Some of the Muggle-borns who had returned told her the story of flowers that grew where soldiers lay.
“Your flowers, Madam Pomfrey,” they said, as she treated their wounds. They said it was a metaphor. They said it meant remembrance. They said it could be beautiful. They would all have scars for the rest of their lives.
Poppy had to excuse herself. She needed to be alone for a moment.
But in the storeroom she found Pomona, crushing her plants to make a healing paste. And Pomona thought it was beautiful. So within the year they went to where the children lay and there they planted some seeds, and over time there were laughing red-capped flowers for laughing red-haired pranksters; and flowers that flashed as you went by as though to catch your picture; and giggling, girlish flowers that smelled of lavender.
They grow where the soldiers lie. It is beautiful.
(photo and idea submitted by retrousse)