Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor the world of Harry Potter - they belong to JK Rowling.
Title: Somebody That I Used to Know by Gotye.
Despite the various injuries and maladies of the school year at Hogwarts, ever increasing over time, the end of August almost always managed to feel like Madam Poppy Pomfrey's busiest period. Though generally an organised person, and thus largely stocked up on bandages and potions, she was also notoriously fastidious when it came to hygiene. Shortly before September 1st, bedsheets and curtains would be washed, and steamed, and washed, and steamed; bedpans would be cleaned by hand and by wand; glass bottles and vials would be removed, disinfected, and neatly reordered; her office shelves, full to the brim with books, always received a thorough dusting, with replacements made where necessary; and every feasible surface would be scrubbed and sterilised until it was time for the students to arrive.
This year, a problem had, to Poppy's intense chagrin, presented itself within minutes of her arrival back at the school following a brief trip to visit relatives; instead of repeating her routine at least thrice, as usual, she had been forced to task herself with preparing her hospital wing for the possibility that Albus Dumbledore would soon need her care. It hadn't been a request, which had admittedly irked her, but she prided herself on being at least an adequate enough healer to recognise a distinctly malevolent curse. Albus had stood at dinner to greet Poppy when she had entered the Great Hall in her holiday muggle wear a few days earlier, joining eight or so returned staff members, and his charred hand was an unwelcome sight at the end of one tasselled sleeve. Her reaction, which she hoped read as 'composed' rather than 'astounded', did not go unnoticed; it was abundantly clear from the faces at the table that her professional opinion had been keenly awaited by her colleagues in her absence. Being inclined towards confidentiality, Poppy refused all later questions, though keenly sought out a chance to inspect the hand. Naturally, Albus refused her assistance.
This was how she came to be inundated with previously unexpected tasks just two days before the students' arrival. Her investigation was already underway, taking precious time from her routine, and orders placed with a variety of proprietors to assist the Headmaster's affliction had only been delivered that morning. Though she had sought Severus Snape's counsel earlier in the week, he had reminded her of his new position, and this had quashed all hope of his assistance. Preparing without a satisfactory understanding of the problem had been difficult, to say the least, and the merry nature with which she was being brushed off at every turn was endlessly vexing.
"Bloody man... busy enough... insulting... perfectly capable... no trust..."
Her tumultuous musing broken by the loud, unmistakeable patter of Pomona Sprout's distinctly tiny feet, Poppy flicked her wand across to carefully make the next bed - a job that needn't be tackled so slowly, but her mind was buzzing, and her crisp, clean corners would suffer if she chose to wave her wand across the whole row. She finished as the doors clattered open, but her eyes remained glued to her work as the diminutive Sprout puffed her way over.
"Breathe, Mona," chastised the matron, blindly summoning a chair to nudge at her friend's legs until she sat.
"Y-You w-w-won't-"
"I-I w-w-won't...?" Her mocking gained her a sharp shock to her left shin. Pomona's little legs could not reach from her distance to offer a well-deserved kick, but a bedpan had been levitated to knock the healer's leg as a worthy substitute. The brief attack had the gratifying effect of switching Poppy's gaze from starchy sheets to the panting witch seated in the centre of the ward, whose oft likably dishevelled appearance was surprisingly... neat. With her attention caught, Poppy quirked a brow for the professor to finish, primarily to avoid the apology she knew was necessary on account of her sardonic behaviour.
There was a wait. Pomona shook her head, then her hands, insisting silently on just a minute or two to catch her breath. It didn't take much for Poppy to note that, most unusually, Pomona's hands were more of a tawny shade than their customary umber; the herbology teacher had scrubbed her skin a little harder than usual for the start of the school year.
To Poppy's growing bewilderment, it was not Sprout who next spoke; nor was it herself, content enough to glance furtively at the remaining jobs littered around the small ward.
"How did I know you were dashing off to see her, Pomona?" Minerva queried as she descended upon them, her heavy brogue thick with amusement, a familiar smirk tugging at her thin lips. It should have been a comfort, really. If anyone could be counted on for a quick and clear response, it was Minerva McGonagall.
Typical of the kind of day Poppy was having, the new arrival was not, in fact, a source of relief, but an added weight to growing impatience and vexation. She was also not alone, with a figure dressed in neat blue robes just moments behind her; most unusually, after a moment of reflection, the new visitor then closed the doors.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake! Could somebody pleaseexplainwhat has led Pomona to finally try the exercise I've been prescribing for countless years?" cried Poppy, to the alarm of her newer guests. Regardless, both soon wore grins that clashed with Pomona's trepidation.
"She hasn't told you yet?" questioned Rolanda Hooch, looking between Minerva and the seated witch by her side. "Oh. I thought you'd be quicker than this, Sprout."
"As did-" Minerva began, before a wave of magic - a hex, hopefully misplaced on purpose - shot past her ear. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, though couldn't find the energy to feign surprise. Considering the gravity of the new situation, as well as her prior knowledge of the development, she couldn't continue to treat the situation so lightly. "A little childish, Poppy, but -"
"It's about the new potions master," breathed Pomona, having regained enough air to form a short sentence.
"What about- Oh, no. I'm not doing thisagain,not after last time." The healer switched her stare - narrow eyes, pursed lips - to the others, before returning to the squat witch nearer the ground - a level in keeping with her romantic standards, in Poppy's opinion. "Appropriately for a lesbian, you have the worst taste in men, so you'll forgive me if I avoid filling the gap in my love life with one of your unsuitable choices."
"And here I was thinking you rather liked him," said Minerva, against her better judgement.
"Quite," sniggered Hooch, who was looking increasingly elated with the juicy discussion for their first gathering of the new school year. "Was she on the desk when you caught them, Sprout, or on his lap? I think my own fantasies might have interfered with the reality over the years."
"About Slughorn?" yelpedPomona, having finally grasped the entirety of her voice, only to nearly lose it to revulsion.
"NO! About Poppy, you great lumbering-"
But they were denied one of Rolanda's infamous insults when she caught sight of their pitiable friend's pallid complexion. For once in her life, she looked ready to be tucked up in hospital sheets herself. It wasn't exactly the smutty reveal that left Poppy so shell-shocked, though she wouldn't be thanking Rolanda in a hurry for her indelicacy, but rather the news itself. Horace, back to hold court in the dungeons once more. Horace, who snuck off to retirement like the coward he always was. Horace, who probably hadn't so much as glanced at a quill since he left Poppy at Hogwarts, alone. Poppy dared her mind to think about something else, lest her anger reach boiling point, but she was left selectively picking at the situation when she finally opened her mouth.
"How do youknow, Rolanda? And Minerva, too, I never-" Poppy stopped, channelling her fury into a glare for Pomona.
"It wasn't her!" cried Rolanda, immediately casting a shadow over their far smaller friend. "Merlin's bollocks, Pomfrey, did you think you were discreet? I noticed after a Slytherin versus Ravenclaw match; you must have been dealing with at least four patients when it finished, and he was up here feigning concern for his students whilst groping you. I was stunned!... By your taste, I mean, not his leering."
"Oh, leave her, Rolanda. We have limited choice," muttered Minerva, though she, too, looked mildly disturbed by the match.
"And you? How exactly did you find out?"
"Well, my discovery was more in line with Pomona's," began the transfiguration professor, the corners of her lips twitching as her whiskers might. "I knew Horace was making a fresh batch of Pepperup Potion, so I visited his office first, but he wasn't there. I figured I'd find him with you, which I did, and you were-"
"In flagrante," offered Pomona with a smirk, having avoided Poppy's ire for a record time now. "Very similar to my experience, Minerva, though it appears you didn't hang around to drop everything in your arms at the sight."
At the sound of Poppy's huff, nobody spoke. With a wave of her empty hand, the matron indicated a need for silence, just briefly, whilst she bustled around finishing the beds. Her astonishment, primarily at his return rather than her own lack of stealth in the past, was blatant to her friends, who watched with trepidation as her brows danced in accompaniment to her own internal conversation.
"Who else knows?" she asked, finally. It was a regrettable choice of question; for some time, no one wanted to speak.
"...Albus probably does, as I'm sure you've now realised," started Minerva, who was beginning to tick names off on her fingers. "Filius doesn't miss much, though I can't say I've ever discussed it with him. Do you know if Irma-?"
"No, no, she doesn't know," answered Pomona.
"Aurora doesn't, Septima is unlikely... Sybill definitely hasn't got a clue - 'Inner Eye', my arse... Argus doesn't pay attention to this kind of thing... Bathsheda might know, though I doubt it... Severus does... I don't-"
But Poppy had spluttered, as the others had suspected she might. Noises made for some vague hints of a question.
"He asked Min and I when he first started," said Pomona. "I think he found our alarm quite amusing, especially for him, but did insist that it was just intuition. We never heard even the faintest whisper amongst the students, Pops."
Back in her prime, when her lines were less so and her waist considerably defined between her chest and ample hips, she was used to blatant crushes. Fetish consistently accompanied the uniform when she was at St Mungo's, and this heightened at Hogwarts in light of the appealing authoritative dynamic, and the tantalising wisps of forbidden lust. It was always easily ignored, far more amusing than it ever was sinister, but thinking of those past charges having knowledge of her sexual exploits felt alarmingly intrusive. To be imagined as a sexual being is one thing, but to be known as one is quite another.
"I see," said Poppy, calming marginally. "And... why didn't you ever talk to me?"
"Nausea, I suppose," supplied Rolanda instinctively. "I didn't want to think about old Slughorn having a go on one of his favourite past students; I was quite content to imagine you with ladies of my ilk."
"I must admit that it disturbed me, too, Poppy... Your history more than the age difference, I'll hasten to add." Minerva's tone, laced with warning, halted Poppy from making a remark about the pot and the kettle.
"It was... nice, actually," Poppy asserted, casting her mind back to those racy evenings (and mornings, and afternoons) when Horace would drop by purely to thoroughly enjoy her company. She could never say much for his personality, but his affection was oddly welcome, and his lust for her was uniquely addictive. He wouldn't glance twice at her now, she was sure, for her skin was lined with age, and her eyes the only remnants of the woman he worshipped. Truthfully, she couldn't even claim to have always enjoyed the sex - it was less him, less skill, less love, and all the glorious sensation of being utterly venerated. She wouldn't expect Rolanda or Pomona to get it, knowing from her own dalliances that women scarcely lacked attentiveness, but Minerva would surely understand the draw of an older man. Horace was not her catch, but she was always very much his: far younger than he would ever have again; far prettier than he deserved; far more practised than she would care to admit. As she learnt, older men have a way of appreciating younger women that one can, with effort, prize above their aesthetic preferences.
"Nice? Was he good?" quizzed the flying instructor, her steely eyebrows raised in disbelief. It was a comical enough image to make Poppy's lips twitch into a brief smirk. The temptation to recount a time or two, like a drunken schoolgirl, or a mother attempting to embarrass her young, was quashed.
"He... revered me, you see..." explained Poppy, aware now that six piercing eyes were burning a hole through her skull. Though words didn't precisely fail her, she was too mortified by her youthful vanity to elaborate.
"Ah." Minerva's return to the conversation said more with one utterance than Poppy ever could. Pomona's mouth opened into an understanding little 'o', whilst Rolanda flashed a smile as indecent as ever. "And you felt nothing for him?"
"... I wouldn't say that," answered Poppy, but a tiny part of her was screaming assent. "He liked to talk about his favourite students, but I was one of them, so he took an interest in my pastimes, and he was fond of hearing about Violet..."
"You talked about your sister?"
"Be fair, Ro," interposed Pomona soothingly. "We talk to her about Vi often enough."
"We don't sha-"
"Whisht! Carry on, Poppy."
"Well, we conversed easily and often, so I didn't find him quite as provoking as some of you." At this, Poppy smirked. Horace's unappealing eccentricities always had a way of vexing his colleagues. "In the same way my job leads me to work with Severus frequently, I spent a lot of time with Horace."
"And now you will again," Rolanda commented, remaining remarkably titillated by this new vision of her friend.
"... I hadn't thought of that. Oh. But Severus enjoys brewing so much, and he usually has plenty of time, surely he'll still help..."
"Scared you'll start rogering Sluggy again, Pomfrey?" quipped Rolanda as she endeavoured to steal the chair beneath Pomona - this level of teasing always took immense strength. She didn't get the dash of shock she was hoping for, which was, in hindsight, to be expected, but Poppy's scowl was both welcome and unintentionally salacious.
"It's evidently the opposite, Rolanda. She's frightened that he won't want her." Minerva's ability to penetrate her friends' inner thoughts was unparalleled, and not entirely off the mark on this occasion.
"Tosh, Minnie! Poppy wouldn't go back there. Would you, Pops?" Pomona laughed. "Pops?"
Curiously, Poppy hadn't yet allowed that exact scenario to permeate her mind, and thus took a moment to consider the possibility. If he did want her, still saw the same woman he had praised all those years ago, could she be tempted by him? Would his poor grasp of female anatomy be forgotten in the wake of one or two of his ingratiating compliments? With darkness encroaching, would she even have time to pay attention to an extracurricular activity such as Horace?
"... I don't think so," she finally answered. "But Minerva is right, as much as I hate to admit it. It's ridiculous pride, nothing more... He liked that I was younger, you see, and although our age gap hasn't altered, my age has, and I'm no longer... desirable."
"Now, ladies, from your resident expert on women of all kind..." Rolanda ignored Pomona's snort of protest, and Poppy's own quirked brow. "I can assure you that women never lose their desirability entirely. Pomfrey, yours is very much intact."
She received only disbelief from all of them, but Poppy appropriately took the lead. "Ah, really? And when did a student, say, last dare to flirt with you? Properly, that is."
"Sirius Black." It was an automatic chorus from the other three; a name rather than a year, for Black was a period in and of himself. His humorous charm had even been known to work on staff members inclined towards the fairer sex: Rolanda had once been so distracted by his compliments that James Potter had stolen a bludger from her office for use during an upcoming exam.
"Quite. And I won't flatter myself into thinking that he really thought my greying hair was - how did he put it? - 'enchanting', and I doubt he ever expected to be rolling around on the floor of Greenhouse 2 with you, Pomona, so in reality we'd have to go a lot further back to find a good pool of students who ever fantasised about any of us." Though she suspected that strictness had been a prominent deterrent in at least three out of four cases, she hoped, for now, for blind agreement.
"And your point, Pomfrey?"
"I'm old. Horace won't have any interest in me now," answered Poppy, all matter-of-fact and don't-argue-with-me-on-this-or-I'll-hex-you-into-next-week.
"I'm inclined to agree," added Minerva, though diplomatically enough to avoid any incoming ire. "He must have felt some attraction towards you when we taught you. You were a child in his care for seven years, and not even -"
"- in the latter stages of bloom -" supplied Pomona, ever quick to cut in with a horticultural metaphor.
"- when he finally seduced you."
"Merlin, imagine actually fucking one of the little shits one day." Rolanda's comment was accompanied by an appropriate gagging noise, for added effect. It was received in quite the same manner: they all shared a queasy expression.
"... I was fully bloomed by my late twenties, thanks. I like to think I at least had breasts, and enough maturity to do this bloody job."
"You had good tits at school, Pomfrey," said Rolanda, delivering her opinion with a certain finality.
"And you were head girl, and frighteningly grown. It still would have been highly inappropriate if Horace had even dared to look twice at you." Minerva had a way of fixing her stare that made Poppy shift, and the party was forced to follow her to her office.
"But he definitely didlook twice at you," muttered Pomona en route, though neither she nor Rolanda actually saw Poppy at school in her final year.
The matron's office was a veritable feast for the eyes: stacks and stacks of books were balanced precariously on her desk, and unwrapped parcels were scattered on the floor of the cosy space, offering glimpses of potions and plants and curious objects. Even Pomona dared to raise a brow at the unlikely mess, but all queries were put aside for a moment.
"If you all think he's so dreadful," Poppy paused, busy tripping over a box, "why haven't you complained to Albus about him?"
"... Pomfrey, we had to deal with Gilderoy Lockhart and Dolores Umbridge. At least the man can teach, and he never made a pass at you when you were still in school uniform. Things could be worse." Rolanda's mention of Umbridge elicited a quick hiss from Minerva, not unlike a sound she would make in feline form. When Poppy silently conceded, the chance to question the state of her office was snatched.
"Did someone break in?" asked the bravest of the four. It became swiftly apparent that the touch of humour was not best used on the healer, who was infamously so highly strung when it came to cleanliness and organisation that she abruptly looked ready to commit a crime worthy of life in Azkaban.
"I'm researching, if you must know!"
"'Advanced Potions for Previously Incurable Afflictions'?" Rolanda was already thumbing through one of the tomes. "This is complicated stuff, even for Madam Merlin-Yes-Screw-Me-Horace..."
"I can manage!" snapped Poppy, snatching the book back. "I think the three of you have finished now, don't you?"
"I should think so," agreed Minerva, whose own inspection of Poppy's new book collection was occurring via the discreet process of manual shelving. "I suppose we'll just have to discuss Rolanda's appallingly desperate attempts to get laid whilst we help you."
The suggestion had the desired effect: as Rolanda burst into protest, her cries dulled by Pomona's hearty cackles, Minerva caught Poppy's gaze, and they shared a smile.