Valkyrie

January 1979

Poppy understands war.

She remembers it, from her youth. She knows it took her father, with his gentle eyes and big hands. She knows it took him, and she’ll never forgive anyone for that.

She can still remember the sound of her mother’s sobs. It’s her first real memory, standing at the door, watching these tall wizards take off their hats while Mum weeps on the floor.

Maybe that’s why she gravitated towards healing. Maybe she saw the blood and guts and thought: this must be how my father felt.

She understands that better than she ever thought she would now.

~*~

Poppy is still in bed when the phoenix comes.

She startles awake at the whoosh in the room, having always been a disturbingly light sleeper. Minerva was the one who could sleep through an earthquake. Not Poppy; it was as thought she was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, especially when she was unconscious. That childhood fear, immortalized in her basic patterns.

The silver phoenix is perched on the bedpost, head slightly cocked as though it is truly watching her. It is eerie. Poppy’s never been able to conjure a corporeal patronus – a source of frustration for the teenage Poppy, for whom academic success was the only goal – and so she feels a strange mix of envy and discomfort at the sight of one.

The beak opens, and Albus’ voice comes out. “Coming to you shortly. Blood moon tonight. Get Minerva.” With that, the patronus dissolves into whisps of blue air.

Blood moon tonight, a codeword: there has been a werewolf attack. And if they are coming here, then that means…

Poppy does not allow herself time to think. She springs into action, dressing quickly, and tearing out the door as fast as she can. No time to waste.

~*~

Poppy is old now. She’s 44, greying at the top already. Not graceful streaks of silver, like Minerva, but ugly grey. she keeps her hair up and tucked away as much as possible.

She wonders sometimes how she is no longer seventeen, running through the halls of Hogwarts with Minerva and Alphard and Lyall by her side. Sometimes, she hears giggling and pounding steps down the hall and wonders if it is her past self, and if this whole life has been but a dream.

Not a dream.

In his letters, Alphard would add something small at the end, right before his name. she would trace those words over and over again until they imprinted into her fingertips and mixed into her bloodstream: you are still here.

You are still here. A simple reminder of her existence, her body in motion. Alphard knew she needed it without ever asking. They understood each other like that, in a way they could never have with other people. It made sense; so much of their lives had to be spent in silence, hidden from the public eye. So many secrets makes one particularly adept at non-verbal communication, it seems.

Sometimes, Poppy will wake up in her bedroom at Hogwarts, and she will reach over for a body that is not there. Alphard was never there, not like this. It’s not Alphard she’s reaching for, but the guilt that floods her body when she realizes makes her wish she wanted him instead.

The ring still sits on her dresser, next to a photograph of the four of them at Hogwarts. She’ll pick it up and turn it between her fingers for a while. She’s never worn it properly, just for show, but so many years later and nobody cares about the marital status of Hospital Wing Matron Pomfrey.

Alphard had told her it would die down. “Once they see us married, they’ll be off our case.” He’d assured her late one night, at an engagement party thrown in their honour at the Black mansion. “We’ll pretend I’m infertile – it runs in the family anyway, open secret – and we can get away with living separately, cause of your job. It’ll be fine, I promise. They just want to get me out of the way.”

Poppy had stared at the outline of his aquiline nose in the dark, and wondered if it would be easier to force herself to love him properly. Sometimes the tidal wave of doubt would wash over her, leaving her waterlogged and trembling just off the coast of the beach of acceptance.

He was the best of them, the Blacks. She’d watched that family from the periphery, a cousin by blood but not by name. He was the strangest: not Walburga, a girl desperate to become her family’s legacy, nor Cygnus, the sickly child. Alphard stood alone, his eyes dark sterling, both the prodigious heir and also an outcast, not quite a proper Black. Her mum told her the story about the ugly duckling as a kid, and she felt it the most apt. Alphard was the ugly duckling, hiding in the skin of a dead beautiful duckling.

Maybe that’s why Sirius Black was so fascinating to her and Minerva. This boy, the proud and haughty heir to the throne, throwing it all away for Gryffindor and the boys he loved. Alphard, but not quite. Alphard was never so quick to throw it all away, always hesitating on the line, never quite daring to cross it. Sirius was bolder, braver, more reckless. He reminded her more of someone else, which meant she could never get too close. She let Minerva have her boy.

Poppy had hers.

~*~

It takes several shakes to rouse Minerva. Grumbling, she tosses and turns while Poppy, steadily losing patience, nudges her shoulders harder and harder.

Finally, Minerva straightens up, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. Poppy just stares. It’s been a while since she watched Minerva sleep. So many early mornings, waking up in the same bed after sneaking into the other’s dorm, watching as the soft light danced off her face and the smoothed out wrinkle between her eyebrows, a phenomenon which only happened now that she was deeply asleep.

They’re not young anymore. They are not in love anymore. They are not those people anymore.

“Albus is bringing Remus here.” Poppy says quietly, even though there’s nobody else in the room with them. Secrecy comes as a habit these days.

Minerva’s eyes widen, squint, and widen again. “Fuck.” She mumbles sleepily. Poppy’s chest tightens suddenly, and she turns away.

“Get dressed. I’ll meet you in the hospital wing.

~*~

Lyall Lupin had also gotten old.

He was younger than her, still, but his face was prematurely lined, and he was greying at the temples. It was strange to see him here now, in the Hospital Wing, an adult man who was as close to a stranger to Poppy that he could ever be.

On his arm: the pretty woman, with a honey-coloured bob and a round, friendly face. Hope Howell looked almost the same as she did when they were in seventh year, when Lyall had introduced them to the shy muggle girl from the Welsh countryside. She was beautiful and kind. She fit so perfectly at Lyall’s side: a picturesque couple. The tightness around Lyall’s eyes suggested he knew this too.

Poking out from behind Hope’s flowery red dress were dusty brown curls, the same shade as Lyall’s.

“I believe you three already know each other, yes?” Albus asked from between the two parties, his shining eyes turning to Poppy indicated he obviously knew the answer. From behind him, Lyall inclined his head to her slightly;
Poppy nodded back. How far we’ve fallen, she thought silently. Once upon a time, I held you when you sobbed, and you loved me like a sister.

“Remus, this is Madam Pomfrey. She’ll be the one taking care of you during your transformations.”

A pale forehead popped out and disappeared again. Poppy tilted her head, trying to appear as gentle as possible.

Hope leaned down and guided the boy out. He was slight for his age, with a long, pointed face, a crooked nose, and a mop of brown hair. Along his temple was a shiny scar, probably newly healed. He was clearly Hope and Lyall’s son, it made her chest hurt to look at him.

Poppy knelt, keeping her eyes on the boy’s and holding her hands out palm first. Not a threat, she wanted to signal. The boy, Remus, watched her warily. He seemed much older than 11, like an old man transplanted into a child’s body. There was something wolfish in his eyes, this close to the full moon. It broke her heart.

She’d spent the summer researching lycanthropy. It ashamed her that she knew little about it, besides what they’d been taught at Hogwarts years before. Irma Pince had set aside a number of books for her, on Albus’ request. Poppy had poured over them for nights on end, feeling remarkably like she did at 15, studying until dawn for her OWLS and NEWTS.

There was no kindness towards werewolves. Everything described them as vicious, animalistic creatures, even before the full moon. She thought of Lyall’s rantings about their destructive tendencies over drinks. This kid, pointy and knobbly though he was, had a sort of softness of youth that was rarely afforded to the subjects of the cruel studies and descriptions.

What could make him most comfortable now? There was no sense in treating him like an innocent child; he would know that was fake. This was a boy on the cusp of adolescence, a boy who transformed every month, who tore at his skin and howled in pain. She refused to be another person who did not meet him on his level.

Poppy held out her hand, like she would to an adult. Lyall sucked in a breath. Remus thought about it, and put his thin palm in hers. This, the simple shaking of hands, was it: Remus John Lupin, the little Welsh boy from a farm in the countryside, a werewolf, and Poppy Saoirse Pomfrey, the old Irish witch, the Matron of the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, sealing their first pact of trust.

~*~

As Poppy is opening the floo network in the hospital wing, she can hear the rustle of Minerva’s robes as she hurries in. Keeping her back to the door, she closes her eyes and silently prays to whoever happens to be listening.
She’s not religious – purebloods usually aren’t – and she doesn’t know what she’s praying for, but Minerva’s presence usually has this effect on her, where she silently begs everyone else for help to survive the encounter.

Things are… fine between them. They had always been fine. No, that was a lie, but easier to believe in hindsight. Even the worst moments were tinted with rose. There was just so much history between them, enough to fill a hundred scrolls. Every encounter, every look, that was something. Poppy pretended she had long stopped keeping track, but every time they locked eyes while passing in the halls, Poppy kept a note, tucked away in the back of her mind in the folder named after Minerva.

Minerva probably thinks it was Alphard dying that severed things between them. That is classic Minerva: never quite seeing the rain before the storm. She’d had to have known it was heading here: childhood sweethearts turned cordial coworkers. There is no world in which they didn’t go down this path. It is inevitable and inescapable.

Still, if it makes her feel better to believe this was because of Alphard, who is Poppy to deny her that simple comfort?

Poppy pulls back from the floo at a crackle of the fire. Minerva is loudly worrying at her thumbnail in her mouth. Poppy shoots her a look; Minerva drops her hand.

A green flame. A tall figure steps through, carrying a slumped body. Albus Dumbledore, holding Remus Lupin in his arms. Albus’ brows are tight with worry: a tic he’d never quite been able to shake. Poppy moves instantly to his side.

Remus’ face is streaming blood, but what is more concerning are the growing bloodstain across his jumper and coat, right over the heart. Poppy’s voice catches in her throat. “Table, over there. Quickly.”

As Albus moves to set Remus down, there is another pop. A girl steps through the fire next, dressed in sweats and a jumper. Hestia Jones. Something maternal and protective swells in Poppy’s chest: before she knows it, she’s stepping forward to shield Remus from Hestia. “Albus,” she demands in a low, warning tone.

Minerva has also stepped forward too, arms folded over her chest, eyes barely hiding the panic blooming there. “Albus, what is she doing here? How did she get access to the floo—”

Hestia’s eyes are wide with shock and fear, almost folding in on herself. It’s the strangest feeling, staring at her now. Poppy has always liked Hestia best of her proteges in the Hospital Wing, but in the face of her boy, Hestia means nothing.

“She’s with me.” Albus sets a hand lightly on Poppy’s shoulder from behind. “She knows.” This was murmured, just loud enough for both to hear. They exchange a look.

Keeping Remus’ secret was of paramount importance. As few people as possible could know: Minerva, Poppy, Albus, and the professors at Hogwarts. She knows some of Remus’ friends had figured it out – the Black boy, Monty and Effie’s son, Pettigrew. Then there was the matter of Snape and the incident, but that had been an accident. Nobody else was supposed to know, not only for Remus’ safety and privacy, but also because of his usefulness in the war effort. Remus, a werewolf, is a perfect spy. Betraying his secret meant giving up their advantage, at least to Albus.

“She’s here to help you, Poppy. Our strongest healer in the war effort. We need someone on the inside who can help him in the direst of situations.” Albus nods to Hestia, who shuffles forward and over to Remus’ side. Poppy chews on her lip. Minerva frowns deeply.

Albus meets Poppy’s eyes. You don’t have a choice, he seems to say. If you don’t let her in, he will die.

Nothing could have been worse to hear.

Poppy steps to the bed, feeling her body slide into work mode, where all other cares melted away besides the patient before her. “Do you know what happened, exactly?” She demands, directing her question at Albus behind her.

“Face wounds appear to be regular work, probably by himself or another who got too close. Sounds as though the pack got a little too close to a wizarding village. As he was transforming back, Remus got a spell to the chest while the others fled. He managed to send a patronus before he passed out.”

“Do we know what spell?”

“Unsure. Something to cause external and internal wounds. Likely something created by the wizard himself.”

“Get his jumper off.” This is to Hestia, who had been hovering uncomfortably. She launches into work, vanishing the jumper while Poppy gently prodded at his chest.

Once the jumper and shirt are off, the damage becomes clear. It's as though a hole has been blasted through him, a crater of oozing blood and mangled flesh. She hears somebody retch behind her; she assumes it’s Hestia (it is actually Minerva, who is notoriously bad with blood and gore). Emanating from it is a strange greenish glow, making Remus’ tanned skin seem wan and sickly.

“What do we do?” A little voice whispers at her side. Hestia, fearful and trembling, is staring down at the wound. Poppy looks at her and sees herself in every dream she’s had of the battlefield, standing over her father’s body, diagnosing every one of his injuries in the hopes of saving him. She never does.

“Put pressure on the wound. I’ll get some healing salves. We need to stop the bleeding before we can extract whatever’s causing the glow in there. Probably something lodged, we need to get that out before we can actually treat the flesh wound.” Poppy says, as though a disembodied voice is coming from her. Inside, she feels slightly numb, staring down at her boy like this.

Hestia nods, a grim set to her mouth. “Okay.”

They work like this in tandem, mostly silent. Handing flasks and jars back and forth. Behind them, Minerva scans through Poppy’s journals, looking for something with a similar set of symptoms. Albus left not long after he arrived, claiming other duties. Poppy is too busy right now to resent him for that.

Every so often, Remus will give a twitchy groan, and it is the worst sound in the world. Worse than all of his transformations; Poppy never thought there could be a worse sound. She stares down at his face, twisted in agony, and thinks: hang on, my love. You’re not done yet.

~*~

Alphard Pollux Black died on September 18th, 1977.

She thinks it was then, anyway. She’d gone to his flat the day after for their weekly dinner, and had found him unresponsive in his armchair, a bottle by his side.

She hadn’t cried. She’d known immediately, because he could never have looked so peaceful in life. She’d stared at him for a while, before cleaning up the bottle and the flat. She’d sorted through all of his letters from her, and a few mementos of his, things she refused to let anyone else see. Then she sent a owl to Albus.

And that was it: the death of the Black heir. Quiet, orderly, procedural. Nobody spoke much of it. Poppy and Minerva exchanged somber glances in the halls. Poppy felt as though she had died inside, just a little.

It was September 28th. Remus Lupin, recovering from the full moon, nose in a book as Poppy bustled around him with a fresh pain potion, who said very casually: “You knew Sirius’ uncle, didn’t you.”

Not a question, but a statement of fact. The past tense stung a little. Poppy paused in her tracks, trying to decide how she could possibly respond.

“I did the math. You two were the same age, so you must have been at Hogwarts together.”

She wondered briefly how Minerva would react to this, before remembering she was not, in fact, Minerva.

“Yes. We were classmates. Friends, even. He is—was – a distant cousin of mine.” She turned slightly to face him. “Is that all you wanted to know?”

Remus’ face was scrutinizing, the cogs turning in that lovely head of his, chewing on that information. She knows it isn’t enough, knows he wants something more from her. It hurts to talk about him like this, especially with Remus, the boy with the same face that Alphard loved so dearly.

“I was looking over some records the other day.” He says casually, as though this is a regular thing to do. Were he not himself, Poppy would hardly believe it. “It says Alphard Pollux Black married a Poppy Saoirse Pomfrey in 1954.”

She feels her body deflate a little. Casting a glance around the rest of the wing to make sure it is empty, she quickly sits in the side chair and draws the curtains around them. Finally, she meets his eyes.

“You can lie to me, you know.” Remus says this offhandedly, but she can tell by the set of his jaw and shoulders that he doesn’t mean it.

Poppy leans forward a little. “I wouldn’t lie to you.” This is a solemn promise, one she cannot always keep. “We were married not long after graduation. It was a marriage of convenience, to satisfy his parents. We always led separate lives.”

“Does Sirius know?”

“I doubt it. When they realized neither of us would be productive in making heirs, his parents decided to just ignore the marriage. Only records from around that time I think have me listed not as a cousin but a member by marriage.”

Remus tilts his head a little. “You weren’t in love?”

Poppy laughs, and it startles Remus a little. Clutching her side, she wheezes slightly, imagining the prospect of being in love with Alphard Black and finding it utterly amusing. “God, no. We were close friends, that’s all.”

“My dad knew him, too.”

This sobers her up a little. Dusting off her apron gives her a moment to consider what she’ll say. Remus goes on:

“My dad saw it in the Prophet. Said they also went to school together. That’s how you knew my dad, right?”

Poppy swallows a lump down. “Yes. Your father was a year below me, in Ravenclaw. By extension… he knew Alphard.”

That was a lie. Lyall didn’t just know Alphard. Lyall craved Alphard, needed him like a drug. Lyall and Alphard, Alphard and Lyall, like Minerva and Poppy. Bound together against all odds, sewn together. What was one without the other?

One without the other: Alphard becoming a shell of himself after Lyall’s wedding. The way his cold grey eyes seemed to reflect the ghosts of the past, the shape of the two of them curled together on the couch. Poppy hadn’t much known what to do with him. Had she not done the exact same thing as Lyall? Sure, it was different: Lyall was truly in love with Hope, but Poppy felt the same heavy burden of guilt settle onto her chest.

How could she tell Remus the truth? Your father, one of my closest friends as a teenager, was so madly in love with the heir of the Black family, and shattered his heart by marrying the entire antithesis to the heir: the beautiful blonde muggle girl? How can I explain to you this truth, that Alphard was so hurt by this he turned to drinking, and never quite smiled the same again?

How could Remus ever understand this? How could he know what it meant to love a Black, with stars in their eyes and the sharpest grin? How could he know how that story ended: with heartbreak and pain and still endless love? How could she put that on him?

Especially now, barely a year after Hope died. She remembers Remus collapsing into Minerva’s arms, Lyall’s somber face in the Floo delivering the news. His mother, sweet and generous Hope Howell, how could she tell him that for years after the wedding, Alphard and Lyall would meet secretly for one night every so often, vowing never to speak of it again but always finding themselves tumbling into bed together?

No, she cannot tell him.

So, she stands up and fusses at his pillow. “Are you comfortable like this? Take your pain potion. Don’t read, you’ll strain your eyes.”

Remus just watches her, as though he knows she is keeping something from him. But, as Remus does, he doesn’t belabour the topic further, just takes her cue.

That’s the kind of man he is, and Poppy appreciates it.

~*~

Stay alive. Stay alive.

Poppy never wants to feel Remus’ blood on her hands again. Part of her starts to panic, the image of her father flashing before her eyes. Her father, shot on the battlefield. Her father, bleeding out on the ground. Her father, all alone in death.

Stay with me, Remus.

The little boy, hiding behind his mother’s skirts, peeking out at her with concern far beyond his years. The gangly teenager, weeping on the rug in a way she has never heard before, as though every sob is agonizingly being torn from his chest. The eighteen year old, bringing her a bundle of flowers charmed never to wilt with a shy smile on the eve of his graduation.

And with him, she sees Lyall. Lyall, curled up in the library with his thick reading glasses, droning on about dangerous fish. Lyall, the boy with rumpled clothes and messy hair, soaring through the sky on his broom. Lyall, jaw clenched tight with fury and eyes concertedly blank.

How did Lyall feel now? Checking the paper that morning, seeing the news that he’d never dreamed he’d receive so soon. Tears in his eyes, openly weeping at the quaint dinner table over a lost love, so soon after his other love
had gone. Poppy hadn’t even sent him an owl; he’d had to find out from the Prophet. How cruel was that? It had never even passed her mind to tell Lyall, and her heart bloomed with shame. Whatever loyalty she’d had to him once was gone, blown away on the winds of time.

When Hope and Lyall had entrusted Remus into her care, many years ago in this very room, Lyall had looked her in the eyes very seriously. “Guard him with your life,” he had said. And she had, hadn’t she? She was there for every transformation, every scrape and bruise. What would happen if she couldn’t guard him now? Would Lyall beat at her chest with barely contained fury and grief of losing his final love? No; more likely he would stand before her in resignation, all light gone out of his eyes. That was even more heartbreaking of a vision.

Through the bubble of her thoughts, Hestia’s voice grows louder and more frantic. Poppy hears her distantly, unable even to look up from the body – the boy, he’s not dead yet – before her.

She sees it before she hears it: the explosion of blood and guts all around her. With it: the strange slurping noise of a straw. It feels as though her brain has disconnected from her body, leaving her stranded in the space of her mind.

Then, Remus gasps back into life.

It is the most beautiful sound.

Poppy lets out a choked cry and whirls around. Hestia, splattered with blood, is holding the bolt, still glowing green. Her eyes are wide: she must be in shock. Slowly, her gaze shifts to Poppy, staring in wonderment at her, and makes a weird shrugging motion.

Poppy looks back down at Remus, the sweat beading on his forehead, fitfully murmuring. Their work isn’t done yet, but Remus – beautiful, sweet, intelligent Remus – is alive.

~*~

Once the wound is healed up, and McGonagall and Pomfrey are outside with Dumbledore, Hestia finds herself sitting at Remus’ bedside, staring at his face.

It would be foolish to pretend she knows him; she doesn’t. One of Mary’s—one of the boys in her year. Gangly, bookish, always sick. This was the key point, where Madam Pomfrey never let the students get quite close to Remus’ bed. Hestia has always wondered, sure, why Pomfrey’s face got so tight during those lessons.

She only knows because Dumbledore had appeared to her suddenly at the apartment. “He needs somebody else who can care for him,” he’d said. Despite not being in the Order, she’d obliged.

What else was she to do? He was a boy in need of saving; wasn’t that why she’d been drawn to healing in the first place? Besides, Mary would never forgive her if she didn’t save him. That’s a big part of her decision-making these days, even if she likes to pretend it isn’t.

Remus keeps mumbling in his sleep. Hestia looks at him and wonders why people are so afraid of werewolves. Emmy is, almost comically so. Hestia can’t understand hating another person, even a supposedly dark creature.
Besides, is this boy not a person? He is so real, flesh and bones under her palms. His knitted brow and tense shoulders inspire pity, not fear.

He has a mother, and a father. He is a kid, just as much as Hestia is, stuck in a terrible situation. How could she not feel for him, in this moment?

There is a strange sense of pride in having saved him. She wonders if this is just part of the job. Pomfrey’s face had looked so relieved, and she’d even patted Hestia on the shoulder afterwards and thanked her in a soft voice. She wouldn’t apologize for being angry at Hestia’s arrival: Hestia got the sense she would never apologize for protecting Remus Lupin. She’d always quite liked Madam Pomfrey, she seemed to understand how deeply a person could love.

Remus’ eyes flutter open, landing on her. Panic flits across his gaze, and he tries to straighten up. Hestia immediately places a hand on his chest, just under the thick bandages, to keep him from sitting.

“Don’t, you’ll hurt yourself more.”

Remus, surprisingly, obeys her. Warily, he settles back down, staring at her with a strange, unreadable expression. Hestia nods, hoping that a non-verbal cue will settle him. It does: the light goes out of his eyes, and he lays his head down on the pillow, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling.

“You, uh, kept mumbling in your sleep.” She says quietly, casting a quick glance at the door.

Remus starts to sit up again, but again pauses when she reaches over to stop him.

“You kept repeating ‘Romulus, Romulus’ over and over again.” Remus’ eyebrows tighten, and he suddenly looks so young and vulnerable that her heart shatters a bit for him. “Don’t worry, I made sure Pomfrey didn’t hear you. I just clattered some pans around when you got particularly chatty…” Her voice trails off, unsure how to proceed.

She thinks suddenly of her father at her bedside, recounting the greatest tales from around the world. She recalls the smell of his neck, the inflections of his voice. She models his kindness as best she can:

“It’s only—I, uh, I know the story of Romulus and Remus. Twin brothers raised by a wolf; Remus killed by Romulus before the founding of Rome?”

The look Remus gives her will haunt her for the rest of her life; the leading memory she’ll always hold with respect to Remus Lupin. She could go on, draw the conclusion, but Hestia Jones would never consider hurting a person like that. She just stands up suddenly, drawing Remus’ eyes with her, and says “I’m going to get you some water.”

She thinks she hears a soft, raspy “Thank you” as she turns on her heel and leaves.

This moment will stay between Hestia and Remus for as long as they live. Hestia will save Remus’ life; Remus will save Hestia’s life. Here, a tree sprouts as a sapling, curling up towards the sunlight with tentative longing. One day, it will be a majestic oak, providing shade and protection to anyone who needs it. But today, it is just a sapling, as deserving of sunlight and love as the oak, looking forward to the future.

Like the building of Rome, so the friendship between Hestia Jones and Remus Lupin takes many years to develop. Once it has, it is more powerful than anyone can imagine.