Scattered: Brief Lives

She wakes up in the night and clutches the covers closer, trying to pretend for a few minutes longer that she is home and that her sister is in the next room. Or that they are both at Hogwarts, she in her dorm room in Ravenclaw, Parvati tucked away in her own tower, possibly sleeping, more likely whispering with Lavender and trying not to wake Hermione. She lies to herself and thinks, Everything is as it should be. Everything is right in the world. There's nothing for me to worry about. It isn't a very convincing lie, however; she knows nothing is as it was, and may never be again.

On the morning that Fred Weasley showed up at her house and told her she had to come with him, her parents had left for work already and her sister was still asleep. Padma was alone, reading in the sunroom, twisting the end of her braid between her fingers, sipping lukewarm tea, when Fred knocked on the door. She remembers staring at him and thinking, I don't know why everyone says you can't tell Fred and George apart. They're as different as sunrise and sunset. There was something in Fred's eyes that wasn't in George's, something just beginning, something just waking up. Something about to happen.

She woke Parvati. They packed their bags. And then Padma left with Fred. She didn't want to. That's important to her now: she's reminded herself of this fact over and over again, week after week, waking up in the night unable to pretend that nothing's changed, that the world as she's always known it hasn't ended. She didn't want to go. She wanted to wait with her sister, to go where she was going. She wanted to stay together. But Fred said it wasn't possible. So she left, and she hasn't seen her sister since.

The castle is warm and secure; everyone is kind. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley promise that they will try to get find her parents, if they are still somewhere to be found. Padma, however, tries hard not to think about her parents. Hermione shows her the library, points out the books that weren't in the Hogwarts collection, makes a point of stopping by and asking her to join them in researching, walking outside, having breakfast. The others her age try to be friendly, but she doesn't know any of them very well. The only other Ravenclaw -- former Ravenclaw, she reminds herself - at Liath Cuan besides herself is Luna Lovegood, and Padma admits they were never close; she doesn't quite understand Luna, and has never been sure if the other girl means everything she says or if she's putting one over on everyone, all the time. Padma tries to feel grateful to be so welcomed, and she tries to fit in. But truthfully, inside, she feels as if she has no one, belongs to no one, and no one belongs to her.

When she lies awake, always, she chastises herself that there's no use in self-pity. She's not the only one who has lost someone, after all. Poor Colin Creevey is like a different person now. Everyone's face clouds over whenever Neville Longbottom's name is mentioned. And all of the Weasleys, she knows, think of George every day, hoping against hope for news, and of Fred, hoping simply that he will come home again, one way or another.

She remembers how the days passed in the safehouse, how at first he was the same irrepressible twin who had always somewhat alarmed her. She'd steered clear of him at school, having heard too many stories from Parvati, too many tales of the trouble Fred and George could cause when they set their mind to it. The first week at the safehouse, Fred was just like that: capricious, loud, obnoxious. The second week, he was ill-tempered and moody, as likely to snap as to crack a joke, shifting from one to the other with little warning. But in the third week, with still no word from his twin, he grew quiet, and that was the most alarming of all.

Padma would lie awake at night, feeling much as she did now: safe but alone, warm but worried. And sometimes she would creep downstairs and sit in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames, wishing with all of her might that her sister's face would appear there, laughing at her worry, sharing her secrets, comparing notes.

She thinks of the nights she would stop at the top of the staircase and see Fred below, staring into the flames in just the same way. She remembers, night after night, sitting there on the stairs, watching him, watching the flames from afar, eventually returning to her room to lie awake until morning. And she tries very hard not to think of the night, two weeks ago, when she finally took those last steps toward him, without a word, and slid next to him on the sofa, pressing her face into his shoulder, her tears -- the only tears she'd shed thus far -- disappearing into the soft wool of his sweater. His sharp, deep breath, his hand clutching hers, his own tears, lost in her hair. His whisper, just her name, his arms going around her. His lips, his mouth, his skin. His breath, shaking, his pain, his loss, his rough voice in the dark, his body above hers. His silence, in the morning, and in the days and weeks that followed, on their trip to the island, to the castle, to safety. And his eyes, meeting hers, just once, as he'd left the next morning.

He left and she hasn't seen him since. She has no one, belongs to no one, and no one belongs to her... in the night, in the dark, lying awake, trying to pretend that someday, everything will be right in the world again.