Pomona
Queering the Wizarding World
Pomona Sprout stepped onto the platform and set her tweed valise on the ground. She took a moment to stretch fully in the open air, allowing the clustered bunches of people to pass her by. She smiled up at the cloudless sky, and it gleamed as blue as bachelor’s buttons. The train had stifled her, for it had been cramped with far too many people — mostly Muggles — who had decided to holiday near the Cairngorms for the summer. Muggles always felt twice the size of wizards to her, with their loads of luggage and general aura of magic-bereftness. Pomona had managed to make polite conversation with a young girl whose family had piled into her compartment. The child was not more than seven years old, dressed for hiking, and seemed particularly charmed by the lush countryside outside the window. Pomona, whilst squeezing in her knees to make room for the girl’s rambunctious little brother to pace and hollar, told the girl about the nature of certain trees, actively reminding herself to only divulge Muggle-appropriate facts. She had to bite her tongue right before revealing that the girl and her family should be wary of Scots pines, in which foul doxies tended to lurk and nest. She opted for a subtle charm to keep the pests away from the family instead — a few whispered words she could mask as a clearing of her throat as she stepped out of the compartment.
Pomona picked up her valise and descended the steps into the Muggle city streets. She made her way to the spot at the edge of town, where a great, red-berried rowan stood tall on a quiet path away from the main thoroughfares. She was pleased to find the rowan’s road still calm since her last visit. She even spotted a few timid bowtruckles out in plain sight, nestled among the berries, no doubt waiting to make a wayward insect their supper. Bowtruckles made excellent companions for gardeners, for they ate all manner of plant-hungry pests. Pomona always employed a few in the greenhouses at school. She set her bag down in the shade of the tree and clicked it open, trying to move as softly as possible so as not to disturb the creatures or the plants. She dug her arm deep into the charmed bag until her fingers found what she wanted — the handle of her broomstick. She pulled it out and laughed, for a pair of her knickers stuck absurdly to the bristles.
So much for silence. She shook the knickers off and threw them back into the bag. She took a deep breath before commanding her broom.
“Up!” she whispered, though this was more of a polite gesture than a need. The broom had been with her many years and it probably would have responded if she just sat down, but Pomona saw no need to forget her manners. “Up, dear!” The broom floated lazily up to meet her palm. The handle thrummed with magic. It was an old model that she’d had since graduation — many years ago, now — but she wouldn’t give up her Windsome 300 for the world. It was slow and balanced, and would offer her a stable side-saddle ride up the hilly trail, her valise floating dutifully behind.
#
Pomona had not been home since Christmas. Each bend in the road made her heart flutter faster in an anticipation so giddy that she was glad no one was around to see her girlish grin. Her cottage in the woods, tucked away out of non-magical sight, far away from the pressing duties of Professorship and being Head of House.
Not that Hufflepuffs are known for being a troublesome bunch, she thought. Student faces passed through her mind as her broom bussed her along, her heart thankful for each one. Then she thought of poor Cedric Diggory, her gut twisting. The death of the boy still affected her, even half a decade later. She had sat with his parents for hours after his body returned from the Maze, Harry Potter’s screams tearing through the night air. The Dark Lord may have finally been defeated, but she knew the pain and suffering that had razed in his wake would never be fully healed.
#
Pomona arrived at the cottage, its walls painted butter yellow — she was a proud Hufflepuff, of course — and its roof covered in a vine plant that appeared to be trying to peek into each of their windows. Still atop her Windsome, she waved her wand in a wide arc, casting her spell over the whole of the house. The charm asked the vines, nicely, to grow the other way. Some of the tendrils already started receding back, their leaves drooping in embarrassment. Satisfied, she slid off her broom and carried it the rest of the way to the door. She knocked to the tune of a familiar song on the dark green door.
When Demetria opened the door and saw Pomona, the widest, most brilliant smile spread across her face. Pomona’s knees nearly turned to jelly. She thought it was remarkable that, even after three decades of marriage, this woman could still make her forget her words.
“Hello, love,” said Dem, taking Pomona’s valise from her hand. She leaned in close for a kiss and Pomona cheerfully obliged. They parted and Dem gave her a severe look. “I hate when it takes so long for you to come home.”
“Lots of paperwork at the end of term, dear.”
“Do you think Minerva even reads any of it?” scoffed Dem.
“Knowing Minerva, she’s probably got two trunkfuls of papers headed home with her!”
“Come on!” said Dem, waving her inside. “Before an owl catches sight of you and summons you back.” She took the valise to their bedroom, leaving Pomona to drink in the sight of their kitchen after so many months away. She sighed, her body relaxing in the cozy space they had fostered together. Dem had built their furniture by hand, preferring working with Muggle tools instead of magic. Pomona could understand, for she preferred to get her hands in the dirt instead of picking, uprooting, and planting with her wand. There was magic in the earth, wood and even her own sweat. Some wizards forget that, preferring the stuffy cleanliness of the wand-waving.
Their big, brass kettle warmed on the stovetop. Their table settings sat neatly on the table, mirrored, each plate adorned with what looked to be a fresh lemon poppy seed scone. The window directly across from the front door showed a tantalizing view of their home garden. Bees buzzed happily about the generous foliage. Pomona could see that Dem had kept the flowers, the vegetables, the herbs, and even the more finicky plants happy and healthy. Their tentacula, a known biter, sported a floppy, gaping grin.
Pomona moved closer to the window, setting her broom against the kitchen wall. The sun tickled her cheeks into warmth. The sun seemed to shine so much brighter in their yard. Dem returned, linking her arm through Pomona’s. They leaned in close together.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to chase down the hopsquashes,” grumbled Dem. “They don’t mind me like they mind you.” Pomona chuckled.
“I’ll have a chat with them.”
“It might have been my constant threats to turn them into pies…” At her comment, a short, wet gurgle came from somewhere within the garden. Dem tutted her tongue and called out the window. “Just a joke!”
“You’ve scared them silly!” said Pomona, hitting her wife on the arm.
“They’re just being dramatic,” she whispered, resting her head on Pomona’s shoulder.
“It’s like a dream to be home,” said Pomona softly.
“It’s like a dream to have you here.”
“You’ve been getting on alright without me?”
“I’ve been getting on terribly, my love. You know that.” They turned to each other. Pomona saw through the twinkling, joking exterior and found the same sad yearning in Dem’s face that she felt in her chest. “I forget, sometimes, that it is finished. That You-Know-Who can’t come into Hogwarts and…” Dem’s words were lost in silent tears. Pomona tried to kiss them away but found herself weeping along with her. They held each other in that spot until it felt quiet, safe, and warm, again.
