She lay in a thin mist. The ground was level and neither cold nor warm, as if it had been artificially built.
She sat up and checked herself. She was uninjured. Then she stood and looked around. Above her was a blooming umbrella-shaped flower, cultivated in Hogwarts' Greenhouse Three. Out of personal preference, she had grown this tropical plant alongside Mandrake seedlings.
There was no soil on the roof. Like tropical orchids, its roots grew in the air, absorbing moisture from the mist in the air. That was why the greenhouse had to remain humid year-round.
Young Mandrakes were harmless, just like young Fenrir, Blast-Ended Skrewts, and Voldemort.
But as they grew larger, they gradually turned into monsters, becoming incredibly difficult to destroy. Many had paid the price for that.
They could not let their sacrifices be in vain.
So the great romantic, Mr. Snape, had chosen to walk toward death with her. Yet in the end, he had still messed it up and forgotten to stab her with a Basilisk fang.
"How much longer do I have to wait?" she said wearily. How strange. Even ghosts could suddenly feel tired.
"Who are you waiting for?"
Pomona turned toward the voice. The speaker was Albus Dumbledore.
He was still wearing that dreadful star-patterned robe, with his long silver hair and beard, hooked nose, and blue eyes hidden behind half-moon spectacles. Everything was exactly as it had been.
"A student who disappointed you," she said.
"A great many people have disappointed me. Which one do you mean?"
She did not dare say his name, as though he were as terrifying as Voldemort.
"You fear him, yet you are waiting for him. Sometimes I truly cannot understand what witches are thinking."
"Then why are you here, Albus? Are you waiting for someone