Chapter Text
Thursday, January 17th 2008
Pansy had fallen on hard times.
Destitute, really.
And no, she wasn’t being dramatic.
She stares at the letter in her hand before tossing it onto her kitchen table. She stands abruptly to pace the worn floor boards of her apartment. She worries the skin around her thumb between her teeth, a rather unlady-like gesture that would have her mother reprimanding her, her voice loud and shrill, but she can’t help it as she paces and ruminates. With a huff, she removes her finger and sits down again, reaching out to grasp the other parchment on her table. Amongst the letter were two overdue bills and a rather disgruntled letter from her landlady about past due rent for the hovel she calls an apartment.
She was no longer affluent like she had been before the war. When the dust cleared after the battle of Hogwarts, her father had been sent to Azkaban for life, and with no male heir, the estate had been transferred over to Pansy’s mother.
Her mother….
A witch filled with so much vitriol. A witch who had given Pansy so much whiplash growing up. Tearing her down at any chance she got just to then turn around and remind Pansy that she was a Parkinson and therefore better than all. It had all been very confusing as an adolescent.
With the estate in her mother’s hands, Mrs. Parkinson endeavored to pick up the broken pieces and cobble them back together the best she could. She wanted to restore the Parkinson estate into good standing. She wanted to bolster and build up the Pureblood society as if the war had never happened. A strategy that irritated Pansy to no end.
When the war had ended, Pansy had realized how ill-advised she had been. Since birth, she had followed along after her parents, the ever obedient and perfect daughter, parroting what they said onto the next person, turning her nose up to just about everyone, using her sharp tongue to tear down anyone that dared to speak to her, just like she had been taught.
She had reflected much after the Battle of Hogwarts, and the result was her mother disowning her and casting her out without a penny to her name.
She of course had Draco, Theo and Blaise offering her places to stay and money if she needed it, but she was too proud. She didn’t want charity, though her friends stated it was just care for a friend, she endeavored to try to make her way in the world on her own merit. Even if that meant scraping and crawling her way through. She had been raised to believe that accepting help was an embarrassment and to admit defeat. It was giving up, and as much as Pansy tried, she couldn’t dispel her parent’s opinions and standards from her head. They had ingrained them so deeply.
Years later, here she was, in her apartment the size of a shoebox (that was being generous) and a handful of overdue bills and a letter.
The letter.
Pansy’s heart had sunk all the way to her toes when she had opened it up after the owl had dropped it off at her window that morning. She had spent years trying to make a name for herself since the war, but it seemed that each time she thought she was able to take one tentative foot forward, she was dragged three steps back.
She plops back down in the rickety chair and reaches for the letter, flattening it and rereading it again. She couldn’t stop rereading it.
Dear Ms. Parkinson,
After much consideration, we regret to inform you that we will no longer be moving forward our contract with you.
While your vision was –
She tosses the parchment away with a sigh. She leans her elbows on the table and presses the heels of her hands into her orbital bones until she sees stars.
She releases the pressure and blinks away the blurry vision, looking at the clock in her kitchenette.
4:05.
She sighs again.
She needed a drink.
She rises from her seat, shuffling the papers into a neat pile, resolving to deal with them tomorrow and makes for the door, pulling on her coat and scarf. She grabs her purse and steps out into the chilly January weather.
----------
“Ah! Mr. Longbottom, just the wizard I was looking for.”
Neville turns at the voice, looking down to be met with a short, pear-shaped man.
“Mr. Anderson. How are you, sir?” he asks, giving a kind smile.
The stout older wizard darts a hand out, grasping at Neville’s, shaking it vigorously, “Very well, my boy, very well. I was hoping to run into you while you came for your weekly visit.”
Apprehension slithers down Neville’s spine. What would the head of the planning committee for St. Mungo’s want with him?
“Me?”
“Mhmm.” Mr. Anderson replies, his handlebar mustache wiggling as he scrunches his nose, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Whatever for?” Neville shifts, pushing a hand into his pocket, assuming a casual position while his nerves sizzle.
“I have a meeting in a few minutes. Will you walk with me?”
“I, uh…sure.” Neville brows pinch in confusion as the short wizard takes hurried steps down the hallway, Neville following close behind.
Mr. Anderson chatters as they traverse the hallways of the hospital, Neville giving small waves to staff that he’s come to know over the years as they pass.
They reach a door and Mr. Anderson throws it open, stepping inside. Neville stops in the hallway, unsure why the wizard had him follow him all this way just to leave him in the hallway.
“Well don’t just stand there, come in! come in!” Mr. Anderson gestures his hand and Neville wordlessly enters, taking in the bland conference room within.
At the table in the center of the room sits eight other older witches and wizards and Neville begins to sweat in earnest as his nerves multiply by the second. What on earth was he doing here?
“I found him, everyone!” Mr. Anderson announces cheerfully as he rounds the table, taking a seat at the head of the long wood table.
Every head turns to look at Neville as he stands near the door. He swallows and debates on whether he should bolt out the door or not.
“Mr. Longbottom, welcome.” An elderly witch greets him a few seats down, giving him a cold smile. She gestures to an empty seat at the other end of the long table, “Please take a seat.”
“Erm…I’m sorry, but I’m just confused as to why I’m here.”
“All will be discussed, young man, now please take a seat.” Another wizard answers, his face stern as he appraises Neville’s appearance. He can’t help but look down at himself. He had come straight from working in his greenhouses, still adorning his workpants and boots, his shirt and jacket too casual and rustic for a meeting like this. Everyone was wearing pressed suits and their best dress robes. He swallows harshly and tentatively steps up to take a seat.
“Now that we have Mr. Longbottom, we can finally call the meeting to order.” Mr. Anderson announces from the head of the table, his eyes scanning the other attendees.
Neville also scans the room, hoping that someone will finally take mercy on him and clue him in on why he has been whisked away to attend this meeting.
“First order of business is the fundraising gala for this August.” The other board members nod their heads. “With Mr. Longbottom here with us we can begin to discuss logistics.” Some of the members turn to give him genteel smiles before turning their attention back to Mr. Anderson. They act as if Neville understands anything they’re saying. “Now Mr. Longbottom, why I brought you here today is because we have chosen you to be our lead planner for this year’s gala.”
Silence permeates the space for a beat before Neville speaks.
“I’m sorry, what?” Neville blinks.
“As the planning committee we have nominated you to be the lead planner for this year’s fundraising gala for the hospital. Over the years, the staff and board have noticed your dedication to the hospital with your frequent visits. We thought you would be the perfect choice to spearhead this year’s big event.”
“I…sir, while I am…. honored that you see me fit for the task, I have to decline.”
Silence for a beat.
“We have chosen you because of your dedication to our hospital. You are a weekly visitor are you not?” another member asks, his deep voice agitated as he turns his beady eyes to look down the table at Neville.
“I, well, yes." Neville clarifies and clears his throat, "My parents are permanent residents of the Janus Thickey ward, I visit them weekly.”
“And that is why we have chosen you.” The man says matter of fact, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his protruding stomach.
“With all due respect sir, I have no loyalty to the hospital itself. No offense, but my only dedication is to my parents, who are residents here. That is why I visit weekly.”
“And this gala and the funds it procures will directly affect them.” Another board member chimes in, “Don’t you want your parents to have the best care possible?”
Neville almost snorts at that statement, knowing without a doubt that the Janus Thickey ward will receive little to none of the funds that is made from the gala. The ward was often neglected and overlook, a fact that Neville often seethed over. He had advocated over the years for more funds to be allocated to the ward and its patients, but was constantly given placation, empty promises and no improvements to show for his efforts.
He clenches his jaw as other members nod their heads in agreement.
Nevill decides to try a different route, “I have my own career and would not have the time to dedicate to such an undertaking. I think it would be wise if you found someone better suited. Perhaps an actual event planner, seeing as I have no event planning experience.” The last sentence is pointed, hoping they realize they’ve made a grave mistake.
“How hard can it be?” A wizard chimes in, causing others to chuckle along with him at his remark. The sound makes Neville’s hackles raise. He would wager planning a large fundraising gala for a hospital would in fact be very complicated. Neville wants to tell the wizard if he believes that then why doesn’t he plan it.
“I’m sure you will find the time.” The pudgy man from before states, his eyes assessing Neville like he doesn’t understand what the holdup is. Neville’s stomach churns as he feels himself losing the fight.
“And if I can’t?” Neville counters, his tone laced with annoyance and dread as his eyes scan the board members.
“I’m sure you won’t let that happen, Mr. Longbottom. You applied yourself fairly well at Hogwarts. You know how to work hard and succeed.” A witch states, giving him a placating smile. Neville’s brows pinch in confusion, his transcripts from Hogwarts weren’t…the best, he had actually struggled with many of his classes.
“I really must implore you to find someone else. Of all the people to choose from… choosing me feels like… a very poor choice. This kind of event deserves time and attention, something I can’t give. You’d be better suited finding someone else.”
“And we are confident in our choice of you, Mr. Longbottom. We have discussed it at length and have decided on you.” Mr. Anderson pipes up, his voice stern as he levels Neville with a look.
“I’m sure your parents will be proud to know that their son is planning the gala that directly impacts them.” Another member states, others nodding along with her statement, giving grumbles of agreement.
Neville’s eyes narrow at the witch. The witch clearly knew nothing of his parent’s condition. Didn’t care to know. He feels like his molars might crack under the pressure of his jaw.
“All in favor of Mr. Longbottom being the lead planner for this year’s gala?”
“I… wait a minute.” Neville protests.
A chorus of ayes fill the room as Neville sags in his seat, defeated.
Mr. Anderson assesses him from across the long table, “I’m sure you won’t let us down, Mr. Longbottom.”
After one more failed attempt to protest and put an end to this growing nightmare fuel, the room dismisses him and Neville is asked to leave so that the committee can discuss other matters. He lets the door close behind him, staring off into space as his mind races to process the last few minutes.
It had all happened in such quick succession that Neville had barely been able to keep up, the committee clearly planned to bring him in and ambush him nine to one. They had settled on him for some reason that he himself couldn’t comprehend. They had strong armed him into it. Spun him on his head so fast he had little mind to question or refute.
What gave them the impression that he could pull off the planning of a large fundraising gala? He had no experience in event planning. He had voiced that fact multiple times and they seemed unphased, uncaring that he would have to run himself ragged to get an event of this scale done, that the event could be an absolute trainwreck. He didn’t know the first thing about where to even begin, how to scout locations and book vendors. Did you hire a band for this sort of event? Did galas generally do finger food or buffet style food? His mind races as a multitude of event related questions swirl in his mind, making his nerves spike.
They’d rather guilt trip Neville into spearheading the project than hire and pay an actual event planner. Them using his parents as a means of reasoning makes Neville clench his hands into tight fists at his side and then release.
They hadn’t listened to a word he had said. His rejection of the responsibility, his questioning of his capabilities. They had already set their sights on him and clearly wouldn’t be taking no for an answer. The whole experience filled Neville with so much dread. The idea of failing at the gala he was now responsible for made him sick to his stomach. It was a huge undertaking that he would have to execute, all while juggling his own business and other responsibilities.
He had always been a bit of a pushover, a bit too easy going for his own good. Never wanting to rock the boat or demand too much. He had allowed them to push him into the role. He should have slammed his hands down on the table, stood up and told them to find someone else, stormed out of the room. But he hadn’t. Hindsight was always 20/20 and confidence was always found after the fact. It wasn’t in his nature to be bold and formidable, he was docile and soft hearted, and they knew it. They had used his sweet disposition against him and now he was in charge of planning a gala…
Neville sighs, running a hand down his face as he makes for the exit.
What an absolute mess. A spot of quicksand he was unsure how to extricate himself from. He resolves to write to Hermione in the morning and ask for her advice on the matter. She was strong-willed and well versed in the law; he wondered If she could help bolster his confidence and aid him in being released of this duty.
He exits the building, intent on heading straight home, but stops before he apparates. He needs a drink, just one drink while he ruminates over how to get himself out of this mess.
----------
Neville steps into the Dancing Seer, taking in the low warm light and atmosphere. It was a fairly new pub that had opened recently and he had been meaning to check it out.
He didn’t want to go to the Leaky or anywhere where he might run into familiar faces. The Dancing Seer would do just fine; it was a weeknight and the place was full, but not packed. The bar area was a long rectangle in the center of the room; booths lined the walls of the pub and tables were scattered around the rest of the space. In the back there was a large open floor plan and a low stage for live music. He walks further in and takes a seat on one of the four sides of the bar, scanning the room as he settles into his seat, the chatter from other patrons a low din in the space. His eyes run along the others seated at the bar when his eyes snag near one of the corners.
Pansy Parkinson sits diagonal to him, her elbow on the counter, her head propped up on her fist as she swirls the amber liquid around in her low glass.
He freezes like he's been hit with a Petrificus Totalus. What if she looks up and sees him. Would she remember him from school? He has half a mind to leave, but decides that one drink can’t hurt, and she probably won’t even notice him, let alone recognize him amongst the fairly full room.
He hasn’t really seen much of her since school. She had kept a low profile since the war, he had only seen a few things about her in the paper right after the battle, then it had seemed like she had dropped off the face of the earth.
A prickling feeling overtakes his neck and arms over his memories of her in school. She had been cruel, like many others, she and her friends targeting him. He had been a very easy target back then. However, he didn’t hold any animosity towards her anymore. He had grown, in stature and confidence, and he was now twenty-seven, no longer concerned with anyone’s opinion of him. He had spent so long letting others dictate his worth that he had finally decided in his early twenties to take control and never let anyone have that kind of hold over him again.
The bartender give a greeting and places a coaster down in front of him and Neville can’t seem to peel his eyes from her. He watches as she wipes at her cheek then takes a large sip of her drink.
“What’ll it be?” the bartenders deep lilt breaks his observing.
“I…uh,” his eyes dart to Pansy again, “Firewhiskey.”
The bartender nods and makes to walk away but Neville speaks up before he can think better of it, the bartender turning back to him.
“And, uh,” he chucks a head towards Pansy, “her next round is on me.”
The bartender arches a brow and leans his hands on the edge of the bar, looking over his shoulder to where Neville nodded to. He turns back to give Neville a skeptical look.
“The witch with the black bob and an attitude problem?”
Neville bristles slightly.
“Old friend.” Is all he offers up, the lie acrid on his tongue. The bartender just shrugs, giving him a look that tells him it’s his funeral and moves away.
The bartender places a drink down in front of Neville and then makes his way over to Pansy, placing the new drink down. Neville watches as she looks between the drink and the bartender, confused. Her lips move and Neville’s blood runs cold as the bartender chucks a thumb over his shoulder in his direction and Pansy’s icy eyes shift and connect with his from across the bar. Neville averts his eyes immediately, blood rushing in his ears and a blush creeping hot and quick up his neck and onto his cheeks. He leans his head on his hand, angling his head down and away from her.
What the hell had he been thinking sending her a drink. It was impulsive and now he felt like he might vomit all over the bar top.
He waits a second to look up, hoping she’s gone back to her evening, but when he peeks over his hand, she’s not there, the new drink left glistening alone on the counter. His brows scrunch in confusion when a voice sounds at his side.
“What the fuck is your problem, Longbottom?”
He practically jumps a foot off his barstool, a hand coming up reflexively to lay over his racing heart as his head whips to look at her standing next to his stool.
She has a hip popped, a hand placed on it and a scowl on her face.
“Have you been stupefied?” she asks when he doesn’t respond, indignation in her tone, her stature imposing, “I asked you a question.”
“I…I was just…”
She arches a brow and the words die on his tongue.
“I can buy my own drink.” She says hotly.
“Okay, Pansy.”
“Okay, Pansy?” her brows pinch further together as her eyes trail over him, “What’s your angle?” caution in her sharp tone as she eyes him skeptically.
“I…” he huffs out a laugh in surprise but covers it up with a cough, “no angle,” he shakes his head as he removes his hand from his chest to hold it up in defense, “I just saw you over there and I was already buying so I thought –”
“Thought I couldn’t buy my own drink?”
“No! no,” he responds, tone urgent and placating, “I…don’t really know why I did it.” He admits softly.
She assesses him, her calculating eyes darting over his face.
“You’re a strange wizard, Longbottom.”
He twists his lips together, “I have been told that once or twice, yes.”
“I don’t want your charity.”
“It’s just a drink, Pansy.” He urges and before he can stop himself, “would you like to join me?” he gestures to the empty stool next to him and her lip pulls up at one corner at the question, an almost there confused sneer. “Or…not, that’s fine too. No pressure.” He gives her a gentle smile and turns back to face the front of the bar, swallowing his embarrassment down and accepting a solitary evening. He wills his heart to slow down before he goes into cardiac arrest.
He takes a pull from his drink and almost spits it out when she huffs a sigh and takes a seat on the stool next to him. She gestures to the bartender and he levitates her abandoned drink over to where she sits now. She leans back against her chair, slouching as she swirls the liquid in her glass before taking a sip.
They sit like that for minutes, minutes that feel like eons to Neville, the awkward silence slowly creeping up his spine and paralyzing him. He's hyperaware of her presence and finds himself taking measured shallow breaths as he stays leaned against the bar top, staring down at his drink. He wracks his brain trying to think of something, anything, to say to her to get a conversation started but it’s been a decade since they’ve last seen each other and they’ve never been friendly.
She shifts beside him and he holds his breath as she leans forward to mirror his posture. Forearms leaning on the edge of the bar, hands wrapped around her glass. Another minute passes before she breaks the silence.
“The bartender told me that you called us –” she lifts up both hands and limply mimes quotation marks, “old friends.” He purses his lips to contain his embarrassed smile and looks down at his drink. His cheeks feel hot. “I think you and I have a very different understanding of the term friends.” She says, and he glances over to watch her arch one of her perfect brows.
“Yeah well, he also called you the –” he imitates quotes too, “witch with the black bob and an attitude problem.”
She rolls her eyes and sniffs, “Well at least we know he has good vision and an adequate judge of character.”
He snorts a laugh, and turns to face her more fully and she watches him, her lip twitching at one corner just so. He feels the awkward air dissipating slightly. And so, he asks the question he thought when he first saw her across the bar.
“What brings you in here on a Tuesday night?”
“Can’t a witch grab a drink?” she deflects and avoids his eyes. Instead, she stares straight ahead, taking in the large wall of bottles behind the bar that travels all the way up to the ceiling.
“Yes, but…it seemed like it’s sad drinking. A ‘drown your sorrows’ kind of night.” He counters.
She blows a breath through her lips and her eyes shift over to connect with his. He thinks of how he saw her wipe a hand at her cheek when he first arrived, her defeated posture. He gives a slight lift of one of his eyebrows, imploring her to answer and she mirrors the gesture. He feels himself smile, just slightly. She grows serious again, then answers.
“Shite day.” Is all she offers and he gives an understanding nod.
“Anything you’d like to talk about?”
She seems surprised for a moment by his question and she looks at him as seconds tick by, seemingly deciding on something. She shifts and picks up her drink. “Fuck it. We’ll probably never see each other again after this anyways.”
He settles in, turning his body to face her and leans his elbow on the bar to rest his jaw on. He gives her a tentative smile and she sighs.
“I lost a client today.”
“Like… dead or…?”
“No! not dead, Merlin’s tit, how is this my life right now.” She bemoans, tilting her head back to look up at the ceiling in exasperation and Neville silently chuckles.
“How am I to know,” he shrugs, “I haven’t seen or heard anything about you for a decade, Pansy. You might as well be a stranger.”
She huffs a breath and brings her head back to level, flipping her fingers through her sleek hair. “No, they didn’t die.” She gives him a pointed look and he has to suppress a smile. “They dropped me. Broke our contract. And I,” she sighs, “I really needed that job.”
“I’m sorry.” He says genuinely.
She shrugs the comment off, taking a sip of her drink. She turns to face him fully, her legs slotting between his and he freezes. “And you know what the worst part is,” she continues, completely unaware that Neville is having a very difficult time taking in air at the moment, but he refocuses, his eyes darting back up to meet hers, the loveliest shade of blue. Like the hottest part of a flame. “They loved what I had drafted up. All of it. They were so excited and then they just drop me out of nowhere and won’t answer any of my owls.” Emotion thickens her words towards the end of her sentence and Neville watches as she averts her eyes and quickly works to swallow it down.
“Why would they do that?” he asks softly.
She opens her mouth to respond then pauses, closes it, a pained look on her face as she drags her eyes up to meet his and speaks, “It’s happened every time. It’s clients who have no idea who I am, don’t know the Parkinson name. So, they sign with me, they like what I’ve drafted up and then they maybe ask around or do some research on me and,” she pauses, “once they find out who I am, who my family is…. they drop me.” She makes a face and gives a nonchalant shrug, as if to say it is what it is.
“What’s your business?” he asks.
She snorts, “I think in order to classify it as a business it has to make a profit first, but,” she sighs, “event planning.” Her eyes are tired as she looks at him.
“Any specific types of events or –”
“Anything really. But I just can’t seem to get any clients.”
He nods and she sniffs, straightening in her chair, her knee brushing against his.
“Anyways,” she waves a dismissive hand in between them, “your turn. What brings you in to drown your sorrows?” she gives him a devilish smile. He feels his stomach flip.
Now it was his turn to sigh, he picks up his drink and takes a pull, feeling the liquid warm his chest as he swallows it down. He could feel it starting to work its way into his bloodstream.
“I got swindled…or actually,” he pauses to think, lips twisting, head tilted, “I think it was more guilt tripped, into doing something that I have no idea how to even do and I certainly don’t have the time to dedicate to it. But they won’t take no for an answer and I’m at a loss.”
She hums, her lips pursing and brows scrunching in an adorable contemplative expression and Neville bites his bottom lip to fight his smile.
“Did you tell them to fuck off?”
He huffs a surprised laugh, “No, Pansy, I did not tell them to fuck off.”
She shrugs, “That tends to have an effect, maybe just keep it in your back pocket for next time.” She winks at him and he struggles briefly to swallow.
She was formidable and bold and so, so pretty. Like a deadly flower. A flower he’d like to get to know, learn more about.
“So, what are you going to do?” she asks, matching his posture again by propping an elbow on the bar top, resting her jaw against her fist. She reaches over to slide a spare coaster off the bar top to flip around between her fingers. Neville watches the movement.
What was he going to do? He had neither the expertise or time to plan a gala and the planning committee wouldn’t hear any of his protests. How had he gotten tangled up in this mess? All he had gone and done was go and visit his parents like he did every Thursday. Now that he was in this conundrum, he couldn’t let them down. Letting St. Mungo’s down with the fundraising gala would be letting his parents down by extension. The Janus Thickey ward was the most underfunded ward of the entire hospital. He needed to do this for them. He just needed help…. He needed…
“Pansy?”
She hums, taking another sip of her drink then turning to face him, her eyes inquisitive but still guarded.
“Your event planning business…do you plan galas?”
“I can.” Her brows pinching together. She pauses, eyes narrowing at him, “If you’re asking me if I have any past experience planning galas, the answer is no.” Neville deflates slightly, “but, I have no doubt I could do it if given the chance.” He reinflates at her confidence, she eyes him, “Why do you ask?”
“That guilt tripping I told you about?” she nods, “It was from the planning committee at St. Mungo’s. They have appointed me lead planner for this year’s fundraising gala, and I have absolutely no idea how to even go about it. I have no planning experience and I also run my own business and guest lecture at Hogwarts. I don’t know where I’d even find the time.”
“What are you thinking?” she asks, a glint in her eye.
He gives her a small smile, both clearly working towards the same outcome. “Would you be interested in partnering with me? To plan the gala?” he shifts, straightening in his seat and his thighs cage hers in. “You could have full creative control; it would give you an opportunity to add something to your portfolio and I’m sure you’d get some interest and potential clients once the gala happens and they see how amazing it is.” He watches her begin to perk up in her seat and lean forward as he speaks. “you’d be helping me out, immensely. I could be your sounding board on things and be involved to an extent, but you could handle most of the logistics? I think it would be mutually beneficial. What do you think?”
“Pay?”
“I’ll have to talk to the planning committee, I can stop by later this week and ask. I know they have funds they use for this sort of thing. What are your rates?”
Both of them are sitting straight up, leaning towards each other, buzzing with excitement.
“I can owl you.”
“Perfect.” He flashes her a smile, relief flooding his system at the idea of finding a potential solution to his problem. “The gala is the end of August, so we have time. I’ll run it by the planning committee and we can go from there.”
She bites her bottom lip as her eyes dart around, like her brain is already beginning the planning. She nods, a smile spreading across her lips. He watches the way her canines dig into her bottom lip as she smiles. She outstretches her hand.
“Longbottom, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
They beam at each other as he grasps her hand in his.
“Deal.” He breathes out.