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Quidditch has never quite interested Poppy Pomfrey.
Perhaps it's always been the competitive spirit or the inherently violent nature of the Wizarding sport—both of which makes her fold her arms and harrumph! in disapproval. Whatever the reason is, Poppy has seen enough of her fellow classmates hurt.
Why must it be someone she loves?
"Goodness gracious!" Pomona scrunches her entire face, and that adorably round chin of hers, across the breakfast trays of porridge and hard-boiled eggs and cold jam neatly molded into tiny, smiling gnomes. "But won't you come this time?" she pleads, buttering her toast. "Minnie might not be so cross if she saw you supporting the Gryffindor team during the match… won't you, Popsie?"
Down the Hufflepuff table, two of the second year girls laugh and nudge each other's shoulders lightly. Poppy glances to them, and then to the Gryffindor table where Minerva squints through her square-shaped spectacles down on her Potions homework.
The corners of Poppy's mouth quirk.
"I hope you know know how much this will mean to her," Pomona trills, as the other girl clatters down her fork onto a golden platter. Their hands reach for each other, grasping on. The only thing missing is Minerva's hands in theirs, Poppy supposes.
"… Of course I do, Pom."
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It's Minerva's final year of Hogwarts.
She doesn't wish for a final anything with Minerva or with Pomona.
A hush falls restlessly over the crowds as what remains of the Quidditch players are signaled to land.
Despite this, Poppy hears the fearfully loud blaring in her ears. It's unending. It's punctuated in prickles of Pomona's quiet, muffled weeping beside her and Professor Armando Dippet's booming voice projected over the stands of terrified onlookers.
PLEASE REMAIN CALM.
Poppy's heart races, leaping up into her throat. Nausea overcomes her.
Down below, Minerva hasn't stirred an inch, now draped limply into the Gryffindor Keeper's arms.
WE WILL SORT THIS OUT AS QUICKLY AS NEED BE.
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"Have you gone completely MENTAL—?!"
It's a storm of righteous fury crackling under her skin. Poppy seethes, her eyes tearing up.
Minerva winces, touching her concussed skull as she goes upright. Pomona frets to herself, standing between her friends. "You fell off your broom, for Merlin's sake!" Poppy yells. "Cracked skull! Broken ribs! This is WHY I don't come to your matches—!"
"Yes, yes," Minerva grumbles. Her dark, uncombed hair shiny in the sunlight. "Go on. Tell me I'm a daft fool. Tell me I deserve it."
Poppy's lips tremble.
"No."
Minerva's expression softens with shock.
"I won't."
She snatches tightly onto Pomona's hand, dragging her with her, and lunging into Minerva's arms. It's not proper of her, or in accordance to the Matron's rules of visitors in the Hospital Wing, but Poppy refuses to leave the warmth of their loved ones.
Pomona lets out a content but deeply troubled sigh, bending in to kiss Minerva's cheek.
"Feel better soon, Minnie," she whispers, and Minerva snorts softly. Pomona's fingers smooth into Poppy's light blond hair.
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