Chapter Text
Pansy Parkinson did not spend years redeeming her name, revolutionizing women’s health potions, and suffering through Minerva McGonagall’s pointed eyebrow raises just to be cockblocked by Neville Longbottom’s bashfulness.
It had been two years since he joined the Hogwarts staff—two years of working side by side, her potions ingredients delivered in crates of his flourishing plants, his hands dirt-stained and forearms distracting. Two years of him smiling at her like she was actually a decent human being. Two years of dinners in the staffroom, shared bottles of wine, late-night walks back to their respective quarters.
And one—just one—Christmas snog that had left him pink to the ears and unable to look her in the eye until Easter.
Pansy was not used to being ignored after kissing someone. Certainly not when she was interested. And she was very, very interested.
She wanted friends, yes. But also friends who snogged. And shagged. And did… everything else she occasionally daydreamed about while pretending to focus on stirring her cauldron counter-clockwise.
“Careful with that,” Neville’s voice rumbled across the dungeon. He was leaning in the doorway, hair mussed from the greenhouse wind, his teaching robes half-buttoned in that maddeningly casual way. “If it boils over, you’ll have a mess on your hands.”
“I know what I’m doing, Longbottom,” Pansy said crisply, though she was absolutely not paying attention to her cauldron. Her attention had wandered elsewhere—namely to the way his shoulders filled out his robes, to the dirt smudge on his jaw, to the fact that he was, irritatingly, handsome.
She hated how handsome he was.
“Right,” Neville said mildly, stepping inside with a crate of freshly cut valerian root. He set it down with a strength that made her think—unhelpfully—about how those hands might feel braced against her hips. “Just thought I’d mention it.”
Pansy huffed, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “What would I do without you? Boil myself to death?”
He grinned—soft, easy, completely unaware that her insides were tying themselves in knots. “Probably.”
She wanted to hex him. Or kiss him. Possibly both.
So she settled for smirking, lowering her voice just enough to be dangerous. “You’re very good at barging into my classroom and telling me what to do. Shame you’re not as good at following through.”
Neville blinked. The tips of his ears turned pink.
Pansy’s smirk widened. Merlin, he made this too easy. Two years of working beside him, and he still went red as a Gryffindor banner every time she batted her lashes.
She closed the distance, ignoring the bubbling cauldron. “Relax, Longbottom,” she said lightly, brushing past him to inspect the crate of valerian root. Her shoulder grazed his arm. Accidentally, of course. “You’re only here to drop things off. Unless you’d rather stay.”
Neville shifted his weight, awkward but smiling. “Well, I don’t mind the company.”
Exactly what she wanted. She plucked a root from the crate, twirling it between her fingers, before leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. His whole body went taut.
“W-what was that for?” he stammered.
Her lips curved. “For being useful. And—” she kissed the other cheek, softer this time, lingering just enough to watch his breath hitch—“for your birthday.”
Neville’s eyes widened. “You remembered?”
“Of course I remembered,” she said, tilting her chin up smugly. Her arms looped around his neck in a hug that was far warmer, far closer than necessary. “Happy birthday, Neville.”
He hesitated only a moment before wrapping his arms around her waist. Solid. Steady. So infuriatingly warm that she wanted to melt right into him.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Oh, I definitely had to,” she cut him off, pressing another kiss to his temple just to watch him squirm. “You’re far too handsome to escape my attention today.”
Neville’s ears were flaming now, and he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “I’m not that handsome.”
Pansy pulled back just enough to smirk at him, her lips dangerously close to his. “You really are,” she whispered. “And one day, you’re going to stop pretending you don’t know it.”
His hands tightened fractionally at her waist, and for a heartbeat she thought he might finally close the gap between them. But of course—he cleared his throat, cheeks red, and looked away instead.
Typical Longbottom.
Still, he didn’t let go of her.
The door creaked open, and Pansy barely had time to savor Neville’s nervous little swallow before a dry voice cut through the dungeon.
“Professor Parkinson? Madam Pomfrey wanted to know the side eff- Ah. Well. Isn’t this cozy.”
They both froze. Minerva McGonagall stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her sharp gaze flicking from Neville’s crimson ears… to the lipstick smudges on his cheeks… to Pansy wrapped around him like she owned him.
“Professor Parkinson,” Minerva said smoothly, “do try to keep your… affections… from interfering with potion safety. And Professor Longbottom—” her eyebrow arched high enough to rival the Astronomy Tower “—you have something on your face.”
Neville’s hands flew off Pansy as if she’d burned him. “I—it’s not—she was just—”
“Mm,” Minerva said, lips twitching in what might almost have been amusement. “Do carry on.” With that, she swept away, the door closing behind her.
Silence.
Neville groaned into his hands. “Merlin’s beard. She’s never going to let me live that down.”
Pansy, on the other hand, was grinning like a Kneazle with yarn. “Oh, relax. McGonagall already thinks we’re… whatever this is. Might as well give her something to gossip about.”
“Pansy—”
But she was already loosening her arms from around his neck, stepping back just enough to toy with the top button of her blouse. One flick, and it popped open.
Neville’s eyes widened. “Pansy—what are you—”
“Celebrating your birthday properly,” she purred, undoing another button, slowly, deliberately. Her gaze never left his, sharp and hungry.
her nails grazing the fabric. “You didn’t think I was going to let the day pass with just hugs, did you?”
His mouth opened, then closed again, ears flaming red. “I—I don’t think that’s a good—”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Pansy cut him off, stepping closer until the hem of her blouse brushed his chest. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to stop being so” she tapped his nose with one manicured finger, “bloody oblivious?”
Neville blinked. “Oblivious?”
“Yes, oblivious,” she said sharply, though her voice softened as she slid her hands over his chest, nails grazing through his shirt. “Two years, Longbottom. Two years of late-night walks, stolen bottles of wine, that Christmas snog that you practically ran away from” Her lips ghosted over his jaw, lingering just long enough to make his breath catch. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to seduce someone who blushes every time I so much as look at them?”
“I’m not—” he tried, weakly.
“Mm?” Pansy smirked, nipping at his ear, undoing another button on her blouse. “Then what’s stopping you? Because I’m right here, Neville. Warm, willing, and only asking for” She let her voice drop into a low, sinful whisper, “…a few snogs. A tumble or two. Maybe some dates, if you’re feeling generous. Nothing scary, no labels, no strings. Just me. And you.”
His hands twitched at his sides, as though warring with themselves. She guided one to her waist, pressed it flat against the bare skin revealed between blouse and skirt.
“See?” she coaxed, lips brushing against his cheek. “It’s not complicated. You don’t even have to think. Just let me give you what you want. What we both want.”
Neville swallowed hard, his breath shaky. He whispered, “You make it sound so simple.”
Pansy pulled back just enough to look at him properly, dark eyes glinting. “That’s because it is, love. I don’t want candlelit romance or a fairy tale proposal. I want this. Us. Friends who snog. Friends who… more than snog.” Her grin turned wicked. “So, tell me, birthday boy… are you going to unwrap your present?”
Neville’s breath came out ragged, his hand still warm and solid on her waist. For a moment, Pansy thought he’d retreat again, that he’d go scarlet and stammer and run for the greenhouses like always.
Instead, he surprised her.
His grip tightened, pulling her flush against him. His voice was low, steady, a quiet rumble that sent a shiver straight down her spine. “I’m not shagging you here, Pansy.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “…You’re not?”
“No.” His mouth brushed her ear, and suddenly all the bashfulness was gone. “You’re coming to my quarters.”
Her smirk faltered into something hungrier, breath hitching. Well. Perhaps Longbottom wasn’t as meek as he liked to pretend.
“Oh?” she managed, her tone teasing but a touch breathless. “Neville Longbottom, are you finally taking charge?”
He only looked at her, eyes dark, unreadable. Then he kissed her—hard, firm, nothing like that awkward Christmas snog. This was intent, years of restraint finally snapping.
Pansy made a small, startled sound against his mouth before melting into it, clutching at his shoulders. When he finally pulled back, she was flushed and a little dazed.
“Merlin,” she whispered, lips swollen. “Why the hell have you been hiding that?”
Neville didn’t answer. He just took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together, and started toward the door with a quiet, “Come on.”
Pansy followed, heart racing, blouse half-undone, absolutely delighted.
Oh, he was full of surprises. And tonight, she was going to unwrap every last one.
Neville’s hand stayed firmly wrapped around hers all the way up through the torch-lit corridors. Pansy half expected him to come to his senses and drop her off at her own quarters with some mumbled excuse—but no. He didn’t falter, didn’t let go, didn’t blush himself silly when they passed the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy.
When he opened the door to his rooms and tugged her inside, the slam of wood against stone echoed like a promise.
The space was warm, faintly smelling of earth and something green. Plants crowded the windowsill, books stacked in neat piles. Cozy. Too cozy for the way her pulse was pounding.
Pansy opened her mouth to tease him again, but the words were stolen—Neville kissed her, fierce and sure, pinning her gently against the door. His hands framed her face, careful but desperate, and Pansy thought dimly that she’d waited two bloody years for this.
She let out a soft laugh against his lips. “Merlin, Longbottom… you hide this side of you in the greenhouses?”
His answer was another kiss, deeper this time, stealing her breath. When his hands slid down to her waist and tugged her blouse fully open, she gasped, a delighted sound.
“About time,” she murmured, pushing his robes off his shoulders. Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling in her eagerness. “I’ve been practically throwing myself at you—”
“I noticed,” he muttered, surprisingly dry, voice husky as he pressed his lips to her throat.
“Oh, so you’re not completely oblivious,” she teased, tilting her head back, her laugh dissolving into a sharp inhale when his teeth grazed her skin.
“Not when it comes to you,” he said simply.
Her retort melted away as he lifted her easily, strong hands gripping her thighs, carrying her toward the bed. Pansy wrapped herself around him, her laugh turning breathless. Of course he’d be strong enough to sweep her up without effort. The man spent half his life lugging crates of soil and plants. Broad shoulders, indeed.
He set her down, and she sprawled across the duvet, hair mussed, blouse hanging open, smirk lazy and wicked. “Happy birthday, darling,” she purred, beckoning him closer.
Neville’s eyes darkened. For once, he didn’t hesitate. He climbed over her, kissed her until she was arching beneath him, until her clever tongue stilled, until every sharp, mocking quip melted into sighs.
His mouth trailed down her throat, his stubble scraping lightly over her skin. Pansy shivered, threading her fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. She’d imagined this a hundred different ways, but nothing compared to the weight of him over her, the heat radiating off his body, the sheer certainty in his touch.
Her blouse slipped off her shoulders, discarded with an impatient flick of his hand. Pansy smirked up at him, unfastening the last of his shirt buttons and pushing it aside to reveal broad planes of muscle beneath.
“Well, well,” she murmured, nails dragging down his chest. “Hogwarts’ resident heartthrob hides more than plants in his greenhouse.”
Neville only rolled his eyes, ducking down to kiss her again, swallowing her laughter. His hand slid beneath her skirt, rough palm finding smooth skin, and her breath caught.
“Merlin, finally,” she whispered, tugging him closer with a hunger that startled even her.
He answered not with words but with action, pinning her wrists gently above her head, kissing her until she was dizzy, until the only thing left was heat and need. He wasn’t the bumbling boy she remembered from school—here, in this room, Neville was steady, sure, utterly unshy about the way he touched her.
Clothes disappeared between kisses and fumbling hands. Every brush of his fingers, every press of his lips left her keening for more. Pansy wasn’t used to being undone—she was the one who usually had control. But Neville kissed her like she was the only thing that mattered, touched her like he’d been memorizing her in secret, and oh—she was more than willing to be ruined for him.
When he finally sank against her, skin to skin, she gasped, nails raking down his back, pulling him closer, closer still.
“Happy birthday,” she breathed again, against his ear, half-mocking, half-sincere, though her voice broke on a gasp as he moved with her.
Neville didn’t answer—he just kissed her again, deeper, harder, leaving no room for teasing words.
And Pansy thought, dazed and dizzy and utterly lost in him, that she’d gladly give him every birthday wish he could think of. As his hands finally slid lower, that if this was what she got for being patient—Merlin help her, she’d happily let Neville Longbottom ruin her all night.
The room was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fire and the sound of their breathing slowly settling. Pansy lay sprawled across Neville’s chest, hair tangled, lips swollen, utterly, gloriously wrecked. His arm was heavy around her waist, steady in a way that made her feel far too safe for someone who had just intended to have a casual birthday shag.
She tilted her head up, watching him with hooded eyes. He was staring at the ceiling, cheeks faintly flushed, but otherwise calm. Infuriatingly calm, considering he’d just—
“Longbottom,” she said, breaking the silence, “that was the best sex of my life.”
Neville’s lips twitched into the smallest, most maddeningly smug smile. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” she said firmly, poking his chest with a manicured finger. “Don’t look so surprised. I’ve had… experience.”
“Yes ma'am.” His voice was low, amused, the kind of tone that made her want to climb him all over again.
She huffed, resting her chin on his chest. “Honestly, it’s a bit insulting. You’ve been sitting on… that for two years? I could have been properly ruined ages ago.”
“Didn’t think you wanted me that way,” he said simply.
Pansy stared at him, incredulous. “Neville. I’ve been practically throwing myself at you since you walked into the staffroom with dirt under your nails and arms like—” she gestured vaguely at his torso “—that.”
His grin widened, boyish and devastating. “Guess I’m slow on the uptake.”
“Slow?” She scoffed, though her lips curved despite herself. “You’re dense. But—” she kissed his jaw, soft and lingering “—worth the wait.”
Silence stretched again, comfortable this time. Pansy felt his hand rub gentle circles along her hip, steady, grounding.
“So…” Neville began, hesitant but a bit shy, “this isn’t… just tonight?”
Her laugh was low and wicked. “Oh, darling. After that? You think I’m letting you walk away? No. This is happening again. Repeatedly. Frequently.” She nipped at his collarbone. “Consider yourself claimed.”
Neville chuckled, tugging her closer. “Alright, Parks.”
And as she settled against him, entirely too content, Pansy Parkinson thought that if this was how things were going to be… well. Friends with benefits had never sounded so bloody perfect.