Who: Blaise and Padma Where: Padma's dormitory. When: Sunday, 7 December What: grief is evident to those who watch Status: Complete Rating: G
Padma was not certain why she had come to dinner. There were the motions to be had, the gestures of eating and socializing, each losing meaning with every moment that passed. A burden grew in her stomach, swelling, and she could not bring herself to tea or bread or fruit, seeming to swallow only and over again her heart. She would not speak for fear of that organ escaping, and with it, what little will remained. So she rose, careful to maintain her expression, to feign illness or headache or study, all conveyed in a farewell nod to her fellow Ravenclaws. Her dismay was but fleeting visible as her eyes alighted on the empty place at Gryffindor table where her sister would usually have been actively seeking the attention of her housemates.
Blaise looked up from his roast beef, eyes immediately falling on Padma, as they so often did anymore. He frowned slightly; she'd risen, face blank and body stiff. He drank from his goblet, watching her, the thought running through his head that there was something wrong. Startled to see the slightest expression of grief cross her face, he followed her line of site -- straight to who was missing at the Gryffindor table.
Her steps were slow and deliberate as she ascended the stairs to the Ravenclaw common room, feeling still that heavy weight pressing from middle down. She warranted a few odd stares from passing students, but made her way safely within the common room without having to speak or explain herself. Grateful for the empty dormitory, Padma crawled into bed, discarding jumper and shoes as she did so, curling back against the pillows without so much as a sigh.
She left; slowly, deliberately, she walked out of the Great Hall. Blinking, Blaise felt as if there were a great weight hanging from her. A hasty final swallow of his pumpkin juice and an admonishment to Crabbe and Goyle to not wait for him after dinner, and he, too, walked calmly from the Great Hall. A Third Year told him that he'd seen her walking towards Ravenclaw Tower; in that direction he went. No amount of persuasion, however, would allow him into the Common Room, and knocking on the door had no response. He settled himself against a wall, to wait for someone to either leave or enter.
Painfully aware of her patrol duties that evening, Padma rose from her bed a moment after, certain that she could neither commit herself to Neville's company that night nor go herself to convey her absence to him. She could not face Parvati again. Barefoot, she descended into the common room proper, and after a moment's persuasion, convinced a fourth year to deliver the news for her. She walked him to the door, listening as he repeated her message and nodding with what little strength she had when he exited. The door was a yawning mouth, opened, and Padma stood a moment, studying the empty space created.
The moment the door opened, he allowed a much smaller person through, and then stepped inside before it could close again. Surprised, he looked down at Padma herself. Tentatively, he swallowed and reached his hand towards her shoulder. "What happened?"
A long moment passed before Padma registered his presence entirely. It seemed that her two selves then collided, her world estranged with Blaise Zabini in her common room. The few Ravenclaw students present had shot up in alarm, and a weak hand was waved to quiet them again. She hadn't the patience, simply turned and made her way back up the stairs to her dormitory, muttering the Charm she knew would keep them from expelling any male student that attempted the climb.
Confused he followed her, but stopped at the foot of the stairs. "Er. Padma?" he called out uncertainly, brow furrowed and only now realising that he was in the Ravenclaw Common Room.
Padma turned on her heel, her eyes burning, suddenly, with tears. "Why are you here?" Her voice was a snap, broken between them, bitter. "You can follow, or you can go." She thought of the letter, of the whimsy in her Ammamma's written word, and she went unwittingly against her advice, unwilling to admit or deny he who stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting.
Taken aback, it took only a moment before he was taking the steps two at a time until he reached her side. His hands closed around her upper arms. "What's wrong, love?" he asked the question softly, for her ears only, only dimly aware of the endearment he'd tacked onto the end. "What happened, Padma?"
Though she fought against them, tears were spilling, hot and angry against her cheeks. Hands reached to brush them away, fists pressing against her eyes as though they could be bottled, kept and hidden. She would have spoken, but her throat registered only a choking sob, limbs tightening.
More than a little frightened for her, he did the only thing he could do: pull her tightly against him and envelope her in his arms and rock slightly, allowing her to cry as long as she needed.
Padma had not found such ferocity in sadness since her childhood, and foolish things, then, disruptive and worthy of tears. The steadiness he offered became necessary, as she began to shake, bones in rebellion. Several minutes passed, Padma's mind reeling, long buried judgments and sentiments surfacing and quelled again. Faces and memories; good, warm, Indian faces, recognized each. A breath, shuddering and deep, her words whispered slow. "My Ammamma is dead."
He moved only so that he was leaning against a wall, with her in his arms, and burying his face in her hair. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. He opened his mouth to speak further, but found he did not know the correct words.
She did not respond, no more versed in such matters than he. She accepted the handkerchief, but held it a moment, face absent. Padma wanted her bed, and Blaise beside her, and her Ammamma with her hands in her hair; she wanted the soft sounds of recitation, her sister's voice, hoping to please her when they were so very much younger and their tastes not so much diverged. There were things she could not have. She breathed through the handkerchief, her face obscured.
Lightly, he brushed away more traces of tears from under her eyes. "Is there... do you need anything? Tea?" He trailed off, sighing, hating that she was devastated and that he couldn't make it better easily.
The notion of need slipped away from her, unsteady as fluid. "Not tea." Padma folded the handkerchief into an appropriately small square, only slightly damp, the corners cutting into her palm as she closed her hand around it. "May I show you a photograph?" Memories, again, clouding her eyes.
Blaise nodded. "Of course." He trailed his hand down her back, allowing her to turn in whatever direction she needed. "Whatever you want."
Padma climbed several more stairs before reaching the door of her own dormitory, moving immediately to her trunk once within. She pushed aside clothing packed away for a warmer season and several bulging copybooks to free a rough wooden frame. Pressing closed the lid of her trunk she sat upon it, studying the photograph in the frame. The timeless face of her Ammamma peered forth, grinning broadly, her eyes passing between the young Padma in her lap and the observant figure outside the portrait.
Blaise followed, more than a little hesitant, and watched from the doorway as she sorted through her trunk. When she sat on top of it, he entered fully, moving across the room to stand before her for a moment, then kneeling before her. "Show me."
Tilting the portrait so he could see the image fully, Padma spoke softly, reigning herself slowly in. "There was a book on the table nearby, Tata didn't capture it... and a strong tea in her favourite kettle. She never let me too much sugar." A finger hovered above the portrait, the child Padma reaching to touch. "She cut my hair that afternoon in the yard, and we buried all the shorn locks in the garden. She promised they would grow."
Gently, the photograph was taken from her hands to be studied fully. He could see the resemblance between grandmother and granddaughters; Padma and Parvati carried a great deal of Ammamma features, delicate and strong. He smiled a trifle wistfully at the child-Padma, fingers brushing over both figures. He settled the picture and frame onto her lap. "And did they? Your locks of hair, did they grow?"
A smile borrowed out of memory passed across her lips. "We were home soon after, but she wrote me and said they had, like weeds." Padma held the photograph gingerly, as though the slightest motion might disrupt this preserved likeness. Her face had fallen back into stillness. "I miss her."
His arms slipped around the calves of both her legs, hugging slightly. He dropped a kiss to one knee, and nodded. "You seem a bit calmer, now. But I shan't leave until I am forced," he said seriously, and meaning every word.
The present moment asserted itself, and Padma blinked back tears, brushing hair from her face and resting her hand a moment against her brow. She found no sense in asking him to go or stay, overwhelmed as she was with the most basic needs of rest and affection. A hand reached, palm up, to stroke his head, fingertips hesitant. "I should escort you downstairs, but I'm not going to." Freed gently from his embrace, she crawled back into her bed, light catching in her amber glass ornament and thrown across her figure.
Sitting back on his heels, he considered for a moment his options. His decision crystallised in his head, and he followed, sitting on the edge of her bed. "I'll stay with you for awhile if you like," he said softly. "Otherwise, I'll see myself out." The greater part of him wanted to remain with her, but there was that tiny bit of common sense hanging about, that told him that major trouble could be had for both of them if it was found out that he was even up here with her.
Welcoming his company, Padma's eyes closed, her breath coming slowly. After a moment she whispered without direction, the words lyric almost like a song, "Trust yourself, always and always, and this world will open brightly for you." My love, my love, my love. "How do you learn a last lesson, Blaise?"
Taking her silence as it was intended, he stretched out beside her, arms encircling her and pulling her close. A long moment passed before he had any sort of answer to give her, and it wasn't impressive, as answers go. "I don't know." He spoke softly, then pressed a kiss to her temple. "Perhaps all we can do is live the best way we know."
It was the knowing that was the trouble, though Padma relinquished the thought to another time. Here was, in part, need fulfilled. Small motions would sustain her. Blinking, the amber glass turned behind her eyes, the eyes she shared with Parvati, with Ammamma and Mother, too. The warmth of beginning, a sudden infant understanding of the world, requiring any small trust she might concede.
His hand found her arm, thumb moving in slow, soothing circles over the soft skin of her wrist. He brushed her temple with his lips, sighing deeply for her loss. A glint of light above caught his eye; turning his head, he watched the amber bottle swinging overhead. The torchlight shone through it, glinting an array of light patterns on the wall and bedcurtains. He admired it, wondering vaguely when she got it, and let the silence surround them, for as long as she needed it.
His hand found her arm, thumb moving in slow, soothing circles over the soft skin of her wrist. He brushed her temple with his lips, sighing deeply for her loss. A glint of light above caught his eye; turning his head, he watched what seemed to be an amber start swinging overhead. The torchlight shone through it, glinting an array of light patterns on the wall and bedcurtains. He admired it, wondering vaguely when she got it, and let the silence surround them, for as long as she needed it.
The soft motions of his fingers and her own exhaustion slowly claimed Padma, a heavy sleep settling without the trouble of dreams.
Lulled by the sound of her even breathing and the silence of the room, Blaise noticed with no small amount of surprise that the hour had grown late. Gently, he eased his arms from around Padma and rose, leaving only a slight indent on the pillow and a kiss on her cheek as the evidence that he'd been in the room at all. Feet silent on the stone floor, he left, a hope in his head that he would be able to do so without being noticed.