A Story of No Consequence
At Second Glance
---
Neville Longbottom died because of the war, not during the war. His scary, ferocious Gran Longbottom, who really wasn't all that bad, died during the war. His parents, who had been made more than a little mental as a result of the first war, were tucked in safe and sound at St. Mungo's and didn't even get their hair ruffled.
Longbottom, war hero extraordinaire, the guy who killed Bellatrix Lestrange, died because he did entirely too much cocaine at a muggle club in London while celebrating Voldemort's demise. Pansy, who risked her life in the middle of the battlefield with a combination of dragging his half-dead ass back behind Order lines and performing enough frantic healing spells on the way to keep him alive until the healer got there, was, understandably, pretty pissed.
So, two months, three weeks, and four days after the final battle when Neville is buried in a quiet graveyard next to his gran, Pansy is more than a little upset. Not so upset that she blows up during the funeral, no, she still has enough Slytherin decorum left in her to hold her temper in until after the guests have left. And so, after the last person has shuffled off to Number Twelve for a somber post-funeral party, Pansy rants and raves over Neville's grave and really isn't satisfied until she spits on his tombstone.
This is the reason why Pansy runs into Harry at St. Mungo's three weeks after their first encounter.
See, Hermione Granger isn't one to be ignored. She isn't one to be bulldozed over. If Hermione says jump, you better be jumping even before you ask 'how high.' This is how the bookish, formerly bushy haired, young woman managed to strong arm Harry into another interview with Rita Skeeter, this time at St. Mungo's.
The problem with Skeeter is that she's fake and abrasive and doesn't take 'no' for an answer. These character flaws are probably why Skeeter and Hermione manage to get along so well on a professional level. These character flaws are also why Harry contemplates blowing his brains out every time he's forced to talk to her.
Being the savior of the world shouldn't come with conditions like: you must speak to Rita Tasteless Hussy Skeeter on a regular basis.
Being the savior of the world should come with conditions like: you are served margaritas every Sunday by five gorgeous women all named Bambi.
This, unfortunately, isn't the point.
After the meeting, which went fairly well considering Hermione kept discreetly poking him in the back to make him answer questions he didn't want to, Harry decided to wander aimlessly around St. Mungo's in a bid to regain his sanity. Strangely enough he liked the faint, sanitary smell of lemon disinfectant and the way the medi-witches and wizards shuffled around with an air of inflated self-importance. It was peaceful, quiet, and organized, nothing like the muddy, chaotic battlefields that had taken up four years of his life.
Walking slowly down one of the brilliantly lit hallways, hands in his pockets and eyes on the floor, Harry was unaware of anything but his silent plotting to dismember Rita Peroxide and Permed Magically Skeeter with an ax when he ran straight into a crying moose.
Okay, by now you know it wasn't a moose. It was Pansy Parkinson.
Only it didn't look like Pansy Parkinson. This young woman had her fine black hair pulled back off of her shoulders and away from her face and set into a loose chignon. Her long bangs, usually swept to the side, were falling in her face, doing nothing to hide her puffy red eyes. She was blotchy and shaking, her petite frame wrapped up in a modest dark blue shirt dress and her feet wobbly on simple camel colored pumps. The Pansy that Harry knew always had her hair texturized into spikey-looking layers and usually had enough cleavage on display to make Lavender Brown a little jealous.
It threw Harry.
Threw Harry and slammed him up against the wall.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing Potter?"
While he was thinking, mouth moving like a fish gaping for water, Harry's fingers slowly grabbed at the wrinkled fabric of the dark blue shirt dress until Pansy's body was pressed up against him as tightly as his was against the wall. He was starring at her red stained mouth and barely managed to utter "Thinking," before her lips crashed into his like some crazed thing.
God, of both Testaments, would have been fairly disappointed indeed.
When they were done fondling each other up against the too white wall in that too bright hallway while slipping on the too slick tile, Pansy, who was panting hard and trying to remove the lipstick smudges from around Harry's mouth, looked up from under short, thick lashes and jerked her head behind her.
Frank and Alice Longbottom looked the way they always did, completely out of their minds. Being at the wrong end of Bellatrix's wand, even before Mrs. Absolutely Freaking Mental got out of lock up, had a way of doing that to people.
See, Pansy Parkinson made Neville Longbottom a promise a long, long time ago, before he snorted an obscene amount of white powder up his nose, that if anything ever happened to him that she would take care of his parents. Not in the traditional sense of wiping up after their messes and making sure their padded walls were comfortable, but, by checking in on them once a week and talking to them.
Not that they could understand a word that she said. All they really did was pass her candy wrappers and smile. They were kind of like puppies that wag their tails no matter what you say, so long as you talk in a happy voice.
But she did come every week, sometimes twice a week if she didn't have anything better to do, especially now since Draco seemed to have the idea that he was going to shack up with that Granger girl. And she told them stories about their son. Anything good she could remember from Hogwarts, which wasn't much, and everything that she could think about from that war. Six years of being the butt end of jokes at Hogwarts had turned Neville Longbottom into something that wasn't soft and clumsy and the butt of jokes by the time seventh year rolled around.
And so when Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley made the decision not to attend Hogwarts their final year, Neville stepped up and led the Gryffindors like he was born to.
Because, really, it could have easily have been Neville Longbottom as the Boy Who Lived and Harry Potter with the overprotective relations and crazy parents locked up safe and snug until they died of natural causes at very, very old ages.
Kidding, really, because Vernon and Petunia would always be uncaring, verbally abusive relations no matter how alternate the universe was.
Pansy tells this all to Harry while she's clutching at the lapels of his brand new, dark brown button up and trying not to shake out of her heels. She does this while she's crying in thick, mucous-filled sobs and snorting back snot into her nose. Face flushed and rubbing her snotty nose on Harry's shirt, she doesn't even care enough to choke back the sobs even though there were countless people who could walk down the hallway and see her in such a delicate position.
Slytherin Ideology 101. It's okay to let people see you snogging the savior of the world in hospital hallways, but not okay to let them see you cry.
Which is why Harry ignores the snot and kisses her harder and asks Pansy on a date that turns into two, that turns into three, that eventually turns into the rest of their life.
---
Note: Finally we get to chapter five! As I said in my profile, I'm ready to get this story over with. Not because I'm done with Harry Potter fanfiction (God forbid) but because I'm no longer in the state of mind I was when I first started writing this. It was a little hard to get back into the groove; I hope you, my dear readers, didn't notice too terribly much. I'll probably finish this in a couple more chapters and tie up the ends all nice and tidy. Anyway, I haven't given up yet and thank you so, so much for all your patience. Keep reviewing and subscribing, it keeps me motivated. Also, a warm thanks to everyone who has added me to their C2 groups. It always makes me smile.