23 June 1996

The flourishing embers of the fireplace flickered golden in the otherwise dimly lit bedroom, and Minerva McGonagall wiggled her toes as she pulled her tartan blanket more tightly around her shoulders. Leaning back in her armchair, she sighed wearily, feeling the warmth course steadily through her body. It had been barely five days since she had last been at Hogwarts, but it felt like much longer. Her short stay at St. Mungo's had seemed to last a lifetime…

She had always hated hospitals.

Flicking a few strands of her uncharacteristically bedraggled black hair out of her eyes, Minerva placed her shockingly pale arms on each arm of her chair, and attempted to push herself upwards, slowly. But all of a sudden, the familiar stab of pain shot through her chest, and she gasped, relenting.

"Oh—Minerva!"

Minerva jerked in surprise, turning towards the doorway. Pain ripped through her chest once more, and Minerva groaned softly, closing her eyes.

"Don't move," a soft voice murmured. "Here—let me help you up, dear." A large, warm hand closed around the small of her back, and Minerva frowned, but did not protest, as she found herself being lifted upwards slightly, into a much more comfortable position.

She looked up. A pair of soft brown eyes were gazing down at her in concern. "Pomona," Minerva said weakly, smiling. "How are you?"

"Never mind me," Pomona nipped at once. "Would you like me to get you anything? Another cushion, perhaps? A cup of tea—?"

"Pomona," Minerva interrupted, as firmly as she could muster.

Pomona stopped and stared at Minerva, biting her lip. Finally, Minerva sighed in defeat, "A cup of tea would be lovely, actually. Thank you."

Pomona nodded, approaching the old-fashioned tea service at the back of the bedroom. She immediately began bustling around, heating water and cleaning cups. "I almost didn't believe Severus when he told me you were back," she called over her shoulder, laughing. "You'd only been in St. Mungo's for a few days, I couldn't imagine they'd let you go that easily."

"They didn't," Minerva muttered under her breath, not intending for Pomona to hear.

But Pomona immediately spun around, eyebrows raised. "I beg your pardon?"

Minerva froze, horrified. With no choice left but to explain, she began slowly, "They didn't exactly…want me to leave."

Pomona put her hands on her hips, her expression unusually grim. "Minerva McGonagall, explain yourself!"

Minerva hesitated. Then— "The Healers wanted me to stay until Wednesday," she said quietly. "But…after I saw Nymphadora Tonks arrive—terribly injured—and I heard about Potter, and B-Black, and the debacle in the Department of Mysteries, I…insisted on leaving early."

Pomona sighed loudly, shaking her head. "Minerva—"

"If I'd been here, Pomona," Minerva interrupted fiercely, as a surge of mingled grief and frustration welled up in her. "If I'd just been here, I never would have allowed Potter and his friends to leave the grounds like they did—never." She drew in a sharp breath and released it slowly through her teeth. "Whether the Healers think I'm ready or not, I needed to come back," she finished in a low voice. "I needed to be at Hogwarts."

Pomona bit her lip, turning back to the tea service. Nervously, she began piling cups, pots, and saucers onto the tray. "I really ought to tell Albus about this, oughtn't I?" she whispered.

"I think he's already guessed," Minerva revealed bitterly. "He's given me express instructions to remain in my quarters except for meals and trips to the Hospital Wing."

"Because he's concerned!" Pomona cried, swiveling around to face Minerva. There was a frantic glint in her eyes. "We all are! Minerva, you took four stunning spells to the chest! You should still be in St. Mungo's—!"

"No, I shouldn't," snapped Minerva, and she was surprised by how harsh her voice sounded. "I haven't been to St. Mungo's, for any reason, since nineteen eighty-five, Pomona. There's no reason for me to be there now."

Pomona was silent. And as she neatly arranged the tea tray on the small center table by the foot of Minerva's armchair, Minerva saw the smallest flicker of understanding cross the elder professor's face.

Minerva averted her eyes.

"How would you like your tea?" Pomona asked lightly.

Minerva raised her eyebrows suspiciously. "Er—just one spoonful of sugar should suffice."

Pomona hummed softly to herself, measuring out a spoonful. Minerva watched her warily, waiting for the confrontation. But none came.

Still not taking her eyes off Pomona's unusually calm form, Minerva took a sip of her tea, breathing deeply as it warmed her lips and throat. Then, suddenly, Pomona giggled. Minerva started. "What's so funny?" she asked, torn between bewilderment and amusement.

"I was just remembering how many times Elphinstone asked you to marry him," Pomona explained, chuckling again. Her eyes had lit up, making her look decades younger. "He'd come to Hogwarts every afternoon. Do you remember, Minerva?"

Minerva gazed at Pomona, dumbfounded. "I—well, yes—of course I remember—"

"And do you remember what he used to say?" Pomona continued, beaming at her friend. "It was the same, old speech, every time—'Minerva, you are truly the most gifted employee and dearest friend I have ever had, but if you'll have me—'"

"'—I would like you to be something more,'" Minerva finished quietly, with a faint smile, as the familiar memory came to mind. "He never would give up."

"Absolutely not," Pomona agreed, positively shaking with laughter now. "He even used to ask Albus to talk to you on his behalf!"

"Oh, yes," Minerva acknowledged, her smile widening a little. She placed her teacup back in its saucer, spinning it absentmindedly. "I can't even remember how many times Albus called me up to his office to discuss it."

"He was a good man, Elphinstone," Pomona declared, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. She looked at Minerva. "He was good for you," she added softly.

Minerva said nothing, staring down at her lap. She could feel the familiar acrid stinging sensation in her eyes and nose, so she pursed her lips together and swallowed heavily. "He was," she agreed quietly. Then, she looked up. "I'm being stupid, aren't I? It's been over a decade—I've—I've moved on from it all…but being back in St. Mungo's, it just—it just brought back—" she broke off, as the eleven-year-old memory burned, white-hot, into her mind: barreling down the hallway…choking on the sour, pungent smell of over-cleanliness…being kept away from the body while the Healers tended to his arm…being told it was too late…

"Minerva," Pomona said gently, taking Minerva's pale hand. "I didn't realize how fresh the pain still was, after all these years. You should have said—"

"It's not," Minerva interrupted at once. "It's not fresh—it really isn't, Pomona. I'm just…" she trailed off, shaking her head. "I'm just being stupid."

There were several, long moments of silence. Then— "You know…a wise man once told me that one of the blessings of old friends is that you can afford to be stupid with them," Pomona told her softly, a warm smile spreading across her kindly face.

"Oh," Minerva let out a strangled laugh. "Oh—I'd forgotten—he used to say that all the time."

"It was his favorite thing to say," Pomona sighed, rolling her eyes fondly. "I used to think he'd gone senile."

"So did I," Minerva agreed. She looked up at the ceiling, swallowing. "Well, who knew you were right all along?"

"Albus, maybe," Pomona giggled—looking distinctly like her sixteen-year-old schoolgirl self, Minerva noticed, with a rush of fondness for her dear friend. "But only because he's just as mad as your husband was."

Minerva smiled, and Pomona returned it, squeezing her hand.

"You aren't stupid, Minerva," she said—softly, but firmly. "You're just human."

Minerva met her friend's gaze, chest constricting as her heart filled unexpectedly with emotion. She nodded mutely.

"Oh—I almost forgot," Pomona said suddenly, withdrawing her hand and reaching into her robes. Eyebrows knitting slightly, she fumbled through her pocket. "Aha!" Her expression cleared, and from the depths of her cloak, she extracted a single yellow rose and held it out to Minerva.

It was delicate and fresh—probably just bloomed, Minerva noted, as she reached out to receive the flower from Pomona. She gazed at it, turning it over and over in her palm, watching its soft, moist, golden petals brush her pale knuckles. Several droplets of water gathered between the creases on her fingers. Minerva looked up at Pomona, chin trembling.

"Longbottom found it in the greenhouse this morning," Pomona said gently. "I remembered how much you love them."

Minerva took a deep breath, letting the sweet, fresh scent of the flower fill her senses. And suddenly, she was forty-seven years old again, sitting by the Black Lake…and there was her dearest Finn, down on one knee, his expression radiating an optimism so powerful that it made her weak at the knees. A yellow rose lay in his hands.

"Thank you," Minerva said, her voice faltering slightly. Pomona smiled, leaning forward to hug her. And as Minerva returned the hug, wrapping her thin arms around her friend's warm frame and resting her chin on Pomona's shoulder, she closed her eyes tightly, releasing a shuddering sigh as her tears finally spilled over.

Author's Note:

Hi everyone! :D Goodness, it's been ages since I last posted a one-shot! Sorry if it's terrible…I'm a little rusty. Anyway, this is for Morning Lilies' Yellow Rose Bowl: a friendship competition! I hope you all like it!