The Right by Parks and Fiction Chapter 7 Neville's cottage was
quaint, a single story with an open floor plan.
To the right as you entered was a small kitchen and dining area
that had a room for a small square table and four chairs.
The other half of the room was filled with cosy living room
furniture in lieu of an actual wall.
However, most of the entire southern side of the living room
was glass floor to ceiling. Backless shelves of varying
heights stood in front of the windows, teeming with plants.
Various others filled every spare surface of the room.
Even the window sill above the kitchen sink was lined with what
looked like herbs. I don't have patience to teach
you what you can and cannot kill, so just don't touch
anything in the house. Neville snapped as he studied
the space. So much for newly wedded bliss.
What does stand in the centre of the room and wait for you?
He obviously wasn't in the mood for her sarcasm.
Don't touch anything that's alive.
Oh, that was too easy. I can't touch myself.
She asked suggestively. His nostrils flared.
She dipped her fingertips between the neckline of her
gown, skimming her collarbone. It's just, you haven't said when
you'll be back. And when I get bored, do not
touch my plants. She gazed up at him through her
eyelashes. Yes, Sir.
His nostrils flared again, then he Disapparated on the spot with
a loud crack. Any pretence of confidence or
nonchalance disappeared with Longbottom.
She was left alone in a house half transfigured into a
greenhouse, with no idea what her future held.
Desperate for distraction, she did what she did best.
She snooped. It was too early to tell if
Neville was always this tidy or if he picked up on her account,
but the place was clean and neat.
There was nothing of note in the kitchen beyond basic foodstuffs
except for two decent bottles of wine and one of her semi
expensive fire whisky. The sole bookshelf that actually
had books on it and a number of what she could only assume were
shade loving plants was filled with herbology texts.
Neville hadn't said anything about touching his books, but
she left Magical Plants of Eastern Argentina alone for the
time being, despite wanting to set the damned thing on fire.
The bathroom turned up surprisingly little dirt on
Longbottom, just simple hygiene products, no hair lost tonics or
skin products. Revealing an embarrassing
secret. The guest room contained nothing
but a bed with a nondescript pastel green duvet, an empty
closet, and emptied chest of drawers.
Aside from more plants which covered the top of the dresser,
both bedside tables, and window sills, there was little else in
the room. She hoped Longbottom wasn't
gauche enough to put one of the murdering plants in his guest
room, but she kept her word and kept her hands off each of them,
just in case. His room was much more
interesting. The bed linens were an
unfortunate tacky red and gold, but at least there wasn't a
giant lion printed on anything. Where there weren't plants,
there were framed photographs. One looked like the original
Order of the Phoenix. Some she recognised, others she
could only guess. Remus Lupin, Sirius Black,
Alistair Moody, Dumbledore himself, James and Lily Potter
were easy to spot, looking disturbingly similar to Harry
and Louise Let Yet somehow she was the one who'd been ordered
into Ministry mandated mind healing.
Another couple looked familiar, but it wasn't until she saw the
framed photo just of them smiling and laughing on what
appeared to be their wedding day that she realised who they
really were, Frank and Alice Longbottom.
Unlike Potter, who was the spitting image of his father,
Neville had a fair amount of both of his parents in him,
leaving him looking like both of them and neither of them all at
the same time. In every picture save his
wedding 1 Frank Longbottom was wearing one of his tacky
jumpers. Alice was put together in each
one, hair long and styled, clothes sharp and tasteful if
currently out of style. It made her limp and unkempt
appearance now all the more heart breaking.
There were almost a dozen pictures of the two of them, the
wedding one clearly in Augusta's back gardens, with the two of
them underneath the flower arch nearly identical to the one
Pansy had just married their son under.
A large family shot including younger versions of all the
Longbottoms she'd met that morning.
One of Frank twirling Alice as they both danced and laughed,
her stomach swollen in the late stages of pregnancy.
Another with Alice cradling a tiny bundle as Frank held her.
Every few moments a little hand would reach up out of the bundle
and they both beamed. Neville, the two of them beaming
in a chubby baby Neville as he smiled and cooed at them.
Neville's first Christmas, his first steps, his first birthday.
The final one couldn't have been taken much more before the 1st
fall of the Dark Lord. Toddler Neville giggling so hard
he fell over as his mother laughed.
She carefully set the frames back exactly as she found them.
There were plenty of recent photos as well.
One of him with Harry, Ron, Seamus and Dean from school when
they couldn't have been more than first or second years.
Another of the same group at a Quidditch match some time after
the war. Neville, Wieselt and Looney, all
informal dress robes at the Ministry, or what?
Passed for dress robes for him and Looney.
A crowded photo taken in the Room of Requirement with
Dumbledore's Army. She rubbed the top of her head
to this day, wondering which one of them had hexed her with
antlers. Perhaps Neville knew, seeing the
smiling faces of Lavender Brown and Colin Creevy.
She doubted he would tell her even if he did.
She of all people should have known better, but back then it
all seemed like just a game. The Inquisitorial Squad against
Potter's secret group of rebels. She might not regret much from
her life, but the stupid ass Inquisitorial Squad was
definitely one of them. Swallowing, she put the frame
back and turned to continue her search.
The closet and Bureau were neatly organised with far too
many tacky jumpers and hideous robes.
She shuddered when she realised the robes he'd worn to their
wedding were the least offensive of the lot.
It was going to take a lot more work than she'd thought to make
Longbottom presentable. Up in the highest reaches of his
closet was an unmarked box. Waving it down with the one, she
opened it up to see what Longbottom was hiding.
A seemingly endless supply of Drupal's blowing gum wrappers
stared back up at her, each one representing a visit with a
mother who didn't even know her own son's name.
She replaced the lid gently and returned the box to the shelf.
The bedside table to the left of the bed was empty, nothing on
top or inside of it. On top of the opposite bedside
table proudly perched a greenish grey cactus looking plant
covered in boils, the infamous Mimbulus mimbletonia.
Under her watchful glare, it squirmed in its pot.
There will be none of that, she said sternly.
If we're going to live together, we're going to get along, which
means you leave me alone, and I will leave you alone.
After one last shutter, the plant settled.
Excellent choice. She pulled at the top night
stand drawer, but it refused to open.
Interesting. She pulled her wand.
Aloha, Maura. The night stand didn't budget
even more. Interesting.
What are you hiding, Longbottom? She muttered.
She tried increasingly stronger unlocking charms until the
damned cactus was writhing so much she was certain she was
about to be covered in stink SAP for her trouble.
All right, settle down, I'll leave it for now.
Perhaps Granger would have some better unlocking spells.
She appreciated a challenge and was Gryffindor enough that the
thought of needing to figure it out before the stink sack bomb
went off would probably excite her.
Resolving to come back later, she turned her back on the
irritated pile of lumpy boils in a show of dominance and walked
back to the living room. Everything she had packed up
from her manner was sitting by the door, shrunk down to fit in
four stacked boxes. A smart witch would sit on the
couch and wait for Neville to come home, be ready to
apologise, probably make him dinner and at least prepare tea
or something. Pansy Parkinson had never been
called a smart witch. Instead, she began the arduous
process of moving her belongings into the home of the man who
might or might not still be her husband by the end of the day.
When Neville finally returned from wherever he'd fled, it was
nearly dark. He froze as soon as he saw her
in his living room. I see you've made yourself at
home. It was impossible to determine
anything from his tone. Once she'd unpacked all of her
belongings, she brought out her sketch pad and fabric samples
and set to work on her fall line.
It was the one thing she knew she could throw herself into and
forget about everything else. The coffee table was covered in
a mix of both wizarding and muggle fashion magazines and her
stacks of fabric samples. 3 easels held up her favorite
sketches. Her mannequins were still in
their box. She wasn't quite ready for the
first mock ups, but once she chose all her fabrics she could
start. Natural light was the best for
fabric selection, but she was on a roll and wasn't ready to stop.
She'd double check all her work once the light was better.
At least the giant windows would be beneficial for her work.
I didn't touch a single plant like I promised.
She and Mimby had come to an understanding as she'd unpacked
the territorial pile of Bulba spoils, left her alone if she
left the light stand alone, An agreement she could tolerate for
now. Neville sighed.
I'm going to change, then we can talk.
She swapped out two fabric samples, liking the way they
coordinated much better. Neville walked into his bedroom.
He stormed out just as quickly moments later.
What did you do? I told you not to touch my
clothes. She continued, eyeing her
easels. Plants.
What? Oh, this was too much fun.
You told me not to touch your plants, She said.
I didn't. Pissing off Mimby trying to
break into his secret night stand didn't count, because she
never technically touched her. There hadn't been a stink SAP
explosion either, so obviously the temperamental cactus hadn't
been too offended. His face hardened.
I also told you not to touch my claws, the dear.
We agreed to this. She adopted a look of faux
innocence. No, you didn't.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
Pansy, you've tried my patience far enough today.
With a swish of her wand, she tried an accent colour on the
board, then immediately removed it.
You said I wasn't allowed to destroy or alter them, She said.
Not that I wasn't allowed to move them to a different part of
the house. He blinked.
She waved her wand, adding a length of ribbon to one of the
boards, and beamed. Perfect, I believe it's standard
practice for two people living together to keep their everyday
clothes in their room and move occasion clothes or overflow to
another room. She glanced at him.
You weren't here, so I did what I thought was best.
But I can fix things tomorrow. He inhaled slowly.
I'm much too tired tonight. She pressed the back of her hand
to her forehead with a dramatic pout.
Big day and all. He drug a hand down his face
with a look of absolute exhaustion.
Just assure me where my things are.
Of course. Walking into the bedroom, she
flicked half the drawers on the dresser open as she counted off
pants, shirts, jumpers, trousers.
She waved her wand at the closet robes.
She let him into the guest room and then started flicking open
drawers in that Bureau. Jumpers, jumpers, jumpers,
jumpers, jumpers. Oh, and this last one.
Oh yes, more jumpers. He shot her a look.
She shot them with a flick and turned to the closet dress
robes. She turned back to him and
satisfactory. He sat down on the edge of the
guest bed, rubbing his head. If this is going to work, Pansy
is it? She asked quietly.
He glanced up, Going to work. His face hardened.
Not if you don't start being honest with me.
I never lied. He cut her off.
You didn't exactly tell me the whole truth either, did you?
She shifted to lean against the dresser.
Would you ever agree to it if I had?
That's not the point. It is to me.
A rare moment of honesty drifted between them.
Since she was already at her lowest, she might as well
continue. It's just once, she said you'd
only have to do it one time. Fucking Merlin, was this her
life now? Having to beg Neville Longbottom
to fuck her even once? What was so offensive to him?
The fact that she was a virgin, which if she didn't care about
finally losing it, why would he? Or the fact that it was her?
He was a single, apparently skilled in the bedroom young
male Gryffindor who'd already got off on saving people.
How was this not checking off all these boxes?
It's not about the sex, he said. If that's all it was, it will
be. He cleared his throat, cheeks
flushing as he looked anywhere but at her.
Fine, Oh, would it? With flattery like that, it's no
wonder you have so many witches throwing themselves at you.
He rubbed at his temple. Vansi, have you even looked at
the right? Did he honestly think she'd ever
been allowed to see it? Oh, I tend to avoid unpleasant
things. He let out a sharp puff of air.
It's vile, he said. I'm not going to do that to
another person. There was that upstanding
griffon or morality she hated so much.
What hypocrisy. He would force her to choose
between life as a squib or marriage to someone as repulsive
as Petro, who probably would have felt the more vile the
right, the better, rather than do something he thought would
compromise himself. Neville sighed.
Not unless I have to. Her head snapped up.
This us getting married bought us time, he said.
A year. We can use it to figure out a
way to get you out of the blood oath or a way around the right
hope ward with weariness in her gut, and if we don't, we will
find something, he said. I can ask.
No, she said. No one can know.
She wouldn't be able to stand the pity from her friends, not
to mention the fact that Draco had barely stopped drowning
himself in guilt. It would take him all of 12
seconds to put together the night she'd asked to meet with
him and then hadn't actually brought up anything after he'd
told her he destroyed his ring. This was hers to carry, not his.
Grainger couldn't keep a thing from Draco.
A moment of righteous indignation and she would spill
just about anyone's secrets. One disparaging comment in
Hermione's vicinity about Pansy or her marriage from Wieselt and
the whole DA would know her story by the end of the hour.
As horrible as pity from her friends would be, the judgement
and mockery from Neville's would be unbearable.
Pansy. Neville began.
I said no. He sighed.
Fine. And if we don't find a way
around the rite or the blood oath?
She held his gaze, desperation churning in her stomach as she
waited for his response. Then I'll perform the right.
Her knees buckled and she swallowed, gripping the dresser.
Still, she had to be certain. You will.
Ah, promise.