A Tomorrow

*

Her mother cooks and cleans like there's some kind of peace to be found in a perfect meal or a spotless house - day in, day out, dawn to dusk.

And maybe there is, but it doesn't work like that for Parvati.

Sometimes she can't take it any more, the dishes, the dusting, the too-quiet house; sometimes she has to get away. Her mother watches her go with worried eyes and pressed lips but - this is the important part - she lets her go.

Parvati can spend hours wandering through the big Muggle shops, looking at all the pretty, pretty things. She doesn't have the money to buy much, but occasionally she comes home with a little pink dress or a strappy top that makes her father turn all shades of angry.

Silent angry. He wants her at home too much to risk a fight.

Parvati likes museums, too; she can get lost in the Victoria and Albert, in dark rooms where sculptures and jewels and beautiful old things give her a glimpse of the place she's never been that her parents call home.

She wonders when they'll leave; this island is cold and dead to them now. She wonders if she'll follow when they go.

*

Parvati is always hungry after a day out. Sometimes she stops for dosai on the way home; today, she's chosen tea and a sweet bun with chocolate on top. The café is small and cosy. Pleasantly busy, too, there are people eating and talking, but not so many that she can't get a table by the window.

She's licking her fingers (discreetly, behind her napkin) when she sees him walking down the pavement. Parvati blinks; yes, it's definitely him. The hair is just as she remembers, the glasses exactly as before, and now she's shredding her napkin because she can't decide what to do. Knock on the window to get his attention? Slide her chair back so he won't see her when he passes?

With a jingle, the door opens and it's all out of her hands.

"Parvati!"

He's at her side within seconds of crossing the threshold - Parvati can't help being a bit pleased that his eyes were drawn to her so quickly. This dress? Definitely a keeper.

"Hi, Harry," she says, ignoring the twinge that comes on being identified so easily.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Of course not."

He smiles in a way that's quick and easy yet slightly nervous. She likes it.

"First I'll just -" He points towards the counter.

She shoos Harry away, and studies him as he peers into the bakery case. Still thin (even more so, if it's possible), still oddly intense . . . he is the same, she decides, but then again, not.

After a moment, Parvati wonders if that's precisely the way he'd describe her.

Harry returns, balancing a plate of sticky rolls and a cup of tea. "So."

"So," she agrees.

Silence. Harry begins munching.

She rolls her eyes. That's the same, too: put Harry Potter in a social situation, and get in return something more akin to a clam than a wizard.

Good thing she has a little talent in this area.

"Do you live in London these days?" Parvati asks, adding a smile and a little friendly eye contact.

"Yeah." Harry puts his bun down - success! "Ron and Neville and I share a flat, not too far from here," he adds. "What about you?"

"I'm in Southall, with my parents."

There are gaping holes in each of their answers, names that are obviously missing.

They move on.

She asks him about work next, and the ubiquitous 'so what do you do?' turns out to be the wrong question. Harry fiddles with his glasses, runs his fingers through his hair, and just when Parvati thinks he's going to go the 'if I tell you I'll have to kill you' route, says, "I keep the flat tidy, walk around town, and sleep. That's it."

Something in his voice makes her catch her breath - anger, bitterness, futility, she's not sure - and instinctively, she reaches out to touch his hand. Looking with her mind a little more than her eyes, Parvati takes in the lines on Harry's face and the way pain colours the air around him. Softly, she says, "Everyone needs a break sometimes."

He looks away. "You sound like Ron."

"Well, as long as I haven't sprouted the freckles, that's all right."

She gets an almost-grin in response.

Then Harry turns back to his plate.

Determined not to revisit the silent-munching stage, Parvati tries, "Tell me your favourite place in the city, and I'll tell you mine?"

A much better query. Harry can't choose a favourite, he protests, so they end up debating the relative merits of the Tower of London (he likes the armouries, she the jewels), Harrod's, Hyde Park, and the all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurant on Harry's street.

And when Parvati tells the embarrassing-but-true story of her first time on a moving staircase, she's rewarded with a bigger, truer version of that easy smile, one that reaches all the way to his eyes.

She likes it even more.

*

Her parents are asleep, leaving the house to her and the quiet dark. Parvati sits on her bed, cross-legged, a large leather album open in her lap. She turns the pages slowly, one memory after another, until she finds what she's looking for.

A younger her is leading Harry Potter around the dance floor, between friends and strangers and some-day enemies. He's blushing red, tripping over feet, but she's wearing a look of pure happiness, enjoying every minute of it.

Parvati runs her fingers over the photograph, tracing her smile, his hair, their everything.

On the covers beside her is a napkin, and on that, a phone number.

She lays the book on the nightstand, napkin on top, and crawls under the covers. If she puts her arms around Harry, steers him right, they will not be fourteen again.

But maybe they can find their own sort of peace, now and then.

*