Written for the QLFC
Team: Holyhead Harpies
Position: Keeper
Prompt: An arrow on your wrist points you in the direction of your soulmate, like a compass.
Post Hogwarts AU
Word count: 2729
Huge beta thanks to gingerdream
Neville used to be a very optimistic child. He was a bit aloof and, at times, had been severely bullied but he always kept his dreamy side. Hope for the future, dreams of a perfect life, soulmates, all that jazz.
But wars had a way of changing people; especially when the soldiers were children. Children that grew to shed all signs of weakness, children that were hardened by the forges of battle. Children that resembled weary adults thrice their age.
Neville was no different. All hope had been beaten out of him during his Seventh year. His dreams of an idyllic life were ripped to shreds by the harsh reality of a society built on rotten foundations. The Gryffindor had gone to Hogwarts a bright-eyed kid and left the broken castle a bruised and bloody warrior.
He'd tried the Auror route but he couldn't believe in the lies of the world being black and white, not when he had faced the blinding grey of the inbetween. He'd tried marriage but cynicism and a lack of faith in humanity were not ingredients that would help any relationship stick. At least not to his ex Hannah, who left him in tears after another night of drowning his sorrows in Firewhiskey.
He'd lay in bed for days in his studio apartment and do nothing. His fortune was nothing compared to the Malfoys or the Notts, but he was well off and he'd been compensated for his efforts in saving wizardkind. The sentiment made him scoff every time. A few well-placed investments and he could lounge around in apathy and self-loathing all day with his trusted alcoholic friend keeping him company.
When even that would get too much, he'd leave the apartment and wander around wizarding London aimlessly. His walks would usually end in a pub or a bar but, the few times he felt too out of his skin even for alcohol, he would always instinctively revert back to his love for flowers. After all those years and all that suffering, plants still had a way of bringing him a peace he had never found in any other place, no matter how hard he tried. Parks, flower shops - once he'd even been arrested for trespassing to observe a rare species of lilies while piss drunk.
So, when he noticed a new, mysterious little shop in the borders of Knockturn with a beautiful, semi-sentient poison ivy covering nearly the whole front but the door, he couldn't help his curiosity. There weren't any other flowers but the ivy was clearly well taken care of so the owner of the shop was a somewhat talented herbologist.
There were no trees and blossoms behind the inconspicuous blue door though. No racks of seeds lining the walls; only posters of semi-nude models with barely any skin uncoloured brandishing their marks proudly and frames of intricate and detailed designs, some coloured and some just black ink on white paper. Paper. Huh.
The small entrance room was empty, a comfy-looking couch and a modern coffee table full of magazines filling up the space. There was a faint buzzing sound coming from behind a closed door, its continuation indicating the store-owner hadn't heard him come in. Neville was familiarised enough with Muggle culture to recognise the tattoo parlor but he had never seen any up close. The drawings were as polished as some of the finer works displayed in the halls of Hogwarts and he felt a strange appeal to the inked extremities of the models that shocked him.
He was so engrossed in studying a column full of floral designs, the petals so realistic he thought he could reach out and feel their soft, velvety finish on his fingertips, that he jumped when the closed door behind him opened. Eyes wide, as if he'd been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar, he turned slowly to face the artist behind the masterpieces. He came face to face with a giant man, half a head taller than him, and he was ready to explain himself but a cursory glance over the wizard gave him pause. His fingers were too short and stubby for such delicate work and the plastic wrap on his leg indicated he must have recently gotten some work done. So client, then.
The huge man then moved towards the small desk at the side of the door that probably constituted both the welcome desk and the cashier station. Neville nodded to him, probably giving off the vibe of a first-time customer, as he turned to see who else was there. His shock only grew at the familiar black bob, harsh green eyes and small, slightly wide nose that he hadn't faced for at least 10 years.
Pansy Parkinson had disappeared off the face of the Earth soon after the Battle of Hogwarts. She'd stuck around for her father and mother's sentencing and then packed up and left as soon as they were securely behind bars. Frankly, no one had cared. The prejudice had turned on purebloods and relatives of Death Eaters and the so-called light side had treated those kids (kids just unlucky compared to Neville and his friends) as if they were a plague that needed to be extinguished. Pariahs if they were lucky, scapegoats spending life in Azkaban if they weren't. No one had searched for the Parkinson daughter, no one had bothered to wonder if she was alive or not. One less blemish in their perfect little new world.
The woman before him had barely anything in common to his old bully. Her once bright eyes, so expressive with rage and contempt, were now dull and closed off. Her light, girly makeup had been exchanged for dark black eyeliner and matte black lipstick. Her appearance had always been prim and proper, decorated with a few but well-chosen pieces of jewelry. Now, the clean, perfect robes had been shed and replaced by ratty band tees, ripped jeans, tattoos and piercings. Parkinson, once the picture of pureblood elegance, was now more resembling of a Muggle punk. Or was it emo? And who were the metalheads again? Damn, I need to ask Hermione.
Pansy's eyes widened slightly in recognition but she made no other motion to greet him until the big man had paid and bid them both goodbye. Once the door was closed though, her arms were crossed defensively and her glare cut through him. "I've done nothing. My business is legal and I have no dealings with Voldemort supporters. You can search all you want but you can't arrest me just because of my family."
"Arrest you?" Neville asked, confusion evident in his tone. It took him a second of studying the witch before him to figure out what was going on. She must not have gotten news of his removal from the Auror department. "No,you've misunderstood me. I have no connection to the department, not for a while now. You're okay."
Her shoulders shagged slightly but her pose was still defensive, clearly in fight or flight mode. "Then what are you doing here, Longbottom? This is no place for good boys like you."
"I know you've been gone a while but I haven't been a good boy in a long time." He answered, his tone darker than he meant it to. "I got intrigued by the ivy on the front, I thought this was a new flower shop." He added, clearing his throat to let out some of the discomfort.
Pansy's eyebrow raised, but not in contempt, like she used to look at him. No, her expression was now one of pure curiosity and a slight inkling of surprise, like she had certain expectations of him and was trying to figure out what didn't add up. "But this clearly isn't no greenhouse. So why did you stay? You looking to get inked?"
"I, uh…" Neville froze. Was he? He didn't know what he had stayed but something had clearly kept him in the dark little shop. Was it an interest in her art? Was it desire to feel it for himself? "You draw nice flowers." He said dumbly.
"These?" She asked, pointing to the column he was studying. "They are some of my finest work, I must admit." The pride and fondness was evident in her eyes. She was confident in her work and she was ready to jump at the chance to show it off. "Come on, Longbottom. Let me give you the tour."
The tour went on with him skimming through books with all her work throughout the years and ended with him walking out the shop with a vine of roses running up his bicep. The whole experience had left him dazed and he hadn't really processed it until he stood in front of the mirror in his bathroom.
The tattoo was enchanted, a magic ink of Pansy's own creation making each piece move in a specific way. The flowers, she'd said, would bloom and wither along the seasons. He traced his fingers lightly over the plastic, goosebumps raising on his arm. He knew, right then and then, that he'd be back. The art on his skin gave him a feeling of completion he hadn't encountered in a while. He was officially an addict.
The roses were followed by a wraith of poppies, springs of lavender, lilies, sunflowers, forget me nots, orchids. The more skin he covered, the more he felt the need to continue. In a year, he had covered his whole left arm and he had moved on to the right. At some point, Pansy ran out of flowers so he took on a Herbology apprenticeship to have more samples to give her.
As the inches of ink grew, so did their friendship. It took a while for the private Slytherin to trust that he wasn't some undercover detective but, once she got comfortable in his presence, she started to talk. Neville found out she'd left wizarding society all together, preferring to start over as a Muggle than to face the contempt her world held for her.
It had been a great struggle at first, getting used to doing everything without magic. But, with the cover of anonymity, she could discover a life she never would have in wizarding Britain: the life of a rebel. The pureblood heiress façade had been easily broken and from inside emerged the Pansy that enjoyed hard rock music, thriller films and the freedom her family never allowed her. Always having an affinity for art, her first trip to a tattoo exhibition led her on a path that fulfilled her. Having never been able to leave her magic behind though, she'd taken her studies and elevated them to a new level, for when she decided to give the people that pushed her away a second chance.
He might have walked in that little shop by mistake but it seemed that the reclusive Slytherin was just what the cynical Gryffindor needed. And suddenly, Neville started to believe in fate again.
On the third anniversary of their reconnection, Neville walked in the shop with purpose. By now, Thorned's reputation had grown way past Pansy's expectations and she'd bought the rest of the building, hiring brilliant artists from all over the world to help her out. Neville had a specific design in mind for Marion, the newest recruit from Lyon, to do for him but he hadn't expected Pansy herself to be available.
"Come on, I'll do the design for you." She beckoned, leading him to the ground floor tattoo room without much preamble. The 32 year old wizard could feel cold sweat run down his spine at that — Pansy was the one person that couldn't do this.
"Uh, but I have an appointment already." He complained weakly. They both knew he always gave in to her but he still had to try.
"Yes, yes, but Marion's sister is giving birth a month early and she had to leave. Come on, scaredy cat, I promise I won't make you cry again." She laughed, mistaking his apprehension for fear.
"That was one time! Look, I'll just wait for Marion to get back, alright? It's no big deal." He rushed, shaking her arm off and heading for the door.
"If Marion can do it, I can do it way better and you know it. Now sit your arse down." Pansy huffed, clearly tired of his shit. With a light Stinging hex to his butt, he quickly gave up and sat on the chair, muttering to himself as he took off his shirt and laid down on his stomach. His cheeks had already started to stain red in shame as he pulled the small folder from his back pocket and handed it off to her without looking.
The silence that followed was worse than her laughing in his face. His blood froze in his veins as Neville could feel his heart seize up in terror.
"Neville, what is this?"
Her questions always had a way of rendering him speechless. "You draw nice flowers." He managed, quoting himself from all those years ago.
"I know I do but… Why this?" There was an unusual sentiment in her slightly trembling voice but he couldn't pinpoint.
"I like pansies." Neville shrugged, trying to play it off as something insignificant. Though he couldn't help himself from unloading his thoughts once he'd started. "Pansies are nice. They are simple flowers and people tend to overlook them for the shinier and more popular roses but they are beautiful. They need care and patience to thrive but it's worth it to see them bloom. I, uh, I like pansies a lot."
The silence was back, but this time it felt as if time had stopped moving. He was so tense, he nearly jumped when he felt a soft touch on his right shoulder, where he wanted the tattoo placed. Pansy was not one for outright confrontation, he knew, but he had learned to read her by now. And the fondness in her voice betrayed a similar sentiment on her side, even though she might not admit it.
"Alright then. Let me give this a try."
And try they did. Both burnt before, both hard to trust, they took the smallest steps possible. On the first month, Pansy ran off because Neville surprised her with takeout for her birthday. On the third, Neville drank himself into a stupor and floo'd to her apartment in the middle of the night, yelling about how he didn't deserve to be happy when so many others were dead.
It took a long time for them to stop looking for a way out at the smallest sign of an inconvenience. Luckily, their friendship had been public enough that there wasn't any new backlash when they went out on their first date. Day by day, Neville felt hope bloom in his chest. He hadn't dared to in the past but for once, he could glimpse his old self. Not as if the war hadn't happened; no one could take that away from him. However, with Pansy by his side, he'd built a bridge over the burnt remains of his teenagehood to reach that small, bright-eyed little boy he'd thought he'd lost forever.
Neville got a second pansy tattoo, this one over his heart. The stunning purple and yellow flowers surrounded a moon at its core, with Pansy having a similar one done on the inside of her left thigh. But his most important one was the arrow on his wrist. His wife also had a mirrored one, his on his left wrist, hers on her right. The arrows were enchanted, as all other pieces were, to point to each other's general vicinity. For Pansy, it was a way to always know where he was, to reassure her war trauma of needing to keep her people safe. For Neville, it was a sign that he could dream again. A sign that soulmates were actually real and that the future was full of bright colours once more.
And as his newborn daughter squeezed his finger, with the elegant, black arrow pointing at the hospital bed to his sleeping wife, Neville knew he had found his salvation. He would never be whole but now he was so much more than that, so much more than he'd ever thought he'd be. He was happy.
