.

“It’s not really a gift so much,” he paused, “as a message. I know most women want their dads to be at their wedding, and it’s just not possible for you, so…I…” He hesitated, likely because the mention of her father had her arms falling to her side and a brief spasm of pain crossing her face. “I talked to your dad the last time I was in Azkaban.”

“And?”

Harry smiled and held up the camera. “He asked for a couple of favors, and I may not have the power to let him be here, but what he wanted I could do.”

“Of course he couldn’t be here, Potter,” Pansy scoffed scornfully, hurt metamorphosing into anger seamlessly. “Yet another consequence of his actions.”

“The first thing,” he continued, skipping over her ire like she’d not spoken, “was a picture. One of you that no one else would have, something just for him. If he’d been here…well I imagine this would’ve been the moment where you and he would have been together. Arthur made sure he and Ginny had some private time before the wedding started, I figure your dad would’ve been the same way. He also wanted me to give you this,” he held out a small folded note. “I had to read it, Azkaban-protocol for any written communications in or out, but I’m the only one.”

Pansy considered the paper in his hand, but it took a minute for her to reach out and take it. She turned away from him and held it for another minute or two without reading it. Outside the window she could hear Neville’s voice, deep and clear echoing across the patio, and then his grandmother’s shrill tones countering his request sharply and causing him to laugh. Even though she couldn’t hear what they were saying through the glass, knowing he was close was enough of a comfort that she found the strength to open the note.

I know you look as beautiful as I’ve always dreamed you would on your wedding day. I think not being there is the worst punishment I’ve had to endure. I love you, petal.

“Potter?”

“Yeah?”

“I need you to go get the stylist before I ruin all her hard work of the last few hours.”

“I can do that.”

The public ceremony happened with very few hitches, started a bit late, but the late afternoon sun dancing in beams through the leaves of the large oak tree was far more beautiful than the overhead sun would’ve been. Neville did not stutter or stumble on his vows like Harry and Ron had bet on, but Pansy did find herself tongue tied in the beginning. She found her place in seconds, but the blush that spread across her cheeks had Neville grinning and Harry snickering, though the rest of the audience didn’t notice her faux pas .

While the crowds enjoyed cocktail hour in the ballroom, because of course Longbottom House had a ballroom (it actually had two at one point, but Neville’s grandfather had converted the smaller one into an indoor pool back in the 60s), Pansy, Neville, and their family were in the Greenhouse performing the paebaek . It wasn’t anything particularly intense, and Neville did in fact carry Pansy to the second part of the ceremony on his back as was traditional. Augusta and Soo-ah laughed at the sight, and the mediwitch accompanying Alice tried to remain as unobtrusive as possible but the laughter was infectious and even coaxed a smile from Neville’s near-catatonic mother.

It was really more a glorified tea ceremony with how Pansy planned it, she didn’t want fake food or overly symbolic posturing and bowing. She really just wanted some private time with her family, new and old, to be together and to really feel the moment. She knew the rest of the night with the reception and the dancing and the cake and their friends and coworkers and Augusta’s Wizengamot colleagues and her mother’s extended kin from Korea was going to be busy and crazy and fun but exhausting.

So they took half an hour and it was just them. Instead of dates and chestnuts, Soo-ah and Augusta threw grapes for them to catch, Neville was better at it than she was, and she glared at her mother when she started to explain it was a prediction of how many children they’d have, because at the amount they did catch they’d be able to host their own Quidditch team and that was absolutely not on the table as an option.

Eventually they stood and joined the people inside and cocktail hour segued seamlessly into the English traditions, the cutting of the cake, the first dance. Pansy couldn’t dance with her father, and Neville couldn’t with his mother, so they skipped those traditions and instead just danced with each other.

Over time the crowd thinned out, the older attendees leaving the celebration to the younger, the music turned more raucous and the drinking continued steadily. Neville was crooning “I’m Yours” by Jason Mraz while dancing with Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, the three of them swaying in time while Ginny directed the media-witch to send her copies of all photos for blackmail purposes. Pansy slipped out the side door and found a quiet bench in the garden, thankful for the cooler air of the night as the continued movement of the friends inside had made the ballroom quite stuffy.

“I thought you could use a drink, Parkinson,” Harry offered, taking a seat on the bench beside her and handing her a glass. “Should I call you Longbottom now?”

“If that’s got gin in it, you’re officially my favorite Weasley.”

He snorted into his own drink, “Yes it’s got gin, and I’m not a Weasley.”

“You sure about that?” She asked over the rim of the glass.

“It’s been a good day,” he observed, leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees and stare into the distance with her. The garden was alight with fairies, their glow rivaling that of the stars in the sky above.

“It’s been a great day,” Pansy agreed, tilting her head back and looking up. “I like it here. You can actually see the stars.”

“You and Nev are moving in, aren’t you? I thought that’s what I heard Lady Longbottom say earlier.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty much all moved in. Neville is going to stay here most of the time but he’ll have to have a few overnight shifts a week at the castle during the school year. Should be fine, though, Augusta likes me more than him anyways.”

“You look happy,” he noted, smiling at her, clearly more than a little drunk. Ginny had told her he was drinking for the two of them since they’d not announced the newest Potter-in-the-making yet, so every time someone handed Ginny a drink, she’d passed it right on to the Boy-Who-Lived. “I’m glad.”

“I am happy,” Pansy agreed, finishing her drink and setting the empty glass on the ground. She stood and lightly tossed her head, imagining she was shaking off the doldrums that sometimes crept up when she’d been drinking.

“Pansy?”

“Be right there,” she called back to Neville, who’d poked his head out of the doors looking for his new wife. “Up you go, Harry, time to head back in.”

She grabbed his arm and turned him around, guiding him up the stairs and back to the party. His wife was waiting, and so was her husband, his hand held out and fingers wiggling because he wanted to dance with her at least a few more times before the night was done. “Harry?”

He blinked slowly, turned his head to meet her eyes. “Yeah?”

“My friends call me Pansy.”

 

Notes:
...nothing ever really ends.

Thank you for joining me in this adventure as I explored the what-ifs of one of my favorite characters. This started for me with the quote: “Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.” ― Bryan Stevenson

And so she was.

 

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