By: GenreGypsy
Pomona Sprout stood at the workbench in Greenhouse Three, her hands buried deep in a pot of rich, dark soil as she repotted a particularly finicky Mandrake. The plant let out a disgruntled squeal as she adjusted its roots, but Pomona barely registered the sound. Her mind had been elsewhere for days now, her thoughts circling back again and again to the same question: Where was Molly?
It had been weeks since Molly Weasley had set foot in the greenhouses, and the silence left in her absence was beginning to weigh on Pomona more than she cared to admit. After that kiss—after that confusing, heated moment—they hadn't spoken. Molly had fled, her footsteps echoing through the still air, leaving Pomona standing there, breathless and stunned.
And since then, nothing. Not a word. Not a single visit. It was as if Molly had vanished entirely from her life, and the hole left behind was one Pomona hadn't expected to feel so deeply.
"Pomona."
The voice pulled her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see Minerva McGonagall standing in the doorway of the greenhouse, her sharp eyes fixed on Pomona with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Minerva's presence was always commanding, a figure of authority and dignity that rarely wavered, but today there was a softness to her expression, a question hovering in the lines of her face.
"Minerva," Pomona greeted her, brushing the soil from her hands and straightening up. "What brings you here? Not looking to get your hands dirty, I assume?"
Minerva's lips quirked into a small smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I was actually looking for Molly," she said, her tone casual but probing. "It's been some time since I've seen her. She usually comes here to help, doesn't she?"
Pomona's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Molly's name, but she kept her expression neutral. "She hasn't been by in a while," she admitted, turning her gaze back to the Mandrake in front of her, though the plant no longer held her attention. "I'm not sure where she's gone."
Minerva stepped further into the greenhouse, her robes rustling softly as she moved. "I thought perhaps you might know," she said, her voice gentle. "The two of you seemed to be spending quite a bit of time together before… well, before she disappeared."
Pomona's fingers tightened around the edge of the workbench, her mind flashing back to that last day—to the feel of Molly's lips on hers, the heat of that kiss, the way Molly had looked at her just before she ran. Pomona had replayed that moment over and over in her mind since then, trying to make sense of it, trying to understand what had driven Molly to flee so abruptly.
"I haven't seen her since," Pomona said quietly, her voice tinged with a frustration she hadn't meant to reveal. "She just… stopped coming."
Minerva's gaze softened, and she stepped closer, her expression one of quiet understanding. "You've always been perceptive, Pomona," she said, her voice lowering. "Do you think something might have happened? Something between the two of you?"
Pomona looked up sharply, meeting Minerva's gaze for the first time since the conversation began. There was no accusation in Minerva's eyes, no judgment—just concern. Concern for Molly, and perhaps for Pomona as well.
For a long moment, Pomona didn't answer. She wasn't sure what to say. How could she explain what had happened in the greenhouse that day? How could she tell Minerva about the kiss, about the feelings she had tried so hard to keep buried, only for them to surface so suddenly, so unexpectedly? How could she admit that she didn't know if Molly had run because of guilt, or grief, or something else entirely?
"She's been through a lot," Pomona finally said, her voice quiet but steady. "Arthur's death… it's been hard on her. I think she just needed space."
Minerva's eyes softened further, a flicker of sadness passing through her features. "I know," she said softly. "Losing Arthur was a terrible blow. I've been worried about her. She hasn't been herself since the war ended, and I fear she's been isolating herself more and more."
Pomona nodded, her heart heavy with the weight of Minerva's words. She had seen it too, the way Molly had carried herself after Arthur's death—the way grief had wrapped itself around her like a shroud, weighing her down. But she had also seen glimpses of something else, something brighter—moments of laughter, moments when Molly had seemed to come alive again, if only for a little while.
Those moments had been rare, but they had been there. And Pomona couldn't shake the feeling that she had been part of that, that their time together in the greenhouses had meant something, even if she didn't fully understand what.
"I'll keep an eye out for her," Pomona said, her voice firm, though inside, she felt a strange ache settle in her chest. "If I hear anything, I'll let you know."
Minerva nodded, but her gaze lingered on Pomona for a moment longer, as if she could sense there was more to the story than Pomona was letting on. But if Minerva had any suspicions, she didn't voice them. Instead, she gave a small nod of farewell and turned to leave, her steps soft and measured as she made her way back toward the castle.
Pomona stood there for a long time after Minerva had gone, her hands resting on the workbench, her mind swirling with thoughts of Molly. She hadn't realized how much she had come to depend on those quiet mornings spent together, working side by side in the greenhouses. The silence without her now was oppressive, and the weight of it was almost unbearable.
Molly hadn't just been helping with the plants. She had been helping Pomona too, though Pomona hadn't understood it at the time. The warmth of Molly's presence, the sound of her voice, the way she moved through the space with that quiet determination—it had all become a part of Pomona's daily life. And now, with her gone, the absence was like a void, one that Pomona wasn't sure how to fill.
She looked down at the Mandrake in front of her, its small, gnarled leaves trembling slightly as if sensing the tension in the air. With a heavy sigh, Pomona reached for her tools, trying to focus on the task at hand. But her thoughts kept drifting back to Molly, to that last moment they had shared, to the way everything had changed in the blink of an eye.
Where are you, Molly?
Rolanda Hooch had always had a certain bluntness to her. She was never one for beating around the bush, and while it might've rubbed some people the wrong way, she knew her directness often got to the heart of things faster than any amount of tact ever could. And right now, with Pomona looking like someone had kicked her favorite plant and Minerva in knots over Molly, it was clear someone had to do something.
The Burrow loomed ahead, its familiar crooked silhouette against the pale sky. Rolanda had always liked the place—it had character, like the Weasleys themselves. But now, as she approached the door, there was something different in the air. It was too quiet. Too still. The warmth that used to spill out of The Burrow was missing, replaced by something cold and distant.
Rolanda knocked, her usual brisk, sharp raps. No answer. She frowned, knocked again, then, not one to hesitate, pushed the door open. It wasn't locked, just like always. She stepped inside, scanning the room.
"Molly?" she called, her voice cutting through the silence. "It's Hooch! You're not hiding from me, are you?"
No response. But as Rolanda moved further into the living room, she saw a familiar figure hunched on the old, threadbare sofa. Molly Weasley sat there, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to disappear. Her hair was a mess, and her eyes were swollen and red from crying.
Rolanda's usual bravado softened as she took in the sight of Molly like that, so small and broken. She walked over and crouched beside the sofa, her voice losing its usual sharp edge. "Merlin's beard, Molly. What's going on?"
Molly blinked, like she was only just realizing someone was in the room with her. Her lips parted, but no words came. Just a hollow, lost look in her eyes. Rolanda sat down heavily next to her, one arm draped casually across the back of the sofa.
"You look like you've been dragged through hell and back," Rolanda said, not unkindly. "What's going on?"
Molly inhaled shakily, trying to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She wiped at her eyes, her movements clumsy and weak, as if all the energy had been drained from her. "I—I kissed her," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Rolanda blinked, confused for half a second. "You kissed who?"
"Pomona," Molly croaked, her face crumpling again. "I kissed Pomona."
There was a beat of silence as Rolanda processed this. And then, without missing a beat, she let out a bark of laughter. "Who hasn't kissed Pomona? If I had a Galleon for every New Year staff party…"
Molly's tear-filled eyes widened in surprise, her grief momentarily interrupted by Rolanda's bluntness. "What?" she stammered, not sure if she'd heard correctly.
Rolanda smirked, leaning back and crossing her arms. "Oh, come on. Don't act like it's some grand scandal, Molly. If Pomona's kisses were a secret, I'd be sitting on a vault of Galleons by now." She chuckled, shaking her head. "We've all been there. New Year's Eve rolls around, and after enough Firewhisky, well, let's just say Pomona doesn't hold back."
Molly looked stunned, her face caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious." Rolanda grinned, a wicked glint in her eyes. "Pomona's got more admirers than she lets on, trust me. But you look like you think you've just broken some sacred law."
Molly's gaze dropped to her lap, her shoulders slumping again as the weight of her guilt settled back over her. "It's not just that," she whispered. "It's Arthur. It's… everything."
Rolanda sighed, her crass humor taking a back seat as she leaned forward, resting a hand on Molly's arm. "Look, Molly. I know you're going through hell. Losing Arthur was—hell, there's not even a word for it, is there? But what happened with Pomona… that doesn't make you a villain. You're human. You're feeling things. And sometimes, that gets messy."
Molly let out a shaky breath, her eyes filling with tears again. "I shouldn't have kissed her. I shouldn't have wanted to."
Rolanda squeezed Molly's arm, her voice softening. "It's all right to want something again, you know. You're not betraying Arthur by feeling something, Molly. He's gone. You're still here. You're allowed to have moments like that."
Molly shook her head, wiping at her eyes again. "I can't face her. Not after I ran like that."
Rolanda gave her a reassuring pat on the back. "Pomona's tougher than she looks, you know. She'll understand. But you've gotta give her a chance. If you keep hiding from her, from yourself, it's just going to eat you alive."
Molly sniffed, still looking uncertain, but something in Rolanda's words seemed to reach her. She took a deep, shaky breath and nodded slightly, though she still looked like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Rolanda stood, stretching her arms above her head. "Right. I'll leave you to think on that. But trust me, Molly—Pomona's been looking like someone just kicked her favorite Mandrake out of the pot. She misses you, whether you believe it or not."
Molly didn't answer, but the flicker of something—hope, maybe—crossed her face.
Rolanda gave her one last nod before turning to leave. "I'll let Minerva know you're alive. But you need to do more than that. You owe it to yourself."
With that, she stepped out of The Burrow, leaving Molly with her thoughts, and a tiny spark of hope she hadn't felt in weeks.
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For a second, Pomona froze, clearly taken by surprise. But then, just as Molly thought she had made a terrible mistake, Pomona's lips moved against hers, returning the kiss with a gentleness that sent a shiver down Molly's spine. It wasn't rushed or urgent—just soft, warm, and steady, like everything about Pomona.
But just as quickly as it had started, Pomona pulled away. She placed her hands gently on Molly's arms, holding her at a small distance. Her eyes were kind but firm, searching Molly's face with a seriousness that made Molly's heart sink.