Chapter Text
The rain in Diagon Alley didn’t fall so much as it hovered, a damp, grey wool blanket that Pansy Parkinson had spent a decade trying to forget.
In Paris, the rain was romantic. It slicked the cobblestones of the Place des Vosges and made the glass windows of La Pensée look like they were weeping diamonds. In London, it just made her hair frizz. Or it would, if she hadn't mastered that anti-frizz charm in third year anyway.
Pansy smoothed the front of her tailored, emerald-green silk robes and glared out the display window of her newly opened Diagon Alley boutique. The shop was a masterpiece, if she did say so herself. It smelled faintly of white iris, ambergris, and the sharp, clean bite of eucalyptus. It was a sensory experience designed to make people feel expensive. The mahogany shelves held minimalist obsidian vials, a far cry from the dusty, cobwebbed cauldrons of Boots' Bottles.
Ten years ago, the Ministry had stripped the Parkinson family of every single Galleon under the guise of "wartime reparations." They had left her with a ruined name, a collapsed estate, and exactly enough pride to refuse to starve. So, she had fled. She had bled, sweated, and brewed her way into the upper echelons of Muggle and magical French society, creating a niche potion line that was part high-end skincare, part olfactory art—think Byredo, but infused with actual glamours.
And now, she was back.
"You're brooding, Parks. It causes fine lines, and frankly, you're the billboard for the brand," a drawling voice chimed from the velvet chaise near the door.
Draco Malfoy was swirling a glass of firewhisky, looking disgustingly pristine. Sitting next to him, balancing a glass on his knee, was Theo Nott, looking equally unbothered by the world. It turned out that if you had enough generational wealth, the Ministry’s moral outrage had a very brief shelf life. A few—okay, a LOT of—massive donations to St. Mungo's and some strategic palm-greasing later, Draco and Theo were once again the darlings of the society pages.
"I am not brooding, Malfoy. I am calculating," Pansy snapped, her tone as sharp and polished as her manicure. "And if you two drink all my firewhiskey before the evening rush, I’ll lace your next batch of hair potion with bubotuber pus."
"Threats. Delightful. It really is like you never left," Theo grinned, leaning his head back. "We’re just glad we don’t have to take an international Portkey just to have a decent dinner with you. London missed its sharpest tongue."
"London missed my vault," Pansy corrected, though a small, rare softness touched her eyes. They had been her lifelines, even from across the Channel.
The bell above the door chimed, and Pansy’s professional mask slid instantly back into place. Perfect smile, rigid posture, eyes assessing. But the mask faltered slightly when she saw who walked in.
Hermione Granger-Malfoy—still a mouthful, even after a year of marriage—stepped through the door, shaking out her umbrella. Behind her, a photographer from the Daily Prophet snapped a quick picture through the glass before Draco lazily flicked his wand, drawing the heavy velvet drapes shut.
"Pansy," Hermione said, offering a warm smile. She looked radiant, wearing a subtle glow that Pansy knew for a fact was due to the Hydration Balm she’d sent last month. "The shop is magnificent. The Prophet is going to run a three-page spread on the opening."
"Granger," Pansy nodded, her voice a little smoother now. Having the Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—and a war heroine—as a patron was the ultimate shield. Nobody could call Pansy a pariah if Hermione Granger was buying her night serum. "You're late. I was about to sell your reserved bottle of Nuage de Nuit to a stray Malfoy."
"Don't you dare," Hermione laughed, crossing over to kiss Draco’s cheek before turning back to Pansy. "I actually wanted to ask. Have you thought anymore about that exclusive London line we discussed? Something locally sourced?"
Pansy sighed, leaning against the counter. "I’ve thought about it. But if I’m doing a London-only special, I need ingredients that haven't been choked by industrial smog or altered by centuries of poor Herbology. I need pure, magically resonant Shimmer-fern and Moon-dewed aconite. And frankly, the vendors I've found look like they harvest their stock from gutters."
Hermione’s eyes lit up with that familiar academic spark. "I know exactly who you need. He’s hesitant of commercial ventures, but his private greenhouses are unmatched. I'll send him word."
---
Three days later, Pansy found out exactly who "he" was.
She was at her mixing table in the back of the shop when the back door rattled. She opened it, a biting remark already on the tip of her tongue, but stopped dead.
A massive, beautiful specimen of a man was holding an equally massive wooden crate.
He looked vaguely familiar.
But no, surely not...?
Because the boy who used to melt cauldrons and stutter over his own feet was entirely gone. In his place stood a man who seemed to take up the entire doorway. He was broad-shouldered, tall, and wore a thick canvas dragon-hide apron over a rolled-up flannel shirt that showed off forearms laced with faint, silvery scars and solid muscle. (Pansy gulped at the sight.) His jaw was square, dusted with the faintest of stubble, and his dark eyes were devoid of the nervous twitching she remembered from Hogwarts. He looked calm. Self-assured. Grounded in a way that made Pansy feel suddenly, acutely aware of how tightly wound she was.
"Parkinson," he said. His voice had dropped an octave or two over the years. It was a deep, rich baritone. "Hermione said you needed some specialized flora."
Pansy recovered quickly, her eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms, adopting her usual defensive armor. "Longbottom. Well, well. They let you out of the dirt, did they? I assumed you’d married a Mandrake by now."
Neville didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look annoyed. Instead, a slow, amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Good to see you too, Pansy. Where do you want these? They're heavy, and the Shimmer-fern gets temperamental if it's in the draft."
"Put them on the main table. And don't touch anything," she ordered, stepping back to let him pass.
As he walked by, she caught the scent of him—earth, rain, and some kind of crushed, sweet wood. It was infuriatingly pleasant.
It was annoyingly attractive.
Pansy squashed the thought.