Chapter Text
Thursday, May 31, 1951
May came to a close in a flurry of stressful exams, bright sun, and spring head colds that had nearly half the population of Hogwarts down and out. Including Joesph Prewett and Septimus Weasley, which left the two Quidditch commentators watching wistfully from the hospital wing as the final match kicked off; and, in a bizarre twist of called-in favors and prefect duties, resulted in a rather less-than-willing replacement.
“So, the two teams appear to have taken the field,” Euphemia said, her magically magnified volume doing nothing to disguise the complete disdain in her voice. “Which is good, I suppose, if we ever want to get this match over with.”
“Isn’t she hilarious?” Fleamont said happily, gazing up at the commentators' booth with a love-struck expression.
“She’s ridiculous,” Eliza Wood muttered. “Oh, I swear, if we don’t win this match I’m gonna string her up by her eardrums.” She shook her fist in Effie’s direction.
“Gryffindor caption Wood looks rather fired up,” Effie commented placidly. “I can only assume she agrees with my sentiment.”
“I DO NOT!!” Wood hollered back at her friend, so loudly that Poppy winced and took a step back. Effie’s laugh rang out through the stadium.
Henry McKinnon elbowed Fleamont with a grin. “Hey, Potter, at least now she’ll be guaranteed to look in your direction!”
“I know, it’s brilliant,” Fleamont said without a trace of sarcasm.
“Alright, team, stretch it out!” Wood called, and the team set their brooms on the ground before taking up a variety of strange twisting maneuvers that made Poppy’s back twinge in sympathy. She straightened the collar of her team healer kit and wove through the group, wand at the ready.
“Any pressing injuries?” Poppy asked the team at large.
“My knee feels a bit off,” Melissa Finch said, wiggling the offending joint.
“Off like what?” Poppy asked. “Dull pain like it’s sore, or sharp pain like it’s tight?”
Melissa prodded at her knee experimentally. “Sore, I think?”
“Here, dab some of that on,” Poppy said, pulling a little metal tin of salve out of her robe pockets and handing it over. It was the latest batch of a muscle relaxing serum she and Miriam had been working on in Advanced Healing, which Madam Griffalo had pronounced ‘almost a success’.
Melissa dug out a clump of the pink salve and hiked up her robes.
“Oh, lovely, it appears certain members of the Gryffindor team are now disrobing,” Effie observed. The crowd erupted in cheers and joking catcalls.
Melissa just laughed, cheerfully rubbing the salve into her knee.
How, no one was really sure, but the injury-prone Gryffindor quidditch team had managed to turn around their season, starting at dead last and pulling themselves all the way up to the championship match. There was no proof, of course, but Poppy couldn’t help but think that maybe her services as team healer had at least helped a little bit. She’d been at nearly every practice, mostly just reading a NEWT textbook and looking up every once in a while to make sure everyone was still on their brooms, but still. There’d been a fair share of sprained of ankles and bruised shins and (of course) bloody noses.
Across the pitch, Ravenclaw was warming up. Poppy recognized Micheal Adebayo, the extremely tall seventh-year from Advanced Healing, who appeared to be giving some sort of pep-up speech to his team, complete with lots of vigorous arm movements.
“The game will commence in three minutes,” Effie announced.
“ALRIGH’!” Wood shouted, then seemed to realize she was talking way too loudly. “Alrigh’. This is it, guys. This is the game.”
“Really, I hadn’t noticed,” Minerva mumbled, coming to stand on the other side of Poppy as the team formed a tight circle. Poppy just managed to turn her laugh into a cough.
“I just wan’ everyone to know, no matter how this season ends,” Wood continued, “this is the best Gryffindor team we’ve had in years and I’m so happy to be your captain.” She sniffed, wiping at her eyes. “But we’d better fucking win, or I migh’ drown myself in the showers.”
“Don’t worry, Wood,” Fleamont said bracingly. “We’ve got this, I know it. Pomfrey, any words of wisdom from our fearless team healer?”
“I’ve got a pain drought in my pocket if you need it,” Poppy said. Ro snorted, and she realized that might not have sounded very encouraging. “But I bet you won’t!” she amended hurriedly. “Make sure to wear your goggles with the sun protection, it’s quite hot, and everyone’s wearing sunscreen?”
The team nodded quickly. That was probably her fault, she might have put the fear of God in them about dangerous sunburns after a particularly bright afternoon practice last week.
“Then that’s it!” Poppy smiled at everyone. “Good luck!”
“Gryffindor on three!” Wood shouted. “One! Two! Three!”
“GRYFFINDOR!”
They exploded into a mess of fist pumps and whoops, leaping into the air in swirling circles on their brooms. Poppy clapped a few times before picking her way across the sand to the little tent she was supposed to sit in to be close to the action. It was directly across from the high teachers' seats, and she could just make out Effie sitting in front of the microphone while Dumbledore supervised behind her.
“Well, welcome everyone, to the Cup Championship Match of 1951, defending champions Ravenclaw versus underdog Gryffindor, or so I’m told. Madam Stine, as official referee, will now…” Effie trailed off. “Do something, I suppose, that will signal to the teams to begin play.”
“A ball toss, Miss Braithewaite,” Dumbledore’s voice explained in an undertone.
“Ah, that makes sense,” Effie agreed. “Well, anyway, I think Madam Stine has thrown the ball, and those two players there are both diving for it, and that one- I think that must be Micheal? -has gotten the ball. So off they go, and all that.”
Poppy laughed. Effie as a commentator was potentially the best thing to come out of this whole end-of-spring flu, and that was including all the willing test subjects for the immunity potion Poppy was trying to work on. She had the idea of a sort of one-size-fits-all cure for the typical symptoms, runny nose and headache and cough, but she couldn’t figure out how to combine them all effectively. Her testers also kept ending up with the uncontrollable need to whistle through their teeth, which made the common room sound like a boiling kettle.
“Well, there we are,” Effie said. “The Ravenclaws send the ball toward the hoop, blocked by my dear friend Eliza, who probably did a complicated maneuver that I don’t know the name of…”
“Refer to the players by their last names, Miss Braithewaite,” Dumbledore admonished.
“Right, my apologies,” Effie said, not sounding very concerned. “I just don’t know everyone’s last names, you see, so it’s a bit tricky. Speaking of, that girl with the red hair on Ravenclaw has now thrown it to that other guy, nice pass by them, and now they’re sending it toward the other half of the field but- goodness gracious, that bludger nearly knocked her off the broom! I forgot how dangerous this sport is, there should really be some more regulations- I think that’s Clency, down there, hitting the bludger back toward Ravenclaw…”
The game carried on, and Poppy could feel the warm sun heating up the slick fabric of her kit. Gone were the days she spent shivering in the thin fabric, now she was quite glad to be outfitted as though she were ready for swooping around high in the air.
Ravenclaw quickly pulled ahead by a few goals, but Gryffindor fought tooth and nail to recover each point. Poppy found herself wincing every other play, preemptively leaping to her feet whenever it seemed inevitable that someone would get injured.
Even Effie appeared to be getting into the swing of things, her prim swears echoing across the field. “Oh, for the love of Circe, that Ravenclaw almost smashed right into Melissa!”
“Miss Finch, Miss Braithewaite,” Dumbledore corrected nonsensically.
“Yeah, alright, I know, but- holy goodness that was a close one! Monty- er, Fleamont- oh, whatever his name is- Potter narrowly dodges a bludger and scores another point? Which makes the score… well, to be honest, I can’t read the scoreboard from this angle, my apologies.”
Poppy watched Fleamont cut a swoop short to fly directly over to the commentators' box. He hovered a foot away from Effie, gesturing wildly.
Effie laughed brightly, waving him off. “Alright, Monty says it’s 30-80, but not to worry because Gryffindor will ‘soon be trouncing these amateurs’,” she repeated in a monotone. There was a roar of support from the red and gold section of the stands.
“You’re supposed to be offering an unbiased commentary, Miss Braithewaite,” Dumbledore muttered near the microphone.
“That was simply a direct quote, Professor,” Effie protested. “Surely it would be more biased if I were to deliberately change the quotation of a fellow student to support my own agenda?”
Poppy laughed. Good old Effie, somehow able to both uphold the rules and break them at the same time. Fleamont looked rather disappointed to have to fly away from the commentators' booth and back into the game, waving over his shoulder at Effie until a bludger nearly took off his arm.
“Near miss from Potter,” Effie observed. “Perhaps if he stops waving like an idiot and returns to the game at hand, he would have less close calls.”
Poppy could see Fleamont’s grin from the ground.
“Now it’s Ravenclaw with the ball, passed back to Adebayo, he’s taking a loop back toward the third hoop over there, tosses it up, Eliza’s diving- but no, she’s a hair away and that’s another ten points to Ravenclaw…”
The Gryffindor side of the stands booed as their blue and silver adversaries cheered and jumped around, making the stands quake. Poppy bit her lip. She might not have exactly read Quidditch Through the Ages cover to cover, but she knew enough to realize that Gryffindor either needed to score about ten more goals or catch the snitch fast if they wanted to win this. She sought out Henry McKinnon in the air, watching as he slowly circled the pitch from on high. The Ravenclaw seeker, Adalbert Waffling, was mirroring him on the other side.
“McGonagall’s got the ball now, heading for the posts- and no, forced to swerve after a nasty bludger hit by that Ravenclaw fellow with the curly hair, honestly I can’t say I’ve ever seen him before in my life, so hello to him, and now that’s a pass from Potter to Finch, she’s dipping below Adebayo, she’s shooting- and saved by the Ravenclaw keeper, haven’t a clue what his name is either-”
“Next time, I suggest you consult a team roster before announcing a match, Miss Braithewaite,” Dumbledore sniffed.
“Oh, no, professor, I’m dearly hoping I’ll never have to do this again,” Effie responded. “Anyways, some more passing going on, rather slow at the moment, probably a good time for some last minute exam revising if anyone in the crowd has got their flashcards- holy gracious, that’s McKinnon diving straight down!”
Poppy jumped up from the bench. Henry was streaking downward, his hand outstretched after what must have been a glitter of gold.
“He’s seen the snitch, he’s going to grab it!” Effie cried, entirely forgetting about her disinterested attitude. “Ravenclaw’s on his tail, but McKinnon’s too fast, he’s just about- WHAT IN THE WORLD WAS THAT?”
Poppy’s mouth dropped open as a black, winged thing suddenly darted across the pitch and directly in front of Henry. They collided mid-air, Henry’s arm flailing as he shuddered out of the dive and almost fell off his broom. The black thing fluttered dizzily around his head before zipping away, leaving Henry with blood streaking down his face from a cut on his forehead.
“What the fuck??” Poppy heard him shouting, trying to wipe the blood away from his eyes. “That was- I just got swiped by a fucking bat!”
“I think seeker McKinnon has been… attacked by a bat?” Effie announced. “Godric, aren’t there any rules against this type of thing?”
Poppy jumped up and ran out on the sand, waving her arms. Henry was flying jerkily toward her.
“I can’t see anything!” he yelled.
“Here, Henry, come over here!” Poppy waved her wand like a conductor, trying to get him to land so she could fix the cut. It didn’t seem to be that deep, from what she could tell from ten meters away, but the blood was flowing quickly.
Another shout made Poppy whip her head around. Vera was pointing wildly at something- Poppy finally noticed the Ravenclaw seeker, bolting after the illusive smear of gold.
“Ravenclaw’s after the snitch!” Effie said, as the crowd roared confusedly. “But Henry’s gotten attacked by a bat, surely that calls for a- a time-out or something?”
Poppy froze as Henry wheeled around, pointing his broom straight at the Ravenclaw seeker, away from Poppy. Both his eyes were clenched shut, but he leaned forward and careened blindly across the pitch.
“Henry’s going to try and save the game,” Effie cried, “but he clearly can’t see a whit! And Ravenclaw’s nearly grabbed it!”
Without even consciously making a decision, Poppy started running toward the snitch, trying to head off Henry. She had to heal him, or Ravenclaw would win, and she was suddenly extremely certain that Ravenclaw could not win, that wasn’t an option. Not when they’d worked so hard.
Effie’s voice continued to narrate in confusion. “I don’t know what Poppy’s after, she’s running toward Henry-”
Poppy fisted her robes in one hand, the other clutching her wand out in front. She stumbled as she sprinted through the thick sand, dust kicking up her face.
“Goodness gracious, I think she’s going to attempt to heal him on the fly-”
Henry was feet away, the blood coursing down his face like tears. There was a roar from the Ravenclaw stands, and Poppy knew that their seeker must be almost to the snitch.
“Henry’s about to go right past-”
Poppy put on a burst of speed, leaping at Henry as he darted past. “ Decorti! Scourgify!” She caught a flash of the blood disappearing from his face, then she tripped and fell hard, rolling over and over in a tangle on the sand. Henry blasted above her in a blur of red and gold.
“Godric’s name, I think she’s done it!” Effie shouted into the microphone. “Gryffindor seeker corrects his course and he’s nearly there- one last turn- Ravenclaw’s lost track of it- Henry’s reaching out- YES! GRYFFINDOR HAS THE SNITCH!”
Poppy stared up at the blue sky as the crowd went mad, stomping and cheering and shooting off sparklers into the air. She spit sand out of her mouth, grinning uncontrollably. They’d done it! They’d won!
Who would have thought she’d ever care this much about bloody Quidditch, of all things?
“Pops, you absolute hero!” Ro yelled, looming over her and yanking her to her feet in a flurry of sand.
“Pomfrey!” Vera came barreling into her, pulling them into a wild hug. “We won! We won!”
“I know!” Poppy yelled back into her sweaty hair.
“That’s a championship to Gryffindor for the first time in twenty-two years!” Effie announced. “Can’t believe we pulled it off, there’s no way whatever Poppy did is legal, but seeing as there are apparently no rules in this infernal sport, no one can take that cup away from us!”
Ro let out a whoop, jumping up and down in their group hug. Poppy watched over Vera’s shoulder as Fleamont swerved over toward the commentators' booth, both arms spread wide in triumph. He shouted something to Effie, and then Poppy heard her magically amplified voice heave a sigh and mutter, “Well, fuck it,” before she jumped up, leaned over the rim of the stands, grabbed Monty by the collar of his kit, and snogged him senseless.
Poppy squeaked in shock, pounding Vera on the back until she turned around.
“Miss Braithewaite!” a scandalized Dumbledore yelped, but it went unheard as the crowd, if possible, cheered even louder at the sight of the most-feared prefect full-on making out with the Quidditch heartthrob.
“Bloody hell!” Ro burst out, eyes wide. “Didn’t think she had it in her!”
“Good for Effie!” Vera giggled. “About time. This is probably the single greatest day of ol’ Monty’s life!”
As if in confirmation, Fleamont slowly raised one triumphant fist toward the sky, like a commanding general. Effie swatted his hand out of the air without breaking their kiss. Undeterred, Fleamont scooped her up and pulled her onto his broom, where they started making lazy, unbothered circles toward the ground, still entirely absorbed in snogging as the red and gold confetti fluttered around them.
Poppy pressed a hand to her chest, so so excited for her two friends. Vera was right, it certainly had taken them long enough. It was like a real-life romance novel, like something that Rose would read about in a paperback.
There was a thump, and Eliza landed next to the three of them, tears unabashedly flowing down her face.
“WE WON!! WE FUCKING WON!” she roared, pulling all of them into another hug, and Poppy was so happy she could have exploded into confetti herself.