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Plants had their own language. A language that Neville Longbottom was quite fluent in. Neville had, by every standard, mastered the art of sending a message by sending someone a plant. For friends, he was thoughtful. For peers, the same. Except when someone bothered him. No he wasn’t easily bothered, but it did happen occasionally.
One night, he was out for drinks with the Gryffindor gang (as their group chat was called). He sat next to Hermione, who was by all intents and purposes the ANGRIEST he had seen her in years.
“I just can’t believe that PRAT had the audacity to make a comment on MY work,” she began, with a ruddy complexion and a spark in her eye. Neville hadn’t been paying close attention to her rant, but it seemed her ire was directed at Malfoy— their old school nemesis. Malfoy had just gotten a job at the same law firm that Mione worked at and had proceeded to tear Hermione’s sanity apart. The lads in the group had a silent bet as to when they would shag and get it out of their systems. For Neville’s part, he wasn’t going to speculate.
What Hermione did was her business. Nevertheless, he wished the best for her.
Soon the group became a healthy amount of sloshed. Harry, dashing as always, declared that he and Ginny were going to be heading out in a bit. Ron and Luna followed suit. That left Hermione and Neville to their own devices. She looked at Neville and said, “Care for another?” And that was that.
The two grabbed another set of lagers from the bar, and went to sit at the empty stools to the side. They discussed work (Neville’s was picking up with wedding season/Hermione’s with divorce season). They discussed books they’d read. They discussed everything to avoid the certain blond head that had sidled up to the bar near where they were sitting. Hermione pointedly did not look in his direction, so Neville followed her lead.
Eventually, their avoidance was broken by the man approaching the pair with a crew of his own in tow.
“Granger,” he started- looking only at her, “how is it that I’m out now looking to drown my week away and the biggest pain in my ass is sitting right here?”
Hermione gave him a look that pronounced she was not afraid of his irksome words. She leveled a stare of her own and said, “why ever would you think it was just you? I’m shocked, Malfoy! Couldn’t you tell I’m drinking to get rid of the thought of you?!” Hermione and Draco’s eyes were scorching into each other’s.
Neville glanced behind Malfoy to see two men and a woman making casual conversation. The men he recognized from school, friends of Malfoy’s but not unfriendly to Neville. The woman was someone he had hoped to forget. His childhood crush, Pansy Parkinson.
Pansy was not the kind of woman who could be trifled with. She was beautiful, with dark shiny hair and piercing eyes. Whoever she directed a glance at was at the receiving end of an ocular undressing— if there ever was one. Currently, her eyes had moved to Neville.
Blue eyes seeped into brown. Pansy narrowed her eyes, and opened her mouth to speak. “Alright there, Longbottom? It’s been some time.”
“N-Nice to see ya Pansy. Didn’t think you’d remember me,” Neville said. He had a million thoughts running through his head, but the main one was how?! How had she remembered who he was? He had filled out quite a bit since his boyish days at Hogwarts Prep, now taller and broader with no baby fat. He surmised that she had made a guess. That had to be it.
“I definitely remember you,” she kept his stare. “You like plants.”
Of all the things to remember him for, Neville thought that this was at least appropriate. “Yeah I do,” he smirked. “I made a career out of liking them.”
“Did you now?” Another voice chimed in. Blaise Zabini. Friend to Malfoy, heir to some winery in Italy.
“I did— I’m a florist,” Neville responded. He was confident in his line of work, not easily undermined by other men who found it unmasculine.
“Ah that’s excellent! You’ve got to tell me where your shop is— I’ve got many a lady to buy flowers for,” Blaise waggled his eyebrows.
“Piss off,” Pansy glared at Blaise, pushing closer to Neville with her back to Blaise and Theo. Hermione had gotten off her stool and was fully entranced by Malfoy. They were still bickering, but the softness in their eyes gave off an air of something— else.
Pansy hopped into Hermione’s abandoned stool and looked back at Neville. He was fully smiling now, surprised and interested by this turn of events.
“So you know what I do now. What do you do?” He said slowly. He was hoping to know who she was now, not just the girl he idolized.
“I’m a wedding planner,” she told him. “I’m kind of shocked I haven’t worked with you before if you’re a florist.”
“Ah, my shop is a recent thing. I used to work for another company but I needed my own space,” he replied.
“So you made yourself a space.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m impressed! That’s a major accomplishment,” she said with sincerity.
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
“But now I hope you know this means that I’m going to be pestering you for flowers for my clients,” she warned. “I can be very persuasive when I want something done right.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he said, his expression sobering a bit. He wanted to make sure that they ended the evening with at least a phone number exchanged.
They settled into a conversation about their lives. What had happened since graduating school, university.
It was fascinating to Neville that the two had so much in common. Both trust fund babies, both essentially parentless. Neville’s parents had died when he was young and Pansy’s had ignored her her whole life. As they talked it became clear that there were more similarities between the two than differences. They ordered one last round and noticed that the group that they had been surrounded with had dispersed. Suspicious, considering Neville was supposed to have walked Hermione home.
As they neared the end of their beers, and the conversation had mellowed Neville took a stab at what he wanted.
“Are you seeing anyone right now?”
“No,” she said softly. “Too busy.”
“Same here,” he agreed.
“Are you planning on asking me out?”
“That obvious, am I?” He was grinning.
“Yeah you’re just a man of mystery,” she punched his shoulder gently.
“Not as mysterious as I would have liked, for you to have figured me out so quickly,” he said.
“Please! I knew you had a crush on me in school. How do you figure I would’ve remembered you from then? I had a crush on you too.”
“But— I thought you were with Malfoy.”
“I was.. but can’t you tell where his true allegiances lie?” She questioned.
“I can now,” Neville’s eyes met hers. He was going to make a move— he had to.
She placed a hand on top of his. “It’s time to head out,” she said.
“Alright, lead the way,” he said.
That night concluded with Neville drawing Pansy in for a brief hug as they reached the bus stop. Neville, ever the gentleman, offered to pay for Pansy’s fare but Pansy didn’t accept. She was independent and always paid her own way.
As Neville unlocked the door to his flat, he realized one gaping problem: he hadn’t gotten her number. Of all the forgetful things he’s done in his life (he’d done a lot) this was one of the worst. What was he to do?
Shooting Hermione a message the next morning, he was hoping for a miracle. Or at least for the world to throw him a bone.
Hermione responded with several question marks and said she didn’t have Pansy’s number but Malfoy did. Neville sent him a more terse-than-he’d-have-liked message asking if he’d send him her number. Draco, the cad, said he couldn’t do that. Pansy had standards, you see. She wouldn’t be wooed with a mere message.
Neville huffed at his phone, but quickly recovered. He figured out an in. When he got to work on Monday morning, he called up one of his party planning contacts. She told him she knew of Pansy’s company— it was a formidable one in the industry.
Her work address scribbled on a note pad near his work computer, he planned his attack.
Pansy was a particular person, so only particular flowers would do. A cluster of white Asters for his feelings, coupled with white carnations and calla lilies for today’s bouquet. He thought he might know her now, so he figured it wouldn’t take just one bouquet.
On the card he fastened to one of the blooms he wrote ‘I’d like to learn your language.. would you care to learn mine?’ He didn’t sign the card. Sending the flowers off to be delivered, he resigned himself to waiting.
Throughout the course of the week, he continued to send her bouquets of varying size and color. Flowers that signified his sorrow at not being able to contact her, flowers that showed he cared. Flowers that led up to a bountiful bouquet that Friday- the culmination of his efforts.
A bit of white jasmine, tulips, and lilies. At the center, some full carnations and alstroemeria. He hoped that this one would work.
Sitting back after sending off his delivery person, who’d had a smug look on his face, Neville waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, about two minutes before the shop closed, the bell signaled someone stepping inside.
Neville looked up to see the person who’d been giving him grief the whole week past: Pansy Parkinson.
She looked a little bit bewildered for someone who’d specifically walked into a shop. She made her way to the counter, and looked Neville in the eye.
“Hi,” she began. “I got your flowers.”
“Yeah? What do you think?”
“I think I’m angry that I didn’t get your number after last weekend. I think I’m angry that now I have to explain to my coworkers who the flowers have been coming from all week. I-I think I’m especially angry that I don’t know how to speak your language yet,” she began to get red in the face— embarrassed at her own show of emotion.
Neville stood a little straighter and leveled her a stare that he hoped packed the heat she had been making him feel.
“I am sorry that you’re going to have to explain this to your coworkers. Truthfully, I didn’t think of them in my single minded pursuits. I am glad you came to find me, because my next step would have been to come find you. And… I’d love to teach you my language— but you’ve got to teach me yours.”
“Mine?”
“Yes, yours.” He was surprised she hadn’t caught on yet. As fluent as he was in a few spoken languages, a few unspoken— he hadn’t learned Pansy yet. That was what he looked to correct.
“Oh, okay,” she said softly. Her body had moved closer to the counter, her eyes entranced by his. She moved her fingers toward his, gently placing her pinky on top of the back of his hand.
He flushed a bit before he spoke. When he did, it was simply this: “It’s a way of speaking, you know. With plants. Each flower has a meaning— some more important than others. I’ll teach you them… if only you let me learn you.”
Her only response was to lean into the counter, raise her hand to pull down his neck, and push her lips into his.
From there, his response was instantaneous. Hands tunneled their way into her hair, and his kiss turned hungry. Their mouths met, and it was as if the world had spun on its axis. Neville released his hold on her only to make his way around the counter, and drew her into his arms.
They kissed again and again. Making up for lost time, yet no amount felt like enough. Their tongues slid along each other’s and their breathing became heavy. When they finally broke apart, her eyes were glazed and he assumed his fared the same.
Neville said the only thing left in his head beyond kissing her lips, “Can I have your phone number?”
She smiled, and went on her tiptoes to place her lips on his. “Yes Neville. You can have my phone number.”
With promises to text each other, and a newfound closeness- Neville Longbottom was happy.
And so was she.
Fin