Disclaimer: Not mine, of course!
A/N: Short, odd pairing, little bit of a pointless oneshot, but I love both of these characters. I'll leave the judgement up to you, but I sincerely hope that you like it.
Pairing as requested by sugarless.

'Hello.'

That's how it starts. That's how your Hogwarts career starts, with a bright hello from the tall, Indian girl with the braid, and eyes that are far too large. Her uniform hangs off her like she is nothing more than a coat hanger and the red and gold emblem glares at you.

'Good morning.' You mumble in reply. Does she not know yet, that you're a Slytherin? And not just any Slytherin. Draco Malfoy.

'I'm Parvati Patil. I don't suppose you'd have any reason to know me, though I know you, of course. Everyoneseems to know you! I'm a half-blood with nearly no knowledge of Wizards, but even I do!' She babbles excitedly, but it all goes over your head. You look for Crabbe and Goyle, but they're still in the Hall and you think that maybe this how it's going to be from now on.

You roll your eyes. 'I'm awfully sorry, but did you want something?'

'Oh no, I suppose not,' she shrugs her shoulders, leaning against the wall. 'I just thought that it might be nice to make some more friends. I already have my sister, Padma, but she's in Ravenclaw, and I'm not in many lessons with her. I have Lavender Brown, and Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan. They're my friends already. And Hermione Granger seems okay, but she didn't want to talk very much last night. Ron Weasley and Harry Potter are in my house too, and they seem lovely. What're the people in your house like? They didn't seem very friendly last night.'

Merlin, you hope that Professor Snape doesn't always take this long to open his room. But then, you think he's probably planning some dramatic entrance. It's awkward, this waiting. Slytherins hate Gryffindors. That's simply common place, and if your father is right (which he always seems to be, always)then the Dark Lord will rise again, then you won't want to be around the Gryffindors. If this annoying, far too happy girl is anything to go by, you can see what your father meant. You already don't want to be around her.

You hope she's done talking to you, but you clearly aren't going to escape so easily. Drastic times call for drastic measures. You scowl easily. 'Slytherin house is far superior to a house of blood-traitors and Mudbloods, which you appear to love, rather pathetically.'

Her mouth falls open. Her eyes narrow. For someone who seemed to know so little of your world (yes, yes, you know already that it's yours) she knows that she shouldn't take kindly what you've said. Her other, undoubtedly pathetic friends will know soon too. A reputation takes years to carve and a second to shake off. You think that you might as well start carving yours now.

You both jump slightly, nearly pulling you out of the reverie of awkwardness, as the door clicks open. Magically, naturally. You slide around the door and into darkness, leaving her drowning in candle light, waiting for her friends to pull her from her state of surprise.

It's wrong. You know it's wrong. How could you not? But fuck, after what you've done, what you've intended and tried to do in the last two years, what difference is this going to make?

You've killed her twin. You've mauled her sister beyond recognition. You've almost destroyed everything she's ever cared about. You. It's your fault. It's all your fault.

After all, you signed your self over. You believed it all. You thought of the things, suggested them. You could have stopped them, too, or tried. But when it came down to it, you just couldn't do it. You couldn't even bring yourself to try.

It's too late. You don't know what you were hoping for from her. Maybe a flash of the child who spoke to you without prejudice when you were younger.

There's none of that child in her eyes now. She looks at you for a fleeting second, and you can see that her dark eyes soft and hard all at once. She is lost. She has fought, but she fights no longer. Maybe she, like you, can not see the point. Was there ever one, or only cold, distant illusion?

You drop to the grass beside her, out of view of everywhere but Hagrid's burnt out hut. It doesn't matter anyway. No one's looking, no one cares. There is only mourning, and muted celebrations, and love inside that castle. No place for you. Your mother and father are still in there, but they are suffocating with their affection, affection you do not deserve.

'Hello.' You realise then how strained and strange your voice sounds to you now that it isn't quaking in fear. It isn't gloating or cursing either. It's an unusual voice, quiet and sorry, and you wonder if you've ever heard it before.

She sobs low in her throat, but she doesn't look at you and she doesn't cry. 'Good evening.' She replies after a few minutes. It's almost like she doesn't know that you're Draco Malfoy. It's almost like she's numb, and beyond caring. Almost.

Then there is silence. Great, unwavering sheets of silence. You aren't soothed by each other's presence, you aren't comfortable. Blood is matted into her hair, she is bruised and dirty. Your fingers tremble as you pick up her wand from the grass beside her, and you whisper 'Episkey' to heal the cut on her neck. You drop her wand.

She stands abruptly and you follow suit. Her eyes are blazing with a fire which no longer surprises you. It is a fire all Gryffindors have seemed to acquire over the past year. For a girl who once looked like a strange bug, with eyes too large and body too scrawny, she has grown into a woman with beauty and silent grace.

Her beauty is lined with fury. 'Why the hell do you think I want your help? You - You bastard! You bastard!'

She hits you with surprising force. You let her, you simply let her. She stops after a few seconds, her fire burnt out and her stature tall and proud. She drops back to the ground, by the lake where she sat before you intruded.

'I -'

'Please don't,' she doesn't look at you and her voice is just as distant as before. Her eyes are fixed on a point in the water that you can't seem to see. 'My sister is dead. Lavender is fighting for her life. My whole body hurts. I'm so … numb. Cold. Is this peace? It isn't how I anticipated it. Nothing will ever be the same. You think the war is over, but it isn't for me. I don't feel anything. It's wrong, isn't it? I'm sorry, but I want to be alone.'

If you thought you could handle her, sitting all on her own by the lake, drowning in the burning sunlight and icy grief, you were wrong. The hitting and anger you're used to. You've experienced plenty of that. You think you could probably handle tears, your mother has cried that much over the past year. But the complete despondency and hopeless, passionless grief you weren't prepared for. There are no grudges held from past conflicts, just this rawness. You want to cry when she apologises to you. You don't cry, haven't cried in years, not truly. You've done everything to her. You can feel her pain in the air.

You don't know why you came down here. You had no reason and no right. You don't belong in this castle. You don't belong around her, who you treated badly when you were eleven, and whose life you have helped to ruin. You don't know why you thought it would be a good idea to try to comfort her. It's too late for you to do any good.

'Sorry.' You utter, so quietly that it might just have been an echo of someone else, something else. This is how it ends, you think without sadness. You hardly knew her, just name and face. Maybe you could have known her, but you won't, not anymore. You'll do as she wishes. 'Goodbye.'