A/N: The credit of the Harry Potter plot and characters belongs solely to J.K. Rowling. I own nothing of it but my own words.
Immature: In Defense of Parvati Patil
When Parvati and Padma were young, their parents would drag them to what could only be described as 'pureblood functions' — the Malfoys, Parkinsons, Crabbes, Goyles, Averys, Bulstrodes, Crouches, Flints, Greengrasses, Zabinis, etc., carefully arranged around a long, perfectly neat table, kids at one end, adults at the other. The adults would talk about anything and everything, their noses in the air, their manners precise. The children would speak quietly amongst themselves, but always, always they were watching the adults, mimicking them, clinging to their every word and opinion. Parvati would observe eagerly; Padma would gaze with thoughtful consideration. Every time the subject of Muggle-borns came up, Parvati would notice her parents stiffen, their responses shorten. But still, they continued to go.
At eleven years old, Parvati sat on a rickety stool with an ancient, patched hat covering her eyes, and it offered her Gryffindor, and she imagined her sister, no doubt regarding her with that same pensive look from the Ravenclaw table and answered it 'yes.'
It was naive, she knew, to choose the House of bravery out of fear of being compared to her twin in the House of intelligence, but Parvati, who tended to act first and think later, wanted to step out of Padma's shadow and make her own.
So she bounded over to the table of red and gold and sat next to a first year with tight ringlets and an infectious smile. Her name was Lavender, and she was going to be a star like Celestina Warbeck one day, Parvati was informed. Later that year, Lavender would share her Witch Weekly's, and Parvati would teach her nine different ways to braid her hair. One of the girls in her dormitory, Hermione, would scoff at their giggles and hide superiorly behind stacks of books; Parvati and Lavender would make fun of her bushy hair behind her back because they were young and immature and really, who has hair that big?
In third year, she and Lav fell head over heels for Divination, spending long afternoons sipping tea with Professor Trelawney and trying to decipher the shape of their tea leaves. Lav found it funny, how Professor Trelawney always saw something bad, but Parvati looked for something good until she could convince herself it was there.
It was silly, she knew, to believe in being able to predict the future, but something about knowing what would come next comforted her.
So she and her best mate climbed those long, creaky stairs day after day, year after year, until they moved from tea leaves to crystal balls to constellations, and Parvati soaked it in with the same eagerness with which she had once eyed her parents. Trelawney orated warnings, but she served sweet lemonade, and Parvati tried hard to focus on that. One day, Hermione harrumphed yet again, and Parvati sniffed haughtily and put her nose in the air and never felt more like her mother.
The summer before seventh year, Lavender bought three tubes of shockingly red lipstick at an overpriced boutique in Diagon Alley and when Parvati asked her why, she said wearing it made her feel brave.
That year, she and Lav took turns braving the rage of Snape and the Carrows, taking curses meant for someone else. They sprayed rebellion on the walls and helped teach first years how to defend themselves.
It was foolish, she knew, to step in front of someone you maybe don't know and wait for the pain of a Cruciatus to incapacitate you, and to do it again and again and again and hope it happened to you and not someone else, but Parvati had chosen the House of courage and not wisdom.
Driven into shadows and hiding, Lav took shaking hands into her own and Parvati braided hair and the two talked about things like 'make sure this part is tight' and 'don't forget to brush it smooth' and tried to pretend the screams outside were part of a game.
It wasn't right, she knew, to turn a blind eye to what was happening before them, but she also knew that sometimes you need to think about anything else for a while.
She applied makeup everyday just as Lavender had taught her, but she kept her injuries uncovered, decorating her face and arms and felt proud.
It was stupid, she knew, to wear bruises like armor and think you're strong, but something about the way they blanketed her made it feel true.
When Harry Potter returned and her D.A. coin burned her pocket, Lavender let Parvati borrow some of her lipstick, and she marched into battle. It didn't take much; she'd done it all year.
At Lav's funeral, Parvati gave the eulogy, and she cobbled together a series of stupid little anecdotes to share, dropping them on the audience like grenades, one after the other, until she was giggling so hysterically she was rushed off the platform.
It was insensitive, she knew, to laugh like a maniac at her best mate's funeral, but Parvati felt she had done quite enough crying and Lav would have thought the same.
All surviving members of the D.A. were granted immediate acceptance into the Auror Training Program. The first day of training, Parvati applied an extra coat of Lav's lipstick and wore her gold coin on a string around her neck. She listened with Padma-like intent to the morning lecture and dreaded the afternoon placement duels (her lip quivered, but her wand grip was firm). She scribbled notes on a spare bit of parchment and took the lecturer out for dinner (she gave him tips on how to do things more efficiently).
When she got home, her parents told her that it wasn't healthy to cling to the violence of the war, that she needed to move on. She had, she retorted, but the rest of the world hadn't, and that's who she would be helping. "The war's over," she told them, and something about it didn't ring true. (Later, to her reflection, she'd say, "We won," and those words would feel just as hollow.)
Amycus and Alecto had worn loud shoes, the kind that thudded and clacked and sent survivors scattering like cockroaches for years after. Two days into training, Parvati bought shoes just as loud and wore them for hours afterward, pacing back and forth until she no longer flinched at the sound.
It was crazy, she knew, to think that's where her real fears lay, but she wanted, for once, to be the scariest thing around, not to feel powerful, but maybe, just maybe, to feel a little less helpless.
Years later, she'd return to Hogwarts for a guest lecture from time to time, but it'd never feel like home again. She'd spend hours in the Room of Requirement, which had somehow survived, and stare into the mirror just like she'd done a thousand times before. Years later, she'd marry Dennis Creevey, who had a beat-up old camera and some blurry photos. She had a long since useful tube of lipstick and a fake Galleon (but sometimes she could still feel the ghost of its burn). He'd lost a brother and she'd lost a sister in all ways but blood. Years later, she'd name her twin daughters Padma and Lavender, and she'd kiss them with bright red lipstick.