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The night air wrapped around Irma Pince and Rolanda Hooch as they stepped out of Professor Burbage’s quarters, the distant echo of laughter trailing them like the last note of a melody. Outside, the castle felt suspended in stillness, the dark corridors holding their breath as if waiting for something to stir.
“Look,” Hooch said, tipping her head toward the narrow slice of sky visible through the high windows. “The stars are out tonight, putting on a show just for us.” Her voice was quiet, but it carried that familiar note of awe that never failed to soften Irma’s sharp edges.
Irma followed her gaze. The constellations gleamed like silver threads stretched across velvet, but her eyes drifted back to Hooch, the torchlight carving warmth into the planes of her face.
The quiet stretched between them, easy and familiar, broken only by the creak of wood and the faint hoot of an owl. As they crossed through the great oak doors of the castle and stepped into the open, the night’s chill seeped into their cloaks. Irma adjusted hers instinctively, but before she could pull it tighter, Hooch reached out, her fingers deftly fixing the scarf that had slipped loose around Irma’s neck.
“Can’t have you catching a cold,” she said with a crooked grin. Her touch lingered, warm against the cool fabric, and something in Irma’s chest tightened and softened all at once. Even after all these years.
Irma let out a quiet scoff, a familiar shield. “You’d do well to worry about yourself. How many times have I told you to tie those bootlaces?” She glanced down, her lips twitching faintly as Hooch deliberately shuffled her foot to reveal the offending lace.
“Ah, but wouldn’t it be worth it if it made you laugh?” Hooch teased, her grin widening as she bent to make an exaggerated show of fixing the problem.
“You’re insufferable,” Irma muttered, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her. When Hooch looped her arm through hers, Irma didn’t pull away.
The lights of Hogsmeade flickered in the distance, and the dirt path ahead felt like a thread unspooling through the dark. For a while, they walked in silence, their breaths misting faintly in the cold. Somewhere far off, a low, keening wail floated through the stillness—a sound thin as spider silk, yet sharp enough to chill the marrow. The cries of the Dementors, faint but unmistakable, rippled along the edges of Hogwarts, a haunting reminder of the current times.
Hooch sighed, her voice softer now. “Doesn’t it feel like before?”
Irma turned to her, her brow knitting slightly. She didn’t need to ask what Hooch meant. It had been hardly more than a decade since the end of the wizarding war.
“Maybe,” Irma replied, her voice even, steady. “But we’re different now. We know how to bear it.”
Hooch’s smile was wry, tinged with something that might have been doubt. “Stronger, maybe. Wiser? That might just be you. Me, I still feel like the same reckless fool who—”
“You’re not reckless,” Irma said, the words cutting through the chill like a flame. She stopped, turning to face Hooch fully. “You’re brave. And loyal. And you’ve saved more lives than you’ll admit.”
Hooch blinked, her usual easy confidence faltering for just a breath. Then she rubbed the back of her neck, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “Well, if you say so,” she murmured, her voice soft. “But I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Irma’s fingers brushed the edge of Hooch’s collar, a quiet adjustment that said more than words could. “And I couldn’t have endured it without you reminding me to laugh.”
The moment hung between them, unspoken but full, until Hooch chuckled. “Well, aren’t we a pair?” she said, her grin slipping back into place. “Come on, let’s get home before you freeze.”
Irma rolled her eyes but let herself be pulled along, their steps finding a rhythm on the winding path. Above them, the stars burned bright, their brilliance rivalled by the moon, caught halfway towards fullness—a silver blade cleaving the sky.
Nestled near the edge of Hogsmeade, their cottage sat quietly beneath the sheltering branches of an old oak tree, its leaves browned and crinkling in the crisp October breeze. The garden surrounding the cottage carried the unmistakable feel of autumn—a mix of fading vibrancy and quiet preparation for the colder months. Neat rows of rosemary, thyme, and sage clung to the last of their green, while dried leaves gathered in small piles around their bases. Wildflowers, their petals wilted and stems swaying, still offered flashes of muted colour among the tall grasses. The air carried the earthy scent of damp soil and decaying leaves, mixed faintly with the sharp tang of wood smoke from the distant village chimneys. A broomstick leaned casually against the porch, its bristles worn from years of use, while a wrought-iron lantern hung by the door, casting a warm, welcoming glow that seemed to breathe life into the night.
Hooch’s laughter spilled into the quiet as they approached. “Did you see Pomfrey’s face when Trelawney started on about Jeannie’s aura?” Her grin was wide, her voice still carrying the lightness of the evening.
Irma shook her head, her smirk subtle but unmistakable. “I was more entertained by your excessive guffawing. Charity looked like she was about to toss you out.”
“Oh, come on. I wasn’t that loud,” Hooch teased, holding the door open for Irma. “Besides, someone had to keep it lively. You didn’t help much, sitting there with that razor-sharp wit of yours.”
Irma stepped inside, her cloak brushing against the familiar door frame. “I prefer to think of it as an exercise in restraint. You’re already enough chaos for both of us.”
The living room greeted them with the kind of warmth that only came from years of familiarity. Bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with Irma’s meticulously curated collection. Leather-bound tomes with gilded titles sat side by side with paperbacks bearing cracked spines, their shared presence a testament to her love for stories, both grand and humble. Interspersed among the books were artefacts of their shared life—a polished Snitch encased in glass, its wings stilled; a framed ticket from a long-ago Quidditch World Cup; and a small, carved owl that had been a gift from a grateful student.
By the fire, a well-worn armchair held its place, its cushions softened by years of use. It stood next to a sofa draped in a knitted throw that Hooch had once called "too garish" but secretly adored. As Hooch shrugged off her cloak and tossed it carelessly onto the sofa, Irma sighed, folding it properly over the backrest.
“Hopeless,” she muttered, though the word carried no sharpness.
Hooch’s grin softened as she eased into the armchair, her gaze lingering on the mantle. “Do you ever think about those days? Back when we were… well, less settled?”
Irma paused, her fingers brushing the edge of the knitted throw. “Which days?” she asked, though she already knew. The war always lingered, a shadow cast over their brightest moments.
“The garden,” Hooch said, her voice quieter now. “That old, overgrown mess by the castle grounds? We must’ve spent weeks just digging out the weeds.” She trailed off, the memory blooming between them like the very flowers they had nurtured.
Irma’s lips curved faintly as she moved to sit beside Hooch, their knees nearly touching. “I remember,” she said softly. “Do you know I found those charms etched into your broomstick handle. Symbols of protection I researched for you, weren’t they? I didn’t know you could be sentimental.”
Hooch laughed quietly, the sound warm but laced with something deeper. “And I found your collection of letters hidden in the library—from students thanking you for teaching them spells that ended up saving their lives. Seems we both had our secrets back then.”
Irma’s gaze dropped to her hands for a moment, then returned to meet Hooch’s. “It wasn’t about keeping secrets. It was about doing what we could. For them. For us.”
Hooch reached out, her hand brushing Irma’s lightly. “You’re right. And that garden…” She gestured faintly, as if conjuring the memory back to life. “It’s where I first realized just how much you’ve done for others. For me. Those were dark times, but that place… it felt like hope.”
Irma’s expression softened, and she leaned back against the sofa, letting the warmth of the fire and Hooch’s presence wrap around her. “It did,” she said simply, her voice threaded with quiet gratitude. “And it always will.”
Hooch reached out, her hand brushing Irma’s lightly. “You’re right. And this…” She gestured faintly around the room, at the photographs on the mantle and the soft glow of the fire. “This is worth everything. Even if the world outside feels shaky again.”
Irma’s expression softened, and she leaned back against the sofa, letting the warmth of Hooch’s presence wrap around her. “It is,” she said simply, her voice threaded with quiet gratitude. “It always will be.”
Rolanda stood in the kitchen, her movements deliberate as she set a pot of water to boil. The clink of teacups against the counter added a soft rhythm to the quiet, her hands instinctively reaching for the tin of chamomile tea leaves she knew Irma preferred. Meanwhile, Irma had slipped into the bedroom, her wand poised delicately in her hand as she muttered a soft incantation. The embers of the fire flared instantly, casting warm golden light across the room as the flames leapt to life. With a flick of her wand, she adjusted the heat, ensuring it would burn steadily through the night.
Not much later, Rolanda arrived at the threshold of their bedroom, balancing a tray of tea in her hands. She leaned against the door frame with an easy air, her sharp eyes quietly following Irma as the librarian bustled about, her hands smoothing the duvet and adjusting pillows with the precision of someone trying to outrun their own fatigue. The soft circles beneath her eyes and the slow drag of her steps told the real story, though she carried on as if tidying the curtains would somehow tidy her thoughts as well.
“You’re going to tidy yourself into a coma,” Rolanda said, her voice light but edged with concern.
Irma barely glanced up, her hands smoothing the blanket one last time. “The room was a mess,” she replied primly, though her tone faltered at the end, betraying her exhaustion.
Rolanda stepped forward, her boots scuffing lightly against the wooden floor. “The room is perfect, and you’re knackered. Leave it alone, love.”
Irma finally stopped, her shoulders slumping slightly as she turned to face Rolanda. Her lips pressed into a thin line, as though she wanted to protest but couldn’t summon the energy. “I just…” she began, but the words trailed off, lost in a soft sigh.
“I know,” Rolanda murmured, closing the distance between them. She reached out, gently cupping Irma’s cheek, her thumb brushing away the faint tension there. “But you don’t have to keep everything in order tonight. Just come to bed.”
Irma leaned into the touch for a brief moment before giving a small, tired smile. “You’re a terrible influence, you know.”
“And yet, you love me anyway,” Rolanda quipped, taking Irma’s hand and leading her toward the bed. The firelight flickered faintly through the doorway, casting a warm glow over their retreat as they finally settled for the night.
Rolanda’s fingers brushed against Irma’s as they reached the bed, the touch lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Hopeless,” Irma murmured, her voice soft, a trace of humour curling at the edges.
“And you wouldn’t have it any other way,” Rolanda replied, her smile warm as she bent The tea tray sat forgotten on the bedside table as the two moved together with a quiet urgency that belied their exhaustion. Irma’s fingers moved deftly, unfastening Rolanda’s buttons with a fluidity that spoke of familiarity—she knew every seam, every fold, like the back of her own hand. Rolanda’s hands slipped to Irma’s waist, her touch sure and steady, tracing lines as though relearning what she already knew by heart. The space between them filled with quiet laughter and murmured words, each one carrying the weight of countless moments they had shared, as layers of fabric fell away without thought, leaving only them.
The firelight painted golden patterns across the walls as they tumbled onto the bed. Their movements were slow and deliberate, steeped in knowing—knowing the way Irma’s breath caught when Rolanda’s lips brushed her neck, knowing the way Rolanda’s fingers lingered on the small of her knee, teasing her. Everything outside the room faded; there was only the soft rhythm of their breathing, the slide of skin against skin, and the quiet certainty of a love that had weathered it all. Rolanda’s lips trailed reverently along Irma’s collarbone, her touch deliberate but unhurried, while Irma’s hands glided over her shoulders, anchoring them both in this moment, this small, perfect world they had created together.
As the intimacy gave way to stillness, they lay entwined beneath the blankets, the firelight catching the edges of their tousled hair and soft smiles. Irma shifted, tucking herself against Rolanda’s side, her arm draped possessively over her waist. “You ever wonder how we ended up here?” she asked quietly, her voice already drowsy with sleep.
Rolanda’s fingers toyed absently with a strand of Irma’s hair. “Not really,” she said after a pause, her voice just above a whisper. “It was always you and me. Step by step. Choice by choice.”
Irma let out a soft hum of agreement, her eyes fluttering shut as she nestled closer, a soft dreamy smile on her lips. The steady rise and fall of her breathing lulled Rolanda into comfort, the warmth of the moment wrapping around her like a blanket. With a quiet sigh, she surrendered to sleep, content in the knowledge that wherever life led them, they would face it together.