Of Sunrises and Cigarettes
Part One: Ritual
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Warnings: unrequited Padma/Cho, mentions of drug use
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The sun has barely broken the horizon and it's a Saturday, which means Padma's head should be squished against her pillow. In all actuality, it means that her face should be smashed hard against her pillow and drool should be trickling out of the corner of her mouth. Instead, the seat of her jeans is becoming soaked through with the morning dew and her too large sweater is prickling at her skin.
It's Sixth Year and she's a prefect, again, which means she should be tucked away contemplating the latest patrol schedule and just when she'll be able to sequester Goldstein for a meeting over policy. But, truthfully, Padma stopped caring about proper decorum and what would happen if she got caught the day she chopped her long, long hair off.
She knows she shouldn't smoke, but witches aren't supposed to worry about lung cancer. Like how Lavender doesn't care how alcohol eats at her liver or how half girls in the Slytherin house don't care about what the Ecstasy is doing to their spinal columns. Because it feels oh so good to gaze over the lake and watch the smoke weave a crazy path in the breeze. Almost like watching the Seeker chase after the Snitch.
And that, the bright little Ravenclaw chides, is the crux of the matter. How someone could mention some chit of an actress and within twelve hours she's jotting down a hurried note asking her cousin's Muggle wife who the bloody hell Parminder Nagra was. Or, how the comment could be made about how cute her hair would look slick and chin length and it's chopped off on the first available holiday. Because there was once such a thing as not being able to study enough and being too busy pouring over tomes to watch Quidditch games.
If she closes her eyes real tight, Padma can almost remember those days. Too tight, however, and all she can see is flashes of gold and swooping higher, higher, higher, and then everything's falling to the ground. Even though she tries her best, she's always been the fatalistic twin. It doesn't take much of a stretch of her imagination to see a crumpled body and a broken broom, and a whole student body screaming. But she's a prefect, the inner voice reasons, and it's her job to think like that.
Padma's always been good about solving problems and thinking up solutions to problems that she's invented in the dark, deep corners of her mind. Mostly there's just cobwebs now and thick clouds of unrequited love. So, she sneaks out on the damp green lawn of Hogwarts and smokes until the professors start to stir. It isn't hard to do because she's learned enough to charm the smell of smoke off of her and no one asks where she's been because neither of the Heads are in Ravenclaw that year and the Seventh Year prefects don't care what their lowly counterparts do.
There's always that hope though that someone will grab her arm gently and pull her to a dusty corner of the common room. Yet, Padma knows she's not as interesting as Quidditch plays or Marietta's horrid blemishes that she rightfully deserved even though none of her fellow housemates dared say it. So it's enough to stub out her burnt down cigarette and run her fingers through her short, slick hair. Even though she likes the cropped bob, no one can mistake her for Parvati now; it's a change that she's had to get used to.
Making sure to whisper the charm before she crosses the threshold into the castle and looking both ways just in case Filtch had caught on to her early morning dalliances, Padma hurried up the stairs to girls' dorms. The itchy sweater came off first and was stuffed under her bed for the house elves to find later. Her, almost close to sopping wet, jeans came next and as she was shimming out of them, a noise caused her hearted to jump into her throat. Swiveling around on her heels, denim pooled around her knees, she flushed bright when her eyes caught Cho's.
"You cut your hair off."
It's all hushed voices over the sleeping bodies and all the studious twin can think of is that it took her almost two months to notice. Almost two feet lopped off and yet it still took her this long to say anything. But, Padma holds her tongue and nods smartly and finishes pulling her jeans off.
"Thought it was time for a change is all."
This has to be the brilliant climax she's been looking forward to since Fourth Year when she noticed the dangerously pretty Ravenclaw's svelte curves through her clingy robes. The let down, the very expected understood let down, is that Padma's pulling her shirt off over her head and it feels so utterly platonic that she wants to vomit. There she is, all dark skin and black hair, standing in her panties and bra, and Cho's coming closer so they can talk. There's not going to be a kiss, even after she's got her nightdress back on over her head and settled.
"It's pretty, you know, I never took you as the type to do something like that."
Were Cho a boy, she'd know to take that as a challenge. Because it's obvious that something like that means impulsive and it would be impulsive for Padma to cross the short distance between their bodies and initiate a kiss. Unfortunately, Cho's a girl and impossibly straight regardless of the rumor spread because she's a female who plays Quidditch or because she's uncommonly close with Marietta. So, she simply smirks, because she's the only Patil who can do that right, and nods again.
Someone grumbles in their sleep three beds down and just like that the mood is broken. It won't be long before both girls are tucked back in their respective beda and Padma's sucking the aftertaste of smoke and nicotine off of the sides of her cheeks. Quite frankly, she should be wrapped up in Cho's arm and counting all the bludger inflicted bruises on her body, but, that's just not the way the Fates have will it. Mostly because she's just not that type and she probably won't ever be.
Padma Patil is sixteen years old and hopelessly in love with someone who only speaks to her early Saturday mornings because she's a light sleeper. Next week she'll be one of the first in the stands, cheering on the blue and bronze, and hoping that her favorite Seeker will cast a glance her way. She's resigned herself to the fact that it will never ever happen like that. So she squashes her face against her pillow and wonders what it would be like if she could steal a little of Parvati's Gryffindor courage and be impulsive for just a moment. Try as she might, the only scenario the, too smart of her own good, little Indian girl can conjure up is of crashing, burning, and broken hearts ripped to shreds. But, she never was the optimistic one anyway.
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Quick Note: The little mention of Parminder Nagra should not be taken as Mindi-bashing. Also note that Parminder once sported the very haircut that Padma gets. For the record, I adore Parminder K. Nagra – just so we're all clear.