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The air was heavy with the taste of oncoming rain; the kind of muggy, metallic tang that clung to the back of your throat before a storm. Not the rich, earthy scent of rainfall after the fact, but something sharper and more electric. The sky remained deceptively bright, though the horizon above the Dark Forest was smeared with bruised, purple clouds.
Gravel crunched beneath Pansy’s Mary Janes as she hurried away from the castle, her fingers clenching and unclenching rhythmically at her sides. She hiccuped a breath, trying to swallow down the sob clawing its way up her throat. Pull it together, she scolded herself, with sharp impatience. Funny how, at moments like this, the voice in her head always took on her mother’s pitchy hiss.
She’d just passed the greenhouses when she stopped short, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. The pressure didn’t help, she still couldn’t breathe properly. It felt an awful lot like everything was pressing in on her, the air thick with heat and summer humidity. Her hand flew out, grasping blindly for something solid, and found the wrought iron fence that ringed the vegetable patches.
Then her knees gave out.
Her hand slid down the metal, her body folding with it until she landed hard on the ground, spine braced against the cold bars. She curled in, drawing her knees up, palms still over her eyes as she tried to focus on her breathing.
In through your nose, out through your mouth. Her dad used to say that, slow and steady, like it was a spell that always worked. He’d murmur it gently whenever she spiralled as a child, going red-faced and furious over some forgotten slight. In through your nose, out through your mouth; like calming down on the edge of a meltdown was the simplest thing in the world. But it wasn’t simple now. The harder she tried, the more the sobs pushed back, rising like a tide she couldn’t hold back.
With a frustrated cry, she flung her hands out either side of her hips and immediately hissed in pain. A sharp, tingling jolt snagged at her thumb. Blinking through watery vision, she looked down to see her hand brushing through a dense cluster of stinging nettles.
The tears stopped, just like that.
Her breathing still came in hiccups, but she stared at the reddening skin on her thumb with something like detached curiosity. She hadn’t been stung by a nettle since she was about five years old.
There was a sudden clatter and a grunt as the greenhouse door swung open with a bang, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone struggling. Neville Longbottom came bumbling out, arms full of overgrown potted plants; an awkward jumble of tomatoes, sunflowers, fanged geraniums, and what looked suspiciously like a cranky young mandrake. Pansy sniffed, blinking the tears from her lashes, and watched as he noisily stumbled into view.
The mandrake’s tall stem caught on the top of the doorframe, yanking him back a step. One of the pots tumbled from his grip and hit the stone path with a spectacular crack. The terracotta shattered messily, spilling soil and half-grown tomato roots all over the paving slabs.
Neville swore softly under his breath, already crouching to lower the rest of the plants to the ground and start gathering the mess. It was only when he looked up— muddy hands halfway to the broken shards— that he spotted her across the vegetable patch.
He straightened slightly, brushing a strand of hair back from his face with the back of his wrist and streaking his forehead with dry soil. He’d grown his hair a bit longer since the war, though Pansy suspected it wasn’t a deliberate choice and more a result of his forgetfulness to get it cut. And now it fell in soft, unruly swoops over his forehead, like he didn’t quite know how to tame it. He was wearing a cardigan with worn elbow patches and corduroy trousers in a faded, dusty shade of green. The cardigan stretched slightly across his shoulders when he moved; he’d filled out a surprising amount over the past year. Now, he harboured that quiet, functional kind of strength which was annoyingly quite attractive, his chest broad and shoulders well-defined, even through the woolly fabric.
Neville gave her a mild, slightly confused smile. Then a small crease formed between his brows, eyes dropping in a very unsubtle manner down her body as though he half-expected her to be bleeding out. “Are you alright?” he mumbled, still crouched over the shattered plant pot.
Pansy held up her thumb in response and shrugged limply. “Nettles.”
She wasn’t sure why she’d said it, and cursed herself internally for sounding so pathetic. She should have just shrugged him off and gone back inside.
Neville stood, brushing his hands off on his trousers, leaving twin streaks of dirt down each thigh. “Ah— sorry,” he said, already striding towards her. “I’ve been meaning to clear those for weeks. Is it bad?”
She swiped a lingering tear from her cheek and shook her head, forcing the words out despite the tightness in her throat. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
But her voice caught slightly on the last word. Neville’s frown deepened with something startlingly close to authentic concern.
“I’ll get you a dock leaf,” he said, already hopping over the railing with energetic ease.
She blinked. “What?”
He crouched again, this time beside her, rifling through the foliage with purposeful hands. Pansy pushed herself up from the ground, hastily dusting her skirt off and wiping at her face, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Of all the people to catch her crying in a heap by the bloody potato beds.
Her brows pinched as she watched him, her usual snippy tone returning like nothing had happened. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for dock,” he replied without looking up, his voice light and matter-of-fact.
She frowned harder. “What, like a Healer?”
He let out a soft snort. “No. It’s a leaf. Rumex Obtusifolius. Bitter Dock. Helps soothe nettle stings.”
“Oh,” she muttered, heat prickling higher along her cheeks.
A moment later, Neville reached into a patch near the nettles, ripping a large, flat leaf free from the stem. It was ragged at the edges and dotted with tiny holes where slugs had nibbled at it. He pivoted neatly on one knee and looked up at her, holding it aloft. There was a beat of silence. It looked alarmingly like a proposal and Pansy blinked, unsure where to look. Neville must have realised too, because he let out an awkward huff of laughter, stood up much too abruptly, and ended up far too close. Pansy instinctively tilted her head back to meet his gaze, her breath hitching in surprise.
“Um… may I?” he asked softly, nodding toward her hand.
She hesitated, eyeing the ragged, slug-chewed leaf with a flicker of distaste. But Neville just stood there, watching her with quiet patience, his expression so gentle it made her feel almost guilty. He clearly only wanted to help. Why someone like him would bother with someone like her, she couldn’t quite figure out. But unlike most people, she didn’t instinctively distrust him. There was something disarmingly honest about Neville, like he wouldn't have been capable of hiding an agenda if he tried. Her grandmother would’ve called him 'sweet as pie and twice as soft', but only because her grandmother was too senile to have any comprehension of what happened during the war.
Surrendering, she raised her hand, palm up, between them. He took it gently, cradling her wrist in one rough, calloused palm while his other hand moved with surprising care, rubbing the grubby dock leaf over the pale white bumps rising along her thumb. His fingers were warm and a little muddy, and the leaf was cool, its scent sharp and green.
Pansy stared, slightly stunned. Not just because the leaf actually seemed to be dulling the sting, but because Neville Longbottom was holding her hand between his big, dirt-streaked fingers like it was something precious. The sensation was new and weird, but not entirely unpleasant, either.
“You’ve done this before,” she said, trying to sound casual, though her voice came out a bit strangled.
Neville glanced down at her with a faint smile. “More times than I can count. Nettle patches are kind of my natural habitat.”
“Fitting,” she muttered, watching him work. “You do look like someone who communes with weeds.”
He gave an exaggeratedly solemn nod. “Thank you. That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Pansy snorted and immediately winced at the inelegance of it. Neville glanced up, eyes bright with amusement. “Are you laughing or crying?”
“Both,” she said flatly, swiping at her face again. “Apparently I can multitask."
He laughed under his breath and looked down at her hand once more, giving the dock leaf one final pass over the sting. “There. That should help. Not exactly Madam Pomfrey-approved, but it does the job.”
She looked down at her thumb, then at the leaf, then at him. “Um… thanks?”
It came out more like a question than a statement. Neville smiled in his signature easy and unbothered manner, already starting to turn back towards his fallen pots. “No problem, Pansy.”
Pansy.
It startled her more than it should have, the sound of her name in his voice. Not Parkinson. Not some muttered insult or clipped formality. Just… Pansy.
But he was already walking away before she could even process it, crouching to gather what remained of the shattered tomato pot.
“D’you need any help?” she called, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she even had the chance to think them through. She immediately regretted it. Her cheeks warmed for what had to be the third time that afternoon as she twiddled her fingers together, watching his back.
Neville glanced up at her, brows pulling together. Then he shook his head and said lightly, “Nah, it’s okay. I know you don’t like getting your hands dirty.”
It landed harder than he’d probably meant it to, striking a nerve that had been steadily fraying since she was thirteen. Pansy knew exactly what people thought of her. They assumed she was shallow, vapid, and vain, obsessed with hair products and hallway gossip. Her former popularity and habit of clinging to the wrong crowd had left a mark. Now, when people looked at her, they saw nothing but a bimbo, a narcissist, an airhead who cared more about impressing boys than anything with actual weight.
Sure, there was a time— around sixteen— when boys had felt like the centre of the bloody universe. But a couple of heartbreaks and a full-scale wizarding war later, and she’d learned there were more important things in life than being seen with the right hand on your waist.
“Oh,” she murmured. “Right.”
Her voice came out thin and she turned slowly, the creeping tightness in her chest threatening to return.
“Shoot,” he called after her. “I didn’t mean it like… I didn’t mean to be rude.”
She turned back just in time to see him jogging across the vegetable patch, hopping the low fence once more like it was second nature. He stopped in front of her, just shy of her space, hands raised slightly like he was trying to show he wasn’t armed.
“What I meant to say,” he said hastily, “was— I know you don’t like Herbology. You don’t like the mess. I mean… you might, I don’t really know what you like. But you have hands. I mean— nice hands. Good hands. And your nails.”
He grimaced, and looked down at the ground like he was considering burrowing into it. Pansy couldn’t stop the small, startled smile that pulled at the corner of her lips as she noticed the way his ears were turning red. Neville sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting down for a beat before he steadied himself.
“I like your nails,” he said, finally. “They’re pretty. You shouldn’t get them mucky on my account. I can manage these plants.”
Pansy blinked. It had been a long time since anyone had complimented her without some sort of angle. Longer still since someone had done it so awkwardly and earnestly. She didn’t even get a chance to say thank you before Neville had jumped the fence once more. By the time her brain had stopped short circuiting enough to instruct her body to turn around, he’d already scooped up what was left of the damaged pot and disappeared back into the greenhouse.
For reasons she couldn’t quite articulate, and certainly none she was willing to examine too closely, Pansy reached for the little latch on the wrought iron gate and flicked it up. The gate swung open with a gentle creak. She stepped through, picking her way carefully across the vegetable beds, placing each foot neatly on the grassy borders that divided the patches like lanes. Her shoes were not exactly designed for mud.
She stopped in front of the greenhouse doorway, the warm, damp air hitting her like a spell. It was thick with chlorophyll and compost and something sweetly overripe. The glass panes shimmered faintly with humidity, and Pansy wondered, not for the first time, how Neville could survive entire afternoons in this muggy little hothouse while wearing a cardigan and corduroys. It was like gardening inside a teapot.
He had his back to her, whistling under his breath, wand raised as he levitated the broken shards of terracotta back together with the sort of gentle focus that looked, frankly, like affection. His shoulders were slightly hunched, sleeves pushed to his forearms, hands still streaked with soil.
Pansy hovered, watching him. She didn’t share many classes with Neville Longbottom. He’d opted for practical, gritty subjects for NEWT level: Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures, Defence Against the Dark Arts. She, meanwhile, had gravitated towards the more cerebral (or at least less physical) ones: Divination, Potions, Astronomy.
Regardless of how rarely their paths intersected, she wasn’t oblivious to the way he’d changed. Even before the Battle, something in him had solidified. His spine had straightened, his voice had deepened, and his upper lip had stiffened. But now, he was entirely different. Not unrecognisable, but reformed. There was quiet confidence in the way he moved now. He wasn’t the boy who’d once been dangled from chandeliers by Cornish pixies. No, he was no longer the laughingstock of Hogwarts, the comic relief character that nobody took notice of. He was a war hero.
Her gaze drifted to the worn patches on his elbows, the seams fraying slightly at the edges, and smiled before she could stop herself. Well… maybe he hadn’t completely changed.
She stepped inside, her glossy, patent leather heels clicking awkwardly on the damp tile floor. Neville turned at the sound, brow lifting in mild surprise. He didn’t say anything, he just waited as she approached with an open sort of expression. It occurred to her then that she must look very much like a girl who had no business being in a greenhouse. Compared to Neville, who looked so at home here he may as well have grown out of the soil himself, she felt… ornamental. Like a crystal decanter at a picnic.
“What are you up to?” she asked as casually as she could muster.
Neville tilted his head, and for a moment, she thought he might tease her. But instead, he just turned back towards the bench and said, “Tidying. There's lots of little jobs that need doing around here.” He said it with a shrug, as if those ‘little jobs’ weren’t clearly endless. “I should’ve done it days ago,” he added, “but I’ve been trying to revise for the Charms exam.”
She nodded, trying not to look as aimless as she felt. “What sort of jobs?”
He rubbed the back of his neck again. She was starting to think it was more of a reflex than an intentional motion. “Oh, you know. Repotting. Trimming the overgrowth. Getting rid of those blasted nettles before someone gets hurt.”
He said it quickly in a dry, deadpan sort of tone, just the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Was that… cheek?
It was. It absolutely was.
The smirk wasn’t fully formed, more like a whisper of it, but Merlin help her, it was effective. She had never, ever considered Neville Longbottom capable of looking like that but the flicker of it threw her off balance. If he were to really commit to a smirk like that, she thought vaguely, it might just be dazzling.
“Let me help,” she said, glancing over the chaotic spread of tools and half-potted shoots littering the workbench.
Neville looked up sharply, like he hadn’t expected her to actually push. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” She shrugged in a way that felt deliberately blasé. “Why not? Show me what I’ve been missing out on in Herbology all these years.”
That earned her something else entirely; not just a smile, but the beginnings of a grin. It bloomed slowly and steadily, tugging up the edges of his mouth until it reached his eyes. And Merlin, his eyes. She was fairly sure they hadn’t looked like that earlier.
It was the light, surely. Or the glass panes. Or the hundred damp little spells tangled in the corners of the greenhouse. That had to be it. Because there was no way Neville Longbottom’s eyes were actually that green, not in real life. They weren’t quite moss, and definitely not pistachio. Somehow, impossibly, they were the colour of the very first day of spring— specifically after it had rained. Fresh and full of life, but muted somehow, like sunlight filtered through wet grass. Her gaze caught on them, flicking back and forth between the left and the right, and that’s when she saw the sliver of gold cutting into the edge of his left iris. It wasn’t the obvious kind of gold, bright like galleons. No, this was softer, like fossilised amber. Subtle enough to miss if you weren’t really looking, but once you saw it, you couldn’t quite unsee it.
They were the kind of eyes people wrote about in books.
And apparently, she’d been staring for far too long, because Neville cleared his throat and took a half-step back, like he wasn’t entirely sure whether he was imagining the way she was looking up at him.
“Right,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Er— well, if you’re sure. I could use a second pair of hands.”
“I’m sure,” she said, and then, very deliberately, added, “They’re nice hands, after all.”
Neville grinned, eyes crinkling in the corners, and Pansy felt it strike her somewhere between the third and fourth ribs.
“Alright,” he said, still smiling. “Come on, then. Let’s go and tackle those nettles.”
Neville turned, still smiling faintly, and reached for a couple of pairs of gloves hanging from a hook near the door. He passed one set to her. They were thick, battered things with leather palms and heavy canvas cuffs. They felt weighty in her hands, like they’d been used for real, gritty work. Pansy pulled them on carefully, grimacing slightly at the size. They were miles too big, swallowing her fingers and reaching halfway up her forearms. They smelled, predictably, like damp moss and compost. But… somehow, she didn’t hate it.
Neville tugged on his own gloves with ease, the fit snug and clearly familiar. Of course they suited him. Of course they looked like they were made for him. He flexed his fingers once, like he was testing the grip, and Pansy had to glance away before she thought too hard about it.
She followed him out the greenhouse door, the air still thick with that pre-storm tension. On their way past a wheelbarrow, Neville grabbed a garden fork with one hand and flipped it effortlessly into his grip. Pansy watched the fluid and unbothered motion, and was slightly ashamed of the way her stomach somersaulted.
There was no reason garden tools should be attractive. And yet…
He reached the edge of the vegetable patch first, hopping the low fence in a single, easy motion again, then turned back to push the gate open for her. It was such a simple gesture, but it made her chest flutter in a way that felt wholly ridiculous. She gave herself a very pointed internal eye-roll and stepped through, following him to the edge of the nettle patch.
Neville knelt with practised ease and gestured for her to do the same. She dropped carefully beside him, tucking her feet to one side like she might on a picnic blanket.
“Right,” he said, tone shifting into something patient and instructional. “Best way to get rid of nettles is to dig them out. Sure, you can vanish them with spells, but they grow back quicker that way. Nothing beats the Muggle method.”
Pansy nodded, though she wasn’t exactly listening. She was too busy watching the way his forearms flexed beneath his rolled sleeves as he leaned forward and reached into the patch. He grabbed a fistful of nettles with one gloved hand, yanked them out with little effort, then used the garden fork to dig around the base, pulling up the tangled roots in one clean movement. The whole thing was weirdly graceful.
“Be careful,” he said, voice a little lower and firmer. “Even with gloves, those bastards find a way through sometimes. Don’t touch your face.”
It wasn’t the words that made her blush, it was the way he said them. Neville Longbottom, as it turned out, could be quietly assertive. And Pansy found she quite liked the tone he used when he told her what to do. There was something about the contrast— the soft-spoken awkwardness of earlier, and now this quiet authority— that left her strangely off balance.
Merlin, if fifteen-year-old Pansy could see her now, kneeling in the mud beside Neville bloody Longbottom, cheeks flushed over garden tools, she’d hex her own hair off in protest.
She cleared her throat and reached towards the nettle patch with slightly trembling hands, trying not to look completely pathetic as she mirrored his movements. Neville watched her for a beat, then shifted slightly closer. Not touching her, but near enough that she could feel the warmth of him beside her.
“Here,” he said gently. “Aim the fork just behind the base of the plant, not through the middle. Get under the roots.”
He reached out, placing his hand over hers just for a second to adjust her grip. His fingers, even through the glove, were steady and warm. The contact lasted less than a breath. But it was long enough to make something fizz in her chest. Long enough to leave her thinking that nettles might not be the most dangerous thing in this patch after all.
They worked in companionable silence for several minutes, the only sounds the rhythmic tear of roots from soil and the faint hum of distant thunder. Neville moved with quiet efficiency, clearing handfuls of nettles like it was second nature. Pansy, meanwhile, was slower, more cautious, and a bit clumsy with the garden fork. However, after a while, she began to find a kind of rhythm in it. It was almost meditative.
So when Neville’s voice broke the quiet, low and even, it took her a little by surprise. “Will you tell me why you were crying?”
Pansy paused, the fork still half-stuck in the soil. She looked up at him, eyes wide. “I got stung.”
Neville gave her a flat look, one brow slightly raised. “Pansy, I’ve known you for nearly eight years. I know you’re not the kind of girl who’d cry over a little stinging nettle.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it again, glancing away.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he added quickly, voice softer now. “But… you know, if there is something wrong. Something you can’t tell your friends. You can always tell me.” He shrugged, looking slightly bashful as he added, "People always tell me I'm a good listener."
She didn't doubt that for a second.
When she looked up at him, she expected to find mockery in his expression, or maybe the awkward curiosity of someone fishing for gossip. But his face was as open as his voice. His ridiculous, rain-fresh eyes locked on hers again, and damn it, they really were that green.
Pansy exhaled slowly through her nose.
“It’s nothing,” she said. Then she hesitated and grimaced. “I’m just… I don’t know.” She stabbed the fork into the soil, then added quietly, “Lonely.”
Neville didn’t react right away. He just nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “I know what that’s like.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth despite herself. “You’re not lonely, Neville. You’ve got tonnes of friends.”
He gave a short, almost sheepish laugh, shaking his head as he pulled another clump of nettles free.
“Yeah, now I do. But it took me years to make them. Everyone kind of just… tolerated me when we were younger. I didn’t have proper friends until fifth year. I think it took me doing something dangerous for them to realise I wasn’t just the class punchline.”
Pansy glanced over at him, a sour taste brewing at the back of her throat. But he wasn’t bitter, if anything he seemed as though he were looking back at the memories fondly. He yanked another inch of root from the dirt and asked, not unkindly, “Why are you feeling lonely?”
She shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “It’s just different this year, you know? I used to be popular. Even the people who didn’t like me respected me.”
She dug the fork in a little harder than necessary, frowning at the soil as her own words hit her ears. “And I know that probably makes me sound like the most spoiled person in the world. I swear I don’t care about all that rubbish as much as people think I do. And I don’t expect people to be nice to me after what I did. I know I messed up. I know I did a horrible thing, I just—”
“You were scared,” Neville said, cutting in gently.
She looked up at him, startled.
“You were scared,” he repeated. “It’s normal to make mistakes when you’re scared. And to be honest, you were probably the most logical person on that battlefield. You were only trying to keep people safe.”
Pansy’s eyes darkened. “I was trying to keep myself safe,” she snapped. “Out of hundreds of students, I was the only dimwit who wanted to surrender Harry Potter to his death.”
Neville didn’t flinch or frown, he just looked at her with that same, maddeningly calm expression. “You were scared.”
She let out a breathy, incredulous scoff. “Everyone else was brave.”
He set the garden fork down, dirt still clinging to the tines, and turned fully towards her.
“Everyone else was reckless,” he said simply. “Or desperate. Or following someone else’s lead. Bravery isn’t about always choosing the right side from the start. It’s about what you do once you realise you were wrong.”
Pansy stared up at him, her throat suddenly too tight.
“And you came back, Pansy,” Neville went on. “You could have buried your head in the sand, or ran away like most of the other Pureblood Slytherins did. Or you could have carried on down that path. But you didn’t. You accepted that you were wrong and you came back to Hogwarts. I think that’s pretty brave.”
Pansy blushed furiously, eyes darting down to where her gloved hands were knotted awkwardly in her lap. She let out a short, awkward little laugh and muttered, “Well, forgive me for not feeling all that courageous when I’m sat next to the boy who beheaded Nagini.”
Neville huffed a surprised laugh, ducking his head like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the compliment. A hint of pink crept up the back of his neck.
Pansy elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “Seriously, Neville. That was cool as fuck.”
He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “It was all adrenaline, I swear.”
She gave him a flat look. “Are you kidding me? You were one of the only people who actually told Voldemort, to his face, where he could stick it. That’s not adrenaline, Neville, that’s—” she paused, searching for the right phrase, “—that’s death-or-glory, lionheart sort of stuff.”
And thatgot him.
Neville’s blush deepened immediately, blooming across his cheeks like wildfire. He opened his mouth like he might try to deflect again, but no words came out. Just a flustered, almost bashful grin that lit up his whole face. Pansy couldn’t help the way her own smile widened at the sight of it. She liked making him blush, she realised. She liked making him smile even more.
She reached for another nettle, tugging it up absently as she said, softer this time, “But… thank you. For saying all that. It’s nice to have an actual conversation with someone who doesn’t think I’m some kind of cold-hearted bitch. These days, people either treat me like I’m pathetic, or like I’m something to be feared.”
Neville glanced over at her, the corners of his mouth still curved up. “Oh, I fear you, Pansy Parkinson.”
She let out a disbelieving snort, but before she could retort, he added, “I think you might be the scariest girl I’ve ever met.”
His tone was light, but there was something oddly sincere about it, like he genuinely admired her, not in spite of her sharp edges, but becauseof them. Pansy blinked, caught somewhere between flattered and disarmed. “Is that right?”
Neville nodded solemnly, like it was a well-established fact. “Terrifying. Completely unpredictable. Sharp-tongued, ruthlessly honest, and very likely to hex someone for looking at you funny.”
She lifted her chin slightly. “Well. At least you’ve been paying attention.”
“I always did,” he said, then blinked like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Pansy’s breath caught, just a little. For a long beat, neither of them moved. Then, Neville cleared his throat. “Come on,” he said, his voice a little rougher than usual. “We should probably clear all this up. I reckon the storm’ll hit soon.”
Pansy nodded mutely and pushed herself to her feet, slower this time. She didn’t even bother dusting the dirt off her knees all that thoroughly. Her hands hung at her sides, still gloved, as she watched Neville scoop the scattered pile of nettles up into the waiting wheelbarrow. He moved quickly and efficiently, like it was muscle memory. Pansy’s mind, meanwhile, was still caught replaying the past five minutes over and over like she was addicted to it.
“Where do we take them?” she asked, following as Neville started guiding the wheelbarrow down the hill.
“To the compost heap,” he replied over his shoulder. “It’s down at the edge of the Forest. You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to.”
Pansy shrugged. “I’ll come.”
Neville dipped his chin, like he was trying to hide a smile, and kept walking. She matched his pace easily, the two of them weaving their way down the ragged hill, the wind picking up a little around them. The conversation drifted as they walked, loosening back into something lighter. They grumbled about the upcoming Charms NEWT and laughed over the latest gossip— that Seamus and Dean had finally snogged behind the Quidditch pitch after years of mooning over each other like particularly dramatic Kneazles.
“About time,” Neville said, pushing the barrow around a jutting tree root. “Everyone’s been placing bets for months.”
Pansy laughed and Neville glanced down at her like the sound itself delighted him.
Eventually, they reached the compost heap, which turned out to be a massive, chaotic mound of plant matter stacked just beyond the shadow of Hagrid’s hut. The edges of the pile steamed faintly in the afternoon heat, the smell rich and pungent with earth and rot.
Neville stopped beside it, adjusted his gloves, and began tossing armfuls of nettles onto the top of the heap. Pansy watched for a moment before joining in, although her handfuls were noticeably smaller and more delicate. She kept glancing sideways at him, her thoughts still stuck somewhere between what he’d said earlier and the way he kept smiling like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Finally, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Neville paused mid-throw. The nettles dangled from his hand for a second before he let them fall onto the heap. He turned to her, brows slightly furrowed.
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
Pansy shrugged, arms crossing over her chest. “I’ve not exactly been very nice to you, or your friends, these past few years.”
Neville didn’t answer right away. He took a small step towards her, reaching into the barrow for the last of the nettles. With him that close, Pansy noticed things she hadn’t before. Like the faint, barely-there spatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and the way his cheekbones were bronzed from the sun, a soft golden sheen that made her mouth feel dry.
He drew in a slow breath, not looking away. “All of that happened a long time ago, Pansy,” he said, quietly but with certainty. “I like to think people can change.”
Her heart gave a strange little flutter. “You actually believe that?”
He smiled gently. “I have to. I’d be a hypocrite otherwise.”
Pansy’s throat tightened. She stared up at him, and for a second, she forgot what she was meant to do with her hands. The wind stirred the leaves overhead and somewhere overhead, thunder grumbled, low and soft.
“You really have changed,” she said, almost to herself.
Neville tilted his head. “So have you.”
There was something in his tone that made her want to step closer. Maybe just half a step. Maybe enough to see if those freckles looked the same up close. But instead, she swallowed and looked away, blinking at the compost heap. “This is disgusting, by the way.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “It’s character-building.”
Pansy wrinkled her nose. “Well, I should have loadsof character by now.”
His smile shifted, softened, like it wasn’t just about what she’d said. Like he was seeing something he hadn’t noticed before, or maybe just something he hadn’t let himself look at too closely before. “You do.”
Pansy’s breath stilled in her lungs.
That was when the first droplets fell from the heavens.
Big, thick, heavy drops of rain tumbled through the humid air, hitting the soil with audible plunks and sending up the sharp scent of petrichor; earth and metal and something raw. Pansy blinked up at the sky just as a fat drop hit her square between the brows.
Neville glanced up too. “Shit,” he said, already moving. “We should get inside.”
They abandoned the wheelbarrow without another thought and bolted up the hill, shoes thudding against the softening ground. They only made it about a third of the way before the skies properly opened. Rain slashed through the air in sheets, sudden and merciless, soaking them in seconds. Pansy shrieked— half-laugh, half-yelp— throwing her arms up above her head as she squinted against the downpour. “Bloody hell!”
Neville suddenly appeared beside her, cardigan yanked off and raised above both their heads like a makeshift canopy. He ducked down and pulled her beneath his arm, shielding her under the patchy cover of the damp wool. His arm wrapped instinctively around her shoulders. She startled at the contact, then stilled, breath catching. The smell of warm earth, salt, and something fresh like mint or lemongrass mingled with the rain, and she felt an unfamiliar heat curling in her chest.
“Quick! Into the greenhouse!” he said, voice low and urgent, his mouth close enough to her ear that she could feel the warmth of it on her skin. She didn’t trust herself to answer, so she just nodded, and let him guide her.
They moved as one, bodies pressed close under the cardigan, slipping slightly in the mud as they half-sprinted, half-stumbled over the garden beds and vegetable patches. Pansy’s breath came in short bursts, not just from the run, but from the awareness of his hand steady on her shoulder, his body solid against hers. By the time they reached the greenhouse and yanked the door open, they were both soaked to the bone. Rain streamed from the edges of Neville’s cardigan, water dripping from their hair and noses and chins. They tumbled inside, letting the door swing shut behind them with a loud clunk.
The air inside was warm and thick with humidity. Steam rose gently from their shoulders in the heat, and everything smelled like puddles and summer.
Pansy stood there, dripping, her shirt clinging wetly to her skin and her hair plastered to her cheeks. Even her socks squelched in her ruined shoes. She looked like a complete disaster. But somehow… she didn’t care.
Because when she looked up, brushing a sodden strand of hair out of her eyes, she caught Neville looking at her like she’d hung the bloody moon.
His chest rose and fell with the effort of the sprint, water still trailing from his jawline, his cardigan now limp and soaked in one hand. But his eyes were bright, fixed on her like he didn’t know how to look away.
Pansy swallowed.
“What?” she said, because she had to say something.Her voice was unsteady.
Neville blinked, like he’d only just realised he’d been caught staring. His mouth opened, then closed again. Then, he mumbled, “You look…”
He trailed off, gaze flicking down as his cheeks darkened slightly.
“…wet?” she offered flatly.
Neville laughed, ducking his head with a huff of breath. “That too,” he said, glancing back up at her. “But I was going to say happy.”
Pansy blinked. “Happy?”
He shrugged, sheepish again, but the look in his eyes hadn’t dimmed. If anything, it had deepened into something warmer and more focused. “Or… lighter, maybe. I don’t know. You just look… like you.”
Pansy’s throat tightened. Her heart was thudding painfully against her ribs, the roar of blood embarrassingly loud in her ears. She forced out a breathy laugh, brushing another strand of hair out of her eyes. “Well, don’t get used to it. I’m still a nightmare most of the time.”
Neville stepped forward, just enough that their shoes were nearly touching. “I don’t mind,” he said softly. “I like you exactly as you are.”
The words hit her like a Bludger to the chest and she very nearly gasped from the impact. Her smile faltered, then returned, smaller and a little stunned. “Even soaked through and covered in compost?”
“Especially then,” he whispered. His eyes dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before he caught himself. But Pansy saw it. She felt it like a live wire between them, like a spell gone wrong, like being hit by a freight train.
The rain pounded against the glass overhead, drowning out everything else. The air between them practically shimmered, although that might just have been the humid fog slowly filling the greenhouse as the rain carried on. Neville seemed to snap out of it all at once. He cleared his throat sharply and looked away, cheeks flushed scarlet.
“Er— sorry,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck like he wanted to scrub the moment off his skin. “That got a bit… I mean…”
He trailed off, then abruptly turned away, tugging off his gloves with more force than necessary. The wet slap of them hitting the workbench echoed between them as he started muttering something about a broken pot.
But Pansy didn’t hear him.
All she could hear was the frantic beat of her own heart and the steady roar of adrenaline in her veins. Everything else was a haze: the storm hammering against the glass, the steam rising from their soaked clothes, the way the air between them had practically crackled before he’d pulled away. Her brain had gone quiet for once. Completely silent except for one thought, echoing over and over with startling clarity:
This is it. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
And for the first time, it wasn’t her mother’s waspish disappointment whispering in her skull. It was her own voice, speaking with more joy than she’d heard in years.
Pansy stepped forward before she had a chance to doubt it.
Her shoes squelched faintly on the stone floor as she closed the space between them. Neville didn’t seem to notice at first, still rambling to himself, but then she reached out and caught him by the arm, just at the back of his elbow. Neville turned, startled. “Hmm?”
Pansy didn’t answer. She reached for the front of his shirt, still wearing those utterly ridiculous gloves that dwarfed her hands. The fabric was soaked and clung to his chest, but she grabbed two fistfuls of it and yanked him down anyway.
He gasped as their lips met.
And for one terrifying heartbeat, he didn’t move. His body went rigid, his breath caught. And Pansy felt her own heart stop entirely.
Oh, Salazar, she thought. I've misread it.
But then…
His hands found the small of her back, fingers spreading wide against the curve of her spine. He let out a stunned, blissful sound into her mouth and kissed her back like he’d never let himself imagine this moment, but now that it was happening, he couldn’t do anything but fall into it.
The kiss was messy. Wet and desperate and a little clumsy— because of course it was. They were soaked to the skin and smothered in mud. But it was also perfect.
Neville’s hands slid up to cup her face, thumbs brushing rainwater from her cheeks as he tilted her head and deepened the kiss, slower now, surer. And Pansy... Pansy melted. Her. knees wobbled and her chest burned, and her thoughts seemed to evaporate entirely.
They eventually drew back, breathless and glowing. Neville let out a shaky laugh, almost disbelieving, and dropped his forehead gently against hers. One of his hands stayed cradled at her jaw, his thumb brushing tender circles into the ridge of her cheekbone. The other held firm at her waist, keeping her close like he didn’t quite trust the world not to steal this moment away from him.
His eyes fluttered shut, but he was smiling.
Pansy didn’t even try to stop the grin spreading across her own lips. She just stood there and let herself feel everything; every place their bodies touched, every steady beat of his heart against her chest, every drop of rain still trickling from her hairline.
Stinging nettles, Pansy thought, were a lot like people; sharp, invasive, and easily misunderstood. And maybe, if you knew how to handle them, not so bad after all.
— The End.