Title: You Had Time
Author: Amalin
Notes: Rated R. Warning for incest.



The evening is a slightly giddy one; the western horizon is lit with dizzy pinks and butterscotch yellows, and Padma is more than a little tipsy: on the flushed sky, on the lanterns strung from the eaves, on her first taste of champagne. She had taken off her robes earlier in the afternoon, spurred on by the sun, and now lounges with Parvati in the hush of evening, barefoot and languid. The breeze prickles her sunburned shoulders.

"Summer," Parvati says, lazily inspecting her fingernails. She has an irritating habit of scratching off the nail polish when nervous, and her nails are a mess from last week's N.E.W.Ts. Padma has been itching to re-paint them for her all week. "Sometimes I think this is all a dream."

"A dream?" Sometimes Padma wishes it were. She would wake up, eleven years old and wide-eyed, with Parvati still at her side. This lipstick-wearing, flashy girl has become more of a stranger than she expected. Back then, Parvati would sit up beside her and whisper, "Good dream or bad dream?" They always did that, knowing instinctively why the other woke, and they always huddled to talk about it, even in the middle of the night. Now, Padma trails a finger along the rim of her champagne glass, feeling ridiculously reckless, a girl set free from her moorings of seven years. "Good dream or bad dream?"

Parvati smiles. "Oh, a good dream. It's so exciting, don't you think? We're going out into the world. Finally done with Hogwarts. Even done with this family. Time to make our own lives."

Padma feels a rush of uncertainty and fear collide in her belly. It's only champagne, she thinks to herself, ashamed at her sudden rush of maudlin emotion. "I suppose," she says slowly. "It's a little frightening, though. You-Know-Who is everywhere. Just think of all the students who didn't graduate."

"That is so like you," Parvati snaps, her voice edgier than Padma thinks it should be. "I thought this was a celebration."

"I'm only saying."

"Well, I'm tired of hearing it! I, for one, am not going to be afraid. We're Purebloods. Why should we worry? Oh, don't look at me like that; I'm not saying I stand for all that pretentious talk. I'm not a Malfoy. I just don't think I should have to cower along for no reason. Haven't you heard the saying that these are the best years of our lives?"

Padma doesn't think this is fair, especially as selfishness always makes her queasy, but she only presses her lips together. "You don't think we have an obligation?"

Parvati rolls her eyes. "What obligation? I lived in Gryffindor for seven years, Padma. I went to the Yule Ball with Harry. I listened to him and Ron talk about Quidditch every morning at breakfast, every morning, and I went to all his Quidditch matches and I even kissed him back at Hogsmeade last year. I lived with those boys and their silly pranks and their messes and their dirty socks and I put up with it all. I listened to them laugh through years of Divination and I let Hermione Granger look down her nose at me because I wasn't Harry Potter's best friend and I watched them whisper in corners and sneak around and no, no, I don't think I owe Harry Potter a thing."

"I," says Padma, because she can't think of much else to say. She would tell Parvati about her own seven years, because not once in the past seven years has Parvati listened, but now would be no different. Instead, she says, "I didn't know you kissed Harry."

"I think he was drunk," Parvati shrugs. She turns to Padma now, momentary fervor forgotten, and giggles. She sounds as if she's thirteen again. "To tell you the truth," she whispers conspiratorially, "he wasn't very good at it. Like he'd never kissed anybody before."

"That's not true," Padma shoots back. Parvati's condescension on all things Harry Potter related makes her skin itch. "He kissed Cho Chang. In fifth year. She told me."

Parvati only giggles again. "Well, she didn't teach him much, did she?"

Padma's only response to that would be, "My name is not Lavender Brown," so she keeps her mouth shut. Parvati does not seem to notice. From the open window, they can both hear a stream of Hindi from their mother. She must be kneeling in the fire, as their father never speaks it. If he could charm himself to look like the rest of the Englishmen, Padma thinks he would.

"Listen," Parvati murmurs, after the moment has exhausted itself. Both their glasses are empty, and both know that their father will squash any chance of further refills. "Lavender's moving to London to live with her cousin next month. She's got a job as a waitress. I was thinking--"

"No," says Padma.

"Why?" Parvati exclaims. She is sitting up straight now, knees rigid, and her eyes flash the way Padma always imagined goddesses' eyes would. "You can't dictate my life. Besides, Blaise Zabini--"

"Blaise Zabini?"

"That's what I said." Parvati looks at her like she's a twit. "His father owns Regal Robes, you know, and a number of famous magazines. Blaise said maybe I could be in their fashion magazine. He says he likes my eyes."

"Blaise Zabini's father is a Death Eater," Padma hisses. She draws each word out like it's a stone she's letting go, a heavy burden she means to drop. She can feel the ripple effect of them spread out in the glow of evening, but Parvati's still half-smiling, oblivious. "Parvati! Did you hear me? I don't care what he owns, all right? You are not--"

"That's just it, then." Parvati's smile tightens. "You don't care. When have you ever cared? I already have a letter written to Mum and Dad about it, and even if they don't approve, they can't stop me. You can't stop me. I thought I'd be nice and tell you, but I suppose I shouldn't have wasted my time."

Padma feels hollow. "I care," she says, but the words sound empty, even to her. There is so much to say to Parvati: if she didn't care, why would she have whispered legends to Parvati before bed each night, when their parents were too busy? If she didn't care, why would she have clenched her fists so hard that she broke the skin of her palm in the hope that the Sorting Hat would peer into Parvati's mind and declare her a Ravenclaw? If she didn't care, why would she follow Parvati to the Astronomy Tower for weeks, listening to her talk about the ascent of Mars and the alignment of the planets, when she didn't believe in Divination?

"Give me your hand," Padma mutters instead, and when Parvati furrows her brow and lets Padma take her left hand, Padma charms all the nails a dusky pink. A hint of a smile flickers on Parvati's lips, and Padma knows it's the closest to forgiveness she'll get tonight.

"Be careful," she wants to say. But Parvati wouldn't listen. Padma wonders, Has she ever?






It's November, and the trees are full of ghosts. Padma gives thanks every day for her Apparation License, which saves her from a frigid trip into London every morning. She's a smart girl, and she knows she deserves better than a meager secretarial position in the Obliviator Headquarters, but she's content enough, and it's a place to start. The Obliviators are a better bunch than she expected: all good-hearted and jovial, they always seem vaguely apologetic about their jobs. She likes bringing them lunch, even if it's her mother's curry, and settles into a routine there. They like her, too, her stable presence.

Today is different, however. Charlie Dobbs, the newest, sandy-haired addition to the team, who always has a smile and a wink for her, leans on her desk, chewing concernedly on his lower lip. She had wondered just last week, with a sort of interested curiosity, if perhaps he fancied her; now, however, he just looks worried. She has the fleeting thought that perhaps he'll ask her to dinner.

"Um," Charlie says. "Um, Padma."

She hopes she doesn't look nervous. She has to sit on her hands to make sure she doesn't fidget with her hair. "Yes?"

"This is--" He stops. "This is a bit hard to say. The boys and I, well, we, um."

Padma thinks, with a horrified leap of her heart into her throat, that something awful has happened; perhaps Charlie's been elected to tell her that her parents have died, or that Hogwarts is under attack, or Parvati has been--oh god. Please, not her. Anyone but Parvati.

"Well, don't take this the wrong way," he finally gulps, "but here. You, um, might want to look at this later, if you know what I mean?" He lays a magazine face down on her desk and, with a guilty look at the floor, hurries away.

Padma stares.

She recognizes the magazine immediately, mostly because of its notoriety on the seedier newsstands and its well-worn copies traded furtively through Hogwarts' boys' dorms. She doesn't even need to flip it over to see the scrawling title, no doubt shamelessly positioned above a naked, nubile witch. She wonders, with a horrified sort of intrigue, why Charlie gave it to her. How does one react when one's superior hands one a porn magazine and then walks away?

Padma turns it over, almost fearfully, and realizes why. The girl on the front is her double.

Parvati.

She has to hurriedly stash the magazine among more proper paperwork, when the long-legged fellow from the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad strolls by and blows her a kiss. She can feel her cheeks burning; he probably thinks it's from his flirtation, as he goes to his desk whistling. Padma, on the other hand, cannot think at all. Her sister is kneeling naked on the cover of the wizarding world's most renowned porn magazine, and she's supposed to file papers?

But file papers she does, all morning long. When at last it's time for her lunch break, she fumbles with shaking hands at her bag and slips the magazine in with other papers, trying her best to stroll nonchalantly to the toilet. Inconspicuous, that's what she is. The picture of innocence.

She almost runs into Charlie on the way out, but he studiously avoids her gaze. She can't say she isn't grateful.

In the toilet, she barricades herself in a stall and charms up a cushion for the seat. Her fingers tremble when she pulls out the magazine and she stares, unabashedly, at her twin. Yes, that's Parvati, all right. The coy flutter of lashes, the dusky eyes, all mellow heat and melting promises; Padma even recognizes the beauty mark grazing Parvati's hip and the subtle little scar across her knee. Padma's throat is dry; her heart is racing. In the photo, Parvati's full nudity is cleverly obscured, but there's little doubt of what the picture promises; occasionally, Parvati will toss her hair and smile coquettishly.

Blaise Zabini's father can get you a modeling job, can he? She flips, almost against her will, through the glossy pages. There Parvati is again, this time completely naked, with a heavy snake twined around her shoulders. It dips down between her breasts, tongue flicking out towards the camera, while Parvati runs a hand over its bunching coils. On the next page, Parvati is sprawled on pale silk sheets, garishly red nails flashing as her hand slides up her thigh. On the next, she is on all fours, licking her lips for the inevitable audience of hormone-driven wizards.

Padma pays little attention to the rest of the models, turning back to the cover again. A snake. What does that mean? Are there implications there? Should she look for them? But the magazine is, after all, run by a Death Eater family. Why shouldn't she draw the conclusions begging to be made?

She thinks about Charlie, about men like Charlie, wanking off to her sister. It makes her feel sick. She remembers Terry Boot snickering over a back-issue with a sixth-year and wonders what they are saying now.

Parvati.

Padma leaves early from work. She Apparates home to an empty house, her mother gone to shop and her father at work, and she burns the magazine, page by page, until the ash blows out into the cold November afternoon. She takes a shower, chokes on the heavy fragrance of the strawberry shampoo that Parvati always used, and ends up shaking against the tile, fingers slipping desperately between her legs. Behind her eyelids, Parvati is writhing, red lips blooming like flowers.






Padma expects something scandalous when Parvati answers her ring; perhaps Parvati will be in the middle of violent sex, or perhaps she will be hosting a nude photo shoot. On the contrary, she is wearing billowy indigo robes, and her hair tumbles loose around her shoulders, curling as it always does when damp. "Padma!" she exclaims, too delighted to be faking, and pulls her inside.

"Hello," Padma says reservedly. At a cursory glance, Parvati's flat is quite normal; there are no glistening snakes coiled around chairs or naked pictures rearranging themselves on the walls. However, the subtle extravagance of it all irks Padma, and she wonders for the first time just how much money Parvati made from those pictures.

In comparison to Padma's hesitation, Parvati is exuberant. "Where've you been? I haven't seen you for months! And don't tell me your job keeps you too busy; surely you have an hour or two to spare for your sister. I've missed you! How're Mum and Dad? Are you still living with them? I can't believe you haven't owled me, silly!"

"They're fine," Padma snaps, "which you would know, if you ever spoke to them. Or what, are you too busy posing naked to come home once in awhile?"

Parvati gapes for a moment, and Padma relishes the fact that she can still catch her twin off guard. "What?" Parvati begins, but then she bursts into giggles, the exact Lavender Brown induced giggling that Padma has spent seven years of her life loathing. "So you saw them? And don't lecture me, since what were you doing looking at such a scandalous magazine?" She raises a challenging eyebrow, still mirthful.

"Someone showed it to me," Padma says coldly. "If you haven't noticed, I look a great deal like you. We're twins, though you've probably forgotten."

"Oh!" Parvati exclaims, and there she goes again, giggling. "They really thought it was--it was you? But it clearly says my name. Oh, Padma, I'm sorry! Imagine thinking--" She stops, suddenly, seeing Padma's tight-lipped rage, but her amusement still tugs at the corners of her mouth. "I really am sorry, Padma, but can't you see the humor in it? I never even thought someone might mistake me for you."

Padma is white-faced now. She hadn't thought of it, either, and now she wonders just why Charlie had looked so guilty giving her the magazine. But no, he would have hardly dared approach her, unless he'd known it was her twin. Right?

". . . like some tea?" Parvati is saying, leading Padma into the kitchen. She is padding around barefoot, and Padma realizes that her robes are made of some sort of impossibly smooth silk, fluid as water. Some magical brand, no doubt. "I'm sorry, I hadn't known you were coming, I've hardly anything about to offer you. I've been meaning to get to the store, but I've been so busy, and I usually eat out. You should stop by more often."

Padma can't track how they slid so smoothly off the subject of Parvati's pornography and into Parvati's abilities as a hostess, but the transition enrages her. "I don't want any tea," she manages, something simmering inside her, something angry and molten and aching. "I just came to--"

Parvati watches her, waiting. This is new. In the past, Parvati always knew the ends to Padma's sentences, or else she overlapped them with her own sentences, too eager to talk to really listen. But now she does listen, head canted slightly, hair tousled around the sloping line of her neck. Her robe is tied loosely, and Padma can see the sharp shadow of her collarbone.

"I don't know why I came," she finishes lamely. She doesn't. It was an instinct that drove her all week long, something righteous and indignant, but now that she's here, it leaves her floundering. Why did she come, after all?

"Maybe you realized how much I miss you," Parvati says warmly, uncharacteristically generous. She puts her arms around Padma, the sisterly kind of hug they used to share, and Padma rests her head gratefully on Parvati's shoulder. Not such a stranger, she thinks. It's a comforting thought.

There are things Padma wants to say to her, things about Blaise Zabini and sharp-tongued snakes, things about pubescent boys with ideas. Things about moonless nights and what it means to be a twin and the sharp ache that won't leave her, the way she cried out Parvati's name in the shower and bit her lip until blood flowed when it echoed back to her. Instead, Padma tilts her head up, feeling a little drunk on the dizzying scent of Parvati's shampoo, and she presses a fearful kiss to the firm promise of Parvati's jaw. When Parvati doesn't move, she nestles closer, lips against skin, and travels in kisses all the way to the corner of Parvati's lips, where she hovers uncertainly. And that's where Parvati turns her head, ever so slightly, so that their lips meet full on, and Padma dissolves then, like her heart is just half of a beat, like her lips are her own not her own, like Parvati--and everything she is--will devour her.

Everything about Parvati is warm; Padma has forgotten that, as she has forgotten a thousand other details. She thinks of sticky India nights on summer holidays. She thinks of childhood, curled up with Parvati, the warm weight it took three weeks of Hogwarts to get used to sleeping without. She thinks of her sister, her sister with the sun inside her.

Parvati is warm, yes, like she is made of it. A goddess indeed, Padma decides, as she slides shaking fingers up Parvati’s back.

Once, at school, she had kissed Parvati, but it was all wrong: lipstick and Parvati’s breathy surprise, two sisters who had spent thirteen years trying to find a way to fit together. This time it is different; they are no longer girls who are scared of English fog, who defend themselves with books or with bracelets, each pretending too hard to be grown up. Parvati tastes sweet, golden, full of things Padma has forgotten she should recognize.

"I didn’t come here for this," she manages to emphasize, as Parvati nuzzles her way down Padma’s neck. Everything feels languid, awash in lingering heartbeats, slowing trails of time. She expects Parvati to whisper, in the husky way she has, "Then why did you?"

"But maybe," Parvati says, instead, like a blessing, as she kisses Padma’s collarbone, "that’s why I called you here."

That’s all we’re made of, maybes, Padma muses. But Parvati is warm in her arms, and she can’t think anymore.






"You know," Parvati muses sleepily afterwards, fingers combing Padma’s heavy hair away from her neck, "we could pose together. You and I. Think of the sensationalism! Blaise would love it."

"Blaise?" Padma knows she is tensing, but she can’t help it.

Parvati’s lips--always unnaturally red with lipstick or without--curve into a small, contented smile. "Didn’t I tell you? He’s been wonderful. The connections that boy has. What he wouldn’t do for me, though. Says he wants to take me to Venice, photograph me naked in a gondola."

Padma jaw aches from clenching her teeth. "It’s cold in Venice."

"In the summer, silly! Anyway, we’re living together, and--"

"You’re what?"

Parvati’s lazy laughter irritates Padma. The sound slides over her bare skin like an itch she cannot reach. "Don’t be so old-fashioned," Parvati murmurs amusedly. "We have an understanding. Besides, just last week, I caught him with Pansy Parkinson. The cow had the nerve to invite me to join them."

The thought that Blaise Zabini could walk in on them at any moment makes a panicked fluttering start in Padma’s stomach. My sister, she thinks, bitter, is just sex-starved. That’s all. That’s all. "I have to go," she says mechanically.

"What, so soon? I didn’t sleep with Pansy, if that’s what you’re worried about."

"You’re--you’re cavorting with Death Eaters, and I shouldn’t be worried? Parvati--"

"I am not cavorting, whatever that means," Parvati snaps. "And stop being so overprotective!"

"Stop being such a whore!"

Parvati gapes. "You’re just jealous," she hisses. "You’re jealous because I have everything I want, and I’m happy. I’m rich and I’m beautiful and I have a lover who buys me silk robes, the most extravagant Charmed perfumes, trips to Paris and Rome. And you, you’re stuck pouring tea for a bunch of boors in the Ministry, stuck going home to Mum and Dad every night. Tell me you don’t want my life. Tell me you’re not envious. Tell me something I can believe, because I can’t believe that."

"I love you," Padma tries to say. Instead, what comes out is, "You make me sick."

"You're jealous," Parvati pouts again, rage turning her cheeks pink. "You just wish you had a future like me. I'm the one who'll go out dancing until dawn, who'll sip cocktails in magical gardens with rich executives who've drooled over my picture. I'm the one they'll fight over, and you're the one they'll give papers to file."

"And Voldemort?" Padma yells. It's the first time she's said his name, and the vehemence of it spinning from her lips scares her. Judging from Parvati's white face, it scares her, too. "Is he going to drool over your picture too, Parvati? Is Voldemort going to bring you chocolates and take you out dancing? Is Voldemort going to leave flowers on your doorstep? Or is the Dark Mark more his thing?"

Parvati's lip curls distastefully. "I told you, Padma. I've nothing to worry about. Neither do you, unless you take up with Harry Potter and that bunch."

"Maybe I will," Padma says, sticking out her chin.

"Well, don't expect me to save you."

"Why would I expect anything from a girl who fucks snakes?" This is a double-edged insult, and Parvati knows it. She would be crying, if she weren't so enraged.

"You're not my sister anymore!" Parvati shrieks, scrambling out of bed, completely naked. Parvati had pouting, whining fits all through her childhood, but a truly angry Parvati is a rare thing, and Padma has never had the wrath directed at her.

"I don't want to be," Padma shoots back. "I wish I were an only child!"

"So do I!" screams Parvati. She gathers Padma's clothes in a tangled heap and throws them at her. "Get out of my house! I don't need you!"

"I've never needed you!" Padma slams the bedroom door behind her and pulls her clothes on, shaking hard. Parvati doesn't come out. There are loud noises from behind the closed door, as if she's kicking furniture, and then one muffled sob. Padma hurries out before she can hear more.

November is angry outside, a roiling sky of freezing rain. Winter is coming. Padma pulls her robes around her, preparing to Apparate, but pauses to watch the clouds rumble for a long minute. Sleet strikes her cheeks, cold and stinging; she is still flushed with anger, but her teeth are chattering. Yes, November, a cold and lonely month. A cold and lonely season.

I wonder what gods do to punish two halves of a whole when they break, Padma thinks. Maybe she doesn't want to know.






Padma moves out of her parents’ house in January, her things charmed down to pocket size. Charlie, who has taken her to dinner twice and whose eyes she is never quite able to meet, helps her move the furniture. Afterwards, he stands at the door with his hands in his pockets, looking sheepish and expectant, and she has to tell him goodbye from across the room so he doesn’t get any ideas. She can hear him taking the stairs two at a time and doesn’t feel anything at all.

Exactly six days later, she meets Hermione Granger for lunch and notices the hollows under Hermione’s eyes, the gaunt fervent look that haunts her expression. Padma leans forward, hands clutching her napkin in her lap, and says earnestly, "I want to help, Hermione."

Three days after that, she lets Harry Potter help her sit down after casting Stupefy on a hooded Death Eater. Her hands are shaking and words drown in the adrenaline of fear before they reach her lips, but she can feel herself smiling. Triumphant. She thinks, Who knows Harry Potter better now?

In March, an intern approaches her as she lunches in the cafeteria and says, horrified at his own daring, "Didn’t I see you in this month’s issue of Bare?" Padma is too stunned to reply and stares at him blankly until he reddens and stumbles off, looking both mortified and impressed. She buries her face in her hands.

Oh, Parvati.

On her way home that night, Padma holds her wand like a comfort and steps into Knockturn Alley. The only clientele at this time of evening are the worst of the bunch; murmurs follow her as she walks, and when she reaches the newsstand she wants, she is overwhelmed by the urge to run in the opposite direction. Instead she asks, voice steely, for the latest copy.

Padma takes the package--wrapped neatly in brown paper--home with her and sits it on an empty shelf. That night, she dreams of Parvati in a gondola, rocked slowly in the water. She wakes up with the urge to sob.

In June, Harry Potter kisses her, and they end up sprawled on her floor, moving desperately. He is shaking, and Padma has to be the one to undress them both, while Harry kisses her eyelids and her fingertips and the hollow of her throat. When he looks down at her with eyes that see nothing but her and do not see her at all, she has the ludicrous urge to tell him, "Parvati doesn’t think you’re a very good kisser." Instead, she pulls him down to her and they make love with the urgency of war and the texture of the carpet imprinted in the smooth skin of Padma’s back.

Afterwards, she lets him sleep in her bed and sits beside him, staring out into the darkness, empty and exhausted and alone, always alone. She thinks about Parvati calling to her, bringing Padma to her. She thinks, fiercely, Come home to me.

July. August. September. Parvati never comes.

"I love you," Harry says in October. Padma doesn’t believe him, but she lets him kiss the beauty mark on her shoulder and falls asleep on his chest anyway. She doesn’t feel as if this orbit belongs to her, this hollow, haunted life.

The next morning, warm with sleep, she looks up at him and murmurs, "You kissed my sister once."

"Did I? I think I was drunk. How is Parvati, anyway?"

"I don’t care, I haven’t seen her," Padma says shortly. The morning light is turning the dust motes to gold. When he runs lazy fingers through her hair, she sighs and sits up. "Is that why--"

Harry is endearingly, frustratingly oblivious. "Is that why what?"

"Is that why you love me?"

He looks shocked. "Of course not!" Impossible, to Harry, that he could have been misleading her all this time. Impossible that anyone he loves could be that cruel. He has always been that way, and now, now that he’s killed and bled and cursed, his innocence is all the more apparent. Unchangeable. Maybe that’s why she thinks, every now and then, for a moment or two, that maybe she loves him.

"Maybe," she says, out loud, and he pulls her to him, kisses her. It’s a slow kiss, sleepy and content, like everything she does these days. Wading through water. Never to reach the shore.

Which shore? Padma wonders. The one before me or the one behind me?

In November, Parvati dies.






"Wrong place, wrong time," Harry says, cradling her, trying to make sense of her stolid expression and her refusal to cry. "She was--she was in too deep, I suppose. She never understood how far it went."

"She liked chocolate cake," Padma says, hollowly.

"What?"

"She liked chocolate cake. I never did. Parvati always got her way, and every birthday, all we had was chocolate. I could never bring myself to tell her how much I hated it."

Harry whispers, "Padma," as if it will fix everything. Once upon a time, Padma thought he could hold the world together. Now she knows.

Now she knows.

"Go away," Padma murmurs. When Harry doesn’t move, she screams, "Go away, go away," and her throat aches, her voice is wracked with unshed tears. He leaves and she collapses.

Parvati. Sometimes, Padma had hated her so much she didn’t understand how they could be sisters. Sometimes, she hated everything Parvati was and had and loved, and she wondered if they only pretended to be twins. If she never wore lip gloss and didn’t know the words to the Weird Sisters’ new song and never understood what Parvati was talking about when she read tea leaves, didn’t that make them too different to be together?

Her sister. Her sister with warm hands and soft lips and the same heartbeat, the same lightning-quick, full-mouthed smile. Her sister made of sunlight.

One year without her, Padma had vowed, and then she would see. She would go back, resolute, and say, "Come with me. Come with me, Parvati." And Parvati would have said, with tears in her eyes, "The only one who really loves me is you," and Padma would have known, she would have known.

One year. That was all. And now?

Soon I'll wake up, Padma thinks, almost hysterically, rocking herself, fist pressed against her mouth. She'll wake up, and she'll be shaking in bed; Parvati will put her arms around her and whisper, in that familiar, husky-sweet voice, "Good dream or bad dream?" Padma will whisper back, "Awful," and she will tell Parvati all about it. They will huddle there in their cavern of sheets, safe from a world that is cold and glossy and out for the kill, safe from a world where blood means nothing and everything.

Soon, she'll wake up, and Parvati will be there. Yes, Parvati will be there, and everything will be all right.