Work Text:
1998
September
It isn’t crying if your eyes don’t leak, and Pansy presses the heels of her palms against them so they won’t.
They're crying, in the Great Hall, all of them.
Mourning their losses together.
Taking comfort in one another.
The greenhouse is shadowed and quiet, and she's alone, pressed into the very darkest corner she can find.
She doesn’t know he’s there until he touches the back of her right hand with a fingertip.
“Tea?”
The cup he offers is hot and milky and slightly sweet.
“Why aren’t you in there, Longbottom?”
“I wanted to be alone."
His eyes are steady. Alone, not hiding. He's someone who will never hide from anything again.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” she says.
“Don’t be.”
October
They leave messages on the chalkboards:
SLYTHERIN SCUM
It’s the younger ones, oddly, the ones who weren't there.
They think they're clever.
The rest simply don't speak to her more than they need to.
She comes here often. She knows nothing about the plants, but likes the humidity.
“Had your fill of Halloween Feasts?”
He always offers the same chipped cup.
“I don’t belong in there,” she says.
He shrugs.
“Then you can belong in here.”
November
She’s forgotten her sweater, and even in the greenhouse, she feels cold.
She won’t see him. Not today. They’re all down at the pitch, cheering.
Escaping.
She curls up on a bench, and shivers.
She wakes to fingertips on the back of her wrist.
“Who won?” she asks, rising through the cotton wool fog of sleep.
“We all did.”
She looks at her bitten fingernails.
“Not all of us.”
“We all did,” he insists.
December
She doesn’t find him immediately, and panics.
He’s watering a plant with glossy leaves and flowers the color of tangerines.
“Here,” she says.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
It’s a scarf, in red and green Tartan.
“Thank you,” he says, warmly, in surprise. He wraps it around his neck.
“I’ll see you. When we get back,” she says.
“Of course.”
“Happy Christmas.”
He hands her a tangerine-colored bloom.
It smells like honey.
January
He’s organizing packets of seeds at a long wooden table when she discovers that she wants him.
It ignites so suddenly inside her that she gasps.
It’s his hands, careful and patient, and the way his face looks when he’s content.
She gets up from her cup of tea and walks out without saying a word.
February
“Are you going to the Valentine’s dance?” she asks.
He pauses at his work.
“Oh. I haven’t thought about it.”
“You’re not going to ask Hannah?”
“Hannah?”
“Well?”
“Am I supposed to ask Hannah?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well,” he laughs. “I’m not.”
“Oh.”
He looks at her while he measures out a litre of vermiculite.
“Would you like to go?” he asks.
“No.”
“Alright.”
March
Perched on the edge of the work bench where he’s repotting starts, she pulls the hem of her skirt through her fingers.
“I was awful,” she says.
He stops what he’s doing and looks up.
“A bit,” he says.
“To you.”
“Sometimes.”
“I did some terrible things.”
“You did.”
“Why are you kind to me?”
He wipes his brow with his sleeve.
“I suppose it’s who I am.”
“It is.”
“And those things are not who you are.”
She presses her hands to her eyes.
April
He’s already gone by the time she makes it to the greenhouse.
There’s a botanical drawing on the bench.
It's a pansy, indigo and pale yellow blooms on cream-colored parchment.
It’s exquisite.
He’s written something on the back.
“For my Pansy, in case I miss you. See you when we get back.”
May
He’s in the garden showing first years how to harvest poppies into long woven baskets and bring them inside for sorting.
His dark hair is lit by the sun, and his skin is flushed. He's smiling, and his mouth is so kind.
I love you, she thinks.
I love you.
June
She goes to the Leaving Feast, and cheers for Gryffindor when they win the House Cup.
Neville is smiling, and she wonders when he grew to be so beautiful.
I love you.
I’ll miss you.
I love you.
She never asked him where he was going next.
She can go anywhere she wants, and she has a handful of loose plans that she doesn’t care much about.
Later, in the height of the afternoon, the greenhouse is washed in sunlight.
There are no dark corners.
She presses the heels of her palms to her eyes.
She doesn’t hear him, and the touch of his fingertip against the back of her hand surprises her.
“Why are you crying?”
“I’m not.”
He waits.
“I’m in love with you,” she says.
When he kisses her, with his kind and gentle mouth, everything is light.