Padma's sister is only a few minutes younger. This is unusual for sisters, and maybe that's why Parvati's always trying to catch up--to be the first at everything, bolder at everything, the first to steal mangoes from Mum's chopping board and the first to get slapped for it--the first to break rules and the first to get sorted into Gryffindor, while Padma, gracious in allowing the time difference to be made up, follows along in Ravenclaw. A slower house, more thoughtful, ponderous. Time moves faster for Gryffindors.

Padma's younger sister is very conscious of time--dark band of watch on her wrist that she lifts to the glint of the light at least three times a period, until McGonagall gets fed up and transfigures it into an amulet. A rather ugly one. Parvati's consciousness of time means that she always hurries into things--she goes out on a date first, gets a boy to put his hands up her shirt first, and comes to Padma's bed later, skin hot and mouth displeased, until Padma kisses her, kisses her until time slows down again, and slips two fingers between Parvati's legs.

Padma's younger sister is always the first to do things. She's the first to join the Order, even when Padma cautions and cautions against it; she's the first to come home bleeding until Padma cleans her, holds her, rocks her until time slows down again. Parvati's the first one to get sent on missions when Padma finally deigns to join, although Padma gets back-office strategy jobs, as all the Ravenclaws do. Parvati's the first one to be up in the mornings, making breakfast with her hair curled in a blue ribbon soft against her neck--soft as Padma's mouth against it, soft as Padma's breasts when she leans sleepily against Parvati's back and hugs, until Parvati has to turn and kiss Padma's hot, sulky mouth into wakefulness. The delicate scent of cinnamon turns acrid before they pull away from each other, damp with the heat of the stove, and Parvati curses all the hells when she pulls yet another burnt breakfast off the fire.

Parvati's the first to do everything. She's the first to volunteer for the ambush on Lucius Malfoy's stronghold--she's the first even though Padma pulls her aside later and snarls at her until Parvati kisses her, shoves her against the wall and tells her to piss off. In that order.

Parvati's on the first line, of course. And Parvati's letter is the first to reach her, as Padma sits in the back office poring over ward diagrams and maps. Padma isn't even surprised, really, when she opens it and reads it without understanding the words--love you always Padma breakfast remember take care--and she's not surprised at all, not when she opens the official letter of apology and reads that as well, something about a brave soldier doing her House proud or some such--and she's not surprised at all, because Parvati's always first, always the first at everything. It startles Padma when someone knocks shakily on the door and it turns out to be the secretary, asking everything all right, Miss Patil? because the windows of Padma's office have exploded, although Padma can't remember hearing the noise, and Padma's sitting at a desk surrounded by shattered glass.

Grass. That's where they hold the funeral. Burning. The heat of the pyre keeps Padma warm, because it's cold now--the weather and everything, everything, room to house to bed to bloom. Flower cool in her hands, wilted and odd-shaped when she twirls and crushes it between her fingers. The words of the priest elude her, the glances of her parents, her mother's eyes red-rimmed and her father a wound with stoic feet and a black suit, black moustache and black glasses hiding his face. This silent crowd all dressed in black and rustled by wind, like crows.

But they don't get it, none of them fucking get it, and the sheets will be cold when Padma returns home tonight, and no one knows, no one fucking knows. Even the wind wraps around her like a cold sheet now, and Padma's thinking not-thinking thinking, and her hands are brown against the black of her dress, and she's thinking why the wind's so cold. What season is it? Padma looks at the hard earth, the now-black wood spelled against smoke, and her logic tries to work.

Autumn. Leaves in red and gold. Colors of Gryffindor. Parvati's blue ribbon, wrapped around Padma's knuckles, is oddly Ravenclaw and out of place.

The pot of ash is tipped into the wind. Grey dust invisible against grey sky--and Padma thinks: Parvati, as if to stop her, but Parvati never listens anyway.

Not looking back, she takes off on wings of leaves.