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Pomona had led them to the room one night, with an air of mystery that had been somewhat comical on her benevolent face. She always said the castle seemed to like her best, something Minerva had no trouble believing: Pomona was capable of talking cheerfully to a section of old stones without getting bored, and she never lost patience with the portraits. Nor had she once tried to curse the Eastern Staircase out of frustration when it stubbornly refused to let her leave the Hospital Wing, something not every Head of House could brag about. She supposed it was fine for a ten centuries-old building to play favourites. It wasn’t as if none of them ever had.

Losing the old staff room had been harder than she would have expected, because it hadn’t been an official loss. One day she had just walked in and found Amycus Carrow sprawled across her chair, and that had been it, in some many ways she had now lost count. Sometimes, when it couldn’t be avoided, she thought of when she had to coerce a much younger Severus Snape to set foot in there, convinced as he was he would never belong. Of course, not five minutes after he had sat in apart from the group, broodingly hiding his long body in a massive armchair, Rolanda had managed to set Albus’s beard on fire in what she still called “an Exploding Snap accident”.

They didn’t see much of him these days either. To her knowledge, he almost never left his office, as if he was afraid the door would never open for him again. According to Poppy, who always could smell a Sleeping Draught on someone, especially if she had not delivered the prescription, he didn’t get much rest. Knowing this did nothing to calm the rage she had been feeling every second of every day since September, but when she heard Irma declare in the most unconcerned tone that she had Flooed the library’s copy of Macbeth to the Headmaster’s office, since she felt “he might fancy a night read”, she had smiled a smile you could have sharpen a knife on. It was war, after all, and he had to know the walls hated him. Had to know how quickly a home could turn into a prison, when the keys changed hands.

She liked to contemplate the idea that, even if the Carrows or some other bullies decide to find out what they were doing during the evening, they would never be able to find them out, hidden as they were behind a hundred doors and the thickest tapestries she had ever seen. The most glorious part was that there had been no magic involved: the room was by no mean unplottable, wasn’t enchanted and didn’t move around the castle. But sometimes, space was its own guardian. To find it you had to walk through two broom cupboards that mysteriously weren’t dead-ends, cross an abandoned mail room, climb two attic staircases, one up and one down, face an attic full of angry pigeons in between, find your way through four dilapidated classrooms and an ominous maze of dark corridors that seemed to wind up on itself until it came to this room, small and cramped with old furniture and almost entirely carpeted. She suspected it used to be some teacher’s quarters, a long time ago. Apparently Pomona had first come across it after talking to the Grey Lady, which could have led to all sorts of speculation, but they were content to just use it, cozy and squeezed together around the giant wooden globe that occupied the middle of the room.

The old staff, or what was left of it, met there every night, except for those who secretly patrolled to make sure the students were safe from any encounter with the new staff. She had run into Longbottom so many times on her own shift now she almost felt like inviting him over for a glass of Firewhisky and a game of chess, which proved she was severely losing her edge – and any memory of her pupils’ age, though she could hardly be blamed for that. Albus would have been proud – she was devastated. But the room was the only place where one could forget about this. They had resurrected all their old habits, as if those walls could hold back time. Filius was still telling the same bad jokes, night after night, and Rolanda still organized the most absurd bets under the table, while Poppy tutted, rearranged the chairs and hummed under her breath. For some reason, the matron always ended up winning, no matter how unreasonable the correct option. Regularly, Pomona would bring fruits “from the greenhouses” that invariably came covered in soil, and the implicit rule was that while everybody had to eat them, no one was allowed to look too happy about it. Tonight it was oranges.

“How?” Rolanda exclaimed. “How does she do it? They grow on trees, for Merlin’s sake. They shouldn’t be so dirty! And I’ve never seen a single fruit in the glasshouse. What are we even eating?”

“Be quiet and eat your greens, Hooch.”

It was only the four of them tonight – she could feel Poppy slowly walking around, letting her fingers trail on the back of her chair – and those were sometimes the best nights. Filius was on patrol with Septima, Irma sick in bed, and there was a blue moon, which meant no Aurora either. They all had tacitly decided not to bother Sybil.

“She’s right,” she said, because she knew better than to question Pomona’s offerings. “You’re so loud they will think a banshee has nested around here, and we can’t afford to move again. If I have to hike any more than I already do to enjoy a peaceful evening, I will need to transfigure myself new knees.”

At that, Poppy’s hand slipped from the cracked leather of the armchair to the curve of her shoulder, and stayed there. She could never remain seated for more than ten minutes, and it was oddly comforting to always feel her presence, blindly, as the air moved with her.

“Oh come on, you know it’s safe. Those walls are the thickest in the castle, we could hold a siege and not even be aware of it.”

“Well,” she peeled the last piece of skin off her orange a bit too aggressively, not minding her words “as my old uncle Topy used to say, “For the stronger we our houses do build,/ The less chance we have of being killed”.

It took her a few heartbeats to notice the silence that followed was heavy with enlightenment. She cursed herself inwardly.

“What did you just say?”

It was the weight of Poppy’s hand on her arm, she was quite sure. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have let the information slip. It was telling, though, that small misstep – and how unlike her it was, or would have been in different circumstances, even six months ago, when she used to remind herself that particular hand was soothing, a friendly support, but never distracting. She archived the thought for later, since she obviously had a more pressing problem to deal with, in the form of an outraged flying teacher.

“Your uncle Topy? Minerva Hecate McGonagall, you swore!”

Hastily, she composed herself a mask of polite surprise.

“Hecate? Dear me, where did you hear that? I rather hope my parents wouldn’t have dared. It would have been quite an untidy pantheon.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Rolanda cried out, obviously proud of her find, as she tried to maintain her show of indignation. “We had your word! And as you all know I have the memory of an elephant: I can give you a list of all the times you denied it to our faces. For shame!”

Pomona nodded vigorously, mouth too full with orange quarters to be able to properly express her disapprobation, but giving a valiant effort to convey it through her eyebrows.

“When I think of all the teasing you escaped by keeping a stiff upper lip, swearing the gods you weren’t related to him, and that frankly we were being ridiculous, that McGonagall was a common name, that you never knew of any William...”

Oh hell, if there was no way around it, she was at least getting out on this by taking the high road, whatever that road might be.

“Well, we called him Topaz, and you still are being ridiculous. “Related” is a big word. He was a distant uncle at best.”

It was always great fun, watching Rolanda pretend to be mad. She turned her head left and right frantically, the spikes in her hair making her look like a nervous bird, and jumped on feet to point an accusative finger like a true professional.

“A distant uncle! I can’t believe the nerves of you! You’re the niece of the worst poet in the country, and we spent all these years not declaiming terrible, terrible verses at you! I’m telling you, by tomorrow Irma will find a long list of books the library urgently needs on her doorstep, and I won’t take the blame if a Ravenclaw or ten happen to find them on a very exposed rack. But first I’m having his bio revised. Distant uncle! I never!”

And with that she let herself fall back heavily into the cushions of her seat, looking entirely pleased with herself. Poppy’s hand was slightly shaking now, and she could almost feel her joyous laugh against her hair. She wished she could lean back a bit more, close her eyes. But instead she sat even more erect: there was no reason she shouldn’t be allowed to overact too. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Pomona giving her an appreciative smile. It was definitely going to be a good night.

“That’s as may be, but don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing,” she paused for emphasis, “Rolanda Xiomara Hooch. Since that’s apparently our new way of addressing each other tonight.”

It occurred to her that one of the drawbacks of correcting her posture was that Poppy’s thumb was now hovering dangerously close to her collarbone, and she was the only one to blame for it.

“And what is that?”

“That is creating a diversion from the fact that I don’t see the game of Spinning Cauldron you promised us yesterday anywhere near. And I’ve not climbed all the way up here on a Friday night to remain as sober as a Wizenmagot member, so I hope your robe has very deep pockets.”

“Oh, Minerva,” Rolanda smiled like a cat who had gotten entirely too much cream. “How your lack of trust pains and amuses me. I’m glad you asked. I wanted to spare Pomona the surprise, for she is weak of heart as we all know,” – a miraculously clean orange hit her in the hip –, “but I can’t hold it any longer. Ladies, I hope you’re all ready for a hearty round of Spinning Cauldron.”

In the centre of their small circle, the globe suddenly opened, and in its empty core stood a small purple cauldron, giving out brightly coloured sparkles.

The first time they had played the game, she had felt like a Sixth Year again, but Poppy had convinced her that if it brought them joy, then it was nothing to be ashamed of. The rules were simple: you stirred the cauldron, thinking about a drink, any drink. Few choices were forbidden, but they had opted to avoid anything potentially harmful. The person of your choice then had to drink a full glass of the substance, and name its content. In theory, there was some sort of forfeit involved if you didn’t guess, but most of the fun consisted in the element of surprise, and occasionally on getting very drunk by asking for yet another sample.

“Poppy dear, stop hovering there, come and sit. I’m taking the lead,” Pomona declared, pushing her bag of dirty oranges away.

“Says who?”

Rolanda, who had seized the cauldron and had a mischievous light in her eyes already, seemed reluctant to see it go.

“Says your old and irritable teacher, now give me this before I begin deducting points.”

Hooch rolled her eyes, but did as she was told.

“It was only a year, when are you going to let us forget about it? File for retirement, why don’t you, they must owe you mountains of Galleons by now.”

Pomona smiled grimly and moved her wand above the cauldron until it began to fume.

“It would go splendidly, now, don’t you think? Snape would be thrilled. Wonder who they would put in my place. We are the only House that never produced any Death Eater, and more importantly that lot wouldn’t know how to grow a daisy for their life. I’m afraid there’s no Dark Botany. But I would like to see them drown in compost trying to figure it out.”

The cauldron was sparkling quite alarmingly now, but they all stayed silent for a minute. She knew Pomona was right, there was no way out for them now, apart from a very definitive one. For the moment, their opponents played along, pretending life at Hogwarts was still liveable, pretending classes were still being taught as they used to be. Sometimes, as she strode through the corridors, carrying notes and parchments to the library, she forgot for a second, and believed she was still breathing the same air, still smelling the same scent of fresh ink and burned candles. And then she would bumped into a first year holding his bleeding hand against his robe, and the illusion would shatter. She had made an awful lot of trips to the infirmary lately.

“Cheers,” Pomona declared emphatically, handing Rolanda what must have been the most terrifying glass that had ever been produced in all of their games. The liquid was brightly blue with large pink bubbles and strange strings of yellow that spiralled widely inside. She saw Poppy’s eyes widened as she repressed a smile. Whatever the mysterious drink was, they were in for a treat. Rolanda seemed as clueless as she was, but shrugged and swallowed it all in one go, defiantly taking the serious expression of the wine connoisseur. The masquerade didn’t last long though, for about two seconds later her eyebrows rose in pure horror.

“Oh no you didn’t. You did not.”

Pomona looked at her sheepishly, wand prepared.

“I’m afraid I did.”

On her left hand side, Poppy was getting excited, which was a rare sight these days. The lines around her eyes had never been deeper, and the circles under it so visible. You could go on healing people, but there was a limit to what was humanly sustainable. Besides, she knew what was eventually coming. Being a nurse, she always had been the one to count to the dead.

“Will any of you tell me what this is, since I’m the only one who doesn’t seemed to have a proficient knowledge of fluorescent beverages?”

“I’ll tell you what it is,” Rolanda hiccuped, before an enormous purple bubble came out of her mouth. “It’s...” Another bubble joined the first, along with three more, as she began to slowly rose from the floor. “It’s a Weasleys Pop!”

“I’m sorry dear, I couldn’t resist.”

Minerva turned toward Poppy:

“Infirmary’s stripes, I presume?”

“As someone who lived through each and every Weasley creation, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. I can’t count the number of times I sent them to your office after they brought me a new patient. They were always insufferably cheerful about it. “Test subjects”, or something of the sort. I remember this one: they told me something that happened to Potter gave them the idea, something about his aunt...”

“Sorry to interrupt, but have you any intention of letting me down anytime soon?” asked a voice above their heads.

Rolanda was now floating against the ceiling in a cloud of purple bubbles, her face spelling that any joke about being a flying instructor would not be well received.

“I didn’t hear a specific name! They have an extensive range, you know!”

“I can’t believe people always think of you as the nice one,” Hooch whined, spitting out another bubble.

“I know!”

Pomona was clearly having the time of her life, which was only justice considering their last round had ended up with her coughing on Rolanda’s choice of Pepperup Potion (Extra Strong). Ultimately, she let the witch down, offering her a shot of Disengorging Drought to stop the effects of the pop. When she managed to tear herself away from the fascinating spectacle, Poppy’s hands were on the arm of her chair, and she was being scrutinized by one of the wisest gazes she knew – one of the last.

“You miss them.”

It wasn’t a question, Poppy knew better than that. In fact everyone knew better when it came to the Weasley twins, it was part a the common agreement.

“They are the best of us,” she simply said, conjuring herself a glass of something decidedly non-threatening, briefly raising it to the ceiling where some of Rolanda’s bubbles were still popping lazily. They listened to their broadcast every night, struggling with the frequency on an old Muggle radio Filius had borrowed from the kitchens – some elves enjoyed listening to music while they worked. Hearing the twins’ voices sometimes felt like a hallucination. The unending list of names sounded foreign in their mouths, and she had trouble realising she wasn’t listening to a Quiddich match’s commentary, and that Jordan certainly didn’t wish for anyone to catch the Snitch. Not much had changed since the last war, except she wasn’t so alone this time, and the reports were decidedly funnier, or at least as heart-warming as they could. For that she would be forever grateful to Fred and George, and Molly and Arthur and whoever else had made them become who they were.

“Right. Pomfrey, you’re up next.”

“Why me,” Poppy asked suspiciously, not letting go of Minerva’s armrest. “I thought you resented Minerva for hiding her family tree away from our prying eyes.”

“That’s true,” Pomona pointed out. “No matter how well I know you – or think I know you, apparently, – I’m always amazed at how convincing you can be when you’re leading someone on.”

She sighed, eyeing the nurse disapprovingly for her treason.

“It’s the perk of being a teacher. I mean, you know that. I’ve always been an excellent liar.”

I’ve worked with the greatest, she would add when she knew it would only moderately upset her audience. They were all hearing it anyway. Because after all, so had Severus. She was thinking about that lately, and how bizarre their few encounters had been, how strained. In his place, admittedly, she would have gloated. While Pomona really was as nice as everyone thought, whatever she may say, no one had ever thought to call her that. Certainly, the others were as angry she was. But she doubted anyone had ever accidentally caused a vase to explode in the corridor leading to the Headmaster’s office, simply because they had heard Snape giving the password to the statue. The glass panels had trembled all the way to her quarters, that day. Again, she was not one to slip, and she couldn’t recall the last time she had experienced accidental magic. Control was essential to her. Transfiguration didn’t come naturally to everyone, and now that she was older she honestly thought there was something about it, a tendency… Pomona was right, there was no Dark Botany, plants were just plants, and the way you used them was your own responsibility. Transfiguration, now… And here it was, Albus’ face again, taunting her. A discipline that allowed you to you shape the world to your will, to defy matter. Oh yes. She would look Severus in the eyes, the day they would fight.

“Nice try, but I still choose you, Poppy. I admit I’m a bit sour about you being right against us all, again, about Aurora’s love life. I was sure I had the numbers right, and that’s a Sickle nobody will repay me.”

The matron sighed, perhaps a bit proudly, and unexpectedly grabbed Minerva’s glass to steal a sip.

“You only have to pay attention. Suitors tend to use extravagant owls anyway, so if you attended breakfast as often as you should, you would keep track too.”

Rolanda sniffed, and dramatically moved her wand counter-clockwise above the cauldron. It soon became obvious why Rolanda hadn’t picked her after all: the Scot in her had to recognize the disgustingly orange concoction Poppy was now critically eyeing, even though she would have denied any familiarity with Muggle Irn-Bru.

“Whatever this is, it’s very, very unhealthy.”

“She’s at least halfway there, you have to concede. As far as I’m concerned, that could be the name of this thing,” Minerva offered.

This seemed to mollify Rolanda, whose main ambition had obviously been to disturb the nurse’s strict diet, or at least to catch her unaware of one of the many dangers Muggle food posed to innocent young wizards.

And before she knew it, Poppy’s face was closer to hers, handing her a glass that seemed to be full of mist. Her eyes were so clear, her smile so soft and kind, and she knew, of course she already knew what was in it before it even reached her lips. It was not a test, not a trick. It was a gift. Poppy had never been one for prank, but she was perceptive and, yes, she paid attention. She always had. Their fingers met on the cold surface, colder than it had been for the previous drinks. Slowly, she let herself smile back, losing herself a little in contemplation, until it became too much, the certitude that her own eyes were bright and shining too humiliating. So she closed them and drank.

Roland must have identified the fumes too, for she heard her grumble:

“At this point, it’s just flirting.”

The remark was followed by a muffled sound that could well have been Pomona’s elbow making contact with soft flesh, but she was oblivious, letting the mist fill her mouth and run down her throat, feeling like her whole body was suddenly made of fresh air. Drop Of The Loch was hard to find, and though it was a magical drink, it wasn’t too obviously so. Nevertheless, the faint taste of heather and peat stayed on your tongue longer than it should have been, and to call it a liquid was an exaggeration. It was more like drinking wind, and a gulp of it left you invigorated and rested, cleared your mind as if you had taken a swim in an icy Highlands lake. She breathed deeply.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, keeping her eyes closed just a little longer.

“I figured you deserved a treat. Embarrassing uncle or not.”

She could almost hear Rolanda roll her eyes, but it didn’t matter. Finally looking at Poppy again, she asked, a bit awed.

“How did you know?”

“You had this air about you. I know how you feel about winter, and you never were one to be kept inside for too long.”

Their new room, as inviting and safe as it was, had no window. Which was good, in theory, but after a while it began to wear you out.

“Well,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know how you managed it, but it is… it is appreciated.”

Swiftly turning to the last remaining contestant, she quickly call back her sense, trying to snap out of this peculiar mood, and smirked.

“Pomona, old girl, I think this is it.”

“Do your worse, McGonagall,” the witch smiled, as if to say she knew better than to expect anything terrible when Minerva suddenly looked this soft.

The glass filled with an emerald content that glowed faintly in the candlelight, and Pomona took a minute to examine it thoughtfully.

“Is it magical? I really can’t tell.”

“Only one way to find out.”

She took her time to drink it, but none of them was holding their breaths any more. For some reason, after Poppy’s gesture, it would have seemed tasteless.

“I know this,” Pomona mumbled, “why do I know this?”

Suddenly, her eyes widened in recognition.

“It’s… what did she called it… it’s Chartreuse, isn’t it?”

“Well done.”

Minerva smiled contentedly. The continental alcohol had always made her think of Pomona, because you could taste how entirely green it was. Besides, it slipped down like water with the strategical advantage of being at least 50%. And Pomona was one of those persons who liked to make a show of their tipsiness, which was always fun to watch. But to her horror, her friend’s eyes began to fill up with tears.

“It was Charity who… always rambling about her Muggle food, you know how it made her laugh to see us try it.”

How she had been stupid enough to forget when, and with who they had all first tried Chartreuse was truly beyond her. Next to her, Poppy rose from her chair and went to stand behind Pomona.

“I miss her. It is so bloody unfair,” the witch stated, unashamed of her tears and not trying to hide them.

This was perhaps what Minerva admired the most about Pomona. She wore her emotions proudly, knowing they were justified because they were hers. It took a special sort of courage, she thought, to act this way and never falter. When Pomona was sad, she told you as much. And then you knew where you stood.

“It is,” Poppy said in the silence, bending over slightly.

“Whenever I asked her about it, she would always say things like “I once had a whole bottle of it with two nuns in a snowed-in cabin of the southern Alps”, or other such nonsense. Remember the whole quiproquo with the ‘Polandroid’?”

“Polaroid, dear,” Minerva quietly corrected, conjuring distant memories of Muggle technology. Poor Charity. They probably hadn’t been the most attentive audience, or at least the most informed. As it were, and even if they deplored it on a regular basis back when it could be considered a concern, most teachers were still being recruited in the Pure-Blood families, as was the case with the most prestigious jobs. Though no one ever seemed to plan for it, it kept happening, which should have told them something. Charity had been essential in providing encouragements to children from Muggle families, and though she was known for being dreamy and vague, she always had that look in her eyes, especially after talking to an overly shy student who no one could convince to apply for Auror. Like she knew something they would never be able to fully grasp.

“She always said there was a whole world out there, and we only knew a fraction of it. And now we’re stuck in here, and I haven’t seen as much as a Hogsmeade signpost in months.”

It was true for all of them, of course. For decades she had thought Hogwarts was enough, and it often had been. But lately… In truth, if she had worried less about the school over the years in which it had been in retrospect fine, entirely fine, she would have allowed herself more. Not necessarily more adventures, or more affairs, only… More. She thought of the wind in the moor again, and her eyes found Poppy’s. With tired gestures, Pomona filled another glass of Chartreuse, took a sip and passed it around. They drank in silence, lost in their thoughts for a moment. For some reason, and absurdly since the walls here certainly prevented them to hear anything of the sort, she had the insistent feeling that it was raining outside.

After a while, Minerva raised her head and said:

“Well I suppose she also was the one to blame for the whole William McGonagall debacle. It isn’t as if any of you have had an extensive knowledge of terrible Muggle poets to begin with.”

“Wasn’t he a Squib?” Pomona asked, seizing the opportunity to put an end to the sad parenthesis. “They were wizards on that side, weren’t they? I always get confused. But wait, Charity also said… oh dear.”

From the devilish expression on her face, she could tell their moment was officially over.

“Why have I the feeling I’m not going to like this?”

“You must promise you won’t jinx me. Poppy, make her promise.”

She opened her mouth in indignation, as Poppy walked to her and took her hands ceremoniously.

“Frankly I’m astound at the level of trust we have achieved, Pomona. To think I’ve only been your colleague for forty years.”

“I’m sorry, Minerva, but you must promise,” the matron said too solemnly.

“Whatever this is, I’m sure I can hear it. I’m not as short-tempered as you all seem to believe.”

Pomona exchanged a meaningful look with the others, before saying slowly:

“Well, she said… she said he wasn’t even Scottish.”

*

After that diplomatic incident, upon which everybody thought best not to comment, the evening grew more quiet and languid. She had reclined in her armchair, abandoning all pretence of good posture, feeling the beginning of a headache building between her eyes. Somewhere in the background, a log cracked in the fireplace, and she could hear Rolanda and Pomona stifled laughs as they told each other the juiciest pieces of school gossip from half a century ago. Or maybe something else now, she had lost focus, burried in her thoughts and trying to forget the pulsing pain. Suddenly, Poppy’s hands appeared above her forehead, with a mute question. Deeply relieved, she nodded, and couldn’t contain a contented sigh when she felt the tip of her fingers on her temples, beginning to move in slow circles, and her breath against her forehead.

“I don’t know how many times I will have to say this, Minerva,” Poppy whispered with that deeper inflection her voice sometimes had, that never failed to elicit a feeling of intimacy in her. “But you know I’m right, so there is no reason not to: keeping your hair this tight all the time is bound to give you headaches. You’re hurting yourself. There are other ways to be dignified.”

“And what are they, pray? I’m not teaching my students coiffed like a Weirs Sisters’ chorus girl, thank you very much.”

“Weirdly specific,” she heard Rolanda comment.

It bothered her, in part, that Poppy rarely let her take care of her the way she did now. Minerva was specifically not someone to be fussed over, but she also understood that she did it to prevent herself from worrying. And she hadn’t fuss a lot, lately.

It was as if Poppy’s fingers, working their magic against her skin, were also unknotting her thoughts. Images were forming in the back of her mind, or maybe being conjured up again from a distant point in time. When they had first come to her, they had been buried under work, and fear perhaps, or at least the lightest dose of self-doubt, not that she would ever admit having any. And she wondered – for the briefest moment, but another small sigh had escaped her lips, when a particularly sore spot was hit, and it was so light a touch that it was presumptuous of her to assume, but she wondered – if Poppy’s fingers weren’t trembling slightly on her forehead. And it always amounted to this. A hand on her shoulder, ghosting above her neck, dying to do something, to help, to soothe. She knew this and she knew she might want to finally do something about it, for Poppy would never take the risk to upset her. She might want to stop being such a great liar after all.

Opening her eyes, she gently grabbed the wrist she could sense next to her cheek, and turned around to catch Poppy’s attention.

“And how are you? You never tell. Sit with me, won’t you?”

As she brought their chairs closer, she heard Rolanda whispering a lewd joke in Pomona’s ear, and wondered for a second if there was something there too, or more likely if it was just Rolanda being Rolanda.

“I’m tired, mostly,” Poppy whispered, and Minerva was the one to take her hand this time, noticing that her nails had been slightly yellowed by the oranges and resisting the urge to feel the edge with her thumb. “The infirmary is so full it’s becoming a new House, and Alecto seems always on the verge of attacking me every time we cross path. They told me to stop admitting students who had been hurt with blood quills, but I gave them a piece of my mind. I won’t be bullied.”

Minerva looked up in concern. That Poppy would always refuse to use the word “punish” to talk about the awful detentions the Carrows gave was one of the thousands things that made her so exceptional. But she could be reckless too.

“And they didn’t say anything?”

“I know they reported to Severus, but I heard nothing more about it. Maybe they don’t want the parents to turn against them so soon.”

She considered the idea for a second, bothered somehow.

“Maybe.”

Her train of thought was cut off by Rolanda turning to them and asking:

“Hey, remember that time we got Nearly Headless Nick to politely haunt Umbridge with historical facts, and she nearly lost it after a week of him appearing in her back and reeling off boring fun facts? We were thinking: why don’t we try something like that again? We could really do with distracted Carrows, and it’s innocuous enough, isn’t it? I mean, what more can they do to him?”

Poppy’s hand tensed under hers.

“I’m concerned they might know spells that could hurt him. I remember researching it when he was paralysed five years ago, and apparently it takes extremely dark magic, but it can be done. Those spells are probably lost, but I wonder if we should take the risk.”

“Besides,” Minerva added, “may I remind you that Umbridge blamed it on me almost as soon as it began. So it might backfire this time too. She said Nick was “my ghost”, and that it was obviously another way of undermining her, that I was a disgusting little insubordinate or something of the sort...”

Pomona chocked in indignation:

“Pardon, she said what? When was that?”

“Oh, she had this little routine of bursting into my office, especially toward the end. Well, not the very end, when she decided she would rather burst my chest instead.”

Poppy turned to her so fast she almost started.

“Don’t you dare joking about that!”

She had been mad at her for weeks, maybe months. She had spent many evenings in the infirmary, Poppy’s cold fingers brushing against her breasts as she changed her plaster.

“Maybe I should be grateful to her after all. Those four Stunners did a lot for my reputation.”

It was stupid to push, and she had just lost the benefice of Poppy’s hand, but she still felt a slight burning in her chest in damp weather, and that was hard to swallow.

“I mean at my age, you have to be realistic. One may have fought duels that went down in history, published in Transfiguration Today on a yearly basis, and even beaten Hagrid in a drinking contest...”

“He had the flue!” Roland intervened.

“...but at the end of the day, those students are still thirteen, and I’m just one more old hag. I’ve got to keep them on their toes one way or another.”

Legs resting on the arm of her chair, Pomona gave her a disapproving tut. She was about to comment, when Poppy suddenly let out:

“I think she was in love with you.”

Shocked silence followed that declaration, and after maybe ten seconds, Rolanda dropped her wand to the floor dramatically.

Minerva opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, and found she still had nothing to say. Eventually, Pomona sighed tiredly:

“Merlin, do we have any Chartreuse left?”

By that time, Rolanda was sufficiently recovered to risk a “yeah, I bet she found you stunning,” but she wasn’t adventurous enough to make it loud and clear.

“It…I... surely you’re joking?” Minerva said, but it was obvious enough that Poppy was serious.

“She always had excuses to be around you, she confronted you even on petty matters, and the way she looked at you…”

There was a peculiar expression on her face, a mix of fear and anger that seemed out of place. She tried to reach out for her again, but she had risen to her feet and was pacing the room again.

“Come on Poppy, it’s Umbridge you’re talking about. I doubt she’s capable of falling in love with anyone.”

“Although...”

She never expected anyone else to concur, but apparently it was the night to be unreasonable. And even from there she could sense Pomona wasn’t going to tease her, understanding instinctively that something else may have been at play, and that she needed to tread lightly.

“I must admit I wondered about it once. Fleetingly. Not that we need to jump to the big words, but she did behave differently around you. I thought it might have been an old school rivalry, but now that you’re saying it… Anyway, it isn’t all that important now, isn’t it? Only terrifying.”

Minerva felt a shiver of horror ran through her, and had to banish images of painted kittens on plates from her mind.

“God,” she whispered. “Yes. Find me that cauldron again.”

*

When Poppy had stated, not long after, that she was tired, she had offered to go with her. Her quarters were in fact closer than the matron’s, but it was quite a walk and it gave her time to think again, as she helped her jump over tricky steps. They were in a strange mood, the both of them, and she didn’t quite know what to do about it, except… She knew she could be formidable in her own way, but what right had she to believe Poppy would find an interest in that? She certainly was no Dolores Umbridge, looking for a demonstration of force. And it was never the right time. They were at war. Bad poets probably had something to say about it, about the finicky count of borrowed time that passed in every playful smile, between every finger gently pressed on a wrist. Since Albus wasn’t there to quote them to her anymore, she had singularly lost interest.

“I’m sorry, I fear we may have upset you tonight,” she said, breaking the silence.

Poppy sniffed, but didn’t turn to look at her.

“Oh nonsense, Minerva. I’m used to being the sane one. It’s literally my job.”

They were nearing the portrait that led to her rooms already, and she still had to make a decision. It was just an evening, a rather common one at that, but somehow… Somehow the knowledge that it could be the last had insinuated in her mind more than usual.

“Good. So will you mind if I trouble you a little more?”

They stopped in front of her door, and she turned around to face Poppy, a sudden sense of certainty coursing through her. It was the wind on the moor, or maybe just the atmosphere in that room, or the rain somewhere outside, too near. It was the tremor in Poppy’s fingers on her skin. She saw the other witch falter under her gaze.

“Minerva. What...”

A sense of gravity had fallen over them. They locked eyes. She marvelled once more at Poppy’s pale face, her blue eyes shining with a rare intensity.

“Would you like to come in?”

Her mouth opened, and something in her expression flickered, but she regained her senses in an instant, straightening up.

“For a chamomile?”

Minerva could almost feel the cold emanating from the stones in her back, so different from the warm breath that had flown over her hair, earlier in the staff room, always there, begging her to turn around…

“No.”

Her gaze never wavering, she let her answer sink, observing, until the moment she saw recognition in Poppy’s eyes.

She said again:

“No, not for that. Would you, not for that?”

There was a palpable pause.

“Oh, I would.”

*

When the door closed behind them, she swore she could hear the portrait that guarded her quarters’ entrance sighed gleefully. Or maybe it was just her inner teenage self, or something equally ridiculous, she really didn’t care. She wouldn’t be haunted tonight, or spied on by the past, as she finally let go.

Poppy was looking at her intently, waiting, as she continued to stand still in front of her own door. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her hands to her hair, and began to remove the pins that were holding it in place, never breaking eye contact. When the first one hit the floor, Poppy’s breath caught. By the time the second one was gone, her cheeks had slightly coloured, which was so lovely a sight she almost stopped midway. Three, four, eight, and then her hair was cascading as she walked toward her, still holding her gaze, advancing mercilessly.

“Oh god,” the other witch quietly said, reaching for her with a trembling hand. “Minerva...”

Her fingers were soft on her cheek, as she caressed a lock away, her respiration erratic.

“What?” she whispered, feeling her throat tightened in emotion.

“I never thought you would listen to me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, letting her own fingers tangle into Poppy’s white, long hair. “I’ve been selfish. I should have...”

“No, no, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Her mouth brushed along her jaw, breathing her in, before pressing two open kisses to her throat.

“We may not have…,” she tried to articulate, hand pressing into Poppy’s hip, her heartbeat so loud in her ears and – how could she denied this to herself for so long? It was like running down a hill, like being outside, all this air and all this life finally in her palms, like inhaling mist, pressed against a warm body.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

She wasn’t quite sure where she was any more, she only knew that Poppy’s hand was under her robe, finding her chest and the mark the Stunners had left there, exposing it, kissing it again and again until it burnt. Steadying herself by clutching to the matron’s shoulder, she managed to meet her eyes again, trying to convey her meaning, begging her not to think she was being a coward again in face of what would inevitably come, next week or in six months, to see she was not hiding this time.

“I know.”

Poppy paused, delicately brought her hands to her face, and kissed her mouth, slowly, almost lightly, but her lips were trembling again, until she began to press into her more, and more, and soon they were both panting, on the verge of incoherence.

“It’s been you for so long...”

She was unbuttoning Poppy’s dress now, biting lightly at her lower lip as she went, until she made her whimper.

“And those hands of yours…,” she added, as they both stumbled into the room.

“Yes? Merlin,” Poppy half-laughed, half-cried, unsteadily moving back. “I don’t know how I’m still standing. I may be having a stroke.”

“It’s fine,” she whispered, as the other witch’s knees collided with the edge of the bed. “We’ll be fine.”

And as they fell back together, she thought of what lied behind those walls, and of what could still be done, and smiled.