the light at the end of the tunnel
“Over here,” Poppy waves, the smile on her face more familiar than it had been in months. Minerva’s smile, too, looks a little worse for wear. It looks more worn now, though, the taste of death slowly withdrawing its hold on them as the days go on. And they do. As much as the sky had collapsed, Hogwarts with it, the days went on. Poppy had thought she learned that lesson a long time ago, but she knows now that it is not a lesson that you can ever truly remember. Time is the most magical thing in the magical world.
Minerva makes her way across the crowded cafe to where Poppy sits. Her long skirt and blouse make her seem distinctly old-fashioned in the crowd of Muggles wearing jeans and T-shirts, but nobody looks twice at her. It is reminiscent of the days when Minerva still interacted with Muggles on a daily basis, and Poppy knows that is because a lot of the pieces she wears are the originals Minerva purchased back then.
“You look well,” Minerva says, sitting down across from Poppy.
Poppy shrugs a little, pushing the cup of tea she had ordered for Minerva towards the other woman. Minerva gives her a small nod of thanks as she takes a sip, the cup still, magically, hot. “France was nice. I did miss the company, though.” There are flutters in her stomach sometimes, when she says things that still shock even herself. There was a time when Poppy couldn’t even imagine saying these things to anyone, let alone Minerva.
Minerva, on the other hand, doesn’t even blink anymore at the words. “As did I,” her voice is soft, with just a little bit of self-awareness that makes Poppy smile wider. Minerva is no more used to saying these things than Poppy is. “Tell me about France. Your letters were painfully short.”
“You’re the one who said that the poor owl looked like it was about to be run to death!” Poppy protests, albeit half-heartedly.
“I meant for you to switch an owl, not lessen the load,” Minerva scowls playfully at her, before blushing profusely at the way Poppy’s smile widens even more, catching the implications of what she’s just said after the fact. “I mean- Oh stop it,” she snaps, taking a sip out of her cup, her cheeks still tinted pink. “You look ridiculous.”
“Whatever you say,” Poppy sings. She does feel quite ridiculous, sitting at a Muggle coffee shop with Minerva, sipping tea and feeling on top of the world because of Minerva’s admission. But she tells Minerva about her stay in France anyways, although her grin doesn’t grow any smaller.
It feels nice. It feels nice the same way that an old blanket does. Rough, soft, and somehow still warm.
“Are you ready for the school year?” Poppy asks when the conversation lulls to a comfortable pause, taking a dainty sip out of her cup. “I heard from Sybill that you’ve been, in her words, ‘storming around and scaring the hell out of the ghosts’.”
“I have not,” Minerva sniffs, holding her head higher. A pink tinge on her cheekbones exposes the truth, though. “There have simply been a lot of things to prepare. As there always is.”
“We all know you take your job seriously,” Poppy smiles softly, allowing her fondness to trickle through. They both don’t mention, by some silent agreement, the horrors of the Battle of Hogwarts. The wound is no longer gaping, but some days it still feels as though it could rip open without a moment’s notice. They’ve discussed it so much, hesitantly at first, then ardently, avidly, academically, and the topic is even more worn out than their smiles. “Is the Hospital Wing still standing?”
“Your replacement for the summer, although not nearly as experienced as you, is hardly green, Poppy.” Minerva remarks, regaining her composure easily now that she can tease Poppy about this topic again. “He did fine.”
Poppy scowls. “Stop looking so happy about that. The Hospital Wing is my baby!”
“Yes, darling, I know.” Minerva says, absently, too busy looking as pleased as a cat that had swallowed a canary to really be paying attention to what she says. Poppy has to bite her own tongue to stop the smile that is attempting to rip her face into half, because she doesn’t want to make Minerva self conscious. The slight blush that hints at showing at the top of Minerva’s cheekbones makes Poppy think that Minerva didn’t need Poppy to react to know what she said.
When they stand, the sun is beginning to set. Poppy pays the bill and holds out her arm for Minerva to grab before they Apparate back. Minerva shakes her head. “Let’s go to the bakery,” she points at the shop across the street from them.
“Do you want something?”
“Something sweet.”
Poppy gives her a look, confused, but she allows Minerva to lead her towards the general direction. “Do you want to stop by your cottage before we head to the train station after we get something sweet?” Poppy asks, distracted as she holds out a hand to thank the car stopping for them to cross the crosswalk.
When Minerva doesn’t respond, she turns, a question already on her lips. The look in Minerva’s eyes, though, stops the question short. “…Minerva?” Is all she manages in the end, the name trailing out of her mouth almost unwillingly.
”Do you know,” Minerva remarks, quietly, stepping just a little closer to Poppy and gently taking her hand as they approach the front of the bakery. “You made a promise to me once.”
“I - ” Poppy’s mouth is dry. There is no need to ask Minerva what promise she means. “I did.”
”When do you plan on making good on it?”
“What?”
Minerva’s face is unreadable. “When, Poppy?”
Poppy looks around them. There are people, Muggles, mostly, rushing about their afternoons. They are busy, none of them focused on the two women stopped in front of a bakery. How could they not notice, Poppy thinks deliriously. How could they not notice the explosion that has just happened, the fireworks that light up the sky, the beginning of the rest of her life. The noise of the world around them fade, the cars and the people and the rest of London nothing more than a backdrop as Minerva’s voice becomes the only thing that Poppy will ever want to hear again.
There is only one thing left to do.
“I’ve wanted to do this since we were at Hogwarts,” Poppy tells Minerva, already breathless. She watches Minerva lose the unfathomable look, instantly ardent, and Poppy isn’t sure who pulled who. It doesn’t matter, though, because in the end, Minerva’s lips are soft on hers, and Poppy’s heart might have died and healed itself a thousand times over. All of the death, all of the sorrow, and suddenly it is as though it remembers how to beat again.
An eternity passes. Several seconds pass. Hours go by. In the end, it is a whistle, from some passerby across the street, that separates them. Minerva doesn’t even look away as she waves her hand, and Poppy giggles, hysterically, knowing that the passerby is probably going to have to think twice before they catcall again.
They stare at one another, Poppy reading a longing inside of Minerva’s eyes that mirrors her own. Minerva is smiling, a small thing that belies none of the self-satisfaction Poppy reads anyway in the slope of her shoulders. “Well. That wasn’t terrible.”
That breaks the spell. Poppy glares, while Minerva’s smile grows wider. “Wasn’t terrible?” Poppy demands, “Oh, okay, I guess I just won’t - ” Minerva stops her next words with another kiss, this one somehow even more tender than the last. “Do it again,” Poppy finishes, lamely, when Minerva releases her.
Minerva’s tongue flicks out to lick her lips, like a cat after a nice meal, and Poppy can’t help the way her eyes trace the action. When she looks up again, Minerva’s smirk is all too knowing. “Shall we get the sweets now?”
Poppy groans. “I hate you.”
“You don’t.”
“No,” Poppy concedes with a sign, “I suppose I don’t.” She slips to the other side of Minerva and holds the door to the bakery open.
“Thank you,” Minerva murmurs.
“Thank me later when there’s no one around.” Poppy murmurs back, and this time, she doesn’t hold back the peals of delighted laughter that Minerva’s blush triggers. It only lasts a moment, though, because then Minerva is leaning in, her eyes piercing.
“I suppose we will be stopping at my cottage before we head to the train station, then,” Minerva says, quietly, stealing another kiss.
Damn her, Poppy thinks, desperately trying to control her blush. From the look on Minerva’s face, she fails. Damn her, Poppy thinks again.
Minerva holds her hand out, an expectant look on her face, and Poppy’s resistance lasts two seconds before she allows herself to grab Minerva’s hand, entangling their fingers together. “Shall we?” Minerva asks.
“We shall.”