A/N: QLFC Round 5 | Beater 2 for the Wimbourne Wasps | Main Prompt - Unfairness | Optional Prompts - 4) pocket watch, 5) bottle of wine, 13) friendship | Set during Sorcerer's Stone
Pomona reached into the deep pockets of her father's trusty old overcoat — she had no plans to purchase a more lady-like replacement until those garments got their just dues in the pocket area, thank you very much — until her fingers closed around cool metal. She drew out a scuffed brass pocket watch, yet another relic of her father's that she was loath to part with. It was utilitarian. Practical. Functional, even with its cracked face and sticky second hand. There was no reason to replace it, or so she told herself. It was not simply sentiment that led to the object's continued presence in her own pocket. No, there was quite the collection of reasons to keep it. Just like the coat.
Andries Sprout came from a long line of Dutch farmers. He had been a tall, freckle-faced man, with long, straw-colored hair, sky-blue eyes, and a broad smile that spread from one high cheekbone to the next. One day he fell for the charm of a Scottish lass visiting a local market, and the rest, as they say, was history. Pomona was conceived August 9, 1932, and soon after, Luciana Irvine became Luciana Sprout. Andries and Luciana moved into a cottage in a small town on the edge of Fife, where Andries tended to his new crop fields, rain or shine, until Germany invaded Poland and Neville Chamberlain's voice came through the family's miraculously functional radio, speaking those fateful words: "This country is at war with Germany."
The young Andries found himself a part of the Royal Navy at Scapa Flow for all of 32 days before Kapitänleutnant Prien gave his command and the HMS Royal Oak fell at the hands of the U-47 submarine.
Soon after, there was a knock on the door of the Sprout residence in the wee hours of the morning, and Luciana found herself a widow at 25. Pomona was awakened by an inhuman wail, and when she wandered out of her bedroom, she found the source to be her own mother, crumpled in on herself in front of the front door, a yellow paper crushed against her chest.
Pomona may have been merely 6 years of age, but she possessed a wisdom far beyond what one would guess from the chubby face and wispy curls — she knew what this meant. More than knew, she felt it, deeply, horribly — Dada was not coming home. Ever. She slowly walked over to her mother, and perched on the ground beside her, reaching up a small hand to gently wipe a tear from her mother's face.
Luciana opened her eyes to find the eyes of her little daughter looking at her with heartbreak to match her own, but also with great compassion, and she knew it then — they were going to be okay. Maybe not now, maybe not soon, but things would work out, and they would make it. They had each other.
Luciana continued to tend to the fields Andries left behind, taking over his duties, and teaching Pomona to do the same — the farm work was done in a more timely manner each day than Andries had ever managed, for Luciana harbored a secret. She did not, as she had told Andries, hail from a line of simple farmers. She came from a family of witches and wizards, and she had resigned herself to hiding this, to living a Muggle life. The decision was not without some feeling of sadness at abandoning her heritage, but she felt it was worth the sacrifice to be by the side of her dear husband and child. Now, though, she found herself noticing signs with every passing year — Pomona took after herself. She had a magical child.
Pomona began to learn new things from her mother, not just farming techniques. She learned the properties of roots and herbs, of common plants and of plants she had never seen nor heard of, plants with names that sounded so fantastical she half believed her mother to be inventing them herself. Names like Sopophorous, Snargaluff, and Flitterbloom.
The summer of her 11th birthday, Pomona discovered there was an entire world of fantastical names her mother had yet to tell her. A world of magic. A world where the war that killed her father did not exist. She stepped foot into Hogwarts in September of 1944, and never looked back; she excelled in Herbology thanks to her mother, and she found where she belonged. Hogwarts was her home.
She had taken her father's coat and pocket watch with her in her first year to keep him close, and had kept them ever since — he, too, had a home in Hogwarts, even as a Muggle.
But there was no time to reminisce. Sweet Merlin, get a hold of yourself, Pomona! It was Friday, it was nearing 9:30 pm, and when those two facts combined, it meant that it was time she went to visit her old classmate.
Pomona took over the Herbology job from Professor Beery when he retired at the end of her seventh year — he claimed it was not only for her benefit, that he had been planning to retire that year anyway, but she knew the truth; her mentor knew she never wanted to leave Hogwarts, and he gave her a way to stay. Minerva McGonagall, on the other hand, left for the Ministry the day she graduated. Although it took her longer than Pomona, a short two years later she found herself back at Hogwarts, with the realization that in returning, she was coming home. Ever since the two former classmates had found themselves together on the Hogwarts teaching staff, they had taken to making a point to meet up at least once a week.
Pomona had never cared much for Quidditch, but she always knew how the Gryffindor team was doing, for Minerva would burst into her office after every match. There would either be an "Ach, Pomona, you won't believe what just happened!" or a bottle of Glenfiddich, followed a lot of talk of broomsticks, bludgers, those Slytherin bastards, and, lately, the feats of Harry James Potter, seeker extraordinaire.
Tonight, however, there was no Quidditch match to discuss. Merely two friends catching up, and possibly finishing off a bottle of wine in celebration of the coming weekend — Pomona had never cared much for Minerva's preferred whiskey. Grabbing a bottle of Merlot, she set out for the office nearest the Transfiguration classroom.
Upon reaching the wooden door within the stone wall, Pomona knocked twice, answered Minerva's call of "Who is it?" and, upon being told to do so, entered her office — or as she liked to think of it, the lion's den.
"Good evening!" said Pomona jovially as she sat in her usual chair across from the desk, placing the bottle down in front of her. Minerva was glowering down at a piece of parchment. "Is it?" she muttered. "I rather think not. I tell you, Pomona, I can't take much more of this rubbish. Hermione Granger is the only bright spot in that pile." She stabbed her quill in the direction of a stack of parchment. "And I have no high hopes in the ability of this particular one to redeem the rest. Quite the contrary." She squinted her eyes. "In fact, I am not entirely sure what this is even about.""Has that Crabbe boy gone and mixed up his transfiguration and potions assignments again? Severus looked rather dour at supper tonight, not that that really signals anything other than his presence.""There has been no mix up. It's just Longbottom." She shook her head. "Sometimes it baffles me how that boy made it here. I believe it baffles even him,judging by the effort — or lack thereof — that he appears to devote to his classes."
Pomona's jaw dropped open. "He seems a nice boy to me—"
"— he's no troublemaker, but he's no great talent either.""He's a first year, Minerva, might that be an unreasonable judgment to make?""The boy simply does not apply himself. I cannot teach him to care."
Pomona was taken aback. "I must disagree with you there. He didn't have the strongest start, but he is shaping up to be my best student! Perhaps even my protege, should he like. Who knows, he may well take over when I am gone — the boy has a natural intuition for plants."
Minerva raised an eyebrow. "Does he?"
"Oho, yes. The other day, I found him talking the Devil's Snare out of strangling a Mandrake! He has grown quite adept at caring for the plants, I even let him come and help in the greenhouse from time to time.""I must say, I find it hard to believe. He has shown no such interest in my class."
Pomona gave a hearty laugh. "I don't recall being much of a success in Transfiguration back in my day, and I turned out alright in the end!"
"Aye, that you did." Minerva looked thoughtful. "But his father was such a gifted student — brilliant. He may have surpassed myself if given the time — I only wish he had passed it on.""We can't all have the same talents, Minerva.""Aye. Well, I am glad to hear Longbottom shows promise. Now, I see a bottle of wine — care to do the honors?""I thought you'd never ask!" Pomona summoned the cork out. "Now, about not having the same talents… charms I can manage, but now we require glasses, oh Great Transfigurer!"
Minerva chuckled and, with an intricate swirl of her wand, two quills became wine glasses, and Pomona poured Merlot into each.
"To Longbottom," Minerva said, raising her glass."To Longbottom, indeed. May he bring us many a conversation in the coming years. And may he always have a home here."
The hands of Pomona's old brass pocket watch announced the time as 3:30am and approximately 26 seconds; its owner, however, was in no state to view it.
The bottle of Merlot which sat upon Minerva's desk now lay empty on its side, having been refilled more than once over the course of the last few hours. An old coat lay discarded on the floor, alongside a tartan scarf and various other articles of clothing in a trail leading to the back of Minerva's office, where the door to her quarters hung open, a bed in a far corner visible should anyone happen to poke their head through the door. Atop the bed lay wrinkled bedclothes, and atop those lay two red-faced witches. One had her head of wispy curls resting on the other's shoulder, happily snoring away, while the other had her face buried in a pillow which hid a smile of contentment, present even in sleep.
Little did either know that, momentarily distracted by the thoughts of her family, Pomona had neglected to lock the office door. And somewhere around 11:45pm, it had creaked open, soft footsteps had crossed the length of the open office, and one Neville Longbottom poked his head in on a sight of which he would never tell a soul. No, he would much rather forget that his eyes had ever borne witness to that. Forget his late paper on the conjuring of fire. Perhaps Professor McGonagall would be too distracted to remember it.