Poppy Jade Duke

The next day, hungover and still piecing together what exactly she’d said to James Potter in the hotel bar the night before, Poppy retreated back to her flat. Walking inside, she noticed at once how very white and sterile the place was, how every plant, book, paperclip had a place. How the dishes were in neat, straight lines like soldiers, how the art on the walls was just the right height--she remembered measuring it once, twice, three times before hanging it. How the coat rack contained only attire for that season, how her makeup was lined up in the bathroom in the order in which she applied it. How her bedsheets were pulled taut and tucked in carefully at the corners. 

As a rule, Poppy only drank red wine in the kitchen. There was too much white in the place to risk drinking it on the couch, in her bedroom--the comforter had cost her an arm and a leg and she didn’t even allow herself to use it as covers. That afternoon, Poppy ignored the briefs sitting in a neat stack on her kitchen table and poured Merlot into a drinking glass and stood in her bedroom in front of her closet. White button down shirts, neutral-color cardigans, and sensible shoes resided alongside pressed dress pants, skirts, and the few pairs of pristine, tailored denim. There were a few dresses, too--a dress for the theatre, one for work gatherings, a red one for the holidays, a few sundresses for summer holidays. They, just like the rest of her outfits, consisted of conservative necklines, straps that covered the tops of her shoulders, hems that didn’t stray too far from her knees.

She remembered a bonfire back at school. It had been near the beginning of sixth year and Lily had encouraged her leave the library and go down to the lake. There were bottles of firewhiskey and a game of truth or dare. That night she kissed Lysander Scamander--only the third time she’d ever actually kissed a boy, the first time with tongue--and when she’d returned to her common room that night, she had the distinct feeling that she had arrived. That this would mark the end of her pretending she was above flirtations with boys or acting as if she didn’t particularly care if she didn’t get a date to a dance. That night she thought she’d finally come in to her own. That she’d learned how to let go and embrace the fact that she was a girl who might desire something, could desire someone.

But she hadn’t let herself. She’d let Sander take her out, Nate do the same. She’d spent more time with boys, danced with them at the pub nights she’d never deigned to attend before, smirked at them when they made a joke even if it wasn’t that funny, but never was she able to let go. She let James Potter take her into the Gryffindor common room and kiss her but refused his request that she let him take her out. Poppy had learned that her need for control, for measure and logic and rational thinking trumped any desire that might require her give those things up. She vowed to be sensible, collected, and reasonable.

A year later, she stood in front of a closet of carefully coordinated clothing in a spotless, white bedroom in an immaculate flat in the right part of London. She had the job she had dreamed of since fourth year, a haircut that was professional yet easy to maintain, and a weekly standing appointment with a personal trainer. She had a go-to seamstress, a subscription to the Daily Prophet, a regular market where she did her shopping every Sunday at exactly 10 o’clock in the morning, and a meal plan that she changed out every week pinned neatly to the cork board in the kitchen.

She piled the vast majority of her shirts, pants, skirts, dresses in the doorway of her room, trudging through them to get to her living room where she tossed a fine but impossibly scratchy decorative pillow on the pile, then a run from the kitchen, the meal plan, the shopping list, placemats, the training schedule for her home exercise. She levitated the pile into the bathroom, into the tub, and let them settle against the porcelain.

Incendio.

In less than a second the artifacts of a precisely curated life were a pile of ash. She flicked her wand again and the pile rushed behind her into the rubbish bin under the bathroom sink as if they had never existed at all.

Poppy walked to the terrace, looked out over London, and penned a letter to Lily.

Awful mistake with the washing today--somehow managed to turn everything green. Fancy going to the shops tonight?

Poppy spent the first seventeen years of her life wanting for nothing. Not for good grades--those came easily and often--nor for company--there was always Lily and Laurel--nor praise--even if she detested Professor Slughorn, he was full of it. Her life had been a simple balancing act as she negotiated time between studying, volunteering for whatever event needed organizing, and participating in usual off-grounds social outings. She liked her life. She was good at her life. She had spent seventeen years perfecting her life.

And then Lily Potter got a boyfriend. A Malfoy boyfriend. A Scorpius Malfoy sort of boyfriend who sucked up free time and left a sullen Albus Potter in his wake. It wasn’t that she wasn’t thrilled for Lily, of course she was thrilled for Lily--sure, Malfoy wasn’t as cute as Rory Finnigan or as funny as Rory Finnigan or as charming as Rory Finnigan, but he was passable. Almost. Sort of. He probably didn’t even do that annoying thing where he mansplained potions to whoever in the common room would listen when he was around Lily. He probably even kept the stupid, self-important look off of his face most of the time. 

It wasn’t that she hadn’t ever considered a boyfriend--in fact, she’d made an extensive pro/con list about it sixth year and color coded each item as “of minor importance,” “of average importance,” and “of major importance.” She had even considered dropping her role as second year advisor to the Muggle Studies Quiz Bowl team because she assumed a boyfriend would require the same five hour per week commitment that the position had taken up. He’d have to be a Ravenclaw, of course--anyone with less than impeccable study habits would most certainly require more social time and that was something she just couldn’t compromise on.

So she gave dating a try. Lysander Scamander had been one of the first names she’d written down for consideration and that she’d been dared to kiss him during an alcohol-addled game of truth or dare only made getting to know him all the easier. He ticked the Ravenclaw box, had nice hair, and even got a check in the “extra qualifications” column because he was a year ahead and as such was likely to be more mature than the blokes in her year. He was a good kisser, too--while she certainly would’ve preferred a more private place to find out, kissing Lysander Scamander on a log by a bonfire wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to her. He was quiet and had a sincere smile and had the good grace to look embarrassed when he’d been dared to kiss her.

And then there was Nathaniel Deighton. Ravenclaw, yes, dark hair, yes, a year ahead, yes. That he and Lysander were best friends was a bit odd, sure, but not necessarily a disqualifying factor. No, the disqualifying factor was that he took her on the same date as Lysander--to ride a dirty hippogriff and eat Indian food. Okay, fine, maybe most girls would find the whole he’s sharing his passion with you! thing endearing, but honestly, Poppy didn’t fancy getting maimed--she was no hurry to turn her second date ever into her last date. Nate was good at holding hands and letting her call the shots, which she appreciated--he was less good at being much different than Lysander. And, to be frank, Poppy had decided that Poppy Deighton sounded like some sort of herbal remedy for a toothache and Poppy Scamander an unappetizing French dish.

But that was fine, of course it was fine--she was seventeen, she had all the time in the world...plus, her mother still looked like she was thirty, so obviously she was going to age gracefully if worse came to worst. So maybe she wasn’t going to get an older Ravenclaw boy--that was fine, there were other houses, she hadn’t even considered the hoard of recent graduates, some of who might not mind dating a girl between her 6th and 7th years. So the list making ceased to make way for exam studying, pretending not to eavesdrop on Liesel Nott’s antics in the common room, and perfecting the art of a good nighttime skin routine.

A year after becoming a Hogwarts alumna, Poppy had given up on making lists, at least the kind of lists where she tried to sort out which boy she fancied or should fancy. She was working at the Ministry, her dream since she was a first year and the Minister came to give the Hogwarts commencement speech to the seventh years. She had her own flat--a cute, small one bedroom in central London with white walls and counters and cement floors--and a favorite coffee place to stop at on her way to work. She had a nice blazer and a work ID badge on a lanyard and plenty of case files to take home each weekend and her life was consistent, even, and ordinary just like she had always planned.

Poppy x James