Special delivery for thimble_kiss, part 2 Title: History Is A Symphony of Echoes Author: Recipient's LJ name:thimble_kiss Pairing(s): Padma/Terry Rating: PG-13 Summary Stories from the past can bring families, and potential couples, closer together Word Count: ~22,000 words Warnings/Content: None Author's notes:thimble_kiss, I was excited and nervous both to get you as my recipient. This isn’t quite the fic I wanted to write for you, but I’m rather hoping it works all the same :). Hopefully you didn’t have your heart set on smut. For my very simplistic and generalized made up history, I apologize.
September 21, 1919
I am increasingly ignored as the days go on. Father is ever busy, though I have my doubts it’s always with Ministry business, and mother keeps coming down with her ever ‘frequent’ headaches. Of course not that it stops her lectures and admonishments, but at least it is on a more infrequent basis.
For all I’ve been told to stay in my room at read, they should know me well enough to know by now that it is not going to happen. It is easier to get forgiveness than permission if I’m found out now that I have the relative freedom.
It wasn’t a daring escape; for all Mother and Father might like to have me under their thumb, to the rest of the world I appear an independent young woman well past the age where she can make decisions for herself. I was accompanied though by Loopsy, one of the house elves who is painstakingly loyal to the Ministry staff. She kept fretting and threatening to punish herself no matter how many times I reassured her what while ‘Mistress’ had told her to see to my needs, she had never strictly specified how and where that must be done. I’ve always found most house elves are content to hold to strictly the letter of the orders, but this one was annoyingly perturbed by the spirit of it. I felt bad for throwing her into such a tizzy, but eventually I learned to ignore her muttering and moaning as we headed for a ‘walk’ in the grounds to the edge of the anti-apparition wards.
It was that point I ran into Nikhil coming back, quite literally. Both of us stumbled back, as he’d cracked out of apparition with a large box in his hands nearly right where I stood.
When we’d straightened ourselves out, he looked at me with raised eyebrows. "You are sneaking out then?"
I put on my haughtiest face, most reminiscent of mother when she was at her autocratic best. "I don’t need anybody’s permission to go on an outing."
"You are a veritable rebel are you not, Memsahib?" His tone was mocking.
"Don’t," I said the words sharply, though I know they sounded too petulant, "I know what you mean by that."
They had come out sharply as well because his mocking pricked at me, and not just what he meant as an insulting address. I knew for all I might talk of having different ideals than my parents, and trying to live separately from them, I did none of that in practise. If I did, I would be in Paris studying potions right then. If I did, I would actually make my opinions count for something. If I did, I would do whatever I wanted to do without fear of recrimination rather than sneaking around like a teenager. It was easier said than done however because no matter what else went on they were my parents, and I loved them. At least I thought I did.
He ignored my admonishment. He was taking in my appearance, and likely noticing how distinctly English I looked. "Tanack," he cursed, taking the name of one of India’s most famous wizards in vain, "you will get yourself killed going out on your own. I have to deliver this package to your father, but then I am free of my duties for the day. Wait here, I will escort you."
There was definitely no deference, and it was a command more than a request. I was tempted to simply Apparate away, or walk into the city proper, especially with Loopsy nearly crying with how hard she was fretting behind me – but instead I waited. I wasn’t quite sure why I did.
In the end however, I was glad I had waited for his escort.
Some of it was the obvious. He took me to places my escorts would have never allowed me to see. I was able to experience – touch, smell, see, taste Indian in a way that I hadn’t been allowed to before. I might have stuck out like a sore thumb, and understood little, but I still got to feel more a part of the place; I got to see life there. This was home for Nikhil, and he knew it well. I felt absolutely safe too, which struck me as odd because I had been used to hit wizard guards with their wands always at the ready, but a single glare from Nikhil could quell almost anything. For most of the afternoon we didn’t talk much, at least not to each other, but at the same time I was always aware of his gaze lingering over me. I was too busy however enjoying myself to pay all that much attention to it.
Towards the end of the afternoon we found ourselves back at the main Ministry building. Loathe to go back inside, I had sat down in the gardens that had been created at the fringes of the grounds, and was gratified when Nikhil did the same. For the longest time we didn’t talk then either, me lying on the grass and enjoying the moment, him fiddling with an orange he had bought at the market – never eating it, just moving it around between his hands. I’d sent Loopsy make to the main building on a flimsy pretext she hadn’t much cared for.
"Why are you here?" He asked me finally, breaking the silence.
I was surprised by the question. "You mean this afternoon or..."
"In India," he clarified, "what are you doing here."
There was no way for me to answer the question, not really. Instead I gave a shrug with a laugh that held little amusement, and gave the most honest answer I could. "My father, he ordered my mother and I here with him. She’d be more content with her circle of acquaintances in London, but here we are."
"And you?" He asked, "Where would you be more content?"
I was surprised by the frank questioning, but there was an odd feeling to the afternoon. It was like an escape from reality, from life. It felt perfectly natural to answer Nikhil’s question, even if I had thought him hating me only hours before, here in the peace of the garden. "Anywhere else," I said, "I’m tired of that life, I’m tired of this life. It’s not the location, it’s the life. I had a chance to study potions, you know, but was required to give it up. I would be more content with a chance at something."
"Lofty but vague ambitions," he said.
I rolled my eyes, sitting up. "Tell me then, where would you be more content."
"Here," he said, looking around, "this land, the marketplace, the city, here. India, it is my home, it is my life. I would go nowhere else."
I could hear the certainty in his voice, almost the love. If I was honest, I had no similar ties to England, and I couldn’t empathize with it. I could understand it though. "Let me rephrase that then," I said, "where you would be more content, above working here. I’m stupid enough to think this is your life’s ambition to be an aide for the British wizards, as you seem to hate us all."
He gave a small smile, "I do not hate you all."
"Right," I lay back down, "just, what, ninety percent then?"
Nikhil only shook his head, "It is complicated. You would not understand."
I was tired of hearing that. It was the way I was shut out, even at home, in a land and a culture I lived and breathed. I wasn’t too stupid to understand, and I wasn’t too stupid to adapt. I couldn’t understand if I wasn’t told, and I couldn’t empathize if I remained clueless. I didn’t know Legilimency, much as that might have come in handy. I wanted to understand, I always did, and here with him perhaps I wanted it a little more.
"I hate no person," he said finally, after a long period of silence, "not even your Minister. I want autonomy though. We are not British, we never have been, and we never will be. I do not need fame, I do not need power, I just need that autonomy as a person, and for us as a country. The Muggles, they want some degree of it, but it is even more important for us. Our magic is not your magic Memsahib, and it cannot be governed the same way. Nor are we your minions here, much as we are treated that way now."
I didn’t dispute that. I was learning it to be true.
"Talk about lofty ambitions, and only somewhat vague," I finally said quietly.
He smiled, but said nothing, focusing his attention on the orange once again. I felt like I should say more, but I couldn’t. I knew he was oversimplifying the situation, and I know I often did as well, but I agreed with him. The issue was I was indirectly part of the problem.
"Your father," he returned to his original line of questioning, "why is he here?"
I lay there for a moment. "I’ve never pretended to understand my father, but I’m fairly sure the intent of the Ministry is to keep as much control as they are able." The words didn’t seem to surprise him.
I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds around me, not caring that my robes were going to soon be beyond the repair of the most adept house elf. When I opened them again, Nikhil was standing above me, holding out a hand to pull me to my feet. "Come," he said, "you must get back before they notice you are gone, Memsahib."
I would have admonished him again, but somehow the underlying mocking in his tone was gone despite the title. There seemed an almost odd affection to it.
***********************************
Padma probably would have kept reading the journal all night, except for the fact she'd eventually drifted off with the pages spread on the bed beside her.
She tried to tell herself it was just because she'd finally realized exactly when the journal was set. The book she currently had shrunk to bring along in the bag she'd carried for overnights, The Slaughter of the Kolkata Wizards was about that time period - the latter months of 1919. When the peaceful desire of the witches and wizards to have more autonomy from Britain had turned more demanding, the British Ministry had overreacted - leading to the deaths of many wizards and some witches who were guilty of nothing more than basic protest. Most of the evidence had been buried in those crypts nobody had been able to access, swept away so that the public wouldn't focus on it. That was where Padma was headed next, that was why she had been doing the research in the first place.
She was telling herself reading the journal was just for research as well, though chances of it mentioning anything about the protests were slim. Sheltered British pureblood didn't provide the most interesting vantage point, no matter how relatable she was.
Still, Padma was keeping the journal tucked in the pockets of her robes, wanting to be able to look at it whenever she could.
"I think I'm going to have to have a healer assess my lungs when we're done here," Terry was saying, coughing intermittently as he flipped through a stack of books. Realizing not long after they were only common history books, which were sickle a dozen in most used bookstores, he waved his wand to shrink them and send them off to the 'sorted, to not be taken' pile in the corner.
"No magic," Padma said quickly, even though she was tempted herself to make quicker work of this large amount of mostly, well, crap.
Terry only shrugged, both of them knowing as long as none of the magic was cast on any items of actual worth, they should be fine. She didn't make a point of arguing further, realizing that this wasn't going to be the day or two project that she'd thought it was going to be. After learning her lesson yesterday she was in casual black robes, that she didn't much care if they got torn or dusty. Not even her dingiest outfit allocated for work deserved to be worn in these musty areas beneath the Halliwinkle mansion. She knew she looked like a shapeless cloud in them, and she probably looked half like death considering her lack of sleep, but she didn't have the energy or inclination to care.
Reinforcing the fact she'd fell asleep reading, Padma yawned widely, covering her mouth to muffle it before returning to her work.
"Tired?" Terry asked, dodging other items to make his way over to a large wardrobe in the corner.
"Hmm," she said.
"You find anything interesting to keep you up then?" He blushed slightly, and until that point Padma hadn't even considered taking the question as being dirty.
"A book," she replied shortly.
His eyes lit up. She should have known better; she should have claimed she found a back issue of Witch Weekly lying around her guestroom, not that anybody would believe it in this house. Terry really was a Ravenclaw at heart, no matter how much she might take the piss otherwise. He didn't even question the fact that reading was worth sacrificing sleep. Padma felt oddly territorial over the journal however, she barely wanted to admit to having it, let alone wanting to share it. She couldn’t quite credit it; it didn’t really have to do with any historical worth the journal might have that she didn’t want Gringotts to get their hands on. In all reality it was just the journal of a young girl, likely about to moon over a boy, no matter what the background was.
"What book...."
"A journal," she replied, "I found it in a chest here yesterday."
"You were planning on keeping it for yourself then?"
"It’s not exactly the long lost journal of Merlin," Padma said with amusement.
He smiled, "So you’re reading something frivolous then?"
"No," she said quickly, "it’s set during 1919, in India. Right around the time of the...."
Terry’s eyebrows raised, "The uprising."
She shouldn’t be surprised he’d heard of it, for no other reason than the crypts she was part of trying to get into next month were legendary. Satisfied that she wasn’t coming off as a brainless witch, wanting to read a journal just because she was engrossed in the people for no historically relevant reason, Padma nodded. She should have known it was a mistake because Terry smiled, "So, there is likely some historical relevance then?"
Slightly trapped, Padma didn’t respond right away, and Terry only rolled his eyes and held out his hand, "Come, I’m not going to steal the bloody thing. I just didn’t find anything more stimulating than a few specs of dust in my room, and I want to read. I understand you’ve got first dibs."
She didn’t bother clarifying that she really didn’t think it would be fit for museum or Gringotts, but only sighed and dug around in the pocket of her robes, handing it over. Maybe he’d get bored after the first page and stop reading, and then he wouldn’t realize how foolish she was being, getting so engrossed in the journal.
Leaving him glancing at the first page, Padma went over to the wardrobe he’d uncovered earlier, deciding to see what was inside.
***********************************
An hour later, searching through the wardrobe that somebody had cast expansion charms on, Padma emerged to find him still engrossed in the journal. Terry had given up all pretense at work, and was sitting cross-legged on an old carpet, reading. She was fairly sure she could have cast an exploding spell near his feet and he wouldn’t have moved. She did love being around a Ravenclaw again, who could read with that single-mindedness, who believed that knowledge and the written word were something to be valued. She just wished he was reading something else though, not something that he had every right to take the piss over.
"You want us going through these crypts until we’re ninety?" Padma snapped, reverting to defensive form, ready for him to make fun of her reading material.
Terry ignored her verbal jab entirely. He slid over on the carpet, patting the ground beside him, flipping back a page or two through the journal from where he was. She could see that he’s got further than her already. Padma hesitated, but sat down as he suggested. "Listen to this," he said, holding it up.
It was odd hearing the journal passages in his voice. Reading, she’d heard the voice of a young girl, not unlike her sister actually. To hear it in his tones was jarring, but as he continued she was too engrossed in the words, reading over his shoulder now, to care. They’d skipped ahead nearly a month past when she’d read last, and though she itched to read the intervening days, she let him carry on.
October 12th, 1919
Nearly every moment spent away from my parents is spent with Nikhil now.
Be it in the kitchens, or in the gardens, or sneaking out of the Ministry grounds, I am more often than not in his company. Initially I thought it was an imposition, him humouring me out of a sense of duty, but as he sought me out more and more and his eyes sought mine I have since learned differently. I know what my parents would say, but I hardly care. I know what my friends would say too, even the Muggleborns from school, and it would not exactly be approving either. Nothing romantic has passed between us, but yet....
I want it to.
I have learned him more than I have learned any male or female of my acquaintance in the past few weeks. He is more worthy than any of those uptight wizards my parents shove in my path. Nationality and lack of wealth doesn’t negate that. He is as pure-blooded as any of us, but I don’t think that will matter to any of that all important ‘them’, not when it isn’t British Wizarding blood. Life is so much more complicated than I pictured all those months ago. It’s not just Wizarding versus Muggle, it can be Wizarding against Wizarding as well. There are so many levels of discrimination. I am content in friendship, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want more. I will never initiate it though. It has nothing to do with the fact that’s not what ‘proper’ witches do; it has to do more with the fact that I’m not sure what he sees on his side when he looks at me, and it has to do with the so called hierarchy too.
Sometimes for all I know him too, I am well aware I don’t know his life. There is something he does not tell me, and I have no right to force it out of him.
It is not easy as well because relations are becoming more strained. They are still trying negotiation through official channels, to gain more independence in governing for India, but the British Ministry is barely budging. They do not want to let go of even the tiniest bit of control. I feel more and more uncomfortable every day that I am here, whether I’m around the other British wizards, or if I’m around the people of India; it’s simply a different discomfort.
"You are frowning," Nikhil said to me. We were sitting in the gardens. I’d cast a disillusionment charm, which impressed him, and provided an extra level of privacy.
I hadn’t even realized it. I smiled instead, still grateful for mother’s frequent headaches that allowed me to be out. I really wished to avoid confrontation with them if I was able.
He laughed lightly, "That is the worst feigned happiness I have ever seen."
It was hard to explain. I shook my head. "It’s not your company."
"Of that I have no doubt," this time he grinned. That never failed to make me smile in return. He did it all too infrequently, and every time he did it was like a gift that I had provoked it. "I am the best of company."
We didn’t talk much more for the rest of the afternoon, though there was a lot I could have said. I was so bothered by life now when he seemed ambivalent most of the time, though I was well aware he was probably hiding it from me. He knew who my father was, and I knew what his ambitions were. He could not be happy with the state of affairs. It still surprised me how content he was to work here, for these wizards. I had no delusions it was me that was keeping him on; he had been here at the Ministry buildings months before my arrival. It kept me always worrying, about my role or lack thereof. It was simply too complicated, all of it. Him, me, and the ever important it - the bigger outside world.
October 15th, 1919
I never knew unhappiness could be so profound.
Today, I had decided to surprise Nikhil. I knew where he lived, I had pilfered it from the employment files; he had taken me there once himself, but I didn’t know the apparition coordinates. For once, I wanted him to be at home and comfortable, rather than starched up for the Ministry. I wanted to be able to see him in his natural environment, not just the occasional public sojourn. I knew it wasn’t the same. I knew too it was his day off, as he’d promised to come around to the gardens later if he was able. I told Mother I had a headache, and would be keeping to my rooms that day and did not want to be disturbed. I’m not sure she quite believed me, though it is her constant excuse, but I took an odd pleasure in using it. I knew it was the only thing that might work. After I’d ‘gone to sleep’ with a glass of warm milk from Loopsy, I’d changed into the Indian clothes I’d had managed to pilfer with the help of one of the women who worked here.
Of course I’d frowned at myself in the mirror afterwards, sure I’d missed something. I was sure I’d done it correctly, but still somehow I knew I didn’t look like the average Indian woman, for reasons outside of the fact I was distinctly pale and white.
Still, I’d made my way to the edge of the grounds, and then Apparated to where I knew his little house that he shared with his mothers and sisters to be. It was stupid, so very stupid, but I wasn’t worried about danger when I was going place to place. The fact I didn’t really encounter any didn’t mean I couldn’t have.
I’d hesitated outside the door though, when I heard voices inside. Male voices, ones that didn’t belong to his sisters or his mother – and eavesdropping though I shouldn’t have, I became disillusioned.
Nikhil is part of the Azadi. I have heard my father talk of them. They are primarily young wizards, who are more militant about the idea of India’s autonomy. That in and of itself did not lower him in my eyes, as I knew he was not the sort to be violent no matter how great his disenchantment, what did was listening to him talk to his comrades that day. He worked in the Ministry buildings only to feed them information, he was not there to be servile.
It became apparent he had befriended me for that very similar intent.
I retreated here, as if in a daze. I have not cried, I have not raged, I have only lay here on my bed staring up at the ceiling. When he came later, sending the message to me in case I could get free, I had Loopsy go and let him know I was indisposed. I plan to be indisposed for a very long time, I am not sure I am up to facing him – the humiliation is great enough to even outweigh the anger. Confrontation has never been my strong suit, for all I spout ideals.
Apparently, I really did care enough to be hurt. I wonder if he even took me into account.
"The bastard," Padma exclaimed, reading to the bottom of the page before Terry finished aloud.
He shot her a look of amusement, a slightly teasing tone in his voice. "I expected you to be all excited because of how little is known of the Azadi and here we have an insight into it, not indignant over a personal affront."
His comment caused her to blush, a truly rare occurrence, and Padma hated herself for it. It wasn’t like she was Terry, whose face flushed at very little provocation. Her response had been inadvertent, wrapped up in their story more than that of the country. "I just meant...." she tried to cover.
Terry just smiled, flipping a little further through the pages to see what lay ahead, and not directly looking at her – and Padma’s eyes narrowed.
***********************************
Padma had slipped into a nightgown, trying to get ready for bed, when the knock came on the door.
She wasn’t really surprised to find Terry there when she opened it, because she was fairly sure she had very little to say to the younger Halliwinkles, but she had no idea why he was there. He didn’t say anything until she’d let him, and then turned to her sheepishly. She had her arms crossed with a pointed look, not exactly caring that she was in relative dishabille. Her sleepwear covered more than the average outfit of most.
"I thought," he cleared his throat, "we might read more of the journal?"
After they had torn themselves away from it that afternoon Padma had pointedly taken it back. It had stayed in the pockets of her robes though through the afternoon and evening of work, and yet another uncomfortable dinner with the family. Instead of letting her attention drift back to it during the evening, she’d focused instead on her more didactic book. She thought she might have learned though more about the actual time by reading the perspective of somebody who had ‘been there’, if only peripherally. Facts somehow didn’t seem quite as interesting this time around.
"It’s late," she hedged, not wanting to seem too eager.
Terry flushed. "I know. But we’re busy for such a long periods during the day. And then when we are done with the crypts, it’s back to our respective jobs."
"We are allowed to see each other outside of work," she remarked dryly.
"You’d want to?" He seemed surprised.
It made Padma automatically defensive, "It was just pointing out the obvious. You don’t have to put up with me after this if you don’t want to."
"No, no," Terry said quickly, "I do. I really really do. I just....if you want to, I want to. I’ve missed you since school Padma, but you seemed to withdraw from all of us. Ravenclaw, Dumbledore’s Army – everybody but your sister. I didn’t want to press you into seeing me again out of politeness."
Padma was about to go on the offensive this time, but actually thinking about it made her close her mouth. She had withdrawn, just because it was easier. It wasn’t anything overdramatic, it was just easier. Being around the people from school made her think of the people who hadn’t made it, and she hadn’t thought them close enough friends to make that pang worth it. Being with Terry again though made her think about what she was missing. They had been her mates, the Ravenclaws – and some of the DA. And Terry....specifically Terry, she was surprised at how much she did want to see him again. His frustratingly geeky, and blushing, self. Once upon the time he might have been one of the ones who she would have most easily thought she could live without. Still, in some ways they were incredibly alike underneath.
Plus, in a very simple way she didn’t understand, she liked him.
"I’d like to see you again," she said brusquely, but meant it.
Terry seemed pleased, despite the fact she had never got effusive. His smile was wide.
"We should read," he continued on, "even if you’re going to be able to stand being friends with a minion of Gringotts. You’re going on site in India after this, aren’t you? You should be as well informed as possible. The Azadi, despite their role in the fights for Wizarding independence, are incredibly elusive to find information about. Especially since so many of them died. All that is known is that...."
"Terry," Padma interrupted him before he could rant on, "I know."
His cheeks reddened slightly. "Sorry. I just....I want to read a bit more. Unless you need to get to sleep."
Apparently Terry was as lured into the story of the journal as she was. Padma found herself smirking slightly, even as she went to grab the journal from the bedside stable where she had set it down. She didn’t needle him however, because she didn’t have a leg to stand on. For her too, this wasn’t much about facts and history, the enjoyment she was finding in reading. Oh, it was, but it was more.
"I have it marked where we left off," she said, sitting down on the bed, and motioning for him to sit beside her.
This time she was the one who read aloud.
October 20th, 1919
I managed to avoid Nikhil for nearly a week.
Soon enough however, he cornered me in my room. It was the one place he had never come before, not even when he was in my good graces. I felt uncomfortable with him there, with my bed only feet away. It was a room, just a room, but I’d been conditioned that a proper witch doesn’t allow a wizard into her bedroom without a thing called marriage. Seeing Nikhil standing there though, seduction seemed exactly the last thing on his mind. He didn’t seem to even notice we were in my bedroom. I was tempted to call for somebody, anybody, to toss him out – but instead I settled for what I hoped was an indifferent look.
"Why have you decided to avoid me?" He asked, his arms crossed, "I was not aware I had offended you."
I was tempted to avoid it. Instead I decided on honesty.
"I am well aware you befriended me just to get information about the British Ministry," I hissed, my indifference fading, "there is no point in continuing our...acquaintance now."
I thought a look of guilt would slide across his face, but he only looked bewildered. It annoyed me even further that he would try and continue the deceit. "I Apparated over to your home," I snapped, "I heard you meeting with the Azadi. I know why you are working for the British. It’s so you can get inside news in case you what....attack?"
"I am not ashamed that I am a part of the Azadi," he said quietly, "though I wish I could have told you in a different way. We are simply a force for change. I will admit that the reason I took this job was to stay aware of the movements and the sentiments of the British. That doesn’t translate to me using you."
"How can you deny you were trying to use me for information," I retorted.
He looked at me with gentle amusement. "You don’t know anything. How could I use you for information?"
That might be meant to reassure me, instead it only angered me further. I made a move to step past him, but his hand shot out to my arm. He did not grab me, nor manhandle me, but his touch froze me in place all the same. I stared resolutely at the door however when he began to speak quietly. "I befriended you because I like you," Nikhil’s voice was soft, and traitorously I believed every word, "it would be smarter if I had not. I am always in more danger of being discovered as an activist because of you. However, despite the admonition of my brothers, I have done so all the same."
I wanted to believe him. It made logical sense, what he said, but that didn’t make it true. There was always a chance he was using me still, though he was right, I had gained him very little. And likely would not.
It was easier to believe him too because his fingers on my bare arm were causing a stirring in my belly I had not felt before, not from any of the boys at Hogwarts. I was determined however not to be a slave to my emotions, easily fooled because I lusted, because I wanted. I was determined to rely only on my logic. But his words were persuasive, mostly because I wanted them to be.
"I was sure you were using me," I said, still not moving. His hand had not moved from my arm either.
"I swear I was not," I could feel his gaze on me. "On my mother’s life."
My hand slid up to where his rested on my forearm. Slowly, we moved, intertwining our fingers. Still, I did not look at him. I am not a bashful person, but there was something in that moment that stopped me from turning directly to him.
When the sound of somebody in the corridor broke our concentration, our hands dropped and we stepped apart.
It was still just friendship after all, that we had acknowledged between us, nothing more.
"I have the afternoon free the day after next," he said quietly.
"I will be in the gardens," I replied, recognizing myself for the coward I was.
October 22, 1919
I am a woman.
What a ridiculous statement, but I have never felt it more acutely then this moment. I am not a girl, under her parents thumb. I am not a pious pure-blooded witch like they want. I am a woman. I have never truly realized the difference.
It is odd to write it all on paper, but it isn’t like I have a mate here in which to confide.
Nikhil found me in the gardens, and we talked – we talked for once. With me knowing who he is, truly, and having no secrets between us it made it easier. We talked until the hour grew late, and I decided my parents and the rest of them could sod off even if they truly missed me. We talked until we admitted that we felt things for one another that weren’t covered under the definitions of friendship, and things that both of our lives would be simpler if we didn’t feel. And then we talked until we weren’t talking anymore, his mouth on mine, and his hands sliding over my body while we lay there in the grass.
It was overwhelming in a way I haven’t been overwhelmed before. He touched me everywhere it seemed, in ways I hesitated to even touch myself. His hands were an intimacy that even words couldn’t create, and I fear I shamed myself in that I accepted more than I reciprocated. My robes never left my body, but I felt like I was naked there with him.
We did not make love, though I would have agreed to it. It was he who would not cross that line.
Afterwards we sat there, his arm around me and my head on his shoulder. You could have not known what we were doing based on our looks. I felt irrevocably changed in some way though. I had never felt emotions like this, even if perhaps I wasn’t ready to label it as love.
October 29th, 1919
I feel inadequate in the face of Nikhil’s passion. Not for me, for the idea of independence from our Ministry.
I can hear it in his voice when he talks about it, it isn’t just the plans that they are formulating. He loves this country and the witches and wizards here, and he knows the right thing isn’t to be under the thumb of another Ministry. It overwhelms me, the certainty he has, that what he is doing with the Azadi is right. It would be easier just to let things with us, the British, run its course. The world is cyclical, and ever changing, I learned that much at least in the history of magic. Things will change without his interference, of his risk. He is not content for that however, nor should he be.
I envy him the conviction. The backbone. I have never had it.
He assured me I could. He is convinced I am more than I think I am, this privileged Memsahib who thinks idealistic and daring things, but never does anything about them. I’m not convinced however. I have never stood up to anybody when it mattered, when it was about life.
I take a thrill in just listening to him. Maybe it’s living vicariously. Maybe one of the things I have come to treasure in him is that passion.
November 15, 1919
They are staging a protest, the Azadi. They are trying to force the hand of my father and the other British wizards, to make them realize they are demanding autonomy. Diplomacy has not worked in the slightest, the reason we are still here. With polite subservient requests they are gaining no ground. There is no understanding that they are a different people here. The Muggles might not have gained real autonomy, but that is their aim here. I can understand why however. I can empathize, and more importantly I can believe.
If there had ever been any lingering doubt in my mind as to the fact that Nikhil was using me, this has laid them to rest. He obviously trusts me implicitly if he is telling me this, when I have the power to spread the word and have it stopped. I know his ‘brothers’ in the cause would not be so understanding if they found out I knew.
"Come with me," he muttered against my skin, his breath warm against my neck. We had enclosed ourselves in my room, a Muffliato cast to keep others at bay.
I wanted to, there are no words how much I want to support...it...him...both. I have since the moment I came here, since I realized we are domineering a people when we should not be. With this being his cause, his mission, it has only strengthened that resolve. I know he is well aware of he asks of me. I know he is well aware of who my family is, and how nothing will be forgiven if I am caught. This time, for once, he is truly caught up in the romance of it all – and when I see his sheepish grin I think he realizes that. He does not ask me again before he kisses me; long, slow, drowning kisses until I am thinking about nothing else but the taste of him.
When he is leaving, however, I am thinking of little else.
It is right, what they are demanding, and they are doing it peacefully. They are not storming the battlements, not trying to Avada every British witch and wizard here to gain what they seek. They are protesting to be heard, nothing more, but it is an important and brave act. It is a cause I know to be true, but yet as always I am shying away from it like I have shied away from everything else; my potential potions apprenticeship, and every other demand my family has placed on me. I do not know what my support will mean, but it has to mean something. A white English witch, crossing over to affirm the cause – or at least a form of protection because they would not want to hurt me.
"I will come," I told Nikhil, as he stood at my door, hand on my hip.
For a moment, he looked confused.
"The protest," I clarified. "Next week. I will be there – on your side. Openly."
His smile was warm as his hand slid out to cup my cheek. "Thank you." He bent down, his lips soft on mine, and then straightened. "However, this is not your fight Memsahib." I had long since stopped taking affront at the form of address. Between us there was no mockery; it had become a term of endearment. "It is not worth the estrangement; to you the risk is greater than imprisonment in your Azkaban, you are risking your family. Do not."
I only smiled, knowing it to be true, but knowing I must do this all the same. "I will be there. At quarter past one I will meet you outside the anti-apparition lines."
It was a solemn promise.
November 22, 1919
I sit here in my room, pacing the floor, unable to sit still.
Every word I had spoken to Nikhil had been the truth. Despite my fears, despite the nervous and thrilling sensation, I had not relented in my resolve. Though I had not seen him in the last two days, our plans had held firm. I would meet him and we would head to the public square. There, the wizards – and too few witches – who would take part were too assemble. They were to chant their cause, amplified by spells, enhanced by the effects of potions and charms. They had discussed the use of strictly Indian magic, spells and charms that I had been taught in secret, so I could be a part – to emphasize their independence, to emphasize their differences. All they wanted was a meeting, just a meeting, with one of the Azadi who wasn’t a bureaucrat with their hands tied, and a British official with actual power.
It would never work, not to the end they wanted, but it was a start. It was something, if it worked.
I had dressed in the Indian clothes I had procured. I didn’t know if that was right, I didn’t know because I had forgotten to ask. Maybe I would be better served portraying the British pure-blooded girl, but I wanted to be a part. I wanted to fit in with what they were doing. My skin was enough to give me away. Like I had every time with Nikhil I had moved to sneak out.
What I hadn’t counted on, however, was my mother not leaning on her familiar ‘headache’ excuse for once. Out and about, she caught me. I could have reasoned my way out of it, if it had not been for my state of dress.
I am banished here to my room while history is being made. I can do nothing, because she enlisted the aid of my father, using the strongest spells to hold me here. It is funny because they are doing this over nothing but the assumption that this is over a man. A man they don’t control and approve of.
They don’t know the half of it.
November 23, 1919
I sit here, saying nothing, feeling nothing, but I have heard everything. I want to be sitting in my rooms, cocooned under the covers as if that might save me from bad news, but if I am there I cannot know. I sit in the main dining rooms as people flutter around me.
The stories, they are pouring in about the debacle that is the protest.
It was supposed to be peaceful, and it was, but the outcome wasn’t. The British hit wizards and the Ministry representatives, they took it as aggressive, they took it as a danger to their persons. They went in with Avadas and Crucios, and other vicious spells. They took it as a war when it wasn’t. They seem to have wiped them out, these idealistic and very young wizards and witches. There is nobody to refute their revisionist view of what went on, and what the intent of the protest was.
I know better though. I know better.
I try and tell them all, but they don’t listen. They ignore me. Then all of a sudden they are casting spells to gag me when anybody of import is around, including the actual Minister for Magic who has portkeyed in. They do not want the truth being said because it taints them; it makes them seem like merciless killers. Again, my wand is taken, and I am left in my rooms – with no means to escape beyond the wards they have placed.
Still, I rant, because I am scared. I try to send owls, and I try to yell at anybody passing by, because this astounds me.
I didn’t know we could do this, be like this. I didn’t know we could cover up like this.
I have been disillusioned. A few men aren’t representative of a people, but they have set themselves up as such – and they have done this. It is impossible not to want to get the truth out.
November 27, 1919
I know nothing. They do not inform me of anything.
I am allowed to speak to nobody.
They are revising history as they see fit.
I get tired of trying, because it gains me nothing. I see nobody but house elves and my parents. The former would never going against their owners and their orders, the latter speak of nothing but protecting me from my idealist foolishness. They do not listen to the rest because they feel that is counterproductive to that task, and to their own security as people of import in this world.
I do not hate them, I know they love me, but I cannot respect them. I cannot love them back.
December 15th, 1919
For weeks I hoped. I hoped that one person escaped from the crowd, that they Apparated off.
I hoped that he was safe despite all evidence to the contrary.
I have lost that hope, that one thing sustaining me. His mother has sent me an owl, smuggled through various channels that I cannot even guess at. He told her about us – he who was more open with his family than I ever dared to be with mine. She took pity on me to let me know, that his body was levitated to her doorstep, a vacant look on his face and no preparations for and kindliness for the dead. It is pity, to be sure, that I can know now – but not that I know how it was done. That I know my people responsible for it. Maybe that was her aim, I can never be sure.
He is dead.
Nikhil is dead.
I never told him I loved him. Did I love him? It was only a matter of months. Normally I would scoff at the idea, that a clandestine affair would yield fruit, let alone anything so quickly. Still....still. My chest is so tight it feels like I might be sick, and tears flow down my cheeks unbidden. Writing is the only thing that keeps me sane because otherwise I would start to think, and right now I’m not sure that’s of any help. I think it was love, it had to be. Nothing else would make me feel this way, nothing else would make me challenge my own beliefs and my own principles, nothing else would make me grow – and nothing else would entice me towards physical pleasure.
I loved him, and I lost him.
I cannot do this anymore.
February 1st, 1920
I am going to marry Jonas Halliwinkle.
He is a sensible man. A kind man. My parents approve of him, and it will get me out of their house.
It will be enough.
When she was done reading, Padma flipped furiously through the pages – trying to find something, anything else. The thing was, there was nothing in between, nor anything else past that entry. No matter how many pages of the journal she looked at, nor how many spells she cast to try and make anything appear, there was nothing there. This was where it ended, this horrible tragic end. There was no redemption to come, no happy ending, no further insight. Terry seemed flabbergasted beside her when she looked up at him.
"Bloody hell," the out of character curse slipped past her lips before she chucked the book at the end of the bed, far away from the two of them.
It was revolutionary, that journal. It would be if anybody had read it. For all things in the past might have been implied that the British wizards had overreacted, it had never been substantiated. History painted the Azadi with a brush of libel, insinuating that for all their cause was just they had threatened innocent lives and there was some justification in how they were dealt with. This journal went a long way to proving that wasn’t the case. It proved a lot of things. It was a find. Maybe it wasn’t the sort of find Padma had been searching for her whole life, but it was something. It was important, very important, at least to anybody who cared about history.
And, for all it was, Padma didn’t care quite as much in that moment.
"Historians would wet their knickers at being able to read this," Terry sighed. His arm had slipped around her, and she’d barely even noticed.
Her attention wasn’t directly for him, even if she’d unconsciously leaned into him. Her attention was for the woman barricaded in another wing of the house, who had been, who was that woman. "It must have killed her," Padma was saying quietly, "to have her own descendants take up with the Death Eaters – after being willing to stand up for a cause that wasn’t even personally hers. It must have been horrible in this family. She had such a life, and now she’s relegated to a nuisance. They don’t even think of her as a person, not really. They don’t think of her like....her."
"It’s sad," Terry agreed.
Padma could have ranted on, but she held her tongue, letting her fingers drag idly over the pages of the journal. Never in her life had she been affected by a novel, or one of those silly programs on the wireless her sister listened to. It was part of the reason she was enthralled by the items of history, and why cared about reading this recounting – these were people, and it was life. In this case, there was one that had been cut off too soon as well. It was tragic, and still she was almost ashamed to admit the twelve year old part of her wished that there had been another entry with a happy ending – that somehow Nikhil had escaped and lived, and that he and Martha had given birth to a whole succession of happy descendants who would never join the ranks of Voldemort, and who would never sell out their history for a price.
They sat there in silence, both contemplating the journal, neither moving.
Eventually though, Padma’s attention started to shift. She started to realize that she was with Terry. In a bed. She started to really notice that his arm was around her, and that his fingers had started to idly trace a pattern on her upper arm. She also started to notice how nice it felt. She might not go out seeking experience like Parvati, but she recognized the flutter it stirred in her for what it was. It was something she hadn’t expected, connecting with Terry again. Friendship, yes, that, no – but there it was all the same. She counselled herself that didn’t mean she had to do anything about it, but she leaned in a little closer to Terry all the same.
When she looked up at him too, his face was very close, and he was smiling – and obviously the thoughts regarding the journal had fled from both of their minds. It would have been so easy, so very easy, to lean up and kiss him.
Instead, Padma ducked her gaze, clearing her throat. "You never told me," she said, grasping on the first topic that came into her head, "what that spell tempted you with. When we first broke into the crypt."
Terry looked both disappointed and startled when she dared to look, but he answered all the same. "Yes, I did." His arm slipped from around her though, and settled back at his side, much to her disappointment.
"Not the truthful one," she countered.
He rolled his eyes, "What does it matter? You didn’t tell me either."
"It just does," she said stubbornly. Now that she’d started in she didn’t want to let the topic go.
For a moment, Terry seemed to be hedging, but finally he sighed in resignation. "Fine, there is no point in making a big deal over this. I’ll tell you, but only if you promise to tell me as well."
She nodded, and watched as he started to flush slightly. "I saw my family," he said quietly, "not my Mum and Dad I mean, but the one of the future. I was chasing two little girls around on their toy brooms, and we were living in this big house just like one I saw near Tutshill, and I had the certainty that my wife was waiting for us inside. It’s not all manly to want that out of life I suppose, but there it is. It’s a family that would make me happiest." He cleared his throat this time, obviously uncomfortable with the admission. He spoke again as if to ensure she had no chance to get a word in edgewise. "How about you then?"
For all he was embarrassed at his ‘deepest desire’, it had now made her oddly ashamed to admit hers as well. Not because it was sappy, but more so because there wasn’t anything the least bit sappy about it. Padma knew she’d given her word, and she was pants at lying, but already she was shifting off the bed away from him as she began to tell it.
"I saw myself at the museum," she said, "getting an Order of Merlin for an important artefact find."
She didn’t elaborate, and when she looked at him, Terry was only raising an eyebrow. "That’s it? With the fuss I thought your deepest desire for your future involved....I don’t know, becoming the next dark lord."
Padma crossed her arms. "I know it’s not anything sappy or personal, but there is nothing wrong with wanting that – being happy over that." He hadn’t even said anything, but she was defensive because she’d felt bad over it. Therefore, she felt like she was being judged, even if perhaps she wasn’t.
"I never..." Terry began, but she was continuing on.
"I know I don’t have a romantic bone in my body, you said so yourself. I know that it seems so cold."
"It’s not...."
"I’m not heartless, I’ve just had a different focus for my life thus far. I don’t think I should have to defend it."
This time Terry’s voice was firm, speaking before she had a chance to cut him off again. "You don’t. Merlin. You know you’re going completely nuts here, Padma."
She knew that, she did, but that hadn’t stopped her mouth from running off without her mind backing it up because she’d felt embarrassed and inadequate with the admission she had to make. She know she was overreacting to all of it, and to Terry who had never indicated anything in word or gesture that he thought there was anything wrong with her ‘ideal’ in the spell. Yes, he had made that remark before about her not having a romantic bone in her body, but it was true – and he didn’t seem bothered by it. Still, because she’d (kind of, sort of, maybe, she couldn’t figure it out) started to feel something a little more beyond friendship she was even more irrationally bothered.
Annoyed now with herself in general, Padma shook her head. "It’s getting late, yeah? And we’ve got work to do tomorrow."
Terry paused, as if he wanted to say something, but eventually only sighed before slipping from her bed and from the room.
She didn’t sleep all that good though once he’d gone.
***********************************
The day had passed without event – partially because Padma had chosen to work in chambers always the opposite of where Terry was, because she was annoyed with herself and how ridiculous she had been the night before.
What she’d wanted to do was retreat to her room with a biscuit for dinner, but like they had for each of the previous days she was required to sit at a table with Terry and the Halliwinkles making polite chit chat. Or, more often than not, sitting in awkward silence. She was fairly sure that they only required she and Terry break bread with them so they could inquire after the progress, and ascertain what kind of compensation they might be getting. Padma was usually silent, which placed the conversational burden on Terry’s shoulders, which she realized wasn’t entirely fair. Still, for all Terry might blather without thinking sometimes, he was still better at not showing annoyance with the family. She couldn’t quite manage it all the time.
This time, she found herself watching Martha, while trying not to be rude about it.
The elderly woman usually wasn’t allowed out of her room it seemed, or at least not anywhere near company. Padma had barely seen her, despite trying to, even when she wasn’t up to her knees in dust down in the family crypt. Age had taken its toll, initiating conversation would not get her a further story, would not allow her to actually empathize with the other woman. Martha spent most of her time staring around blankly, though occasionally her gaze occasionally seemed to actually focus on Padma; she’d worn her more normal Indian attire on purpose. It broke her heart to see that, to see what period of her life resonated most with the other woman.
"We’re sorry," Lily was saying, cutting into Padma’s thoughts.
"Hmm," she tried to sound non committal, as she hadn’t been paying attention to anything that they had been saying.
Ted nodded towards his mother. "That she is down. Her caregiver has the evening off, and she can’t be left in her room alone. I know it’s inconvenient, however here we are."
Padma was flabbergasted. She wanted to remind them that the other woman was sitting right there and she wasn’t deaf. Even if she couldn’t comprehend, and she thought on some level Martha likely could – they had taken disrespect and rudeness to a whole new level. She couldn’t understand these people, she couldn’t even think of what had made them this way. Were those elitist pure-blooded families all this horrible? She could see Terry taking in the look on her face, and rushed to speak. "It was a lovely dinner, I...."
Already Ted had been speaking though, and Terry’s attempt at intervention solved nothing. "Normally we don’t let her out around people...."
It was literally too much for Padma to stay silent on. She held up a hand to cut him off. "’Let her out? Do you even hear yourself? She is a person for Merlin’s sake, even if she’s not young anymore. A living breathing person, who – oh yes, without whom you wouldn’t be alive. You wouldn’t be in this house. She is your bloody grandmother, and you seem to have no respect for her. She is the elder of your family. She...Merlin." She knew she was out of turn, because she didn’t really know Martha – no matter what journal she had read, and she didn’t really know them, but she couldn’t seem to care.
And now, she had probably burned all her bridges.
Before she could think better of it, she had Apparated up to her room, and Disapparated back down with the journal in hand. She could see the shocked look on the Halliwinkles' faces as she tossed it down on the table.
"Read it," she said, "it’s hers. We found it when we were going through all the things down there. Read it and try and remember that she is a person. She’s not just an obligation, nor a mindless lump of flesh. Try and think of her as Martha. Then maybe, just maybe, you won’t say things like that. Think things like that."
When her tirade finished, there was dead silence in the room. Padma’s face was flushed with anger, and embarrassment, but she couldn’t regret what she had said. Just maybe how she had said it.
"Right," was all she added, calming slightly. Not waiting around for the reaction, she Apparated to her room.
***********************************
When Terry found her there later she was already packing, waving her wand with her few
"Yeah," he said, sitting down on the bed, "they are fairly insistent Gringotts has exclusive rights from here on out."
She only sighed, sending her last work robe into the sack. She’d known that was likely, though she hadn’t really been thinking about it when she had opened her mouth. She didn’t really regret it though. Her boss wouldn’t sack her, but she knew that there was going to be a battle when she got back to the museum.
"I’ll make sure you get the broom," he referenced the item they’d discussed earlier, "and since we know there is a lot more down there, I’ll be sure to offer anything of great historical import to the museum. Um, well, at least a few things. Gringotts might just sack me if I don’t bring them back the best of the lot. So long as they don’t have to be faced with you, the Halliwinkles will probably prefer their things are put out there for posterity so long as they are still compensated."
"I guess I have no choice but to trust the Gringotts minion," she sighed, but didn’t mean it critically. Terry didn’t take it critically either.
"Merlin, Padma," he shook his head.
She shot him a look, "Could you sit there and stand them talking like that?"
"No," he admitted, "I picture my own grandmother, and it hurts. But there are levels of reaction, and you blew off the charts."
Her mouth quirked, knowing he was right. "Maybe."
It was worth it though, if it changed things. "Did they keep the journal?" She asked, forgetting about her things for a moment and sitting down beside Terry. She would be out of there soon enough.
He thought for a moment. "Yes. I think Ted shoved it into his pocket. Sorry Padma, I knew you wanted that for the museum."
Hopefully that would mean he was going to read it, and get a different perspective. She shook her head, "Not what I meant. I want them to have it, I want them to read it. Maybe it will change them for the better. If it makes things only a little better that will be enough. Besides, it’s personal, and she is alive still – let them keep that personal history for themselves." She smiled, "I’ll just have to make sure we manage to break the curses on the underground in Calcutta, and find a different version of history that way."
She expected Terry to laugh at her arrogance, but instead he was only looking at her with a funny smile on his face. "What?" Padma demanded, checking to see if she had something on her face.
He was grinning now. "I take back what I said before. You are incredibly romantic."
"Oh shut up."
"I mean it. You gave up a major historical find – and it is one, don’t downplay that – for the good of a family. You are the ultimate romantic."
"It isn’t that big a thing...."
"Hufflepuff," he grinned, tossing her earlier epithet back at her.
Padma shot him a dirty look, but then she smiled. She couldn’t help it. "Fine, maybe just a little. I am a softie underneath, what can I say."
They sat there in companionable silence, arms bumping against one another. Finally, Terry was the one who spoke again. "So, are we still going to see each other outside of work then? I need somebody to geek out over artefacts with. I like my job, I do, but the people at the bank and the goblins don’t really get it."
"Of course," she said, surprised, "but...yes, of course. I’m always good for being a complete nerd over history."
"There might be another reason I want to be around you as well," he grinned.
"Really? What might that be?" Her hopes had been dashed with his previous comment, but they rose again. She could hear the flirtatious tone in her voice and it startled her. She didn’t do flirtatious, had never wanted to, and had never been able to. It wasn’t exactly heaving her chest like Parvati was good at, or giggling inanely, and she never ever wanted to get to that level. Still, there it was.
Terry’s kiss was answer enough, pushing her back into the bed.