Chapter 6:
A dreadful shopping trip in Diagon Alley left Pomona in low spirits for the next two days. She refused to speak to Peter, and Peter, clearly preoccupied with his own friends, paid her little mind. So she returned to her old routine, helping Mrs Sprout tend the plants.
House-elves could perform magic beyond a witch or wizard's. At Hogwarts wizards cannot Apparate, but house-elves can; most house-elf magic is domestic in nature. If house-elves are creatures of the household, then Veela are spirits of the wild, guardians of the woods. Veela have an innate affinity with plants, which is why Mrs Sprout's pumpkins were so large and sweet.
"All right, take a break." After a morning's work in the kitchen garden, Mrs Sprout announced it. "What would you like to drink, dear?"
"Just some tea." Pomona rose and removed her dirt-streaked gloves. "With the honey cake you baked yesterday, please."
"Inside or out?"
"Out!" Pomona pointed to the little summerhouse on the slope. "The weather's fine and the breeze is lovely."
"Very well. Go wait for me there; I'll be with you in a moment."
The beautiful countryside sat far from the clamour of towns. In England, if you looked, you could always find a place or two that felt cut off from the world. As Pomona lifted her skirts and walked toward the summerhouse, the lonely landscape did not make her feel deserted; here life hummed as much as in the city. A few stunted firs pushed at a fence, a row of spindly thorns leaned toward the sun, flocks of birds fed among the reeds — the air tasted pure and invigorating, utterly unlike the crowded, cheerless Diagon Alley.
Since Grindelwald's fall Durmstrang had declined, and a Hogwarts full of Death Eaters could grow heavy with gloom. By comparison Beauxbatons might be lighter; if she learned to keep her head down and avoid troublesome relatives she might manage. But if she returned to France she wouldn't be able to spend holidays at Mrs Sprout's, and the vacations would be very hard.
Choices had to be made. Pomona had never heard of any transfer between the three great schools.
Most Hogwarts graduates stayed in Britain to work. The summerhouse had been built by Peter's father, a man fond of baroque ornament; the pavilion's decorations were elaborate and extravagant, like something from a fairy tale, while his job was the dreary one of a Gringotts curse-breaker, buried all day in the underground vaults.
"What sort of life do you want, Pomona?" she murmured, staring out over the wilds. She did not like the wizarding world as it was, yet she could not return to a Veela life: after the wars Muggles had expanded cities and destroyed forests; those old places were much harder to find now.
A change felt imminent. She felt bewildered and unsure how to proceed. She wanted to trust her instincts, but instincts were not always right — as at Ollivanders when no one seemed to understand her, and the Veela-hair wand still lay in her bedroom.
Before long Mrs Sprout joined her at the summerhouse, shuffling over with a basket. Apart from cooking, she used little magic; by her own odd conviction she was an old woman who preferred to do things by hand.
"I heard from Peter that you produced a Patronus at your very first try. A Guardian?" Mrs Sprout said as she brewed the tea, the fragrant steam rising. The topic seemed to calm her.
"Yes, ma'am." Pomona took the slices of honey cake from the basket.
"Then why don't you use that wand? Doesn't it suit you?"
"Mrs Sprout, how did you meet Mr Sprout?"
She raised an eyebrow, sipped the steaming tea, set the cup down with a delicate clink and smiled. "At school. I was almost a dud then — the Sorting Hat put me in Hufflepuff. I must say, it's a clever hat. Had I been elsewhere, I might never have met him." She chuckled. "How many people marry after graduation?"
Mrs Sprout laughed heartily. "Oh, my dear, you go to Hogwarts to learn, not primarily for romance. Though I think Dumbledore wouldn't punish love in term-time, you should focus on your studies."
Pomona could not find words for her mood; she felt no one would ever understand her.
"You worry about your mother, don't you?" Mrs Sprout patted Pomona's hand. "Worried she might make the wrong choice?"
"Why do some people ignore warnings?" Pomona said sadly. "When we bought wands I met a Muggle-born girl who knew she might face danger at school and still wanted to be a witch."
Pomona believed someone must have warned her mother not to form a union with a Muggle, but her mother followed her heart and the result turned her life into tragedy.
"I don't know, Pomona. But I do know that trying gives you maybe a fifty percent chance of success. If you don't even try, you've already failed for certain," Mrs Sprout said softly. "In our day wizards were not supposed to marry Muggles or those from Muggle families, but Henry left his family for me and settled here. Love gives people courage to overcome hardships. But before you decide to love someone, you must learn to judge them. Some people's hearts are not what their faces show — that's why I want you to learn from the Fat Friar; he has an eye for such things."
"What possible virtues could Peeves have?" Pomona asked.
"Who knows? You'll have to ask him after you start at school." Mrs Sprout lifted her teacup again. "More than worrying about the future, decide what sort of person you want to be. I believe a kind, compassionate person will live happily. Don't you think so, dear?"
Her words had barely fallen when Mrs Sprout suddenly fixed her gaze on something. Pomona followed her line of sight to see a dark shape fly in the distance, growing larger until its true form was revealed — an owl, clutching envelopes in its talons.
The moment of fate had come. Pomona stood and walked to the summerhouse entrance. The owl swooped straight at her; for a heartbeat she feared it would strike her, but it loosened its grip at the last second and dropped two letters at her feet. Then, with an air of proprietorship, it fluttered once around the pavilion and settled on the middle table, pecking at a slice of honey cake.
Two school letters?
Pomona crouched and picked up the envelopes. One bore the Hogwarts seal — the familiar H surrounded by the lion, badger, snake and eagle — and the other was blank, with no mark save the simple line in the corner: For the attention of Pomona.
"That's your father's handwriting," Mrs Sprout observed, sipping her tea. "Whatever else, you're his daughter; he wouldn't ignore you."