a time to born and die

“Can I ask you a question?” Poppy says, sleepily.

Pomona looks up from where she is grading. “‘Course.”

“Do you miss Sybill?”

“What?”

“Sybill.”

“Why are you thinking about her?” Pomona looks back down at the papers on her desk, marking something a little more harshly than she normally would.

“The war,” Poppy says simply. She doesn’t need to explain. They’ve all been thinking about their loose ends recently. “She sent me a letter, today.”

“She lives in the West Tower. She could have just walked down to get it to you.”

Poppy ignores her. “It said, ‘it is tonight’. That’s it. Isn’t that strange?” Poppy laughs, more of a choke than a laugh. “I haven’t spoken to her in years, and yet that’s all she has to say to me when she reaches out.”

“Don’t mind her,” Pomona makes another harsh stroke with her quill. “She’s probably going off again about everything that she Sees and how we’re all going to die. Trying to scare you the way she scares the children.”

“You don’t believe that.”

The silence afterwards is so long that Poppy thinks that Pomona won’t answer her. Then Pomona sighs. “I don’t.” She admits, so quietly that Poppy isn’t sure she heard her.

“I miss her,” Poppy tells Pomona, equally as quiet. “I forgive her.”

“I miss her too.”

There is a banging on the door. Poppy and Pomona share a glance, but before they can stand up to get it, the door is blown off of its hinges. In its stead stands the very person they had just been talking about, and her eyes are burning.

“The Dark Lord is here,” Sybill says, a timbre to her voice that doesn’t match the way that she seems like she would fall over with a gust of wind. “The Dark Lord is on his way to Hogwarts.”

“What?” Poppy is on her feet in an instant.

“Minerva is calling us all to the Great Hall. Snape has been chased off of Hogwarts, and Voldemort–”

“Don’t say his name, you idiot!” Pomona snaps, rising out of her chair only now. “He’ll find you!”

“He’s already found me,” Sybill whispers, her eyes wild. “He’s already on his way.”

“I need to find Minerva.” For all that Pomona hasn’t spoken to Sybill in years, there is a sobriety to the way that she appraises Sybill, and the way that she speaks. “I hope you are just off your rocker, Sybill.”

“The Sight is never wrong.”

Poppy grabs Pomona and her wand. “I’m coming with you.”

They don’t get far at all, before Peeves is running at them, his normally jovial face so pale that Poppy nearly runs through him. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is coming,” Peeves is screeching down the halls, “Harry Potter has returned! The Boy-Who-Lived has returned!”

Poppy stops, frozen in her tracks. “What?” She whispers.

“Oh, fuck.” Sybill states.

“Fuck indeed!” Peeves screams, trailing off to no doubt continue his mission of waking everyone in the school up. He fades away to the back, still screaming his terrible prophecy, and Poppy and Pomona share one look.

Pomona grabs her into a tight hug. “Don’t you dare fucking die on me,” she whispers into Poppy’s ear. Then she’s turning, grabbing Sybill by the shoulders. “If you die, so help me, I will find your bloody nonsense sprouting hide and drag you back just to kill you myself. Do you understand me, S?”

Sybill’s eyes are watery. “I’m coming with you.”

“What?” That gets Poppy out of her shock.

“I sat out one war out of fear once. I’m not watching another from the sidelines.” Sybill’s gaze is iron. “Don’t die, flower.” Then she’s gone, striding off to the Grand Hall with Pomona, leaving Poppy alone.

“Fuck,” Poppy whispers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She rushes to the Hospital Wing, not bothering to change, and she grabs the first bag that she finds. It is with trembling hands that she murmurs an extension charm on it, and then she begins to fill it with everything that she can. Roots, draughts, bloods, Dittany, she throws everything that she possibly can inside. With one last look around the place that she has called work for the past few decades, she storms off to the Great Hall.

She is only allowed a moment of relief when she sees Minerva standing at the front of the room, directing the students. Then, a cold, sinking voice that drips with power and the ability to cause fear speaks, so loud that Poppy feels it in her bones.

“I know that you are preparing to fight. Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood. Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded. You have until midnight.”

The rest of the night, Poppy sees through fractures of what happened.

There! Devil’s Snare. Poppy feels a flash of pride before she notices the red that is dripping down the side of one of the students, lying on the ground. His face is ashen. Poppy runs to his side before any more of the precious life leaks out of his side. She is just on time. The spell she murmurs is second nature, now.

She stumbles. She looks down. Eyes that might have been brown once look back up at her. She looks away. She stumbles away.

Sybill, launching crystal balls at the Death Eaters. She laughs, a high, trill sound, and Poppy realises after a moment that it wasn’t Sybill who laughed. She laughed.

One down. One of the horrendous, mask wearing dark shadows falls, and Poppy resists the urge to run over. She is a Healer, something or someone is screaming at her. She is a Healer, she should be Healing, not turning away!

Oh Merlin, oh God, oh God, that’s… That’s Remus, that’s Remus Lupin, that’s the boy that she helped get to the Shrieking Shack so many times when he was a boy. She’s the one who nursed him back to health, who made sure that he never hurt himself too badly. That’s him lying on the ground. He’s pale, now, paler than he’s ever been.

God, it’s like it was yesterday that she remembers him, grinning sheepishly at her as he trails after his friends to apologise for whatever scrapes that they’ve gotten themselves into again. Surely it was only yesterday that she was sighing, shaking her head at him, before telling him to run off and join his friends? Surely it was only yesterday that she was trailing after him, calling after him to ask him to eat a bit of chocolate because he had a particularly bad transformation that he had always seemed so determined to ignore. He is a child. He was a child. To her, he is still a child.

Poppy turns away.

There is a scream somewhere, and Poppy turns away.

The first wake Poppy attends, she returns to Healing immediately. There are more gaping wounds for her to heal, more bones for her to grow, more curses for her to attack. She works until her mind is numb, until she can’t see the words engraved on the urn, three small words. Amelia Susan Bones was at Hogwarts around the same time as she was. She had not known much about her. But Pomona had been friends with her in school, and it is Pomona’s grief that she feels when she mourns the powerful witch. It was an easy start, though. Poppy neither knew Amelia Susan Bones personally, nor had Amelia Susan Bones died recently. There had been time for grief, for wounds to stop bleeding, and so the wake had been a celebration of life rather than a declaration of death.

Poppy still works until she can collapse on the cot they have set up for her at St. Mungo’s at night, no thoughts and no images, blissfully empty of any emotions.

Sybill doesn’t want to go to Snape’s funeral. “I can’t,” Sybill says, her eyes wide and angry. Poppy is too tired to understand why she would be scared. “He- He was the one.”

Poppy and Pomona share a look, and Poppy wants to laugh hysterically at how the motion is so familiar, even though they were girls lifetimes ago. “What do you mean?” There is still a distance in Pomona’s voice, a gap that Poppy knows will take much longer to heal than the instantaneous forgiveness Sybill had offered both of them. Poppy does not blame Pomona, but she has forgiven Sybill as simply as the snow melts. She is tired of loose ends, and she has not forgotten the terrifying moment where she had seen hair as wild as Sybill’s on the ground. Even now, her guilt lingers as she remembers the maniacal joy that had filled her to the brim in the midst of death and gore when she realised that it had not been Sybill.

“S-Snape is the one who…” Sybill bites her lip. “Who told He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named–”

“Voldemort,” Poppy interrupts, suddenly incensed. “Call him by his name.”

To her credit, Sybill doesn’t flinch at Poppy’s tone. “Snape is the one who told Voldemort about my prophecy.”

Oh.

Pomona looks as shocked as Poppy. Since the end of the war, knowledge about certain confidential matters has been released to the public, and Sybill’s prophecy is one of the things that came out in the Daily Prophet less than two weeks ago. Everything had made sense, for a moment, after Poppy read the article, but this last bit of information had not been public.

“I can’t…” Sybill shakes her head, tears filling her eyes. “I can’t do it.”

She doesn’t say more, but Poppy grieves with her. That prophecy, the one that cemented Sybill’s legacy as a Seer, is the same one that led to them not speaking to one another for a near decade. For Sybill and Pomona, even longer. Poppy doesn’t dare to look at Pomona’s expression. She isn’t sure she could handle it.

“Don’t go.” Poppy says, startled by how firm and soft her voice is. “He… Merlin knows he was heroic in the end. But Severus Snape is no hero.”

“Yes,” Pomona says, clearing her voice multiple times. Poppy still doesn’t dare turn around to look at her. Maybe this is what Minerva meant when she spoke about Ravenclaws and their cowardice, all those years ago. “Don’t go, S.”

The nickname makes Sybill cry, tears dribbling down her chin as she sobs, and Poppy pats her on the back. When she finally dares to make eye contact with Pomona again, she sees the terrible devastation in Pomona’s eyes, and it makes her cry, too. Pomona, always strong, puts her arm around the two of them and cries, for them, for everyone, and their tears mix together until none of them are sure what they are crying for and who is crying anymore.

Poppy approaches the funeral, though she doesn’t attend it. Instead, she watches as Minerva stands, clad in black with an expression of nothing at all, amongst the funeral attendees. There are fewer people at Severus Snape’s funeral than at any other Poppy has attended so far, and although Poppy believes Snape is no hero, her heart breaks for him, too. She remembers the boy he was, remembers the young boy filled with anger and fear when he began teaching, and there is very little she can do besides ask herself why. Why hadn't she seen something? Why hadn’t she said something? Why?

She knows Minerva is asking herself the same thing. So she doesn’t say anything when Minerva returns to her, stony and dry-eyed. She just offers her hand, and when Minerva’s fingers are so loose in hers they would slip out if they had the chance, she tightens her grip.

In a way, she is lucky. The last funeral she has to attend, the one she doesn’t dare think about, is set after the work at St. Mungo’s is done. She feels guilty but she misses the hustle and bustle of the work at the hospital, misses the nights she fell into bed aching and hurting everywhere except for her heart.

In other ways, she is ruined. The last gravestone is simple.

Remus John Lupin, 10 March 1960 - 2 May 1998

A name, two measly dates, to describe a boy who had been as soft as moonlight, as cold as the sea, as fierce as the sun. Poppy doesn’t hear a word of the eulogy, although she is sure that Harry Potter does a beautiful job. She can only stare, blankly, at the headstone. She is sure that the headstone is exactly as Remus would have wanted it to be, simple and unadorned, sure that if he had his way he probably wouldn’t have a headstone at all. He would probably want to be scattered in the wind, so that he may see the world, finally without the burden that had been his greatest shame. But she sees the name next to it, Nymphadora Tonks, beautiful and bright like the rainbow of colours she was always sporting on her head, and she knows that if nothing else Remus would have wanted to be next to someone that he loved. He had always wanted that.

She can’t cry. She’s run out of tears for the dead.

She doesn’t notice Sybill next to her until she feels a slim, chilled hand slide into her own. She looks at Sybill, but she doesn’t really see her friend. She is grateful that Sybill doesn’t try to say anything to her. There is nothing to say.

Filius stands in front of her, his head bent and his short stature seeming to droop under the weight of all of the possibilities that have now become impossibilities. Filius is the one who avenged Remus, Poppy recalls dimly, but there is no joy in that anymore. She remembers Minerva’s words at the end of the First War. She wishes she were still naive enough to find joy in vengeance. Pomona stands next to him, at a respectable distance, comforting her old flame turned great friend. Pomona is mourning, too. Pomona is probably adding Nymphadora to her own list, remembering the girl who had caused her so much trouble and regretting so many things, plagued like they all are by what could have been.

She doesn’t even realise that the people who had come to Remus’ funeral– Remus and Nymphadora’s, she must remember that– had dispersed until a voice speaks up, next to her. “Thank you,” the boy saviour tells her quietly. “Remus,” the boy– because that is all Harry Potter is, a boy thrust into something that he was barely able to comprehend– chokes up for a moment, before he clears his throat and continues. “Remus had always spoken fondly of you.”

It takes her a moment to focus on the boy, but even when she does, it takes her a moment to remember that she needs to respond. “Don’t thank me,” her voice is empty, flat.

Harry Potter does not take offence at the way she speaks. “It gets better,” he says, so factually it breaks her heart. He is so used to grief, she thinks, it is worn on him like a familiar coat. She had thought her heart too ravaged to feel anything else anymore, but at the thought it twangs, and she is reminded of its loathsome existence again. This time, she grieves for James and Lily Potter, grieves for the boy that should have had a beautiful childhood with loving parents, the boy who should have, by all rights, had parents who loved him more than life and two uncles who loved him like life itself. The same boy who now has none. “It always does.”

“Thank you,” she says to him, at him, through him. She means it for more than the comfort that he is unable to offer her but tries to anyway. She means it, for all of those who are dead, for all of those she had to fight Death long and hard to keep, for all of those who are alive and mourning.

Harry Potter understands. She wishes with an almost religious fervour that he wouldn’t.

“Flower,” it is Sybill’s voice that next draws her out of the hole she has dug for herself. Sybill’s hand is still in hers. She clenches it, suddenly, afraid that if she doesn’t anchor herself she will fall, and never be able to stand again. “Will you return to school with me?”

She looks at her old friend for a moment, the words travelling like they have to pierce through water before they reach her. “School?” She echoes, blankly. Their school is destroyed, a wasteland of days long since passed. The Hogwarts of her school days has long since falled, and in its place is a castle of darkness and death.

“You look like you’re about to drop,” Pomona says, next to her. She would jump, if she still had enough energy to do so. “How long has it been since you’ve taken a break, P?” Pomona’s voice is uncharacteristically soft.

“I don’t know.” She tells them the truth.

Sybill’s eyes are wide, grey, all knowing. Poppy wishes she had never doubted her friend. Poppy wishes she had never fought with her. Poppy wishes a lot of things. “Come on, flower. Let us take you home.”

Home. It is almost a foreign concept now. Poppy lets them lead her away anyways.

“Poppy,” Minvera greets her, rather stiffly considering everything that they’ve been through together. There are dark circles painted under the newly minted Headmistress’ eyes, and the lines around her mouth seem more pronounced than ever, no doubt a symptom of the way that they had been thinning in anger more often than ever these past few weeks of rebuilding the school. “I trust the Hospital Wing is organised for the students’ return?”

“Yes,” Poppy says simply. There have been too many bodies that she has had to count, too many wounds that she could not heal. “Are you alright?”

Minerva dismisses the question. “I’m fine,” she says, shortly. “Are you?”

Poppy knows what she looks like. She has not slept well since Remus’ funeral, she keeps replaying the screams of students and past students in her mind, and every time she looks at the sterile white of the Hospital Wing she is reminded of the blood that splattered everywhere during the last battle. She must be going stark raving, she thinks sometimes. “I’m fine,” she breathes, although she doesn’t know why she lies.

For the first time, Minerva really looks at her, her gaze piercing as it roves over Poppy’s face. Poppy’s too tired to begin to wonder what Minerva finds, but whatever it is Minerva’s brow creases in concern, and she makes to take a step closer. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Have you been?” Poppy shoots back, wincing at her own tone. She runs a hand over her eyes and takes a deep breath through her nose. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

Minerva tilts her head a little, her gaze inquisitive and confused, before something softens and she sighs, too. “I haven’t been sleeping particularly well,” she confesses.

Gratitude blooms in Poppy’s chest. “Do you need a Sleeping Draught?”

“If you could spare any.”

“I can,” Poppy says, firmly. “Wait here. I’ll go get one for you.” She doesn’t wait for Minerva’s confirmation before she turns, and even though she could summon the potion if she liked, she feels the sudden burning urge to turn away for a moment. She can feel Minerva’s eyes on her back, and for the first time in the decades that she’s known Minerva, she’s uneasy. Unsettled.

When she returns with the draught in her hand, Minerva is standing exactly where she left her. To a naked eye, she stands tall and strong, the ready Headmistress of a newly rebuilt school. Poppy knows her too well now to not recognise the slight slope of her shoulders, the way that she holds one arm to her chest as though too tired to let it swing on its own, and the set of her mouth. A wave of concern coupled with fondness washes through the desert that has taken over Poppy’s heart in the recent months, and she clutches to it the way a traveller in the desert clutches to fresh water.

“Here,” she hands the potion to Minerva, who startles on her return. In response, Minerva gives her a small smile, one side of her mouth tilting up in an uncharacteristically timid expression.

For a moment, they are both looking down at the bottle that Minerva holds tightly in her hand. There is a tranquillity in the silence, a moment of stillness in the midst of the chaos that is just outside the door.

“Well.” Minerva’s voice is soft, seemingly as unwilling as Poppy to disturb this moment. “I’m needed. I must get back.”

Poppy makes a split second decision. “Wait,” she says. Minerva pauses, half turned, an eyebrow raised in confusion. She moves, half a breath forward, so that she is closer to Minerva, closer to the woman who has plagued her mind for so long and yet she is still so far away from. “Minerva.”

“What is it?”

“I am going to kiss you.” She declares. “Not right now. Not today. But I am going to kiss you, and if you have objections, I suggest you tell me now.”

Minerva blinks at her in shock. “What?”

Poppy doesn’t say anything. She just stands there, tired and ragged, her heart so full of holes that even this last one, what would have once been lethal, feels like just another potential pain. She isn’t even nervous anymore. She has imagined this moment for so many years that she doesn’t even know what it is like to live life without loving Minerva McGonagall anymore, and yet she isn’t nervous at all. She is just scared, scared that if she doesn’t tell Minerva now, one day she might not get the chance to at all. She is terrified of loose ends, and she has no hopes of ever tying up this one, but she can try.

She doesn’t have any idea what Minerva finds in her eyes, but something hardens in Minerva’s own eyes and she nods, firmly and sharply, just once. “Alright,” she says, the lines that the war has drawn on her face beautiful in the afternoon light.

Poppy blinks at her. “What?”

“Alright,” Minerva repeats, and for a moment Poppy wonders if she should be worried that there is no joy in Minerva’s eyes, no joy in her face. There is instead a grim determination, something that mirrors what Poppy knows must be on her own face. “Kiss me, Poppy. When you want to. When you are ready. When-” Minerva’s breath hitches. “When everything is okay again.”

Poppy steps closer again, almost unconsciously. They are so close now that all Poppy would have to do is angle her head upwards and forwards, and she would be able to make good on her promise. “I don’t know if things will ever be okay again,” she whispers, her hand seeking out Minerva’s. Their fingers entangle together.

Poppy has never bemoaned the dearth of language as much as she has in that moment. The look in Minerva’s eyes is one that she wants to tattoo on her heart, use as a bandage to remember that the world keeps going, and she can’t begin to contemplate why she had ever even considered being nervous.

Minerva’s conviction shines through the wear and grime of rebuilding and school, and Poppy thinks she’s never seen anything that both burns her and makes her never want to turn away again.

“We’ll find a way.”