Work Text:
23 June 1996
The fire in the hearth burned low, its embers pulsing a dull, steady gold that threw shifting shadows across the otherwise dim bedroom belonging to the head of Gryffindor house. Minerva sat back in her armchair, turning a page of the magazine that hovered in front of her, drawing her tartan dressing gown more tightly around her shoulders as she stretched her stiff legs.
It had been only five days since she had last been in this room, last been at Hogwarts, and yet it felt as though an entire season had slipped by. Her brief stay at St Mungo's had stretched and warped in her mind until it seemed almost unreal—bright, sterile, endless.
She grimaced in discomfort as the back cushion of her armchair began to sag, causing her to slump at an uncomfortable angle. With a faint frown, she planted her hands on the chair's arms, attempted to slowly adjust her position, pushing herself upright—
A sharp pain lanced through her chest. Her floating copy of Transfiguration Today fell to the ground with a thump.
She drew in a quick breath, arrested mid-rise, and eased herself back down with a careful, irritated exhale.
"Minerva?"
Minerva started at the voice, her head snapping toward the doorway. The sudden movement sent a second sharp flare of pain through her chest, and she let out a quiet groan, eyes squeezing shut.
"Oh, goodness, I should have knocked," came a soft, steady voice. "Here—let me help you, dear."
A large, warm hand met the small of her back, guiding her, and though Minerva felt her brows furrow in automatic protest, she did not resist as she was eased into a more upright, more comfortable position.
When she opened her eyes, she found herself looking up into a familiar pair of soft brown eyes filled with concern.
"Pomona." She tried for a smile. "How are you?"
"Never mind me," Pomona sniffed at once, brisk and fussing in equal measure. "Would you like another cushion? A cup of tea that's better than the dreadful hospital slop I assume you've been drinking the last few days?"
"Pomona," Minerva interrupted, as firmly as her voice allowed.
Pomona stilled. She bit her lip, peering at Minerva closely, as though weighing obedience against common sense.
Minerva let out a resigned sigh. "A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you."
Pomona nodded and crossed the room to the old-fashioned tea service at the back of the bedroom, immediately falling into efficient motion. Water was summoned, cups were warmed, and the small space filled with the comforting clink of porcelain.
"I didn't believe Severus when he told me you were back," she called over her shoulder, a laugh threading through her words. "You'd only been in the hospital a few days—I couldn't imagine them letting you out of their sight for a week at least."
"They certainly did their utmost," Minerva muttered under her breath, not intending for Pomona to hear.
But to Minerva's horror, Pomona paused mid-pour. Slowly, she turned.
"I beg your pardon?"
Under the sharp eyes of her oldest friend, Minerva felt like a student caught out of bounds. She swallowed, averting her gaze. "They didn't exactly wish for me to leave."
Pomona set the kettle down with a decisive clink and put her hands on her hips.
"Minerva McGonagall, explain yourself."
Minerva hesitated, eyes flicking away toward the fire.
"The Healers wanted me to stay until Wednesday," she said finally. "But I…I saw Nymphadora Tonks arrive—terribly injured—and I heard about Potter, and B-Black, and the debacle in the Department of Mysteries…" She exhaled, thin and tight. "I insisted on being discharged early."
Pomona closed her eyes. Her lips moved soundlessly for a moment, and Minerva wondered if she was counting backwards from ten.
"Minerva—"
"If I'd been here, Pomona," Minerva cut in, the words tight with restrained emotion, "I never would have permitted Potter and his friends to leave the grounds like they did—never." She drew in another sharp breath and released it slowly through her teeth. "The Healers can have their opinions. I have mine—and I know where I'm needed."
Pomona swept back to the tea service, but her hands were no longer steady. Cups and saucers were gathered too quickly, the careful rhythm of preparation disrupted.
"I really ought to tell Albus about this, oughtn't I?"
"Oh, I'm sure he's already put the pieces together." Minerva couldn't stifle her bitterness. "I have been ordered to remain in my quarters for the rest of term, with the gracious allowance of meals—and visits to the Hospital Wing." She shook her head. "Poor Poppy. The last thing she needs is another difficult patient. I'm sure she's had her hands full with Granger and Weasley—"
"For God's sake, Minerva, you took four Stunners to the chest." Pomona whirled around, alarm breaking through her composure. "You should still be in St Mungo's—"
"No, I shouldn't." The answer snapped out of her before she could temper it, and Minerva was momentarily startled by her own severity. She steadied herself, voice dropping into something colder, more controlled. "I haven't been to St. Mungo's, for any reason, in over a decade. I am perfectly capable of managing my own recovery."
Pomona went silent.
With deliberate care, she set about arranging the tea tray on the small table at the foot of Minerva's armchair—cups and saucers aligned, milk jug and sugar bowl placed just so. And as Minerva watched the older woman work, she saw something like resolve settle in her face, too subtle to name.
"How would you like your tea today?" Pomona asked lightly.
Minerva blinked, then narrowed her eyes. "Milk will suffice."
Pomona hummed in acknowledgement and poured, unhurried. Minerva kept her eyes on her, wary now, waiting for the argument to resume. She scrutinized Pomona's disarmingly calm expression as she took a cautious sip of her tea.
Pomona took a sip from her own cup. As she lowered it, her eyes met Minerva's—and she let out a soft snort, covering her mouth.
Minerva arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Oh, goodness, your expression—so suspicious," Pomona waved a hand, chuckling again. Her eyes gleamed, making her look decades younger. "It just reminded me precisely of the look on your face every time Elphinstone came by the school." She smirked. "I trust that hasn't faded from your memory."
Minerva stared at her. "Hardly something one could forget."
"Filius and I used to call them his monthly marriage crusades," Pomona went on, her tone warming with nostalgia. "What was it he used to say? The same speech, every time—'Minerva, I'm a Law Enforcement man through and through, and I'm not in the habit of missing deadlines, so once again, I must ask—'"
"'—what can I do to bring you round to a more favorable position on matrimony?'" Minerva finished, a faint smile breaking through. "Unrepentant lawyer—he never would give up."
"Absolutely not," Pomona agreed, laughing harder now. "He even appointed Albus as an intermediary!"
"Oh, yes." Minerva shook her head as she set her teacup back into its saucer, turning it absently between her fingers. "I can't even remember how many times Albus summoned me to his office to discuss it. It was always 'just a game of chess, Minerva,' followed by an afternoon of subtle interrogation."
Pomona sighed fondly. "Oh, he was a good man, Elphinstone." She glanced at Minerva, her smile too tender. "Good for you, after all."
Minerva said nothing, staring down at her lap. She could feel that familiar sting gathering behind her eyes, at the bridge of her nose, and pressed her lips together until it passed.
"He was," she agreed finally. There was a long, heavy silence as she swallowed. "I know I shouldn't have left the hospital, I know I should have waited to be discharged. I know it was…stupid of me. Being back there, I—"
She broke off, but the memory rose anyway—sharp and unbidden: the corridor, painfully bright; the sour, sterile bite of over-cleanliness; the helplessness of having nothing to do but wait, to watch the clock crawl forward; the careful, measured reassurances spoken in calm voices that had meant nothing at all in the end…
Time, it seemed, had done little to soften the pain. Every minute she had spent in that hospital bed had blurred the years between then and now.
And then she had watched Tonks be rushed through the ward, her ribcage bruised and battered—Lupin at her side, petrified and reeling from Black's death—and that same helplessness had returned, overwhelming in its intensity.
"You know," Pomona mused, "a wise man once told me that one of the blessings of old friends is that you can afford to be stupid with them."
"Oh—" Minerva blinked, then let out a strangled snort. "I…I actually had forgotten about that."
"I think it was his favorite thing to say—besides his monthly marriage proposal, of course." Pomona rolled her eyes with fond exasperation. "I always thought he was senile."
"I suppose he was, a bit," Minerva smirked faintly, tipping her head back to look at the ceiling. "Who knew you were right all along?"
"Albus, perhaps," Pomona giggled—looking for a moment disconcertingly like her sixteen-year-old, schoolgirl self. Minerva felt a rush of affection for her dear friend. "But only because he's just as mad as your husband was."
Minerva's smile softened. Pomona returned it, reaching out and squeezing her hand.
"You aren't stupid, dear," she said quietly. "And you don't always have to bear it all alone."
Minerva met her friend's gaze, her chest tightening as something unspoken rose in her throat. She gave a small, wordless nod.
"Oh—I just remembered," Pomona said suddenly, pulling her hand back and reaching into her robes. Her brows drew together as she fumbled in an inner pocket. "Ah." Her expression cleared—she produced a single yellow rose and held it out to Minerva.
It was fresh—recently cut, Minerva noticed as she took it. The petals were still slightly dewy, soft against her palm as she turned it over, a few cool droplets gathering at her fingertips.
"Longbottom found it in the greenhouse this afternoon, rescued it from the roots of a…a tentacula, actually," Pomona whispered hoarsely. "I…well, I thought you might appreciate it."
Minerva ignored the ache in her chest as she drew in a slow breath. The scent rose immediately—sweet and green.
This memory washed over her more slowly: a stretch of sunlight by the Black Lake, grass damp against her robes, the air crisp with late spring. Finn, the fool, was down on one knee again, saying her name with a steadiness that made it feel like a fact rather than a question. A yellow rose was in his hand, offered without hesitation—not a performance, not a rehearsed gesture, but a quiet certainty. He'd always believed in her enough for the both of them. Believed in them until she believed, too.
Minerva couldn't speak, but fortunately, Pomona didn't say more as she leaned forward and drew Minerva into an embrace. Minerva let herself be folded into her friend's warmth, resting her forehead briefly against Pomona's shoulder as her eyes closed and her composure finally gave way.