Title: Nobody's Business
Author: miss_morland
Characters/Pairings: Rolanda Hooch/Poppy Pomfrey (with unrequited Hooch/McGonagall and Pomfrey/McGonagall)
Rating: Hard R
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Back to school
Other Warnings: Hopeless pining
Word Count: 1414
Summary/Description: If you can't have the one you love, love the one you're with.
Author's Notes: I interpreted the theme as "back to Hogwarts" rather than as school-related per se. Hope nobody minds. Thanks so much to woldy and magnetic_pole for being great betas!



September, Rolanda thought. It was the same every year.

School would begin on Monday. The students hadn't yet arrived; Rolanda herself was just returning from her holiday in Spain. She'd tossed her luggage into her room (she would unpack later), had a shower, and gone to dinner with the other staff members, as she always did.

Now she knocked on Poppy's door and waited.

The door opened and Poppy smiled at her, her eyes a bit melancholy but warm, as they always were. "Rolanda," she said, leaning to kiss her on the mouth. "Do come in."

Rolanda smiled and followed her into the parlour, where an open bottle and two glasses were waiting on the small table next to the sofa. They sat down, and Poppy poured them each a glass of wine.

"Did you have a nice summer?" she asked, handing Rolanda her glass. As she did so, their fingers brushed. The feeling was cosy, familiar.

Rolanda nodded. "And you?"

"Yes," Poppy said. "It's always good to see my brother and his family, and it's always good to be back here afterwards." She laughed. "Did you talk to any of the others while you were away?"

Shaking her head, Rolanda made herself comfortable on the sofa. "Anything new?"

They chatted for a while about various and sundry concerning Hogwarts and its people.

"... and Albus acted so damn mysterious, but then again, he always does..."

"... you think Pomona went to see her old boyfriend? When she got his letter back in March, she couldn't stop talking about it..."

"... Aurora looks really well; did she go to Greece this summer?"

There was really only one person whom they both were anxious to talk about, and yet they dutifully exchanged news and gossip for maybe ten minutes before Rolanda finally asked, "And Minerva?"

Poppy took a sip of her wine. To anyone else the movement would have seemed casual, but Rolanda noticed how her cheeks went pink at the name.

More than two months without seeing Minerva. More than two months away from Hogwarts, with longing clawing at her belly, and then, suddenly, upon coming back: a quick smile, and a "Hello, Rolanda." Two quite ordinary gestures that had rattled Rolanda all through dinner. This was what it meant to be back at Hogwarts: Minerva McGonagall could appear anywhere and leave her flushed and stunned, her heart beating like a lovelorn teenager's.

She wondered whether it would always be like this, every autumn for the rest of her life.

"Oh, Minerva... She came back already last month, after almost no holiday at all – just a few days on Skye." Poppy smiled into her glass. "That woman really lives and breathes for her work."

"Indeed," Rolanda agreed, taking a sip of her wine in turn. They both sat lost in their own thoughts for a while.

Yes, Minerva lived for her work. Loved it, even, although it meant long days, late nights spent correcting mediocre essays, going through the same things over and over again. But when Minerva was talking about her subject, going on about the newest discoveries or the most advanced forms of Transfiguration, there was a light in her eyes and a warmth to her voice that Rolanda had never seen or heard in response to a person.

Indeed, as far as anyone could see, Minerva was perfectly content with her life as it was. And if she'd had a lover at all during the time Rolanda had known her, she'd been even more discreet about it than what was characteristic for her. (And Rolanda had been watching closely.) Minerva was friendly with most of the staff, but her table and her bed were hers alone, and she never did anything to change that fact.

Rolanda knew there were people in the world who wanted to live like that, but it was a tragedy to her that Minerva should be one of them – Minerva, who was so beautifully brilliant, so dry and strict but with that mischievous streak under her correct exterior. As for Rolanda herself, love came easily, but always with the wrong people, it seemed: from her very first hopeless crush on a nursing maid at the age of six, it seemed her destiny was to love – unconditionally and desperately – women who did not love her in return.

She sighed, emptying her glass. She should be content. After all, she had Minerva's friendship and regard, and the knowledge that Minerva herself was happy.

And there was Poppy in the sofa next to her, warm and solid and Rolanda's friend no matter what. Who didn't hate her for wanting another woman, who understood all too well what Rolanda was going through.

At first, their relationship had been merely that of colleagues. Then one night, during dinner, Rolanda had looked away from Minerva – she kept stealing glances, she couldn't help it – and her eyes had fallen on Poppy's face, and she'd noticed that Poppy's gaze was turned in the very same direction in which Rolanda had been looking a moment before.

Rolanda had kept her eyes on her, seeing the way Poppy glanced at Minerva, her face and her hands. As Poppy looked away, her eyes met Rolanda's, and she flushed.

Had things been different, Rolanda would have been jealous and worried. But she knew already how unlikely it was that Poppy should succeed where Rolanda had failed. And so instead of a rival, Poppy became a friend, a fellow sufferer.

Her heart swelled with great and sudden fondness. She put her glass down and reached for Poppy. "Come here."

Poppy put her own glass next to Rolanda's, then willingly sank into Rolanda's embrace. "It's good to have you back," she murmured, wriggling so that she was lying on her back on the sofa, dragging Rolanda down on top of her.

They kissed for several minutes, trading soft caresses and gentle murmurs. Rolanda moved her hands to loosen Poppy's hair (she'd started wearing a bun most of the time, though Rolanda had never asked her to) and stroked her cheek. "Do you want to?"

"Mmm." Poppy had closed her eyes, picturing – what? Rolanda could only imagine, and imagine she did.

She started unbuttoning Poppy's robes, kissing her way down Poppy's neck, collar blade, the skin between her breasts. Poppy's breasts were large and soft, not small and barely visible as a tantalising curve under robes, but when Rolanda took one of her nipples in her mouth and curled her tongue around it, she could let herself believe –

"Please," Poppy sighed, and Rolanda gently pushed her thighs apart.

Poppy's hands fisted in Rolanda's hair. It was short and grey, not long and black and heavy, but Rolanda could not change that for her, at least not at the moment. She kissed the inside of Poppy's thigh and stroked her swollen flesh, then slid two fingers inside, enjoying the ensuing gasp.

If I could touch Minerva like this, she thought. If I could make her writhe and moan like this...

She didn't feel guilty at the thought. She and Poppy were more intimate than most; they shared a common desire and were each other's rock and solace. Rolanda herself had no illusions that she was the one whom Poppy imagined caressing her with her tongue, or touching her with firm, strong fingers, and she was glad of it. They could do this for each other.

She pictured Minerva, head thrown back in abandon, sternness and composure giving way to honest need, her voice hoarse with want: God, Rolanda, I never knew – oh, please do that again...

"Harder," Poppy pleaded, and Rolanda complied: three fingers now, moving in steady rhythm. Without stilling her hand, she moved so that she was lying alongside Poppy on the sofa, and Poppy grabbed blindly for her head. Oh, kiss me, Rolanda...

Poppy's lips were warm and soft. Minerva's would have been dryer, perhaps, but still wonderful against her own, moving in breathless prayers – yes, Rolanda, more, more, more...

Rolanda closed her eyes and pushed harder. It was all she had, but this was hers. This was Poppy's, and if they couldn't have it any other way, they would give it to each other. Whatever she was imagining when Poppy clenched around her hand and came with a cry, or whatever Poppy was thinking as she lay slumped in Rolanda's arms afterwards – it was nobody's business but theirs.