Chapter Text
SUMMER
Hogsmeade in summer was all long shadows and lavender skies; the kind of soft-focus beauty that made Pansy Parkinson resent the world a little less. She had spent the last decade learning to shed her thorns selectively—no longer drawing blood at every casual touch, no longer wielding cruelty as her first defence. The sharp edges were still there, but now they felt refined, deliberate—more stiletto than serrated blade.
Pansy had learned when to cut and when simply to stand apart, watching.
It was here, in the village’s gentle contradictions—its ancient foundations and ever-changing faces, its quiet mornings and raucous weekend nights—that she’d finally found something resembling peace. Parkinson & Stitch stood as evidence of her transformation: a space entirely of her own creation, where beauty served function and every detail answered to her exacting standards.
Outside the curved windows, the June evening unfurled in watercolour washes, golden light melting across her imported marble floors like honey from a spoon. From behind the counter, Pansy silently watched as the enchanted mannequin, draped in an unfinished gown of midnight velvet, pirouetted soundlessly in the corner. Her mind was elsewhere. The quill in her hand stilled over the day’s ledger, barely registering the ink that pooled and threatened to blot.
Perfection took time. She’d learned that slowly, painfully, and this gown, just like everything else in her stagnant life, was no exception. Despite the hour-hand having ticked well past closing, Pansy remained. Her mother would have called it stubborn; she preferred to think of it as the prerogative of ownership—deciding which rules deserved her attention and which did not.
The shop bell chimed, its delicate sound interrupting her reverie. Pansy closed her eyes, inhaling sharply, having long since learned that some customers considered her CLOSED sign more decorative than directive.
“The shop is closed ,” Pansy muttered flatly, not bothering to mask her irritation.
“Still avoiding proper shop hours, I see.”
That earthy, warm voice was unmistakable—exactly as it was a decade ago when she’d sat nervously in Greenhouse Three, the stiff dragon-hide gloves feeling awkward and uncomfortable against her delicate fingers. It tugged at something long dormant, dousing the vexing fire that had sparked in her chest.
“Professor Sprout,” she said, emerald eyes widening.
The older witch stood framed in the doorway, summer light catching the silver in her wild hair. Her robes bore the telltale signs of a day’s labour—soil embedded beneath the embroidery, leaves caught in the folds—but her copper eyes were bright with purpose.
“I had hoped to catch you before you locked up for the night,” Sprout said, moving between the racks with surprising grace for someone who had spent decades wrestling with Devil’s Snare.
Pansy set down her quill. “We both know I don’t close until I’m satisfied.”
“Some things never change.” Sprout’s smile was genuine, the kind Pansy had rarely earned during her school years. “Your attention to detail always impressed me—though you did your best to hide it.”
The compliment settled uncomfortably on Pansy’s shoulders. To someone raised in a world where courtesies always came with hidden agendas, a trade of favours so to speak, unearned praise still felt like unfamiliar currency.
“What brings you to my humble establishment?” Pansy asked, fingers absently smoothing a crease from her slate-grey dress. “Surely not to commission formal robes?” She gave Sprout a pointed glare before continuing. “Although, if you’re finally retiring those garden-fertilised ensembles, I’m more than happy to intervene. The Hogwarts faculty’s collective wardrobe has been crying out for mercy since before I was sorted.”
Sprout chuckled, her weathered face creasing with genuine amusement. “My dear, if I started dressing to impress you, half my plants would die of shock and the other half would refuse to recognise me.” She reached into a pocket that seemed improbably deep. “Soil is far more honest than fashion, and besides—I’ve come to offer you a temporary position.”
“At Hogwarts?” Pansy couldn’t mask her surprise.
“I’m retiring next spring,” Sprout said simply, producing a small envelope sealed with familiar wax. “But before I go, there’s a special project for the upcoming seventh years’— Moonshade Orchids.”
Pansy’s eyebrows lifted. “Temperamental little things. Practically extinct, if I recall.”
“Not quite, but close enough.” Sprout placed the envelope on the counter between them. “We’ve managed to acquire viable seeds, but they’ll need careful cultivation before September. Delicate work; evening hours.”
“And you thought of me.”
It wasn’t a question.
An unfamiliar flutter bloomed within her chest—not pride exactly, but perhaps its quieter cousin. Being sought out, remembered for more than just her mistakes—this wasn’t the kind of recognition she was used to. She shifted on her heel. The sensation unsettled her, like wearing someone else’s perfectly tailored robes.
“I thought of your hands,” Sprout corrected, her eyes softening with something like fondness. “The way they moved when you pruned Snowvein Lilies in your sixth year. Careful. Reverent. Few students understand the difference between precision and gentleness.”
Pansy reached for the envelope, felt the texture of parchment beneath manicured nails. “I’m hardly a herbologist.”
“No,” agreed Sprout. “You’re a designer who understands how living things grow and breathe, even when they’re cut and sewn. I value that perspective.”
Her lungs contracted. Being remembered— for something other than formal wear —was a rarity she’d stopped expecting. She’d spent years cultivating the image of someone nonplussed, an arsenal full of scathing words—a carapace so carefully constructed that sometimes even she forgot what lay beneath.
But Sprout’s simple acknowledgment threatened to crack that veneer.
She glanced at her hands—elegant now, but she recalled the dirt under her nails during detention in the greenhouses. How she’d complained loudly while secretly marvelling at how the hostile tentacula responded to a gentle touch rather than a forceful one.
A lesson she’d applied to her fabrics years later.
“Of course,” Sprout continued, watching Pansy carefully. “You’ll be working alongside my replacement.”
Pansy’s fingers stilled on the envelope. “Your replacement.” Her voice was hollow, somehow already knowing.
“Neville Longbottom.”
The name hung in the air like suspended glass. Pansy’s expression didn’t change, but her pulse quickened traitorously. The carefully constructed walls of her present collided with the ghost of her past—of who she had been: the girl who had mocked his forgetting, his clumsiness, his soft heart. The Slytherin who had stood with Malfoy when it seemed the safest choice.
Neville Longbottom.
“How... predictable,” she managed, and was proud of how steady her voice remained. But beneath her facade, a storm of conflicting emotions—shame, resentment, a grudging curiosity—threatened to betray her composure.
Sprout’s eyes crinkled. “Some might say inevitable. His understanding of magical botany is remarkable, though his teaching methods need refinement. The board approved his appointment last month.”
Pansy’s fingers traced the wax seal on the envelope, buying time. “And he knows that I’m to be involved?” The question revealed more vulnerability than she’d intended. She despised the part of herself that still cared what Longbottom— what any of them —thought of her. After all these years, she’d built a life entirely separate from Hogwarts, yet their opinions still held power she refused to speak aloud.
Pansy broke the seal and unfolded the parchment within, scanning the formal offer. Three evenings a week. Six weeks. Compensation that wouldn’t make a difference to her accounts, but wasn’t insulting either. Permission to access the castle grounds and relevant resources.
“This would be a professional arrangement,” Pansy treaded carefully.
“Of course,” Sprout replied. “Though I should mention that I informed Neville of my invitation.”
Pansy looked up sharply. “And?”
Sprout’s smile was enigmatic. “He said he trusted my judgment.”
The words sank into Pansy like rainwater into thirsty soil. Unbidden, a memory surfaced—herself at fifteen, voice dripping with contempt: “Did Longbottom’s gran knit that pathetic excuse for a scarf? Perhaps she should focus on helping him remember which end of his wand to hold instead.”
The laughter that had followed. The way Neville’s ears had burned red as he’d hurried past. How casually cruel she had been. She’d been vicious without thinking, wielding words like Unforgivables; anything to keep the focus off herself.
And now he trusted Sprout’s judgment about her.
She folded the letter back along its creases, mind racing with calculations that had nothing to do with galleons.
“Hogwarts holds memories,” she confessed quietly.
“For all of us,” Sprout countered. “But gardens teach us that even scorched earth can bloom again—with the right care.”
Pansy thought of the boy who had once lost his toad on the Hogwarts Express, and the man who had slain Nagini with the Sword of Gryffindor. Then she thought of herself—the girl who had suggested handing Potter to the Dark Lord, who now designed robes renowned across Europe. Talent, determination, and—though she’d never admit it—a desperate need to prove herself to those who had written her off as nothing more than Draco Malfoy’s sharp-tongued shadow built her success.
“People change, Miss Parkinson,” Sprout continued when Pansy failed to speak, her voice gentle. “Some more dramatically than others.”
“Do they?” she asked, more to herself than to Sprout. “Or do they simply become more truly themselves?”
She lifted the envelope, tucking it into her ledger. Outside, the light had shifted to dusty blue. Closing time had come and gone, and as if listening intently, the mannequin paused its rotation.
“When would you need my answer?” Pansy asked.
“I believe you’ve already decided.” Sprout’s weathered hand reached across the counter, briefly touching Pansy’s wrist. “Sunday evening. Greenhouse Four. Six o’clock.”
Pansy slipped her hand from Sprout’s grasp. “I’ll need to adjust my shop hours.”
“Some adjustments are worth making.”
When Sprout left, the shop bell’s chime lingered long after the door closed. Pansy remained motionless, staring at the space where her former professor had stood. She thought of Longbottom—not the awkward boy from her younger memories, but the man who’d stood tall in the Battle of Hogwarts, sword in hand. The man whose name occasionally appeared in Herbology journals she pretended not to read.
The man who, apparently, trusted Sprout’s judgment about her.
Pansy’s hand drifted to her throat, fingertips pressing lightly against her pulse. She would go to Hogwarts on Sunday.
She would be professional, detached, and absolutely in control.
She could do this.
Inhaling, Pansy reached for her quill and ledger, determined to resume her evening tallies, but failed. She found herself staring at the darkening glass of her shop window, watching her own reflection dissolve into the night. For a moment, she glimpsed both the sneering girl she had been, and the guarded woman she had become, their faces superimposed in the glass.
And for a moment, Pansy wondered which version Longbottom would see.
* * *
Sunday arrived with oppressive heat. Pansy stood at the edge of Hogwarts grounds, the castle’s silhouette a jagged memory against the sky. Sweat gathered at the base of her neck, and she resisted the urge to fan herself. Composure was armour, and Pansy refused to shed it before she’d even arrived.
She’d chosen dark linen trousers and a loose cream blouse—dignified but suitable for greenhouse work—though she couldn’t resist the pair of silver and jade earrings tucked discreetly beneath her hair. Practical, yes , but still very much Pansy Parkinson .
Some habits just couldn’t be unlearned.
Will he recognise me? She pondered. The pointed angles of her face had softened slightly with age, though her high cheekbones and straight nose still gave her an aristocratic air. Her black bob, once cut in a severe line that mimicked her mother’s, now fell in a softer asymmetrical sweep that framed her heart-shaped face. Dark, green eyes—observant, calculating—stared back at her from every reflective surface, the same eyes that had once narrowed in contempt at anyone who wasn’t worthy of her attention. Her lips, painted a deep burgundy, were no longer fixed in the perpetual sneer of her youth, though the muscle memory remained.
Pansy both looked vastly different and utterly the same.
Her fingers absently stroked the thin silver bracelet at her wrist as she walked—a ritual she’d developed over the years, a quiet centering whenever post-war anxiety threatened to surface.
She could do this.
Another step.
At the surface, the path to the greenhouses appeared unchanged, though the grounds themselves felt simultaneously smaller and more vast than she remembered. Years later, evidence of reconstruction was still visible in places—newer stone, different textures where magic had mended the broken parts.
Like all of us, Pansy thought. Mended, but not quite the same.
Each step seemed to unfurl another memory, most unkind. Shame shrouded her, pulse quickening as she passed the spot where she’d once stood with Draco, laughing cruelly at a second-year’s mishap with a broom. The memory, like most prior to the final battle, stung fresh, though she’d spent years trying to dull its burn.
Not everything was tainted, though. The lake glimmered to her left. She remembered sitting by its shore during sixth year, sketching the patterns of light on water when no one was looking. Even then, beauty had been her sanctuary, though she’d hidden it behind sneers and scathing remarks. Now, her eye caught the elegant structure of a water lily—the perfect inspiration for the neckline she’d been struggling with for her upcoming autumn collection. She made a mental note, her mind already seeing the adaptation from flora to fashion.
Reluctantly, Pansy tore her gaze from the water. The meeting with Sprout couldn’t wait, no matter how tempting it was to linger by the lake, sketching botanical silhouettes for another hour. She followed the stone path that curved away from the shore, her footfalls echoing against the worn pavers as the greenhouses came into view. Her steps slowed as she approached, the sun’s fading light transforming the glass structures into amber lanterns against the darkening grounds.
Greenhouse Four loomed ahead, glass panels catching the evening sun. She paused at the door, hand hovering over the iron handle, aware of voices inside—Sprout’s familiar timbre and another, deeper one that made her stomach tighten inexplicably. The iron felt cool against her palm, a stark contrast to the heat flushing her chest. Pansy took a measured breath, annoyed at her own reaction.
Beyond professionalism and beyond even the excitement of working with rare magical plants for her textiles, Pansy had come seeking something she barely admitted to herself: a chance to be seen as she was now, and not as the frightened girl whose name had become synonymous with ‘ cowardly bitch’ in some circles.
She wanted, perhaps foolishly, to rewrite her own ending.
Pansy straightened her shoulders, touched her bracelet one last time, and readied herself to face Neville Longbottom—the boy she’d tormented—now the man whose respect she inexplicably found herself wanting to earn.
No wasted movements.
No revealing glances.
No acknowledgment of the past unless he brought it up first.
That was her playbill.
She had prepared three neutral conversation starters about magical botany, rehearsed in her flat until they sounded casual.
Professional arrangement , she reminded herself, opening the door.
Heat and humidity washed over her, carrying scents of soil and green things. The pungent aroma of bubotuber pus hit her nostrils, triggering a sudden flash of Severus Snape’s dungeon classroom, Theo’s hand shooting up to answer a question while Greg fumbled through his textbook as she rolled her eyes, Draco at her side..
That was a lifetime ago.
A time when her place in the world had seemed certain and deserved.
Pansy willed the memory away, turning. Sprout stood at a workbench, silver-flecked hair escaping from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, surrounded by small clay pots and curious brass instruments.
Beside her stood Neville Longbottom.
He’d grown into his height since she’d last seen him, posture more assured. Broad shoulders shifted beneath a simple linen shirt rolled at the sleeves, revealing the unexpected definition of muscle beneath tanned skin. Her designer’s eye immediately noted the quality of the fabric—modest but well-crafted, the kind of understated piece she now appreciated but would have once dismissed as beneath her notice. Pansy found her gaze lingering longer than she’d intended, but there was just something so compelling in the manifestation of how much he’d changed—the visible strength in a man she’d once dismissed as soft.
It spoke of an earned confidence, of someone who had grown comfortable in his body and his expertise.
He lifted his head, halting her steps. Standing before her was no longer the boy she had known, but a man rebirthed by time and circumstance. His face had lost its boyish roundness, replaced by a defined jaw shadowed with stubble that caught the greenhouse light. Damp, tousled brown hair curled against his forehead, lending a disarming vulnerability to features that had grown unexpectedly striking. His lips, fuller than she remembered, held a slight flush. But it was his eyes that seized her—hazel depths that shifted between amber and green depending on how the light struck them—watched her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.
Her stare dropped to the scar along his jawline—a souvenir from that final battle, perhaps—reminded her of their past reinforced. The sight of it transported her instantly to the Great Hall, filled with the wounded and the grieving, while she stood frozen in the doorway, paralyzed by the consequences of her cowardice. She’d watched him then, sword in hand, blood on his face, looking nothing like the boy she’d mocked for years.
Across the humid air, those unwavering hazel eyes locked with her, and Pansy was suddenly, irrationally furious at Sprout for not warning her properly. Her stoic expression remained fixed, but she felt her fingers tremble slightly against her thigh. She curled them into her palm, nails digging into soft flesh. On instinct, she started to extend her hand in greeting, then hesitated, uncertain if he would accept it— if he should accept it. The momentary break in her poise mortified her. Her hand returned to her side as though it had never moved, but she knew he’d seen the gesture. Her throat tightened, a flush creeping up her neck.
“Ms Parkinson,” Sprout said warmly. “Right on time. You remember Neville, of course.”
Neville’s expression was unreadable.
Breathe. Just breathe.
“Professor Longbottom,” she managed, her voice catching slightly before she recovered. Pansy winced, hating the breathless quality that had crept into it. “It’s been some time.”
Inside, she was screaming: I’m sorry. I was awful. I was terrified.
“Parkinson,” he acknowledged, his voice a low, steady sound that held a hint of something she couldn’t quite place.
“Neville’s just been showing me his propagation technique for the Moonshades,” Professor Sprout beamed.
Outside, she merely inclined her head, the perfect picture of professional courtesy. She approached the workbench with cautious steps.
“I see Sprout’s wasted no time,” she mused, nervous.
Salazar—why is this so difficult?
His mouth curved slightly. “Not so little. These orchids are notoriously difficult. I’ve been trying to cultivate them for years.”
“Three years, four months,” Sprout corrected, handing Pansy a pair of dragon-hide gloves. “He’s been corresponding with botanists in Singapore about their dormancy cycles.”
Pansy accepted the gloves, noting they were her size exactly.
“How fascinating,” she said, meaning it despite her neutral tone, but Neville’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though trying to detect sarcasm where there was none.
“Professor Sprout mentioned you had exceptional detail work,” he said after a moment, his focus entirely on her. “We’ll need it. These seeds carry memories in their cellular structure - they know the difference between hands that merely touch and hands that truly tend. During germination, they respond to intention as much as technique.”
Pansy shifted under his attention before pulling on the gloves, flexing her fingers. “I assume there’s a specific technique.”
“There is.” He reached for her gloved hand without warning, fingers loosely cupping her wrist. “May I?”
The question hovered with weighted implications that had nothing to do with plants, and it was all Pansy could manage to incline her head in the barest nod.
His hand moved toward hers with surprising grace for someone she’d once mocked as clumsy. Calloused fingers—rough from earth and labour—slid beneath her palm, lifting it gently. Pansy’s breath caught as his larger hand enveloped hers completely, his thumb pressing her fingers into a loose curl. The heat of his skin penetrated her thin leather gloves, warming places she hadn’t realised were cold. He shaped her hand into a shallow cradle, his touch firm but not forceful, a guidance rather than a command.
“They thrive on a delicate balance,” he murmured, his voice imbued with a quiet understanding. “A sense of safety, yet the freedom to reach—secure but not constrained.”
A peculiar tightness stitched between her ribs, prickles washing along her skin. Her usual brash tone was muted, voice nearly a whisper as she echoed, “A delicate balance .”
Their eyes met again, and something passed between them—acknowledgment, perhaps. Of shared history. Of the strangeness of this moment. Of the decade that separated them from who they had been.
Of who they’d known.
Sprout cleared her throat and Pansy turned her head at the sound. How had she forgotten Professor Sprout was there?
Salazar help her; why had she agreed to this, again?
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted with the process. There’s tea in the side room when you need it.” Sprout grinned at them both, radiating satisfaction. “I have every confidence you’ll work well together.”
Heat flared beneath her skin at the professor’s suggestive tone, the flush spreading to her cheeks faster than Devil’s Snare in the darkness. She fought the urge to snap back with something cutting, something that would restore the comfortable distance of animosity. Instead, she found herself frozen, hyper-aware of how Sprout’s knowing look transformed an innocent botanical consultation into something that felt uncomfortably like matchmaking. The woman might as well have winked and nudged her with an elbow.
As Sprout bustled away, Pansy realised Neville’s proximity, how the greenhouse enveloped them in a cocoon of humid, verdant air that clung to her skin in knowing. She withdrew her hand with deliberate care, fingertips tingling where his touch had been, grateful that he couldn’t hear the mortified cadence of her pulse.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, his statement nearly lost to the leaves around them. She looked up, meeting his eye, surprised by the lack of judgment she’d expected. Staring back was only a cautious understanding that left her feeling more uncomfortable than any accusation could have.
“Do what?” She asked, feigning ignorance, but she knew her attempt was transparent as glass.
“Pretend.”
Pansy studied him, heart quickening at the steadfastness in his gaze, the quiet certainty in his posture—traits that the boy from her past could never have possessed.
The war had carved, moulded something essential from him, leaving this specimen of a man in its wake.
“I assumed that’s what you’d prefer,” she confessed sombrely, taking a step back. She needed space to breathe–to think rationally.
“I prefer honesty,” he answered practically. “We were children in a war. We all made choices.”
“Some worse than others,” she snapped, grimacing at her tone. The confession tore free before she could swallow it back.
A shadow passed across his face, darkening the defined angles of his features. Not pity , Pansy suddenly realised with a rush of relief, but something rarer: understanding.
“The past doesn’t disappear.” Neville reached down, fingers absently brushing the soil before them. “But it can nourish what grows next, if we let it.”
Herbologist philosophy, Pansy thought, even as something fragile unfurled within her chest. She looked down at the workbench, at the delicate brass instruments and the row of waiting seeds, each one a possibility.
She could— would— do this.
“Well then,” she shrugged, despite the tightness in her throat. “We best get started, shall we?”
He smiled—a real smile that transformed his face, softening the man before her into something of the boy she’d once scorned—and reached for a seed. “They’re particular about who touches them,” he explained, cradling it gently. “They need to form a bond with their caretaker.”
“Sounds risky,” Pansy surmised.
“The best things usually are.”
His eyes met hers again, warm as summer soil, and this time, Pansy didn’t look away. His gaze held her before him like pollen in the sunlight—illuminating not what she had been, but what she could become.