Parvati and Padma Patil--two Harry Potter characters so rarely delved into. What if there Is more to this pair of twins than the rest of the world suspects? Everyone has a story to tell…Child abuse, rape, incest, slash, twincest…this is a bad one. Consider yourself warned.
Chapter one
Padma has always grown faster than I have. At first it was just a height thing, but now as we approach womanhood, everything between us varies. Her waistline is delicately defined, her chest filled out like that of a teen thought she is but nine years old. Padma looks just like Mama did--not when Mama was ill, with her hair thinning and her body too weak to function, but the bright, sparkling Mama that I knew so well. Guests and visitors swear that Padma is the walking, breathing soul of the woman who now lives on the mantelpiece.
"Just like Bhavani," they will say, approval in their voices, while I stand by unnoticed. I am still as thin as a blade of grass, my chest so undeveloped I am shocked it doesn't cave inward.
Perhaps this is why Daddy so favors Padma over me.
Daddy makes a great effort to make Padma happy. She is allowed anywhere in the house, even Daddy's own bedroom, where I have never before stepped foot. Once I have stolen a look, and it is by far the most grand, draped in shades of gold and burgundy, and with windows that touch both the ceiling and floor. I was scolded for my incompetence, and forbidden from the room. Whenever Padma is called to Daddy's room, I narrow my eyes in her direction, and my jealously seeps into my stare.
Padma and Daddy are in the room, which now has become habitual in the past week. I hear her scream, but the scream is muffled, as if she is trying to stop it. I am unfazed, as Daddy and Padma are nearly always engaged in Games such as these lately. Soon Padma will leave Daddy and come to bed, silent as the graved ones as she enters the room. Her footsteps on the carpet will be soundless, her breathing so inaudible I will scarcely believe she draws air.
She rarely speaks to me anymore, especially when she reenters out bedroom at night. Padma would rather save her words for Daddy than waste them on me.
Sometimes I think I might hate both Padma and Daddy for what they have and won't share with me, and other times, I just don't know what to think.
The door to Daddy's room creeks like a floorboard; I hold my breath as I wait for my sister to return. A minute passes, two minutes pass, but Padma has not come slinking through the threshold. I slip from between the bedcovers.
The hallway is blanketed in darkness, but for the pale golden glow of the bathroom light. I hear a sob, and I quicken my step involuntarily.
There is Padma, standing naked, tears streaming down her cheeks and she shudders from their force. She looks at me, but her eyes see past mine. Her thighs, her hands, her belly are all smeared in blood.
Padma's breath catches in her chest. She lurches forward as it drips from between her legs, pooling at her feet.
Later
Padma imagines herself invisible as her body dances rhythmically beneath her sheets, a Game I do not yet know. Both hands are between her legs, fingers trilling, her breath is short, her back arches with each sharp intake of air. The bed springs groan ever so slightly, and I watch as she plays with a vigor more intense than ever.
It is like music, the steady, haunting creek of the mattress, the sound of a wetness as great as the sea. Padma begins to moan--I hear her whisper secret things to herself in between. All the while she thrusts and arches, turns and quivers, the Dance of the Night.
It is done. Padma draws too much air, choking on her pleasure, and her body writhes. At last she sinks back into the pillows, panting, and then simply laying without words.
I am nearing sleep, so much so that I wonder if this is all a dream. I listen to the Silence, until it is broken by gentle tears.
I close my eyes and begin to drift away.