Chapter Text
The Stinking Woundwort is an unremarkable if not aptly named plant.
Growing in the marshy wetlands of South-East England, it looms a respectable amount of distance from the ground, produces perfectly average, pleasantly coloured blooms, and absolutely fucking humdings.
In the latter half of the 18th century a Mister Botryanthus Kew, herbologist of little renown and an avid swamp advocate & enjoyer, went to great lengths to discover and catalogue all of the uses of the malodorous flora inside his larger treatise of all the flora within the marsh.
If one could stand to get close to it, a person could find through a short amount of experimentation (or by asking truly any local swamp-dweller) that the Stinking Woundwort had some minor medicinal properties, but Mister Kew was determined to see if there was the stench of magic attached to it also.
The leaves were useful when dried and ground, the stems flattened and crushed, the flowers - when in season - were best steeped and taken with a great deal of honey and a peg on one's nose. All were mild painkillers, nothing compared to a big hitter like dittany, or even willow bark, but useful enough in a pinch.
However it was generally acknowledged that the tubers, whilst the least offensive to olfactory systems, were quite useless. If ingested even in the most middling amounts, the tubers proved toxic - although it could be argued that they still acted as analgesics, as you would forget the original pain being felt and instead concentrate on the fact you were shitting your guts out.
Not one to be put off, Mister Kew forged ever onwards.
After spending an inordinate amount of time and money, Kew found that through a series of annoying and complicated steps the tuber could be prepared in a delicate suspension of several costly and hard to acquire ingredients.
The tubers of the Woundwort, after being carefully, excruciatingly, and expensively prepared, provided milder, weaker, and less long lasting effects than every other part of the plant, in diametric opposition to steps to prepare it.
From reading the journals of Mister Kew’s wife, it is apparent that he spent the rest of his life sulking about it, whilst Mrs Kew attempted to patch the bleeding hole in their finances.
As such, the paper Kew published on the plant was given the appropriate amount of response (little to none), the demand for the plant never budged an inch (there had never been one to begin with) and the footnote about the tubers of the Woundwort drastically slowing the heart rate of imbibers, with no other tangible detriment, went unremarked upon.
The slim folio Kew had published was half buried on Granger’s desk, where it had been tossed most haphazardly. Pansy had ostensibly been waiting for Draco, but she did find annoying Granger a fun pursuit in it’s own right, so she had perused the literary towers walling Granger in and selected at random, reading excerpts while Granger was attempting to work. It was only when she flitted through to the findings that Pansy paused, and in an act that some would describe as petty but she would deem tactical , Pansy had shoved a book-pile over with one hand and the folio up her skirt with the other.
Which is how Pansy Parkinson, noted socialite, gala-attendee, wine-swirling, blunt-bobbed, gold-dripping, awe-inspiring, Nastiest Bitch of Her Age, found herself ankle deep in marsh-land in the arse-end of nowhere.
It was early morning, and the chill mist rising from the ground had yet to dissipate. It stole around her neck, slinking under her cape (Ring Velvet), shawl (Pygmy Cashmere), shirt (Lotus Silk), trousers (Cheviot Tweed), and Wellington Boots ( Tragic ).
Pansy had been using this site to harvest the Stinking Woundwort for several months, charmed to the teeth to ward off the smell and the sucking mud. Usually the plant grew sporadically within a few hundred feet of her apparation site. She never took more than she needed - she’s usually a One-and-Done type of girl - partly because she didn’t want to have to find a new harvest site, but mostly because of a deep seated paranoia of being noticed. Gods fucking forbid that someone might catch her gardening .
Armed with a little net bag, a gilt case of hand-rolled cigarettes and a cheeky diffindo , she scuttles about the swamp in the gloomy pre-dawn light kicking over rocks and scowling at the plants that weren’t what she needed.
It usually didn’t take this long to find the Woundwort. It’s hiding from her, Pansy is sure.
“This is faintly ridiculous,” Pansy mutters around a lit cigarette, hoofing an iris into oblivion. She squints down at the ground around her, grimacing at the worms wriggling in the marshy mud. Idly she presses the heel of her hand into her sternum, rubbing at the low thrum of her ever present ache. Three cheers for having an vital organ slowly give out on you. “Where on earth is my fucking plant?”
“Hello.”
Pansy shrieks and whirls around, her wand pointed and cigarette clenched between her teeth like some sort of demented French person. Her heart hammers once- twice -once and she keeps her wince to herself.
A few steps away, in the arms of a tall, beardy man in a hideous jumper (orange, purple and green?), is her plant. Mingled amongst a few other plants, Pansy can recognise the dark, spiky leaves, spindly stems and the peeping red flowers. It’s tuber dangles, mud-covered. That’s her plant.
Indignation rises, hard and fast.
“You have my-”
“ Pansy? ”
Pansy blinks. She thinks about it, and blinks again. Takes a drag. Surely she would have remembered such a fine, strapping young man. With such delightfully broad shoulders, despite the foul knitwear. With such artfully tousled blonde hair, and a sweet, confused countenance - O fuck.
“Neville Longbottom.” Pansy says, because she was brought up to be finely mannered, not counting all the prejudices and bigotry. She is also glad at that moment that her upbringing instilled in her the cool and calm reserve of the many pure-blooded witches before her that had to deal with inconveniences both large and minor. As far as she can recall, Longbottom was a herbology swot, mucking about with Sprout in those sweaty greenhouses - the exact kind of man she didn’t want poking his fine and freckled nose into her clandestine business.
Circe’s tits.
“How lovely.” Pansy continues blithely, “What brings you out to the marsh at such an early hour?”
“Hang on, did you not remember who I was?” Longbottom seems offended, as if they were old chums, and not child soldiers on differing sides of a war a decade ago. Although he looks a damn sight better than he did back then - not a particularly difficult milestone to pass. The beard helps matters tremendously.
“I did eventually.”
“We saw each other last-”
“It’s very dark out.” Pansy snaps, then smooths her face into a smile. Benign and carefree. If he’s all wound up about her forgetting who he was as a person/concept/entity, then maybe he won’t notice when she swipes the Woundwort from him.
(Saw each other last where ? She’ll have to look into that one)
“It is,” Longbottom replies slowly, then frowns as if he has thought of something.
Pansy goes to stub her cigarette on a tree, catches Longbottom’s raised eyebrows, and Vanishes it instead.
“I’m out for a walk.” Pansy says. She gestures vaguely at her ensemble. It is very outdoorsy. She got it out of a Muggle magazine at Granger’s. ( Saboteurs: Outfoxing the Hunters. A boring read but some interesting fashion statements).
“You don’t-” He pauses, and thinks some more. Pansy grows slightly alarmed. “I didn’t know you liked to walk.”
“Well it’s been ten years, Longbottom. I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“No. What I’m saying is,” He huffs, shifting the herbage like it’s a misshapen, cradled child, and throws an arm out, indicating that Pansy should take a look around her - at the creeping fog, squelching mud, the sun barely clambering its way over the treeline.
He is saying, through inarticulate and imprecise methods, that she does not belong. What a prick. He’s not wrong, of course. She shouldn’t be sullying any part of herself in this endeavour, much less own a pair of Wellington Boots. But it’s rude to point it out, especially when holding her plant captive.
Pansy looks around her theatrically, her eyes wide and owlish, as if she has never left the safety of her manor a day in her life.
“My word, Longbottom, you’re right! We are indeed outside.”
He rolls his eyes at her, scoffs a little. Disgruntled looks good on him, Pansy thinks with a titter. She remembers at school he would quiver and turn red, sometimes cry. (There is a small frisson of shame that splinters her being, but Pansy ignores it thoroughly.) This is much better - so much more fun poking someone who won’t bow out after the first round - oh, he’s still talking.
“Why, specifically , Pansy, are you in a marsh before daybreak?”
“Well, Mister Longbottom.” Pansy takes a step towards him, her smile wide and lovely. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business. Anyways, I asked first.”
“This is my job.” Longbottom replies as if she’s rather thick, dark brows drawn over darker eyes. Pansy looks around her again, this time the disbelief is less disingenuous. She raises a finely sculpted eyebrow.
“I hope they pay you well.”
“They don’t.”
Longbottom doesn’t smile as he says it, and it draws a rather posh scoff from Pansy. She’s so glad she never got a job. Ghastly things, Pansy doesn’t know how the boys do it. Waking up every day and being told what to do? Can’t nip to Le Gai Paris for a pastry in case you’re late for work? Dreadful.
But, if he thinks she’s thick: “What are those you have there?”
Pansy takes another step closer, frowning at the vegetation he’s holding as if she’s never seen a green thing before in her life. She draws a circle with her hand in the air, encompassing the low-hanging lump in Longbottom’s embrace.
“Do you often collect little… stinky things in your line of work?”
“They’re plants, Pansy.”
“My word!” She gasps again, being treated to a full scowl this time. There is a flush creeping over Longbottom’s cheekbones, the rest of it must be hidden by that beard. “I’m aware of what plants are, Longbottom. Just because I didn’t spend every waking second in the greenhouses.”
Longbottom is quickly looking like he regrets ever letting onto her; and truly, he should have known better. Now Pansy begins to hope that he’ll get so annoyed he’ll lob the Woundwort at her.
“What’s the ugly little thing hanging off it?”
“It’s a tuber.”
“My word. And that is?”
“I regret opening my fat mouth,” Longbottom mutters, dragging a muddy hand over his face. It leaves a grubby mark over his eyebrow and cheekbone, like some sort of gardening war-paint.
It is at this point, of course, that her traitorous, craven heart squeezes tight in her chest.
Pansy disguises her whimper of pain with a cough, which isn’t entirely successful judging by Longbottom’s new look of confused concern. She much prefers the irritation on him, but she can’t quite gather the breath to tell him that.
Longbottom’s general vibe turns a bit hovery , and he moves close enough to touch. Good lord he’s tall. He has to bend down to look at her, especially now her shoulders are hunched and curled so protectively and unattractively.
“Pansy…?”
She flaps a hand at him. Her other is pressed back tightly over her chest, as if outside pressure could keep her heart steady and still. The flapping sends a ricochet of feedback through her. She wobbles a little, and instantly Longbottom’s hand is at her elbow. He has broad, strong, handsome hands, which does a lot to counter the fact he’s getting mud all over her cloak. Ugh.
“Heartburn,” Pansy manages to choke out, “People do keep telling me I need to quit smoking.”
“I’ve heard cigarettes can kill you.”
Pansy cannot contain her deeply unladylike snort.
“Yes, well. That and a few other things.”
Pansy straightens, tucking her dark, shiny hair behind her ears. Longbottom is only a hairsbreadth away, wide-eyed as a mooncalf and twice as pretty. Pansy smiles at him winningly, lips feeling stretched and rictus, her cheeks sore from bloodlessness. But that is what glamours are for.
Her heart doesn’t beat so often these days, and when it does it’s a toss up for how much it’ll sting. Her lungs feel frozen and her ears are ringing and she can taste blood on the back of her tongue, but never let it be said that Pansy Parkinson misses an opportunity.
His deep, lovely eyes flit across the countenance of a woman who is suddenly unwell, and Longbottom’s frown deepens. He’s so very Gryffindor; a snake would have watched her drop into the mud and writhe, and kept a closer hold of their plants.
“Truly, Longbottom, it’s nothing.” Pansy pats his cheek, voice condescending. It has the desired effect: Longbottom pulls back, face twisting in annoyance. His beard had felt terribly soft under Pansy’s fingers.
“Now, I must be off.”
“Hang on a sec, Pansy-”
“Toodles!”
She apparates away with a crack .
Pansy arrives in the middle of her solar in the Parkinson Manor, and the house-elves have just enough time to summon an armchair before she collapses. It nudges the backs of her calves and Pansy flops backwards into it bonelessly.
She coughs and wheezes and for a dreadful second Pansy thinks she may be sick. The thrumming in her chest is nauseating, like worms coiled in her chest cavity and wriggling along her veins. Pansy shudders, as she ever does. She shouldn’t have apparated, but Pansy has a feeling that if she’d tried to run all she’d have ended up with would be a mouthful of marsh and Longbottom’s censure.
And now comes the cavalcade of squeaks and panic as her elves draw near, ears flittering and lips trembling.
“Mistress! Mistress Pansy doesn’t have the plant! Oh noo ∼!"
Pip begins to wail and shudder, tugging at the hem of his brocade pillowcase. His shaking causes the brooches pinned to every square inch of his outfit to glint and gleam, and his gold-link belt shakes and clatters.
Pansy closes her eyes and takes her head into her hands, groaning against the sudden onslaught of noise and colour. Perhaps Granger was right; she’d taken the outfitting of her elves a little too far . She had no compunction against the freeing and salarying of the Parkinson elves, those that were left. So Pansy had brought home several jewellery boxes and a hefty armoire from the vault at Gringotts (all curse-checked and okayed by the Handsome Weasley) and let the pair go wild. It had caused her no end of amusement to see her great-aunt Hortensia’s collection of encrusted swan’s pinned to elven togas like they were little Cygnate generals.
Still. The stimuli sometimes were fucking horrendous.
Pip is hushed and a potion is floated under Pansy’s nose, bumping into her elbow. It is un-stoppered and she downs it without a second’s hesitation. Quickly the thundering in her head lessens, and less slowly the creep of pain in her heart slows.
Pansy opens her eyes and takes in the worried and crumpled visage of Dimple, the senior house-elf. She spreads her long, knobbly fingers over Pansy’s knee, eyes large and very wet. She wears a long robe of silken blue, and a hat of deep, rich purple: a convoluted thing of chiffon and layers that looks a bit too much like a wimple.
“I’m fine, Dimple.”
Dimple shakes her head, and where her ears stick out from her wimple, they waft and flap.
“Mistress Pansy is not looking very well. Dimple knows this.” Her voice hitches at the end.
Pansy cannot argue with Dimple’s statement, as she does truly feel like shit, so she’s sure she must look an absolute state. Under the layers of fine, expensive materials, she can feel her heart being pulled apart like a pomegranate. It hurts tremendously. Any other woman would crawl under a pile of blankets and stay there, let the world wind on without her for a little while - but that is counterproductive.
She has so much to do: the tuber must be prepared and suspended, the rest of her ingredients gathered. There are some tweaks Pansy has made to the incantation that goes with the brewing that she ought to look over one last time. The delivery boy from the Mulpepper’s had looked a little tweaky handing over Pansy’s dinged parcel of ingredients, so she has a feeling that there is something there for her to sort out also.
Then she has a dinner later today with her boys; Theo has been flinging himself about the Ministry again, Blaise would like her ear over his current spat with whomever it is that he’s shagging, never mind the embarrassment that Draco was bringing on them all with his current ineptitude surrounding Granger. Her hands are full and Pansy would usually take delight in it, but now she’s also got to do some sort of damage control over this morning's incident with Longbottom.
He’s a notorious do-gooder, and She’s Pansy Fucking Parkinson. They could have run into each other over liquorice and turkish delight at Herbert’s Sherberts and Longbottom would still think she was up to no good. It is another level of stress and bullshit that Pansy simply does not need.
She could scream. Instead Pansy fishes a cigarette from her gilded case and allows Pip to light it, the flame snapping to life at the end of his finger. She inhales, rubs her forehead once, sighs, then smiles.
Leaning forward in her chair Pansy begins a sleight of hand that isn’t magical, as she is far too tired for that.
She holsters her cigarette and wiggles her fingers at the elves, who watch with worried faces and bated breath. Pip’s sobs have whittled down to tearful hiccups, although the crying is forgotten all together as Pansy pulls the purloined Stinking Woundwort out from a Disillusioned pocket in her cloack with a flourish.
“Now, let's carry on with the day, shall we?”