Archive of Our Own ^beta

Breathe in. Breathe out. Pansy steadied herself, her fingers ghosting over the lion-shaped brass knocker fixed to the heavy oak door. The thing looked like it might roar if she touched it wrong.

“Bloody Gryffindors,” she muttered, lips twitching at her own nerves. The plaque, partially obscured by trailing ivy, read ‘Longbottom Cottage’.

‘Cottage’ was hardly the right word for it, though ‘Manor’ felt too pretentious for the war-hero turned reclusive Herbology Master. But the house—tucked away in the Lake District, stonewalled and ivy-cradled—sat proud on its foundation like it had risen from the soil itself. A greenhouse stretched out from the back, glass panels fogged and glowing gold in the early evening light. Beyond that: rows of herbs, trees heavy with fruit, the faint outlines of wand-tamed topiary in the orchard.

She had half a mind to walk away, to turn on her heel and vanish with a crack. She could pretend she’d never even thought of this stupid idea. 

But she didn’t, because she needed him in more ways than one. 

Firstly, his strong, clean reputation. A single, pureblood man with influence. Someone who’s relationship status was still hot-topic at any and all society functions. But second, and perhaps more pressingly, Pansy Parkinson was a woman with needs. And if her sources were to be believed, Neville Longbottom had the... necessary qualifications to meet them.

She didn’t even realise she was hesitating again until something sharp and viney snagged around her ankle.

“Ouch!” Pansy wrenched back, the small thorn dug into her tights at her lower calf, ripping a ladder all the way up and underneath her pleated green skirt. She would have made some quip about a ‘stairway to heaven’ if anyone had been around to bear witness. Instead, fury burned so hot through her eyes at the nuisance vine that she almost made the plant quiver under her gaze. 

“OoOoOo! Dearly sorry Miss,” the potless plant warbled as Pansy choked on her own tongue. 

The unruly vine, Pansy now realised, was connected to a larger mass of tentacular green branches, undulating like some obscure horticultural octopus. Two beady black eyes peered at her from within the mass and tangles and the creature pulled back all its vines in a show of surprise and surrender—as if she was about to hex it on the spot.

“Circe’s tits!” Was all she could exclaim. 

The plant dipped its body low in what could be construed as a bow. “I preesummme, you are here to seee Mr. Longbottom?” it asked through an indiscernible mouthpiece. 

Pansy eyed the mass wearily. “Yesss?”

“Right this way,” the vines piped.

Before she could scream, she was being lifted from the ground up—losing her balance as the plant cushioned her fall. For want of a better term, Pansy was wheelbarrowed off the gravel path and across soft grass, leaving all her dignity behind. She thrashed uselessly, huffing her sharp black fringe back into place as the plant restrained her like an overzealous Devil’s Snare. 

Despite her loud and indignant protests, the plant did not veer off-course. It deposited her in a heap at the wide open entrance of the greenhouse, then slithered away like it hadn’t just committed what she was fairly sure was kidnapping.

A low chuckle rumbled from inside.

“Making friends with Vinnefred?”

Pansy tucked her dishevelled bob behind both ears, brushing off a streak of soil on her flared blazer. 

“Friends?” She almost squeaked. “If that’s the friend’s treatment I dare not find out what happens when we become more acquainted. Just look at what it did to my tights!”

Neville Longbottom straightened from where he’d been tending to the bed of a golden flowering plant taller than she was. His hair was dusty with soil but had gone a delicious salt and pepper colour of late, that she couldn’t deny her taste for. His shirt was rolled to the elbows, and the man looked like he belonged here—like the soil had chosen him, and not the other way around.

Pansy stared, then blinked as she met sea green eyes that had just finished travelling up from her torn ankle to her blushing cheeks.

He lifted an eyebrow. Pansy’s eyes narrowed at the smug expression on his face, as if he’d caught her in a lewd thought… which he almost had. 

His mouth twitched into a slow smile. “What brings you here, Parkinson?”

“Can’t a girl drop in for a friendly chat?”

“Forgive my northern attitude, but I don’t think you’ve ever done anything just for ‘friendly’ reasons in your life.”

That earned him a smirk. “Fair.”

Neville picked up a watering can. “How’ve you been?” he asked, casually enough that she wasn’t sure whether he truly cared or if he was just being polite.

“Bored.” She leaned against the greenhouse frame, one hand on the small of her waist, letting her eyes drift lazily over him. “Restless. Single. As luck would have it—so are you.”

“Mmm,” Neville hummed bemusedly as he tended to more of his plants. This was no good, she was hoping for a more welcoming demeanour. Pansy had even worn her best heels for the occasion, the pair that made her arse pop—though she was beginning to regret it now—and yet he was barely granting her the attention she so desperately craved, and had hoped for. Still, she pressed on with her mission.

“And I hear,” she drawled as he placed the watering can down on a workbench laden with cuttings, “you’re a single pureblood with a respectable name, an insatiable sexual appetite and, frankly, a stupid amount of upper body strength.”

“And from who exactly did you hear that?” he chuckled, tidying a bunch of stray greenery away into a wicker basket.

“Girls talk.” She shrugged nonchalantly, pushing off the frame and bending her figure to highlight her curves. 

He tilted his head, wiping his mucky palms together in thought. “And you came here… to share the gossip and flirt with me as a form of entertainment?”

“Something like that.” She grinned. “Word on the Alley is you’ve been lonely. Keeping to yourself, avoiding all the fame from your plant projects and prying questions from the press, not looking for a new partner, barely see your friends. You’ve built this perfect little remote world here and then buried yourself in it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he picked a blossom from the tall plant and held it in his palm. It shimmered against the sun rays casting through the domed roof. 

“You always did like to gossip.” She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, an insult or just a statement of fact, but the warmth in his tone guided her forward.

Her plan had been simple—perhaps too simple for the man standing before her. Beguile and bewitch the elusive ‘Plant Daddy’ (as the female portion of the Hogwarts alumni had so fondly dubbed him), flash a bit of leg or cleavage, then pitch him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Simple, yes. Only now, she wasn’t so sure he’d bite.

Neville Longbottom, despite hiding himself away from society’s noise and nonsense, was still a bleeding-heart. Susan Bones had told her all about his near stand-off with the Sorting Hat—how it had wavered over whether to place him in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff.

Yes, he was brave and strong. There was no doubt about that, she thought wryly scanning his physique. But he was also loyal. He cared deeply. If she wanted his attention—truly wanted to reach him—she’d have to show that she cared, too. And she did… just generally only for a select few who’d already earned their way into her inner circle.

“How are your parents?” she asked softly.

That stumped him and he looked up from the splayed petals. His jaw tensed, the muscles in his thick neck going taut, as he assessed her though cautious eyes. He must have found something she was only hoping to convey in her unpracticed expression, because his shoulders slackened and he finally responded.

“They’re… doin’ better. Slowly. I’ve been working on a hybrid plant. Boosts memory clarity. It’s not a cure, but…” He paused. “Mum remembered my birthday this year.”

The hard lines of his face softened, weather worn wrinkles flattening in his brow and instead peaking out in the edges of his eyes as he smiled. Her stomach made a strange whooping motion she’d only ever experienced the first time she showed someone her rebranding designs. 

For a moment, Pansy forgot the next lines she’d rehearsed. “That’s amazing, Neville. You should be so proud.”

He nodded once, quietly grateful.

She stepped fully into the greenhouse, running a hand along the edge of a potting bench. “Look. I’ll be blunt.”

Neville puffed out a laugh that vibrated in her own abdomen. “Oh, that wasn’t you already being blunt?”

She scrunched her nose playfully at him. “I want a mutually beneficial arrangement. You and me. Publicly attached. Privately… well, whatever you’re up for. I’ve got a reputation to rebuild. And I have needs.”

A shadow crossed his expression as his lips went tight. Perhaps she had been too upfront. Neville squared up, arms crossed, a smear of dirt across his forearm.

“You don’t need to shag me for PR.”

“I want to,” she blurted without filter, cheeks burning. Her eyelashes batted away her nerves and she righted herself. “What I mean to say is, that part wouldn’t be for PR.”

His laugh was a burrowing creature that snuggled itself up in her chest. Neville smiled and cocked his head, studying her like an exotic plant. “And why me?”

“You’re safe. And steady. And good…” she listed off. “And you’re not bad to look at.”

That earned her a real smile. His dimples flashed. 

Damn it all.

“Oh dear, Parkinson. I’m afraid you don’t know me at all.” The rumbling tone of his voice was far too dark, darker and lower than she expected to come from the puppy-dog Gryffindor. But, if the stories of his escapades were to be believed…

 Pansy wet her stained lips. 

But Pansy did know him. She knew what he liked, what kind of partnership he preferred. She had spent weeks learning what kind of woman he would be looking for, and at every angle she found herself fitting more and more into his ideal type. Someone to dominate privately, and honour publicly. But not someone who would answer to his every whim, he wanted to be challenged, he wanted a brat. 

He was inspecting a row of fire-petals now, bending slightly, murmuring to them under his breath like they were shy creatures. It frustrated her to-no-end that she couldn’t seem to hold his attention, especially considering how much even his voice was having an effect on her. Was he playing with her? Trying to destabilise her? Did he want her to squirm?

Because it was working. The muscles in his back shifted under his shirt, his forearms taut as he adjusted something on a vine.

Pansy hated him a little at that moment. Hated how attractive he was in that stupid, practical way. The kind of man who could build a shed, cook a roast wandlessly, and remember your grandmother’s birthday. The kind of man who’d kiss you like it meant something.

But she didn’t want meaning. 

She just wanted to win—to stand on her own two feet and know, without apology, that she’d earned her own place in the world. To prove to any who doubted her, who just wrote her off as a blood purist from a disgraced dynasty, that she was more than the mistakes of a frightened, foolish girl.

She wasn’t the same child who once stood up and offered Harry Potter to the Dark Lord.

Neville continued, this time with a question and, dare she say, a devilish expression on his face. “And you think I’d just say yes?”

Feeling the heat rise not only externally but within her very blood, Pansy sauntered down the low level planters towards him. “Why wouldn’t you?” she purred, pulling the stem of a deep purple flower in her direction and bringing her nose to its center. 

Don’t appear too eager, despite how much you need this.

He closed the gap and her heart picked up its pace. “Because this sounds too transactional. My relationship needs are… an acquired taste and are not up for negotiation. It can get… messy. It’s dirty business this,” he gestured vaguely in his own direction, “and I don’t think you’ve ever been dirty in your entire life, Miss Parkinson.”

“I’ve been plenty dirty,” she said under her breath as she inched even closer, watching the sundials of his eyes spark with delight.

“Prove it,” he challenged, a faint growl deep in his throat.

“And how exactly would you like me to do that… Sir?” His nostrils flared at the moniker and she had to bite back her smile of triumph.

His eyes darkened. “Get down on your knees.”

A thrill buzzed within her as if he just released a swarm of pollinators to sting at all her nerves. But instead of the aggravation, another feeling bloomed. 

Desire. 

She was sure he said the command rhetorically, not expecting her to actually surrender to his will. Nevertheless, she slowly lowered herself to the greenhouse floor, keeping her gaze locked on him. Not fully, more of a squat as her skirt pleated out, brushing against the loamy floor.

There might as well have been a trail of fire between her and Neville, the heat between them cooking her from the inside out. 

“On your knees,” he commanded further and Pansy swallowed down the retort she had for him. She was sure her face betrayed every emotion but she did as she was told. She wanted him, she needed him, and this was how she was going to get her wish and the business success she so desperately craved. 

No one wanted to work with the daughter of a Death Eater. Not even the one who’d rebranded the entire Holyhead Harpies with tactical charm-reflectors that led them to a championship season. Not even the woman who’d overseen the rebuild of half of Diagon Alley after the war, restoring both facades and faith.

No, those were all chalked up to favours. Old connections. Luck.

Now, the referrals had dried up, the business had stalled, and her father had bled the family vaults dry trying, and failing, to buy his way out of Azkaban. If she didn’t find a way to permanently reinvent herself, her entrepreneurial dreams were done for.

And so was her carefully curated, not-so-modest lifestyle.

Stone grazed against her kneecaps, as she did as she was told, then looked up at him through her dark lashes, mouth pert and ready to take whatever he wanted to give her.

Neville didn’t reach for his belt like she expected. Instead, he undid the ties of his gardening apron and crouched down to her level, he wrapped his manly, calloused hand around hers and the touch alone struck her in the chest like a Stinging Jinx . Her machinations were becoming all too real and she was starting to second guess this highly involved method of redemption. 

This was Neville fucking Longbottom. The boy she’d relentlessly teased in school. The young man who had battled so fiercely to defend the school in their seventh year. The man who had built a name so formidable, even she had come to respect it.

And now, looking at him—broad, grounded, entirely in his element—all she wanted was to show she was worthy of standing beside him.

“Prove it,” he repeated. “Show me, just how dirty you’re willing to get for what you want.”  Guiding her hand to the left where a fertiliser-filled planter lay, he placed her hand on the freshly watered, rich, dark earth.

She took in a short shuddering breath. The greenhouse really was too warm now. Or maybe that was just her skin, prickling from where he’d touched her. She could still feel the heat from his palm even though he’d already removed it.

“A girl still has needs,” she whispered, almost as a plea, both to herself and him.

Neville’s voice was low. “Then get your hands dirty, Parkinson.”

And Salazar help her—she just might. She felt the soil between her fingers. It wedged beneath her nails and she winced at the grime before steadying herself and smearing it across her other palm, up her wrist and across the fine wool of her blazer, stopping at her cream blouse beneath.

Pansy glanced down at her hand again, fingers half-curled and streaked in moist earth like he’d branded her. 

He studied her slowly. Was this enough? What had she even proven? That she could get her clothes dirty? Nothing a little Scourgify couldn’t solve in an instant. 

No. 

Just as he opened his mouth to say ‘Oh, you can do better than tha—” Pansy grabbed two whole handfuls of soil from each planter beside her and smothered herself in the dirt. She started at her chest, unbuttoning an extra level of her blouse serendipitously in the process, smudging her face in the earth and raking her muddy hands through her perfectly styled hair. 

Bingo. The expression on his face was the one she'd wanted all along. A rakish fire that she had only ever heard of from his past lovers. Abbott, Bones, Lovegood—every single one of them sung his praises to the high-fucking-heavens. Still, none of them had been able to keep him. 

Maybe Pansy would try to. Just maybe. She always did like a challenge.

“I’m not joking,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “I came here to make a deal.”

Neville’s expression didn’t shift, nor did his gaze as he drank her in like a plant starved of sunlight. “And I told you—I’m not interested in being bought.”

“I'm not buying you,” she said, crawling forward like a cat on the hunt, slow and deliberate, until she was tucked between the firm spread of his thunderous thighs. He could break her in half with one squeeze—shatter every bone in her body—and the thought didn’t entirely dissuade her.“I’m offering something… mutually satisfying.”

“And besides the obvious, what’s in it for me?” He lifted her chin up with his rough thumb and index finger. Pansy couldn’t deny the butterflies being released into her stomach as his words fell on her.

“A date to all social events, no more questions or conquests seeking your attention as you focus on your botany… and sex, however you want it… whenever you want it. Free Use.”

“That’s a very dangerous offering when you don’t know the full scope of my depravity, Parkinson.”

“You underestimate just how depraved I can be, Sir.” Pansy chewed seductively at her bottom lip.

Neville tracked from where her teeth grazed the plump flesh and back to her glass-green eyes. One arm curved around her back, cradling her in his hold. “And this would be just sex? No strings other than our public functions?”

“No strings,” she echoed breathlessly, core pulsing from the proximity. Earthy tones of herbs made up his aroma, but it was a headier musk underneath that drove her mad. Who knew Neville Longbottom would be able to get her riled up like this? And to think, she had nearly backed out of this whole mission for fear that all the tales she’d collected on him had been part of some elaborate stitch-up.

His fingers teased at the belt of her skirt, toying with the seam where it met her waist. Her nerves fired, tingles ricocheting down her body at his touch. 

“And what if… at some point… I maybe wanted more?” he asked locking eyes with her, earnest and inquisitive—testing her limits.

Pansy swallowed, and as primly and assuredly as she could manage, said, “Then you’d have to earn it.” 

His smile was big and challenging, the Gryffindor in him as clear as day in that moment. 

“Deal.” 

She could have held it there, her win, his consent. But Pansy couldn’t let the man get away with looking so smug while she was covered with his plant fertiliser. In a stroke of brilliance—or brazen Slytherin cunning—she grabbed a handful of dirt from beside her and smeared it across his face right back at him. Her fingers raided the plains of his short beard, rubbing the brown mess against his cheeks with an unrestrained giggle.

“Oh, you little brat,” he laughed lowly, “You'll regret that.” 

He tugged her forward by the wrist and before she could breathe, his lips were on hers. 

The kiss was not gentle. It was messy and feral. Like he was sowing a fresh field, determined to scatter his seeds across every inch of lawn. Branding himself on her. His other hand came up to steady the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the dark curtain of her hair.

She kissed him back with equal force, desperate to remind herself of who she was—of what she wanted this to be. A controlled relationship for their mutual benefit… Unless.

Unless he worked for more.

Pansy pulled away just enough to speak against his lips. “I hope you’re not all bark and no bite.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes dark. “Oh, Parkinson…” he murmured. “You’re not ready for bite.”

Finally, he undid his belt.

Pansy’s lips were kiss-bruised, her palms dirt-streaked and planted on either side of Neville’s thighs. She watched, enthralled, as he slowly tugged the leather belt free with a soft snap, the sound louder than it should have been in the stillness of the greenhouse. The buckle clinked once, a low metallic chime, and then it was discarded behind him with a lazy flick of his wrist.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t even touch her again. Just looked. And Merlin , that look. Like she was the soil itself—something wild and waiting to be cultivated.

She’d come here to dominate the narrative. But she knew how he liked it, knew that for this to work she would have to give some of her well maintained control. But now, on her knees, breathing in the warm scent of damp earth, citrus blossoms, and his skin, she was very aware of the shift.

He wasn’t the nervous schoolboy anymore. He wasn’t anyone’s follower. Neville Longbottom was a man who led. And she was beginning to suspect he was very good at it.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low, the edge of care threading through the command.

She tilted her chin. “Do I look unsure?”

His smile returned, slow and lopsided, the dimple flashing like punctuation. “Not even a little.”

He unbuttoned his trousers with the same deliberate rhythm, letting them fall just enough. She took in the sight with a satisfied hum. His cock was already half-hard, thick and promising, the kind of thing she wanted to both worship and ruin.

“Well,” she breathed, fingers curling around her waistband, “this is a pleasant surprise.”

“I aim to please,” he murmured.

“Do you, now?” She leaned in, trailing her lips along the line of his hip bone, letting her breath ghost hot against his skin. His muscles flexed under her mouth. Good. Let him feel it. Let him need. “That’s perfect, because so do I.”

When she finally wrapped her fingers around him, he let out a low grunt, one hand finding the back of her neck again, grounding her. Not forceful—just present. She liked that. Liked being wanted, not taken. Praised and adored.

She licked a stripe up the underside of his shaft, slow and steady, then took him into her mouth inch by careful inch. His fingers twitched at her nape, and she let him guide her, let the rhythm build.

Neville let out a long, shaky breath.

“Fuck. That’s it, Princess.”

The term set a forest fire ablaze in her very soul. No one had ever called her that before. She had certainly held the title of ‘Slytherin Princess’ during their Hogwarts days, but this moniker had always been spoken with sneers and snickers.

 Pansy looked up at him, lips stretched around him, hollowing her cheeks to bring the blood rushing further into his already rock-hard cock. Pansy couldn’t wait to feel the sweet stretch of working it inside her.

He was barely holding it together, growling beneath his breath and looking down at her with a level of surprise she could only have hoped for. It did wonders for her ego.

A gentle tug at her hair pulled her back, and she let go of him with a wet pop, brows raised in question.

“I want you,” he said simply. That sentence shouldn’t have hit like it did. Her stomach flipped, her thighs clenching. “But I need to know that you’re serious about this.” 

His tone was so sincere, so serious, that Pansy actually hesitated. Her eyes searched his. They were so full of fire she was surprised they hadn’t turned red with desire. She needed this. But she also wanted this. Desperately.

“I am so fucking serious, Daddy.” 

His expression turned beastly, and it almost took her breath away. In seconds, Neville had her pinned down on an unplanted flower bed, only the fresh dirt beneath her. Pansy’s back arched, her blazer shoved off her shoulders, his hands all over her, coaxing, claiming, reverent and rough in alternating waves. It was like being worshipped by nature itself. Wild and elemental.

He ripped at the ladder in her tights, as Pansy zipped off her skirt. With an impressive piece of wandless magic the man vanished her Godsdamn knickers and dove in to taste her soaking cunt. 

“Ahhh, fuck.” Pansy grasped at the dirt beneath her, bucking into his mouth, rubbing her clit against his needy and wanting tongue. Fuck, the man knew what to do with it. Broad strokes lapped at her in dizzying circles, before flicking against the sensitive bundle of nerves for one, two, three pulses, until she was about to burst, then returning to building her up again. 

She felt like Fiendfire had been unleashed in her system, and it was burning a path directly from her core, to her heart. This was dangerous territory, very dangerous indeed. 

“Pansy,” Neville said seriously, breaking their connection, as he rose up on his palms. “Why and how do you taste like Parma-violets?”

She was sure the blush would be reaching past her hairline now. “A little birdy told me they are your favourite sweets.” 

“And you made your pretty fucking pussy taste of them just for me?” he said darkly, in awe.

“Yes, Daddy,” she preened.

“UUUgghhh,” he groaned, his head falling low in surrender. “That’s my Princess.” 

He dove in for more, devouring her as she melted into the soil. Both of his hands gripped her hips tight, fingers digging into the flesh, holding her steady as he worked. She fell apart beneath the relentless rhythm and when his nose brushed against her swollen clit, she let out a strangled gasping sound. 

“Daaa…” the words disappeared into her cry. 

Neville didn’t hesitate. He pressed closer, deeper, driving her closer to the edge with every motion, until her legs clamped around him, her body coming undone entirely.

When she thought she couldn’t take any more, he drew back and gazed down at her with hungry eyes. His hands abandoned her hips and braced on either side of her head. He crawled up over her, mouth trailing a path of damp kisses from her navel to her chest, across her collarbone, and finally to her mouth. 

He kissed her with full and hungry lips and an echo of her just-won orgasm flickered in her core. 

Gods , he was beautiful. And he could be hers, maybe. Just maybe, if she let him. 

Pansy kissed him back with every ounce of the ache he’d drawn from her. Open-mouthed and greedy, she tasted herself on his tongue, pulling him as close as she could without fusing with him.

His body pressed into hers and she felt the weight of him, the shape of him. He was bulky, but in a muscular way, a layer of fat protecting wellbuilt muscles, furred pectorals hard and panting against her own rising chest. Right where she needed him most.

As she wrapped her legs around him, placing her hands on his shoulders to brace, he sunk into her.

There was the delicious sting she’d been craving. She gasped at the stretch of him, at the way he filled her so perfectly, like her body had been waiting for this shape, this man. The moment their bodies met, it was all heat and feral instinct, the vines of their restraint snapped loose. 

She clung to him as he impaled her. Over and over again. Each thrust drove her deeper into the soil beneath them, her spine arching into every movement, matching him pace for pace. The planter box rocked beneath them, green leaves and vibrant petals falling around their bodies like confetti. 

Pansy trailed her hands down, slipping over the sweat-damp curls on his chest, pressing twin handprints of mud into the muscular plains there, branding him as hers.

They were a mess. A beautiful, filthy, feral mess. He groaned low in her ear. “I’m going to have to keep you,” he panted, voice wrecked with want. Pansy’s body responded all too willingly and she raked her nails down his back, leaving welts, as he bit her shoulder in turn.

“Neville, Daddyyyy,” she moaned, not at all prettily, but like the words had clawed themselves out her lungs. He murmured praise between every thrust, words like princess , baby , mine , were spells cast directly to her core. 

Their movements, grunts, cries and moans were ravenous. It was raw and primal, the kind of fucking that came not from lust alone, but from something deeper that she was too afraid to name just yet. 

She was losing her mind with him. So safe in his big arms, so protected—caged beneath him. This was very very dangerous territory, indeed.

When she came again, it was like something in her broke. This was the release. The storm after the drought. Her back bowed and her hands clutched at him, her voice breaking on his name. Neville followed moments later, buried to the hilt in her cunt, his mouth pressed to her neck like he didn’t dare let go.

They lay tangled on the greenhouse floor for a long while, both coming down from the unbelievably high, their limbs sprawled over loam and stone. Dirt and petals clung to their skin. Pansy almost felt guilty for the mess she had made. Almost, but not quite. 

The glass fogged with the heat from their bodies, while, outside, the sky had darkened and the stars twinkled  through the mist.

Pansy, for once, had nothing to say. It was Neville who broke the silence. 

“So… you still just want this to just be transactional?”

She let out a hoarse laugh, rolling her head to face him. “I want a bath. And maybe some dinner.”

“I can offer both.” He grinned, then levelled her with a more inquisitive look. “Though in my book, that would count as working towards ‘more’.”

She stared at him for a moment, sucking on her bottom lip; the fireflies flickered above them and the scent of evening jasmine was beginning to bloom.

“Maybe—” she murmured, “—we can discuss terms over tea tomorrow.”

He raised a brow. “You trying to seduce me again, Princess?”

Her throat went dry, heart fluttering wildly at the intensity of him. Neville fucking Longbottom was going to either be her salvation or ruination. Still, she smiled. 

She was in control, she was the one with the power and she would have her man wrapped around her finger in no time. “Oh Daddy, I haven’t even started.”