By: GenreGypsy
Molly hadn't intended to come back to the greenhouses so soon, but something had pulled her here, as if the very air had been whispering her name, coaxing her back. She told herself it was the need to keep busy, the desire to help Pomona with her endless tasks. But deep down, she knew it wasn't just about that.
There was something about the space, about Pomona, that made her feel… alive again. Something that stirred feelings she hadn't expected to surface. So, when she found herself walking through the misty grounds toward the towering glass structure the next morning, she wasn't entirely surprised.
As Molly stepped inside the greenhouse, the familiar smell of damp earth and the faint perfume of plants wrapped around her like a comforting blanket. The air was warmer here, thicker, and there was a stillness that felt at odds with the bustling world beyond the glass walls.
Pomona was already there, of course. The older woman was kneeling near the back of the greenhouse, her hands buried deep in the soil as she tended to a row of particularly unruly ferns. She looked up when Molly entered, her face lighting with a small, but genuine smile.
"Back already?" Pomona asked, her voice teasing but warm. "Couldn't stay away, I see."
Molly smiled, though her heart fluttered a bit more than she expected at the sight of Pomona's warm, welcoming expression. "I suppose I couldn't," she admitted, her voice softer than she meant it to be.
Pomona stood, dusting her hands off on her apron, and gestured toward the far end of the greenhouse where the more exotic plants were kept. "I could use your help with a few repotting tasks," she said, her tone casual but kind. "Nothing too difficult, but those stubborn plants can be tricky."
Molly nodded, making her way over to the far side of the greenhouse, her heart still beating just a little too fast in her chest. The cluster of flowers she had seen the day before—the ones Pomona had called Aphrodesia florealis—was still there, tucked away among the other magical plants, their deep red petals gleaming faintly in the filtered light.
She hadn't been able to stop thinking about them, about the way they had seemed to pulse with some kind of strange energy, calling to her in a way she couldn't explain. And as she got closer, that same pull returned, stronger now, like a magnetic force drawing her in.
Molly bent down, her hands moving carefully over the pots, checking for signs of damage or stress in the plants. But as she worked, her fingers brushed against something soft—velvety. She froze, glancing down to see that her hand had grazed one of the flowers.
A shock of warmth shot through her, quick and undeniable. It wasn't painful, not exactly, but it was intense—like a surge of heat that rushed through her body, settling low in her stomach. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the world around her seemed to blur at the edges. The air felt heavier, thicker, as if it was pressing in on her from all sides.
Molly's heart pounded in her chest, her skin suddenly too warm, too tight. She could feel her pulse racing, the blood rushing in her ears as a dizzying wave of sensation washed over her. It was as if the flower had unlocked something inside her, something primal and urgent that she had been trying to keep buried.
"Molly?"
Pomona's voice was distant, like it was coming from somewhere far away, but it broke through the haze just enough for Molly to register that she wasn't alone. She looked up, her vision still slightly blurred, and saw Pomona standing a few feet away, her expression concerned.
"Molly, are you all right?"
Molly blinked, trying to gather her thoughts, but the warmth in her chest, in her veins, was overwhelming. She felt flushed, her skin tingling, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. And then, without thinking—without stopping to consider what she was doing—she stepped forward.
Pomona's eyes widened in surprise as Molly closed the distance between them, her movements quick, almost frantic. Molly's hand reached up, cupping the side of Pomona's face, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the soft skin of her cheek. And then, before Pomona could react, before Molly could stop herself, she leaned in and kissed her.
The kiss was sudden, desperate, and filled with all the heat and intensity that had been building inside Molly since the moment she touched the flower. It wasn't gentle, it wasn't careful—it was raw, a release of everything she had been holding back. Her lips pressed hard against Pomona's, her body moving instinctively, closing the space between them.
Pomona stiffened for a moment, caught off guard, but she didn't pull away. In fact, after a heartbeat, Molly felt Pomona's hands come up, one resting on her shoulder, the other cupping the back of her neck, holding her in place as the kiss deepened.
Molly's head spun, her senses overwhelmed by the taste of Pomona, the feel of her soft lips, the way her body pressed against hers. The warmth that had started in her chest spread out, filling every inch of her, and she felt like she might burn up from the inside out.
The kiss wasn't just a kiss—it was everything Molly had been trying to ignore, everything she had been suppressing. It was grief, and loneliness, and desire, all tangled together in a way that made it impossible to separate one from the other. And in that moment, it didn't matter. All that mattered was the feel of Pomona against her, the way their bodies fit together, the way their lips moved in a fevered, frantic rhythm.
Pomona's grip tightened on Molly's neck, her fingers tangling in her hair as she pressed closer, the kiss growing more intense with each passing second. There was something almost hungry about it, a kind of desperation that neither of them could control.
Molly's heart pounded in her chest, her body alive with sensation, with need. She hadn't felt this way in so long—hadn't allowed herself to feel this way. But now, with Pomona in her arms, with the taste of her on her lips, it was like something had been unleashed inside her, something she couldn't contain.
Their lips parted for a brief moment, both of them gasping for air, but Molly didn't let go. Her hands moved to Pomona's waist, pulling her closer, and she kissed her again—deeper this time, more deliberate. The heat between them was almost unbearable, a fire that had been kindled by something far more powerful than either of them had expected.
Pomona responded in kind, her fingers gripping Molly's shoulders, pulling her even closer. There was no hesitation now, no uncertainty. Whatever had been holding them back before, whatever boundaries had existed, they had been shattered by the touch of that flower, by the undeniable force that had drawn them together.
The world around them seemed to fade, the only sounds their ragged breaths and the faint rustle of leaves as they moved, caught up in the intensity of the moment. Molly's mind was a blur, her body acting on instinct, driven by a need she hadn't known was there until now.
And then, just as suddenly as it had started, Molly felt a jolt of realization—a flash of clarity that cut through the haze of heat and desire. What was she doing? This was Pomona—Pomona, who had been nothing but kind and patient. And here she was, kissing her like…
Molly pulled back, the breath hitched in her throat, her eyes wide with panic and confusion. She could still feel the warmth of Pomona's body pressed against hers, the taste of her lips lingering on her own. But the weight of what had just happened—what she had just done—came crashing down on her all at once, suffocating her.
"I—I need to go," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. She pulled her hands away from Pomona's waist as if burned, stepping back quickly, her heart hammering in her chest.
Pomona opened her mouth to say something, but Molly didn't wait to hear it. She turned on her heel, her movements frantic and unsteady, and bolted from the greenhouse. The door swung shut behind her with a sharp clang, the sound echoing in the quiet of the evening, but Molly barely registered it. Her mind was a blur, her body propelled forward by sheer instinct, by the overwhelming need to escape.
The cool air outside hit her like a shock, but it did nothing to clear the fog of emotions that clouded her thoughts. She ran, her feet pounding against the damp earth, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The world around her was a blur of shadows and twilight, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop.
What had she done?
The question screamed in her mind over and over, louder with each step she took. How could she have let this happen? How could she have kissed Pomona—someone who had only ever shown her kindness? What was wrong with her?
By the time she apparated and The Burrow came into view, Molly was shaking. Her legs ached, her chest felt tight, but none of it compared to the storm raging inside her. She stumbled through the front door, her hands trembling as she shoved it shut behind her. The silence of the empty house enveloped her, cold and oppressive, but it wasn't a comfort. It was a reminder of everything she had lost—everything she had tried so hard to keep buried.
Arthur.
The thought of him hit her like a punch to the gut, and the tears she had been holding back finally broke free. She collapsed onto the floor, her knees giving way as sobs wracked her body. The weight of her grief, her guilt, her confusion—it all came crashing down at once, drowning her in a sea of emotions she didn't know how to navigate.
Her hands fisted in her apron, clutching the fabric as if it could somehow anchor her, but it did nothing to stem the tide of tears that flowed freely down her cheeks. She cried for Arthur, for the man who had been her partner, her rock, and for the life they had shared that had been ripped away too soon. She cried for the loneliness that had crept into her heart in the months since his death, a loneliness so deep it had driven her to seek solace in places she hadn't expected.
And she cried for Pomona—for the kiss that had been born out of confusion and desperation, but had felt too real, too raw. She had betrayed Arthur, hadn't she? She had betrayed the memory of everything they had built together, and for what? For a moment of weakness?
The sobs came harder, her whole body shaking as she curled into herself, rocking back and forth on the cold, unforgiving floor. She didn't know how long she sat there, lost in the depths of her grief, her tears soaking into the fabric of her apron. Time seemed to lose meaning, her world reduced to the raw pain that gnawed at her from the inside out.
Eventually, the sobs began to quiet, though the ache in her chest remained, a hollow, empty space where her heart used to be. Her body felt heavy, exhausted, as if all the life had been drained from her in those moments of uncontrolled weeping. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, though the gesture did little to clear the tear tracks that still stained her cheeks.
The house was silent around her, the kind of silence that was almost suffocating in its stillness. The Burrow had never been this quiet before, not when Arthur was alive, not when the children were home. But now, it was just her—just Molly, alone with her thoughts and the weight of everything she couldn't fix.
Her gaze drifted to the worn, wooden table in the corner, where she and Arthur used to sit together after long days, sharing stories, laughter, and the simple comfort of each other's presence. It felt like a lifetime ago now, a memory so distant it was almost painful to recall.
Molly let out a shaky breath, her hands still trembling as she pushed herself up from the floor. Her legs felt weak, unsteady beneath her, but she managed to stand, her eyes unfocused as she moved through the quiet, empty house. Everything here was a reminder of what she had lost—the photographs on the walls, the patched-up furniture, the faint smell of Arthur's aftershave that still clung to the air.
She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady the erratic rhythm of her heart, but the guilt wouldn't leave her. How could she have kissed Pomona? How could she have let herself feel something when Arthur was barely cold in the ground?
Her hand tightened into a fist, and for a moment, she wished she could tear the feelings from her chest, rip them out and bury them deep where they couldn't hurt her anymore. But she knew it wasn't that simple. Grief didn't work that way. Neither did the complicated web of emotions that came with it.
Molly made her way to the kitchen, her legs still shaking as she leaned heavily against the counter. She could still feel the ghost of Pomona's lips on hers, the heat of that kiss, and it terrified her how much she had wanted it—how much she had needed it in that moment.
But it wasn't right. It wasn't fair. Not to Arthur's memory, not to Pomona, and not to herself.
Tears welled in her eyes again, and she let out a shuddering breath, her shoulders sagging under the weight of everything she was carrying. She didn't know how to fix this, didn't know how to make sense of what she was feeling. All she knew was that she couldn't run from it forever.
But for now, she would cry. For now, she would let herself break.
Get the chapter a day early on our writing group's blog https://fictioneers.thinkific.com/pages/blog.