Horace Slughorn wandered more than a little aimlessly through the Great Hall, his hands in his pockets and his pale green eyes glancing over the scene around him. Students, staff and other fighters sat amongst the rubble and remains of Hogwarts School, the dust beginning to settle around them. The air was cold. Even as the sun began to rise to signal the start of the day, a chill cut through the room, perhaps a reminder of the dark events that had just taken place. Horace could not comprehend half of them; as he had stared at the face of the Dark Lord, he found he could still recall the young boy who had given him so much hope, who he had believed great things about. Tom Riddle was going to change the world, he had never doubted it. The child had been bright and clever, everything Horace looked for in his students. Well, Tom Riddle certainly had changed the world, hadn't he? But it was not a change that Horace cared to claim he had anticipated. Partly because it was so awful and partly because he had not anticipated it. No one had. And now, fifty odd years later, here they all were; those who had seen Riddle become Voldemort, those who had seen his rise then his fall and those who had felt the effects of his return. They were many generations, all bound together by this chain of hatred formed by one man. Horace shook his head, kicking a piece of rock aside. It was too hard to comprehend.
He found an empty seat, one that had not been monopolized as a hospital bed or claimed by fallen ceiling, and collapsed down onto it with a groan. At any rate, he thought, his knees were getting too old for excitement such as this. The students around him were, in his opinion, much too young for it. That was the problem with war. There was no perfect balance, no age where you could bare it and come out unscathed. How had these children been changed by it, he wondered? The Great Hall would be rebuilt, more easily than perhaps it should've been, but how would they rebuild themselves?
Horace's philosophical musings were interrupted by a polite cough from beside him. He looked to see Pomona Sprout offering him a goblet of pumpkin juice, which he accepted gladly. When he had taken the seat, he hadn't even realized who he was sitting next to, something he apologized for.
"Not a problem," Pomona said with an understanding smile, "You were clearly engaged in deep thought."
She tilted her head slightly, as if to ask whether he wanted to talk about it. Horace let out a sigh, breaking down under her warm gaze as many students had done before him.
"I'm just trying to get my head around all of this, you know," he said quietly, "I still can't believe it's over, but I never quite managed to understand why it happened in the first place. So much bloodshed seems unnecessary. And I don't like fighting, I've never liked fighting."
Pomona nodded kindly; the feeling of confusion was one she had felt often as well.
"I hope," Horace continued, his brows furrowed, "that I shall never have to fight again."
"Life," Pomona said, "tends not to go that way. But, for your sake, I hope you can be the exception."
Horace smiled and took a sip of his drink. Pumpkin juice was not something he drank often, but it seemed to be having a warm, fortifying effect. He watched as a few students walked past, noticing that his companion's brown eyes were also on them.
"I also hope," he added, "that they shall never have to fight again. For anything."
The little witch nodded again, but said nothing. Her hands were flexing uncomfortably in her lap, leading Horace to suspect she was hurting more than she was letting on. But he really wasn't good with things like that, so he changed the subject.
"The clean up effort's going to be difficult," he said, indicating a chunk of stone that lay before them, "I mean, there's here, the corridors, the Quidditch Pitch, the Greenhouses-"
At the mention of the Greenhouses, Pomona gave a small hiccup that may have been an attempt to stifle tears. Horace silently berated himself for bringing them up in such a haphazard manner; Pomona had a bond with her plants that he just didn't understand, a bond with her subject that he couldn't replicate. Potions interested him, but it had always been a working means to a comfortable end. His colleague, on the other hand, lived and breathed Herbology. It was her passion and her life. Even in winter, Horace would see her, from the comfort of the staff room, trudging up to the Greenhouses every evening before bed to check on the plants. She really cared about them.
"I'm sorry about the Greenhouses," Horace said, straying into emotional territory he wasn't familiar with, "I know they meant a lot to you. They meant a lot to all of us, myself included."
"You mean you've lost your supply of Tentacular leaves," Pomona mumbled.
Horace looked somewhat affronted and completely surprised. Pomona chuckled at his expression.
"Yes, I know about that," she said, "I'm not as green as some of the things I work with."
"They were for purely academic purposes," Horace exclaimed defensively.
"Of course," Pomona laughed, "Of course."
The smiled faded from her face as quickly as it had come.
"It's not that bigger deal," the witch sighed, "not really. We'll rebuild them, replace the plants."
"What then?" the wizard inquired.
"I'm just being silly, I suppose," Pomona said, "but my whole life has been spent here. I've taught here since my youth and that was a long time ago. Those greenhouses stood on that spot all the while, a constant when my journey wasn't. I guess that, seeing them knocked down so easily, reminds me how everything will end eventually, no matter how strong or steadfast they appear. Everything has its end. Like me. That's a rather depressing conclusion to come to at my age; life is finite."
Horace wished he hadn't asked. Pomona looked at him, her brown eyes searching for some sign he understood, which of course he didn't. Nothing had ever seemed finite to Horace Slughorn, especially not himself. If the friends, the luxuries, the good times dried up, he moved on, found the new river. He surrounded himself with grandeur so that the limits of his life were blurred by the lights and sounds. He wasn't the kind of person to concede defeat that easily.
Perhaps Pomona could see that, because she shook her head and stared down at her hands.
"It doesn't matter," she whispered.
Horace opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again, judging that he could only make things worse at this point. In their relationship, Pomona was the listener, she was always the listener. It was something she was good at. But it occurred to Horace, as he watched her watching others, that she was always the listener in every relationship; maybe she really did need someone to take on the role for her.
The pair watched as Minerva McGonagall went about giving instructions, taking on the role of Headmistress. Though it was not yet official, Horace assumed the great woman would naturally be the one who would now fill that position.
"She's so beautiful, isn't she?" Pomona said, her voice a mixture of admiration and wistfulness as she watched her friend.
"What? Oh, hhmmmmm," Horace agreed, not having given that particular subject a lot of thought.
"She has been ever since we were at school," Pomona continued, ignoring his less than sure answer, "I remember, when I was a sixth year, she managed to convince the then owner of the Three Broomsticks that she was twenty-three and he should sell her firewhisky. She was only a fourth year at the time."
Even Horace could easily hear the longing in Pomona's voice as she spoke.
"I was always so jealous of her," Pomona said quietly, "I still am, if I'm honest."
And she was being honest; Horace could see it in her face. Here was this bright, kind, brilliant witch wishing she was something completely different. It surprised him, because he had never cast her as that. These views were not ones she expressed on a daily basis, though clearly they effected her. At this point, Horace was struck by a feeling that didn't often come to him; he had the burning desire to prove her wrong. Pomona Sprout was not Minerva. Where the latter was tall and slim, Pomona was small and round. Minerva's hair was long, sleek, dark, the way she pulled it back only further highlighting the sharp line of her cheekbones, whereas Pomona's was an uncontrollable grey frizz. But Minerva's was a harsh, cold beauty, something that Horace had never been drawn to. Pomona, well, Horace had to admit, she was something special, in that she radiated warmth and kindness. Her brown eyes held no malice, they were calming and welcoming to anyone. Her smile was infectious and genuine. Her hair, despite its supposed faults, framed her pleasant face well. Horace watched as she pushed a curly strand away from her forehead and he smiled at how endearing he found the action. She was not, no, a beauty queen, but she was beautiful. And somebody, Horace decided, had to tell her.
"Well," he said loudly, and the witch started from her reverie.
She looked, if truth be told, a little embarrassed; she hadn't intended to voice her feelings like that, particularly not to Horace Slughorn.
"Well," he said again, mustering up his courage, "you may not be Minerva McGonagall, but that doesn't make you not not unattractive, in your own way, to certain people, if that makes any sense."
Pomona looked awfully confused and Horace let out a sigh.
"Pomona," he said quietly, "forgive me. I am an old man."
"I'm not exactly young either," Pomona shrugged.
"We are two old trees in a forest full of seedlings," Horace nodded.
"A Herbology metaphor," Pomona said in surprise, "I appreciate that."
"And old trees," Horace went on with a smile, "must stick together, my dear."
Pomona raised an eyebrow.
"Have a drink with me," he said, "When all this is sorted out, have a drink with me."
Pomona thought for a minute, biting her lip. Then she smiled, somewhat shyly and inclined her head in agreement.
"I'd play hard to get," she softly, "but I'm too old for that. And I don't particularly like fighting either."
"We could be exceptions together?" Horace suggested.
"Okay," Pomona replied, "I think I'd like that."