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Chapter Text

Chapter 1
Junior year of high school. Hamilton Boarding School

Do you want to know the beautiful thing about being a boarding school lifer?  All the secrets are gained by merely observing people while they least expect it. How else would I know that the head of the science department has been having an affair with the chemistry teacher? Or that Mr. Longbottem, the school's sanitation engineer, has been a little absentminded lately and carelessly leaving his office door open, and with it,  Hamilton Prep school’s master keys completely unguarded.  T’would be a shame if they found themselves comfortable in the pocket of a student with chemically-cooked vengeance on the mind.

Observation yields information, and everyone who intimately knows their history knows that information, well, it's power.

Knowing when to act and when not to act is another form of power. The Gaboon viper, the deadliest snake in the Savannah, doesn’t chase its predators. It retracts, recoils, observes, and when the time is exactly right, STRIKES for the kill. Like a chess master, one needs to think five steps ahead of the opponent, and well as a seventeen-year-old—— I’m still perfecting the art of timing. Half-formed frontal lobe and all that.

So, when I recently observed my best and only friend,  Astoria’s WASP of a boyfriend getting a little too cozy with another girl in our year, strike, I did—though not alone.
One friend equals only one person to whom loyalties lie, and right about now, I am seriously doubting whether Astoria is even worth the liability. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Pansy.

Pansy, my parents could have given me a perfectly normal name like Nathelie, or if they wanted to stay on the theme of flora, perhaps Rose, but no, they chose to name me after a silly purple flower, common, and practically a weed. Perhaps if they had named me Lilly, I would be the sweet kind daughter that everyone dreams of, but I’m Pansy, through and through.

If information is my weapon, then cooking is my superpower, and the perfect storm of a distracted groundskeeper, half absent science department dallancing at some cheap motel or minivan back row, lead to the perfect opportunity for me to cook up a cold dish of revenge for my one and only liabilitie—-I mean friend’s—behalf, and that dish was going straight to the cheating homewrecker, Hermione Granger’s leave in conditioner bottle.

What happens when you mix thioglycolic acid with calcium hydroxide? Essentially, Nair.

God, I loved to cook. Nothing calmed my brain more. The predictability of adding one compound to another under heat or pressure, yielding predictable results.  Much like chemistry.  My therapist told me that I should stick to pies, galettes, pastries—and the sort, but patisserie just won’t cut it after the tears spilled by my best friend. Instead,  I cooked up a little vigilante justice in Hamilton Prep’s negligently abandoned science lab. I was positive my therapist and I  would be unpacking this in the next session.  As long as my parents didn’t find out, and string me up by my thumbs in the backyard first.

The already dark, under the cover of night, chemistry lab was pitch black except for the glow of my Bunsen burner.  My blond friend, clearly bored from actually being useful, flipped her phone from flashlight to selfie mode.

“Look up, Walter White, say cheese!” Astoria said, with her tone a little too bright for someone who had just been cheated on, but such was her personality. Sunshine personified as she held two fingers up in a peace sign and snapped a picture while wearing a white coat with lab goggles pulled up onto her perfect, blond forehead. All gear for optics, but she had zero actual intent on helping other than to get a selfie.
“Stop creating evidence!” I said. “Besides, I can’t. If I don't burn out the sulfuric acid just right, then this mixture will go from mild epilator to a potential derminator,” not sure if that’s a word. “And the offense goes from misdemeanor to violent crime—— there are lines that even I won’t cross.”
“Besides,” I said, eyes looking up to glare at my friend,  “stop making evidence, and get back to holding the phone light over the beakers. I can barely see a thing.”
“Pansy, I make these videos for our nursing home days.  What else will we have to live for when our brains are half gone than reliving our mischievous youth?”
A smile that tugs at the crease of my cheeks at the prospect of having a friend so far into the future.
“Your brain is already half gone,” I say, not peeling my eyes away again from my beakers and Bunsen burners.
Astoria continued to film us, dropping her voice three octaves, “Be gone thot, I’m the derminator.”
I swished the beaker over the flame just a little longer, waiting for my milky yellow liquid to turn a clear yellow, signalling that all of the sulfuric acid had been burned off and the concoction was ready.
“Almost don—Gahh,” my right arm holding the beaker over the flame spasmed up, jerking the molten hot glass into my left wrist.
Astoria’s eyes widened, and an angry red circle appeared on my left wrist.  I placed the beaker down, carefully, and ran my burned arm under cold water.  Luckily, it was thermal and not a chemical burn.
“Are you ok?” Astoria asked, eyes glued to my arm.
“Yeah, I think so,” I said, but not feeling too sure.
“Was the jerking in your arm that thing you get when the weather gets cold?”
“I think so.” Trying to squeeze the tears tingling the corners of my eyes back. That hurt!
Whenever it got cold outside, my hands would go numb, turning white as if all the blood was leeched from under my skin.  My arms would spasm. Which, in New England, was most of the time.
I've seen the best doctors money can buy, and each of them said, “It's psychosomatization—she’ll grow out of it.” One doctor even covertly told my mother that a boyfriend would cure me— chalked it up to low self-esteem. Told me to talk to a therapist. Quacks.
My self-esteem was just fine. Objectively, I am smart, conventionally attractive with green eyes and pitch black hair.  If I had any more self-esteem, you could call me Napoleon. I knew exactly who I was—-my mom, not so much. She signed me up for therapy, and last summer, when I was home, made a point to invite every eligible teen boy in Southampton over for dinner.

“I have some Reaparneu Gold in my room—I think it has aloe in it,” Astoria said, snapping my attention back to her.
“Thanks,” I said. Cleaning up the chemicals and restoring everything to its original spot with criminal precision. Not a test tube out of place.

I pulled up a dropper full of the Nair concoction and dropped a few drops of the yellow liquid onto my arm. When it didn't burn, I let it sit for two minutes before wiping it off with a paper towel.  Along with it went a line of fine black arm hairs.

“Astoria, give me your arm,” I said
“Ew, no,” she said, clutching her arm to her chest. “ I don’t have any arm hair on my perfect arms.” She said.

I pinched the thin blond hairs on her arm and yanked. Hard.
“Ouch! God,” She said, further recoiling.
I grabbed her arm, dropper in hand.
“Save it for Granger.”She said in a small voice.  “She is going to need the whole lot of it for that bush on top of her head.”

I  yanked her arm to me. Sometimes I didn’t feel things the way other people did, and as much as I wanted the bitch to pay, I didn’t want to go to jail or worse—public school for causing actual damage to her skin.

Astoria tried to recoil her arm, but I was too fast.  I dropped the liquid on her arm, let it sit for two minutes, and when she didn’t scream in agony or even have any redness, I wiped her blond hair, “Perfect.”
Bella hugged me from the side, “You are brilliant.”

Brilliant? Maybe—But lucky? Perhaps not.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Pansy Parkinson, tampering with the belongings of other students is strictly prohibited,” The feline featured old headmistress, McGonagall growled. As a poor shaking girl, Hermione Granger, stood beside her, she pulled her woolen hat further down her head, blocking out the January freeze. “You should be expelled for what you’ve done.” The girl looked over at us, a simpering mask falling from her face, replaced by the slow, malevolent turn of cheek into a knowing grin—her justice was about to be served.

“But luckily, for the two of you,” The cross old woman shifted her piercing gaze from me to my blond best friend, “Your parents have wired to the school the price of justice.”

“Your sentence has been reduced to detention for one month.“

Outrage crept up the girl's features yet again, as the guillotine of expulsion nearly missed out necks.

My best friend, Astoria, and I shared a conspiratorial grin hidden behind a cough with each other.  I may not have put the Nair into Hermione’s leave in conditioner bottle, but I did cook it up in the lab, and I did not stop my best friend from exacting revenge for her petty vendetta towards the girl when I caught  Hermione with Astoria’s boyfriend, Cormack looking too cozy and  “Studying late” in the library for their chemistry test the night before.

Cooking was how I relieved stress, and my therapist told me that I should stick to pies, galettes, pastries—and the sort, but patisserie just won’t cut it after the tears spilled by my best friend. Oxytocin may be the chemical of love, but for the formerly bushy. Presently, bald brunette, potassium thioglycolate– the active ingredient of Nair, was the organic compound of revenge–I guess I did learn something useful in chemistry after all.

“The walkways need to be shoveled, and salt needs to be sprinkled,” the headmistress said with the fake airs of a refined mid-Atlantic accent. An accent she reserved for school and impressing parents, but I had been in detention enough times to hear her true Southie Boston Irish brogue whisper through.

“Ridiculous, this has to be against at least thirty child labor laws!  My dad is going to hear about this!” Astoria said while pulling her phone out of her Pink Canadian Goose pocket, and flipping her naturally blond hair over her shoulder like a fluffed-up peacock trying to intimidate a tiger.

McGonagall’s lips pursed a fraction, the only outward balk at the threat from the overly entitled 16-year-old.

“Save it Ms. Greengrass, we are protected under Title V section III clause 1.3, behavior rehabilitation practices which —-your father signed off on, so unless you would like ME to call him back after his generous donation to the “beautification of the faculty lounge fund”, and discuss alternative educations, I would suggest YOU —pick up a shovel. “

My friend raised her hand and opened her mouth, but no words came out.  The smile on headmistress McGonagall's face said it all. Checkmate.

Astoria looked positively crestfallen.  It was not often that she would have a problem that she could not swipe her credit card out of –at least, not completely.

I  gave her a comforting pat on the arm and then a wink.  There was no way I would be caught dead shoveling out in this tundra, and I was about to get out of it.

Astoria may be book smart, but she has no idea how the world really works.

Amateur.

Parents don’t send their kids to boarding school because they give a shit about their education.  They send their kids to boarding school so that they can gaslight themselves into feeling like they are doing the best for their children, all while also willfully neglecting them. If you have enough money, you can send all sorts of little problems away. I knew I would have a better chance at a lessened sentence by exploiting what McGonagall wanted than what I could do to her if I didn't get my way. You know– flies, honey, and all that.

I pulled an ungloved hand out of my pocket and looked down at my black, polished fingernails, stark against my alabaster skin. “Mrs McGonagall, my fingers get all numb and tingly out in the cold.  I think I may have Reynaud’s.  It would be a shame for a student of this esteemed establishment to lose a finger due to frostbite.  What would the parents think if they heard?”

The old cat worried her brow, and then shrugged her shoulders.

“Ms. Greengrass, you are still on grounds duty. Ms. Parkinson, follow me.”

I followed the headmistress back up the stairs to the grand entrance of Hamilton Preparatory and gave a glance over my shoulder. Astoria shot me a rude hand gesture in return. I just smiled, winked, and returned the gesture with heart hands.

We walked down the old stone hallway, passing sconces which have been repurposed with electricity, and paintings of old headmasters, with eyes that frankly looked like they were following you.  Honestly, the whole school gave me the creeps.

We stopped in front of a large mahogany floor-to-ceiling vitrine bedecked with tarnished silver cups and plaques with names no longer spoken, and accolades long forgotten. Headmistress McGonagall produced a microfiber cloth and a tub of silver polish.

“You’ve got to be joking! I can’t clean all of these. This will take ages!  There has to be like one hundred years of crap here!”

“Two hundred years of--–crap,” She stated the last word like it was the bitterest pill in her mouth.

“Don’t you have custodians for this sort of thing!?”I asked, incredulous.
“I was able to send Mr. Longbottom home for the weekend to care for his sick wife, thanks in part to yours and Ms. Greengrass’s contribution of” She pauses, thinking about her next word carefully. “community service.”  The old cat said with a wry twinkle in her eye.

“This is ludicrous.  I am not polishing all of these.”

“If you want to remain at Hamilton prep, I suggest you start scrubbing now, Ms. Parkinson. “

I let out a low growl, but conceded. This school’s punishments are left in the dark ages, but the dark ages were more of a comfort than the snide comments and absenteeism of home.

Starting from the top and working my way down, I grabbed a nearby oak chair and placed it next to the vitrine.  Standing on my tippy toes, I could just barely reach the trophies on the top shelf.  I grabbed the first one—a cup so tarnished that it was almost green. I grabbed a little paste and the microfiber cloth, and started scrubbing where the name plate would be.

“Bartholomew Greengrass”. I read.  I continued reading, feeling a little jolt of excitement seeing a recognizable last name.  “Mathlete Champions 1963”.  I pulled my phone out of my pocket, flipped it, snapped a selfie of me holding the trophy, and typed in A. Green-ass and hit send.

She responded “Grampsss!” and then another message with  a duck-faced  selfie holding  her shovel and a text saying “I feel like a bloody Bolshevik out here.”

“Well, you do love to read Tolstoy. “ I text back.

“Yeah, well, this whole situation feels more Doestoevky’s Crime and Punishment than Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina!”

I laugh to myself and get back to polishing what felt like a multiplying amount of silver plaques.

I had just gotten to a plaque for someone named “Dominic Cumberbach - Rowing Captain 1942 when a distinct high-pitched whistling caught me off guard.

I looked up, glancing at the wooden beams of the vaulted ceiling.  Nothing.  The silence returned, and I resumed my penance. The fumes from the silver cleaner must have been making me hallucinate.  I mentally added that to my list of grievances with the school.

An intricate birdsong erupted again, and I whipped my head up again to find the annoying bird, so I could lob a plate at it.   There’s no way Ruth Hollingsworth, women's chess 1978, would care.

Looking around, I didn't see a bird but instead saw a chubby boy with a mane of too-long tufty brown curls and teeth too large for his face, determinedly mopping the floor.  He was wearing the school uniform, a gray sweater, no longer tucked into his trousers,  and navy pants that seemed to have gotten a little too short, showing maybe more ankle than would generally be up to the dress code.  Then again, who was I to judge when the waistband of my skirt was rolled up four times, over-shortening my skirt far above the knee protocol.  He slowly made his way, facing the opposite direction towards the vitrine, cleaning the floor.

I watched him quietly place something in his mouth and purse his lips, making the most intricate bird call I’ve ever heard. It grated against my fume headache like nails running down a chalkboard.

“Do you mind?!” I asked. “Between these fumes, and your excessive whistling, I may just go insane.“

He startled. Voice cracking in a shriek. Good, I don't blame him.  I would be a little scared of myself, too. He doesn't say anything else, but resumes mopping and staring so hard at the floor that a hole might just appear.
I stared at him just a bit more, while violently polishing a small silver cup. Minerva McGonagall 1974 ~ Spelling Bee.

‘Hey! Aren't you  in the same chemistry class as me?” I asked, trying to break the lilting silence.

“Mhmm '' he responded rather non-committedly, continuing to look down at the floor, or maybe he was staring at his shoes, whose sole was splitting a little from the top. “You don’t talk very much—What's your name?”

“N-Neville Longbottom.” He stammered.

“Longbottom–like Mr. Longbottom, the custodian?” I honestly would have no clue what the custodian's name was, but the sheer fact that I was there doing his job made me very familiar with his name.

Neville’s face lit up a little bit, his brown eyes giving way to a little more of a golden color.

“My dad!” He responded a little excitedly with a crooked smile and a shrug.

I nodded my head. Judging from his appearance and shabby clothes, it honestly made sense.
“You’re so quiet, what did you do to conscript yourself into McGonogall’s work camp for delinquent minors?” I asked while scrubbing an exceptionally large plate and tilting it to admire my reflection.

Neville put down his mop and sat down on the floor next to me.

“I volunteered to help out my dad, so he could go home.”  Right, Mrs. McGonogall had said–.

I stopped preening and looked over at him, suddenly feeling a little churn in the pit of my stomach. What was that? Guilt, shame? Gross. This is why I stick to being frenemies with the trust-funded and not the well-faired.

"Oh, that’s right, your mom is sick?” I asked while grabbing another small plaque for some ancient act a million years ago.  I swear to god, it said “Jesus of Nazareth, Sommelier Certificate or something equally archaic.

“She has a brain tumor. “ He said.

I stopped scrubbing and looked over at him.

“I’m sorry to hear that.“ And I was.  I wasn't, like, a total heartless monster.

Neville walked over to the vitrine and picked a particularly gnarly-looking plaque from the top shelf and produced a microfiber cloth from his super practical janitorial industrial belt, and sat back down next to me, scrubbing, and thankfully changing the subject before his sob stories gave me chest pain.

“This one says science fair 1932—Who do you think it is? Albert Einstein?” He asked, hunched over the platter, curly brown mane cascading over his eyes. He was polishing with careful precision.  Like his future depended on the outcome of this particular menial task. Perhaps it did.

“From this school?! Probably more likely that physicist who blew up the world— Oppenheimer.“

He let out a short chuckle with a noncommittal shrug.

“S-so what d-did you do that has you scrubbing silver on a Friday night?”

I’m a little embarrassed to tell this kid. Who seemed like the kind of person who walks old ladies across the street and nurses sick puppies back to health as a hobby.

“I may have been doing a little unsupervised, erm, “cooking” in the lab.”

“Cooking? Did you like make meth or something?” he asked a little sheepishly.

“What?! No! What kind of person do I look like to you?” I laughed, completely taken by surprise.

“Not a meth head!” He smiled back at me.

“Good!” I felt a little emboldened by where his head went.  Maybe stuttering-golden-retriever-nice-boy Neville wasn't entirely so pure after all.

“Hermione Granger seduced Astoria’s boyfriend— I may have used some of the school’s chemical compounds to cook up a stable potassium thioglycolate, the main active ingredient in Nair. “

Neville’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open further, displaying two large front teeth, a little crooked.  When he didn't say anything, I continued.

“And, I may have been complicit in that compound finding its way into her bottle of leave-in conditioner.”

“No! You're kidding!  You’re the reason she looks like Brittany Spears from 2007?” he asked, eyes and mouth agape.

“Culpable and complicit, but I was not the one who actually poured the solution in.”  I don't know why I felt the need to clarify that little bit of character representation to him, but I did.  This is why I don’t associate with nice people.

We sat for a bit in a lull of a deafening silence. I just knew he was judging me, but at least we made a pretty sizable dent in the amount of silver left.

“She probably deserved it,  “ Hermione.” He added after a beat.

I glanced up at Patricia McGregor’s crowning achievement of Debate Champion 1953, and looked at him.  Was he trying to justify my actions? Make my heinous, selfish act ok? Be a friend? I already had one. I did not need another.

“If you can’t have clothes that fit you, then you should probably fix your teeth—and your hair!” I saw hurt flash across his face for a second, and then he grabbed a freshly polished platter and looked at himself.  He grabbed a fistful of curls, smoothing them down against his head. I instantly felt that sick, slimy feeling in my stomach again.

I don't know why I said that. He was being nice, and I just felt the need to strike him, bite him, and sink my venom in before he got any wrong ideas about me and him being friends.

I saw a slow grin in the reflection of the platter. “You gonna slip your little compound into my shampoo bottle?” he said with a challenging eyebrow cocked.

What?

Who was this kid? I was taken aback.  I thought he would simper, cower, or leave. I may be full of venom, but maybe Neville Longbottom had—claws?

“No, I’m much too busy to bully you,” I responded prissily, shaking my head. Short dark hair lobbing from side to side, dusting my shoulders.

He chuckled to himself while staring intently my way.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, jerking my head in his direction.

“You just embody your name,” He said, leaning back against the wall. Relaxed.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I crossed my arms, protecting myself from the power shift.

“You’re a Pansy, “ He responded like it was the most natural answer in the world.

“So? What does that even mean—are you calling me weak?”  I bit out at him.

“No, not at all. Contrary to popular belief, Pansies are tough.  They’re the first flowers to pop out of the ground at the first sign of spring. They endure through cold snaps, light snows, and freezes.”

My breath caught, and that cold spot in my chest felt a little—-warm.  It was an uneasy feeling—the power shift. I focused my attention on applying a dark red lip in the reflection of McGonagall’s old spelling bee plaque, instead of this nettlesome boy across from me..

“Great—what did you memorize, a dictionary or something?”

“Or something.” He shrugged with a half smirk.

I scrunched my eyebrows. Plants were not a hot topic of conversation– at least not legal plants.  What a dork? Why was it oddly refreshing?

“Why do you know so much about plants?” I asked.

“I work at my Gran’s greenhouse and apothecary over the summers. She’s a bit of–” He thought about his words for a second, “A free spirit.”

“Your gran sounds cool,” I said. “People are so afraid to live out their passions.  I can respect it.”

“I want to take over one day. I love growing things. How different soils can change the colors of flowers.  How different additives can alter the taste of food. It's like art.”

“Then do it,”  I said, hiding my face behind some thespian’s award, but keeping my eyes glued on Neville, who was proving much more interesting company than the manual labor he was providing.

“My dad wants me to go to law school, or go into business.  That’s why he does all this,” he gestured to the mop and the janitor's utility belt. “I’m here on scholarship; he works off the rest of my tuition.”

“Sounds boring.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” He asked, polishing some unknown plaque with slightly less vigor than before.

“You could actually create something—with your plants and flowers,” I said.  “Whereas if you succumb to the chain around your neck called a tie, well, you would just be the cog in someone else's machine.”

He stared at me for a while, as if he saw something on my face for the first time. “The money would be good.” He shrugged.

“True, but people make money thinking it will make them happy,” I said.

“Only someone with a lot of money would say that.” He said.

“My parents have tons of money—they also live in separate wings of the house.”

He nodded, but I was relieved when there was no pity behind his stare.

“What do you want to create, Pansy?”

No one had ever asked me that before. I knew, of course, but it was always assumed I would finish Hamilton and get into some Ivy League school and drop out with a wealthy husband and an  MRS degree—mom’s dream. But my love was cooking, bringing flavors and textures and compounds together and turning them into something else, something enjoyable, so that’s what I told Neviile. Who was he, anyway, some goofy janitor’s son? I felt like I didn’t have to wear the mask of expected society around him.  I could just tell him the truth.  My truth.

“I want to be a chef—French trained and Michelin starred—but it’ll never happen.”

“Why not? You have means, what holds you back?”

“My parents would never support it. They’re already bringing eligible future fiancés by the house in the summer,  like I’m some kind of show pony.  They would never support me. “

“You never know.“ He said.

“OK, well, Neville, if you take over your gran’s greenhouse, then I will become a chef.”

“Deal, he winked at me.”

My phone buzzed across the floor.  My hands were cramped from more manual labor than I had ever done in my life ( approximately two hours' worth). I put the cup I was polishing down and flipped open my cell phone.

Green-Ass: I have Bolshevicked enough for a lifetime.  Cormac got booze from his brother.  Bonfire party in the woods! Let’s blow this Gulag!
Pansy: Are we not still mad at Cormac anymore?

Green-Ass: We are, but this is where I revenge dress like Princess Diana.

Pansy: Oh, I’ll do your makeup!

Green-Ass: Thanks Bitch. Meet me in my dorm in 5

I glanced up from my phone at Neville, who was carefully continuing to polish the handle of an intricate trophy. Nerves coated the bottom of my throat, and he gave me a small, friendly smile. Should I invite him?  He’s never included in these sorts of things, and it might be a nice distraction from his sick mom.

Taking in his shabby appearance and crooked teeth, I changed my mind. I’m not sure how my friends would react to the janitor's son present at the invite-only bonfire.

“I have to go use the ladies.  I’ll be right back.” I said.

“Ok, Pans,” he said with a smile and a wink. He looked at me with warmth that I was not unaccustomed to. Like a moth to a flame, I wanted to get closer. I wanted to say, screw the party, and find out more about this dopey kid who believes that even small purple flowers were worth time and attention. But the thing about moths and flames is, the moth never survives the flame. So I squared my shoulders, shot him a smile and a wink over my shoulder and went to the bathroom, splashed some cold water on my face, easy to do with the nearly frozen pipes, and then I walked to my dorm to meet Astoria—telling myself the whole way that I didn't care that I left Neville there without a word, and certainly, genuinely not caring what McGonagall would say when she saw that the silver was not completely polished.

The next morning, I went for a walk down the hall, head still cloudy from a night of too much underage drinking. I nearly collided with McGonagall as I walked to the cafeteria to grab a bagel to soak up some of the residual booze, which was still causing a raucous in my stomach.

The old cat placed a hand on my shoulder and regarded me with a look of unmerited appreciation—it set sirens and red flags off in my head.

“Ms. Parkinson, I am impressed.”

I cocked an eyebrow at her in answer.

“The silver in the display case is really shining. I haven't seen my spelling bee plaque in ages! I guess you finished a month of detention in one night.”

I just nodded in return, and she walked off.
I grabbed my bagel and walked straight to the display case, and every trophy, every plaque, every cup was shining and sparkling.  Lead filled my stomach.

From that day on, Neville Longbottom never spoke to me again.

Chapter Text

****Ten Years Later

1 Michelin Star: A restaurant with high-quality cooking, worth a stop if you are in the area.

My therapist once told me to throw myself into a hobby whenever I felt overwhelmed—something to quiet the noise, calm the pent-up tension that ultimately caused me to strike at whomever was in front of me. I tried knitting, walking, and cross-stitching, but the rhythmic motion of chopping was more grounding than any of these other techniques. My brain instantly quieted as the serrated edge slipped into the layers of vegetables, making the large problems small—more digestible, more palatable.

A large freaking problem had just been dropped in my lap, with absolutely no time to process it—too much was on the line. Instead, I counted to ten and let out a breath, and began dicing an onion with rapid surgical precision.  When the onion was practically see-through, I moved on to the carrots, making a mirepoix so fine that it was almost translucent. It was, after all, quite a bit more legal an outlet than the one I actually wanted to slice into. So what did I do? I made soup, a far more acceptable coping mechanism than murder.

The soup, consomme, incidentally, was the first lesson of culinary school. Louie XVI of France had once tasked his chef with creating a soup so clear that he could look upon it and see his reflection staring back at him. The broth in its simplicity, wends a journey of cutting, hot water, building a raft, and then skimming away that which does not serve you anymore. It's a tricky dish, though, involving patience and a gentle hand, two things that one would never accuse me of, but ever since culinary school, I've dreamed of the day that I would be able to look upon my own green eyes and sharp dark bob, never having perfected it.  I always pushed it too hard, boiled it too fast, stirred it too vigorously. It had never been clear enough, and I, never patient enough– but I still tried through the random pains in my arms and the fog that sometimes muddled my brain.
Combining tomatoes, minced chicken, broth, and mirepoix into a copper-bottom pot, I brought the ingredients to a slow simmer, drowning out the yells and din of my restaurant’s busy kitchen.  Prepping was always fine, but a key part of consomme was waiting for the ingredients to float to the top, building a raft, which then I would make a small hole and skim out the pure broth. It was the idleness in that step that killed me.

Waiting for the simmer was stagnant, with nothing to do with my hands,  my brain started to race.  Visions of him, pawing at her blouse, as she kissed his neck—promises that would not be kept, and the last five years of my life down the drain. My mind slipped further, though, for the briefest second back to the boy who encouraged me to leave a prescribed life of wealth and privilege behind and chase a far-away dream of cooking.  Strange, I hadn’t thought about Neville in a year--The raft of ingredients in the consomme began to form at the top of the liquid. This was the critical time for the clarification process, but my brain felt muddy with emotions. Anger and confusion. My vision was turning red.

A hand lightly tapped my shoulder, and I turned, still holding my purple yam-handled Wusthof knife. I heard a shriek as the poor server, whom I never bothered to learn the name of, jumped back, eyes wide, “Sorry, Chef Parkinson,” He said, backing away slowly and picking up a metal tray and slowly shielding his body with it. “The food critic, Horace, is here.  He ordered the Vegan Wellington,” the man whimpered.

“Of-bloody-course he did,” I said.
The show must go on.  I thought, looking at the waiter’s face, and then to my oven range. My restaurant came first.

My broth had become utter poubelle. It was burnt and full of impurities. I let out a low growl and chucked the ladle and the copper pot full of boiling ingredients at the sink in a loud clang. The kitchen went silent. Heads from the sauce line to the dishwasher turned in my direction, sinking back a few steps.  I saw them from the corner of my eye, but did not care. It was New York. They were all replaceable.

I cracked my neck and grabbed a bunch of creminis and began prepping the Wellington’s duxelle. Emotions could wait; my restaurant, Cepe's, had to come first. Unfortunately for me,  the tip of my middle finger and a sprinkle of blood were probably the last thing Horace Slughorn, New York epicurean food critic extraordinaire, expected to bite into as he collected entrees for his Vlog HoraceEats, but the plate had been run, and the damage had been done. So much for Cepes’ expressly vegetarian cuisine.  Later, I would find out that the extra bit of protein took my pretentious Franco-vegetarian restaurant from one Michelin Star to two: Worthy of a Detour.

Anger, heat, and rage creeped up my spine as I violently chopped the cremini mushrooms into a mince so fine that the consistency would become a sand, when bruniose would have done just fine—or at least that’s what HoraceEats vlog clip said on about Cepe’s Vegetarian Wellington, whose “flavor profile was so complex, it may as well have had meat in it.“.  Well, jokes’ on him. It did.

I wasn't thinking, I wasn't looking at what I was doing.  I didn't even feel it as my purple Yam handled an 8” in Wushtof chef’s knife sliced into my finger completely tourne’ing my tip into the mushroom-shallot mixture.

Absent-mindedly, I added my mushroom-sand into my already searing pan that was coated with butter and other aromatics. The heat from the oven had nothing on me, as my brain kept shifting back to Draco.  I was fuming! Four years together—four years since culinary school in Paris, and I helped him start this restaurant with my modest trust fund, something my mother was abjectly against.
Her dark, shrill features–just thinner and pointier versions of my own invaded my psyche, “Pansy Parkinson, you don't have a face like that, just so you can go and cover yourself in grease like some sort of cochon. How plain, how—middle–class. Go to college, meet a nice banker or legacy son, and make me some grandchildren–”

Perhaps I should have listened to her but a stupid conversation i had a long time ago with a dopey boy mixed with a love of bringing compounds together and seeing the magic they make, sent me to Paris for culinary school and eventually to Draco my penniless, talented mentor/turned boyfriend who had a brain and a cock and only enough blood to work one at a time. Why are young adults allowed in the world with half-formed frontal lobes?

It wasn’t a total loss.  The thought of having kids gave me hives. I don’t think I could stand to see myself in miniature form.  Cepe’s would be the only baby I would have.  I liked my jelly carefully and precisely piped into a flaky patisserie or as an accompaniment to a nice braised lamb, not haphazardly decorating the walls or smudged onto the fluffy white Restoration Hardware Cloud Couch in my exposed brick loft.

I couldn’t shake the betrayal.  All of the signs were there, coming home later because he had to “clean up the kitchen, or drive one of our waiters home—we lived in New York. No one drove! Stupid. Ugh, I even helped the bastard create the famed vegetarian Wellington sensationalized by the upper-middle-class hipster families and the suburban gays of Brooklyn. “Who needs to go to Manhattan for a world-class meal? Cepes is just a few brownstones away.”

The signs were there, but my eyes were eclipsed by more.  All I could see was my goal—the highly sought-after three Michelin Stars. Not many restaurants could claim the esteem of three stars, and people are willing to traverse the globe to taste when food and art combine.  Perhaps then I would be “worthy of a special journey?”

Cepe’s received its first star with my lightly fried stuffed squash blossoms, but the one star’s “worth a stop” was not good enough to bring my parents and friends into the city, so I pushed for more. I spent two more years perfecting a Vegetarian Wellington, my new signature.
I had the dish perfect.  I had practiced it so many times that it had become muscle memory. For this reason, I hadn’t even realized the error until it was too late.  Form is the first lesson in knife safety. The Cat’s paw keeps the fingers on. How could I have been so careless? Mental images of Damian pawing at the hostess clouded my brain. I didn't even realize, I didn't even feel as the knife sliced into my middle finger, completely cutting off the tip.

I had prepped, cooked, and serviced a vegetarian Wellington with a small part of my middle finger and quite a bit of blood mixed in. My cutting board was coated in blood, and there were drips all around the stove.  My vision blurred, and my stomach roiled.

OK, Damage control.  I rinsed my carnaged finger under some water at the sink when I noticed the Wellington I had just serviced had been picked up by one of the wait staff.  Oh, fucking hell on earth.  I needed to stop that plate.

I snuck through the busy service doors while holding pressure on my heavily bleeding fingertip. In an attempt to stop utter calamity from happening if Horace not only ate meat, but human meat.  I scanned the busy dining room, a space that was a combination of neo-brutalism overrun with various flora. Not unlike where you would find mushrooms growing in the wild.  Plants hung from the ceiling, from windows. Snake plants grew vertically as little privacy barriers between booths that were onyx black tables and matte black leather benches.

I spotted Draco,  lurching out from the shadows of a moodier corner of the restaurant, and followed his gaze straight to an older man sitting alone with more ring lighting and photo rigging apparati than any solo diner should ever have. Horace.

Draco had been trying to blend in with a large Dracaena plant, wearing his emerald green chef’s coat with only one strand of his normally pristine sandy blond hair out of place. The cheating swine.

He slowly moved towards Melvin, like a viper wending through the reeds, going in for the kill. Fingertips steepled, fleur-de-lis tattoo showing on his left arm beneath rolled up sleeves,  and a serpentine smile plastered on his face.  His eyes were glued to the meal.  My Wellington, perfectly plated, expertly lit, and being photographed like a model posing for an editorial shot.

I walked briskly from the other side of the restaurant to try to intercept the plate and protect my vested interest in this restaurant.  A bad review could tank my trust fund, and worse yet,  I would have to face my mother.

Draco’s cold, focused blue-gray eyes shifted from the streamed live bite Horace was about to take for all of his followers, as well as for the board of Michelin, up to me, and then inadvertently to the blood-soaked rag encircling my fingers.  His eyes widened, he lifted his hand and flicked it a couple of times as he mouthed “Hide it!”

I mouthed to him,” There’s blood in the food!”

He shrugged his broad shoulders and silently yelled, “He’s live. Hide it !”

I begrudgingly placed my hands behind my back and attempted to staunch the bleeding as best as possible. I could still hear the vague sound of intermittent dripping. My head started to feel a little fuzzy.

I stopped and leaned against a wall across from where Horace was readying to take a bite for all of his foodie followers.  Draco came up and stood next to me pressing his shoulder into mine, eyes staring down at the Wellington al la homme in what to the untrained eye, would look like an act of camaraderie between a master chef and his sous chef, an artist and his muse, a business owner, and his partner, a man and his girlfriend, but I saw it for what it was, a threat.

Horace brought the first bite to his lips and took a bite.  A distant and twisted part of my brain wondered how I tasted.

Draco’s shoulder tensed painfully into mine, silently saying, “Keep quiet and keep your face neutral.”

Horace’s eyes widened. “Oh,” is all he says for a long moment.  “Oh, that’s different.” He said, head jerking back, and eyes looking to the two chefs smiling over him like hyenas circling for the kill.

He flaked at the duxelle beneath the puff pastry a bit. “Such a complex umami for a vegetarian dish.“ He mused.

A hurricane of dings started erupting from his live stream, and my vision began to tunnel. Unsure if it is from blood loss or what I just witnessed.

“Oh, and here is the man in charge, Master Chef Draco Malfoy, all the way from the Loire region of France.”
“Bonjour, Bonjour, Hi,” he said with a smile, eating up all of the attention from the social media live. Draco tended to play up his accent for a crowd.  Briefly, in my stupor, I saw comments flash across the screen. “He speaks French and can cook, is he single?!”

“He’s handsome.” “Ooh la la, bonjour.”

Horace eats up all of the attention from his followers before tucking into another bite of his Wellington.  “These flavors—the richness, the slight I don't know, salty metallicness.  How do you do it?” He said, looking straight at Draco.

Wasn’t that just rich? This was MY dish in MY restaurant, with MY accidental fingertip in it,  but since Draco had achieved mastery in cooking, or perhaps just because he was a man,  HE was receiving all of the praise.

“Well, I cannot take all the credit for ‘Zis.  This was actually crafted by my sous chef, Pansy Parkinson. “

“Oh, Pansy, A rising star on the food scene!” The critic said with a smile, and then he tapped Draco on the shoulder,  “I mean that literally,” he said with a wink. Towards Draco beamed in return.

“Pansy, can you tell me how you got such rich and complex flavors into this vegetarian Wellington?
My stomach churned, and it took everything inside of me to remain standing upright and not get sick.  I reminded myself, your trust fund is tied into this restaurant, your trust fund is tied into this restaurant. So I plastered the fakest, and biggest smile I could muster for the thousands of people tuned in and watching, and said  “Oh, you know, Je ne sais pas,  You’ll have to come here and find out for yourselves!”

We returned to the kitchen, Draco’s saccharine smile melted into one that dripped with malice.

“This is a disaster, are you meaning to tell me that you chopped off a bit of your finger, and Horace just ate it in the Wellington?” he whispered with all of the venom of a pit viper, as he threw a rag down onto the silver countertop of the service station.

His accent was notably gone.

My vision had begun to tunnel.  My heart beat rapidly in my chest, and all I heard was the constant dripping of blood onto the floor from my guillotined finger—but I was not to be deterred.

I looked down at the blood pooling around me, and then my eyes trailed up Draco’s black pants to the emerald chef jacket that I bought him, to his cold, dead silver eyes as I pierced him with a Kubrick stare through the fringe of my black hair.
“I suppose you should have thought of the implications of your paltry display in the men’s bathroom in OUR restaurant. “ I said, lashing back with all the poison I could muster, despite feeling wobbly on my feet.

“This is ridiculous. Lavender had something on her blouse, and I was helping her get it out.”

It was there in the pit of my throat, my rebuttal. I was coiled up and ready to strike back. The last thing I remember is the wide blue eyes looking back at me before my vision faded to black. 

Chapter Text

A halo of light shone over my eyes, bouncing back and forth like a blinding metronome as I came back into consciousness.  Was it the light? Was I dead? Did I die? Did I make it to heaven? Surprising.   My ears began to ring, and then came the pain.

My head hurt— everything hurt. My vision was bleary as I made out shadows wearing navy and white, walking just beyond the foot of my bed.  Cold fluorescent lights illuminated them.  The smell of antiseptic burned my nostrils. My lips were chapped, my mouth dry, like I had been wandering alone in the desert.  So, not dead, but close. I was in the hospital.

The last thing I remembered was the shock and bright blue eyes of Draco, and then.. Nothing.  We were fighting. Words were being thrown around between us like knives at a target. Swift, exact, absolute. There was a critic at Cepes—A Michelin critic. How did we do? What day was it? Questions floated around in my brain like driftwood after a storm.

Water.  I desperately needed water.

Rustling caught my attention in the left periphery of my vision, snapping me out of my muddled questions. For a moment, I thought it was Draco. Was he in the hospital with me? Something white hot, spectruming between hope and rage, bloomed in my chest, but I quelled it down as I remembered that his actions were the reason I was there.

The rustling continued, along with some whispered swears.  There were not many people whom I would imagine next to me in the hospital, and one of the few had just cheated on me—a thought that sent a jolt of pain through my chest that, unfortunately, likely was unrelated to the pain in my brain.  I had to see who was near me. Careening myself higher in bed, I looked over the bedrails, moaning as the pressure in my head mounted. My brain was a block of wood being split in two.
The headache worsened as a familiarly grating voice sent nails scraping down the inside of my already addled brain.

“You look terrible,” It said as it pulled out a compact, tapping various places on its cosmetically enhanced face. “This never would have happened if you had gone to college instead of traipsing off to Europe to become—a cook?  The help?”

And then more to herself than to me, she said, “Though these fluorescent lights do nothing to help matters.”

I’m not sure if it was the pressure building up in my brain or waking up to the person sitting next to me, but I leaned over the rails of the hospital bed and puked all over the floor.

“These are Chanel lambskin boots!” the woman says with disgust.

A thin middle-aged woman with dark brown hair took off her gold-rimmed glasses and slid her compact into an oversized black Versace La Medusa tote, in exchange for a silk handkerchief monogrammed with PP. Those were my father’s very unfortunate monogrammed initials.  She then used to wipe the vomit from her boot and disposed of it with two fingers and a pinched face into the trash can.  My mother.

I rustled, looking in the bed for the call button. I needed someone to escort this woman out of the room ASAP, or to give me drugs, or to hit me in the head again hard enough to render me unconscious.  Drugs were preferable.

In my search for the call button, I quickly realized that a boxing glove's worth of bandages and tape was surrounding my injured hand, and the action grabbed the attention of a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and Clooney-ish good looks. He walked in with a bright smile.

“Ms. Parkinson, nice to see you finally awake.  I am Dr. Pomona, your neurologist.”

My mother looked up from me to the doctor standing in the doorway, and her pinched look of perpetual judgment twisted into the smirk of a woman with a new mission. I swear to god her overly arched eyebrow nearly tickled her hairline-quite the feat for a woman who hadn’t missed a Botox appointment since she was nineteen.

Ama nudged her head close to mine and whispered, “He's a cute Pansy!”
“Mom—shush!” “Hi, doctor P,” I said, waving my bandaged hand at him. My mother either didn’t hear me or was undeterred and kept whispering, “Strong jaw, nice eyes. Perfectly respectable career. I wouldn't mind having a doctor for my son-in-law.” She whispered, listing his qualifications as if he were a horse at auction.

This woman had no shame. I wanted to crawl into myself and become a molecular density.  Instead of imploding, I accosted her with a whisper, “He’s not a show horse, he can hear you, you know!”

The poor man looked like he preferred when the Parkinsons were unconscious, and casually slipped his left hand into his white coat pocket and away from Amaryllis Parkinson’s prying eyes.

Dr. Pomona cleared his throat, caught off guard, and let out a small. “I’m married.”

My mother’s eyes shot directly to the pocket concealing his left hand, as if her eyes had X-ray powers, but then she shrugged, pulling out her Chanel compact again.  She pursed her lips and started applying lipstick so red that it looked like the blood of her enemies. “Well, fortunately, doctor, marriage is an illness for which there IS a cure.”

I’m not religious, but I still found myself praying to any god that would listen that I would lose consciousness or to sublimate into the bed, whichever would come first.  There truly were no bounds to the words that would come out of this woman’s mouth. When my prayers were not answered, I pivoted, looking for a speedy exit that would end all of our collective embarrassment, and asked,  “I’m awake now.. So I–I can get out of here, right?”
Concern etched across the doctor’s face. Whether it was for me or him remained to be seen.  “Not so fast.”

My mother leaned forward.  “ Is there something wrong with her brain? I always did say she was the most ungrateful child; there must be something wrong with her brain.“

Dr. Pomona chose to ignore the woman, which made me trust him—but then his shoulders fell a fraction of an inch.  I knew the next thing to come out of his mouth was not going to be good. He looked me in the eye and said, “We saw something on your scan.”

I remained silent, but Ama couldn’t refrain. She hung on his words with a vice, as if all of the answers to her questions of my obstinacy over the years would be answered in the next few words. “What is it, doctor?”

He let out a sigh, “Honestly, this whole ordeal of yours is a bit of a miracle.”

I looked down at my mummified hand and wondered in what freaking universe getting cheated on, losing a fingertip, and waking up to the shrill tones of Amaryllis Parkinson could be twisted into a miracle, but I was about to find out.

“I saw some non-specific densities on your CT scan.” He said.

“Oh yes, doctor, she is very dense in the head.‘’  My mother responded like she had an MD/PHD, and any authority on what Dr. Pomona was talking about.

“Mom, please let the man who went to school for the last twenty years finish a sentence.”

They must teach doctors how to deal with annoying family members in medical school, because he ignored the woman as if his job depended on it and continued.

“Pansy,” He said, focusing all of his attention on me as if Ama hadn’t just been objectifying him like a prized horse at the Derby. “Have you been experiencing anything strange lately, maybe difficulty balancing or numbness and tingling in your fingertips?“ he said, gesturing to my boxing mittened hand.

Only my entire life. I thought to myself as I looked down at my bandaged hand, contemplating.

“My fingertips have been numb on and off for as long as I can remember,” I said,  “but it's almost winter, and they especially get this way in the cold.“ I felt the need to justify.

I could see the cogs in his brain turning as he jotted something down on an iPad.

“I think we are going to need to run a couple more tests and an MRI to be sure. “

“What do you think it is, doctor?”

“We need to run a few more tests to be sure, but I think Nettle may be in the early stages of a disease that attacks her nervous system.”

I looked to my mother, be it for comfort or reassurance, but for the first time, it seemed that Amaryllis Parkinson was left speechless, and THAT scared me more than any potential diagnosis.

Dr. Pomona came closer to the bed and crouched down so that he was at my eye level and in a soft voice said, “You must have a lot of questions. Can I answer any for you?”

Blank. My brain was blank. My mouth was slightly open, and I remember just how thirsty I had been.  My voice came out in a rasp, “Is–is it curable?”

“We need to run more tests, but if it is what I think it is, we can slow it down.”

I looked down at my hands and then up at the doctor’s somber face. This definitely didn’t sound like the makings of a miracle. 

Chapter Text

As it turned out.  “Miracle” was a very loose term when one was in the Neuro Intensive Care Unit.  After being poked to death like a voodoo doll, a seemingly never-ending alphabet soup of brain scans (CT, PET, MRI—FML), and taking tons of medications that made me so jittery that I wanted to peel my skin off and crawl around on all fours like a demon, possessed—Dr.  Pomona confirmed my worst fear.  I had a neurodegenerative disease.  One with no cure that was just as likely to be solved by a witch doctor as a medical doctor..

Back in my apartment, days melted into each other in a series of sunrises and sunsets, and opposite of a plant, I moved to face away from the light flooding into my window. My phone rang; work, Astoria, on occasion, my mother—all of my acquaintances except for Draco. I wish I felt something towards his absence. Pain, anger, sadness, but through it all, I just felt—numb.

I didn’t take any calls. Didn’t answer my door except the one time I doordashed an obscene amount of French fries in hopes that they would make me feel better. They didn’t. The medication Dr. Pomona put me on at the hospital was full of nasty side effects; nausea was the first one listed in large bold letters.  Death was at the bottom of the list, but the good doctor stated that that was likely just for legal purposes.

On day seven of my depressive state, I was lying in bed with a nature documentary playing in the background, unsure whether David Attenbourogh was narrating Blue Planet or my life; “And here we have the Pansy of the Sea, notice how it has made itself very comfortable on the rocky bottom of the ocean, never to see the light of day again, but it must beware for its one true enemy—”

There was a buzz at my door. I checked my phone and saw that a package had been left.

Enough. I thought. Hoisting myself out of bed and promptly turning off the television, silencing Attenborough’s Pansy slander.  I may have been at rock bottom, but as my mother so lovingly liked to remind me, I could always fall further.

The diagnosis was new, but the symptoms—I had been living with for most of my life.  I could put a name to them now, knowing well and good that all of the doctors who told me a boyfriend would cure my woes were full of it.

I checked my reflection in the mirror, and recoiled from the goblin staring back at me. Perhaps David had a point.

In true goblin form, I opened my door just a hair. Checked for any signs of life, then quickly snatched the package from my doorstep.

The expensive-looking box was sent from “The Parkinson,” ie, my mother, and left me both intrigued and horrified. Amaryllis Parkinson only had two modes of gifting: 1) expensive, or 2) incredibly back-handed.

Please be expensive. I prayed.

Opening the box, I was greeted with a new set of Yves Delorme sheets.  They were exquisite, soft as French country butter, and adorned with beautiful purple flowers—pansies.

A small smile tugged at the corner of my cheeks.  Expensive and thoughtful.

A note fell onto the floor. I bent over, picking it up.  It was clearly in the handwriting of the sales representative, saying: Sorry about your brain, darling—if you’re not going to leave your bed, at least use these sheets, so you don’t get wrinkles prematurely X’s, mum and dad.

And backhanded.

I rolled my eyes and threw the little note in the trash, and pulled the sheets out of the packaging. Too bad my butchered finger left my hand bandaged like a boxing mitt, and my other hand was feeling a little numb and lacking the dexterity to actually put the sheets on my bed.
I suppose most parents would probably stick around and help when finding out that their progeny had a neurological disease, mine just sent luxury linens, unable or unwilling to miss their annual migration to the house in Palm Springs.

I spread the flat sheet out over my bed and faced the window.  The sky was grey, and what few trees I saw were all but naked of the last of their leaves as a chill of oncoming winter ripped through New York.

I thought that the numbness I had been experiencing might be a sign that Pansies flourish better in more temperate climates. This thought had me looking into expanding and opening a new restaurant in Austin or maybe even LA.  Unfortunately, sunny skies were not going to be my savior, not when my own body was attacking its “Myelin Sheath,” exposing my neurons to all sorts of negative impulses, and with my brain, negative impulses seemed to be the only kind of impulses that  I was capable of.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A meeting with Dr. Pomona in the clinic solidified the rain cloud over my head, which seemed to be becoming my new best friend.

The poor man walked into the office, eyes darting around the room like a soldier on the defensive, as if he was expecting my mother to pop out from behind the otoscope and question him about marriage choices, sperm count, and virility.
“Don’t worry, doc, my mother is out of the state until warmer weather. She says the grime from the city is bad for her skin.”

Dr. Pomona sighed audibly. And then began to explain the neurodegenerative process to me.

I sat and stared at him when words sounded like a muddled grouping of vowel sounds all strung together. Words like progressive disease, Myelin sheath, and disability made it through, but I absorbed next to nothing.  I just stared at the hinge of the door, just a little up and to the left of his head, watching it blur in and out of focus.

Hugging my arms around myself, I desperately wished that I had a friend—Draco—anyone, to sit with me while I received this news.

How pathetic.

“Pansy, are you paying attention?”

“What?” The younger physician snapped back into focus.  “Yes! Of course.” I said, tucking a tendril of my black hair behind my ear.

“Good, there is some literature that a high-stress environment can exacerbate your symptoms.  I would highly suggest you get out of the city if you can.  Maybe move somewhere with a little bit of a slower pace.  Fresher air. It might do you some good.”

“But—— I run a restaurant here,” I said, as I started pinching my leg, stimming myself to keep focus on what he was saying. “I can’t just leave. Wh–where  would I go?”

He had a pitiable look on his face.  It made me ill.

“I understand if you can’t leave, but for the sake of your health, it may be something to keep in mind—-Think about it. Depending on where you go,  I would be happy to call some of my former colleagues who have left the city in search of a little solitude.”

He said, handing me his card.

“Thanks, Dr. P,” I said as I grabbed it, and then slid on my large black overcoat and stepped out of his office into the chilly New York air.

I walked briskly in the direction of my little Williamsburg loft, lost in a crowd of other fast walking, loud talking people, heavily intent on getting to where they needed to be

I shoved my hands deep into my pockets, a little cold without a latte to breathe warmth into them, and thought about the appointment. What was so stressful about this city?

Sure, traffic was horrible, and maybe there was a little bit of trash collecting on the streets, I thought as I dodged a mountain of black trash bags that towered over my head. The city was disorienting, kind of like a casino——a little hard to get out of once you are in it.  But wasn’t that what made it great?  It's so vibrant—So diverse.  The people are go-getters, movers, and shakers.

Leave New York?! How was leaving the only place that I had known my entire professional adult life supposed to decrease stress?  New York was not stressful; it was abundant.
There was a deli and a coffee shop on every block—sometimes two. There was every type of cuisine you can think of.   Have a hankering for Dal bhat? You can find it down the block.  Craving Jollof Rice? Just a few blocks down the street in any direction.  There was an abundance here that made you strive for more.

New York was a mecca of art, music, and theater. What could possibly be stress-inducing about the city?

I thought about my restaurant. What about Cepe’s? I was on the cusp of getting my second star; I was so close that my fingertips could feel the heat from it like the blast of a supernova. Leave the city?!—gahh—Ceaser didn't march up to Gaul and say,” That’s enough, I think I’ll take a nap now.” No. He conquered, expanding his empire. Pansy Parkinson was just heating up the culinary scene. I couldn’t lose steam.  If I did, I would implode like a bad soufflé.

Lost in a spiral, I tripped, my leg buckling and giving out on me.  I was unable to pull my hands from my pockets in time to catch myself. There was a flash of white in my vision and then an intense pain in my chin, which broke my fall.  My CHIN BROKE MY FALL, and all I could hear beyond the footsteps of strangers walking around me like a pebble  blocking marching ants was my mother's voice saying, “Pansy, you could always fall further.”  Dear god, I hope that my chin didn’t scar.

Not one person around me looked down. Not one person tried to help me. An intense pressure felt as if it was going to crack into my spine. I yelled, looking up, and a man on his phone had his foot on my back and was about to step on me. His eyes widened for a second, realizing what he was about to do,  but he didn’t stop. He just lifted his foot back up off my back and continued walking to wherever he needed to go so badly.

In that moment, I understood. I needed to leave New York.  

Chapter Text

I lay on top of the flat sheet draped on top of my bed for hours that day when I got home, willing the high thread-count to heal something inside of me. My phone started buzzing, and I almost ignored it, thinking that it was Draco, trying to get me to come back to the restaurant again. His plight became progressively more desperate. On day three, he sent me flowers and chocolate, and on day seven, he said that he would relinquish the head chef position.  I was half expecting a proposition of marriage, but I would sooner marry a snake for its loyalty.  I was done with him—most likely.

Horace’s post launched Cepe’s into two minutes of superstardom, which would be fantastic if I were there to actually make the famed Wellington. Draco never learned, and the crowds came hungry with the proverbial pitchforks and the promised menu item nowhere in sight. Reviews were already starting to decline,  reading: Like a star Burned bright–burned fast--burned out. It warmed something inside of me to see him squirm. A small sense of karmic justice, but it didn’t fix any of my problems. I needed to get out of New York, I needed to get out of Cepe’s, and I needed a lawyer.

A second chorus of buzzing refocused my attention.  Reluctantly, I flipped it over and felt a jolt when ASS-toria flashed across the screen, my friend since high school. I hit the green button.

“Hello,” I said, shifting myself into a sitting position—the most erect I had been all day.

“Pansy Parkinson, your mom was playing pickleball with my mom at the club, and she passed along the most dreadful news—I am so sorry to hear about your brain tumor! Why didn’t you tell me? I was sitting here with Cormac, and we were just so distraught.” My friend’s voice sounded anything but distraught. WASPY? Maybe. Medicated? Definitely, but too distracted to be really distraught

“Brain tumor? I-I don’t have a brain tumor!  I have—”

“You don’t? Oh, that's just wonderful news!” She said, her voice brightening a shade in that annoying fake tone that rich people reserve for each other.

“Cormac!” She screamed.  “Pansy doesn't have a brain tumor!” She said loud enough for me to hear over her receiver to her husband before turning her attention back to me.
“But why would your mother pass around that sort of information?”

“I have a neurodegenerative disease.”
She looked confused at the screen.

“Oh, but not a tumor, right?”
“No,” I said with reluctance.

Her shoulders relaxed, face smoothing out.
“Well, that’s better, isn’t it?” she asked.
I opened my mouth to answer, but closed it. I was exhausted, be it from the disease or the state of my life.  I just didn’t have the energy to explain it to someone who spent biology class reading Twilight under the desk while copying off my tests.

“Cormac!” I heard her yelling over the receiver again,” Can’t you cure neurodegenerative diseases with Botox?”

“Astoria, I am a lawyer, not a doctor.” I heard him grumble in the background.

“Oh–Pansy,” she said, concern on her face.  Her gaze shifted to the upper left corner of the phone as she started tugging and smoothing her eyebrows and the non-existent lines at the creases of her cheeks.  “Have you asked your neurologist about shooting some Botox into your brain?  Botox cures everything.”

“Not my restaurant," I said, scrolling reviews on my computer.

“Oh, I've seen the reviews she said, still tugging.  “I’m pretty sure Botox could even save that—just put a little in your face along with a smile.”

If this conversation continued the way that it was going, I was going to get RIGHT on it! I thought with a roll of my eyes, but something else dawned on me.  Cormac was a lawyer.  I mean, he was still a cheater and a womanizer. For the life of me, I have no Idea why Astoria married him besides the fact that his family has a fortune the size of the GDP of a small Balkan country, but most importantly, he was a lawyer, and I very much needed one.

“Tori–” I say, peppering up my tone. “What kind of law does Allistair practice?”
I didn’t know, and never in my life had I cared before that moment.

“Mostly business, acquisitions, contractual dissolutions, and the like. Why is everything alright with Cepe’s?”

A Cheshire cat grin slowly spread across my lips. I read the most recent review of my restaurant, which was currently riding on the river Styx all the way down to Hades without me. The most recent review read: There’s a putrid fungus among us, and this one goes by Cepe’s. Draco Malfoy was about to go down.

“I think I am going to need a lawyer.“

“Well, anything for my dear friend.” She said with a smile.
“CORMAC!”
“Yes, dear.” He said in an exhausted tone.
“You are going to represent Pansy in the dissolution of her contract with that little French frog of hers.” My petite pink little friend shouted with all the gusto of a 1940s Italian dictator.

I heard a heavy sigh all the way from their beach vacation, and a reluctant, “Yes, Sweetheart.” Over the receiver.

My day seemed to be improving. Instead of sublimating and amalgamating back into the buttery softness of my Yves Delorum sheets like a French mother sauce, I remained erect, and now with a lawyer in my pocket, motivated enough to tackle the next task at hand.  Finding a new place to call home.

Seriously, Doctor Pomona, how on earth is uprooting one's life sound medical advice for mitigating stress?  What a quack!

I opened a map of North America and a spreadsheet to parse out a decision.

A new home was a chewy concept, as my exposed brick loft was the place I felt the most home in my life . My parents spent most of their time living on opposite sides of the house in Sag Harbor, a place I spent some of winter break during my school years, and that’s about it. Naturally, I drew a large red X over the entire peninsula of the Hamptons. Within fifty driving miles of Amaryllis Parkinson was too close for me.  I would prefer no unannounced drop-ins, thank you very much. My youth was spent at Hamilton Preparatory Boarding School in Maine.

Maybe

I googled the capital, Portland, Maine. Epicurious called it a “foodie city to watch.” Social media showcased lobster rolls next to the ocean or cozy, picturesque cottages adorned with un-ironic shiplap.
Maybe
The slogan underneath it read,” Yes, Life’s good here!”

I flipped through pictures, which brought me back to my years in school.  The rocky coast, the rolling hills, the seafood, and the smell of pine.  It brought me back to the place that felt like home when I was growing up.

This settled it,  my new home would be Portland, Maine. What could possibly go wrong?

I fell asleep that night with a pair of warm, earthy brown eyes that I hadn’t seen or thought of in many years dancing around in my head.  I wondered if Neville was still in Maine?

Chapter Text

“Down  heyah, you’ll find yuh’ pile of firewood,” 

A few weeks later, an old, haggish-looking lady, who called herself Bathilda and was presumably my landlord, gave me a tour of my new apartment in Portland, Maine. 

New being a VERY generous word. I am pretty sure that the apartment predates the credit card as I had to call my bank up and ask for a check book, and then once I received it, I had to ask how to write a check as was the only form of currency the crone would accept— well, she said checks and foot rubs, and, well, checks it was.
The apartment was on the water, a dwelling called Chandler’s Wharf. The architecture was listed as “revival”–though I am not sure what kind of revival, perhaps just revival of the dead. 

“Firewood?” I asked, ears perking up.  “Don’t I have central cooling and heating? They were listed on the website.” I asked, though now that I think of it, a woman who asks to be paid in checks or footrubs perhaps is not at the forefront of modern technological advances such as internal climate control. 

My eyes darted around the weathered-looking shiplap-coated hovel with mostly 1970s appliances. And my already minuscule bud of optimism withered into a creeping vine of regret. 

The hag walked past a wall of maritime posters that were left over from the previous tenant, over to the nearest window that overlooked the gray and stormy sea, and with two hands and more strength than she looked to possess, she lifted the window from its resting place on the sill.  A loud crack ripped through the air as the new coat of paint coating the window cracked apart, allowing her to open the window.  

“He-yas yuh’ central air.”

A damp, chilling draft of January New England air coursed through the room. 
I swallowed.  It seemed like this apartment could only be heated or cooled in extremes, an arctic blast, or fiery hellscape inferno.  Lovely.  

I was so out of my element.  Dorothy, we are no longer in Manhattan, I thought to myself.  There was no possible way that I was reducing my stress load.  Why the hell did I leave the comfort and convenience of New York? 

Bathilda spoke up,” Yuh have electric heating, but when you see that bill, yuh gonna wanna use the firewood.” 

I nodded my head. But my insides turned into some putrid and full of regret. I had found the most prime real estate in the “big city,” and yet I was going to live like it was a campsite. 

Where did one even procure firewood? Trees were a mark of luxury in New York, and here they expected me to what? Walk to the nearest Bodega and buy it? I was making a huge mistake.

The old lady was about to vacate my one-bedroom apartment overlooking the sea when a look of something dawned on her.

“You don’t have any kids or dogs, do ya?”

I shook my head, “No, just me. Um—are they allowed, pets?” 

“Yes, but—uh– don’t let ‘em eat the paint—or the chew on any of the sockets..” 

Oh, awesome. If my disease didn’t kill me, the lead paint and mercury would. 

Bathilda left, and with her, the anxious dread of ending up like her.  I sat on the floor for a second and took a few cleansing breaths.  Calmness began to fill the holes that were previously filled with anxious dread.

With a clearer head, I took my time surveying my new home. The place was definitely dated with weathered cabinets in the kitchen, a retro-looking refrigerator that I was shocked still worked.  All dated things, but perhaps there was something salvageable in the shipwreck. The walls were coated in un-ironic shiplap, the floors were a light weathered hardwood with scuffing from years of wear and no attempts at re-sanding, but they could easily be covered with a rug—luckily, the movers would be in with my predominantly Restoration Hardware furnishings and a few heirloom pieces to spruce the place up.

The apartment felt cold, but–well, no one has ever confused me for a cinnamon roll, so maybe I could get used to it. Perhaps I would buy a space heater or even learn how to build a fire.  The real selling point was the view.  I had a small balcony coming off my bedroom, looking at nothing but the Casco Bay. The internet pictures showed blue skies, sunny weather, and sailboats lazily passing by. The present reality left more to be desired. The sky was grey and threatening snow, and the sea was almost black with choppy water.  The look of it made me cold down to my bones. 

I took a step onto the balcony. With no other buildings blocking my view, standing on my balcony felt like hovering over the stormy sea.  

While surveying the cloudy, foggy bay, I wondered if, on a clearer day perhaps, I would be able to see all the way over to Peak’s Island? 

I made the conscious effort not to let the surrounding dreary weather get me down. It was time to start planning my life for an undetermined amount of time.  I had an interview at a seafood restaurant called Fins.  There wasn’t much online about it except that locals and visitors said that it was the best clam chowder around, and they served lobster, so it had to be at least a little upscale, right?

The name left a little to be desired. The chefy critical part of my brain thought,
“A seafood restaurant named Fins is groundbreaking.” But it was slow season in Portland, apparently, and not many restaurants were open for the full week, let alone hiring.  It was this or Longhorn Steakhouse in South Portland. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

Dr. Pomona had put me in touch with one of his old colleagues, a certain Dr. Cunningham, who was affiliated with Portland General Hospital, so that, should anything arise, he was the one to call. Luckily, at least for now, I felt relatively normal. Energized, even as I slid on a pair of silk black tights, an emerald green shift dress, and a pair of thick chunky DocMartins. I found my deepest red Chanel lipstick and painted my face as if I were going to war.  Maybe overkill for an interview, especially at a restaurant that hasn’t attained a star or hasn’t even been written up in any epicurial digests, but fashion is armor, and every day of my life as of late has been a battle. 

Upon taking three steps outside, I was immensely grateful for the decision to wear combat boots instead of heels. The restaurant was only a short three blocks from my Chandler’s wharf abode– a paltry amount of walking to a New Yorker, but the whole path was cobbled and coated in ice and snow. 

Even if my balance hadn’t been an issue recently, there is no way that I would have been able to make the trek without completely eating it on the pavement. As it stands, even with combat boots, I found myself running a hand along the wall for balance as an assurance not to slip.

A copper bell hanging overhead chimed as I opened a heavy oaken door, and the briny odors of low tide assaulted my nostrils as I set foot into Fins.  I had to double-check my phone to make sure I was at the right place.  I’m not sure what I was expecting when I read upscale seafood restaurant on Google while shopping for a new place of employment, but fisherman-chic decor was not it. The white walls and ceilings with driftwood beam trims lent to the maritime theme that the restaurant was going for, but nothing prepared me for the sea oars being used in place of blades as ceiling fan fixtures or the weathered barrels repurposed into barstool lining an oaken bar.  Was the owner going for upscale or scallywag? The saving grace was the wide open windows opening to the Casco Bay, but natural beauty can’t really be credited to interior design. 

A scruffy young man wearing a backwards Red Sox cap and a Katahdin long-sleeve t-shirt came out from behind the galley doors to greet me. He looked me up and down. There were a couple of oysters in one hand and a butter knife in the other. He placed the butter knife into his right hand with the oysters and reached a weathered-looking hand out with his left. A toothy smile on his young, windswept face. 
 
“Ah, are you headin’ for the runway after this?” He asked with a bit of an Irish accent.  When I didn’t answer, he said, “You must be Pansy!”  “I’m Seamus Finnegan, owner and head chef here at Fins.”

“Oh, Fins like Finnegan?” I asked.

Instead of taking his fishy hand, I  gestured to the surrounding fisherman chic splendor all around me, which all of a sudden made so much more sense. 

“Ah, yes,” He said with a reluctant smile, looking down at his unshaken hand, then retracted it. “I’ve got a thing for puns.”

“Clever,” I said, swallowing bile and a civil smile at the cheesiness—this was my only job prospect, and all of my money was still currently tied up in Cepe’s. If Seamus thought I was being insincere, he didn’t show it.

“Yeah–.” He said with a wistful smile as he looked around his restaurant with all of the pride of a father showing off his progeny. He started walking towards the kitchen and gestured for me to follow him. 

“I’ll show you around! We can talk about what your role here is going to look like.”

“Well-um-don’t you want to at least interview me? I brought my resume.”

I pulled a neatly folded piece of paper out of my purse and handed it to him.  Seamus took it with his mollusk-free hand and looked it over for a second before balling it up and tossing it in the bin. 

“You ran a fancy New York restaurant. Frankly, you're overqualified for our sous chef position.”

“I ran a vegetarian restaurant. Seafood is a little out of my wheelhouse.”

“Seafood is not that hard. When in doubt, add more butter.”  He said, waving me off.

“Are you sure?” I asked. Shocked at the lack of critique or need to justify my qualifications for the job.

“Where did you train?” He asked, though it seemed more as if he was humoring me than anything else. 

“Le Atellier De Sens—in Paris.”

“As I said, overqualified. The other guy that I interviewed was a fry line cook at Chilis.”
I shuddered at the mention of a chain restaurant. 

Seamus plopped the two oysters that he had had in his hand down onto the silver table top in the kitchen, shucking them, handing me one, and saving the other for himself. 

Holding the oyster up like a shot of tequila, he cheersed to me. 
“Welcome to Fins, Pansy!” He said.

I raised my eyebrows and wrinkled my nose at the slimy, gray, yonic-looking mollusk.  I had never tried an oyster before,  but not wanting to offend my new boss, I shot the freshly murdered invertebrate down with all of the gusto of a college sorority girl—I needed this job. 

Cold salty brine hit my tongue—but it was more complex. My eyes widened, completely overcome by the undertones. There was a hint of something buttery, perhaps a little sweet? The oyster was undoubtedly the most delicious oyster that I had ever tasted.  

“Wow!” was all I could say. 

“You can say that again!’ Seamus said. “A little secret—the Mass-holes down in Cape Cod think that they have the best oysters with the Wellfleets, but in reality they ain't got shit on the Damriscottas.  A little Maine special.” He said with a wink. 

I nodded my head, “Your secret is safe with me.”

Seamus lept into a passionate explanation of the silt and filtering systems of each oyster, and how the location and temperature of the water affected the flavor,
but barely any of the words he spoke made it through my psyche.  I  couldn’t help myself. One slurp and visions of flavored shaved Ice as an elevated accompaniment began to dance around my head. Perhaps a mango jalapeno brunoise or horseradish shaved ice. I would need to study the menu and see what twists I may be able to add to elevate what nature has already given us.   

“I’ll give you a tour of the kitchen and we can go over some of the menu items,” Seamus said, interrupting my chefy spiral.

I didn’t hear him. I was too concerned with how to elevate the oyster even further. 

A hand started waving in my face, “Er, Pansy? “

My eyes darted over to Seamus, who continued waving a hand in front of me. 
 
“Oh. Yes, the kitchen.” I shrugged, following him through the kitchen galley doors. 

Cepe’s had your standard stainless steel style kitchen.  Multiple gas ranges, pristinely and obsessively clean, with a large walk-in refrigerator.  Fins was much the same except for three major differences:  One, instead of vegetables, there were tanks of shellfish. Ten tanks of just oysters, each labeled with a different cove of Maine where the oysters originated from, a large tank full of mussels labeled Prince Edward Island, and the worst part, a huge tank of rusty colored lobsters. Claws taped closed, they were helpless to escape their fate.  I felt for the overpriced sea roaches a bit.  

Two, there was a huge section of the refrigerator being taken up by filets of finned fish: halibut, salmon, char.  After years of focusing on perfecting mushrooms, I was going to have to brush up on my branzino. 

Third, there was a man with tufty brown hair wearing a thick burgundy Henley, cleaning and sorting root vegetables from a large crate.  He didn't look up at first, completely focused on the carrot that he was inspecting. 

Seamus spoke up,” Ey’ Nev- this is our new chef, Pansy— Pansy, what is your last name?”

I walked over to “Nev” and stretched out my hand towards him, as it appeared to be customary to swap fish juices upon first encounters in Portland, Maine. 

“Parkinson.”  “My name is Pansy Parkinson. I just moved up here from New York.” I said with the most genuine smile that I could muster, which, notably, given the last few weeks, probably looked like the stuff of children’s nightmares.

Nev pulled his eyes away from his carrots and looked first at my hand, and then panned up to my eyes. His hazel eyes squinted for a beat and then widened before he stood up from his seat, picked up his dirty crate of potatoes, and shoved it in my arms, blocking my full view of him.

The shock of it nearly threw off my balance. 
“What the f–” It took all of the self-control to dam up the barrage of swears and insults about to pour from my mouth, bred from years of living in New York City.  I needed this job, so I bit my tongue almost to the point of bleeding instead.

The nerve of him. The weight of the crate was staggering, but I didn't want to appear weak. I didn't want any reason for these two men to doubt my capability to help run this kitchen. 

“Great!” Nev said, “Now I won't have to prepare my own produce.” He said, like he just handed his vegetables over to a turd. 

I looked down at my now dirty designer coat and shot him back the most venomous look in my arsenal, deciding that the feeling was mutual. 

His tone completely brightened when he shifted his attention back to Seamus, who, from what I could see over the crate, was giving Nev a questioning look. 

Nev patted him on the back, making his way towards the back door. My arms shook under the weight of the crate of potatoes, but I was NOT going to put the crate down.  Seamus looked confused, but Nev continued toward the door, saying, “I gotta stop by Home Depot to pick up some polyweave to reinforce part of my greenhouse. Catch ya later—”

“Yeah, man! I’ll call you with my next order.” and before Nev could make his escape, his back to us, Seamus called out to him.   “Ey’, there's a squall coming in on Monday, and the restaurant is closed.  Do you want to join me and catch some of that fresh dusty pow pow up in the mountains?”

Nev stood in the doorway a second, his shoulders tensed, then he turned around, showcasing tufty brown curls, swarthy skin, and warm, deep eyes. If he weren’t such a jerk, I would almost think he was handsome.  Perhaps because he was a jerk, I secretly did. 

As I got a better look at his face, the hairs on my arm stood.  There was something vaguely familiar about him, though I couldn't place what. 

“Sorry, man,” Nev said to Seamus.  “If there's a squall, I'm gonna need to weatherproof  my greenhouse further and set out extra kerosene heaters.”

“You’re no fun,” Seamus whined,  “but when your veg is reviewed almost as well as my fish, then I can’t deny the results.”

“Almost?” Nev asked, cocking one of his thick eyebrows with a half smirk before walking out the back door. Then, as if it was a fleeting thought, the man who went by “Nev”  looked over towards me, “Good luck, Petunia.”

“It's Pansy,” I said quietly in return, but he was out the door before he could hear me. Yeah—he was a hot jerk.
 
Once Nev was out of earshot, I looked over to Seamus, the heavy crate of vegetables becoming more than I could handle.  

“Where do you want me to put these?” I asked, on the verge of dropping them on the floor, if I didn't set them down soon. 

“Oh, you can just lay them in the refrigerator. I will sort them for today, and then show you the ropes tomorrow.”

When I walked back out of the fridge, Seamus was regarding me with knitted eyebrows.  

“Do you and Nev know each other?”
“I can assure you, I've never known anyone by that name in my life. Why do you ask?”

Seamus chewed on his words for a second.

“That was just a little out of character for him.”  He’s usually a really nice guy.”  He said,  ‘But the weather this time of year makes us all a little grumpy, I suppose.” 

Oh, great, so he’s only a dick to me. Welcome to Maine, Pansy. 

I shrugged, not knowing what exactly caused a complete stranger to hate me, but I didn’t question it too thoroughly.  It just seemed to go with the perpetual raincloud hanging over my head. 

I looked over at Seamus, who was in the process of gathering supplies to make himself a sandwich.  Noticeably, there was no meat in his gathered spread. 

“So,” I said, “when do you want me to start learning the menu?”

“How about right now?  Make me our most popular dish, the lobstah roll.”

I gulped.  I had been cooking vegetarian dishes for the last few years. I wasn’t against the occasional steak or eating meat, but I wasn’t very comfortable with the idea of choosing and killing by painful means a poor, defenseless lobster. 

I looked from Seamus back to the tank of lobsters and back again. Seamus gave me a smirk, “Go on, I'm sure a fancy, trained chef like yourself knows how to get her hands dirty.” 

“I prefer to keep them clean,” I said under my breath, but the dawning realization that my bank account greatly relied on my ability to make an income, I squared my shoulders, and made for the lobster tank. 
I looked down at them, all cold and pointy and brown with their little claws taped shut.

“Better you than me,” I said before selecting a sacrifice for slaughter.

I doffed my coat and put on an apron.  Balled my hands into fists and took a deep breath.

“What’s wrong, Pansy?” Seamus asked, standing over my shoulder. 

“You want me to kill it?” I asked, already knowing the answer, but just buying a little more time before I had to add crustacean murderer to my resume. 
\
“Nah, I want you to put it in a dress, and take it to prom, yes, Pansy, I want you to kill it. This is a seafood restaurant!”

“I’ve just— everything I have ever cooked has already been dead.”

Truly, mushrooms are barely classified as living. 

Seamus’s face softened a bit, and then he said, "Ok, I’ll teach you how to cook them humanely. Do you think you can handle the butter reduction?”

I nodded my head, thankful that at least today, my manicured cuticles would remain clean. 

Seamus produced a giant silver pot and two unsuspecting lobsters from the cold water tank. He added a few cups of water and then unearthed a bottle of vodka, adding some of the clear liquid to the water. 

“You cook them in vodka?” I asked, not recalling that from the poissonier, who taught the class on cooking and preparing fish.

“If you were being boiled to death, wouldn't you want to be a little drunk on the way out?” He asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“Fair point!”

Then Seamus did the strangest thing—he flipped the lobsters on their heads and began stroking their noses.

“The key is, Pans, you want to relax them. Their fate is sealed, but it doesn't mean they have to go out fighting.” 

My muscles tensed at Seamus's instant familiarity with me.  No one ever called me. 

“Pans,” not even Astoria.  

“It’s Pansy,” I said, in an attempt to keep things professional. 

“What?” Seamus said, not looking up from the lobster that he apparently seemed to be guiding through some spiritual yoga retreat before chucking it into the pot of boiling water. 

“My name—it's Pans—y, not “pans.” I’m not some sort of kitchen appliance.”

“Well, I know that—— but we run things a little casual here at Fins. Friendly, you know?”

“Well, my name is Pansy— to friends— and to everyone else,” I said, crossing my arms. And then watching what Seamus was doing, “What in god's name are you doing?”
 
The lobster looked completely flaccid.  It was upside down with a tail slopped over, completely flaccid. 

“Doing this relaxes their nervous system. They fall asleep and die before they can feel the pain of the boiling water.”

“Fascinating,” I said in awe.

I couldn’t believe it. It actually worked.  The once kicking lobsters relaxed—tails flopping over as they fell asleep. Seamus threw the comatose lobsters into the boiling pot of Russian water.  I braced myself for that sad, tell-tale hiss of a suffering animal, but there was none. They just transformed from a rusty brown to a bright red like magic. It was a relief. 

I took control of the butter—mincing fresh tarragon and garlic and sauteeing them in a stainless steel pan on low heat, and in another pan I heated just a little bit of butter, and laid two brioche buns face down into the butter, toasting each side. Seamus looked over my shoulder, nodding in approval, and then grabbed two stools. Together we shelled the two lobsters and forked the meat onto the buns.

“In Massachusetts, they serve these little devils cold with mayonnaise.” He said, "They're good, but it's January and I'm this close to freezin’ my dick off.” He said, holding up a ruddy lobster claw with barely any space between the pincers to further emphasize his point.   

“So at Fins, we serve it hot with heaps of butter!”

He loaded a bun up with the fresh succulent lobster meat, and drizzled the clarified butter on top, and a little tarragon for garnish, and placed the plate in front of me, and then did the same for himself. 
We both took a bite at the same time, and his eyes rolled back as he slammed a hand on the stainless steel table. 

“Damn, never gets old.”

The poor lobster was delicious.

Chapter Text

I walked to the restaurant the following two days, as Seamus showed me the ropes. He and I went over the list of vendors that he used to supply our breads, our vegetables, and the liquor, which was handled by Oliver, the bartender.  Seamus introduced me to the staff, which consisted of him, a commis chef, and a dishwasher. He showed me how to cook the recipes his way, which, for nine out of ten recipes, was: boil in water, mix in butter, add a squirt of lemon, and garnish with tarragon.

On the day that I was “interviewed”, I had taken a menu home, and added some notes with embellishments that may help elevate his dishes a little bit with trends that were popping up in some of the Michelin Starred restaurants in New York, but when I brought them to Seamus’  attention, he just took the paper menu and ripped it down the middle— discarding it in the trash.  

“Pansy, look around. The people who come into this restaurant don’t want anything fancy. The first lesson of working at Fins. Do less.” Seamus said

“But Miso’d cod is all the rage right now—,” I said. 
“In New York… maybe LA, but not here.” He said. “It's winter in Maine.  Most of the customers who come into this restaurant at this time of year are the salt of the earth types. They just want a little comfort food—a little chowder.”

I leveled him with a look, and he let out a sigh.  “We can try blackened cod with miso foam or whatever in June when the summah crowd comes in.” “They’re all coming up from New York anyway." He said under his breath. 

“OK, soup then.  I can do soup! What about Bouillabaisse?”

Seamus looked over my recipe. With furrowed brows. Then threw me a bone. “We can try it out as a special, though, I think it's too pretentious.” 

“It's  French peasant food.” I deadpanned.

“It's a mouthful.”

“It's delicious.”

“Say it with me, “ He said, slowly clapping his hands. “Clam Chow-der”

I clapped back, “Bou-llia-baise.”

He rolled his eyes, 

“FIne! I’m going to put you in charge of it.  Tomorrow, you’re going to gather all of the ingredients you need for the soup, and then we will see what you can do.”

I went to the large refrigerator to survey what ingredients we already had, and noticed that we did not have fennel, an important flavor note to give the soup that unique licorice undertone.

“Seamus, we don’t have any fennel, do we?” 

“No, that’s not typically in any of my ingredient lists. Why don’t you call Nev and see if he can bring some up with the rest of the groceries tomorrow?”

Something curdled in the pit of my stomach as I remembered my last encounter with “Nev.”  He seemed to hate me for no reason. What was his deal? Did someone take a piss in his compost or something?  I was dreading calling him, but if I was going to make it in Portland, I was going to need to put my big girl pants on and woman up.  Besides, I work with knives for a living—'Why would I be afraid of what a little gardener?" I thought to myself.

That night, after helping Seamus clean up the kitchen, and giving him some pointers on better organizational structures, I found myself back in my apartment thinking about the elusive ‘Nev”.  Just for the sake of diligence, and knowing my surroundings in an unfamiliar place, I started looking for him on social media by stalking Seamus and searching all of his friends with a “Nev” in their name.  It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he has eyes that remind me of a forest, all browns and greens, or the fact that he seemed to want absolutely nothing to do with me, my toxically perfect type. 

My search yielded nothing except that Seamus followed exceptionally weird things on Instagram, such as: @Nevercrossbigfoot and @Nevadassharks, but knowing Seamus these short few days, I can’t say that I am at all surprised. Unfortunately, there was no friend of his whose name began with “Nev” that I could find in his Instagram contacts.  Somehow, this made me all the more dubious of “Nev”.  Can one really trust someone who was able to disconnect from the hive mind of social media? I don't think so.  

Ama Parkinson’s shrill voice invaded my psyche, “Never talk to someone who isn't on social media. The only people who successfully keep themselves off of socials are conspiracy theorists and serial killers.” 
Hate to admit it, she had a point.  My sleuthing was cut short as the name Draco Malfoy flashed across my phone screen.  

I threw my phone in the air with a scream.  I hadn’t talked to Draco since everything happened, but from the petty snooping that I had been doing, Cepe’s was not thriving at its normal level, which was awful for my trust fund, but made my spiteful little heart happy to think of his suffering.  
The phone vibrated in circles on my hardwood floors. I contemplated answering. As Cepe’s reviews tanked, Draco’s calls increased with greater frequency. 

Cormac had been working behind the scenes, gathering a case to get me out of the restaurant, at least with the amount of my trust fund, even if the restaurant had to go to a forced sale.  He had advised me to limit contact with Damien in case I accidentally said anything incriminating.
My phone stopped vibrating.  I watched the screen go dark and stay that way for a minute, and then illuminate again with a text message. 

Draco:  I am sorry for the way that I acted that day.  Please come back.  I was un grand cochon if I am being honest.  Please talk to me.  I miss you <3 D. 

The problem is, I loved Draco, or at least I thought I did.  In Paris, it was so fun and exciting. We were cooking together after class.  He would teach me privately after hours, always commenting on my talent and skills with my precision in cutting.  I felt special and loved for doing the thing that I loved to do rather than what was expected of me. 

He would be hard on me during class, to stifle any suspicion of our relation, and then we would prepare food together and bring it down to one of the winding walkways along the Seine, and talk about food and ideas for bringing together contrasting elements to create a symphony of tastes and experiences on the tongue. 
Competing against each other for top marks during the day, and then making love in his little apartment all night, a few blocks from Notre Dame. 

I thought we were like a comet fueling each other and pushing each other across the darkness of the sky, but instead, we were just a shooting star that burned bright, burned fast, and burned out. All of it fueled by me: my money, my talent, and my love. 

I sat, sunk deep, and hugged the cushions of my couch, staring at my phone. 

I had been holding strong in not answering him.  A month–no contact. Maybe it was the complete exhaustion that I felt, or the draft that never seemed to let up, sending a chill to my bones, but I relented.  I picked up my phone and called him back. 

“Ah-lo,” he said

“Hi,” I said in a small voice. 

“Pansy, Mon Mimi”

He said my name, dripping with all of the saccharine of a snake trying to charm a mouse.  It set off warning flags in my brain in the way that the more beautiful the scales, the more toxic the venom.

“Hello, Draco,” I said with all of the cold indifference that I could force into my voice. 

“I stopped by your apartment 'ze other day, and you were not 'zer.”

“I don’t live 'Zer” anymore!” I said, biting out my words.  

“Mimi, why are you being like ‘zis?” (Mimi is pussycat in French) 

“You weren’t there when I woke up.  In the hospital.”

“Oh, Mimi,” voice dripping with pity and placation. “Is zat what zis is about? I had to run our restaurant. We were on the verge of a second star—you would have done ze’ same.”

“No! I would—” But I stopped myself, I let out a sigh. He was right. 

“Yes, you would have.  Nothing meant more to you than the success of Cepe’s.  You are 'ze most driven woman I’ve ever known. You would walk on ze backs of a million people to reach ze top, and zat—is what I loved about you.”

I took a sharp breath in. Suddenly, I was reminded of the foot on my back. Of how small, weak, and insignificant I felt, and how I never wanted to treat anyone that way again.  A tear started to prickle in the corner of my eye.  I had answered the phone in a moment of weakness, but I didn't need to stay on it. 

“Draco.  I don't want to be that way anymore—I need to go.”
“But, Pansy, I love you.”

“ I—” I stop myself.  “What about your little hostess?”

“Fired. She is gone.” “Come back to me, Pansy. Cepe’s needs you. I need you.  ”

I looked around my cold little Chandler’s Wharf apartment. It was a far cry from the Upcycled exposed brick Williamsburg loft that I was used to—from the coffee shop that knew how to perfectly make my dirty chai latte, so perfectly hot that it would make hell look like an ice bath.

The density of New York led to anonymity.  It allowed me to be callous, to push boundaries and people, knowing full well that I could replace them in a minute, but without the ambient noise of the city. Without all of the people, and only the quiet lapping of the Casco Bay, I had to sit with myself and question if that is really the person that I wanted to be. 

“I have to go, Draco. That person you knew—she’s not who I want to be anymore. I don’t want to filet my wait staff for walking a plate a minute too late. I don’t want to lose my cool, throwing kitchenware from the stress of trying to attain stars.  I’m sick and I  want to live in peace.” I yelled in a very non-peaceful tone. 

His voice changed. He went from sibilant supplication to noxious venom within the beat of a heart. 

“You can take away the fangs of a snake, Pansy, but it will still strike. You are who you are. Don’t assume that geography or your illness changes that.”

I released a breath. “Maybe, but at least the bite won’t yield the same injury.”
Draco’s completely lost his cool, striking me across the receiver. “DON’T ACT LIKE YOU ARE BETTER THAN ME–.”

I’m sure that there was more that he intended to yell, but I’ll never know what it was. I smashed my finger so hard into the little red button on the phone screen that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a crack.  I was angry, but instead of hot, my blood ran cold.  With the remaining energy that I still possessed, I deleted every picture of me and Draco from my phone.

I tried to sleep, but it wouldn’t come. I tried the bed, I tried the couch, and even the floor, but my mind kept racing between my conversation with Draco, why Nev hated me for no reason, and how I was going to survive in this town with no friends, no connections, and a neurodegenerating disease that was giving me headaches and constantly eating away at my nervous system.  Seamus seemed friendly enough, but he seemed a few ingredients short of a birthday cake himself. This was all a big fucking mistake. 

At 1 am, I gave up on sleep.  It would take nothing short of a tranquilizer to calm down my racing mind, so I threw on some boots and a coat and went to take a walk out by the docks. 

The full moon was high over the Bay, lighting up the night sky and reflecting in the water. The air was freezing, not crisp, not nippy, but bone spearing cold.  The kind of cold where your nose starts to run and then freezes.  In the chill of the night, my cold rage felt like a heater compared to the air around me. 

I walked to Fins, because, well, it was the only place that I knew in town, and the last thing that I needed to do was to get lost and die of hypothermia. I got to Fins, touched the wall, and was about to turn around when a faint mewing caught my attention. 

I stood still listening for the sound again,” Hello.” I said in a low voice, feeling a little crazy.

There was nothing for a minute, and I assured myself that I was, in fact, going batshit crazy, so I turned around and began walking towards my apartment. 

“Meow.” 

I turned around again, and right behind me, I saw a little black cat with little white paws shivering. It stood there, staring at me, and I stared at it. “Go home,” I told the cat, shooing it away.

It meowed again. “Go home!” I said again, feeling a little guilty this time.  It really was freezing out. The cat meowed a third time. 
“Look, you can’t live with me.  I’m pretty sure everything in my apartment is lead-coated or mercury-infused,”
I turned around and started walking back to my apartment, feeling terrible, but not daring to look back at the little cat who was freezing in the cold. I made it all the way to my entryway, placed the key into my door, and when I looked down, the little cat was between my feet, and walked into the apartment before I did. 

“OK, you can stay here one night, but in the morning, you're gone.” 

Chapter Text

There are as many ways to make Bouillabaisse as there are there are chefs, but in Marsailles, my puisonarie had but one thing to say, “Zer is only one way to make bouillbase, and that is to make it good.”

The guide of Michelin has four criteria for the Marseilles fish stew, and they are: presence of rascasse, the freshness of the fish; olive oil, and excellent saffron.

Luckily for me, both Dr. P and Seamus both had urged me to “do less” so Michelin was not the standard to which I cooked the stew, but in true Marseilles fashion, it was going to be damn good. Made with the ingredients that I could source locally.

Rascasse, or scorpion fish would be the equivalent to Acadian Rock fish, but a simple internet search showed me that this fish is endangered, and in a land where conservation reigns over profits, I was not about to create my debut meal just to get canceled. Julia Child used Halibut, and so would I.

After making my order with the Fish market, a short three block walk away, I took note of what supplies I would need to call “Nev” about. The walk-in fridge at Fins had the appropriate mollusks, and some Atlantic cod had been delivered from the wharf, caught that morning. All that I needed was Fennel, saffron, celery and carrots. No big deal.

I stared at the phone in Seamus’s office for longer than I cared to admit. Perhaps if I stared at it long enough and thought about what I wanted, It would just show up? Perhaps I could supply the vegetables from the local grocery store? I sent Seamus a quick text to Seamus and asked.
Pansy: Hey Seamus, your gardner hasnt been by with the morning supplies yet. Do you want me to contact one of the grocery stores or other restaurant suppliers.
Seamus: Nahh, you don’t want to do that. No one holds a candle to Nev’s produce. He’s probably just busy loving on his flowers or some shite. Just give him a ring.

I released a breath, well ok then. It seemed like the universe was throwing one ass-hat man at me after another. Lucky me.

I would call him, but after last night's interaction with Draco, there was no way that I would call him from my personal number.

I walked into Seamus’s office in the back of the restaurant. It was a disaster. There were coffee-stained papers strewn everywhere. A snowboard and a skateboard and two poles that were presumably for going on epic quests, but who would know. His office was one part rats nest and one part LL Bean catalogue. After the overstimulation of the desk, my eyes drifter up to the walls. There were a couple of framed newspaper clippings raving about the restaurant, and one framed picture of Seamus and Nev in blue and yellow sweatshirts with there arms around each other's shoulders. They looked happy, unsurprising for her celtic boss, but the crinkled eyes and upturned cheeks were not an expression that Pansy expected to see on the other man. Perhaps the phone call wouldn't be a disaster after all .

I dialed a number that I found on a crinkled up post-it- note. The phone rang, and I hate to say it, but I held my breath. A part of me was just waiting to feel the rocks thrown at me through the receiver. The phone rang and then rang again. I was about to hang up and give up the whole dinner special when a bright male voice answered on the other side of the line, I almost didn't recognize it—almost.

“Neville’s Garden and Apothecary, How can I help you?”

Neville ? My mind instantly went back to that evening back in school, with a tufty chubby boy with pants that were too short and a penchant for bird calls.

“Neville? Your name is Neville?” I asked, thinking of the boy that I should have been kinder to. What were the chances? He couldn’t possibly be the boy that I went to school with. The man I saw in the kitchen the other day must have been a foot taller, with a jawline that could cutdown a tree. The boy from school was soft and dopey and awkward.
There was the clearing of a throat on the other end of the receiver as I was lost in the parsing out of features.

“Y-yes, and who is this?” He asked, bright voice shifting into something deeper and more suspicious.

“Pansy–Pansy Parkinson.” There was a sharp intake of breath across the line. “I’m the new sous chef at Fins. I met you the other day with Seamus?”
“You shoved a box of potatoes at me and looked at me like I was sprouting mold.” I left unsaid.
“Oh, I see.” his voice notably dropped an octave like he was talking to a particularly gruesome stink bug.

There was a long pause on the receiver. I waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t I wondered if maybe he hung up or aggressively shoved the phone under a pillow the way he shoved that crate into my arms. When the pause held for so long it became unbearable, I spoke up, “I- um-I had a friend named Nevile—once—back in school. It's not a super common name.”

I left the statement hanging in the air like a beacon to see if he would meet me halfway. “DId you? Have a friend, that is?” He asked slowly after a beat.

Shame filled the pit of my gut as I thought about that chubby awkward boy, who was saw through my jagged exterior. I did for one night have the beginning of what felt like a real friend in Neville. He was funny and real and perhaps would never know it, but changed my life forever when he encouraged me to go to culinary school. I hated myself for stomping on him for what? To fit in? To be popular? It all seems pretty stupid now.

“Well” I amended “ I knew someone—back in highschool.” unable to school the regret out of my voice.

“I see.” He responded, and then after a long pause said, “Well, I'm assuming you are calling to put in an order for the day's veg. Let’s hear it—what do you need? I am guessing Seamus wants the usual?” Then he listed off the ingredients for mirepoix, dill, potatoes, and tarragon.

“Oh, Yes, well all of that, and a few others if you have them. Today I am shaking up the menu with a special.” I said, brightly. Happy to be onto a safe topic like food.

“A special?” He asked, voice dripping with derision.
“Yes, it's this thing restaurants do where they have an off-menu item on certain days of the week.” I said.

“I know what a special is.” He said. I could almost hear a slight smile in his voice.
But perhaps, it was just one of the medications Dr. Pomona had prescribed to me, playing tricks with my ears.
“Great, well Fins is going to have one tonight!” I said.
Neville wasn’t swayed. "You do realize this is winter?” he asked, in the same derisive tone.
“So I have heard.”I said.
“Well you know the locals aren’t gonna try a special, right?”
“You don't know that. Maybe if someone made something new, people would try it?”
“Now that is just Boston talk right there.” He said, shutting me down, but I was not to be deterred, “Don’t worry, It's fish soup, so nothing too exotic”
“Oh?” He said, brightening, “so clam chowder?” He asked
“No, not quite.” I said.
“It's not Manhattan chowder, is it?” He asked. “You can leave that garbage back in New York where you came from.”

I smiled in spite of his cutting words.

“No, it's a French Provencal soup called Bouillabaise. I just wanted to try it out in a small batch — you know, see how the locals respond to it.”

“Save yourself the trouble. You’re serving ship builders and fishermen, not your hoity-toity New York crowd. No one is going to try it.”
“hoity-toity?” What was this guy, a grandmother?
“You don’t know that.”
“Suit yourself, Pans-.” I could hear a hint of a smile on his voice, but he cut himself short of whatever he was going to say.

“What was that you just called me?”

He let out a cough, and just said “Your name— Pansy.”

“Right.” I said, shaking off the unearned familiarity that seemed to creep into our conversation. “ Anyways, I’m going to need Fennell, Carrots, celery and saffron.”

“Saffron?”he asked, incredulous.

“Yes, it's a spice.”

“I know what saffron is—would you like little shaves of gold with it too? Maybe you could sprinkle it on an ice cream sundae or something equally wasteful for such a luxury.”

“I mean, if you’re offering.” I deadpanned.
“Unbelieveable.’ He said, though I think it was more to himself, under his breath than for my benefit.

“I’m going to need about a third of an oz. What time can you drop it off?”I asked.

“This isn’t Ubereats lady, If you want saffron, you're going to have to come and get it.”

“But isn’t the arrangement that Fionn calls in the order and you drop off the produce?”

“Saffron takes time, I'm going to have to go hand-pick each pistol out of all of my crocuses, and dry them—you're going to need to drive up. I don’t have the time to drop it off.”
“Isn’t it supposed to snow?”
“Believe so.”He said.
“But—”
‘You could always just stick to the menu.” He said, challenging me. Too bad I love a challenge.
“No, give me your address!” I said, remembering how Ama used to always say ‘theres no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes,” I was going to get that saffron, and the special was going to be wildly successful, even if I had to beg people from the street to try it.

I entered the Terran’s address into my phone, and then balked. It was a forty minute drive without traffic. “Alright, I will head down now. I suggest you get your tweezers out, and start picking.”

There was nothing but white coated pine trees to keep me company as I sped to Neville’s greenhouse. He lived off the coast on a small expanse of land called Bailey’s Island. Which judging from the GPS was only accessible by a small one land bridge. Sketchy. The roads were clear, but the tell-tale smell of snow was hanging about the air as a threat. I picked up speed in my Giola green F type, unsure how it would fare at the hint of fresh flurries.

The GPS took me off of the highway, and across harrowing bridges over the sea where one slip of my tires would send me plunging into the freezing Atlantic. The road then wound through forested cliffsides where no other cars were in sight. Desley grown pine trees blocked out the faint bit of sun that had been peaking through the gray, stormy clouds.

As I made it across the bridge to the Island, the GPS screen went black. Strange. I had half a mind to turn around and head back to Portland, scrapping the whole special, but my need to be right was a flaw—perhaps in this case, a potentially fatal one, so I needed to get my hands on that saffron and make the best damn soup Portland Maine had ever tasted. But I had to admit, this was not a drive that I looked forward to ever making again.

There was only one road, and when the GPS had worked, it looked like it had gone all the way to the ocean. I figured I would take the road all the way and see if the greenhouse was there, or if Neville was just playing another cruel trick on me.

The trees began to thin to a clearing, and I was stricken by the site. “Greenhouse and apothecary” were an understatement. They made Teran’s farming sound shabby and industrial, which they certainly were not. The view was—breathtaking. I didn't know where to look first.

A massive glass enclosure that looked to be more botanic conservatory than green house stood catching the distant crepuscular rays breaking through the clouds over the ocean. It painted a striking picture, the glass of the greenhouse glinting the light. Snow covered jagged cliffs jutting out into the ocean. The land surrounding the greenhouse was barren with hoarfrost, but everything inside of it was teeming with life, warmth and greenery—almost as if by magic, but, that was ridiculous.

In the greenhouse's shadow, and placed as if as an afterthought, was a cozy wood siding laden cottage. It sat mere feet from the cliffs of the jagged coast. Upon it was a wooden sign with the words, Neville’s Apothecary. This little plot of land was a hermit’s paradise.
I opened the car door and was instantly assaulted by the chill that cut me straight to the bone like a carving knife. In my haste to leave, I forgot to bring gloves. I hugged my hands closer to my body, in an attempt to keep all of the warmth under my jacket. We would have to make this transaction quick before my fingertips started to turn white.

I took a few steps towards the greenhouse, confused by the splendor. How could the henley-clad man who was sorting potatoes at the kitchen table of Fins have amassed this kind of dwelling. I pulled my phone out of my pocket to double check that I was in fact in the right place, but my phone had no cell reception this far off of the beaten path.

Muffled footsteps approached. I looked up.

Approaching from the direction of the greenhouse. Neville appeared to be unbothered by the chill. He was wearing nothing but a corded Aran sweater, jeans and brown snow boots. Was he not freezing?

As he closed the distance between us, I was able to look at him. Really look at him. His shoulders were broad and muscular in a way that said he was not afraid to work with his hands. The way his sweater hugged him was both effortless and enviable. His curls were tousled, slightly blowing in the sea-sprayed wind. Everything about him was earthen, and sturdy, and arboresque. He was gorgeous in an unflinching way.
Nevile’s earthen eyes bore into mine, as if sizing me up. The tree staring down the flower. He was steady, unflinching and unmoving, and I didn’t realize that I was holding my breath until he crossed his arms over his chest. The only clue that the chill was getting to him. I stared back at him, not daring to speak first. After a pause of sizing each other up, he relented.
“You found the place alright.” Neville said, not asked.

“Yes,” I said, looking around trying to keep my jaw engaged to my face instead of hitting the ground. I schooled my voice into my most neutral unimpressed tone, but my stomach was doing a somersault. “I’ve never seen a greenhouse set up like this. Do you live here as well?”

“Yeah, this is home,” he said, gesturing to the cozy little shack nestled among the rocks.

“Come in for a minute, I’ll grab you your spicey equivalent to gold.”

I trailed behind him just a few steps into his little cabin. Upon walking inside, It became apparent that it was less “home” and more apothecary. There was a green counter space, with a libra-scale and tons of empty little glass jars. The wall lined floor to ceiling with nothing but small wooden drawers, each labeled in scratched handwriting with one herb or another. The room felt out of this time. There was warm yellow light emanating from wall sconces, but the luminant glow from the Edison lights was the only part of this shack that felt modern.

A weathered old man was sitting in a wooden chair next to the apothecary counter and coughing forcefully into a handkerchief. Neville grabbed a small vinyl bag and started opening drawers and filling the bag with dried herbs of a little bit of this and a little bit of that. The man started hacking into a handkerchief, “Am I hallucinating, or did the world’s most beautiful woman just walk in the doors of this old dump?”

“You’re hallucinating, old man,” Neville said, under his breath. 

“Oh, I like him!” I said with a wave. “Hi, I’m-” but before I could introduce myself, Neville was cutting me off with loud instructions. 

“Abe, you're going to brew this mixture of ginger, peppermint, and marshmallow for five minutes.” He said, handing the man the vinyl bag. “And then you’re going to add this manuka honey to the mixture, and it should help your symptoms a great deal, but please, for the love of god, go to a medical doctor!”

“Why would I?” the old man said. “Your teas cure everything from croup to carbuncles.  I would waste all that time and gas driving to the mainland to sit in a crowded office and get sicker than if I were to stay home.”

Neville patted the old man on his back while he handed him a small jar of honey, “Well, flattery will get you somewhere, old man, but please get this cough checked out.” 

The old man made way for the exit and turned to me, “Hope to see more of you around here—”

“Pans’ I began.

“Primrose!” Neville shouted over me. 

I shot Neville a dirty look, and he just raised a brow in return, ‘What are you, some kind of witch doctor?” I asked.

He shrugged. “ I just help some of the locals with little small ailments.  A lot of them are older, and it's hard for them to get to doctors' appointments on the mainland.’

“Don’t you need a license for that?” I asked, equal parts impressed and incredulous. 

He pointed a finger at a framed certificate behind the apothecary table. The glass was a little dirty, but what I could make out was License of Naturopathic Medicine.

“Anyways, you’re here for–.”

“Saffron,” I answered. 

He took a few short steps crossing the expanse of the small, dimly lit front room, and found a drawer one row up from the bottom, opened it, and produced a small glass jar no bigger than my thumb.  

Neville took a few short steps crossing the expanse of the small dimly lit front room, and found a drawer one row up from the bottom, opened it, and produced a small glass jar no bigger than my thumb.

Saffron.

Anger prickled at the hairs on my neck.

“You had saffron this whole time?” I asked as my eyes narrowed. “Why did you have me drive all the way up to no-man's land, risking life and limb if you had it?”

“Because” he said unbothered, looking down at me. “I am busy.”

“And you think that I’m not?” I asked, hackles rising.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t really care whether you are or are not.” He said.

“I am a two Michelin starred chef.” I said, affronted.

“You’re playing kitchen at the expense of my friend’s restaurant.”

What the—? I wanted to tear into him. I wanted to tell him that he was playing farmer or hermit, or whatever the hell he was doing out here, when what he really needed was a personality transplant. But I didn’t. I held in the anger, and instead took a deep breath. Neville was Seamus’s best friend, and Seamus was for all intents and purposes, my boss, and I needed this job. So with all the force that my cheek muscles could muster, I smiled, perhaps my fangs showed a little.

“I’m sorry. I’m new up here, but Seamus told me that I was to call you for the order, and you would drop everything off?”

“As a favor to a friend. Not as a delivery boy. I’m far too busy keeping this place running.” He gestured out the window at the huge menagerie. The ice in his voice could impale someone.

“Ok, well as fascinating as your whole setup is out here, If I am going to get a batch of this soup done, I am going to need to get my supplies and get out of here.”

I pulled a hand out of the warm depths of my pockets stretching it towards Neville to accept the Saffron. His eyes went to my hand which had the tip of my middle finger missing, and three others were as white as the snow. I flexed my hand, which felt like it was being assaulted by a thousand pins and needles—a happy side effect of my neurodegenerative disease.
Reflexively, I jerked my hand back. His earthen eyes bore into the space where my hand had just been and then slowly drifted up to my face. As if searching.

“What’s wrong with your hands?” He asked after a beat.

“It’s nothing.” retracting my empty hand back towards the warmth of my body.

“They’re whiter than the snow outside.”

“I just ran out the door—forgot to bring my gloves.”

He jerked his head in a nod, but the knit in his eyebrows remained.

“Well let’s grab your supplies from the greenhouse and get you out of here. I’ll just throw it all on Seamus’s tab.” It may have been my imagination, but I could swear his voice was slightly softer.

Fatigue began to weigh on my bones. The events of the day were already starting to wear me down, and the real work, my shift that night hadn’t even begun.

I stifled a yawn as I trailed a few steps behind Neviile as he walked out of the cabin towards the behemoth conservatory, and cursed inwardly as the flurries that had been threatening me began to fall—fat flakes fell from the gray sky, and a sense of foreboding fell upon me with it. My car was made for metropolitans, not the wild north.

“Hey N-Nevile,” I said looking up at the clouds. “I really cannot stay long. I’m not sure my car is exactly four wheel drive.”

“He looked over at my Jaguar, a half smirk on his face, “ No, I don’t imagine that it is.”

“Ok, follow me. I have your supplies in a crate in the greenhouse.” his eyes drifted down to my hands that were shoved deep into my black coat’s pockets ``besides, its warmer inside.” he added as an afterthought.

I nodded my head. Following him through the two giant glass doors. Beyond the second one.
The space was spectacular. I didn't know where to look first. The air was slightly heavy with moisture, but the effect was breathtaking as the droplets of vapor reflected the light of the sun with a warm glow from the vaulted glass ceilings. Everywhere the eye could see, was green. Green vines climbed the walls with ivies and foxgloves, plants hung from fixtures in the ceiling, others were growing up from the ground.

Neville waved a hand in front of my face to get my attention,“Wait here. I’ll be right back with your order.” He said walking off down an aisle of vertical trellises of vegetables towards the other side of the massive structure.

I nodded my head, barely registering him. I was too affixed on a bubbling man-made waterfall adorned with lotus and watercress. I walked towards it to get a better look at a small sign in the center of a patch of green clover-like plants with circular leaves, pennywort.

Earthy and floral smells hung in the warm damp air at such contrast with the surrounding harshness of winter. It was a slice of serenity. I could imagine that it would be very hard to leave a place like this, and suddenly, I understood why Neville was so reluctant to.

There were birds chirping somewhere in the distance, I wouldn't be surprised if a couple snuck in during the warmer months. It certainly had everything they would need to be happy and to survive the winter.

I saw a plant growing near the pennywort, labeled Nettles and was careful to stay away. Though nutritious and excellent in a soup, they would absolutely sting the shit out of you, if one touched them with an un-gloved hand.

There seemed to be one plant, more abundant than others, as if Neville favored this plant. Weedy and short with abundant scalloped leaves, it grew everywhere I looked. It wasn’t beautiful like the lilies or foxgloves, and it didn’t appear to be a recognizable vegetable. Some of the sprouts had little bulbs that looked like they would flower, but were currently dormant.

I felt a pull towards it. That particular little plant. Neville was nowhere to be seen, so I crouched down reaching towards the leaves, when I felt a whoosh of air followed by a bellowing caw at my neck, causing my short black hair to blow into my face. When I looked up, I saw the overlarge blackbird– a raven just as it nipped at my hand, drawing blood. Stopping my hand form touching the flowers. I jumped, jerking my hand back more from fear of the massive bird, I barely felt the nip.

“Stop!” Neville yelled across the room, conservatory, as he picked up his pace, jogging back towards me.

“Don’t touch them!” he yelled, and the raven flew off somewhere deep into the green house, probably back to hell from whence it came.

“What the f—-” I winced, assessing my poor hand, which never seemed to catch a break. Blood trickled down to my palm.

Neville’s eyes went from my face to my palm and widened, then drifted up, meeting my eyes,. He wa walking towards me with a large crate of what looked to be vegetables still dusted with dirt and freshly picked from the ground.

‘Your buzzard nearly took my hand off!” I gritted out, eyes returning to the blood dribbling down my palm.

“Sorry,” he said, placing the crate on the ground and rummaging around in his pockets for something. “Rhiannon is a bit protective of those particular plants.”

“ Rhiannon?”

“The Raven.” he said.

“That thing has a name?” I bit back.

Neville shrugged his shoulders and handed me a handkerchief. “Yeah, don’t all family members?”

I snatched the handkerchief out of his hand, careful not to touch his skin since it appeared that everything in the greenhouse was toxic or had some violent intent towards me.

“What—I—” I didn’t even know where to start with the raven, so I pointed to the plants. “You just have so many of them? What plant is this?” I asked, looking up at him from where I was still sitting on the ground.

He was silent for a beat, and a flush of pink went to his cheeks. “Nothing, they were my mother’s favorite flowers—-my favorite flowers.”

I nodded, assuming with the abundance of foxglove and stinging nettles, that whatever that flowering plant was, it would probably send me to the hospital. “Note to self, I said allowed. “Never touch anything in Neville’s greenhouse.”

Neville shrugged with a smirk. “I mean isn’t that a pretty good rule for self-preservation’s sake?” He asked, offering me a hand.

I pushed myself up from the ground, and dusted off my too expensive coat and said more under my breath than to him. “Yeah, well, mine is a bit in short supply these days.”

He stared at me, head tilted to the side, but said nothing.

Outside, flakes of snow started falling in earnest, and I feared my carriage was about to turn into a useless pumpkin.

“I better go.” I gave a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “I’ve got a bouillabaise to dazzle the fine people of Portland with.”

He huffed and then a goofy smile found its way onto his face, but as quick as it came, disappeared, a mask of cold-indifference taking its stead.

“Got it.” He said, as he shoved the overflowing crate of vegetables into my hands. His eyes lingered for just a beat too long on my discolored fingers, that were prickling with pins and needles.

The first time he shoved a crate at me. He nearly knocked me on my ass, but this time I was ready for it. This time I held my ground, If only my hands would stop shaking— Neville’s eyes darted to them, but I squared my jaw and turned towards my car. I was not going to look weak in front of this man who seemed like he would rather use me to fertilize his begonias than see me in his greenhouse again. I was going to hold my head high.

I turned around to exit the double doors of the greenhouse. With shaking hands and eyes dead set on making it to my car, my damn leg decided to buckle, sending me crashing to the ground, catapulting all of the produce to scatter onto the snow covered cliffside near my car.

Heat flared in my cheeks. What a spectacle I must have made. There was no way Neville hadn’t seen me. My eyes began to well up with tears of embarrassment as shame and fear rocked the pit of my stomach. I balled up on the ground, coiling myself up, to protect my underbelly from his ridicule. Why did I move out here? Was there really any place for someone like me? A thorny prickly person, disabled, practically disowned by her parents. Someone with few real friends?

Neville was next to me in an instant. He crouched down and slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal knelt to the ground. When he was sure that I wouldn’t strike at him, he placed two strong hands under my elbow, helping me to my feet as if I weighed nothing. His large warm hand remained steady on my shoulder until he was sure I wouldn’t lose my footing again. Then he made quick work of gathering the spilled produce.

The look on his face held no contempt, no ridicule, just questions and concern as he whispered my name ”Pansy.”

Embarrassment and shame coiled up in me as I wiped away my errant tear. “Don’t!” I said, grabbing the crate from his hands and storming off as the dam broke and the tears began streaming down my face

Chapter Text

The last thing I saw before I sped off was the clouded silhouette of Neville’s body shrinking as she drove off his property. He didn’t walk away. He didn't hide.  He just stood there, oaken in his stature, watching her leave as the snow fell around his head. 

In the safe confines of my car, the floodgates holding my tears back broke like a dam. Driving became hazardous as snow and ragged sobs clouded my vision. I made it across the narrow bridge off the island, but had to pull off onto the side of the road and let them both fall.  A cold plunge off one of the many bridges was the last thing that I needed right now.
  What am I doing here? I thought to myself as I banged my hands onto the steering wheel.  Here in the middle of nowhere? Why did I believe that success in New York would translate into easy success up here? Stupid. 

Why was Neville so cold towards me? What did I ever do to him? Did I unknowingly stomp on his begonias one day, and now he carries a petty vendetta against me? Or did I have a giant rain cloud over my head that said, ” Here’s Pansy Parkinson. Her life is shit, so make it shittier?!” He definitely saw me fall. Was he going to tell Seamus? 

I could see it now, “Hey man, I don't know about your new cook. She’s super clumsy, or maybe she was just drunk. You might want to rethink her employment.” 

 Probably. 

My phone vibrated across the dashboard, pulling me from my cyclone of woe. Ama was calling, most likely her monthly obligatory I have a sick daughter wellness call---just another box to check.

I looked at my phone screen, and was greeted with my reflection of tears still streaming down my face. “I can’t deal with you right now,” I said, hitting the little red button. 

Usually, Ama Parkinson would delight at the opportunity to get off on just leaving a saccharine voicemail dripping with the sordid details of her country club escapades, but this time she didn't take the bait of a voicemail cop out. She called again.

I stared down at my phone screen—weighing the pros and cons of answering during my own emotional lability, and decided there were not many things worth picking up the phone for—save perhaps death or dismemberment, but that was a four phone call situation.  I hit the red button again.

Ama called again. Video call this time. I hit the red button again. Three.  The gossip was either very juicy, or she was about to undergo another cosmetic procedure and needed to name me next of kin—Still not worth answering. I rejected her call again. She was not to be deterred.  She called a fourth time.

Panic hit me. 

Oh my god. What if Dad died? This could be the only reason that my mother would call this relentlessly. Percival Parkinson was a man of few words and even fewer scruples towards his health.  They worked because my mother had a penchant for hogging all of the oxygen in the room. He ate more red meat than a kodiak bear, and  I had never seen the man drink water that wasn’t accompanied by a heavy pour of Scotch. I suppose this was the key to a lasting marriage, but perhaps not a lasting life. Panic set in because in a world without Dad, I would have to spend more time with Mom. 
Shit. 

I answered the phone, blotchy, tear-stained eyes and all. 

My emotions crested from surprise to panic as my mother and best friend's smiling faces lit up the screen. Astoria was there, all blond and decked out in pink, with Ama at her side, wearing enough black to give Morticia Addams a run for her money.  They were both lit by sunshine—I considered hanging up on the spot. 

“Pansy!” they said in unison like twiddly-dee and twiddly-dummer. 

“Hi,” I said, wrapping up the last of my sobs and storing them in a box for a later mental breakdown. 

“Look who I ran into on the pickleball courts down in Palm Beach!” “Why didn’t you tell me Astoria is down here?” 

Because we don’t talk? Because when I am diagnosed with a degenerative disease, you run to vacation and send condolence sheets instead of being there for me? I thought about saying, but instead I played nice—if only to keep the attention off of me. 

“Must have slipped my mind. Sorry, mum.”
Ama Parkinson looked over at my friend, “ Oh, Tori, you will have to forgive me. Pansy is so forgetful these days.” 

“Well, Mrs. Parkinson—she does have a brain tumor.”

I rolled my eyes. Tori wasn’t dumb—she’s just a bit self-absorbed. Brain tumors and neurodegenerative diseases were two completely different things. 

My mom opened her eyes, as if the information was new all over again, and nodded her head in agreement. 

“You know, Tori, I asked her to move back home with me, but she said no. So ungrateful.” 

There’s one thing I can say about Ama Parkinson: If she will say it behind your back, you best believe she will say it to your face as well.

To my friend’s defense, she did look uncomfortable as my mother slandered me to her face right in front of my eyes. Tori shot me a soundless” sorry” over the screen as she nodded and smiled that perfect WASPY smile back to my mother. 

“I’m still here!” I piped in.  
“Right—Pansy.  How is Maine, and making fish sticks or whatever it is you do up there?”

“Ah, it's good!” I said, plastering on a fake cheerful disposition.  “I’m making some friends, spending time in nature—I just went to this stunning greenhouse that supplies produce to the restaurant where I work. Tonight I’m making Bouillabaisse.”
“Oh, Yum! I love Bouillabaisse!” Tori piped in excitedly, in what I imagined was an attempt to lend my situation some social credit in the eyes of my mother.  “Alistair and I had it the last time we were in Cannes! Simply delicious” 
Ama’s eyes widened as she nodded emphatically, cocking an eyebrow as far as her Botox would allow, and then, as if noticing that I was actually on FaceTime, my mom looked at me. 

“Pansy, are you sleeping? You look haggard, and your eyes are all pink and blotchy.”

My friend tilted  her head towards my mom, “It's probably the lawsuit, Mrs Parkinson.”

Shit. I did not want my parents to know about–

“Lawsuit?” my mom asked, looking from Tori back to the screen. 
Tori's eyes widened in horror as she realized the information that she had let slip. 

‘I’m suing Draco to pull out my investment in Cepe’s.” I spoke up.
Her features did not show the disdain that I was certain she was feeling, but Ama let out a huff and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Pansy, I always told you to never mix business with someone you are not legally bound to in marriage.” 

“Yes, and that is where I come in.” A male voice chimed in, and Cormac, in all of his ruddy old-money side-parted glory, came on to the screen. 
“Pansy.” He said, grabbing the phone and addressing me.  “Due to New York law, I cannot sue Draco for the amount that you invested into the restaurant since you decided to leave.”
I opened my mouth to rebuke, that Draco was a cheating sack of excrement not fit to fertilize a dandelion, and there were extenuating circumstances like my hospital stay, but Cormac didn't let me get a word in. 

“However, I have some good news.  I can sue him for your vested payout in relation to the earnest money that you put into the restaurant, which—-by my calculations, you should make your total sum back in three years.” 

“Plus, depending on how cold you like to serve your dish of revenge, the fact that you two never married may actually play to our favor.”

This piqued my interest. “I’m listening.”
“Let’s just say that I have some friends at the French consulate.” He said with a devious smile. 
“Tu es un tresor, Cormac!” I said in perfect French. 

“Of course, I’ll get the paperwork drawn up.  Hopefully, Draco will be amenable.  If not, well, let's just say —you not marrying him actually works in your favor, we can make him hurt.”

As much as I hungered to serve Draco a cold dish of revenge, I honestly just felt—tired, “I just want this all behind me.”I said, surprising myself, and by the look on the three pairs of eyes blinking back at me, everyone else, too. 

My mom grabbed the phone and looked as if all of this information was sinking in past the numbing bubble of her anti-anxiety cocktail of medications, and for once, her voice was laced with an ounce of concern, “Pans, this is all so much. Why don’t you come home? The housekeeper can keep an eye on you in case you have one of your spells again.”
Because living with you will put me in an early grave. 

“Thanks, mum, I’m doing alright here. I can walk to work, and I think I am settling in ok. “ 
Crying jag notwithstanding.

“OK, if anything changes. Please let me know. Your father and I will ready your room.”

“Thanks, mum!”I said with a smile.  This may just be the most maternal the woman has ever been.

“Of course! And Pansy—do make sure you are moisturizing.  The image is grainy, but even from here I can tell your skin is dry. You’re twenty-eight, you don't want to get wrinkles prematurely.”

And she’s back. 

“OK, guys, this has been fun, but I have to get back before I get stuck in the snow !” I said with a smile, hanging up the phone. 

When all of the noise from the call died, I slunk back in my seat, taking a few deep breaths, gathering myself before driving back to the apartment. 
—-------------------------------
The little black stray with white paws greeted me at my door with an audible meow that sounded an awful lot like “Give me food NOWW!”

I had been dreading going home to an empty apartment.

“Oh,” I said. “I suppose you are still here.” I patted the little cat on the head before walking inside. “I should probably tell you, don’t lick the paint or chew on the outlets unless you want to die a horrible death  of lead or mercury poisoning.“

The little cat just tilted his head at me like I was an idiot—he was probably right.  I walked over to my kitchen cabinet and found one single can of tuna. I opened it and emptied the contents onto one of my fancy dinner plates and poured a bottle of Fiji water into a bowl.

“The little black cat's white tipped tail went straight up, curving a little at the top as he pranced his little white paws over to the offering “You’re out of here tomorrow!” I threatened as he wound himself in between my legs, purring. 

I found my bed and collapsed into it like a tree falling. My phone said that I had two hours before work, but my bones were aching with exhaustion.  The events of the day had wiped me out both physically and emotionally.   There was no way I could make it into Fins. 

I felt slimy and weak as I found Seamus’s number. I needed to call out sick. He answered on the second ring. “Hullo, Pansy, I heard ‘yer not feelin’ well.” He said. 

My stomach sank. What did he know?

“I—Uh–sorry, just a bit under the weather. “ I said, trying not to give too much away. 

“Did you make it home alright?” Seamus asked. 
“I-Um, yes,” I said, 

“Nev came down, worried that you didn’t make it home.”
“I wasn’t worried!” I heard in the background. I heard Seamus cover the receiver with his hand "It's a forty minute drive in the snow and you raced down here, the fuck you mean you weren't worried?" The his voice was clearer as he said, “So why don’t you rest up tonight. It's going to be a slow one here anyway. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

“Um, yeah, ok. Thanks, Seamus.” I said, rather speechless.  This was not how things were done in New York. 

I was too exhausted to analyze much, though. I told myself I would just lie my head on the pillow for a little while, but I had dreams of a warm black fur hat vibrating on my head, and did not remember anything else. 

Chapter Text

One very sharp claw tugged at the corner of my mouth, waking me from a deep slumber and a disturbing dream of strong hands, broad shoulders, and some interesting rigging of a trellis and twine that had my cheeks burning and toes curling. Definitely not my typical flavor, I thought, as my eyes slowly drifted open, heart pounding like a jackhammer in my chest. My cheeks were burning–I was burning, and with my disease, cooling down was almost impossible.  

Neville wasn’t my type, at least not on the outside.  He was certainly handsome in a rugged and earthy way, like a Scottish highlander or an Irish sheep farmer, but I've always been more attracted to refined city men.  Neville was something else. His hands were big and rough and dirty, and despite the cold, they were warm.  He did have one thing in common with anyone who made my blood pound.  He was completely unaffected by me.  As my eyes drifted open, a little white foot patted me on the head, followed by an objectionable “meow”

“You’re still here?” I asked the cat as if he spoke English.

The little cat gave a “meow” in return, so perhaps he did. I took a few dragging steps from my bedroom to the kitchen and rummaged through my pantry, and found one last can of tuna, which I opened and emptied onto a piece of china that my mother had gifted me back when I moved into my Brooklyn apartment. The nameless cat perked up instantly and began purring like a motor as he wended in and out of my legs.

“If you're going to stay, you really do need a name.”

The cat cocked his head at me, which I took as a concurrence. “You’re a bit of a street rat,” I said. “But I suppose you are a Parkinson now.  You need a name befitting the name. How about Caligula, for your little white boots ?” I asked. 

The tuxedo cat slowly blinked in return, which, when he didn’t instantly pee on my sofa or in my Doc Martens, I took as an affirmation of his approval.

“Alright, Caligula, House rules—you pee on anything, you're evicted. You chew on anything in this apartment.  Don’t chew on anything in this apartment, or you will be evicted from life. The landlady made sure everything had a nice coating of lead or mercury to keep living here like a game of Russian roulette with your life.”

The cat meowed and looked at me, which I took as understanding.

The short few blocks that I walked to Fins had me frozen to the core. Snow drifted with swirling flakes in the air, making the icy cobbled sidewalk nearly impassable in my thick leather boots. I ran my hand against the sides of buildings to keep from falling, damning the cold and thinking about my warm bed and a purring cat, which called to me like a siren song.  As much as I would have loved to stay in bed, I was not so sure that Seamus would appreciate me calling out for a second day in a row. 

All feelings of wanting to retreat like a hermit to my cave vanished when I saw a small folding chalkboard stalwart against the storm: Please welcome our new Sous Chef by ordering her specialty soup, Bouillabaisse.

Suddenly, I was no longer freezing, warmth spread through my chest like melted butter.. 

An elderly couple who were hand-in-hand stopped to read the sign, “Now, Frank– what do you think that word says?”

“Bou-ill-a-bassy,” the old woman said, sounding the French word out phonetically.

“Carol, I don’t care what it says, if they serve it at Fins— you know it's going to be good.”

In the kitchen, Seamus watched over my shoulder as I chopped and prepped my aromatics for the base of the soup. The movement reminded me of the way Draco would breathe down my neck, criticizing a technique.  It made my skin crawl, and venom engaged right behind my fangs. I took a breath as I chopped, but Seamus was still just there, watching every move. 

“Don’t you have meals to prep?”I asked, trying and failing to keep my voice pleasant. 

“Already done—I’m just here to watch and learn, if that’s ok?” He asked in a way that was hard to say no to. 

“Why? I thought my soup was going to be a failure?” I asked, looking up at him from the corner of my eyes, not fully taking my attention away from the browning aromatics. 

“Even if it is,” He said, flicking me playfully on the nose.  “It's still worth learning from a French-trained Michelin chef!”

I stared at his hand, with half a mind to bite his finger for touching my face, but I released a breath instead. I needed this job.

“In that case—can you make yourself useful?” I asked from the corner of my eye. 

“What do ya need?” He asked, excited and ready to help—like some sort of dumb puppy dog or something. 

“Can you make  a saffron rouille?” I asked, handing him a bowl.

“Absolutely!” He said, taking the bowl, and then just staring at it. 

I shot him a look, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, on it!” He said, then started slicing up some pats of butter. 

I looked over at him and felt my hair graying. I grabbed his butter and threw it in the trash. “Rouille, two egg yolks, saffron, olive oil, fish soup soaked bread, lemon juice, garlic, blend.” I barked like a general commanding a soldier.

In Provence, they serve the rouille on a piece of crusty baguette to dip into the soup.” I said. “When you are done, you  can observe over my shoulder.”

“Ay ay, captain,” Seamus said as he started whisking egg yolks and olive oil together while watching me sautee fennel, carrots, and onion in a ceramic pot.  I suppose the good thing about dogs is that they are trainable. I thought to myself.

To reward his good behaviour, I decided to throw him a bone, “I saw you found a specials sign.” I said, attempting to make nice. 

“You would not believe the cobwebs I had to dust off that damn thing.”

“Thanks! It—kind of brightened my day.” I said.

“Just thought we would give you a bit of a northern welcome.” He offered with a shrug, while blending ingredients.

“Are Northerners known for their welcomes?” I asked, while stirring the soup.

“Uh– not really, no. I can’t guarantee anyone will actually order the soup.”

I laughed despite myself. 

“So– uh, the restaurant is closed tomorrow, and we have a big squall coming in.  Do you want to come skiing with me and some friends? Mainly just Dean and Fred,” He said, referring to the bartender and the commis chef, who waved at being addressed, and who I swore I had never even noticed before that moment.  “A little team building, ya know?”

“Oh, sorry.” I’m Gonna have to pass. I - uh am not very good on skis.” I said. 

Or balancing, strenuous exercise, or staying out in the cold for long periods of time. I left unsaid.   

“Aw, man, that’s ok!  I’ll plan something else,  like a brewery or go down to Wrigley for a Sox game?” 

I looked up from the stock that I was stirring counterclockwise up at my boss, who seemed like he was trying to be a friend.  It was a new feeling.

“I'm not really a sports fan or a beer drinker,” I said, focusing my attention on the pot.

“What about a group trip to the North End in Boston to try out some wines and check out the food scene?” He asked. 

I stopped stirring and looked at him, really looked at him.  He was trying.  I suppose I could meet him halfway. 

“Thanks, Seamus, I’d like that,” I said.

He had the essence of a wagging tail and started scaling and deboning a whitefish for me, “I heard you went up to Nev’s yesterday.”

“Yeah, Neville’s greenhouse is really impressive.”

“I’m surprised he had you drive up.  He barely lets anyone go up there—afraid they will step on a rhododendron or something.”

I chuckled, but then looked up from my boiling pot. “Really? But he made it seem like–”

“No, I’ve only been up there a couple of times. He likes his peace, Nev, bit of a hermit, really.”

“Hm–.”

“I can’t complain, though.  He grows the best produce north of New York—Here, try this carrot.” 

Seamus snapped an extra carrot in two—biting into it like Bugs Bunny and handing me the other piece.

I reluctantly stepped back from my pot and bit into mine.  “Whoa!” 

The flavor was sweet, but the crunch was perfect. There was a hint of tang on the undertone. My brain shifted to all of the ways that I could cook this carrot, and what to pair it with.  

“That is an amazing carrot—how does he do it?”

“You're the one who goes up there; you will have to ask him sometime,” Seamus said with a slight look of conspiracy.  

A waiter popped his head over to us.  “Hey, chef, I have two orders for the bou— uh, for the soup!”

I looked up to Fionn, eyes wide and unable to help the smile that erupted on my face. 

“Well, here goes nothing.” 

I dropped some clams into the soup to boil and garnished it with saffron before ladling it out and presenting it with two pieces of crusty bread.  The first meal that I had written the recipe for and cooked since everything happened over a month ago at Cepe’s.  It felt good to be behind a stove again; it felt natural.

Seamus slapped me on the back with a genuine smile on his face.“Do you want to go spy on them from the Galley window?” He asked, almost excited as I felt. 

“Absolutely!” I said, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the door. 

Seamus and I peered from the small circular window, spying as the old couple from earlier tucked in. 

I could only see the grumpy-looking older man from where I was standing, but one bite in, and his features lifted. His eyebrows raised, and a smile slowly spread across his face. I felt my own chest warm, and a smile pulled across my own.  

“ I think that look says it all, Pans,” he said.

“I guess so!”

Seamus and I kept spying on the older couple enjoying their food when George, the server, walked up to the door, and jumped back with a start, seeing our faces. 

“Sorry, chefs, you scared me.”

“Sorry—- we were just seeing how the soup went over.”

“Oh, uh, pretty well, I think— I’ve got another two orders for it– table seven.“

I looked over at Seamus and said, “I’m on it! “ But not without taking one last look out the galley window.  

A young man, still bundled against the outside elements, walked in, seemingly cradling something inside his jacket. He towered over the hostess like a redwood, as she found him a table near one of the tall windows facing the ocean. He sat down, unzipped his jacket, revealing a warm corded sweater, and gingerly pulled out a brown paper bag, carefully setting it on the table.  He looked up, eyes going straight for the porthole of the galley door. I jumped, it was  Neville. 

Schooled by years of hiding my emotions from my mother, I knew my face betrayed nothing, but inside, I was a riotous rollercoaster, free-falling and hurling back up again. 

“I wonder what Nev is doing here? He rarely eats here.” Seamus asked. 

I had a sinking suspicion that he was here to watch me fail miserably, but I didn’t voice that to Seamus, not when Seamus seemed determined to be friendly,

“I’m here for you! Why don’t you go talk to him! I can cover any orders here.”

Fetch, boy.

 Seamus considered for a minute, and I put a hand on his shoulder.  “I can handle it!” he nodded, then walked out the kitchen galley doors towards his friend.

I mean, I totally had it, right?  Nine out of ten recipes were literally sauteed in butter, garnished with lemon.  What was the worst that could happen?

An order for lobster came through the ticket line, and a rock sank into my stomach. Killing lobsters was the worst part of working at Fins.  I ran back to the galley window, looking to see if Seamus was done; maybe he could be the one to kill the poor lobster. 

They were not done. Seamus and Neville were laughing about something, probably me, and a stupid, likely diseased part of my brain couldn’t help but notice the dimple in Neville’s cheek when he laughed. Had it always been there? I don’t remember seeing him smile like that before.  It caught my breath, and I wanted to trace the outline of it with my finger. What was wrong with me? 

Shut up, brain. Neville hated my guts. Why? I had no clue. 

I took a few steadying breaths and said I’m sorry more times than I ever had in my life.  One insomniac night after working at this restaurant, I went on an internet rabbit hole at three in the morning, looking up lobsters to try to make myself feel better about being their maker and causing an untimely death. I was hoping to read that they were gross bottom-feeding cockroaches, basically, the Draco Malfoys of the sea. What I found instead is that they are basically immortal, able to regenerate lost limbs, and that they are serially monogamous creatures.  Males will protect the females during mating and motling—thus making them better boyfriend material than my ex, and I was about to reward positive masculinity with death. Shame. 

Unfortunately, I needed the job, so I walked up to the tank with tongs in hand. “I’m so sorry–I don’t want to kill you!”

I closed my eyes, lowering my tongs into the water and picking the mopiest-looking lobster I could find.  The rest of them all looked at me with their beady black eyes and long antennae, as if saying, Pansy, you murderer! You will rue the day!

“I can’t save you all.” I whispered to them as if they spoke American English, “But I promise, I’ll break two of you out tonight!” I said quietly, a mix of anxiety and resolve creeping up my spine. 

I remembered Seamus’s trick for humane lobstercide using lobster yoga and a little vodka in the pot for good measure, and the lobster fell asleep before it boiled alive. I said a little prayer to the universe for it, the whole time feeling like a crustaceous Dr. Gavorkian. 

My victim was culinary perfection, plated with lemon and clarified butter. I serviced it, sending it away– and with it, my feelings of guilt. 

Fred the waiter popped his head in,  “I have an order for the special at table three—he asked if you could drop it off personally.”

“What do I look like, the wait staff?!” I yelled.  Then I looked up, eyes wide, catching myself.  That was the old Pansy. “Shit, sorry, Fred. Nerves.”  I said.

Fred just threw his hand in the air, brushing off my ire, and with a wink said, “ I can tell them you said that if you want?”

Degrading the wait staff, the patrons worked in New York, but it was a great way to get fired here. This is a smaller place. One rude encounter would stay with me—probably forever.  

I walked over to where he was standing near the galley window.  “Which table is table three? I will walk it over.”

He pointed to Neville, who was still laughing with Seamus.  What was so funny?  What were they talking about? My stomach dropped. Was he telling Seamus how I collapsed at his greenhouse earlier? I hoped not. My health was my own concern. 

The two men looked up in the direction of the galley door at the same time, and I jumped, hiding out of view as if they had X-ray vision. 

Well, I might as well get this over with, I thought to myself. 

I took special care in ladling and picking out the clams for Neville’s soup.  I didn’t exactly know why.  I should have just thrown some toilet water in there and called it a meal.  I suppose one could call it an opportunity analysis.  He grew amazing vegetables, and I make amazing food.  

I also don’t want to give him any reason to start talking to Seamus about what he saw at the greenhouse, with either my hands or my lack of balance.  Both of which could make me blunder in a kitchen if I couldn’t get my symptoms under control.  Somehow, I convinced myself that if the food was good enough, he would be too busy with his mouth eating it, then running it. 

Before running the food, I wanted to make sure I looked professional and slightly fabulous. I ran to the bathroom to check my reflection before serving the soup.  My white chef's coat was pristine as per usual.  My short black hair was pin straight and tied up in my lucky emerald green bandana, keeping loose strands from contaminating the food, but more importantly, bringing out my eyes. I was ready to serve, with both looks and cuisine. 

I grabbed the dish and walked it over to table three with my cuntiest walk. 

Whatever Seamus and Neville were laughing about stopped dead in its tracks. An appreciative smile graced Seamus’s face, and Neville’s mouth fell open.   

I dropped the plates in front of them with a small splash of liquid, “Orders up, boys.” 

Neville’s eyes locked on mine, lingering for an extra second before panning out over my body as if searching for something, before he said, “Seamus was just telling me about one of his more spectacular wipeouts up at Sugarloaf Mountain.”

“Yeah, the damn ski nearly went up my arsehole. I damn near Kabob’d myself.” 

A slow smile met my lips as I nodded and then looked over towards Seamus, “Well, you better be careful tomorrow, otherwise kebab will be the next chef special.”I said with a wink. 

“Ahh, don’t worry yer’ pretty little head, Pansy, I’ve been skiing as long as I’ve been walkin’.”

Neville smiled at me. Smiled, “Don’t listen to him.  His old lady told me he was a late bloomer, walked late.”  

“Shit, Ain’t that the truth?–” Seamus said, “Walked late, tied my shoes late, read late.” He said with his unyielding smile. “We can’t all bloom all year like Nev here, can we?” He asked with a wink and a not-so-soft slap on his friend's back.  “I’ll leave you two to chat, I’ve got the kitchen, Pans.” and before he walked all the way back, he looked over his shoulder back to Neville. 

“Last call, Nev! You sure you don’t want to come tomorrow? Might be enough to convince Pansy to go!” Seamus said, winking at his friend. 

Neville lifted an eyebrow, shifting his gaze my way, as I shook my head, mouthing “No shot.” 

He gave a short nod and looked back up at Fionn, “Can’t man—loads of repotting to do.”

As Seamus walked back into the kitchen, I toweled up some of the sloshed liquid and placed the soup in front of Neville, “I heard table three ordered the special.”

I felt his eyes linger on my hands as I placed the soup in front of him. Something relaxed on his face, likely when he noticed they were a normal color.  He looked up at me, and that same dimple popped out with his smile, stopping my heart just a little. 

“I wanted to make sure that someone ordered it.” He said, and I could almost swear that the tips of his ears turned red. 

“I’ll have you know— you are the third order tonight,” I said.

Neville looked around at the sparsely patronized tables, nodding his head. “You should consider it a roaring success, then.”

He gestured to the empty seat across from him. “Do you wanna take a seat for a couple of minutes?”

“I don’t know— what if Seamus gets overwhelmed?”I asked, not yet used to not drowning in constant orders coming into the kitchen. 

“With all of the people?” Nevilled asked, looking around at all of the empty tables around us.

“Fair point. I’m not used to not being busy.” I said as I slinked into the driftwood-carved wooden chair. 

“Oh, you’ll be busy in the summer. Maybe even busier than that fancy place in New York.”

“Thank goodness, I was about to die from boredom,”  I said. 

“Well, we can’t have that, an idle Pansy—.”

“Would be the devil's workshop for sure,” I said. “So are you going to try the soup, or are you just going to keep making small talk with me?”

Neville’s eyes widened a hair, but then a half smirk masked his face.  

“Let’s see if the labor of my saffron was worth it.”

“You’re already prepped and packaged saffron?” I asked, not hiding an ounce of judgment.

He winked at me from across the table, “I’m a busy man.” 

He spooned at the clam shells, thwacking his spoon on the shellfish. “You don’t take the shells out?” He said.

“They’re for optics. It gives the soup a fresh aesthetic, as if it just came out of the ocean into your mouth.”

His eyes went to my mouth, and he coughed, ears burning red. 

“—You pay more for that sort of thing in New York.”

He cleared his throat again, “I would pay more to have someone shuck them for me,” He grumbled under his breath.

“Quit complaining, and try the soup,” I said. 

He scooped some of the soup into his clam, and downed it like a shot. I held my breath, watching his face for any tell, any micro-expression. His eyes widened, but he was otherwise silent.

“Well?”I asked.

He said nothing, and I felt my nerves mounting.  Why did I care what he thought?

I waited for his response, but instead, the elderly couple that I had seen earlier walked by the table, noting Neville’s meal, “Is that the Billy-bassy?” the older gentleman asked.

Neville nodded. 

“It's superb,” the old man said. “Reminds me of something my gand-mere used to make.”

“Yeah, it's something special,” Neville said, and I couldn't help the smile tugging at the corners of my cheeks. 

“I hope they keep bringing it back,” said the older man. 

“We will!” I said excitedly. Will we? I hadn't run it past Seamus. 

The older man jumped back, “Oh, I didn't realize you were the chef.  I was thinking this was a Seamus creation.” 

“No, I’m the new sous chef, Pansy Parkinson.”  I said, extending a hand.

“Well, if everything you make has as much care as the soup, then  we look forward to seeing what else you come up with, Pansy.”

I nodded my head in thanks, unable to keep the smile on my lips away. I've cooked for famous people, I've cooked for Michelin, but somehow this praise from people as tough and craggy as the surrounding cliffs that are beaten down by the sea day in and day out meant just a little more. As the couple made their exit, I saw that my table companion was smiling at me.

“It's really very good, Pans—-maybe not Chowder good, but those.” He said, pointing to the tried and true-looking patrons of Portland,  “They are some tough critics to please.”

I nodded my head.

The din of more people started gathering in the dining room, and I looked around.  The restaurant was filling up.  

”I should probably get back to the kitchen. Thanks for popping in and making sure that at least one person ordered the soup tonight.” I said. 

He looked as if he had more to say, but then thought better of it as the dining room started filling up. 

That night, we completely sold out of the bouillabaisse, and thankfully, Seamus stayed on lobster killer duty, but I couldn’t help the gnawing guilt in my stomach every time I looked over my shoulder at the tank growing less and less populated. 

“You did well, Pansy!” Seamus said, clapping me on my back. 

“Thanks!” I smiled.

“And, as a reward, I’m going to let you close up shop tonight.” He said as he handed me a rag and a broom.  Apparently, Seamus was the type of leader who rewarded competence with more responsibility. Lucky for him, I had nowhere that I’d rather be. 

After tidying, organizing, and preparing for the next day, I took my chance.  I found a discarded plastic bag, scooped some water into it, and found two lucky lobsters from the tank that were going to get a second chance at life. They thrashed around as if they thought the pot was their next stopping point. 

Plucking the first one out with tongs, it curled up and wriggled and reached for my wrist.  I thought it was going to pinch me. I screamed, dropping the lobster and the tongs. God, I missed mushrooms. I tried again, this time, shoving the large clawed crustacean into the bag before it had a chance to nip off another one of my fingertips. It thrashed around, but stopped when it felt the same familiar water collected at the bottom of the plastic bag.  

OK, one more. I picked a second, looking lobster, imagining that it must be a little younger than the rest, it still had some life to live, maybe it wanted to fall in love once before the pot, or travel to foreign waters, like the Bay of Fundy or something. It may have just been a trick of the lighting, but I swore all of the other lobsters looked at me with beady black eyes of hope, further penetrating me with guilt. I apologized to the rest of them.

“I’m sorry I can’t save you all. I still need a job. 

—---------------------

In the cold, dark stillness of the night, I walked along the wharf between Fins and my apartment.  Snow was piled high on both sides of me, and the cobbled walkway was hazardous to my balance.

I took small, slow steps in my combat boots. Lest I tripped and spilled the contents of my plastic bag. Visions and getting pinched to death by two pissed off lobsters with a vendetta against me for killing their crustaceous brethren clouded my brain and kept me careful. I would hate to give my mother more fuel for her anti-culinary arts fire. Should have married a finance banker—wasted looks and potential. 

Her voice, clawing at my psyche, was interrupted by a lone bird chirping in the wind. I looked around, trying to place the sound, but with only the light of the moon reflecting off the bay, I couldn't see any birds.  The sound erupted again–and I felt the slight prickling of the hairs on my neck, making me keenly aware that I was being watched.  I looked all around–head on a swivel, but saw nothing around me. I looked down at the plastic bag of squirming crustaceans, “Stay back!” I yelled to no one in particular. “I’m armed.”

If push came to shove, I would throw claws. 

No one was in my perimeter. I sped up walking down the dock towards the end of the wharf. The end of the dock was serene with the gentle lapping of black, cold water, with only the glow of the street lights and the sliver of the moon for illumination. 

I opened the bag, and the two lobsters began thrashing around again.  I jumped, nearly falling into the water.  This was a stupid idea. I was an idiot. Stupid, stupid, stupid, Pansy.

I grabbed one by the tail with a gloved hand and let out a shriek when it started wriggling. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, Oh my god,” I said aloud.  The damn thing tried to curl up and pinch off my hand. Before it could carry out its crustacean vendetta,  I tossed it into the black depths of the Casco Bay— free to live another day far from the scolding boil of a silver pot.

“Be free, you ungrateful little asshole!” I yelled as it began to sink to the depths of the sea. 

“Spureee pree pree.” The same whistling as before caught my attention.

This time, when I looked over my shoulder, a large, coated man who looked to be smuggling something in his coat took long strides in my direction down the dock. Shit, Shit Shit. 

What the hell was I doing? Why did I have the self-preservation of a mealworm? I was about to die for two stupid fucking invertebrates, and my last thoughts would be of how my mother was right. 

Panicked, I reached into my pocket for my phone. I pulled it out and frantically tapped at the screen,  but my hands were too cold to unlock it. I would have to fight. 

“Stay back!” I looked down at my bag, still containing one wriggling lobster. “I’m armed!”

The man stopped. He raised an arm in peace, his other arm wrapped around something in his coat, a gun, or a belt, perhaps zip ties. Stop falling asleep to murder mysteries, Pansy. 

“Sorry, it's me! I’m not going to hurt you,” a familiar voice spoke out. 

Neville.

I relaxed, but only just a little. 

“Why are you following me?” I asked. 

He opened his mouth to answer, but his eyes locked on the plastic bag in my hands, and something on his face shifted—his open expression hardened into an accusation.  

“What are you doing, Pansy?”

“I—”

“ What’s in that bag?”

“It’s nothing, it’s just –”

He took just a few strides, quickly closing in the space between us.  

“Give it to me.” He said, extending his free hand. 

“No,” I said, holding my ground. 

“Seamus is my best friend, I’m not going to let you steal from him!”

“I–”

He took the bag easily, with one hand, his other sheltering something hidden in his coat.  Neville peered inside the plastic bag with a look of disgust. 

“I can’t believe this!” “You're stealing from Seamus.”

“I’ll pay for them!” I said, reaching for the bag. “Please don’t tell Seamus! I need this job.”

Neville cocked an eyebrow, his face riddled with disgust, ire, and non-belief. “Do you really? Need this job?”

“Yes.” 

Neville’s kind face and warmth from earlier froze over in an instant. His voice dropped an octave, and I was all of a sudden very aware of how much he towered over me.

“I told him not to hire you, you know,  but Seamus said that your reputation stood out.  He said it would be a shame to lose someone as talented as you—but I warned him.”

“Wh—You don’t even know me!” I said, feeling my fear being replaced by anger. “Ever since I've come here, you've been rude, condescending, and difficult.”I shoved him with every jab, but I might as well have shoved a redwood for all of the good that it did. 

He stood there, absorbing all of my fit like a tree would absorb the breeze. 

“Yes, I do.” He said each word with force and finality. 

The venom coursing up my spine stopped. He familiarly shook his head and gave me a crooked, challenging half-smile. It hit me like a ton of bricks.  The boy from school, from that night we polished silver. This “Neville” in front of me was Neville Longbottom.

“You are him—from school—The janitor's son?” I asked, all of the venom leaving like a misfire as I squinted up at him.  I had had my suspicions, but it had been ten years, and where the years had been less kind to me, they did nothing but chisel away the softness in Neville.

“I—yes.”

His mask of anger shifted, and he just looked—sad. 

There was a blanket of silence as we stared at each other. All of the pesky feelings of guilt and negativity coursing back into me. My moral compass never truly pointed north.  There was a list a mile long of things I have done that I was not proud of, but the way I treated  Neville that night was right at the top. 

The victims of my ire tended to deserve what they got. Hermione deserved to be bald for sleeping with Astoria’s boyfriend back in high school.  Draco was certainly deserving of the vengeance coming for him.  On some level, even I probably deserved all of the shitty things that were happening to me, but Neville did not deserve how I treated him. 

He only ever tried to use Hamilton Prep as a stepping stone to a better life. He kept his head down and his mouth shut in school, and we teased him for it—cast him out for being poor instead of welcoming him in. 

I felt sick. The waves in my stomach sloshed around more than the waves around us from the sea. But I was grateful for the clarity. I knew why Neville hated me, and it was my responsibility to make things right, or at least try. 

Cold, cautious eyes peered down at me like I was a wild animal. Unpredictable.  Neville caught me being exactly the person that he thought I was. A stuck-up little rich girl with no respect for others' feelings, belongings, or work ethic—-how wrong he was, now. 

I let out a deep breath, squaring my shoulders, grounding myself for something that I rarely did.  I looked up into his eyes, which  looked to be on the cusp of flight ot fight, and said, “I’m sorry.”

He looked down at the single lobster, now thrashing about in the bag. His anger reappeared. “Save it, Parkinson. I’ll let Seamus decide what to do with you.”

I opened my mouth to interject, to tell him that the lobster was not what I was sorry about, but he didn’t let me get a breath in. His ears were red, his face stern.

“Things come hard up here.  Someone risked their life fishing for this lobster. Things don’t grow here; every ingredient is labor-intensive. We can’t just whip out our little iPhone and call daddy when we want problems to go away, and  we certainly  don’t need spoiled prep-school princesses changing things or stealing from us.”

Puffs of Neville’s breath materialized in rapid succession in the moonlight as he panted off his steam. 

I winced, but held my ground.  I wasn’t sure if I was the wilde animal, or if he was. I had to admit, Neville was kind of hot like this. 

”I’m not sorry about letting the lobster go free, you brute.” I said, a slow smile curling at my lips. 

“I would do it again—-but I am sorry for how I treated you all of those years ago.”

He took a sharp inhale and a step back from me, as if he was a lion and I just hit him in the pride. When he didn't say anything, I continued. 

“You were probably the only genuine person at Hamilton Prep, and at seventeen years old, I didn’t really know what to do with that. It made me question my whole persona—my whole worldview. So, I’m sorry that I left you that night. It was easier than doubting myself and the life that I had grown up with.”

“I-I don’t care about that!” He said, crossing his arms. 

His words said one thing, but his eyes told a completely different story. There was hurt behind them. 

“Really? Is that not why you shoved vegetables at me when you found out who I was, or made me drive all the way up to your place for spices that you had on hand?”

He stared down at me, features thawing despite the frigid cold air around us. “I– Uh, maybe a little.” He said, shoulders falling. 

“It’s ok,” I said, in a self-deprecating tone, “of all the things recently, THAT is one I may have deserved.”

He opened his mouth as if to ask, but I cut him off. “ We will freeze to death if I get into that,” I said.

Neville nodded his head and thankfully changed the subject. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

I sighed, looking down at the lobster that I had set out to rescue. 

“I hate killing them.” A lightning jolt ran down my arm, and then I said. “They have a nervous system. They feel pain.”

“It's a quick death for them,” Neville said, shrugging his shoulders.

“It’s barbaric!” I responded. 

“Don’t let anyone around here hear you say that. Lobsters are life here.”

“I know, but I thought—maybe if I just saved a couple of them, I would feel better about the other ones—it's a painful fate—being boiled alive.”

Something softened on Neville’s face. He was quiet for a second. 

“Do you want to save this one?” He asked.

“No, not if you’re going to tell Seaumus that I’m stealing,” I said, looking down at the scary-looking crustacean. “Sorry, buddy. I tried.” I said to the lobster, taking steps back towards land. 

A large hand caught me by the arm.  

“I’ll keep your secret.” He said, stopping me. 

I turned and smiled back up at him. My fingers were so cold they almost glowed in the moonlight as I reached a hand down to grab the lobster's tail. Neville’s eyes trailed my hand, and he chimed in. “Actually, Pansy, can I do it?”

“Oh, um, sure,” I said. 

He reached a hand into the bag and chucked the flailing lobster into the ocean with Herculean force. “Be free, you lucky bastard!”

I chuckled. “Well, my good deed quota is pretty much filled for the month. I should probably head home.” I said, pointing to the apartments stacked on top of the next wharf over.

“Yeah, me too! Days start early, keeping the greenhouse running.”

I nodded, but then something dawned on me. “Wait, why did you hang back?”

He looked like he was trying really hard to remember, but then noticed the parcel he was shielding from the cold. He produced a lumpy brown paper bag from his coat. 

“Oh, I almost forgot, I brought this for you—uh, sorry I didn’t have a nicer bag.” 

I eyed the bag with pursed brows.  What could Neville have possibly brought for me? And why?“Is it—-drugs?” I said, eyeing the brown paper. 

“What kind of greenhouse do you think I run?” he asked with a chuckle.

“You have more plants than a botanical garden—I don’t know what you're growing in there.”

“Open it and see.”

I grabbed the crinkled brown paper bag from him and was surprised to feel that it was heavy. 

“A lot of drugs then?”

“Just open it,” he said, with a roll of his eyes. 

I reached inside.  Feeling the ceramic grittiness of a pot, I pulled out the contents to find a small clay pot full of beautiful purple flowers. 

“Oh,”

“Do you like them? You could put them in your apartment or something.”  The tips of his ears were turning red, but it totally could have been from the cold. 

“I kill everything I touch,” I said, handing the potted purple flowers back to him. “You should keep these.”

“No, I brought them for you! Besides, they're pretty hearty little flowers—hard to kill and some of the first to pop up out of the cold, hard ground in the spring—pansies.”

He grew and potted me pansies. It may have been cold out, but suddenly, I felt very warm. I took the flowers, shrugging them into my coat like a prize.   

“Ok— but don’t expect them to still be around on your next wellness check.”

Neville laughed, “Fair enough, but they really are hard to kill.”

“I found a dead cactus when I was moving out of my old apartment in New York.”

He grimaced, “How do you kill a cactus?”

“A whole lot of tender loving neglect.”

“No matter.”  He jerked his head. “There’s something else in the bag. “ 

I reached my hand back in and found a couple of little nylon baggies full of dried aromatic leaves, flowers, and fruits. 

“Ah— so you did bring me drugs?” I said, a smile tugging at the corners of my cheeks. 

“I made you some tea from my apothecary—it's uh, important to keep warm in the winters here.” 

He was looking at his feet and playing with his hands— hands that looked like no matter how many times he washed them,  they wouldn't be completely clean of soil. 

“Thank you,” I said, placing a careful hand on his shoulder. 

He looked up, flashing me a heart-crushing smile. 

“If you're not going skiing with Seamus tomorrow, what are you doing?” he asked. 

“I have an early doctor’s appointment in the morning, then maybe I’ll explore the town a bit.”

His eyes flashed at the mention of a doctor's appointment, but his mouth stayed shut. 

“What about you?” I asked. 

“I’ll be at the apothecary, come up.” He said. “You know,  if you get bored or something.” 

“I should probably get home and get some sleep,” I said, stifling a yawn.

“I’ll walk you over to your apartment.” He said. 

“It's just over there,” I said, pointing off into the not-so-far distance.

“Just let me be a friend and get you home safely. “ Neville said.

“Ok.” I smiled; my brain couldn't stop thinking about the one-word friends. I had a friend up here. The cold no longer cut into me.  

Chapter Text

I sat watching my hands transform from an unfeeling stark white into the prickling pins and needle sensation of pink as I sat waiting in doctor Cunningham’s office. The neurologist was running behind, and normally, I would be incensed at the waste of my time, but with all of the things that had transpired over the last twenty-four hours, I was grateful for the moment to think.  

“A friend.” He had said, Neville walked me home last night—insisting on going up the stairs and making sure I made it inside. Before I stepped over the threshold, he took my phone and called himself from it, telling me to call him if I felt like helping him make snowballs to drip water on his plants. To me, this sounded like a ruse to bludgeon me with pent-up negative feelings left over from our high school days, so I respectfully declined, but thanked him for the offer—just in case.  

I pulled out my phone and looked at my recent calls. His phone number sat there in red. Initially, I wasn’t going to save his number.  Something about entering the number into my phone made this whole move-whole life situation—me with a neuro-degenerative disease in Maine instead of New York, the absence of Draco—-of Cepe’s seems real, and I struggled to grasp that for a little. 

The reverent fog that was threatening to become a downward spiral was quickly blown away by a text message from Seamus.

Seamus: Get a load of this!

Image message follows: 

Portland Chronicle News article: A Michelin-starred NYC mainstay has just relocated to quiet Portland, Maine, and she’s creating quite a stir—literally! According to sources, Pansy Parkinson of the restaurant Cepe’s is going to be shaking things up on the culinary scene–I know where I am stopping for dinner next!

I caught a glimpse of the next article: Moose Sightings on I-95 and quickly texted back Seamus.

Pansy: Slow news week, eh? 

Seamus: Actually, it's a pretty exciting one. Usually, the news is about the weather or some knitting competition! Keep it up!

Pansy: Be honest with me. Are you “Sources?”

Seamus: I plead the fifth. 

Pansy: Eye roll emoji 

Seamus: You can’t put a price on publicity—anyway, see you tomorrow! Bout to catch some of that fresh Pow! He proceeded to send me a picture of his snowboard from the vantage point of the ski lift he was currently on.

Pany: Break a leg— or don’t, DON’T break a leg!

A large middle-aged man with thick brown eyebrows and a head full of brown hair walked into the room wearing a flannel button-down.  He looked like he might be a distant relative of Sasquatch. 

He reached out a hand to me, which was also a bit hairy.  A total ick of mine, and never have I been more grateful for working in a fish restaurant and having gross, smelling hands in my life.

“Sorry, doctor, you don’t want to shake my hand. I filet fish for a living.”   

He retracted his hand, with an unspoken “fair enough” flashing across his face. 

“Anyways, niceties aside, you must be Pansy. I am Dr. Steven Cunningham. Your file was sent over by a former resident of mine, Dr. Pomona. 

“Yes, he was my neurologist in New York.” 

“Yes, bright lad!  Can’t imagine what could have possibly lured him to that rat race.” He said, presumably referring to New York. “Anyways, how have your symptoms been since you were diagnosed two months ago?”

“More or less the same. I have noticed some difficulty walking some days, but not all of the time.” 

“Yes, gait instability can be pretty common. It's important to take it easy when your symptoms are worse. Plenty of rest, keep stress levels low. Some people have experienced positive effects with yoga or perhaps gardening?”

“It’s winter.” I deadpanned.  Where in the heck was I supposed to garden?

“Yes— in the spring.”He corrected. 

Sasquatch’s cousin started flashing lights in my eyes as he talked to me, and then grabbed my hands.  Used to the song and dance of a neuro exam, I performed, not interrupting his Spiel. 

“It's also ok to use mobility assistance if things get bad, like a cane or a walker.” 

I nodded my head, but internally I thought that there was no way in hell that I would be walking around with a cane. 

“We can start you on immunosuppressant medication, monoclonals, and the like,  but I must warn you, the side effects can be worse than your current symptoms— they do have high success in keeping you in remission, though.” 

“How bad are the side effects?”

“Oh, infections, chest pain, liver problems.”

My luck. “I think that I will wait.  I am feeling mostly ok right now.” 

“Well, please come back if anything changes.”

With Fins closed on Monday, I had planned to explore my surroundings.  Walk around the city a bit, “city” being a very loose term—there are universities with more people than the “city” of Portland, Maine, but after walking and nearly tripping down three cobbled blocks of closed shops and restaurants in the deserted streets of the Old Port, I decided to try calling that newly saved number in my phone.  

My phone had not even completed one full ring before I was greeted with, “Petunia!”On the other side. I could hear the smile in his voice as he said it. 

“Back to ‘Petunia?’ I asked. “Are we going to pretend that you didn’t give me a bouquet of pansies last night ?”I asked. 

“It wasn’t a bouquet, so much as a pot, something that shouldn’t die—— hey, how are they doing? Still alive?" 

“For the moment,” I said, glancing at my cuticles.  "I suppose they're still thriving on your love.” 

“Heh, “ Neville said over the phone. “Just make sure to put them near a window,” Neville said, sounding a little panicked. 

“By the way, you answered fast!  Were you staring at your phone, waiting to see if I would call? ”

“Something like that. Nah, I was using my phone to find the best way to prune my Ube when you just happened to call.”

“You have Ube?” I asked, perking up.   My mouth began watering at the earthy sweet potato that grows in a rich, beautiful purple color. Visions of the purple Japanese-style cheesecake danced across my brain. 

“Not enough for the restaurant.” He said. 

“Do you have at least two pounds?” I asked, recounting a recipe for ube cheesecake that I had been wanting to try. 

“-- Maybe,” he said with a hint of suspicion, “but they’ll cost you.”

“I have money.” Well, not much currently. Damn you, Draco Malfoy, but my assets were liquid enough for a couple imported sweet potatoes.

“I want manual labor.”

I took a sharp inhale of breath, “For yams?” incredulous. 

“For premium Japanese purple yams grown and cultivated from seed.”

“You want me to make snowballs with you, don’t you?”I asked, smirking into the phone.

“I want you to make snowballs with me,”  I could hear the smile in his voice over the receiver. 

“Ugh, fine. I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Bring gloves!” He shouted as I was hanging up. 

—----------------------------------------

“Well, this is full circle, isn't it?” Neville asked as he packed a small snowball together with a special amount of attention and care.

The crisp air was cutting through me like a paring knife, and the grey clouds were threatening snow, but in the moment, none of that really mattered. 

I formed a bigger, sloppier snowball and half-hazardly placed it in a wheelbarrow. 

“You New Englanders sure do like to punish people for their crimes with manual labor,” I said, packing my twentieth makeshift snowball, the starts of pins and needles running down my right arm. 

“We just believe that you shouldn’t be able to swipe a card to make problems go away.”

“But it's so much more convenient,” I said, peering up at him through the black tendrils of my bangs. I couldn’t help but catch the half smirk as he placed another small snowball into his wheelbarrow. 

“So, what happened—— after school?  How did you–”

“End up here?” He asked, gesturing to the massive botanical garden behind him. 

“Yeah.”

“This place was always a plan for me.  It belonged to my grandmother, who was a self-proclaimed descendant of the Salem witches.” 

“What?! Your grandmother was a witch? I remember you telling me she was a free spirit. I had no idea you were that interesting!”

He leveled me with a look while carefully packing a small snowball and producing a tincture from his pocket, and dropping some liquid into the ball.  

“I think witch is a strong word—I never saw her do anything magical, I think she just loved nature, solitude, and participating in herbal extracurriculars back in the sixties if you catch my drift.”  

I leaned on the wheelbarrow, enrapt in the story. 

“Besides, if you're the batty old witch with a giant green house on the edge of a cliff, people tend to come up with rumors and leave you alone.”

“She sounds cooler than you.” 

“She was!” he said with no shame.  “I would spend my summers here with her, and she would teach all sorts of things; herbal medicine, propagation, growing techniques, and which moon phases lent to the best growing seasons.”

“No wonder your carrots taste so good,” I said more to myself than to him. 

Neville looked up, his neck turning red, and I felt a heat lance into my cheeks despite the biting cold air. “Not Your carrot—the ones that grow—Oh god, never mind.” 

Thankfully, Neville coughed and continued, sparing me any immature jokes at my expense. 

“Anyways, after school, I ended up getting a full ride to UC Davis to study agricultural science.  Seamus was my roommate.” He shrugged.”Guess they figured Maine and Massachusetts were close enough together to put us in the same room.”

“Ah, yes, two states that love each other almost as much as North and South Korea.” 

“He drove me crazy at first, but he’s a good guy!”

“I can see that. He seemed to embrace the West Coast chill vibes quickly, kind of at odds with his accent.’

“That's for sure.”

“But then my mom got worse—her cancer.  I wanted to quit school and just go home to take care of her–be there for dad, but my parents wouldn’t have any part of it. It would be comical if it wasn’t sad, but my mom, whittled down to a wisp of what she was with chemo and radiation, nearly pummeled me when I walked in the door. Claiming that I was leaving school.” 

“They valued your education so much that your dad scrubbed the toilets of the school.” 

My parents, on the other hand–.I couldn’t imagine my mother sacrificing so much as a nail appointment for me, let alone working so hard for a future for me that was out of reach for them.

“Yeah,” he said, “Sometimes I wish that they didn’t.” Neville was far away, reliving something I only knew a little about—undoubtedly running scenarios of what ifs? My hand drifted to my chest. It hurt to see him sad. 

“They worked so hard to give me everything, but it wasn’t even what I wanted—my dad didn’t take this well.  We haven’t talked since mum died.”

"I suppose that is something we have in common,” I said, looking from my hands up to his face. The steadiness that usually surrounded Neville had begun to waver. His face fell, his normal oakiness became willowy.  It was unsettling, unnerving to see him sad. I wanted to cast it away—snap him out of it, but how?

He halfheartedly packed another snowball, dropping it with his tincture of plant tea or whatever the smelly liquid was, but the movement gave me an idea.

Too busy sorting his thoughts from his feelings, Neville didn’t see it coming.  I grabbed one of my messier, large packed balls and smashed it right into his head.

He looked up, white powder dusting his hair and shoulders, as if the assault fell from the sky. As if he forgot that I was even in his presence. Serves him right. No one forgets Pansy. Momentarily struck dumb, his eyes slowly panned down to me.  As they locked in, I held my breath, and a devilish smirk pulled at his lips. 

“Oh, you’re going down, Parkinson.” He said, grabbing one of the largest, messiest snowballs, most likely one of the ones I made, and lobbed it right at me. 

As a rule, I never start fights that I don't intend to win. Naturally, I dodged his first assault, but returning fire meant war. 

Snowballs were lobbed in rapid fire from both directions, the ammunition in the wheelbarrow quickly depleting. One thunked me in the head, splattering white powder all over my jet black hair. I hit Neville on the nose. I was aiming for his shoulder, and his hand flew to his face.  I was about to check on him when he feigned left, grabbing another and hurling outback towards me. I laughed, crouching down beneath the wheelbarrow, shielding myself from the onslaught, but not without hiding one last snowball in the palm of my left hand.  

“Peace! I yield!” I said, holding my right hand up in submission.

“Is this a surrender?” Neville asked, a snowball held at the ready. 

Never, I thought to myself, but instead said, “Yes, peace, I surrender—no more. This coat is Chanel.”

Neville rolled his eyes and walked around the wheelbarrow. A small victory warmed my bones when I saw that all of the worry had left his face, leaving only determination and a half-glazed smile.   He offered a large gloved hand to help me up from my defensive position. I took it, and he hoisted me up with such strength that it made me feel featherlight.  Unfortunately, I tripped—my body colliding into his, knocking him and me with him, tumbling back into the snow. 

I heard the thud and braced myself for the pain of falling, but it never came.  When I opened my eyes, wide green eyes were staring back up at me.  His tufty brown hair was sprinkled with snow, and I had the desire to run my fingers through it. Strange. My heart started beating faster, and I could almost swear that Neville’s ears were turning red—though it could have just been the January cold. 

Neville was kind of adorable underneath me with his goofy, faraway grin, but I didn't have time or space for feelings, so I buried the urge to run my fingers through his hair, instead executing my last attack. He wordlessly mouthed something that I swear looked like “so beautiful,” and I almost felt bad for snaking my left hand up and smashing a concealed snowball into his hair. Almost. But those feelings disappeared when, at the same time, a chunk of cold snow was smashed on my head. We were like a match made in hell.

“You fight dirty, Pans.”

“You ARE dirty, Longbottom.” 

I rolled off of him, lying on the ground and laughing—really laughing for the first time in months. We just lay there in the quiet snow, like rocks collecting snowflakes.  Everything around us was so crisp, so calm, and so serene. The only sounds for miles were the lapping of the ocean waves on the cliffs beyond us.  At that moment, time was frozen in a comforting cold.  My disease, my restaurant, my life melted away.  I could get used to the companionable silence—perhaps Neville felt the same, because he just lay there with me in the cold, snowy bed watching the snow drift down and the waves lapping at the rocks in the distance. After more time than I would like to admit, I finally rolled over and said to him, “We should probably go and water your plants.” 

He looked as if his peace was startled as he said, “Wha— Oh, yeah, right!”

Neville and I walked down a long row of rooted vegetables deep along a farther end of the garden. I looked around—trying to contain my wonder. How does this place run? How does he keep it warm? 

In great contrast to the cold, dead winter outside, there was not an inch of the greenhouse that was not teeming with life. The air was humid and warm. It was a biome of eternal life.  It reminded me of the botanical gardens in New York. 

Neville had said that there was no magic from his grandmother, but I was not so sure. Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I saw vines shifting, as if to get a better look at the stranger walking down the rooted pathways.  It felt as if eyes from all around the room were on me– sending the hair on my arms erect, but a second glance towards the vines, and I convinced myself that it must have been a trick of the lighting. 

We paused at a raised bed housing little green sproutlings carefully planted at a consistent measured breadth from each other.  Nevile dropped one small snowball at the base of each plant, and then produced a bag from his pocket and sprinkled the contents onto the soil. 

There was a gap in the soil where it looked like a sprout should have been. Neville noticed the gap and dusted the earth around it.  A small bud with two little leaves popped out. I watched him with awe. Each little sprout was curated with meticulous care.  It was something to see. 

“You're staring.” He said, looking over his shoulder. 

I was, at more than just the plants, but he didn’t need to know that. 

“I'm from the city, and watching you plant things is a cultural experience for me. I thought produce came from an app on my phone and was delivered right to my doorstep.”

Neville made a show of covering two leaves with his large, earthy hands,

“Shh- not in front of the sproutlings, they’re sheltered.  They don’t know about industrial farming and GMOs.”  

“So, is this what you do all day? Just hang out here and talk to your plants?”

“Pretty much,” he shrugged.

“Sounds boring,” I said. 

It actually sounded peaceful, but he didn’t need to know that. 

I had to duck as he lobbed another snowball— now a slushball at me.

“You could always come over here and actually do something.”

I looked down at the dark green nail polish on my ungloved hand, “I don’t know, I have a fresh manicure.”

But then a thought popped into my head from earlier in the morning, yoga and gardening can help keep your symptoms at bay. 

“Suit yourself, Pans— though if I wanted something as useless as a statue, I would have just bought a garden gnome.” He said as he began to walk off. 

“Actually, what do you need me to do?”

“Really?” Neville looked up, dropping tea onto the soil, and looked at me in surprise, as if I brought him some obscure flower. 

“Yeah,” I shrugged.  “I already come home smelling like fish every day, what harm is a little dirt—just adds to the recent theme of my life.” 

“Ahh, so shitty?” He asked.  “Want to help me with the compost?”

“That’s going too far, Longbottom.”

“Ok, can you drop one of these little snowballs at each sprout and a sprinkle of this tea?” He said, handing me the vial and dropper from his jeans pocket.

“You make tea for your garden?” 

“Yeah, it's a special brew my gran taught me. It's packed with antioxidants. Really helps the flowers grow and whatnot. I drink it too.” 

“Well, what is it made from?”

I saw the tips of his ears redden a little, but he just said, “ Oh, just  a little of this and a little of that.” In what I am assuming was a spot-on impersonation of his grandmother. 

“I put a bag of it with the pansies that I gave you. You should brew some and try it. It's pretty relaxing.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. “Ahh, yes, you mean my drugs?” I said with a wink.

“I prefer ‘curated herbs’.” He said, returning my wink.  

Chapter Text

A dull pain started to radiate down my arm, causing me to doubt the validity of my sasquatch of a doctor's medical degree.  

Gardening is good for your health, my ass. 

I watered a whole row of sprouts for Neville, the most unpaid manual labor that I have done in years, but the electric pain forced me to stop. Even though I was secretly starting to enjoy the repetitiveness of the activity.  For once, my brain was able to shut off. Cool down from the overdrive of processing Cepe’s, Draco, and my illness. Gardening gave me a welcome reprieve—if only for a moment. 

Instead of grabbing another snowball,  I flexed and fisted my palm, shaking my arm as if it would shake the sensation away.  I knew that it wouldn’t.

Neville’s eyes shot up, first to my arm and then to my face. I stopped and picked up another snowball. Masking my weakness from him.

“Too much work for the prep-school princess?” He asked, eyes still fixed on my arm.

“Something like that,” I said, keeping my voice lighter than I felt.  My god, Neville must have thought I was some lazy spoiled brat, but my arm felt like I had stuck my hand in an electric socket.  It took all the years of schooling, my mannerisms, feigning nonchalance to keep my face even while my nerves felt like they were being flayed.   Maybe doctor Cunningham was right, perhaps I would have to go on medication after all.

Neville’s smile told one story, but his eyes told a different one. They were panning over my face for any micro-expression.  

“I think you’ve done enough today for some of my prized purple yams.”

I dropped the plant-food-laden snowball and all pretenses of doing any more unpaid manual labor. “Thank god I can stop cosplaying a Bolshevik.” 

The tiniest laugh escaped Neville as he ran off to a far reach of the greenhouse. He left me in the still quietness of the conservatory, and arms began to pebble with gooseflesh as I felt that familiar feeling of being watched. It wasn’t so much a feeling as  an overwhelming fear as his little beasty of a raven swooped overhead in an unspoken declaration of “Fly around and find out.” 

I ducked and tried to act natural, whatever that meant when one was wearing a Chanel coat in what was essentially an indoor farm. 

Neville returned with a large brown paper bag, stuffed to the brim with Ube. 

“Ah, my payment!” I said as I attempted to reach for the bag with my afflicted arm. A mistake. My nerves zapped like a bolt of lightning trailing from my elbow to my fingertips .“Agh,” I coiled the affected arm into my chest as the Japanese sweet potatoes thudded onto the ground, rolling everywhere.

If I was fooling him before, there was no way he didn’t notice this. 

“Pansy, what the heck is going on?”

I looked up at him, arm still throbbing, my mind going down a spiral of catastrophe: What if he tells Seamus, what if Seamus doesn’t let me be a sous chef anymore? What if I have to live with my mother? Mared.

Lie your face off, Pansy. 

“Nothing,”  I said, positioning my arm behind my back. 

“Are you sure? Because it looked like you can’t move your–”

“I’m fine!” “I’m like dainty and a female, and whatever,” I said, tossing my hair like it would toss his scrutiny away. “You carry it!” I ordered. 

“Yeah—okay. “ Neville said, and I almost believed that that would be that.  He reached down like he was going to pick up the sweet potatoes, but feigned left, circling around and tugging my arm with an abrupt tug to inspect it, sending a jolt down my arm. I screamed. 

“Nothing, huh?” He said, eyes panning from my arm to my face.  

His face was drawn, angry, even.

Misdirection didn’t work; perhaps lashing out with venom would?

“I just didn’t want your dirty, grubby hands leaving finger prints on my clothes—they’re vintage and a pain in the ass to get dry-cleaned.” 

He looked down at the ground as he shook his head and laughed. Laughed!

“What’s so funny?” I asked. 

“Ah–nothing,” he said.  “It's just that whenever your mouth does this open and closing thing, Bull-shit tends to fall out of it.” 

What the? 

I took in a sharp breath of air in an attempt to keep the venom down. I was unaware of the gardener's game. Apparently, this kitty had claws, and it was taking all of my patience to keep my fangs tucked in.  

Lashing out didn’t work.  All that was left in the Pansy Parkinson arsenal of manipulation was to leave. 

“This was a mistake.” I coiled my arm into my chest. ‘I’m going to go.” I turned on my heel, leaving the Japanese sweet potatoes in a pile on the floor. 

Hot tears prickled and threatened the corners of my eyes. I made it all the way out of the greenhouse when a warm, strong hand halted me from my shoulder. 

“Pansy, wait!” 

Bingo, I thought through muddy emotions and stupid tears. 

I turned around, looking anywhere but his eyes, but Neville wasn’t having it; he slowly put a hand up to my cheek, forcing me to look him in the eyes.

“Talk to me, what is going on with you? Maybe I can help?”

I dipped my gaze to his hand firmly sitting on my shoulder. “I have to go, and if you touch me one more time, I'm going to send you my dry-cleaning bill.” 

The truth is, I liked how his hands felt on me, but he didn’t need to know that. The quickest way to lose something you care about is to let it know you cared. 

Neville sounded like he rolled his eyes. His hand moved from my shoulder down to my hand, and I was grateful I could feel it.  I liked the sensation even more. His hands were large and warm and rough, almost like the bark of a tree from years of agricultural work. He felt steady as he guided me towards his little shack a few meters from the greenhouse, 

“Come in, sit down, I'll make you a cup of tea.” 

“I should get home,” I said, but the excuse sounded weak, and my feet decided to follow him.

Neville guided me to a shabby, threadbare burgundy sofa that looked to be half eaten by moths.  There were yellowed doilies on the arms, which gave me a pretty good idea of who the former inhabitant of this little house was. 

“Wait here.” He said, gesturing for me to sit.

“Here? On this?” I said, unable to help the pinching of my face at the threadbare that looked as if it would disintegrate if a person too well endowed were to sit on it. 

“There’s always the ground.” He said, lifting an eyebrow in challenge. 

I doffed my cashmere scarf and laid it out gently, touching as little of the sofa as I could before taking a seat. 

Neville rolled his eyes and went over to a small galley kitchen and put a kettle on the stove. He grabbed a bag and walked over to the little wooden drawers lining the apothecary wall, picking and choosing a couple of different herbs, and then throwing them into the pot.

My eyes still prickled from the tears that had threatened to fall earlier, and my brain was reeling from way too many emotions. I needed to regather and recenter myself before any trace of worry lines set in. “Do you mind if I use your restroom, splash some water on my face?” I asked.

Neville pointed from the little kitchen. “Bathroom is the first door on the left.”

The bathroom was small but tidy. For a boy’s bathroom, it actually smelled quite pleasant. There was a small shower that emptied into a claw-footed bathtub that had a branch of eucalyptus hanging from the spot. A mirror with a small bouquet of lavender sitting on the sink. It wasn’t fancy, but it was quite quaint and wouldn’t be out of place in a French countryside cottage.

I splashed a bit of cold water on my face.  It was a shock to the system with water pouring from nearly frozen pipes. The effect was painful, but it did the job of snapping me out of my spiral. I searched all around the sink for something to dry my face with, but like a boy, there was no present hand towel. 

I questioned opening the bathroom closet in search of a towel.  It felt like an invasion of privacy, but my scarf on the couch was cashmere, and I didn’t want to get it wet. I opened the door to a very organized medicine closet.  There wasn’t much: a handful of salves that it looked like Neville had made himself, some tinctures, and wooden instruments that looked like they were for rolling out tight muscles. Motrin, which I suppose was for when shit got real. 

I found a towel sitting on a box near the bottom shelf. It wasn’t microfiber, but my face was dripping with cold water, and desperate times called for desperate measures.  I crouched down, picking it up to pat my face dry, but something glossy in the box caught my attention. 

I lifted the flaps of the cardboard box to inspect further.  The box was full of magazines.  I was so curious, I couldn’t help myself.  It was probably Neville’s tug rags, and I had to find out if it was just a bunch of women dressed as poison ivy in different compromising positions. 

What I found was certifiably more disturbing. I lifted the first magazine.  The New York Times.  It was tabbed, and I flipped to the article that was marked.

Pansy Parkinson is the young shining star on the culinary scene.  Will she burn out like a supernova, or is she here to stay? My bets are on the ladder.

~Horace Slughorn

It was Slughorn’s article from my first Michelin Star. 

My stomach dropped. I remembered that night.  Draco and I had created fried squash blossoms, a new and stirring concept in the culinary world.  News got around, and we received our first star from Horace.  

We celebrated with too much champagne, dancing on the roof of my Brooklyn apartment, and the resulting argument when he tried to take all of the credit. 

I looked deeper into the box.  There was a clipping from Epicurious Magazine dating from when I opened Cepe’s as a twenty-five-year-old. Pansy Parkinson, an unknown in the culinary scene, is shaking things up with her moody brownstone and predominantly vegetarian cuisine. 

I rifled through some more. Pansy Parkinson, Thirty Star Chefs Under 30.

Pansy Parkinson, Second place, for her conume, First place, Draco Malfoy.

That one hurt.  

Pansy Parkinson,Second Michelin star, dated only two months ago.

I covered my mouth, crouched there on the bathroom floor.  Neville had a clipping from every interview I had ever given, every article that was ever published about me. My own parents weren’t even aware of the things that I had achieved, but he knew about me.  He followed my career—and I had no idea how to process that information.  I used the restroom to clear my head, but now everything was twisting and swirling in and out of view. I couldn't take it---couldn't process it, so I ran. Ran out of the bathroom ran out of his house, praying the whole way that my balance would remain and my feet would stay true.

I vaguely remember hearing a “Pansy wait.” But it was too late, I was speeding off his little island back to the haven of my Chandler’s wharf apartment. 

Chapter Text

It was pitch black outside. Neville’s number illuminated across the dashboard as I sped across the deathtrap of a single-lane bridge. I could choose between life and answers, and I chose life. I rejected his call. A text flashed across the screen a moment later. 

Neville: I'm not creepy, I swear.  I can explain everything.

That's exactly what a creep would say. I thought to myself.

I kept speeding, my mind a spiraling hurricane of anxiety.  Why did he have those clippings of me? Why was he so mean to me when I showed up here?  Like any basic biatch, I listened to murder podcasts to relax at the end of the night, and this whole picture was sending my brain reeling.  Was I about to be the next victim of the New England Nooser? I was picturing the very floral way in which he would likely murder me with flowering vines of wisteria when a mammoth of an animal crossed into the street. I slammed my brakes. My poor car, which, like me, was not used to the elements or the outdoors, spun out of control.

A horned, massive brown woolly mammoth, or Bigfoot or a yeti, crossed the street, looked at me, lifted its tail, and took a shit on the road and kept walking onward. Nothing to see here, it must have thought. Dick.

I sat there. My hands were shaking, my heart pounding in my throat.  I almost just died.  The godforsaken bit of woods almost killed me. With a shaking hand, I reached for my phone to call—-Who? My mother? Draco? Seamus? I was running a little short on emergency contacts, and I could barely dial a phone, let alone drive any further. 

I called Neville. 

He answered on the first ring. 

“Pansy, I can explain!” He said.

I didn’t even recognize the shallow wavering timber of my voice when I said, “I-I-I almost g-g-got into a car accident. I d-d-don’t think I c-c-can d-d-drive.” I said through forceful panted breaths, which I would later find out were symptoms of being in shock.

“Where are you? I’m on my way.” Neville said, voice steady in my panic. 

My jaw was shivering even though my car was toasty, shielding me from the cold. 

“I j-j-just c-crossed the b-bridge wh-when.”

“Is your car off the road?” He interrupted me, sounding not unlike a one-star commercial. Must be his medical training kicking in.  “Are you safe enough where you are now?”

“Yes.” I heard the ignition crank on the other line.

“I’m coming. Just stay on the line.” 

I sat there shaking and trying to steady my breathing.  I had been speeding for ten minutes when my car spun out. Neville’s headlights appeared in five. 

He parked the truck and ran out to my little coup, opening the door and crouching down. He started running his fingers down the back of my neck as his eyes panned from my face to any exposed part of my body,” No airbags deployed, c-spine intact. Did you hit your head?”

Would a serial killer be this concerned? A faraway part of my brain asked. Maybe. 

“N-no,” I answered, the chattering in my teeth lightening up.

“Can you walk?” 

“I-I think so.”

He helped me out of the car, and my legs buckled under me like a baby fawn. He must have anticipated it, because he caught me, his hand under my shoulder.

“Ope, easy does it.” He gently lowered me into the passenger side of the car. 

He said, “Ope,” serial killers didn’t say “ope.

He sat in the driver's seat, and if I wasn't in shock, I would have laughed at the way his knees nearly tickled his earlobes.  

He pressed some buttons, adjusting the seat to fit an extra-tall, large man—my toes would never touch the pedals again. 

He started driving me back in the direction of his cottage. “Where are you taking me?” I asked.

“Back to the apothecary. Your c spine was clear, and you said you didn’t hit your head.  The nearest hospital is in Portland, but I can manage anything minor.”

“What about your truck?” I asked. 

“Eh, no one is going to steal that old thing.” He said, waving me off. “But this, on the other hand. This car is sick.”

“Careful, it handles turns much better than it handles Horned woolly mammoths.”

“It was probably a moose.” He said. 

“What’s the difference?”

“Right now?” He asked, looking at me, clearly still a bit in distress. “There is none. Let's get you back to the cottage and some tea.” 

Neville helped me with a steady arm back into his cottage, but I was grateful that the initial symptoms of shock were dissipating. My scarf was still spread out over the seat of the couch as he guided me over to sit down.

“Easy does it.” He said as a pair of chorded arms helped me down. 

“Thank god this is still here,” I said as I gingerly took a seat on the scarfed couch, not wanting to touch the moth-bitten couch.

He crouched down, shone the light of his cell phone into my pupils, and started holding fingers up for me to guess the number. 

“You must be feeling better if you're back to insulting me.” He said, handing me a warm washcloth to drape over my head. The smell of lavender didn’t escape me. 

“Not insulting you, just your taste in furniture,” I said, covering my eyes with the washcloth.

I felt the seat of the couch depress beside me and the warmth radiating off of his body.  He was always so warm.  

“It was my gran’s before she died. I haven’t really needed to change it out.”

“I think your gran would like it back,” I said. 

Instead of a “f-off, He bumped his shoulder into mine, and I was again reminded how much bigger than me he was. 

I lifted a side of the washcloth to peer at him. “So, you have a shrine in your bathroom dedicated to me?” I asked, ripping the awkwardness off like a Band-Aid. 

The tips of his ears reddened," I can explain that.” He said. 

“You wouldn’t be the first one to create a bathroom effigy of me, I’m flattered, really! A little creeped out, but mostly flattered.”  

“Will you let me explain, or are you just going to keep talking?” 

“I could send you some other pictures if you want.  High school yearbook, my debutante portrait, my Yale Student ID.”

“ Would you shut—You went to Yale?” He asked, completely changing his tone mid-sentence. 

“I dropped out of Yale.”

“I didn’t realize you were—.”

“That smart?” I asked. “I’m not. I’m THAT connected–or at least my parents are..” 

He shook his head, nodding and laughing at some inside joke that I wanted to know the punchline to. 

“That’s why I have your picture in a box.” He said. 

“Because I dropped out of Yale?” I asked.

“Yes.” He said. 

“That's a weird reason,” I said. “You have yet to convince me that you're not a weird New England Nooser.” 

“A what now?”

“Never mind, best not to give you ideas.” 

Neville looked dopey and kind of confused, and the effect was a bit adorable, but that didn't negate the fact that there was a whole Pansy box in his closet. 

“I’m going to go put on a pot of tea, and then I’m going to tell you a story.”

Neville walked off, leaving me feeling like a teen in trouble for talking too much in class.

I watched him as he grabbed a vinyl baggie and picked herbs from different little drawers, before brewing them with hot water. 

After a couple of minutes, he brought me a large chipped green mug with a cartoon frog.  I let the cup warm my hands and inhaled the liquid, which smelled of dark licorice and earthy aromas. 

“Is this—a frog?”

He let out a chuckle,” Yeah, that was my favorite mug when I was a kid. I named the frog on it Trevor> I thought since you seemed to be in a bit of a crisis.” 

I took a sip and then spit it back out. “Are you trying to kill me? What is this? It tastes like sewer water.”

“Drink the whole thing, I promise you will feel better.”

“What’s in here?” I said, eyeing him with suspicion. 

He returned my look with a half smirk, shrugging his shoulders, “Drugs.” 

Just from the micro-sip, I did start to feel a little bit better.  My nervous system was relaxing. I shrugged. What's the worst that could happen? 

He handed me a small jar of honey.

“This might help. I only have a little left. It’s from my bees, I try to simulate Manuka.”

I emptied all the remaining contents into my tea and then took a sip.  His eyes widened, but he kept his mouth shut. 

With honey, what had tasted like sewer water went down floral, sweet, and not entirely unpleasant.  I felt some of the fog in my head start to clear, and maybe I was imagining it, but the pain in my arm began to lessen. 

I looked up at him.”Drugs indeed.” I said, and I stretched out the arm that had been bothering me earlier. 

“I was going to tell you a story. “He said. “Once upon a time.” 

“I love when they start like that,” I said

He leveled me with a look.” OK, OK, I’m done.’

“Once upon a time, there was a stuck-up, bratty girl who was serving detention.”

“That I didn’t deserve,” I interjected

“That you DEFINITELY deserved.” 

I shrugged, “Probably.” 

“The girl who served detention, and a boy who was helping his dad.  They both came from wildly different backgrounds, but ended up at the exact same place at the exact same time. The girl had everything planned out for her, handed to her on a silver platter, but rejected it, and the boy had everything planned for him and hated the life that was prescribed to him, but was almost too afraid to reject it.”

“This is about you and me, isn't it?” I asked, my tea had run out, and I was unable to keep my mouth shut.

“I saw the first article about you in the New York Times when I was in Law school at UC Davis.  I hated it—law school, but it was the life my dad, Frank, had worked years to provide me the opportunity for.” 

“I imagine he wasn’t happy about your change of heart?”

“ I didn't scrape feces off the toilets of rich kids for you to go be a gardening hippie with my mother.” He said in an angry impression of what I imagine was his father. 

“I saw the article, and I remembered the bratty, beautiful girl, and if she dared to walk away from a prescribed life of comfortable wealth, then so could I,” he said, picking at the corners of my cashmere scarf that I was still sitting on. 

“It wasn’t easy. My dad and I fought, and even more after mom died, but I kept seeing articles about you, and they gave me courage. I already knew how to grow things, so I switched into functional medicine to  better run Gran’s old apothecary.”  

Neville said all of this, and suddenly, and I’m not sure if it was the tea working some magic, or the setting of a shack in winter with a fire burning, or even my near-death experience with a drive-by moosing, but suddenly, I was no longer thinking he was the New England Nooser.  Suddenly, I felt all floaty and light.  He remembered our pact from all those years ago.  He remembered that night when we promised each other that we wouldn’t succumb to our parents’ plans, but would instead chase our dreams.  We both made it, though, in ways that looked different.  The picture just became the most romantic thing that I had ever seen. 

The fire from the fireplace danced in his eyes as he looked down into my eyes. His lips parted, and suddenly my eyes were closed, and I was leaning into that oak of a man, lips pursed for a kiss. 

He leaned in as well.

Our lips brushed, light as a feather, sweet, soft, gently. For a moment, it was bliss. Then blinding pain shot through my arm.  I jumped back, recoiling.  The shift in his weight on the couch was enough to set my nerves ablaze again, and not in a good way. 

He placed a hand on his shoulder, searching eyes panning from left to right, looking for the answer. 

“Pansy, you HAVE to tell me what is going on with you.”

Chapter Text

With a new cup of tea in hand, I realised there was no skirting around the topic of my health with Neville. I looked around his small shack and literally could not find anything interesting to divert my attention. Shit.

“Pansy, what is going on with you?” Neville asked, giving me no room to wiggle out of the conversation.

“What do you mean?” I asked, looking down at my cuticles, trying to get out of it anyway. 

“You popped up in Maine out of the blue after living in New York for years. On the surface, you still look like the same stuck-up, whiney princess from high school, but there’s something else, isn't there? Tell me what’s going on.”

I pursed my lips at his brazenness. I guess he was just jumping right into it. No lube. I felt like one of his plants being studied and scrutinized with careful precision.

“Maybe I just needed a change of scenery.” 

“Then go on a vacation. Your lot tends to do a lot of those.” Oh, if only he knew how incredibly cut off I’ve been since opening Cepes.      

“Maybe I wanted to move to a small town and try my luck with a small town romance,” I said, winking at him. 

He gulped and scooted back a tiny bit on the couch.  I almost thought I had him, when something on his face shifted.”That’s not going to work on me>” 

Damn.   

I let out a sigh.  There was no changing the subject: “If I tell you, you have to swear not to tell Seamus.”

“Why can’t I tell Seamus?” He asked, eyeing me suspiciously. 

“Because I need him not to fire me. I really need this job.” I said.

“I swear.” He said, simply. “Now, can you tell me?”

“No,” I said, and I flattened my emerald Mini Kelly with Palladium Hardware. “Put your hand on this and swear it.” 

“You want me to swear on a purse?” 

“This is not just a purse. It's Hermes.”

He rolled his eyes, “Whatever that means,” but placed his hand on my purse all the same. “I swear not to tell my best friend about your shady reasons for moving up here.” I saw the dirt under his fingernails and instantly regretted letting him touch my purse.

“Why do you need this job anyway?” He asked.

Because my parents cut me off when I didn’t stay at Yale.  Because I used all of my inheritance to open a restaurant with a man who would just use me and spit me out. Because I was going to have to put money away for a future where I may no longer have the dexterity to remain a chef, the ability to drive, or even take care of myself, panic and bile rose in my throat as my brain spiraled in a direction that I didn’t often let it go to. 

“I just do,” I said. Not wanting to expose anywhere soft and weak for  Nevile to stab with one of his rusty gardening tools later.

“You're a rich prep school girl.  Why on earth would you need to do anything but sit in a cabana somewhere drinking some frou-frou drink?”

“First off, I would never waste empty calories on a fruity drink, and second—”

I paused. The words are sitting on the edge of my tongue, ready to dive out of my mouth.

“Well?” He asked.

“I’m sick.” 

His eyes scanned me up and down before he said, “Sick of what?”

“Well,  not sick—sick would mean there's a chance that I will get better—I’m not, I’m just going to get worse.” 

Neville’s eyes widened, but he stayed silent, and the words tumbled out like a diver leaping off the twenty-meter platform—praying that the water invites them in instead of smacking into them like a wall of concrete. 

“About two months ago, I found out I have a neurodegenerative disease-My body is attacking itself.”

Something flashed across Neville’s face, and it looked startlingly like understanding. He nodded and grabbed one of my hands with his own. 

“Some days I feel completely normal, and I question whether I just made all of this up in my head—— other days, my muscles hurt or my vision blurs and doubles.  I feel so out of control of my own body.”

“My mother,” He said slowly, “Died of a brain tumor.  I–well, I was worried about you.  The symptoms are similar.”

Something cracked in my chest.  I remember when his mom was sick from the night that he helped me with my detention.  We were kids then. It must be hard to be around me and be reminded of that time in his life.

“I moved up here because  my doctor suggested that I find a slower pace of life, that maybe being under less stress would slow the progression down.”

“Does anything help?” He asked.

“Cooking.” I smiled. “My arm may be searing with pain, or I may get tired easily, but if I mix flour, butter, and milk at equal parts over heat, it will always thicken into the coziest of mother sauces. It's the most reliable and predictable thing in my life.” 

Neville nodded,” I can understand that.” He paused for a second as if to chew on what was hanging on the tip of his tongue. 

“My mom used to bake–before.”

“I’m sorry, when did–?”

“Third year of college. My dad was never the same.” 

“Well, aren’t we a cheerful bunch?” I said, starting to feel overwhelmed with all of the feelings. The Botox in my forehead was putting in overtime. 

“So, why come here? Why not go live with your parents?” Apparently, Neville still wanted to know things.  There must have been some potent herbs in the tea he brewed for me, because I didn’t really hate talking to him about these things.  In fact, I kind of felt lighter. Relieved. 

I laughed. “The whole less stressful part.  My parents never really handled the parent thing super well.  My mom is comforting herself in Palm Springs with her soup of choice.”

“Which is?” He asked. 

“Beefeaters with three olives.” 

“Ahh– so a balanced diet?” 

“You could say that.” 

“And my dad is busy working and making sure that my mom stays happy enough not to pester him.”

A  buzzing noise started coming from where Neville’s phone was lying on the counter. He glanced at it, then refocused back on me. 

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” I asked 

“Nah, if it's important enough, they will leave a voicemail.”

A buzz indicating a voicemail sounded from his phone, and he raised his eyebrows. 

My phone started vibrating in my pocket. I pulled it out. Seamus was calling me on FaceTime. 

“I should probably answer this.”

I tapped the green answer button and was assaulted with red and white lights strobing in the background, as Seamus called from the back of an ambulance, wearing a collar to protect his spinal cord. 

“Pansy, nothing to worry about, but I am going to need you to open and run the restaurant tomorrow.” He said in the chillest voice of anyone who ever rode in the back of an ambulance. 

“Sir, sit back down, you haven’t been cleared yet,” a disgruntled EMT said in the background. 

“Umm, Ok, Seamus.  Are you going to be ok?” I asked, nodding my head, not sure where to look in the chaos on the screen. The ambulance appeared to hit a pothole, and Seamus’s calm snowboarder demeanor led to an audible scream.

“Geeeahhhd, OK maybe the rest of the week as well.” 

“I don’t know the first thing about running your—”

“Fish, butter, lemon.” He said counting off three things like that was all it took to run a restaurant. 

“You know it's more than that.”

The ambulance hit another bump, “Sweet mother’s mercy!” Seamus yelled out in pain, his Irish accent finally slipping back in. 

“Sorry,” I said. “I know this isn’t the best time, but do you think–”

He cut me off, his speech pressured and his brogue in full swing. 

“You’re a Michelin chef. Figure it out. The fate of fins is in your oven-capable hands—just call.”His demeanor changed, and he pulled the phone up closer to his face.

“Wait a minute.” He said, ‘I know that old sofa.”

Mine and Neville’s eyes widened in unison as we looked at each other. 

“Put Nev on the phone.”

Busted.

I handed the phone over to Neville. 

“Hey, man. Why is my sous chef always up at your greenhouse?” Seamus asked 

“What’s that, Buddy?” Neville yelled into the phone.“You know the cell service out here is awful!” 

“Hey! I could hear Pansy—” Seamus said.

“---Feel better, man! Pansy and I will hold things down while you recover!” Nevile said and then hung up the phone, eyes shifting to me.  His phone was buzzing in rapid succession like angry bees attacking with messages that I’m sure I don’t want to know the contents of. 

The enormity of the situation just hit me. I took a lower-stress job as a sous chef in a small restaurant so that I wouldn’t have the stress of running a kitchen and making executive decisions. I took a step back for my health. Neville must have been thinking the same thing because he asked, “Are you ok?” 

“We’ll see.” I hugged my arms around my chest. 

“Sorry, I just didn't want him asking questions about you and me. I’m not sure what you are comfortable with other people knowing.”

What?

My mind was already cataloguing every detail that I would need to execute to have Fins running better than when Seamus left it. Neville’s question caught me off guard. I would later think about it and pore over every detail, but between the Pansy Effigy in his bathroom, I will never let him live that down. The moose attack, the almost kiss, and now finding out that Seamus would be out of commission for at least a week, my already struggling brain was processing a lot, so I just looked over to him and asked, “What is there to know? We are friends, right?”

Something deflated across Neville’s eyes, but it was gone in an instant. He smiled down at me with a warm hand on my shoulder. “Yes, Friends! “

I let out a breath, nodding my head, and smiled back at him. 

“Well, if I am going to be the new head chef at Fins, I should probably get home and start preparing.”

“Are you ok to drive?”

“I think I can handle it.” 

I actually wasn’t so sure. I hated driving in the dark.

“Why don’t I drive ahead of you—you know, make sure there are no more whoolly mammoths  or whatever you said.” 

“It's forty minutes each way.” I deadpanned. 

“I don’t have anything better to do.” He said, “I–uh, want to.” He said, looking from my hands up to my eyes. 

“Well, if you insist.”

After a ten-minute drive to Neville’s truck, he took the lead with his highbeams on, in fact, making sure that there were no Woolly mammoths, or whatever, all the way back to my Chandler’s wharf apartment. 

He seemed satisfied as he deposited me on the ground floor of my building, that I would not fall prey to some wild element while walking the short three flights to my apartment, though I think his hesitancy to walk me up was more to be a gentleman and not make me uncomfortable with him at my doorstep. 

“Well, this is goodnight,” I said, looking up at him.

“Yeah.” His eyes drifted down to my lips, then back to my eyes. 

“Thanks for rescuing me earlier,” I said, raising on my tippy toes.

He leaned in, but then, as if remembering something, took a step back. 

Friends. I’m such an idiot. I should just kiss him and thank him for a weird but nice day, but what if now he just wants to be friends? What if I’ve been reading things all wrong? My brain hurt, and I was bone exhausted, so I didn’t.  I didn’t kiss him.  I just turned around to trudge my way up the stairs and lament to my ungrateful little cat about how stupid I am. 

Neville grabbed my arm as I turned to leave, “Pansy, if it's too much, taking over Fins.  Let me talk to Seamus for you. We can close the restaurant for a week and figure something else out.” “It's a slow season after all.” 

God, he was the sweetest man I had ever met. 

“I can do this!” I said. 

“Are you sure?” He asked.

“Well, I think so.” deflating just a tiny bit. 

“Call me— for anything.” He said with worried eyes. 

“Goodnight, Neville.” 

“Goodnight, Poppy!”

A tiny laugh spilled out, and I couldn’t help but stick my tongue out at him over my shoulder as I went upstairs. 

Chapter Text

Caligula wended through my legs purring as I stood in my small galley kitchen at two o’clock in the morning.  I chopped up chicken, carrots, celery, and onions for consommé. My hands were working from memory, thank god, because my brain was its own version of a muddled soup bubbling over the contents of the night. 

I gave up trying to sleep two hours prior, after the third time my brain replayed what I had said to Neville, like a cinema for me to cringe at.  Did I really just tell him we’re friends? After everything. Friends? Pansy, you moron.  He kissed me—or did I kiss him?

I couldn’t even remember, but lips touched, and it seemed consensual! Wanted even. 

I dumped all of my chopped ingredients into my large copper pot while the broth and my brain simmered. Maybe this was salvageable.  He seemed sincere when he offered his help. Or perhaps he was just being nice to me as a roundabout way of honoring his late mother, a less generous part of my brain said. 

Another rock hit my stomach.  I would have to run Fins for the foreseeable future. Seamus looked bad. What if he were out for more than a week? What if I can’t handle the stress?

I pulled my phone out to doomscroll my anxiety away. A reel popped up. Horace was back at Cepe’s, trying a new dish.  It looked like a fried flower. “A deviation from Cepe’s typical Fraco-vegetarian repertoire. I find Enoki Bloom to be somewhat lacking, I hate to say.  Something is missing in this once fine establishment. It has seemingly lost that Je nais se pas.” 

Pas is me! I thought with no small amount of smugness. On one hand, I was happy to see Draco suffer in my absence; on the other, I saw my meager trust fund dwindling and dwindling as Cepe’s social currency took a dive. I hadn’t received a paycheck from Fins yet, and if I didn’t start making a livable wage soon, I would have to start considering the unthinkable.  I would have to auction my clothes. The thought alone sent me to pick up my Mini Kelly and shove it in a cabinet, lest it overhear my inner turmoil and wrinkle its pretty leather prematurely. 

I scrolled to the next reel, except it wasn’t a reel; it was live.  Draco was cooking in nothing but an apron. “Wow, he's getting desperate,” I said to myself. 

The comments were just as crass as one would expect. @minnesotasheryl said that she wanted him to whip her butter. @mom2littles wanted to know what her name was in French. 

“Well, Sara in French is still Sara.” He said, laying his accent on thick.  I rolled my eyes.  Women would fall for anything—including me. “Now, I will show you all how I make breakfast for my special lady—eggs Benedict, complete with poached eggs.” He said with a flourish of his hips and a hint of his side-buttcheek.

The comment section went wild.  He stopped to look at something on his phone, “If I’m not mistaken, she is watching right now—Bonjour, Pansy.” He said with a wink.  I swiped ahead ten reels away, as if that put any real physical distance between us. 

The reel I landed on was a local tiny foodie account.  The camera quality was poor, and the narration was shaky.  It was a young girl filming her meal at Fins. “This soup at local Portland haunt Fins is going viral.  I’m here to try the popular new boulibasse!” 

She filmed herself eating it, and I noticed the moment the saffron hit her palate.  She melted into the booth. “Just as good as everyone says! Go check out Fins.  I don’t know what they are doing, but I hope that they don’t stop!”

A smile tugged at my cheeks. She liked my soup. I mean, she probably had the style and taste of a baboon, but she liked it. 

Bubbling and sizzling snapped my attention back to the stove. My consommé was scorching and bubbling over, sending the meaty raft with it onto the floor. Caligula uselessly nibbled at the meat. My stove was as messy as my mind.  Just for kicks, I ladled out some of the broth to check for clarity.  As expected, impurities floated all around. I poured a bowl for Caligula and dumped the rest in the sink.   

That night, the few short hours that I did sleep, I dreamed of a certain gardener pruning the rose bushes in his greenhouse in nothing but an apron. 

I was so screwed.

—--

The nerves I had about running Fins were misplaced; the first night was dreadfully slow. Unfortunately for Seamus, an idle Pansy is a recipe for a hurricane of change. In my fixing and fidgeting while waiting for a customer, I found Seamus’s company credit card, and as interim CEO of the small sea shanty, it was my responsibility to spruce the place up. I filled the rest of the night ordering a couple of things, nothing serious, just new upholstery for the booths, new paint for the walls, you know, a couple of throw pillows. 

I was sketching some designs for a living to cover the wall behind the bar with seashells to lend a more Mediterranean feel, when my phone started buzzing. 

Seamus.  

I ignored the call and let it go to voicemail, and the phone started ringing again. 

Uh-oh.  I reluctantly decided to answer. Cardiac monitors were sounding off in the background as my boss started to speak. 

“Do you know why there is a twenty thousand dollar charge to my company card?”

I stared down at my manicured nails. 

“Hello Seamus, how’s the recovery going?” 

“It was going great until I saw a charge for a—What the bloody hell is a shell wall?” His Irish accent was in full swing.

“Oh, you’re going to love it—also, I  am going to get the booths re-upholstered in a Grecian blue to give your patrons that whole Santorini feel.”

“Pansy—the restaurant was fine the way it was, and I can’t afford all of that.” 

“With the elevated ambiance, you will have more business than you know what to do with.”

“But Fins is the most popular seafood restaurant in town; everyone in Portland eats there.” 

“Darling, you're thinking too small.  Fins is worth a stop, sure.  Check it out if you're in town, but don’t you want to be “worthy of a special journey?”

“No. I am completely fine being the best seafood joint in the city,” he deadpanned. 

“Well, I’m sorry if I overstepped. I'll pay for the changes myself if you're not happy with them.”

I wasn’t exactly sure how I was going ot pay for it, but that was a future Pansy problem.

“I’m not happy with them.” He said, Heart monitor still alarming in the background

“You have to see it first, Seamus. Feel better.” I said, while hanging up the phone.  

I may have had no orders, but the bar was keeping the lights on. Apparently, in Maine, you wear an LL Bean sweater OVER your liquor sweater to stay warm. The lobster boats had come in for the evening, and the majority of our patrons were fishermen looking to warm their bones, and the orders that came my way reflected it. Clam Chowder. 

A few days passed, and I wish I could say that things worked themselves out with Neville. 

When I didn’t hear from him, I texted him on Wednesday and asked how our little sprouts were doing.  He sent me a picture of a pile of dirt in answer. 

I wish I needed supplies, so at least I could text him and ask him to bring me some potatoes or something, but I wasn’t going to text first again after getting a picture of compost. Seamus chose an annoyingly well-stocked time to fracture his vertebra.

I went in early Friday morning for many reasons:  The shell wall was being installed, and the booths reupholstered. Seamus was going to choke, but the place was starting to look amazing. I wanted to make a few tweaks to Seamus’s Chowder, but mostly it was driving me crazy that Neville and I kissed five days ago, and the only text I had received from him was a pile of dirt.

I kept the bones of Seamus’s clam chowder the same: Clams, clam juice, Mirepoix, but knowing this winter crowd was just looking for something to stick to them, I baked sourdough bread bowls from scratch. It would be heartier than little oyster crackers. I also added pancetta to the soup base to really richen up the flavor. 

No one deserved to eat Fins' equivalent of Campbell's soup chowder. When the kitchen slowed down, I took off my apron and chef jacket, and snuck into a seat at the end of the bar.  I wanted to see the crusty old fisherman’s faces when they tried the soup.  

Ernie the bartender stared at me for a hard second like I had three heads, but I just asked him for a Diet Coke and held a finger up to my lips.  

He shrugged and dropped a bread bowl in front of a very briny-looking middle-aged man.

“Here you go, captain. Chef’s special.”

The salt-crusted man looked down at his bread bowl with dubious eyes. “Ernie, what in the mermaid's three tits is this?”

“The chalkboard says chowder.“

“Where are my oyster crackers!?” The man asked, prodding a finger at the bread bowl.

Ernie shot me a look as if to say. “Don’t touch the basics.” He reached under the bar and tossed the old man a tiny packet of crackers. 

Butterflies threatened the lining of my stomach. Somehow, in that moment, I felt like this man’s judgment of my soup carried as much weight as any of the times I went out in search of a star.

He grimaced down at the food, face pinched in disgust, and I started to feel like it was a giant mistake.  I should have stuck with the canned soup recipe.  Maybe I was completely wrong, and the patrons didn't care to try something elevated.  Maybe they wanted to rely on the comfort of just mediocrity.

A great big wall of plaid sat down next to me, obstructing my view of the old fishing captain judging my food. I tried to careen around it, but the wall talked—A suggestive man’s voice drifted into my psyche, “Do you come here often?”

Blech! Seriously, who still uses that line?

Every time I tried to inch further to get an eye on the captain, the wall moved. Frustrated, I whispered in my best “Fuck off” tone. “Do you mind? I’m kind of in the middle of something!”

“Pansy, it’s me!” I looked up and saw that the overlarge oaf that was blocking my view was Neville. Warmth cracked from the top of my head, dripping to the ends of my fingertips as the corners of my eyes crinkled into a smile. There was no denying it, I had missed him. 

“Do you normally drink on the job?” Neville asked me, eyeing the dark liquid in front of me.

“I don’t drink at all,” I said. “This is just a Diet Coke.”

He fixed me with a stare as if to say, I remember you in high school.

“I don’t drink anymore.” I amended and pointed to my head. 

His eyes widened, but he nodded as Ernie dropped a lager in front of him. He looked from his beer over to me and pushed it away. 

“Enjoy it,” I said. “Far be it from me to take away anyone else's means of unwinding.” 

I clinked my Diet Coke to his beer and took a sip, and then he picked up his glass, doing the same. Then, I shushed him with a finger up to my lips.

“What’s going on?” he whispered to me.

“I changed the chowder recipe tonight.”  “ I want to see how it goes over.” 

“You didn’t!” He shot me a look like I just committed the most cardinal sin of New England. 

“Shh!”

Ernie interjected, “I told her it was a bad idea— Seamus is not going to be happy.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, did either of you attend Le Atellier De Sans?” I asked with a perfect French accent as I skewered both men with my eyes.

Ernie leveled me with a playful look and said. “Sweetheart, I barely graduated high school.” 

“Then leave the cooking to me,” I said with a wink, and Neville huffed a laugh into his lager. 

“What in the hell is the new wave breadbowl shit, and why is there anything else but clam in this chowder?” Another man at the bar said, after Fred dropped off another chowder bread bowl.

Ernie piped in. “We have a different chef on tonight—just try it.”

There was a grunt from the old sailor as he lifted his spoon to his lips and took a bite. I started tearing at little bits of bar napkins as I held my breath waiting for the man’s reaction. 

Neville put a hand on my shoulder. It was large and warm, and momentarily calmed my nervous system. I looked down at his hand, and he retracted it instantly, as if it were a mistake or an absent gesture.  “Put it back!” I whispered under my breath, and  I grabbed his hand, putting it back on my shoulder. 

He let out a small laugh and shook his head with a smile, but his hand never left again.

“I’m so nervous!” he said. “Do you think he likes it?”

“You’re nervous? Why are you nervous?”

“For you. I’m nervous for you, but also wildly entertained!”

I lifted my hand for both of us to look at, and it was shaking. 

Neville started stroking soothing circles into my shoulder with his thumb, and I wanted to imprint the feeling into my brain to replay in the future.  I don’t remember Draco ever touching me in a way that wasn’t corrective. It felt nice to be comforted for a change.  

The old sailor grunted again, and both of our eyes instantly shot to him. He sat up a little bit straighter, taking another bite as if suspicious that the clams were going to snap back.  He gave a small nod and the tiniest minuscule hint of a smile.  He took another, and then another, and another.  

“Well, shit.” He said, wiping dribbles of soup off his wiry gray beard.“Forget a bread bowl, that soup is DAMN good, I would eat it out of a toilet bowl.”

Neville and I stared at each other at the same time, both of us saying a silent cheer. With nothing but excitement on his face, he pulled me in for a hug. The closeness, the comfort of it caught me off guard.  I may have stiffened like a pole, but I was cataloging the warm feel of his shoulders around mine. His piney scent.  The soft feel of his flannel—a fabric I would typically never let touch my skin, but in the moment, I realized that I didn’t actually hate. I don’t actually remember the last time someone hugged me. 

Neville must have interpreted my freezing as me not wanting it,  because he pulled back. His cheek and the tips of his ears stained red. “Sorry!” He said. Though I was not sure why. 

I shrugged it off, “Do you want me to make you a bowl?” 

“Oh, yeah, if you don’t mind!” 

Ernie piped in, “I want one too.” 

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help the warmth spreading in my chest. Making people happy with my food was my secret display of love, one that didn’t matter whether my skin was dry or wrinkly like my mother told me, or whether the transactions between both parties lined up equitably like my father. I could infuse all of my care into this one dish, garnish it with my feelings, hopes, and endearments, and send the dish away. I could nourish someone through another day. The right meal could turn around the worst day, and it was one secret, one little spark of magic that I allowed myself to have. 

I served Neville a bowl. Then looked up to Ernie, “I plated you a bowl in the kitchen, why don’t you go take a break, I can hold down the bar for a bit.” I wanted to hang out with Neville and not be interrupted. 

“Do you know how to tend the bar?” Ernie asked me.

I shrugged, “More booze equals happier people?” I asked.

“Good enough for me!” He said, patting me on the back before retreating to the kitchen.

I took my spot behind the bar, and a scruffy-looking man sitting next to the sea captain raised a hand.  

Panic ran down my spine as I realized that I actually had to do something. I looked over at Neville for help. “Shit, what do I do ?” I asked.

“Go ask him what he wants,” Neville said, as he tried very hard to keep the smile from tugging at the corners of his cheeks. I reached down into the Ice tray and lobbed an Ice cube at him before walking over to the salty dog on the other side of the bar. 

“Can I get a rum and Coke?” He asked.

Oh god, maybe I’m in over my head.” What’s in a rum and Coke again? 

I plaster a smile onto my face and say, “Sure thing.” 

I should totally just stick to the kitchen. I grabbed a bottle of rum from the top shelf, poured its contents generously into a rocks glass almost to the top, and placed it in front of the sun-leathered man whose eyes were as big as globes. 

“Agh, it's gonna be a dreamless sleep tonight,” he said, and then pulled out a piece of paper, sliding it to me. 

I pick it up and inspect it—it was a ten-dollar bill.” 

“What’s this for?” I asked. 

“Your tip. Yer way prettier than that other guy.” He said. 

I flipped my hair, “Flattery will get you everywhere!” I said.

I looked down at the money. Something I hadn’t worried about until recently. I ran my business, and I had part of my trust to live off of back in New York, so money never really felt like a tangible thing, but here, being paid for a job.  It felt—kind of good. 

I walked over to Neville to show him. “Look!” I said. “That man just gave me money.” 

Neville grinned back at me and shook his head. “I should hope so, since you just poured him a whole glass of top-shelf Barcelo with just a splash of Coke.” 

I ignored his backhanded statement and couldn't wipe the smile from my face.

“No one has ever given me cash before.” 

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” He asked

I threw more ice cubes at him, which he caught and then popped into his mouth with a wink. Then nodded his head towards the note in my hand. 

“You should frame it,” He said with a hint of irony in his voice. 

“Maybe I will,” I said with none in mine. 

Neville took a bite of his soup and then looked up at me. His cheeks were bright red. 

“I’m going to visit Seamus on Monday in the hospital. I—erm–know that the restaurant is closed, so I was wondering if you, erm—” 

I was starting to worry. He was really red and a little sweaty.

“Are you ok? You're not allergic to the soup, are you?” I asked.

“What? Oh no!”

“Oh, ok, because all of a sudden you’re really blotchy,” I said. 

He started pulling at his collar a little and breathing a little faster. Shit.

“Neville, are you sure that you're ok? Should I call 911? I don’t know how to do CPR or anything.” I said, pulling my phone from my back pocket. 

I grabbed a glass, poured him a glass of Ice water, and placed it down in front of him.

He took the cup and drained it in one gulp. 

“I’m going to see Seamus on Monday, and I was wondering, that is, if you're not busy, if you would want to maybe go with me, and then go on a small hike with a  picnic after?”

“Yeah,” I said with a shrug of my shoulders. 

“Yeah?!” he asked, unable to mask the excitement in his voice.

“Yeah, it sounds fun.” 

“Great, I'll pick you up at ten!”

Chapter Text

The grey storm clouds may as well have been rainbows and sunshine, because the buzz of hanging out with Neville left me in such a good mood—good enough to bake—Ube cheesecake to be exact.  I made two of them. One for the hospitalized Seamus, so that he didn’t fire me on sight for overspending his emergency company credit card, and one to surprise a certain gardener. 

The cheesecakes smelled divine, and I felt like I was floating on a cloud. Suddenly, all of the cold darkness in my life felt rosy and pink, a feeling that reminded me of Astoria.  I hadn’t talked to her in a while.  It was to reach out to her when everything in my life and I hadn’t really had anything good to share, but a potential date with Neville called for a talk with my best friend, no, only friend. 

She picked up on the first ring as I was placing little pansies from the plant Neville brought me onto the two purple cheesecakes. Best to use them before they die a tragic death of thirst and neglect. 

“Oh, Pansy, are you putting flowers on that cake? It looks delightful!”

“Yeah,” I almost smiled, “They're for a friend,” I said as I laid the last of the pansies into a cluster decorating the edge. 

“Is this a friend, or a friend?” She asked. 

“Um—I’m not sure—He actually went to school with us.” 

Tori’s eyes widened like globes. She was practically bouncing. Like a feral little hedgehog. “Tell me—No, let me guess–who still lives in New England? Is it Adrian Pucey from the Rugby team?”

My brain tries to recollect who she is talking about, but I just shake my head. She’ll never guess it, so I cut her off before she went digging for the senior yearbook.

“It's Neville Longbottom.”

Her brows pursed for a minute. “I don’t know that name. Are you sure he went to Hamilton Prep?” 

“Yeah, he was in our year.” 

Then my friend screamed at the top of her lungs, “Cormac!” 

I heard a rustling of papers followed by a resigned, “ Yes, sweetheart” on the other side of the line.” 

“Do you remember a boy named Neville Longbottom from school?”

There was silence on the other side of the phone, and then a chuckle, “Oh, Chirpy ?! Yeah, I remember him—He was a bit of a loner. Didn’t seem to have many friends.”

Chirpy!? I definitely did not appreciate Cormac’s tone. 

“Who was he?” Tori asked her Neanderthal for a husband.

“He was the janitor’s son, always used to walk around with this stupid bird whistle. Total goober. Some of the guys on the Rugby team used to rough him up a bit.” 

I saw red.

Cormac shirked a look at my death stare over the phone, “Not me, of course.”

“Of course,” I said with all of the warmth of an ice cube. I cracked my knuckles, and my best friend's husband visibly shuddered over the phone.

Tori spoke up, cutting through the tension crossing the ether of FaceTime. “So, what are you and this boy doing? Is it a date?”

“No!”I said it out loud, but as I said it, I remembered how tense and blotchy he got when he asked me. I wasn’t sure if I believed that it wasn't a date.

“Well, actually, I’m not sure. We are going to visit my boss in the hospital, and then go on a bit of a hike.”

“Oh, a stroll in the snow sounds so romantic! I think it's a date.” She turned her head to Cormac and slapped him with a rolled-up paperback book. “Why don’t you ever take me on romantic walks in the snow anymore!?”  

“Because we are in Palm Springs?”

“Not good enough!”

I wanted to refocus the conversation, but I was not about to interrupt Cormac’s daily spanking, especially not after his unfair jab at Neville. Astoria might look like a cinnamon roll, but we all knew who wore the pants in their relationship. I waited until she got a few more gentle lashes in before interjecting, “Or, it's just two people who can stand to be around each other for more than five minutes.”

She turned back to the camera and smiled at me. “You don’t have many of those, Pansy.” She winked. Tori and I were going on a date—perhaps we were.  

“Let me see your outfit.”

I stepped back from the phone, showcasing my black leggings and almost every warm layer of fabric in my closet, including a puffy jacket.

“Oh, Pansy, you look positively backwoods.  Perhaps the emerald green cashmere sweater I sent you for your birthday? I think it would really make your eyes pop.”    

“If you say so,” I said, running back to my closet to change.  I was going more for comfort and warmth than fashion, criminal, I know. But one was likely to freeze a tit off outside, but I supposed Astoria was more versed in such things. 

I returned in the sweater and had to admit the effect was much prettier, though I was much more aware of the draft in my apartment.

“Oh, yes.  That with your silver earrings and the flower pendant would be so pretty.” 

Something else on the screen caught my friend's attention. 

“That cake you are decorating has nothing to do with this Neville character, right?” her voice a simpering question, but her eyes dripped with friendly accusation. 

“I—I’m just being nice?”

“Yes, yes,” she nodded. “A Pansy Parkinson trademark, being nice !”

“I’ve got to go!”

“Of course, Pansy, I'd better be your maid of honor,” she said, winking at me. 

“You’re ridiculous!” I said.

“That’s why you love me.” She said. 

“I tolerate you at best,” I responded.

“That’s more than you can say for most people.” She said with a smile, unbothered by my hollow retorts. 

I  absently piped light purple whipped topping onto the cheesecake.  Did I like Neville?  I certainly looked forward to seeing him. I had fun with him, but with everything that was going on, Feelings were the last thing on my radar.  Astoria was just being Astoria. She always saw everything through pink heart-shaped sunglasses. She majored 

I was cutting the pansies off of the stems, and arranging them in a staggering pattern of frosting and flowers, when I heard a trio of knocks on my apartment door followed by a high-pitched male voice saying “Housekeeping!”

Neville

“Come in, it's open,” I said. Then, I quickly did a final sweep with my eyes to make sure that there wasn't an errant bra draped over the couch, or a ball of underwear somewhere it ought not to be. 

He walked in with a monstrous industrial military-looking backpack slung over his shoulder and a puffy burgundy flannel coat. His brown hair was tucked under a beanie, and his earthy eyes roved around the room, taking in my ancient maritime apartment. 

“Hiya, Pansy!” he said. Then he sniffed the air a couple of times.

“Does your apartment always smell this nice?” He asked, obviously smelling the cheesecakes. 

No, my apartment usually smelled of mildew and asbestos, but he didn't need to know that. “Perks of being a chef!” I smiled. There, now I sound domesticated.

Speaking of domesticated, Caligula dropped out of whichever astral plane that he was terrorizing, and started wending himself through Neville's legs like a figure eight. 

“Aw, I didn’t know you had a cat?” He asked, scooping the little monster up into his hands, and the little beast actually started rubbing his head into Neville’s. No loyalty. 

“I don’t,” I said, absently putting the finishing touches on the cakes. 

“His collar says if lost, call P. Parkinson 217 345-8765.”

I shrugged. 

“You named him Caligula?!” He asked.”Wasn’t he the cruel Roman emperor?”

“Yes,” I said with a bit of an evil smile.

“This guy?” He said, stroking the little monster under the chin, earning himself a few cheap purs. “This little guy isn't a cruel dictator,” Neville said, smooshing his face into the cat’s face. 

“It also means ‘little boots’ in Latin,” I said, justifying naming my not-cat after an evil Roman emperor. 

Neville noticed the little white paws on the tuxedo cat, who was now exposing his belly to him in submission. Weird, I’ve never been jealous of a cat before. Did Neville have this effect on everyone? Probably. He just had that presence about him, that stable energy, sturdy, resilient, and calm like a giant oak tree. Sturdy, someone you could dig your claws into, who remained wholly unaffected, all while dulling the sharp edges of you.

I eyed his bag.    “I thought you said it was just a small hike.”

“It is.” He said with a smile. 

“Then what’s in the bag? You look like you are about to trek Kilimanjaro."

“Just a little bit of this and a little bit of that.” He said, being very cagey. “You can never be too prepared.”

“Well, don’t forget, I’m a New Yorker.  We get scared easily if we get too far away from a coffee shop. “

“Well, it's a good thing I’ve thought about that, innit?” He asked with a wink. 

God, he was cute. 

I crossed my arms as he looked around and took in my living space.  A smile tugged at his cheeks. 

“What?” I asked.

“It’s brighter here than I would have expected—and quite nautical.” 

“Yeah, well– the landlady wouldn’t let me paint the walls. She likes her paint nice and lead-filled.”

He chuckled, “I like it, I like it—It looks like a retired fisherman lives here.”

“ Oh, good, exactly the aesthetic I was going for. Glad it landed.”

“Yeah, I can see that.  You seem like the type that likes knots and ropes.”

Did he really just say that? Neville, Sweet, dopey Neville?

“Only if I’m tying a noose,” I said under my breath, and quickly turned back to decorating my cakes to hide the blush that I was sure was visible on my face. 

“You can take a seat if you want. I’m just putting the finishing touches on a little surprise.”

Neville did not take a seat.  His towering presence hovered over me, his proximity zapping little jolts of electricity through my body.

“What’s the surprise?” He asked, and before I had a moment to answer, he interjected, “What did you do to my pansies?!”

“I’m using them! To decorate the cakes.” I said, “Smiling down at my work.”  

“You beheaded them! “ 

“I think the correct term would be de-flowered.”

“Even worse!” 

I opened the box with the completed ube cheesecake decorated with live purple pansies. 

“I thought they would be more useful this way,” I said, and I could feel the anxiety radiating off of him. 

“Flowers aren’t supposed to be useful. They’re supposed to be useless, and pretty, and enjoyed.” He lamented. 

“That’s rich coming from someone who runs an apothecary full of dried, dead flowers for medicine.”

“That’s different.” He said. “They’re for medicine, not decorating a cake!” He said, clearly affronted. 

“Look, I have trouble keeping useless things alive, and these pansies just happen to be edible.”  

“My poor babies.” He said, looking down at the beheaded flowers. 

“I didn't kill them—they're just, re-purposed.”

I brought out a second cake from the fridge and handed it to Neville.  “Here, I, erm,  made this for you.”

He looked down at the purple cake, beautifully decorated with his purple flowers arranged in “N.” His facial expression was a wire crossing, somewhere between awe and disgust, and he flipped between the two. 

“Go ahead, have a bite–It's the ube and pansies from your greenhouse.”

“This feels like cannibalism–I feel like I’m eating my children.”

“How is this any different than eating the vegetables that you grow?” 

“I don’t know, it just is.  They are pretty and purple, and they remind me of y–” He cut off his train of thought, and disguised it as a cough.

I blushed.  I may be a chef, but my fancy prep school education was enough that I could fill in the blank. You. 

I felt the flapping of butterfly wings tickling my chest. I attempted to hide the effects of his almost declaration by busying my hands, rummaging through my kitchen drawer to find a fork.  I sliced into the cake–Neville’s eyes glued to my hands, following as I lifted the morsel up, and  I cut into the cake and shoved it straight into his mouth, which was still hanging ajar from seeing his “babies” decorating a cake instead of a windowsill. 

My eyes were glued to his face. My favorite thing in the world is to watch someone try something new.  The micro-tells of the consideration of a new texture or flavor profile are the reason I fell in love with cooking in the first place.  One wouldn’t expect a cheesecake made with sweet potatoes to be good, but the density from the starch mixed with the beautiful natural color from the purple Ube—it just worked. Like a spoiled chef and a certain gardener—Shut up, brain. 

Neville’s shoulders tensed, and as he chewed and swallowed, something released in his features—his eyes widening. “Oh my god! Pans. You and I make a delicious team.”

I grabbed the fork out of his hand and cut myself a bite. “Indeed, we do.” —---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The smell of antiseptic hit my nostrils, and a visceral reaction that I was all but aware of would make my heart beat faster.  Being in the hospital, even just as a visitor, made me all too aware of my own condition–reminding me that control was just barely in my grasp. Control of my movements, control of Cepe’s, but somehow the press of Neville’s shoulder into mine dulled the pangs of uncertainty. It could be a dangerous drug to feel safe around someone. One never knew when the rug would suddenly be pulled away. 

Neville seemed to be equally affected by the hospital.   His face was pale, and his hands were busy as he fidgeted with the outer edges of the cardboard box holding the cake. The waiting room was a special purgatory where both of us were trapped in memories. I have my illness, and he had the decline of his mother.  

The silence was only interrupted by the rhythmic tapping of my foot.

Neville placed a hand over the black pantyhose on my knee, which did two things at once. One, calmed my nerves, and two, distracted the hell out of me with the feeling of his warm hand so close to my thigh. That small touch was enough to take me from a negativity spiral to lewd fantasies of medical call rooms and role-playing “doctor.”  Unfortunately, I think he was genuinely trying to comfort me, because he said, “I don’t like hospitals either.” 

I cocked an eyebrow at him, and he simply said, “My mom.” 

 And the negativity and chest pain were back. 

A nurse walked into the waiting room and let us know that we could go in to see Seamus. He was lying in bed with a full cast and leg elevated on a bunch of pillows, and a black eye. His face brightened the moment he saw us in that Seamus-ish way—almost as if we were friends about to enjoy a lunch rather than sitting here in the trauma ICU. 

“It's my two favorite people!”

Neville clapped a hand on Seamus’s shoulder, hugging him over the bed. “Blimey, easy with me, Nev. I’m a fragile little Finnegan these days.” 

“Sorry, mate.” Nevile smiled.  “Glad to see you, the mountain didn’t completely win, though.” 

I remained by the door, watching their bromanctic relationship unfold. I didn’t want to intrude, and I was unsure how Seamus would feel, seeing me after my recent shopping spree on his company credit card.

Seamus’s eyes met mine, “There she is.” He said. “The woman who nearly had me moved from the trauma ward to the cardiac ward.” He said with a toothy smile.   It caught me off guard. I was sure he was going to bite my head off, but he just seemed genuinely happy to see me. I took a couple of hesitant steps from the doorway and laid the cake box down on the bedside table in front of him as a peace offering. 

“Here, uh, I  made you a get-well-soon gift—But your nurse said the only way I could give it to you is if you share.” 

He opened the white cake box, “Pansy, is this a bloody purple cheesecake?!”

Ube!” I said, handing him a plastic fork and knife that I brought in my purse.

“Technically, it's from me too,” Neville said, grifting on the back of my gift. “Since you know, it's from my garden.”

Seamus looked down at 

“It's damn good, man,”  piped in. “She made me one too.” 

Seamus studied the purple cake with the scrutiny that one artist would critique another' s work.  He sniffed it. Poked it, ruffled it up with his fork before finally taking a bite.  The moment the sweet, tangy, yet earthy flavors hit his tongue, he flopped back on the hospital bed. 

“Damn, that’s good.” He dug into another bite, and then another. “Pansy, this is going on Fins' summer menu.” His eyes were rolling back in his head, and I briefly wondered if I should give him a moment to himself. 

“I knew you could cook, but I didn’t know you could bake too?” Seamus asked.  

“Only for special occasions,” I said. 

“Like what?’ 

“Oh, you know, death, decapitations,” I said, my eyes shooting to Seamus’s mangled leg. 

“Or maybe a date?” Neville asked with a hopeful wink. 

I rolled my eyes and prayed that the heat on my cheeks was invisible to everyone else. 

“Whatever.” 

Seamus’s eyes opened wide, and he jumped up in bed, which ended in a scream of pain and him clutching his injury. 

“I knew it, Nev never lets ANYONE go to his greenhouse.”

“That’s because you wouldn't stop touching everything.  My mimosa plants nearly died.”

“Oh, it was so cool!” Seamus said, turning to me. “I would touch the leaves, and they would curl up into tiny leaf fists.” 

“Fascinating,” I remarked flatly. 

Neville’s eyes darkened; he apparently did not share the same excitement for the exploitation of his poor, dead plant. “Any idea how long before you’re back on your feet?”

“I should be out of here sometime tomorrow, but I’ll be in a cast for a couple of weeks. I’m dying to get back behind the stove again in a cast— if I even recognise the place, that is.” Seamus glared at me, causing me to be suddenly quite preoccupied with brushing errant balls of lint from the shoulder of my emerald sheath dress. 

“You won’t recognize Fins, but you also won’t recognize your bank account when the hype starts pouring in over the summer—part of the Michelin criteria is ambiance, and Fins has Michelin-level food with the ambiance of a sperm whale's left testicle.”

Seamus busted out laughing, and then looked over to Neville, “I just want you to know, I hope you screw things up with her, because when you do, I’m swooping in—imagine the restaurant.”

Neville visibly tensed. He looked like he was about to interject, but I beat him to the punch. 

“Seamus darling, do be a doll and share your pain medications with me when you get out of here, because they must be a hell of a drug to give you such delusions. I don’t date chefs.” I left the ‘anymore’ unsaid.

Seamus let out a laugh. “I’m just kidding, Pans. I just wanted to see the look on Nev’s face,” he said, winking at his friend. 

“Just be glad you’re already in a hospital, mate,” Neville said.  

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The cold, damp air was coated in salt as Neville and I walked up a small path leading to a craggy cliffside. Stillness surrounded us as a fresh coating of snow collected on the ground and decorated the trees like frosting on a cake.  The air smelled crisp, salty, nearly burning my nose as I breathed in, but I didn’t mind. Everything around us was so beautiful, like some sort of frozen fairytale land. 

I was promised that Mount Battie was less of a hike and more of a mountain-side overlook, but the path was rocky, vertical, and uneven.  I was starting to have my doubts. I focused on my footing, willing my balance to remain, but my footing never quite felt very sure. A strong arm drifted under me, and warm, rough hands interlaced with mine. The feeling zapped a jolt of electricity through me that felt wholly different from my symptoms. 

“You doing ok, Pans?” He asked, looking down into my eyes. I wasn’t, but I really wanted to see the date through.  “It's only a little bit further, but we can turn back.” He said, looking back towards the car. 

There was no way I was going back. He had planned 

“I’m great!” I said, smiling up at him, lying through my teeth.  He had planned something—and judging by the size of his backpack, something quite extensive, thought out.  I couldn’t see much from where we were, but what I could see looked like it was plucked from a postcard of a wintery wonderland.  I was going to see it through. 

“I used to come to this spot with my gran when I was little—But if you're too cold or it's too much walking, it's really ok, we can turn back.”

“I’m not cold,” I said through chattering teeth. I was freezing.

He leveled me with a look, stopping in his tracks. He dropped the large sack that he was carrying on his back and started unbuttoning his fleece-lined flannel jacket.

My eyes widened. Was he getting naked? Was that the date?  Can’t say that I would have been disappointed. 

Unfortunately, instead of completely disrobing, he took off his flannel coat, exposing himself to the elements. However, the Henley he wore underneath was hugging his shoulders in a very distracting way.  Was I cold? There was no way—It was suddenly very hot.  

Neville held his coat for me.

“What do you want me to do with this?” Completely forgetting that I was freezing. 

“Put it on!”

“Put it on what?” I asked, looking all around me to see what he wanted me to do with it. Drape it on a tree?

“You're shivering, and your lips are turning blue.” He said, looking down at me with concern in his eyes.  

Realization dawned on me, and like the Grinch, I felt my heart squeezing larger in my chest, but it didn’t change the obvious—I did not, under any circumstances, wear a flannel. “Thanks, but I can’t wear that!” I said, shaking my black bob from side to side, I had the sinking suspicion that my pin-straight hair was starting to curl in the cold humidity. 

“Why not? It's freezing out here, and your flimsy excuse for a sweater is hardly warm enough.”

I held the fleece-lined parka at arm's length with two fingers, not unlike how one would hold the trash or a dirty diaper. “Have you seen it? This definitely doesn't go with my outfit.”

He rolled his eyes. “Pansy, this isn’t New York City fashion week, it's the North Atlantic Coast in winter. Put on the damn coat.”

I raised my hand up, ready to tell him that people don’t boss me around. But he plucked the coat back from my two fingers and slid the arm of it over my arm, dressing me with a wicked grin on his face.  My response died on my lips.  The coat was so toasty—As warm as it was ugly. I melted into it as it enveloped me like a hug. It smelled like him, piney and earthen. Intoxicating. I wanted to bottle up the scent and turn it into a candle to burn on my bedside table when whatever was going on in between us eventually, inevitably imploded.  

Neville closed the space between us, hunching down to zip me into his coat like a petulant kid, and I could distinctly see the way the navy Henley pulled against his shoulders.  Ugh, he was so fine. He lightly brushed a few strands of my hair out of my face and placed the beanie from his head onto mine. 

“There. Much better, eh?”

More, please. My brain seemed to shout. No one has ever handled me with such care. 

I could see why Caligula was putty in his hands. I was half tempted to lie down on my back and expose my underbelly to him, too. 

“Now tell me that's not the most comfortable thing you've ever put on.” He smiled at me in a faraway glaze. 

I felt like gooey butter, but the thought of showing it terrified me. Allowing someone to see my soft underbelly would give them all the more opportunity to stick a knife into it. 

I schooled my face into indifference and said, “Comfort and fashion are two VERY different things.” 

“Well, lucky for you, Pans,” He said, flicking me on the nose,  “ this isn’t a runway, it's just you and me and squirrels up here.”

“Come on, we’re almost there.” He said, lacing his arm under mine. “For warmth,” He added. But, I noticed that it was more of a tight steadying grip than one that was looking to soak up extra body heat.  

We walked a couple more minutes, where the treeline opened up to a cliffside.  A small stone tower that looked like a turret of an old castle stood over the vistas of glittering ocean and jagged coastline. A plaque in front of it read, “Poet’s Point.”

Neville laid down his backpack, started pulling out blankets and two thermoses, and laid them on the ground and took a seat on the steps of the tower. 

He tapped the ground twice, gesturing for me to take a seat with him. When I did, he wrapped us both in a cozy burgundy blanket, his eyes never leaving mine. 

“What do you think?” He asked.

“It's beautiful,” I whispered, rendered nearly speechless by the natural beauty of the spanning vista of the ocean, rolling hills, and jagged cliffs, all blanketed in white, with swirling pink and purple skies, preceding a setting sun. We were like a King and a Queen in a castle, reigning over the small New England town below.  

Neville was looking at the view, though his eyes were on me. “You are,” he whispered. 

A flock of butterflies attacked the inside of my stomach. My hand, as if with a mind of its own, reached out for his cheek. “You’re so frustratingly lovely, Pansy,” he said, almost in a whisper. 

“Difficult and thorny, but so, so worth it. Almost like a rose.” He said, brushing errant tendrils from my face. 

The air between us was electric. Pulsatile. His eyes were peering deep into mine. His face was masked in a goofy smile. I wasn’t even aware of what I was doing; I just leaned in, closed my eyes, and his lips were upon mine. Soft and warm and inviting. The butterflies in my stomach erupted, and it felt like falling.

Chapter Text

The kiss with Neville was not my first or my twenty-first, for that matter, but it was the first one that ever took my breath away. 

I had been in a relationship with Draco, and I spent years in France and one very experimental year in college.  I’m not some simpering, inexperienced schoolgirl when it comes to the throws of passion, but this kiss with Neville was something else. Every exchange of intimacy and care had felt transactional up until the point where he put his lips on mine on top of that mountain. 

If I got good grades and looked pretty, my parents would show me more affection. If I came up with a new recipe that was avant-garde enough, suddenly I was a culinary muse to Draco and the object of his utmost affection, but the care always wore off. The love always stopped when the production ceased. Neville was different. He cared, and that was just who he was.  He cared for useless flowers just because they existed with the same amount of love that he cared for the ones that he could crush up to use to make medicine.  It was dizzying, a shock to the system. The rewriting of my software. Time stopped when Neville kissed me. The axis of a belief system that I had harbored for twenty-eight years tilted on its axis. The earth must have felt the shift because, in that moment, as he held my face, kissing me, all of the crows roosting in the pines flew off into the sunset. 

I’m not sure who broke off the kiss first; maybe it was concurrent. We both watched as the birds flew off into the sunset.  Our own private gift, like fireworks from nature or perhaps a sign from the raven residing in his greenhouse.  Birds, like many other useless things, loved and were loved by Neville. Ever since the days in school when he would walk around with his stupid little bird whistle. Perhaps this was them giving their blessing? The timing was too exact to be accidental.

The sky danced with the cotton candy pink and purple glow of winter as the sun set over the glittering ocean.  He pulled me in tighter, covering me with more of the blanket, feathering kisses onto my forehead as we watched the birds flying off into the distance.

I felt childish as I asked, “What does this all mean?” Looking from his left to his right eye as if it would help me read the thoughts inside his head. 

For once, my brain felt calm.  I knew that whatever answer he gave was not given out of the ability to earn a Michelin star or wow a particular client.  For once, I didn’t feel the need to perform. His soft smile further affirmed this.  His pupils were wide as he whispered, “I want to keep you, Pansy Parkinson.”

“Keep me?” 

“Yes, keep you warm, keep you safe, keep you with me.” 

My heart was beating out of my chest. I was all butterflies and tingles. I leaned in on the mountain top, and for the first time, maybe ever, allowed myself to feel cared for.

Chapter Text

Neville deposited me safely at my apartment door, still wearing nothing but his Henley, while I remained gooey and warm in his plaid jacket.  If Ama could see me now, she would choke. 

He brushed a kiss on my forehead, then, looking down at me, it was as if something overcame him. He brushed a large callused hand from my shoulder, down my front, casually grazing my chest as he said, “I like the look of you in my clothes.” 

A thrill ran through my body, sending little butterfly wings from the pit of my abdomen to the tips of my fingers. There was a half smile on his lips that I wasn’t even sure he was aware of.

“Imagine what I would look like without them,” I whispered, not wanting to mince words or intentions. 

“It's a first date.” He croaked out, looking split in two between doing the honorable thing and taking me right there on the spot. 

“We’ve known each other for years,” I whispered in a sibilant tone. 

Neville swallowed, biting his lip, and I could almost see the inner turmoil of which Pansy he should tend to, the ones in his greenhouse or the one in his arms. 

I held my breath.  I was walking on a tightrope between making the best possible decision and quite possibly the worst.  I only had two friends in Maine, now one, if kissing Neville Longbottom changed anything—which it did—but my body burned for the man who stood before me. It yearned to consume, and there was nothing left to do but light a match.  

His pupils were blown, almost obscuring the steady, earthy green that I was so used to seeing. His voice was a low timber as he said, “Only a fool would turn you down, Pansy.”

“You're not a fool, are you?” I asked, slithering in close to him, pressing my chest into his broad frame, my body wanting more contact, my nipples peaking underneath the fabric. 

I knew Neville was a large man, but the feel of his length pressing into my leg through his jeans—well, let's just say he was like an oak tree in more ways than one. 

“I, “ he swallowed. “I know today may have been a lot.” He said, panning me from head to toe as if he could read some symptoms or illness on my body, but I felt fine.  Amazing, actually, and I very much wanted to see where the night led. 

“Let me decide that,” I said, pressing a hand onto his chest. My God, he was muscular.  Not in the way I was used to.  Not as a man who chiseled himself in the gym, but as a man who honed himself through manual labor and lifting soil. 

He snatched my hand, brushing a warm kiss into the soft flesh below my wrist, his eyes staring up at me, never leaving mine. “I've been called a lot of things, but fool is not among them.” 

“Then I have a very expensive, very comfortable bed in the next room and thoughts of doing anything but sleeping.”

Neville bent down, scooping me up into his arms. In an almost pained expression of his voice, he said, “I just don’t want today to be too much for you.” His words were in great contrast to his actions—this silly, sweet man, who was so used to caring, how frustrating. 

I began to kiss the sensitive spot behind his ear, switching between soft nibbles and kisses. He froze, taking in a sharp inhale. “Lead the way,” he said.

Neville cradled my head as we crashed into my silk comforter.  He kissed me fervently, dotting hot pecks from my neck to the exposed skin under my sweater. Almost as an afterthought, he said. ”My god, Pansy, you would have some puffy princess bed.” 

“Shut up,” I said, sitting up and lifting his Henley from the bottom over his head. He sat up a bit on his knees, further emphasizing just how thick his thighs were. I was hungry to see them, among other more interesting protuberant parts.  He pulled the shirt off the rest of the way, discarding it somewhere in a pile on the floor. 

The man before me was broad and muscular, but he wasn’t some Grecian Adonis.  He retained just a tiny hint of the softness from his teen days, and it drove me wild. I wanted to bite him and sink into him and watch the sun move across the sky while still cradled in his arms. 

Neville looked down at me with hungry eyes, “Sweater off.” He ordered. 

What!?

The green in his eyes was completely eclipsed. 

He leaned over me and, with hot breath, whispered in my ear.  “If we are going to do this, I want to get one thing straight: I like to be in control.”

What? 

I never would have expected those words out of Neville.  I swallowed.  My mouth went dry. I also liked to be in control.

My eyes widened, and suddenly my mind was racing with things such as who he figured out his penchant for control with, and why I suddenly wanted to hunt them down and egg their car with all of Fins' rotten eggs. 

Neville grabbed my chin, tilting it up to look him in the eyes, and then gently stroked the side of my cheek with his finger. “Stop thinking and take off your shirt.”

I swallowed.  I didn’t usually let anyone tell me what to do, least of all men, but Neville was different.  I felt safe with him. Perhaps we could try things out his way, that is, if he continues to be a good little boy and plays nicely. Besides the vision of his thighs almost bursting the seams of his jeans, the strain of his member was doing wild things to my brain.

I sat up, challenging, “You take it off!”

“With pleasure.” He said, inching the sweater up over my head.  “I like this sweater, but not as much as seeing you in my clothes.”  He said, undressing me and discarding the cashmere in the same pile on the floor as his shirt.

“What about my dress?” I whispered.  “You’re stunning in green,” He said, kissing my neck and reaching an arm behind my back and slowly pulling the zipper down behind me. “But not so beautiful as you are in my clothes.” 

My insides were molten. 

“And, what about my bra? Do you like it?” 

“I love it. “ He said, reaching behind me, and working on the clasp. “And I would love it if this thing actually came open. “ He said, fumbling a little bit with the clasp. 

It was cute, and kind of reassuring that he wasn’t some expert in the mechanics of women’s undergarments.

“Here,” I said, snapping it off quickly. 

When my breasts fell free, he inhaled sharply. Running a finger along the skin of my collarbone. “My god, you are so beautiful.” He whispered. The finger trailed down over my pebbled breast, sending an electrical impulse through my body. I prayed that everything was in working order, because I felt so alive, so intense with desire. 

“And my pantyhose? “ I asked, bucking my hips up into him as he licked and sucked at my chest.  I was on fire. I needed him now. 

“Stunning,” he said, surfacing for air. 

“But they would be even more stunning in a pile on the floor.”  

I giggled and then froze. He was peppering kisses down my stomach.  I like a cat; never let anyone touch me there. It was too intimate. Too vulnerable.  But Neville was different.  He peppered kisses down my stomach, and I felt this tiny blossom of trust growing.  The effect was intoxicating,  increasing the heat forming between my legs. 

"You're so soft,” he whispered, running his hands down my curves to the seam of my pantyhose, rolling the nylon down my thighs. No one had ever called me soft before. Other pejoratives came to mind. Frigid bitch, ice queen, asp. It was a heady thing to be revered for a side that no one had ever seen before. 

“What do you think of my panties?” I asked in reference to the purple lacey underwear that I had selected that morning.

“I think I can see the nectar of your arousal, and would like a taste?”

It was a question more than a statement. He knew what he wanted to take, but wanted to make sure I was ready to give it to him. 

“Please,” I whispered, the chef in me wanting to see my patron eat.  

He slowly pulled down the lacey underwear, marking a hot trail of kisses as he went. Heat was building, and I canted my hips with need. 

“Neville,” I said in a whimper.

“Stay still, little flower,” he said, teasing the sensitive skin of my thighs.  

I obeyed, this time. It would remain to be seen if this would be a recurring thing. 

He rewarded me with a tongue licking my folds, circling around that one particular bundle of nerves. Oh my, Neville.  My body was threatening to come undone from just the circular motions alone. I needed to ground myself with something.  It was too soon, too fast. I grabbed a fistful of his hair.

He mistook the action for me wanting him to stop.  His head popped up.  His eyes were full of lust. “I wasn’t done yet.” He said, licking his lips in a way that suggested he wanted more. “You taste amazing.”He whispered. “I love the way you bloom for me.” 

He stuck a finger inside—one finger? If that was one finger, then I was in trouble when his cock came out to play.  He moved that overly large finger in a come-hither motion that hit that spot so precisely that it nearly sent me to the stars. I had to bite my hand to keep from screaming. Of course, he was good with his hands.  The man practically grew miracles with them, and here I was, a quivering puddle to his touch.

“What do you want, little flower? “ he asked. 

“You,“ I panted.

“You will have to give me more than that.” He said. “Do you want me in that sweet mouth of yours?” He asked, retracting his finger from inside my folds and sticking it in my mouth, making me taste my own arousal—I did want to taste him. 

Something flipped in my mind.  I was done being a little flower. He was about to learn that flowers sometimes had thorns.  With a devilish look in my eye, I bit down on his finger HARD. 

He withdrew his hand in a jerk with a pained gasp, but the look on his face was anything but agitated. He looked invigorated, like I was a wild horse, and all of his pleasure came from taming me. 

“Lay down, Longbottom. It's my turn to have a little fun.” I said, reaching up and pulling him down to the bed. 

He gave me a smirk that said he was very much enjoying being handled. He leaned back, looking up at me as I nibbled down the softer flesh on his abdomen, trailing down the top of his jeans. 

I unbuttoned them, pulling his pants and briefs down like a woman starved. His member stood at attention with a small bead of precum dribbling proudly at the tip. Let’s just say ‘bottom’ was the wrong word, preceded by long. If Neville was like an oak tree, his cock was like a wooden staff.  Long, girthy, and ridged.

I licked the little dribble at the top and was surprised by the sweetness. His length was overwhelming as I took him into my mouth. His head fell back into my satin pillowcases as he started calling out to gods or ents or some mythical overlord in the sky.

I crawled up onto his chest and bit his bottom lip, “My name is the only one you need to be calling out in praise.”

The look he gave me could melt all of the ice in the Atlantic. He snaked a hand around my back, flipping me underneath him.  His cock brushed up against the entrance of my folds, teasing me, but he stopped himself. 

I canted my hips trying to take more of him in, but he stopped me. “This is ok? “ He asked. Seriousness masked his previously lustful face.  

“Yes! “ I nearly screamed, but a faraway part of my brain felt safer that he was seeking my consent first.

He reached around for his jeans on the bed, completely forgetting that they too were in a pile on the floor mixed in with my lacier things. “I think I have a condom. “ He said in a panted breath. 

“I have an IUD,” I said. He looked at me, swallowed, and nodded before entering me. 

Neviile thrusted softly at first, his member filling and stretching me slowly. “Fuck.” He swore into my neck while thrusting into me. “Fuck, Pansy, you feel amazing.” 

I wanted to respond in kind, but words were failing me.  His cock was hitting that bundle of nerves inside of me that he had teased earlier, and it was sending me over a precipice. I was seeing crashing waves and the Milky Way galaxy simultaneously. The only thing that escaped me was an ecstatic moan. 

The waves outside of my bedroom window were crashing, and the ones inside of me were building and cresting, threatening to spill over. I grabbed the sheets, then Neville's shoulders, boulders in my hands, anchoring me to the earth. I was very nearly about to spiral out of orbit.

Finally, I came in a crescendo of moans. Neville spilled inside of me, rigidly panting, and then melting into me, completely spent. 

I made myself get up to go to the shower and rinse myself off. Have a good mental spiral about what just happened and what it all meant, but his rough hand stopped me, pulling me back into the heat of his embrace.“I could get lost in you every day, little flower.” He whispered in my ear and then kissed my cheek. 

“Me too,” I whispered.  My eyelids grew unbearably heavy, and the exhaustion of the day settled into my bones.  Neville’s hands pulled me in close, one wrapped around my chest, and the other resting on my tummy as if guarding my most vulnerable places. For once in my life, I felt safe, warm, and cared for.  For the first time in my life,  I did something that I absolutely never did. I slept with another man.  There in my little New England apartment, I fell asleep naked and cuddling with Neville Longbottom.

Chapter Text

The heat emanating from our bodies had me slithering out of bed to splash water on my face.  The sun had not yet risen over the bay, and Neville lay comfortably in bed with Caligula sleeping at his head,un-stirring and unmoving as I slithered out to cool myself down.  I watched him for just a moment. I wondered if he normally slept this hard.  Iknew I felt rested.

I took a moment to appreciate it. The quiet stillness of the wee hours of the morning.  The man in my bed who made me feel both safe and warm, and my little cat, who had become my companion when I felt like I had no one.  Life was changing for me.  It was almost as if I were rewriting myself, slowing down and finding comfort in the peace instead of the hustle for success.  

I knew Neville would want me to wake him, so for that reason, I decided to let him sleep.  But I couldn’t sleep—there was no way. I felt both confident in the direction things were going and energized with excitement. 

Before I knew what I was doing, I started chopping onions, celery, carrots, and chicken.  I needed something to busy my hands, but my mind felt surprisingly clear.  For once, I didn’t have the expectations of others floating around and muddying my brain. Like the cold weather outside, I felt cool, crisp, and diaphenously clear. 

As the ingredients reached a rolling boil, I built the raft in the meat, burrowed a hole. Maybe I should start cooking breakfast. But, no.  I needed to finish the damn soup first. See it through. I let it boil a little while longer and began to sift out the liquid.

I heard a rustling of footsteps, jarring my concentration, but I didn’t look up.  I was so close.

“Hiya, Pans.”

“Shh,” I said, not breaking focus from my consommé. He must have understood, because he remained silent. I ladled the contents into two separate white-bottomed bowls on bated breath. Preliminarily, the consommé looked clear. Clearer than I had ever gotten before. I let the contents settle.  It was the moment of truth.  I looked over into my bowl and—I could see my reflection! 

I screamed, jumping up and down.  I felt two hands on my shoulders, and when I looked up, Green eyes were laughing and smiling with me, “What are we happy about?” Nevilled asked, jumping up and down in rhythm with me.

“It's perfectly clear!” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him. “Just look at it, it's beautiful!. We both looked over into the bowl of soup, and I could see the smile form on Neville’s face.”  You are beautiful, Pans!” He sat down in the reflection of the soup. 

I realized how ridiculous this must have been to someone who wasn’t a chef, so I explained. “In the 1600’s, King Louis XIV wanted a soup so glassy that he could see his own reflection.  His chef created consommé.  It's challenging to create something so pure,  I’ve—-well, I’ve never been able to do it before.”  I said, looking down at my feet. 

Neville tilted my chin up and kissed me right there in the kitchen. “I’ve always believed in you.”  He said, and in that moment, more than my friends, more than my parents, more than myself, I knew it to be true. 

Something troubling flashed across Neville’s face.  A worry in his brow, “Hey, what's going on?” I asked, breaking apart from him just a tiny bit

“I really enjoyed my time with you, Pansy, and god knows I would love to spend the whole day with you here.” He said, pulling me in for a hug and kissing the top of my hair.

“But?”

“But, I have two appointments this morning with locals on the island. Abe’s gout is acting up, so I need to brew him some Nettle and Dandelion root tea. And I’ve been away from the greenhouse for too long. Things tend to go tits up when I’m away too long. I—I wasn’t planning for things to go as far as they did last night.”

I looked up, “Do you regret it?” 

“No. No, Not at all. Yesterday was one of the best days that I’ve had in—-god, I don’t know—ever!” he said, forcing sincerity on every word. 

I imagined many of Neville’s best days ever were along the lines of testing soil acidity with no one around but his sadistic pet raven.  Suffice to say, I was flattered but reluctantly so. 

I nodded.  If he were anyone else, if we were anywhere else, I would have frankly thought he was full of shit.  But he was Neville.  He was just so pure and genuine, and he diligently cared for everything and everyone on that island—the same way that I knew he cared for me. 

“Can I make you breakfast?” I asked. 

“Sex and breakfast from a Michelin-starred chef? What has my life come to?” He said, pulling me in for another kiss in the hair.

“Two Michelin Stars,”  I said, quietly.

“My mistake, two Michelin Stars.”

“Play your cards right, and I'll come up with a creative way to incorporate the two. “ I said with a wink. 

"You're making leaving so damn hard.” 

Then Don’t.  I left the words unsaid. I liked him here, in my space. I liked it a little too much. Instead, I just smiled at him over my shoulder while gathering ingredients: ham, sourdough, butter, gruyere, dijon mustard, and an egg.  Otherwise known as a croque madame.  I knew he worked hard with his body, and I wanted to make him something that would keep him fueled and full for hours.

I brown-bagged the sandwich. 

Neville took the bag and pulled my hand up to his lips. He dusted my knuckles with a kiss, sending a swarm of butterflies coating my insides. He pulled me in for one last hug, dusted a kiss on my forehead, and tilted my chin up to his lips. It felt natural, almost routine, as if we had been saying goodbye this way for years. 

“I’ll call you a little later, Pans.”

Heat filled my cheeks as I said “OK” and walked through my apartment door. 

Chapter Text

Neville left, and his absence was felt immediately.  I didn’t want to completely cut myself off from him, so I searched my cupboards for the brown paper bag full of tea bags that Neville had arranged for me and brewed them in a kettle. My apartment was suddenly full of a very floral aroma, transporting me back to the greenhouse. At the bottom of my cup, there was a wide range of dried flowers and seeds. I’ll have to ask him what he puts in here later.  I thought to myself.

His coat was still draped across the sofa. Would it be weird to put it on? No one else was here to judge me, save Caligula. The last twenty-four hours were nothing short of magical.  I was not ready for them to end.  Floral cup of tea in hand, I slid into his jacket, sinking into my fluffy sofa, enveloping myself in his scent for just a bit longer.

I pulled out my phone, a thing I had been neglecting for too long, and it showed. Messages from Tori lit up the screen.

Tori: SPILL, HOW was your date? When is the wedding? I look best in blush tones. 

I sent her a picture of the mountain top.  

Pansy: He made a picnic and took me here.  It was beautiful.

Tori: Oh my god, how romantic, and not a negative comment out of you?   I think a winter wedding would suit your snow-white complexion best! 

Pansy: You’re cracked in the head. 

Tori: Did you…You know, let him hoe your garden?

I texted, then deleted my text, then texted again. I took a sip of the tea. Finally, 

Pansy: I’m not answering that

Tori: OMG, when I get out of pilates, I am calling you!!

I rolled my eyes and took another sip of tea. My whole body started to relax. The tension that I wasn’t even aware of started to melt away.  I sniffed the cup,  Jesus,’ what’s in these tea bags? A memory of a twinkly-eyed Neville on the docks the night of the lobster heist,  where he said, drugs popped into my head.  I wouldn’t be surprised; whatever herbs he gathered were potent.

I was drifting off to sleep with happy thoughts of Happily Endings, and when a text from Draco flashed across my screen. It's as if he were a venomous snake who could sense me moving on and wanted to sink his fangs back in.

Draco: I hope you’re ready for war. 

Followed by a link 

tiktok/slugeats/Complimentstothechef.com

I was thankful for whatever herbal cocktail was floating in my system as I clicked on the link. It was  Horace Slughorn sitting at Cepes across from the table with a sandy blond devil incarnate, Draco.  He was looking as smug as a cat with a mouse. The two were sharing a plate of deep-fried squash blossoms. 

“Sluggy here on my weekly installment of Compliments to the Chef, where I meet with top chefs across America and discuss food and all things!  Today I am hosting fresh from the Loire region of France, all the way to our big apple, Chef Draco Malfoy of the popular franco-vegetarian restaurant” He holds up a hand to his mouth as if to whisper, “and TWO Michelin-starred, Cepe’s.”

Draco flashed his guileful grin towards the camera, the same smile that used to make me weak in the knees, but now just stimulated my gag reflex. 

“Bonjour, bonjour, Hi! C'est un plaisir.” He said into the camera, serpentine eyes flashing with the same charm that drew me in. I hate him. 

“Chef Malfoy,” Horace said, “I’ve noticed there have been some changes around my favorite mushroom-based establishment, such as the removal of a certain Wellington. Care to elaborate?” 

I paused the video, yeah, because I’m the only one who could pull it off. 

” 'Vell, one of my under-chefs left in search of more creative liberty. Sadly, she took ‘ze recipe wiz her.” He was laying the accent on thick, and his swath of Draco’s damsels were going crazy in the comment section. 

How rude, don’t worry, sugar,  I’ll let you stir my pot.

Come on, baby,  whip my eggs into a hollandaise. 

Someone lobotomize me. I rolled my eyes and sucked down more of Neville’s tea.  The tea didn’t numb me completely to seeing the ruin of my restaurant, but it certainly took the edge off. 

Horace took a sip of water. “That’s too bad, good talent is  so hard to find these days, was it anyone I know?”

Draco steepled his fingers, a remorseful mask on his face.  To his viewers, I’m sure her looked genuine, but to me, I knew that face.  Nothing good came at the end of that face.  He was scheming. 

“Chef Pansy Parkinson.” He said with all the sadness of a mourning spouse. 

Give me a break. 

“Oh, I remember her. The short dark-haired beauty that stood with you the last time I was here—yes, hard to forget a face like hers.” Slughorn said as if he were appraising a doll rather than a person. 

“Yes, she was my rising star.” Draco lamented. 

Bile tickled the back of my throat. I wanted to turn back the clock to the middle of the night, when I was blissfully happy and safe and warm. Now all I could see was that Draco was sinking, and planned to take me down with him. Why couldn’t I have one moment of peace?! 

Neville’s tea was good, but it was nothing against my rage. I was responsible for BOTH of Cepe’s Michelin Stars, one for the squash blossoms they were currently stuffing their faces with, and one for the Wellington that I spent two years perfecting.   

Slughorn's slippery voice broke through my ire, “I’m sensing a little more than just a spat about which mother sauce is superior.”  His eyes were alight at the juicy drama his followers would undoubtedly salivate over. “Was there anything else going on with Ms. Parkinson?”

“Well, Horace, I thought ‘zis interview was about food?” Draco asked, but the twinkle in his eye told me he was playing chess and not checkers. 

“Ah, yes, that it is, that it is! But, you know, a little drama is always good for business.”

Draco brought a large glass of blood red wine up to his lips and took a swig, “Vell, you are correct. Chef Parkinson is the love of my life.”  I gasped. Nearly dropping the phone.  He looked dead into the camera and said, “I want her back.” 

I dropped my phone into my lap.  I wanted to throw it out the window like some toxic thing, but I couldn't stop watching. 

Horace’s jaw dropped, but not before a slight smile dusted his lips, surely at the thought of what the revelation would do to his viewership. 

“Well, Chef Malfoy, I think it's time that I pay your shining star a visit and see what she's up to.” and then added with a wink, “Maybe I can even put in a good word for you.”

“Tune in next Tuesday  while  I take “Compliments to the Chef” on the road up to ?”

Horace looked over towards Draco to fill in the location.  

“Fins in Portland, Maine,” Draco said with his disgusting French accent. 

“Fin’s in Portland, Maine, to interview the esteemed Chef, Pansy Parkinson!”

Oh, Fuck no. My stomach dropped. Suddenly, I was very hot and unable to breathe. 

I’m not ready for this.  I can’t do this.  Everything had been going so well. I wanted to go back in time, to crawl back into bed with Neville, where everything felt like a perfect little bubble. I couldn’t handle this now.  I left all of the cut-throatedness behind so that I could rest. Draco was trying to ruin me. Well, he would rue the day—-hopefully.

The New York Pansy would have revelled at an opportunity to show off, to best an opponent, but I was living in Maine to rest.  To make food for good people, not pretentious bloviating bloggers. 

I was just starting to feel good about my life here, about the person I was becoming.  I was starting to feel better physically, and what I had with Neville.  Well, it was new, delicate. I didn’t want the vitriol of my past to come in and poison it.  I wanted to guard my happiness like a sentry. Guard it, armor it, and never let it go. I wanted to keep all of this a million miles away from Neville, because he made that little spark of happiness bloom. 

I needed damage control, and I needed it from people who knew how to play dirty.  I forwarded the TikTok to my Astroria.

She called me back on FaceTime, suspended in midair upside down on some medieval death trap that was likely a pilates reformer.

“Pansy, what the—what are you wearing?  It's atrocious.” She asked with a pinched look on her face. “Never mind, unimportant!”

I was actually kind of impressed with how composed she was while hanging upside down. 

“Pansy, as much as I want to hear all about your flowers being watered, we have a bigger task at hand.”

“I know. I don’t know what to do.” I said.  “I guess I’ll figure something out.”

“No.” She shouted in a tone that I had only ever heard her use on her neanderthal of a husband. 

“Cormac is going to be in Boston for a client in two days.  I'll send him up to you. No one hurts my best friend without severe legal ramifications.“ She said. 

She flipped down with her hands in furry handcuffs-things and then made a moaning voice. “Oh, that's a good stretch.”  

That could never be me.

“What do I need to do?” I asked her. 

“Focus on being the kick ass chef that I know you are, and Cormac will figure out the rest. I’ve got your back!”

A sense of foreboding washed over me. I was feeling too many things at once.  My body was like a live wire threatening to burn everything in its wake. I hugged Neville’s coat tighter around my body, willing myself to remember what his arms felt like wrapped around me. I couldn’t let him anywhere near this.  Draco meant war, and I was not willing to suffer him as a casualty. 

I poured myself another cup of tea and found a copy of Fin's menu to make elevated tweaks. Caligula found his way onto my lap.  

“Are you ready to do  battle with me, little cat?” 

He let out a low growl in agreement.  

Chapter Text

One singular claw tugged at the corner of my lip as I woke up on my freezing hardwood floor. CALIGULA. I was both grateful and angry at the cat for waking me up, getting me off the floor.  I was so exhausted.  I could have lain there for a week—that should have been my first clue. 

My neck was in shambles, and my spine was in knots.  I had to peel the Fins menu from my cheek. It had been cemented there with my drool.  What would my mother say if she could see me? 

“Pansy Parkinson, it's silk pillowcases or the takamakura*, otherwise you will wrinkle prematurely.”

I cringed. Even in my psyche, the woman drove me crazy.  

An alarm was beeping in another room. Apparently, I was so focused on menu tweaks that I didn't make it off the floor last night before dozing off.  I suppose that is understandable, because I woke up still nestled in Neville's plaid jacket, which was undeniably the coziest thing that I have ever voluntarily put on that smelled of pine and earth. 

Standing up was a mistake. My arm was all pins and needles, and I felt flushed and slightly dizzy. Shit, no, no, no, no. Oh, fuck.  This is not good. I recognized the symptoms as a flare-up; hopefully, it was just dehydration and idiotic sleep hygiene.  I had been feeling fine for days—amazing even. The day with Neville was amazing. My job was relatively low-stress. I was calm, even beginning to relax—then this bomb dropped in my lap. I prayed that the symptoms were just from falling asleep on the floor and not the beginning of a downward spiral.  No, no. Fuck Draco Malfoy. Somehow, this was all his fault. 

I chugged some water and shocked my system with some cold air from the balcony. A storm was coming in over the sea.  Maybe it would snow, and then Horace would be stuck in New York.  

In spite of the biting cold, in spite of the huge amount of water that I drank, I still felt dizzy and like I was burning from the inside out. Fuck.

This couldn’t be happening. I REFUSED to have a flair when it felt like everything else was going to hell. I sat down on the couch, curling my legs up underneath me. I had to think.  I had to plot. I had to turn Fins into a Michelin-level restaurant while the head chef was out with a broken leg and while I was currently experiencing a flare.  No big deal. 

There was a mug of tea that had long gone tepid. I took a few sips and calmed my breathing.  I could handle this. Perhaps I could just will the symptoms away if I ignored them hard enough. Like when my engine makes funny noises, and I turn the volume up on Phoebe Bridgers.