Who: Morag and Padma When: 10 December, late night. Where: Ravenclaw common room What: Dirges and the rebirth of hope, I think. Rating: G Status: Complete
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Lounging in front of the Ravenclaw common room fire, Padma had no visible book or journal at hand, her eyes buried deep in the flames, the stone hearth beyond, or something else entirely. Pajama clad, she was a small and serious figure, her face betraying frustration and sadness.
Through the dim lit passageways, Morag's voice wavered and reverberated with the flickering of the fire light. "Seven days, seven nights, we shall weep round thy grave! And thy harp, that so oft to our ditties has rung, to the lorn-sighing breeze o'er thy grave shall be hung!" A moment's pause brought her to a brief silence before she made her way into the common room, finishing the air with a faint hummed breath.
Padma's eyes traveled to the figure emerging into the common room, a feeling of remembered comforts washing over her at the sight of Morag's harp and her features, lively with play.
Padma's presence, however pleasant was a bit of a surprise. She dropped her melody as she fell into a seat next to her friend. "It's late."
"Too late, I think," Padma replied, pulling her legs up. She paused, unwilling to indulge even the smallest of phrases that came to her lips, admiring for a moment the companionable silence that blossomed between them. Morag was a soothing figure, transforming a room when first she entered it. "You have the look of singing on you."
"You could say that and make me feel momentarily beautiful." She laid back into the sofa a bit grandly, suffering the changes that singing wrought upon her with a small half-smile. " ... what keeps you from your bed, Padma?"
Features clouded, Padma's eyes returning to their contemplation of the fire. "I do not like my dreams of late." A sigh. "Things are so very different now."
Morag nodded swiftly; her eyes wide and unblinking looked from each tongue of flame to Padma's face. She had caught wind of her friend's loss. "Your need is great," she states softly. "And I would do whatever I could to ease the pain, even a little." Pause. "Perhaps a memorial service for your grandmother?"
Eyes damp, Padma turned to look at her friend, smiling weakly her appreciation. "There would be much pain relieved in that, for both Parvati and myself."
"Your friends, perhaps, and a few professors that you hold dear? We can hold it at the lake -- " Leaning forward, she withdrew a folded handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it into Padma's hand. " -- did your grandmother have a favourite flower?"
Padma's smile was reminiscent as she accepted the handkerchief, lightly drying her eyes. "At least twelve, I think." She tightened the handkerchief in her hands, her expression thoughtful. "Something very small and quiet. I would like that. She would have, too."
"Twelve? Oh lord ..." But she smiled. "Would you like me to plan this for you?"
"I will help you." Padma drew herself into a sitting position, flattening the handkerchief in her lap. "Will you play your harp? I shall read."
"It would be an honour. In fact, I know of the perfect song. My mother sang it on the day they lost my grandfather. Very hopeful." Chin in the palm of her hand, Morag closed her eyes briefly and drew her legs beneath her on the sofa. "What shall you read?"
Padma's voice was soft when next she spoke. "I shall have to think very long on it. Something strong and joyous, as she was." She leaned back against the cushions. "I shall tell Parvati in the morning, it will be good for her, an aid in letting go."
With something akin to a sage look, she swept a few curls from her forehead and sucked in a deep resevoir of breath. "You are very strong for her, Padma."
She pursed her lips, troubled. "Parvati and I do not have what we did once, however tenuous it might then have been. I feel that distance most keenly now." Padma twisted the handkerchief once more, a moment heedless of the delicate pattern. "Ammamma and I were very close. I miss her, each moment passes and I cannot think that we will share nothing, nothing anymore."
"I didn't take you for such a nihilist," was spoken quiet and ever so carefully. " ... no, you're not going to be able to look at her face anymore and say 'Ammamma, I have done this and that because of that or this.' But what if she lives in every blade of grass and every bird's song? This is what I have been taught."
Padma's eyes lifted to Morag's face. "I'll learn."
She smiled. "You are a quick study."
Rising from the couch, Padma lifted to her toes, balanced a moment. "With such friends, how could I be otherwise?" She looked down to Morag, eyes shining. "Thankyou, Morag."
A flickering gaze cast at her friend was all the response that she could muster in the face of such a statement. Instead of pitching herself forward to perhaps make the trek to their dormitory, she merely laid back and rested her chin upon the sofa's arm. "Good night."
Touching a hand to Morag's shoulder, her sincerity conveyed through her fingertips, Padma made her way upstairs. "Good night." A night whose dreams, Padma hoped, would both make and unmake her grief.