Neville's talking about soil aeration, but Narcissa can't bring herself to listen. Instead, she's focused on the way their arms are entwined, and the way his left hand is covering hers in the crook of his elbow. His thumb is rubbing absently across the back of her hand as he goes on, and she realizes that he's the first man to touch her in a way that isn't within the bounds of polite propriety in decades.
They reach the greenhouse and shut themselves inside, and Neville kicks the dusting of snow from his boots. He takes off the heavy overcoat and drapes over the high-backed bench, digging his gloves and a small leather pack from one of its pockets.
"I'm going to test the nutrient levels in the soil and start from there."
She nods, divesting herself of snow as well. He's turned away from her, kneeling down to dig around in the soil at the base of the rosebushes, and she takes the opportunity to slip off her shoes. She wiggles her toes in the warm grass and pulls two items out of her own coat pocket. She places her coat next to Neville's and drops her items on the ground.
When Neville turns around again, his mouth falls open before transforming into a wide smile.
"You did say they were sparkly."
She holds out a flip-flop covered foot. "I did."
Narcissa has a moment where she doesn't quite know what to do with her hands, so she settles for resting them on her hips. Neville's gaze is like a ray of warm sunshine, and it bathes her from head to toe.
"I've never seen jeans and flip-flops look so sophisticated," he says. "The t-shirt is a nice touch. Green. How Slytherin."
She plucks at the soft cotton. "It's comfortable," she insists. "Perfect for a morning getting dirty."
He steps closer and the scent of his aftershave mingles with the fresh, grassy scent of the greenhouse. It's grounding and heavy, and she feels as though her feet are rooted where she stands. Like the two of them are connected to the earth, bound to this space.
"This look suits you," he says. "With your hair unbound, relaxed in comfortable clothing. You look like you belong here, among living things, things that will blossom and grow. Not inside that huge old house, persisting like a museum piece."
She chuckles. "I'm old enough to be a museum piece."
Neville shakes his head, and the back of his hand comes up to brush against her cheek. Her breath catches as he says, "No, you're no relic. Those are nothing but dead history, frozen in time, recorded in memory. You're still vibrant and alive, and your history is still being written."
Narcissa steps back and averts her eyes. "You're far too generous with your praise."
"There's nothing generous about the truth."
She chances a glance upwards and sees the conviction sparkling in Neville's eyes, and it warms her, down to her toes.
There's a definite pause in the air, but the spell is broken as he tugs on his gloves and grins. "I should get to work. See what's really at the root of the problem."
She settles herself onto the bench, prepared to watch as he turns around and kneels in front of the bed of rosebushes. "If anyone can do it, Neville, I think it's you."
He smiles over his shoulder. "Now who's generous with the praise?"
Narcissa laughs in spite of herself.
Neville is quiet for the better part of an hour, taking the utmost care with the bushes as he combs the soil and takes samples, waving his wand as he performs some intricate diagnostic spells. She thinks maybe he's forgotten her presence altogether, when he asks, "Are you happy, Narcissa?"
He hasn't moved to look at her. His focus is still on the flowers.
"Happy?"
"Yes. It's an easy question." His head nods, punctuating, "Are. You. Happy?"
Happy? Happiness is an emotion that's been gone off her path for so long she can scarcely remember what it feels like. Survival has been the cornerstone of her existence. And now that the war is over, it seems like far too much to even hope for. If anything, survival has dimmed to a low pulse of getting by, and even then, it's something that's beyond her reach.
"I—I don't know," she says. "Why do you ask?"
He turns and sits cross-legged on the grass, facing her. "Do you transplant your cuttings from here to the garden by magic or by hand?"
Narcissa's brows knit together at the change of subject. "By magic, of course. I don't understand, what does that have to do with my being happy?"
Neville's head tilts to the side, appraising her with a single glance. "These are magical plants. When you use magic on them, a bit of your magical signature rubs off them, like a residue. It clings to the very core of the plant and mingles with its inherent magic. And Trilling Roses are very susceptible to the emotions of their caretaker. They feed, in part, off your energy. So when you use your magic on them, it seeps in, and those emotions are fed to the plant." His voice drops. "Narcissa, if you're not happy, the plants will feel it. They'll know. And they will respond, or not, in kind."
"So you're saying this is my fault?" Her voice sounds defensive and petulant, and she mentally chastises herself for letting it show.
"No," he replies with a smile. "I'm saying that if you want these flowers to thrive, then you need to find what makes you happy. Or else you'll be resorting to digging in the dirt with the rest of us."
She can't help the lift of her chin. "I'm not above getting dirty."
"What I'm saying is that you don't have to. Maybe I can help." With that, he turns back around and gives the bushes his full attention.
And if she feels like she's lost something when he does, she pushes it to the back of her mind.
OOOOO
Hours later, the sunlight is high overhead, streaming down into the greenhouse, and even with cooling charms, the heat is noticeable.
What's even more noticeable is the fine sheen of sweat glistening on Neville's brow and arms as he works diligently in the flowerbeds. His jeans are covered in light layer of soil, especially the backs of his thighs where he's absently been wiping his gloves every so often. She's trying not stare at the tight stretch of denim across his lower half, but between the heat and his position on the ground, his clothes are stuck to him like a second skin. It's a shocking revelation, but the man has a truly spectacular arse.
It's hard enough to keep her thoughts straight in the hot heaviness of the air, much less without having to stare at his perfectly-shaped backside. His shirt clings to the toned musculature of his back and upper arms, leaving no doubt that he keeps himself in shape. The white cotton t-shirt is damp in patches where the heat has gotten to him as well, and the hem has risen with his movements to settle just above his waistband, revealing a dark, inky something against the tan of his skin.
It only takes a moment for her to realize what she's seeing. She doesn't hear the gasp leave her mouth, but Neville does, shooting a glance over his shoulder. "What is it?" When she doesn't reply, he pulls himself upright. "Narcissa?"
"Is that—is that a tattoo?"
He raises his arms and cranes his neck around to where her eyes are focused. "Oh, my back? Yes, it's a tattoo."
"Of what?" she asks before she can stop herself.
He waves off the question. "It's just something I got after the war. I wanted a reminder of how much I'd changed."
She sits up straighter, letting her feet fall from the bench where she'd been half-reclined to the ground. "May I see?" It's a forward question, and she feels off-kilter for even asking, but off-kilter seems to be the norm whenever Neville's around. It's certainly something personal she would never ask anyone else.
He stands up and faces her. "If you're sure. This can't be appropriate. I wouldn't want to offend."
"I have seen a shirtless man before."
Neville lets out a deprecating laugh. "I'm sorry, of course you have. You're married."
Her lips curl on a slow smile. "Correction: I am widowed. And I wasn't talking about Lucius."
She knows the words are bold, and she says them with confidence. After all, she wears boldness and confidence like a mantle, but she feels them now not because she has to be, but because she wants to.
The smile slides from his lips and he looks her over with a hungry, roving gaze. A pregnant second passes before he whips the shirt off over his head, tossing it to the ground with little ceremony. She registers the wide expanse of muscled chest and the tangy scent of salt and earth before he turns to give her full view of what she asked for.
She staggers back a step because what she is looking at is nothing short of overwhelming. There, big as life in front of her eyes, is the Sword of Gryffindor, indelibly marked on his skin. It starts at his neck, with the ruby red cabochon of the pommel and continues as the grip follows down the long column of his neck, spreading out into the cross guards that span his shoulders. The blade itself spears down, long and piercing, stopping just above the base of his spine. It's full color, and stands out against the rich tan of his skin. Down the center of the blade, she makes out the word 'chrysalis', and the tip of the last 's' curls into the shape of a butterfly.
Narcissa's hand lifts of its own volition and she finds herself tracing the ink with a reverent finger, because she's never ever experienced anything this visceral outside Draco's birth. Nothing that has ever made her want to touch and keep touching, until the feeling is soaked into her fingertips and fused with her blood.
He doesn't flinch at her touch, not until she reaches the tip of the sword, and even then it's only a sharp intake of breath. His skin is warm, so warm, and her finger slides easily, aided by the thin coating of clean sweat.
She can't take her eyes off it. It's like the object and the image can't be disconnected in her mind. It is beauty, elegant and finely crafted. It's hard steel, fierce and arrogant. And even though it is static, it is magical.
He turns, and her hand falls away. She can feel the heat in her cheeks, and she knows she must be flushed. They're so close, almost touching, and if he takes a deep breath, they will collide. Her head tilts back automatically in order to look properly at his face.
Neville's eyes are stormy and bright, and he's staring down at her like she's the only thing in the world worth his attention. She opens her mouth to speak, but his hands clamp down on her upper arms, and he slams her against his body as his mouth claims hers in a kiss that whites out her vision.
It's volatile, unstable and terrifying, this feeling that's coursing through her. An onslaught of sensory input that she's not equipped to handle at the moment. Maybe she never has been, because no man has ever kissed her like this. Not even Lucius in his most passionate moments, which were few and far between and rarely ever meant for her specifically.
Neville's mouth is hot and wet and altogether delicious. The stubble on his cheek is scraping, but it only makes her come alive. Every nerve is being awakened, roused into life in this trial by fire. She thought that maybe there would be a slow burn between them, but she never expected this.
At the first press of his tongue, she opens, because she has no choice but to let him in. He plunders, takes, demands. But at the same time, he's giving, sharing, and offering. His hands come up to tangle in her hair, and she clutches at him for support. She could kiss him like this for days, for years, forever.
The thought is sobering and her hands give a tiny push against his biceps. His hold relaxes and he gently sets them apart. His dark eyes are glittering with arousal. His lips are full, slick, and red. He is so young, so handsome, and she wants.
"I guess I'm helping already," he says, mouthing against her lips.
She licks at them, chasing his taste. "Wh—what makes you say that?"
"Because," he chuckles, biting down on her bottom lip hard enough to make her gasp, "your roses are trilling."