Day 7 - Have a Cup of Cheer
Written for @hp-yuletide-bliss Day 7 - have a cup of cheer
Pansy/Neville | Rating M | Mutual pining & fluff | WC 1K
。・:*:・゚★,。・:*:・゚☆。・:*:・゚★,。・:*:・゚☆。・:*:・゚★
Pansy was quite certain that there was nothing more she could get out of tonight’s festivities aside from an ample amount of blackmail, both for others and herself. Honestly, who even thought it a good idea to socialise with coworkers like this? They were practically begging for someone to drink one party punch too many and jump up on the banquet table.
She spoke from experience, because that had been her last year.
She had it on good authority from the other professors that the punch of her doom was just as dangerous this time around, and had dutifully ignored any and all opportunities to imbibe. She’d stick to controlled sips from her single flute of champagne, thank you very much.
Two hours had passed since McGonagall’s welcoming speech. Surely, that was long enough, wasn’t it? She’d just sneak out with nobody the wiser and enjoy the rest of her evening alone in her private quarters.
Hagrid’s laughter boomed across the hall.
A handful of steps put her up against the stone wall, where she proceeded to slide along the edge of the room as stealthily as was possible in three-inch heels she really ought not to have worn. Earlier Pansy had ideas of catching the eye of a certain wizard.
Not that he paid her any mind standing on the absolute opposite side of the hall for the entirety of an already forgettable evening.
“Madam Parkinson, leaving so soon?”
Nearly Headless Nick’s boisterous inquiry earned him a simpering smile, one that Pansy had perfected when she was four-years-old.
“Yes, well, I’m feeling quite knackered.” She feigned a yawn, letting a tear escape for heightened effect.
“But, the night has only begun!” He looked appalled, and she couldn’t help the flare of indignation that stirred at being called out by the Gryffindor ghost.
How dare he make it sound like she was some sort of bore, as if she hadn’t been the one to organise Slytherin’s parties back in the day? As Head of her former house, she still advised students on their events, and, to her great pride, not that she’d admit it, she was the second-most popular teacher at Hogwarts behind a certain affable Herbology professor.
A fact that rankled her now more than ever.
“Not everyone has a Saturday morning shift and the Matron to relieve in the Hospital Wing,” she replied tartly, lifting her nose despite Nearly Headless Nick floating taller than she could ever hope to reach. There was no looking down on him, but that wasn’t the point.
He refused to take the hint, blustering on as if her reasoning couldn’t measure up to a silly party for a silly holiday with silly people.
“If you go now, then you’ll miss the carols–”
Otherwise known as drunken screeching that would make a banshee cry.
Last year’s had awarded her a lying fortune about “great love,” a cheap paper crown, and Ton-Tongue Toffee she’d made the mistake of eating prior to her tabletop performance.
“–and we mustn’t forget your pomander!”
She gasped in mock horror. “Not the pomander!”
“Indeed! The kitchen elves spent hours preparing the oranges for everyone to take home with them–”
“I apologise, Sir Nicholas.” He preened at the full title. Predictable. “I really must go. I’ll be sure to inquire after my pomander with the house-elves directly.”
She retreated before he could say another word. Her goal was nearly in reach.
She froze, smoothed her expression into one of unaffected coolness, and turned around.
She could have groaned at the sight of him. Why did he have to be so, so–
“When are you going to call me ‘Neville’ like everyone else?” he asked teasingly, before taking a sip from his cup of cheer.
His throat bobbed delightfully against the snug collar of his button-down, and she couldn’t help but trace the movement down, across the broad chest and shoulders his many hours spent in the greenhouses maintained to frustrating perfection. He could use magic to handle the manual labour, but, no, Neville Longbottom insisted on doing things the Muggle way.
How could she argue otherwise, when everything he touched bloomed and thrived?
She wanted to bloom and thrive.
“Professor Neville.” She almost smirked at his immediate need for another gulp of his beverage. “Was there something you needed from me?”
She was still feeling resentful of the way he’d kept a strategic distance until now. She’d thought, given certain words said and desires implied, tonight might be the night they finally made their feelings for one another clear.
Whatever it was he was drinking seemed to give his courage, his back straightening as he took a deep breath.
“Yes.” He opened his mouth, then paused.
She raised a brow and waited.
A choked sound escaped, at which point he flushed a vivid shade of red and snapped his mouth shut.
Disappointment threatened to claw its way out of her throat. The sounds around them roared back to full force, having at some point faded without her noticing. Now that laughter and drunken singing surrounded them once more, Pansy was well and truly ready to curl up in front of her fireplace with a generous pour of her favourite Rioja.
“Well, if that’s all, then I’ll be on my way.”
He looked almost as shocked as she felt, the lovely hazel eyes widened and bottom lip caught in his teeth.
“Please, do me the honour.” He set aside his empty cup and offered the same hand to her in a gentlemanly fashion. A slight tremble at the wrist gave away his nerves.
It didn’t even take her a second to consider her options. She drained the remainder of her champagne, dropped it on the tray of a passing server, and placed her hand across his. Heat flashed at the contact, and she swore she could feel her heartbeat between her legs.
Sweet Salazar, was she in trouble.
The intro to a new song began, and Pansy allowed herself to be drawn forward into Neville’s arms, his lips only one tilt of the chin away from her own.
She was glad she’d worn the heels, after all.
。・:*:・゚★,。・:*:・゚☆。・:*:・゚★,。・:*:・゚☆。・:*:・゚★
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