She tucked Pandita into the midst of her covers – white velvet sheets, and a bedspread made of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tapestries sewn together, side by side – and kissed her goodnight, brushing her lips carefully with the grain of Pandita's smoothed-back hair. Her sister had been so happy with the results of the intricate French twist, something that Lavender had tried once on Parvati and proclaimed "perfect for Patil hair", that she didn't want to take it out to go to sleep. Parvati had her doubts about whether the hairdo would last until morning, but she just smiled and nodded and pulled the covers up over her tiny sister, clad in her pink cotton pajamas.
Once Pandita's breathing was rising and falling softly like the rush of wind in the trees above the house, Parvati tucked her wand inside the pocket of her battered dress robe and slipped downstairs to find her mother. Mum was sitting in a chair by the fire, which was blazing softly, sounding like Pandita in sleep. Her bony white fingers were wrapped around a mug of cocoa, and Parvati could smell the generous splash of Butterbeer that had been added to the hot drink. She skidded to an awkward stop next to Mum. "Hi."
"Hello, Parvati."
"I put Pandita to bed." Mum didn't say anything. "I gave her a bath and we spent some time together. I read to her – "
"That's nice, Parvati. Did you check to make sure her windows were locked?"
"Yes, when she got dressed."
"Did you use Aromohola maxima?"
"Yes." Parvati rubbed her itchy palms against her robe. "I think we had a fun Saturday again together. She misses that."
"I'm sure she does."
Mum seemed to have missed the point. If there was a point at all. Parvati stopped briefly to think about that. Had she intended to make a slightly needling comment to her mother, or had her accusation been neatly veiled in truth, like a bride's last-minute stress zits hidden behind a sheath of white? "I didn't know you had Muggle books."
That did it. Mum jumped about six feet in the air, levitated briefly so that she was eye-level with the top of the windows, and then performed a half-scrambling flip in the air, so that she landed unceremoniously on the floor. Their wizened old house-elf, Gilgy, appeared in the blink of an eyelash and helped Mum to her feet. Mum gave the 246-year-old elf a distracted pat on the head. "What did you say, Parvati?"
"I said, I didn't know you had Muggle books." Parvati narrowed her slanted cat-like eyes and studied the book Mum was reading right now. No, it wasn't a Muggle text; this was the international bestseller Who Am I? by Gilderoy Lockhart, which Padma had bought for Mum for her birthday while they were in their third year. "I read part of one to Pandita."
"Oh, of course. Yes, she seems to enjoy them. That's nice, isn't it? So very nice. Why are you standing there, Parvati? What do you want?"
"Nothing really." Parvati sat down on the floor next to her mother's velvet rocking chair, surprised. "I just thought I'd come in and talk."
"Oh. Well, I really have nothing to talk about. Go to bed and make sure to check your own windows, do you hear me, Parvati? Double-check on Pandita for me, please."
"Mum?" Parvati chewed on her fingernail the way she never would have done if she were at Hogwarts and this was a normal Saturday night: she and Lavender, lots of hot apple cider, six back issues of Cosmowitchitan, and some new colours of nail varnish, carefully deliberated over and purchased in Hogsmeade. The fact was, though, that Lavender wasn't here and no one cared about nail varnish anymore. She wasn't at Hogwarts and this wasn't a normal Saturday night. None of them were, anymore.
"If you're heading out to the kitchen, you might Banish a bottle of Butterbeer out here. I think there's part of a bottle left on the counter."
"Mum!" Parvati slapped her hand against the side of her mother's chair, unable to stand one more word in that bustling, practical tone, which in itself was so unlike Mum. Dad was the one who thought business and was forever coming home and telling his three girls to finish their coursework, a busy man who always looked so surprised to find that he had three daughters who didn't care about whether the next day's special should be red or yellow curry. Mum was never like that. Her whole being was wrapped up in making sure that her children went to the neatest places and had the most fun. No, Parvati told herself fiercely. Mum still is never like that.
"What is it?" Parvati struggled to find the same even, low-pitched tone that Padma used when she was trying to hold a civilized debate, but it was a very difficult struggle. For the hundredth – no, the millionth, at least – time she wondered how Padma could possibly remain so calm and rational and she, who shared the same blood as Padma, could not. "What's wrong? Won't you tell me? I know something is, I can tell."
Mum turned the page, from which a full-plate colour photo of Gilderoy Lockhart tested a charming smile in her direction, and from the purse of her full lips that looked like Pandita's, Parvati wondered if her mother was about to tell her the truth. Then the lips smashed together, and Mum just said, "Nothing is wrong, Parvati. Please go check on Pandita, okay?"
Parvati waited a moment while Lockhart got tired of beaming his even white toothies at her mother's haggard face and turned his full-watt gaze to Parvati. When she knew that her mother was going to remain tight-cheeked and white-faced she got to her feet, headed into the kitchen, Banished the requested bottle of Triple-Strength Butterbeer into the library room, and walked back upstairs. Gilgy caught up with her when she was halfway to the second floor and asked if he should go check on Miss Pandita ("You is going to look-see on the little one, Miss Parvati? You is wanting me to look-see, if you please?" in his squeaky old rasp), but Parvati shook her head, no. She could do that much, since it seemed there was no one left to talk to and no one to listen to.
She knocked on Pandita's door and waited for a moment, hearing no movement or stirring inside. She wondered if her little sister was asleep already. Despite Pandita's strangely newfound wisdom, and her almost tangible desire to be a grown-up, she still slept like a kid: hard, deeply, immediately. When they were younger Parvati used to be able to put her down to bed and recite less than half of the Muggle book Goodnight Moon before the little girl would be asleep. Sometimes she just sat on Pandita's bedside and mumbled without really saying anything of meaning, which she felt guilty about sometimes, since she usually liked to read and tell stories, but Pandita never seemed to notice, she just felt right asleep with her head buried deep in the velvety pillow anyway …
The pillow was empty.
Parvati blinked a few times, then shook her head. No, that was impossible. Where had she gone, if the pillow was empty? She must be curled up near the foot of her small bed.
The ten-and-three-quarter-inch mangrove-and-unicorn-hair wand came out of its pocket deep inside her pink dress robe, and she whispered, "Lumos." A single spark fell from the end of her torch and sizzled on the empty bed.
Parvati Patil, age sixteen, did not think. She did not stop to think, or to scream for her mother, or for Gilgy. She pointed her wand firmly at the bed and hissed "Priori performo!" – and then she was flying, flying far out and away, with her eyes shut, through the broken window that could not, not even with Aromohola maxima, protect her little sister.
