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The wind was harsh and biting, nipping at her ears and uncovered throat, and Minerva cursed her reluctance to go back for her winter outerwear. But by the time the cold really seeped in, she was already half way to Pomona's personal greenhouse and the trek back to the castle felt too far. The snow was cold and knee-high, somehow getting into her snow-spelled, knee-high winter boots, but she didn't stop to cast additional water repelling charms. She trudged on to Pomona's personal greenhouse instead. Of course, officially it was the seventh year NEWT greenhouse, but as students rarely pursued a NEWT in Herbology, Pomona was free to use it to suit her needs. And now that she taught only NEWT Herbology, Pomona had a lot of free time. Minerva didn't feel jealous, per se, but she did have a jab of professional envy towards Pomona when the Board of Governors once again denied her requests for a larger Transfiguration classroom.
Minerva knocked on the door out of habit, and entered the greenhouse without waiting for a reply. There, on a small table next to a magical fireplace, was already a second cup of tea ready for her. Pomona had likely heard her coming. She picked it up, sat on the bench and stared at the fire for a long while, waiting for her friend.
After a while, she heard Pomona come into the side room to the greenhouse and shifted to make more room for her on the bench. Pomona took the other teacup and they stared at the flickering flames. For a blink of an eye, Minerva saw Albus' smiling face in the flames, twinkling his eyes and laughing his bellowing laugh. Then it vanished into nothing.
"James Potter stayed for Christmas break. The whole team stayed, something about needing even more time to practice," she began, leaning on Pomona's shoulder and taking comfort in being near her best friend. It was late today, past eleven maybe, much later than she usually came for their weekly fireside chats. "Asked me about one of my first Transfiguration essays, the one about dragon's wings. He's a good student, unlike some knuckleheads I could name," she said with a snort, thinking of an idiot first year's dabbles into human transfiguration. "Straight O's in Transfiguration, E's and O's in everything else."
Sitting this close, she could feel Pomona nod against her.
"An O in Herbology, too," Pomona confirmed.
Minerva sipped her tea, finding another small bit of comfort in the strong tea. "He's a better student than Harry and James," she whispered, wringing her hands. "Did you know, he sits in the third row, the desk to the very right? It's a nice desk, I suppose. Easily forgettable." After a short pause, she continued, "Harry sat there. James, too."
A forgettable desk. An unforgettable name.
As she watched the flames, she could almost see a student, pureblood, delirious with happiness to finally be at Hogwarts, shining with pure talent at Transfiguration, sitting with his four instant friends in the third row.
She could almost see a student, half-blood, delirious with happiness to be at Hogwarts, shining with more enthusiasm than talent, sitting with a tall redhead in the third row.
"He looks so much like Harry. So much like James. And his name is James. Another James Potter." She gulped down her tea to prevent tears. "What right did he have to name him James?" she pleaded into the fire. "What right did he have to give that name to the next look-alike of James Potter? Will I watch him too, watch him rise to greatness, and be cut down by someone unworthy to say his name?"
The fire had no answers, and neither did Pomona.
"I don't want another James Potter," she whispered. "It's been four decades and it's still too soon."
What right did Harry have, to name his first son James Potter, then release him into Hogwarts to break the hearts of everyone who had truly known James Potter? The people who had known him as the bright, happy, (arrogant), cute, (annoying), (always distracted) student that James had been? The enthusiastic father, the affable conversationalist, the adorable smarmy first year...
Minerva did not want another James Potter. She had a soft spot for those four, James, Sirius, Remus, Peter. It ripped apart something inside her when each of them died. Must she also watch James II die an early, premature death? Must she watch and love and care for another boy who'd drive the memories of James farther and farther, until when she saw that messy-haired silhouette, she'd no longer recall whose it was? James', Harry's, or James' again?
Harry had named his first son in honor of his father, because he missed and loved him, and Minerva could understand that. But hadn't he thought of others, people who truly knew James Potter? Would it make him feel better to watch her while as bleed she bled and cried for the James Potter of her memory?
It was so painful, to call one look-alike after the other "Mr. Potter," and sometimes forget, just for a moment, which one she meant. She was getting much too old, Minerva told herself, to be teaching. Much too old and much too mawkish, and Pomona would agree with her. Maybe she, Pomona, and Horace might take a vacation after this year. A short break from teaching sounded wonderful.
By the time she finished her cup of tea, a new day had begun.
"There went Christmas," Pomona said, gently pushing Minerva off.
"Yes," she said, then shook her head, shaking off her somber mood. It would do her no good to sit and mope. She had a Boxing Day brunch date with Horace, after all, and she needed to build up her mental tolerance for potions gibberish and crystallized pineapple.