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Harry hesitated, wondering if it was appropriate to ask Poppy about this. After all, she was just a girl—could she really understand such a tangled, messy situation?
Seeing Harry's hesitation, Poppy sidled closer, nudging him playfully. She sniffed at his robes, her head bumping against him twice. "Oh, come on, what's so embarrassing? Just tell me already!"
"Ahem." Harry glanced around to ensure no one was nearby before leaning in to whisper, "So, Poppy, I have this… friend…"
"Oh, you have a friend," Poppy said, nodding enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Well, it's… complicated," Harry said, choosing his words carefully to avoid any obvious gaps in his story. "This friend of mine, he's got a few girls who've given up everything for him, and now he's torn about which one to choose."
Poppy tilted her head, eyeing Harry suspiciously. Several girls, giving up everything for him…
"Is this 'friend' of yours actually you?" she asked, her tone laced with skepticism.
"No, no way!" Harry waved his hands frantically in denial.
Poppy leaned back dramatically, squinting as she sized him up. "Alright, I'll pretend to believe you… So, what do you think? Or rather, what does your friend think? Which one does he like?"
"I don't know," Harry said, then quickly realized that sounded off. "I mean, my friend doesn't know either."
As he spoke, Harry propped his chin in his hands, his mind drifting as he pondered which choice was better.
"Fine," Poppy said, shaking her head. "So, do you like Veratia better, or Cassandra?"
"Honestly, they're both great. Veratia…" Harry started, then froze, realizing his mistake.
When he looked up, Poppy's eyes gleamed with sly triumph.
"Ha! You admitted it!" she said, wagging her head. "The truth is out! Your 'friend' is you, isn't it? Just confess!"
"Alright, alright," Harry said, raising his hands in surrender. "I admit it. So… what do you think I should do?"
Poppy lowered her head, nuzzling Harry's cheek. "What do you think?"
"The problem is, no matter who I choose, I'll hurt the other one," Harry said, lying back beside Poppy, hands behind his head. "If I pick Veratia, Cassandra will be heartbroken. Cassandra gave up everything for me—she even came a hundred years into the future. She only has a year left to live, and she needs the energy from my Philosopher's Stone to survive…"
"So you'll choose her?" Poppy asked, her eyes flickering curiously.
"Choose her?" Harry shook his head after a moment's thought. "Veratia's the same. I don't doubt for a second that if I made that choice, Veratia would… Merlin, I can't even imagine how she'd react. It's terrifying."
Poppy nibbled at the edge of Harry's robes, then said, "You know, there's another option…"
"What's that?" Harry asked, intrigued.
"The middle path," Poppy replied.
"The middle path?" Harry turned to her. "You mean… choose someone else? Like, pick neither of them and go for another person? Do you think I could survive the wrath of both of them?"
Poppy considered this and nodded, conceding Harry's point. But that wasn't what she meant.
"No, I mean…" She lifted her head, her eyes glinting with meaning. "Don't make a choice at all."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, confused.
He looked at Poppy, her expression carrying an unmistakable hint of something deeper.
"You don't mean…" Harry's eyes widened as a possibility—a shameful one he'd briefly considered before—dawned on him. He raised a finger, shocked. "You're not saying…?"
Poppy nodded firmly.
"You're really suggesting…" Harry covered his mouth, staring at the sky.
Merlin's beard. Both of them…
The thought alone was thrilling—and, admittedly, the most fitting solution. Both girls had sacrificed everything for him. Choosing one would devastate the other, causing irreparable harm.
But there was a catch. Both Veratia and Cassandra were fiercely proud. Convincing them to set aside their rivalry and… share? Harry knew he had a long road ahead.
"That's actually a brilliant idea, Poppy," Harry said, pulling her close and planting a kiss on her forehead. "Really brilliant."
"Right?" Poppy said, her tail wagging happily. "No one gets hurt this way…"
"No, I think I'll be the one getting hurt," Harry said with conviction. "Imagine if they found out what I'm thinking right now…"
Poppy shivered at the thought of their combined fury. "You should probably learn a few more defensive spells. Or healing charms," she said seriously. "At least then you won't get blasted to bits in one go."
Harry pictured it for a moment and bolted upright. Merlin, that's terrifying.
This path would clearly take some time to navigate.
"You can do it, Harry," Poppy encouraged. "Don't doubt yourself. Trust me, you've got this."
"Really?" Harry asked, still uncertain.
"Oh, Harry," Poppy sighed. "Think about it. These women loved you so much they gave up everything to cross a century to find you. They're head over heels for you. You're not that penniless Muggle-born wizard from your first year anymore. You're a pure-blood wizard now, the Savior of the wizarding world! You're more than worthy of both of them."
"Right, right," Harry nodded, the fog of doubt clearing as Poppy's words hit home.
Harry was a greedy lad, and that was fine—wanting both was just human nature. Besides, as Poppy said, choosing one and abandoning the other would make him a cad either way. Better to shoulder the burden himself.
It'd be tough—likely earning him a beating from both women—but what was the alternative? He thought back to his first year, staring into the Mirror of Erised, seeing that vision. Maybe deep down, he'd always wanted this: Veratia knitting a sweater, Cassandra standing beside his mother.
"Thanks, Poppy!" Harry said, patting her head. "I know what I need to do."
"You know nothing!" Poppy teased, nudging him with her head. "What you really need to do is get stronger. You've got to be able to take on both Veratia and Cassandra together!"
"Right," Harry said seriously, realizing he'd need to brush up on his spells—enough to survive a duel against both witches. Otherwise, they'd have him on his knees, dragged back in defeat.
After Harry left, Poppy flopped onto the grass by the Black Lake, lying there like a salted fish, utterly still.
When Harry glanced back, he saw her sprawled out. "Poppy!" he called.
At his shout, Poppy lazily lifted her head.
"I thought you…" Harry started, then stopped, feeling the words were bad luck. "Never mind, just… rest there!"
Poppy flopped back down, muttering to herself. Ugh… when will I get my human form back?
As a unicorn, she could never have the freedom to chase love.
Time flew, and soon it was late September.
Defense Against the Dark Arts had become the favorite class for most students, even Slytherins. But not everyone was thrilled—namely, the ever-charming Professor Severus Snape, who harbored a deep grudge against Professor Lupin.
The story of a Boggart turning into Snape, only for Neville to dress it in his grandmother's clothes, had spread like wildfire through Hogwarts. Snape didn't find it amusing. Mention Lupin's name, and his eyes glinted with a venomous desire to toss the man into a cauldron and brew him into a potion.
Naturally, Neville, the mastermind behind the Boggart incident, bore the brunt of Snape's wrath. In Potions, Snape deducted fifty or sixty points from Neville, with no sign of stopping.
"Looks like the old bat still hasn't made peace with his Boggart in a dress," Ron quipped to Neville in their dormitory. He'd learned to avoid badmouthing Snape in public, sticking to the safety of their room, where Snape couldn't deduct points.
Surprisingly, Neville wasn't fazed by Snape's targeting. Instead, he'd become a Gryffindor legend. Making Snape look foolish in a dress was no small feat, and even Percy, the straitlaced Head Boy, hadn't criticized him—a silent endorsement.
There was also a small incident: sixth-year Cassandra Malfoy stormed out of Divination, refusing to return after Professor Trelawney declared in front of the class that she lacked any talent for the subject and should "find something else to do." As Cassandra left, Trelawney blinked at the class and asked, "Did I say something?"
On September 30th, the third-years arrived at Defense Against the Dark Arts, only to find that the usually punctual Professor Lupin was absent. As they whispered in confusion, the classroom door burst open with a bang. Professor Snape swept in, his robes billowing like a storm cloud, and strode to the front.
With a flick of his wand, he slammed the shutters closed. Spinning crisply at the lectern, he drawled, "Turn your books to page three hundred and ninety-four."
"Professor, where's Professor Lupin?" Harry asked curiously.
Perhaps because of the Basilisk skin Harry had gifted him last Christmas, Snape didn't deduct points. Instead, he replied slowly, "He claims he's too ill to teach today, so I'm covering his class. Is that clear, Mr. Potter?"
"What's wrong with him?" Harry pressed.
Snape's dark eyes glinted with impatience. "Nothing life-threatening, rest assured, Mr. Potter." His tone suggested he wished otherwise.
"He didn't leave me his lesson plan," Snape continued, "so I'll teach as I see fit. I repeat, page three hundred and ninety-four!"
With another flick of his wand, he flipped Ron's book to the correct page. Ron, startled, nearly jumped out of his seat.
"Werewolves?" Ron exclaimed, staring at the page.
"But, sir," Hermione interjected quickly, "we've already covered Boggarts, Red Caps, Kappas, and Grindylows. We were about to start—"
"Silence," Snape snapped icily. "I wasn't asking for your input. I'm merely commenting on Professor Lupin's disorganized teaching. You lot are easily satisfied. Lupin barely challenges you—first-years should handle Red Caps and Grindylows. Today, we'll discuss—"
He flashed a pained, toothy grin, his gaze locking onto Neville with menace. Neville shivered, knowing he was in Snape's crosshairs.
"—how to deal with werewolves," Snape said. "That's what you should be learning at this stage, isn't it?"
The class collectively donned masks of misery. Even Slytherins dreaded Snape's lessons. While he spared their house points, his venom spared no one.
"Mr. Malfoy!" Snape suddenly roared. "If you paid attention, you'd have heard me say to turn to page three hundred and ninety-four!"
Draco jolted, fumbling to flip his book to the right page.
"Now," Snape said, "who can tell me the definition of a werewolf and how to distinguish one from a true wolf?"
The students exchanged glances, none eager to answer Snape—not even Hermione. She'd learned the hard way that Snape's unfairness extended to everyone, and she wasn't about to take his venom alone.
When no one responded, Snape's displeasure grew. "Mr. Longbottom!" he barked. "You tell me!"
Neville stood, trembling. "S-sorry, Professor, I… I don't know!"
Snape took a deep breath, nodding. "Very well," he sneered. "I never thought I'd encounter third-years incapable of identifying a werewolf. I'll make a note to inform Professor Dumbledore how far behind you are and how utterly incompetent Lupin is. Longbottom! Ten points from Gryffindor!"
It was clear now—Snape and Lupin had serious bad blood. Was it just the Boggart incident? No one dared defend Neville, whose "Riddikulus" had sparked the infamous dress-wearing Snape.
But Harry sensed something deeper. If it was only the Boggart, Snape wouldn't be this ruthless. There had to be more to their feud.
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