Harry Potter and its characters etc. are the copyright of J K Rowling.
A/N: Wow, my first fic that isn't rated M. Though I still have yet to write something that doesn't have angst, I think.
Just a short look at Parvati's life post-war, and how absences linger on.
Angsty, you've been warned. Enjoy, I suppose.
The door of the pub swung open, the little bell above it tinkling to announce the presence of a young woman. One of the waiters, a teenager with shocking blue hair, whistled appreciatively at the sight of the newcomer. She was a tall, dark woman, beautiful in a refined way, dressed in a maroon trench coat and edgy black boots. As she hung up her coat near the door, revealing her jeans and black blouse beneath it, the waiter disappointedly noted the ring on her finger.
Parvati Patil was hardly aware of the attention she was getting from certain men around her; she was all too used to it by now, and had learnt long ago to limit her focus to her immediate concerns. A pretty face was all they could see, although she wondered how nobody seemed to pick up on the shadows underneath her eyes or the faint, weary lines around her young mouth.
Indeed, gone was the bubbly, gossipy schoolgirl she once used to be; six years had passed after the end of the Second Wizarding War, and Parvati had matured accordingly. She approached the bar, absent-mindedly playing with her engagement ring, which linked her to a certain sandy-haired former classmate with an Irish accent.
"Just a Butterbeer, please," she said, her voice raised so as to be heard over the general din. The lady behind the bar nodded smilingly, and bustled around to prepare her drink. Parvati leant against the counter, finally noticing the young waiter and staring at his hair colour. She wondered if he was a Metamorphmagus, or had merely used a spell to dye it that brilliant shade of azure.
"Ahh, hello… Miss Patil, I believe?"
Parvati turned around to face the person who had uttered the unexpected greeting. Blonde curls streaked heavily with gray, rhinestone-studded spectacles and gleaming, calculating pale green eyes was the sight that met her, and she gaped for a moment at the woman seated on the barstool.
"Rita Skeeter-!"
Skeeter grinned, flashing her teeth and rather scaring Parvati. "It's nice to know an old-timer like me can still be recognized! I remember you, of course, from Hogwarts. I believe I was covering the Triwizard Tournament back then…oh, you were such a sweet little one, I remember-"
Parvati nodded numbly, highly doubting that Skeeter remembered any such thing. The only person she had cared about back then was Harry, and perhaps briefly Hermione and Krum as well. She certainly hadn't given anyone else a backwards glance.
She must have recognized me from my author picture and press interviews, Parvati thought. I suppose she read about me being Harry's former housemate somewhere, and now she's ready to dig for dirt. Out loud she said, "Well, fancy meeting you here, Miss Skeeter. Pity I won't be able to stay for long though-"
"Oh, nonsense, dear!" The cunning older woman exclaimed. "I'm sure you won't mind staying for a tiny bit, you can have your drink with me – come on, there's a free table, it'll be fun! Just a chat, one writer to another, hmm?"
Parvati reminded herself that shoving someone away and running in the opposite direction was never a socially acceptable response to anything. As much as she didn't want to spend her precious free time being poked and prodded about The Saviour Potter (or, Merlin forbid, her own life), she was just too tired to make any sort of escape at the moment. Taking in a deep breath, she put on that plastic smile she wore all too often these days and nodded. "Alright…"
"Lovely."
Five minutes later, she found herself seated across a table from Skeeter, being served her Butterbeer. The former reporter had immediately launched into a discussion of Parvati's works, and was now going on about her first ever-published book. Parvati cringed internally at the thought of Skeeter having read that book of hers and actually remembering it.
"A lovely read, I must say, a bit on the depressing side maybe, but lovely all the same." Skeeter sipped her Butterbeer, eyes fixed on Parvati.
"Err, thanks…" Parvati mumbled, uncomfortably. She wasn't very fond of discussing that particular book of hers in public, it was the one novel she had felt uncertain about publishing. There was too much in that book that was her; too much of the writer that had been written, too many of her little angst-ridden secrets hidden artfully in those pages. As well as she had disguised the part of herself that had gone into that book, she knew that a particularly clever reader might be able to uncover it.
"You really are a remarkable writer, my dear." Skeeter broke the awkward silence, lowering her glass. "And I can honestly say, for once, that that is not a compliment I'd give to anyone easily."
Parvati met the former reporter's gaze, but saw nothing malicious; on the contrary, Skeeter seemed almost grudgingly respectful. "Thank you," she said quietly, sipping her own Butterbeer. "That's a good thing to hear… from a seasoned writer such as yourself."
Skeeter tittered. "Oh, you're so very formal, dear." Her fingers tapped on the tabletop, a habit Parvati was familiar with herself, only Skeeter did it in an unorganized fashion that set her on edge. Padma had pointed out to Parvati once that she drummed her fingers in an almost musical manner, like a ripple of fingers following a beat… Skeeter obviously didn't possess this little obsessive-compulsive quirk.
"You would have been a damned good reporter, you know. It's a pity you just channel it into fiction."
Parvati froze, a chill going down her spine. Grief in muted shades of gray coloured her vision momentarily as her mind drifted back to another time and place.
"You would be a damn good reporter, you know, Parvati!" The giggling voice declared. "There's no doubt about it, really…"
Parvati heard her own voice reply, younger, lighter. "A reporter! I can see it now, my name in print! What about you, would you be doing the advice column?"
"Advice? Heck no, Parv, I'll be doing the fashion section-!"
Nostalgic laughter faded into the busy chatter of the bar around them, the cheeriness dissolving into the blank, dreary tones that coated everything Parvati heard these days. The faint sunlight reflecting off of a lake, the huge tentacles gliding lazily across the water before her, the grass beneath her feet – it all seeped away into the cold dingy atmosphere of reality around her, and Skeeter opposite her, gulping down her drink.
She tried her best to ignore the parallel, unbidden scenario in her head – herself at this table with someone else, a woman her age, glowing with life, who gabbled on about absolutely anything. A young woman who worked on the fashion section of the Daily Prophet, the publication where Parvati herself was a famous reporter. Her friend tossed her dark blonde hair, no doubt going on about her doting fiancé, and wondering what the rest of their old schoolmates were up to these days.
Parvati tore herself away from the false sense of warmth; it was a mere fantasy, a lie. It was impossible, and she was sick and tired of torturing herself. She shut off the emotions that threatened to cut at her insides like knives, shifting her focus to the outer world.
Sipping her drink, Parvati tuned back in to whatever Skeeter was rattling on about this time.
/
/
Later that night, Parvati lay on her bed, thinking. She had managed to last another ten minutes with Skeeter after that strange fantasy experience. Just as the older woman seemed to touch on the subject of her friends, Parvati had suddenly remembered that visit from her poor, imaginary cousin, who was "probably standing around outside my door right now". Amidst Skeeter's protests, she had then taken off quicker than you could say "The Boy Who Lived".
Of course, no such person was waiting for her as she dawdled her way into her small but perfect apartment.
She had spent the rest of the day on her Arithmancy, except when Padma dropped by for a short visit to deliver news on how their parents were doing. Seamus being away on one of his Ministry expeditions, Parvati was starting to really feel his absence. Usually, whenever she was down, Seamus would flash one smile at her and make things feel better somehow.
Parvati couldn't really say that she wasn't happy. She was an Arithmancer working for someone under the Department of Mysteries, which paid enough to support her, and had flexible enough hours to let her write in peace. She had gone through a grueling breakup with Dean four years before, but had found Seamus when he lent her his shoulder to cry on and supported her through the worst of it.
Dean had been going through his own personal hell, with most of his Muggle family killed during the war, but Seamus had severed ties with him after he started taking out his frustrations on Parvati. She could still remember how he had hit her, the day she broke up with him. Quiet, controlled, subdued Dean had broken her, and loud, swearing, compassionate Seamus had helped her pick up the pieces.
Hands fisted in the bedcovers, Parvati stared blankly up at the ceiling. Finally feeling the need to snap out of it, she rose, and walked aimlessly out of her bedroom. She moved like a ghost through the dark living room, the only source of light filtering in through the windows from the streetlamps outside. A pool of the faint light shone upon one of the coffee tables, and Parvati headed straight towards it. A bunch of old framed photographs were clustered on the table, and she picked up one in particular, then moved closer to the window.
Two figures were laughing animatedly in the picture, and one of them attempted to pose with a wave, while the other kept laughing. The blonde teenager eventually gave up and went back to laughing along with her friend. The picture had been taken in front of Honeydukes, which probably explained why both girls were carrying bags bulging with sweets.
Parvati ran a finger down one edge of the frame, unable to tear her gaze away from the silly grins. A dull, strong ache resonated somewhere deep in her chest, a turmoil smoothed over from years of being endured. She could no longer cry, she had wept herself dry a long time ago. Besides, there had been many terrible losses that dreadful day, and the many days leading up to it. There were simply not enough tears for them all.
She knew that Fenrir Greyback was dead; there was no justice or retribution to be taken. Someone had ended that monstrosity during the battle at Hogwarts years ago… Parvati sighed, as she wished they had done so before he had gotten to Lavender.
"Oh Lavender," she whispered, as if her old best friend could hear her. "Maybe then… if only."
A/N: Okay, it was really short, and I'm still not sure where it came from exactly. So very angsty. Maybe I'm just so inspired now that I'm on the minor-character angle of it all. I just started writing and this happened, I mean, I don't even know how Parvati/Seamus happened (I don't really ship them? Well I guess now I do) or when Rita Skeeter decided to pop up and annoy everyone. Anyways, please review if you liked it! Thanks :)