For redsnake05.
This was written as a gift in the HoggywartyXmas LJ fest. The title comes from a line in "The Boar's Head" carol, and for the purposes of this story, Pomona was born in 1929 and is a fourth-year in 1943. All the bits about Kew Gardens's role in WWII (Dig for Victory! campaigns and the pagoda) reflect some aspect of what really happened.
15 December 1943
The common room was decorated to the nines, with evergreen garlands hung from the rafters and holly sprigs tucked around every door frame. The house-elves kept all the platters stocked with ginger biscuits and peppermint imps, flickering candles filled the trees, and—thanks to a prefect's clever spell work—a carved wooden badger on the mantel hummed Christmas carols in a low voice.
All was merry and bright.
All, that was, save a fourteen-year-old girl curled up on a yellow velveteen armchair beside the fire, eyes closed but not asleep, hands clutching a letter that she'd already read a dozen times.
'Pommy?' asked a familiar, gentle voice. 'Pomona? Are you awake?'
Pomona straightened up, finding her housemate Irene standing before her. 'I'm up,' she said, suppressing a yawn. 'I promise.'
'Pommy, do you want to play Gobstones with me and Judy?' the girl asked. 'She just got a new set, and we thought we'd break it in.'
Pomona stared into the fire. 'No thanks, Irene.'
Her housemate persisted. 'Do you want some pudding, then? The house-elfs gave us a bunch of Bakewell tarts when we visited them in the kitchens earlier.'
But Pomona hadn't been paying attention. 'Er… what?' she asked, only just aware that her friend had said something to her.
Irene and Judy exchanged a worried glance.
Then Judy piped up, trying to stir up some holiday cheer. 'Bakewell tarts? They're scrummy. We've a dozen, and I know they're your favourite.'
And any other day, tarts would have been just the thing, but Pomona wasn't hungry at all. 'Oh… No. No, thank you.'
The girls wandered off, muttering amongst themselves about You'd think she'd be merrier! and Is she okay?
Pomona unfolded the letter and read it again.
She had only had it a week, and still.
Headmaster Dippet had invited her to his office, giving her the password (Titus Livius!) at dinner. When she arrived, he told her about an important letter he'd received from her mum, a letter she wanted her daughter to read in the presence of the Headmaster.
He handed it over.
She took it.
And opened it.
Learning that her father—her funny and brave and marvelous Papa—had been shot down over Belgium made it the worst day of her life.
He's still missing, her mum wrote. If he can come home to us, he will. He'll fight hard to see us again, Pommy. Your papa loves us so.
The headmaster hadn't said much then, just handed her his embroidered handkerchief when she began to cry. When she stopped, he was kneeling in front of her, his eyes—not twinkling, truly, but warm and sad—never left hers. 'I will see what I can do,' he pledged. 'In the meanwhile, no news is good news, Miss Sprout.'
Which was hard to believe, Pomona thought, as she forced a smile at the headmaster and trudged back to her common room.
There were many things that seemed impossible to Pomona at Hogwarts.
Why was it still open when there was a Muggle war going on? Why weren't the magical folks—the ones the Ministry, at least—helping the Muggles at all? Didn't they care that London was being bombed or that there wasn't enough food? Why weren't the House-elves sending baskets of cabbages and eggs and strawberries to the rest of the country? The Hogwarts table was still full every night.
Every time she sat down to a full table, heaped up with fresh vegetables and eggs by the dozens, Pomona thought of the little ration booklets her mum kept in the empty coffee canister.
It was a strange thing, being half-magical and half-Muggle. Or was she all magical, since she was at Hogwarts? Half-blood, she supposed, although even the thought of blood made her uncomfortable.
Her dad didn't have an ounce of magic in him, or so he said.
But Pomona wasn't sure about that. He tended the most astonishing plants at the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew, and surely there was a little magic in making things grow, wasn't there? It could be snowing outside, and his glass houses of cacti were there, all hot and dry, filled with knobby barrels of plants, speckled with pink and yellow blooms.
Could there be a better place to grow up? The Sprouts shared a wall with the Rosenblatts in a cosy little semi-detached home on the outskirts of the gardens, and although Mr. Rosenblatt and Mr. Sprout were in charge of the cactus houses, Pomona and Ellen, the Rosenblatts' eldest daughter, were allowed into all the gardens and the temples and even inside the pagoda.
Pomona's favourite was probably the waterlily house. It sure felt magical when she walked into the hothouse jungle and sat down on a lily pad so big that it held her and her toy rabbit for a tea party. Not that she'd been able to do that since she was six, but still.
When her dad enlisted as an RAF pilot in 1940, her mum had taken over all his work, just like all the other soldier's wives at the gardens. She wasn't any good with plants on her own, but since none of the folks at Kew knew about that wand she hid in her girdle, she could make it look like she was just as talented a gardener as anyone else there.
And when Director Hooker and everyone wrote the Dig for Victory! to teach everyone how to grow their own food to help the war effort, Pomona and her mum were featured on page seven planting rows of carrots.
But back at Hogwarts, almost nobody talked about the war, even though it'd been going on for four years.
Only Professor Merrythought even mentioned it in her Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, something about 'Darkness begets darkness' and needing to be wary of peace in their time when the Muggles were slaughtering one another. Most of Pomona's classmates laughed it off as Merrythought being paranoid and too old for her job, but Pomona, the other half-bloods, and the Muggle-borns all knew better.
Most of the had all spent the Christmas of 1940 at Hogwarts, after all. All the Londoners, at least. Why would they go back home during the Blitz?
That was Pomona's first year at Hogwarts, full stop, and it was terrifying. A week after she'd taken off on the Hogwarts Express, the bombings began. Her mum's owled letters reassured her that she was safe, far enough outside the city that nobody needed to worry, but even so, Pomona, I'd just feel better knowing you're at Hogwarts.
By the Christmas of 1941, the bombing raids had subsided, but Pomona stayed at Hogwarts, just in case. At that point, it had been fifteen months since she'd seen her dad, although he wrote letters and drew pictures of some of the places he'd been.
Christmas of 1942 saw Pomona reunited with her mum and all her friends from home. They'd all pooled their rations so they could make a cake, and the American soldier they'd invited to dinner had brought a whole dozen eggs and a side of bacon for everyone to share. His name was John, and he'd also handed out bottles of Coca-Cola for all the kids and gave stockings to the ladies present.
It had been the jolliest time since the war began.
And then there was this year.
Pomona reread the letter from her mum, mulling over the Headmaster's words.
I will see what I can do.
She scoffed.
Headmaster Dippet was a nice enough fellow, but what good was nice when there was actual evil in the world?
Pomona knew her mum had tried to shield her from the worst of the war, but she wasn't stupid.
Ellen Rosenblatt took her aside once during the summer of 1942, sobbing at the news that her cousins from the continent weren't allowed to come live with them because England wouldn't let any more Jewish people into the country. It was preposterous, since there was plenty of room in the Rosenblatts' house for more people, and Pomona knew her mum would let any of the Rosenblatts stay with her, too.
It all felt so hopeless, even if Mister Churchill said that they were winning the war now.
Pomona took her dear friend to the pagoda, where they climbed the rafters and yelled at the universe until their voices went hoarse.
See what I can do.
And how could the Headmaster talk about doing her a favour, as though he were getting her out of intention rather than making sure that the Germans hadn't taken or killed her father?
See what I can do.
Anger was a funny thing, Pomona noted. The more she thought of the headmaster's words, the more furious she became. What could he do? How about anything at all? Absolutely anything, instead of the nothing he was currently occupied with.
So she skived off a class here and there, and went down to greenhouses instead. What did it matter, anyway? What good was magic if it couldn't be used in the world?
The days passed, and suddenly it was the day before Christmas Eve.
Professor Beery, Pomona's head of house and favourite teacher, called her into his office. There she found Headmaster Dippet waiting for her, a stern look on his face.
She sighed, suspecting they were there to punish her for ditching Potions and Arithmancy.
'Miss Sprout,' Professor Beery said, choosing his words with care, 'I understand that this month has been… challenging.'
She didn't respond.
'We have tried to give you a certain amount of leeway where your classes are concerned,' he continued, 'knowing that your thoughts are likely elsewhere.'
He exchanged a glance with the headmaster.
But Pomona held her ground. She wasn't going to act all cheerful and chatty with them just because they hadn't thrown her into detention. She thought of all the nasty things she wanted to say to the Headmaster, for burying his head in the sand like a stupid ostrich and abandoning all the rest of the people in England just because they were Muggles.
She decided then and there she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose her temper.
'Miss Sprout,' the headmaster said, 'I would like for you to accompany me by Floo to London. If you could grab your cloak and your things for the holidays and meet me in my office in twenty minutes, please. Your mother will be meeting us there.'
At that, Pomona nodded brusquely, running off to gather her clothing, her books, her wand, and the Shrivelfig specimen she'd potted to bring home for her mum for Christmas. She didn't know why Headmaster Dippet was bringing her home himself, but she dearly hoped he wasn't planning on telling her mum that she'd been a horrible student for the past several weeks.
When she got to his office with her trunk in tow, she noted that he was dressed like a Muggle. He pulled out his wand to shrink her things, then placed the miniature trunk in the breast pocked of his overcoat. He handed her a pot with Floo powder. 'Follow me, please. We're off to St. Mungo's.'
With a flash of green light and a spin through space, Pomona barely had a chance to think. Going to hospital? Why?
They fell out of the hospital Floo, where a Healer in green robes was waiting for them.
'Hello, Miss Sprout, Headmaster,' she said, shaking Pomona's hand. 'I'm Healer Hyde.'
'I'm pleased you could join us,' the Headmaster said. 'Thank you for all your work already.'
The woman smiled brightly at the pair before her. 'Miss Sprout, are you familiar with side-along Apparition?'
She nodded.
'Guy's Hospital, Headmaster,' the Healer said.
With a quiet POP!, Dippet disappeared.
With a swish of her wand, Healer Hyde Transfigured her robes into a Muggle nurse's uniform, and then she extended her arm to Pomona. 'Ready?' she asked.
Confused, Pomona grasped the woman's arm and spoke for the first time in days. 'Ready.'
And a moment later, they appeared in a hospital room across the city.
A room painted a dingy grey, where her mother and the Headmaster were already deep in conversation in the corner.
A room with a single bed with a man with his leg in a sling, covered in bandages on his torso and his head.
A room with her papa.
Pomona choked out a cry and threw herself onto the bed, her heart threatening to beat itself out of her chest. 'Papa! Papa, Papa, Papa! You're alive!'
He hugged her back as well as he could. 'Yes, dearest. I have missed you more than tongue can tell.'
She couldn't help the tears streaming down her face anymore, and she was vaguely aware that the Healer was now consulting with another medical doctor at the door. Headmaster Dippet stood back while Pomona's mum sat down beside her, wrapping her arms around her in a hug.
'We're finally together again,' she said. 'I told you that your papa would fight to return to us, didn't I?'
Pomona smiled through snuffly tears, and turned her father. 'Papa, how did you make it out? What happened? Are you home for good now? Will you—'
'One question at a time,' he said, laughing and wincing all at once. 'I awoke in a barn loft. In a lot of pain, I might add. A family hid me from the Germans, and they tried to take care of me, but they didn't have any medical training. They stopped me from bleeding out, and I'll forever be grateful for that. At that point I didn't know if up was down or right was left… The only thing I knew was that I was alive.'
Healer Hyde took up the story. 'A friend of the Headmaster's was looking for Lieutenant Sprout, though. It took a few weeks to find him, but he did, I was sent to set your father's leg and see about stabilising him so I could bring him back to one of our hospitals here, which I managed just last night.'
Pomona's mum spoke up then. 'Headmaster Dippet owled me immediately, and I've been here since midnight. The Healers and doctors have say that your dad will be able to come home in a week or so.'
Healers and doctors? Pomona thought. She glanced at Healer Hyde. 'Do the Muggles know that you're… that you're a…'
'No,' she said. 'The Statute of Secrecy and all that. Even so, every hospital in the country has several Healers on staff. There are things we can fix much more easily, and we aren't about to let our soldiers down.'
'I'll be back at home for New Year's, Pommy,' her papa said. 'With a cast and a set of crutches, they tell me, but I'll be ready to dance with you at midnight.'
Pomona hugged her father again, and thought of her New Year's dances with her family and the Rosenblatts.
Her heart fell, thinking of her friends.
'We even have a bottle of champagne!' her mum said, pointing to a wooden crate in the corner. 'And cocoa powder and real eggs from the chickens at Hogwarts, so we can make a cake this year.'
Pomona wanted to feel happy, and she was truly overwhelmed at her father's presence. But there was still a war going on. Did she have the right to be happy when everything around her was still so broken?
Then she eyed the headmaster shrewdly. 'Did you do all of this just because my mother and I are witches?' she asked. She knew she was supposed to feel grateful, but she still felt guilty thinking she was getting good things only because of her magic.
Headmaster Dippet pulled up a chair and sat beside her. 'Miss Sprout, I know you have been… disappointed in the Magical world of late. I want you to know that although we cannot openly show ourselves during these difficult times, witches and wizards have, in fact, been involved all along.'
'But… what about Ellen?' Pomona asked, her voice quiet. 'I can't celebrate truly when I know that… Well, she said—'
'—Miss Rosenblatt's cousins arrived in New York City last month,' the headmaster said. 'They have already telegrammed her family with the news.'
Pomona slumped in her chair, relieved. 'Okay.'
And her mother kissed her cheek and gave her another squeeze. 'It'll all be over soon, Pomona. I promise. And in the meanwhile, I, for one, am going to celebrate my family back together again. It could be so easy to drown in despair, my dear, but there is much to be thankful for.'
Pomona clasped her papa's hand with her right, leaning into her mother's embrace. 'Yes, Mum.'
Her papa squeezed her hand. 'I am thankful that I am with my girls again.'
'I'm thankful you are here to help me with the cactus house,' her mother said. 'And I'm thankful that we have more reason for cheer this Christmas than we have in the past.'
Pomona noticed that the healer had left them, gone to tend other men in the ward. The headmaster stood, gathering his things as he prepared to leave. 'Thank you, Headmaster Dippet,' she said. 'Thank you for… for everything.'
He winked at her then, handing her the miniaturised trunk she had packed earlier. 'You are quite welcome, Miss Sprout. I am sorry for keeping you in the dark while we looked for your father. Perhaps we ought to be more transparent with things of this nature. Perhaps we ought to discuss the war at Hogwarts when students return in January.'
She nodded. 'Please, sir. Nobody understands.'
He tipped his hat to her then, his eyes lingering on her happy family. 'In the meanwhile, I pray you, be merry.'