Behind the greenhouses, Pomona keeps a fenced-off square of desert clay. It doesn't look like much from the outside, but from within, desert scrub stretches to a distant horizon, and private thoughts seem loud.
After just the right amount of rain, the clay gets slick and silty; makes mud that's soft like butter. It doesn't quite reflect the sunlight, but sifts it through organic matter to cultivate germane maybes.
Sometimes the mud hardens into smooth, tessellated plates of broad focus. Other times it feathers into paper-thin curls; a kaleidoscope of alternative futures. On particularly miserable days, it throws up grimy, leathery premonitions. But however it matures, mud is always personal and relevant. It's gentler than dispassionate Ravenclaw theorising. More sensible than thin liquids in cut crystal.
Minerva never ceases to wonder how Albus can dismiss this side of Pomona's practical wisdom while encouraging Sibyl Trelawny's histrionics. But for now she resolves to think of more pleasant matters. She sits on the wooden fence with her friend, their shoulders touching, and they watch their reflections together in countless curls of clay.