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The rain beats a slow, steady rhythm against the window panes as beads of water tumble over one another in haphazard patterns during their lazy descent.
Pansy Parkinson does not like the rain.
She likes walking the muddy grounds even less. They’re sure to be saturated for at least the rest of the day, soaked and foul—much like her current mood.
Spending the summer at the Potter estate has largely been an exercise in solitude. While Daphne and her new husband Harry are present at meals and the occasional afternoon tea, they spend more time away from their visitor than with her.
Which is just fine by Pansy.
Seeing her best friend lost in the clutches of young love is something she can only deal with in small doses anyway. Though genuinely happy for her friend, Pansy has no interest in bearing witness to the sickening displays of unhindered affection that come with a new union.
Daphne wears marriage well, like a second skin tailored to accentuate her best features.
They were both raised to strive for the same things: a man from a good family, a better surname, and enough Galleons to support generations to come.
Love was on the table, though far from a requirement.
Daphne is and always has been ahead of her, both in beauty and their studies. Pansy wasn’t surprised when Harry Potter asked for her friend’s hand two months after they were introduced at a ball. Not only had they spent the night dancing and conversing, he had also begun calling on her nearly daily. Harry is a good enough man: a Lord with a massive estate, an even temper, and an unwavering sense of devotion.
It is a good match.
Meanwhile, Pansy has yet to find anything more than mediocrity. One day, she may entertain the idea of a match, but she currently is not inclined and has a few years before she risks being labelled a spinster.
A shadow appears in the distance across the lawn and Pansy leans closer to the window, trying to get a clearer look through the maze of drops spotting the glass. The shape takes the form of a carriage as it moves up the long drive, and stops just below her window, at the front of the house.
She wasn’t aware anyone would be visiting, and neither the carriage nor the horses look even slightly familiar.
Pansy holds her breath as she watches the door open.
A man steps out, though she only knows this because of the distorted image of a uniform and cap. The rain is doing him no favours, and even through the film of fog from her breath, she can tell he must be soaked clean through to his breeches.
Pansy blushes at the thought before she schools her features despite the lack of an audience to witness her flush. Casting a quick Scourgify, she attempts to get a clearer look at the man making his way up the grand steps of Potter Manor.
The buttons on his uniform glint with each step and she can’t help but notice the breadth of his shoulders.
He looks tall if that is even something she can judge from a floor up and too many feet away.
Captain Neville Longbottom has terrible table manners.
His hands, which Pansy notes are rather large, are currently clasped together beneath his chin as he laughs at something Harry says. The napkin on the table is wholly untouched and Pansy is nothing short of vexed by the spot of sauce at the corner of his lip.
It takes every scrap of her willpower not to suggest he wipe the offending smudge off, but unlike Captain Longbottom, she has a well-honed sense of decorum.
Etiquette is important, after all.
“And you, Miss Parkinson?”
Pansy blinks once. Twice. Only then does she realise the Captain is speaking to her.
“My apologies, Captain, I’m afraid I missed the question.”
“I was just asking what brings you to the Potter estate this summer.”
“I was long overdue for a visit to my friend and thought a change of scenery might be nice.” A smile slips around the corners of her lips. “How long are you to stay for, Captain Longbottom?” His name feels like a new spice she’s never tasted.
“A month or two. Haven’t quite decided yet. And you?”
“About the same.”
The rain clears on the third day after Captain Longbottom’s arrival. It takes another two days for the grounds to dry up enough to be walkable.
“And those?” Pansy points to a tree set at the edge of the forest. It’s taller than all of the others around it with wide, sprawling limbs that look like they’ve crawled out across the air to shade the ground below.
“That appears to be an English Elm.” Shortening his strides to account for her pace, he offers her his elbow as she wobbles over a rock. “Careful there. Did you know elms are some of the largest trees in this forest and can live for more than a hundred years?”
“No. I can’t say that I did.”
Pansy doesn’t care about the trees or the shrubbery, but she is fascinated by Captain Longbottom.
For the past half-hour, he’s identified every single thing she’s asked about. Though she wouldn’t actually know if he was wrong or right, she is nearly certain she can trust in the latter.
“How do you know so much about the trees?” It’s probably not proper to pry but she’s never met anyone with such extensive knowledge of the local foliage.
“My gran.” The Captain looks out over the lawn and back towards the house. “The Longbottom estate has a large garden and a greenhouse. My gran always used to take me with her when she would check on the plants. I developed an affinity for herbology at a young age.”
“Oh.” It comes out a little breathless but she hadn’t expected that. “And what of your parents? Were they interested in plants as well?”
“No.” He ducks his head. “Can’t say that they were. My father was in the Navy and I didn’t see much of him, and my mother is… sick. She doesn’t go outside very often.”
Pansy’s heart thumps against her ribs. His honesty is disarming and there’s something charming about witnessing his vulnerability. She appreciates things like authenticity in people because she’s only ever known the practice of curating appearances to fit societal expectations. It’s one of the many things she would admit, to herself at least, that she envies about Daphne. Somehow her friend takes the shape of the perfect wife and Lady without even having to smooth any rough edges. She has never been so lucky.
“I’m very sorry to hear of your mother.”
“Please, Miss Parkinson, no need to fret. She is well taken care of.”
“Is that why you went into the Navy? Your father?”
“It is. Familial duty is important.”
Those words from any other man would send Pansy’s eyes rolling but she can sense he believes in them. She does, too, even if she isn’t fond of what duty means for her future.
Looking over, she takes a moment to appreciate his profile in the midday sun. “That it is.”
The walks become their thing.
Pansy points at every plant on the grounds at least once over the course of the next few weeks. She intentionally falters on a rock the second time, but does not need to do it again because he offers her his arm as they descend the steps the next.
The Potters seem to appreciate the time alone and Pansy takes every opportunity she can to spend time with Captain Longbottom.
She knows his name is Neville, which in and of itself feels forbidden as it slips off her lips when she is alone in the quiet of her room, but she doesn’t dare say it out loud.
One week bleeds into the next and before Pansy realises it, half the summer is gone and she has done nothing more than amass a novel’s worth of wisdom about the plant life on various parts of the Potter estate—and Captain Longbottom.
She studies him as hard as he seems to study the trees.
She now knows her hand fits perfectly over the curve just below his elbow, and he smells of a spice she can’t put a name to. She knows even in her boots he is taller than anyone she’s ever met. She knows he smiles when he talks about his time at sea and becomes pensive as he talks about his parents or his childhood.
What Pansy doesn’t know is how she feels about any of it.
Sitting in the same window, watching drops of rain race down the pane, she looks out over the drive and thinks back to the afternoon when his carriage arrived. She thinks about how much has changed in the last few weeks.
Being around the Captain is a wholly unfamiliar sensation.
Somewhere between a buzzing in her veins and a flutter in her chest, she realises her attraction isn’t entirely unwelcome.
Her mother taught her well enough to recognise the signs of such things, and Pansy is a quick study in the subjects she deems worthy of learning.
The Captain is genuinely interested in what she has to say, even if that means she spends an entire afternoon complaining about how persnickety Daphne is about the plans to revive the old, dusty rooms in the estate.
“She’ll never even use the bedroom in the guest wing of the house, yet she devoted an hour to discussing if the cream-coloured sofa from the Foyer would clash with the current wallpaper, and if she should change that first before selecting the furniture. Even the house-elves were bored to tears.”
The Captain’s laugh is a pitch entirely its own and she takes a moment to record every detail of the memory.
“I believe Harry is glad to have you involved in such prudent decisions.”
He laughs and smiles in an unhindered way she’s sure was loosened by his time in the service, but his upbringing shines through in unexpectedly chivalrous acts: his crooked elbow as they descend the steps before and during their walks and a hand on her back as they ascend again.
She can still feel the warmth of his palm against the curve of her back now, an hour after they parted for the afternoon.
Another rainy day breaks the latest week-long streak for their walks, and Pansy suggests they take tea in the conservatory in place of their routine.
“It feels like we’re in the middle of the storm.” Captain Longbottom’s eyes are glazed over with a sense of wonder she has only ever seen in children. It’s charming, to say the least. “We should come here more often.”
Improper as it may be, Pansy bites her lip. “I think I would like that.”
The sunset comes later with each passing day, and Pansy knows her stay with the Potters is drawing to an end. She isn’t surprised to find it is a deadline tinged with dread.
“I think this is my favourite place on the entire estate.” Captain Longbottom’s eyes are fixed on the far wall of windows. It’s not raining today, and the sun is high in the sky, shortening the shadows to little pools of darkness beneath the plants.
“I’m surprised. I would have thought the grounds would be to your preference.”
He swings his head around and his hair sways with the movement. It’s mesmerising, even when unkempt, but it does not taint her attraction in the slightest.
“I love the grounds but there’s something captivating about being in a glass room, too.” Rising from the chaise, he makes his way over to the racks of plants against one wall of windows. “These require the spells imbued in this room to survive. They’re mostly exotic, some incredibly rare, and I have only ever read about a few of them.”
A smile tugs at the corner of Pansy’s lip as she joins him next to the plants. “Leave it to you, Captain Longbottom, to be seduced by greenery.”
As soon as the words leave her lips, she feels a flush staining her cheeks. The Captain appears to be in a similar state as he ducks his head.
“My apologies, that was—”
“It’s fine.” This time his laugh isn’t full-bodied: it is small and short and Pansy feels her blush deepen.
Reaching forward, she brushes the tips of her fingers across a particularly bushy-looking plant. She gasps when the leaves move away from her touch.
“That’s called a Touch-Me-Not. It responds to physical contact by coiling in on itself.”
“I believe I’ve just developed an affinity for the little thing.” Tracing another leaf, she’s captivated by the way it leans away from her touch. “Maybe this should have been my namesake instead of the flowers.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Pansies are beautiful flowers that represent free-thinking. They seem rather well-suited for you, Miss Parkinson.”
Pansy takes a short breath before she chances a glance at him. She can feel the weight of his gaze on her like a physical caress. He’s staring at her fingers as they feather across the leaves, but she can’t take her eyes off the tilt of his lips and the line of his jaw.
Their eyes catch when he looks back and Pansy quickly looks away. Moving to the next plant, he tells her all about it before she can even ask.
When they reach the far corner, one slow step at a time, the Captain is still talking about the recent advancements in the cultivation of dittany. One particular plant catches Pansy’s eye. It’s short and stocky but somehow she just knows it’s ancient. It shimmers in the sunlight and it has pin size buds sprouting off of a few leaves.
Prickly to the touch, she pulls her hand back and accidentally nudges Captain Longbottom in the process.
“I’m so sorry, I—”
“Please tell me you didn’t just touch that, Miss Parkinson.” Tugging at his collar, he clears his throat and moves them a few paces away with a warm palm at her back.
“Uh.” She doesn’t want to lie but she can’t seem to think of what to say.
Turning to look around, she doesn’t think it is any brighter in the conservatory yet she feels much warmer than she did just a moment ago.
Straightening her spine, Pansy tilts her chin up to meet the flushed face of the Captain. Odd. She’s never seen his cheeks so pink.
An unexpected tickle makes her clear her throat. “What is this one?”
“It’s a—uh—it’s a Sativus.” He looks in every direction but hers. “I’ve never seen one in person but I’ve uh—” He grips the lapels of his coat and shakes it a few times. “I’ve read about these before. They’re very rare.”
Warmth slides down her spine and spreads through her limbs. “Rare, you say?”
“Indeed.”
There’s an itch on Pansy’s wrist, but when she reaches to scratch it the Captain stops her. His hand envelops hers and it’s… warm—hot, even. The sun must be doing something to her senses.
“You shouldn’t scratch that.”
“Oh?” Something rises up in her at his words and she almost wants to do it just because she’s been told she can’t, but the way he’s looking at her leaves her paralysed. “And why is that?”
“It’s, uh—”
“It itches.” When the words leave her lips she realises they sound more like a whine. “Sorry, I—”
“No, it—” He runs a rough hand through his hair and shakes his head. “If you itch it, it will spread and the plant has certain, uh, certain properties.” He shifts from one foot to the other. “When touched, it releases pollen that uh…”
Pansy blows out a heavy breath. It’s scorching and she’s not sure if it’s the combination of sun and his hand—which is still warm and firm and gripping her wrist—or something else entirely.
“The pollen—it, uh, it’s known to be… relaxing.”
“Does it make you warm?”
“Indeed it does.”
“And—” Pansy has no idea what she even intends to say but she knows what she’s feeling right now. She couldn’t put words to it even if she tried but she doesn’t think she needs to, if the way his pupils have blown wide and his chest is rapidly rising and falling is any indication. “It also makes you…”
“Yes. It has been rumoured to have… aphrodisiac properties.”
“Oh.” Sweat beads at her temple and she wants to wipe it away, but she’s afraid if she moves she might do something she shouldn’t. “What do I do?”
“You—I—We…” Captain Longbottom licks his lips. “You have to… take care of it.”
“Take care of it?” Her voice hits a foreign pitch. “And how—”
She doesn’t have to ask.
One minute her self-control is paper-thin and the next he has eliminated the need for it entirely.
Pansy has never kissed anyone before but she is certain Captain Longbottom is a good kisser. His lips are plush and firm and she is pliant under his touch. The callouses on his fingers are softer than she’d imagined them as he skims them along the line of her jaw before cupping her cheeks and deepening the kiss. Some foreign noise slides up her throat, and he swallows it in the same moment she feels her back press into the table. A vase rocks slightly with their movements, but even if it were to topple over and shatter on the ground she couldn’t be bothered to care.
Everything is a little hazy around the edges, like the first stolen minutes after one falls asleep when the world is suspended between reality and whatever dream would come next.
The air around them is so thick she’s not certain she could take a full breath without immediately needing another. But it doesn’t feel like she’s breathing at all.
Arching up on the tips of her toes, Pansy grips the lapels of his jacket and pulls their bodies together until there isn’t a single space between her curves and his. Her breasts may be covered but they are so sensitive it almost hurts as the fabric of her corset rubs against them.
“Pansy.” He pants her name against her cheek. “We can’t—”
She drinks in every ounce of oxygen she can capture before she finds his lips again.
Everything feels itchy and hot and she wants nothing more than to paw off every stitch of clothing but she knows exactly how long it takes to put them on and she thinks if she has to wait that long for any sort of relief she might actually die.
The firm press of his hips against her belly sends a blanket of goosebumps racing across her skin and all thoughts of propriety are lost under an all-consuming devastation of need.
A low moan works its way up her throat and spills over her tongue when he cants his hips forward again. She presses right back because nothing in her entire life has ever felt so right.
It’s a primal direction her body is giving that her mind has no part in.
His hands travel down the ladder of her ribs before settling on the swell of her hips and his grip is so tight she chokes on air. They’re so close now; their lips are touching as they exchange puffs of breath. It doesn’t matter whose oxygen she’s breathing because it’s still not enough to keep her from suffocating.
Releasing his lapels long enough to reach down, she hikes up her skirts in a desperate attempt to cool the sizzle of her skin.
“We shouldn’t—”
She silences him with a kiss and feels his acquiescence in the journey of his palms. They track over the bend of her knee and flatten across the back of her thighs.
“Gods, I—”
“I know.” His voice is little more than a whimper and she feels a fresh wave of want sweep her under. “I know what you need.”
Neville—she reasons she can call him that while his hands are under her skirts—manipulates her body like it’s putty in his hands. He spins her around and she presses her bare arse against the evidence of his arousal. It feels impossibly large, and if she had even a speck of sense she might wonder how it could fit, but his hands slide up to the curve of her waist and her mind goes blank.
She might very well be floating, like ash drifting from the flames below, for her lack of control over the sounds and movements coming from her body. She has no sense of direction beyond the grounding force of Neville’s length pressing against her bum and the flat of her hand against the solid table in front of her. There is no thought in the action as she reaches her free hand back and grabs his hip to pull him closer. Not that it’s possible. Other than the layers of cloth between them, there is no room for anything else.
“Please.” Pansy repeats the simple word over and over again, unsure of what she’s asking for but knowing she needs it all the same.
Nothing in the world could hold her still as she grinds back against Neville, and a broken moan echoes in the otherwise silent conservatory.
She should cast a privacy charm, a silencing charm, and probably some sort of contraceptive charm for good measure, but her wand is across the room, and if a task takes more than a single second to complete, she is currently incapable of the feat.
His grip leaves her hip but the imprint of his fingers stays for the few moments it takes him to open his flies. Then one hand is back, pressing bruises into the curve of her hipbone as she feels the other spread the soaked seam of her drawers.
“Oh god.” She wants to pray for the relief that is finally so close she thinks she can taste it. She wants to drop to her knees and swear her service to any god willing to let him ease the ache burning through her veins. But before she can form another word she feels the head of his cock slide along her slick, dripping folds.
“You’re soaked.”
She wants to say something witty or tell him he is wholly responsible for her current state of hysteria, but all she can manage is some mangled version of, “Please.”
The first intrusion is involuntary; Pansy arches her back and stands on the tips of her toes and Neville’s hips rock forward on instinct.
She gasps and he moans.
A delicious twitch against her centre sends her canting back again. Inch by excruciating inch, his cock slides into her heat. If she was on fire before he is now fanning the flames.
Burning from the length of him inside of her and the need thrumming through her veins, Pansy can hardly form more than a curse.
She is in tune with every part of her body he touches: one hand is splayed wide across the dip of her waist, the other is flattened against hers on the table. Fingers slotted together, the stretch of his cock in her cunt is a sensation all its own.
It isn’t fast or rough; Neville takes his time working himself inside of her, pausing when she pants and pushing when she pulls him forward by the hip. It’s a dance she has never done before but picks up the steps as though they’re imprinted on her very being.
There’s something natural about letting herself revel in the feeling of being so full, something primal that swells inside of her chest until she thinks there is no room for even a single breath.
Half-formed words drip from her lips as he slides out then back in again.
He pants her name like it’s the only word he’s ever known.
Neville is tall and Pansy has to arch back and tilt her head. His chest is firm against her back and his breath is warm as it fans across her cheek. He’s muttering some unintelligible praise that sends a shiver up her spine. But even curved over with her hand against the wood as leverage, it’s not nearly enough.
The heel of her boot slots just above his knee as Pansy raises her leg, and he sinks the rest of the way inside of her. Her cunt envelops his cock like it was formed for him alone, tightening around him with each thrust.
“I’m gon—Hnng—”
Sucking in a harsh breath, Pansy presses her head back against the bend of his shoulder and he bites the curve of her neck as they both race into the oblivion of bliss.
A tingling sensation prickles her skin from the top of her head to the tips of her curled toes.
Warmth races across her skin and sinks into the very marrow of her bones.
Pansy isn’t sure if the sound she hears when she keens is from her or him; she isn’t sure it even matters. She isn’t sure anything matters in this moment beyond her and him and where they are still intimately joined. She isn’t even sure anything will ever matter beyond that again.
That thought grounds her faster than the brush of his lips against her neck.
“Miss Parkinson, I’m sor—”
“Please don’t.” It’s only a wisp of sound, nothing like the firm tone Pansy is so well known for. She’s never felt so exposed, and she’s afraid if she has to listen to him apologise for making her feel something so incomprehensibly incredible she might perish right on the spot. “Don’t say it.”
She has never been a romantic, will never be a romantic, but she’s ill-prepared for the onslaught of emotions welling within her.
An awkward moment passes after he pulls his hands away and steps back. Refusing to turn around and bear witness to his confessions of regret, she lets her skirts fall back into place. Her knickers are still pushed to the side and the evidence of their coupling is leaking out of her throbbing core, but if that is all she will have left of this experience it’s her prerogative to wash it away in private.
The slow snap of boots records his journey to the other side of the room, and when she finally straightens up, she takes one final look at the unassuming little plant a few paces away that started it all. It’s dazzling in the light, covered in hairs so fine they sparkle under the observance of the sun’s warm rays.
She turns and starts towards the door, muttering, “Excuse me.”
But it only takes two steps for him to walk right into her path and foil her plan for a quick escape.
“Miss Parkinson.”
He’s doing that damned thing again with those wide, round eyes and she swears to herself right then that she will not cry. She will not shed a single tear over this because she is Pansy bloody Parkinson and she does not cry over stupid boys. Or men. She may cry over this man, though, because a rebel tear slips free and slides down her cheek. Before she can reach up to wipe it away, he shifts forward and catches it with a single finger.
The room is quiet save for the sob building in her chest and the hum of her pulse pounding in her ears.
He looks so kind. Honest. Open. She never would have expected Captain Neville Longbottom to break her heart. She never would have expected it to be so fragile in his hands either but there is no denying that is the way it feels.
“If you’ll excuse me, Captain Longbottom,” Pansy sniffs. “I must go.”
This time he doesn’t try to stop her.
Three days pass without Pansy stepping foot outside of her rooms.
She tells Daphne she’s caught a bug, and the house-elves bring her meals straight into her quarters.
She supposes it’s not too far from the truth.
She is sick, ruined: her virtue, her life, her heart.
The imprint of Captain Longbottom has been seared on her heart and no amount of sobbing can seem to take it away.
“Are you sure we can’t convince you to stay a little longer?”
Daphne’s laid out against the bed while Pansy oversees the packing of her bags.
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve had a lovely summer and I can’t thank you enough for hosting me for this visit, but I think it’s time for me to return home.”
“But you were supposed to stay another two weeks! Whatever am I going to do with my days when it’s just Harry and me in this big, empty house?”
“I’m sure Captain Longbottom will be more than enough company.” It catches Pansy off guard how much it hurts to say his name. She feels like a schoolgirl with a silly crush and broken heart. Which is utterly ridiculous.
“Actually, I haven’t seen him for a few days. Harry mentioned he had to take a sudden trip two, maybe three days ago? I’m terrible with time but I don’t know when he’s scheduled to return.”
“Oh.”
Hearing he left just after their rendezvous hurts even worse.
Pansy turns to hide the lone tear slipping down her cheek.
The carriage has been readied for over an hour but Daphne insists she must have a final meal with them before she takes her leave. Now full with no other excuse to stay, she stares at the carriage awaiting her.
This time when she cries it’s not unexpected. A sob against her friend’s shoulder only earns her a tighter hug. If only Daphne knew what she lost this summer; maybe her friend would cry for her, too.
“I’m going to miss you.” Daphne sniffs as she pulls back. “You must write to me as soon as you return home.”
“I will.” She won’t.
This is nothing new. Daphne has always been the kind of friend who could maintain that sort of thing, but Pansy has always fallen short. They’ve known each other long enough for them both to be fully aware that Daphne will wait a few days and send a letter, then wait a month for Pansy to reply.
A cloud of dust rises in the distance and Daphne turns towards the sound. A carriage is careening down the path at a dangerous pace and Pansy almost misses Daphne’s, “Oh my,” over the sound of her pulse beating hard in her ears.
This time she recognises the carriage.
This time she knows who is inside of it.
All hope of slipping away before the Captain’s return is lost.
She doesn’t move a single muscle until the carriage door swings open and a frantic Captain Longbottom stumbles out.
Despite herself, she laughs at the image of him as he runs a nervous hand through his unkempt hair.
“Lady Greengrass.” He looks right at Pansy as he takes a step forward. “Miss Parkinson.”
“Captain Longbottom.”
Daphne’s cheerful greeting doesn’t even earn her a look from the Captain. The whole of his focus is zeroed in on Pansy.
One long step leads into another until he is standing right in front of her.
Pansy can’t breathe.
“You’re leaving?”
The hurt in his voice wrenches something in her chest and the dam of tears she’s trying so hard to keep in place threatens to break loose.
“Before you do, would you please take a walk with me?”
Pansy looks at Daphne, who does little to hide the twist of her lips as she nods.
“Please accept my apologies for leaving in such a haste.” He starts speaking before they’ve even made it out of her friend’s earshot. “After… Well, after the other day I made a decision that required some time to prepare. I had to see a few people and I know I didn’t say anything before I left but I expected you to stay until—”
“Captain Longbottom?” Pansy finds her voice just as she steps on an uneven stone and without a second thought she reaches for his arm. It’s far from her first mistake of the summer but it is her first mistake of the day and she quickly pulls back. “I believe we were both in similarly compromised states, and while I know that is not… unusual for a man of service or even a—”
“I’ve never… I mean to say that’s not… I’m not. I haven’t.”
She knows him so well now, and the way he reaches up to rub the back of his neck means he’s grasping for the right thing to say. To let her down easy, she thinks. Well, she’s far from delicate and already shattered so the need for caution no longer exists.
“Even so, I understand we were both under the influence of what I now know to be a powerful plant. It’s no one’s fault, really, a freak accident neither of us could have predicted. I think it best if we never speak of it again.”
“Never speak of it…? Miss Parkinson, do you know what you are asking of me?” Those damn kind eyes are boring holes through what’s left of the area that used to be her heart. “My apologies if I haven’t made myself clear. My gran always said I had a habit of talking around things.”
When he reaches for her hand and stands up to his full height, turning to face her, she has to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. What she sees steals the breath from her lungs. Strong. Steady. Determined.
“I left the other day to immediately return to the familial Longbottom estate and procure something I consider to be most valuable.” His thumb swipes across the back of her hand. “Then I had to make another stop to ensure my decision was mutually agreeable, though, if I am forced to admit it, I likely would have wound up right here anyway regardless of that outcome.”
“I’m afraid you’re not making much sense, Captain Longbottom.”
He takes a deep breath. “I’d very much like it if you were to call me Neville.”
“Captain, you and I both know that’s improper.”
“Not if you agree to marry me, Miss Parkinson.”
Time stands still and even the rustle of the trees pauses for the span of a heartbeat.
Releasing her hand, he retrieves a ring from his pocket and holds it between them. The deep green stone glints in the sun.
“I’m aware that we seemed to have skipped a few steps, and a few days is hardly enough time to make up for all the negotiations, but I went to see your father, and our families granted permission.”
“You went to see my father?”
“I did.”
“You want to… marry me?”
“I do.”
Pansy feels like she’s in a dream. She’s half-tempted to pinch herself. “Are you sure?”
A lopsided smile and a shake of his head are his only answers.
“Huh.” She has never been more wrong in her life. “I thought you’d left because of… Well, I shouldn’t have to remind you.”
“How could I possibly forget?” He probably doesn’t intend for that to be as charming as it is.
“And you’re really asking for permission to marry me?”
“I am.”
The ring is still suspended in the scant space between them and Pansy tentatively reaches for it.
“Miss Parkinson.”
Pansy looks up from the distracting shine of the ring to meet his eyes.
“Would you do me the honour of marrying me?”
A dip of her chin is all she can muster before Neville’s strong hands slide around her waist and he kisses her like his life depends on it. Hers might have, in any other circumstance, but she’s still processing the fact that he is in her arms, kissing her, holding her like she’s something precious, and asking her to be his.
Between kisses, she whispers, “Yes.”