Parvati traces Lavenders scars, the ones on her arms, legs, neck. They all
have them, their battles scar, angry red scratches and stripes, marking
them as combatants. Harry's scar is hardly special anymore.
She enjoys this, tracing scars, listening to nothing, but the sounds of morning outside. No sudden thunder, no unnatural storms. There is just quiet, the rustle of the wind in the trees outside their window. There is no artificial colour in the sky, and no one has apparated into their home during the night.
Parvati still sleeps with her wand next to her pillow, and assorted books of spells she could never learn in school are still scattered about. She still wakes in the night and hears screams, hears laughter too cruel to describe. She still owls Ron everyday, making sure that there is nothing new on the move. But she no longer wakes up because owls are flying in with lists of the dead; she no longer needs to have a fire going at all times so Hermione can contact her.
She no longer has to see the bodies of her dead friends, hurriedly buried. She no longer has to spend everyday worrying when Harry's name will turn up on a list, when Seamus' name will, when Padma's name will. When Lavender's name will, and that thought still haunts her, keeps her sleepless at nights.
But that time has passed, and today the scars on their bodies and their minds are all that are left, marks marring beautiful skin and innocent minds. Scars that scared them all into growing up, scars that made Parvati more serious and Lavender more subdued. They've fought a war and seen things that made them women; seen things that made them put aside giggling girlish habits and study, learn and become a part of something bigger than themselves. The scars show that they're still alive, that they fought and won, side by side.
They prove that Lavender is still here, breathing by her side, sharing her home.
Parvati presses a kiss against a scar, smiling against damaged skin.
She enjoys this, tracing scars, listening to nothing, but the sounds of morning outside. No sudden thunder, no unnatural storms. There is just quiet, the rustle of the wind in the trees outside their window. There is no artificial colour in the sky, and no one has apparated into their home during the night.
Parvati still sleeps with her wand next to her pillow, and assorted books of spells she could never learn in school are still scattered about. She still wakes in the night and hears screams, hears laughter too cruel to describe. She still owls Ron everyday, making sure that there is nothing new on the move. But she no longer wakes up because owls are flying in with lists of the dead; she no longer needs to have a fire going at all times so Hermione can contact her.
She no longer has to see the bodies of her dead friends, hurriedly buried. She no longer has to spend everyday worrying when Harry's name will turn up on a list, when Seamus' name will, when Padma's name will. When Lavender's name will, and that thought still haunts her, keeps her sleepless at nights.
But that time has passed, and today the scars on their bodies and their minds are all that are left, marks marring beautiful skin and innocent minds. Scars that scared them all into growing up, scars that made Parvati more serious and Lavender more subdued. They've fought a war and seen things that made them women; seen things that made them put aside giggling girlish habits and study, learn and become a part of something bigger than themselves. The scars show that they're still alive, that they fought and won, side by side.
They prove that Lavender is still here, breathing by her side, sharing her home.
Parvati presses a kiss against a scar, smiling against damaged skin.