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Pansy looked down as she unbuttoned her blouse. Thankfully, she was wearing one of her better pieces of lingerie because she couldn’t be bothered to traipse all the way back to the dungeons to change (couldn’t they have made some way to get around this damn castle faster?). It wasn’t hard to make the uniform sexual, but it was difficult to do it with subtlety — and subtle, Pansy was anything but.
She fluffed her hair a bit, slightly grown from her typical bob. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with it yet, but something different… she’d been trying to pave a new path for herself this year. Choices as meaningful and meaningless as her hair had been made on her behalf for her entire life.
But it didn’t come without consequence. Her parents had cut her off — now daughter in name only. She was no longer receiving her allowance, and the pittance of savings she’d had when the school year started had nearly disappeared. And now, she had papers and practicals stacking up and no way to release the tension she so desperately needed to.
If it had been fifth year, she could have fucked Draco. Or sixth year, she could have gotten drunk with Daphne down by the lake. But it was eighth year, and she was alone. The only returning Slytherin. Everyone else had fucked off after the war to bigger and brighter things (read: abandoned her) or in Draco’s case, was sitting in his manor on house arrest.
Pansy was alone. She was stressed. She was broke.
And desperate times called for desperate measures. She glanced back down at her tits — gorgeous as usual — and held her head high as she opened the door to Greenhouse Seven.
The interior of this greenhouse was just as bright and beautiful as the atrium had been, plants she barely recognized stuffed into every corner of the room, green shouts of joyful abundance. It would be difficult to look away, if her eyes weren’t so drawn to the tall, broad chested man in their midst.
She was taken aback, as she always was, upon seeing Neville Longbottom.
The boy she had once relentlessly bullied for — well, what hadn’t she bullied him for? — was now… this heavenly?
He was godly — some combination of a newfound divine masculinity and the cherubic goodness of the boy she’d known for years.
Pansy approached him slowly, still unsure which tactic was best. Her attire was set to her most successful mode: seductress. But she was unsure that it would persuade him, especially as she watched him work in quiet confidence, unflappable since he slayed that snake.
She caught his notice before she’d made up her mind.
“Pansy,” he said in greeting, a friendly lilt to his voice that was present in his every interaction. “Surprised to see you here, you haven’t taken Herbology in years.”
“I’m not here for the plants,” she said, latching onto his opening with no other recourse. “Not the legal ones, at least,” she added, allowing her red lips to curl into a smirk she’d been told was quite tempting.
The flush that immediately rose in his cheeks made her think she may have succeeded in tempting him, but he recovered quickly, not even a stutter.
“Madame Sprout strictly adheres to Ministry regulations.” He focused on the plant in his hands, forearms flexing as he patted the soil.
“Mmm. Word is, Madame Sprout is passing on the reins to someone a bit less… rigid…” she said, unable to keep her gaze from lingering across his soft belly and pillowy chest. Salazar, his bicep was the size of her thigh. Under the guise of perching on the edge of the potting bench, she rubbed her thighs together. When she looked back at him, his eyes were already on her.
Pansy didn’t back down from a challenge but she knew how to play coy, and she had not yet achieved her goals. Maybe seduction could work on Longbottom after all.
She gave a flirtatious flutter of her eyelashes before glancing away and back up at him.
He was unfazed, save a deepening ruddiness at the center of his cheeks that his otherwise confident facade belied no awareness of. He continued fussing with the plant, lifting it and turning toward her.
“That’s all you’re here for then, flower for a flower?” he asked casually, the golden timbre of his voice drifting across the sun dappled tentacles of the plant.
She’d heard plenty of jokes about her name over the years, crude comments about ‘plucking her pretty petals’ and snide remarks about her ‘wilting disposition.’ But there was no joking, or cruelty, or even teasing to his tone.
Pansy found herself nodding and words were spilling forth before she realized what she was doing.
“Yes, I’ve been stressed these last few weeks and I just need…” she hesitated, realizing who she was talking to. No way did Longbottom need to hear about her misery. “Do you have it or not?” she clipped, looking away from his bright green eyes and to the plant of a similar shade.
“I do,” he said steadily, looking directly at her when she glanced up again before staring resolutely back at the plant. What the hell was he doing — being seductive was her move.
“How much is it?” she asked, fully prepared to fork over her last few sickles for some relief. He continued rearranging the plant and she couldn’t help but let her eyes drift across his face, cheeks sun kissed and freckled, making his normally pale complexion radiant. Blonde locks curled at the edge of his forehead, slightly damp with the humidity and warmth of the greenhouse.
“Is it what you need?” he asked, glancing down to catch her looking again as he carefully set aside the plant he’d been working with. She hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Then it’s on me,” he said simply, pulling his Dragonhide gloves off one finger at a time.
Pansy couldn’t look away as thick, capable fingers were revealed, pink and slightly clammy from their time confined. They were cleaner than she’d expect for his craft, though she supposed that was the purpose of the gloves. Still, a part of her desired to see his hands caked in soil, crescents of dirt beneath each nail and between each knuckle, a dark contrast to the pink nubility of his palms. A deeper part of her wanted those thick soft fingers to part her lips —
The hands disappeared for a moment behind his back as Neville untied his apron and lifted it from his head. He pulled his wand from the pocket before depositing it on top of his gloves in a pile on the table. Then he reached one hand into his trousers — had he always worn them so fitted? — and pulled out a metal cigarette case.
She kept watching, absolutely entranced as he deftly pulled a pre-rolled joint from the tin (magically expanded, she suspected) and brought it to his lips.
She was almost disappointed that she didn’t get to see those deft, sure fingers rolling the paper, twisting the end, his tongue flicking out to seal it closed.
He lit the tip of his wand, lifted it to the end of the joint and inhaled, and she was suddenly grateful for the pre-rolled joint and every other minor convenience that had brought this moment to the fore of her life sooner.
Neville’s eyes drifted shut as he held the inhale, flecks of gold shimmering in his lashes as a haze of smoke floated around him.
He opened his eyes, half lidded, and stepped forward until he was in her space, standing in front of where she was still perched on the table, still as stone. She inhaled a shaky breath, remnants of smoke crawling across her lungs, not enough to give her relief. He planted his legs on either side of hers, thick as tree trunks; a warm pressure against her own as he leaned forward.
The gentle cradle of his fingers balanced the joint, bringing it up to her mouth a moment later, never breaking eye contact. Time stretched like syrup, warm and thick as she waded across the hairsbreadth chasm remaining between the joint and her lips. A shiver ran down her spine as her lips brushed the backs of his fingers when she closed them on her inhale.
Smoke swelled to fill her lungs, burning deliciously. It wasn’t just the after-effects of the drug that she loved, it was the method of consumption. She closed her eyes as the searing warmth in her chest grounded her, the press of the joint against her lips soothing her oral fixation.
Neville pulled his hand away in the same moment the delicious pressure of his thighs left her.
It made her cold.
Pansy released the smoke through the seam of her pursed lips as gracefully as she could manage. When she opened her eyes, Neville’s own were closed as he took his own drag. She let her gaze linger on his chest as he sucked in the smoke before blowing it out of the side of his mouth.
She couldn’t decide what to look at: the charmed smoke, curling in delicate tendrils like vining plants growing outwards; Neville’s lips, salmon tongue swiping to wet them; his outstretched hand that dwarfed the joint that was the size of her pinky.
She took it and pressed it to her lips, but her eyes stayed on him a beat too long, and he noticed her watching. But then his gaze lingered, first on her eyes, then down to her lips, then dancing down her throat to her collar bones and coming to a halt on her half-bared chest.
Pansy inhaled deeply, allowing her chest to expand and causing the lace to shift against her breasts. He deliberately brought his eyes back up to meet her own before reaching to take the proffered joint.
His gaze was too assessing, and she bristled.
“Do you have opinions about my attire, Longbottom?” she asked, trying to summon her most take-no-shit attitude from the depths of wherever it had run off to.
“I know better than to have opinions on a witch's wardrobe,” he chuckled, smiling softly as he took a puff.
“Fine, no opinions. Feelings then?”
“Plenty of feelings.”
He passed the joint back and didn’t speak until she was mid inhale.
“Respect…” he said, eyes on hers, “Fear…” his gaze dropped back to her mouth, “Desire…” his eyes swept down her body.
Pansy pulled the joint away from her lips, keeping her eyes on his, watching as they stalled on her stilled chest while she held her breath. The smoke began to make her head feel fuzzy and she let it out through a sharp purse of her lips that Neville’s eyes tracked next.
He took the joint from her fingers, already burned halfway through. She still had several more minutes with him — her last opportunity to satisfy her curious mind. Pansy wouldn’t be calling on Neville again; she never accepted a favor twice.
“And what does the great Neville Longbottom desire?” she asked, watching as his throat bobbed on his inhale.
He released the smoke with a chuckle. “Oh, a lot of things. For this little Flitterbloom to grow large and healthy…” he smiled fondly, gesturing with his free hand to the plant he’d been working with as his other passed the joint back to her.
She felt the warm brush of his skin as she took it, hardly any of the burned-down length free between his fingers for her to grab on to. Thoughts of what those large fingers would feel like in other places came to mind, but she pushed them away with the help of the drugs.
She raised an eyebrow in response to his supposed ‘desires.’
“What else?” She brought the joint back to her mouth, inhaling more slowly this time and feeling the burn of the cherry now closer to her lips.
“The Herbology position…” he continued, gesturing adoringly around the room at the plants.
That was old news. Pansy pursed her lips as she held out her hand. He took the joint back, touching her fingers again.
“A nice bed of flowers in the garden of my parents’ old cottage…” he said, looking back at her eyes as he lifted the joint back to his mouth. “And… more than anything…,” he began before taking a drag.
How was he like this — so sinful to look at and yet so thoroughly wholesome? She held the smoke in her lungs, savoring the feeling of fullness, determined to remain unaffected by his… everything. He released his drag, the remnants of it blowing into her face, making the air between them thick with haze.
“...More than anything, I want your pretty little petals wrapped around my—”
Pansy choked on the smoke.