A Is For... 1/5
Heylo flist,
Finally I can present you with my most recent piece of writing. This fanfic is my baby. I have no words to describe how much I loved writing this and how fond I've grown of the characters. Therefore I hope that you'll like it too. Reviews will be loved and reviewers hugged and kissed. Nice, right? ;) Enjoy!
(Yes, dearies, I even made a banner, because I'm so in love.)
Title: A Is For…
Author: animimares
Beta: LunaMoon224, all remaining mistakes are my own.
Word Count: ~ 31.700
Pairing/Characters: Lavender/Padma, mentions of Parvati/Seamus plus hints of Padma/OFC and Lavender/OMC and you’ll meet Hermione as well.
Rating: Oops.. *blushes* Forgot this the first time around. Mmm, light R.
Warnings: AIDS-themes, character death, angst.
Summary: Life lay open before their feet, but then everything changed…“Padma,” Lavender says - voice tiny and sort of broken - and the use of her given name convinces Padma that she will not like to hear whatever Lavender has to say, because Lavender never calls her Padma unless she is angry or scared, “I’m HIV-positive.”
Author’s Notes: This piece of fiction means a lot to me. The information in between the scenes is taken from wikipedia’s article on AIDS and therefore none of it is something I’ve made up. The lyrics in the end of the story belong to the makers of RENT the Musical which I love very dearly. Also, due to the length restrictions on LJ this story will be posted in five parts.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Potterverse. Anything you recognise, characters, places and events, is property of JK Rowling and everybody in relation to her publishing. I am only playing around in a genius’ sandbox. Forgive me.
Dedication: I dedicate this to juwely_d because she’s my muse in everything I do. Thanks for existing, dear.
~*~
1. Awareness
Approximately half of those infected with HIV do not know their HIV status until an AIDS diagnosis is made with an HIV test.
~*~
Padma loves Oxford for its atmosphere - for the hundreds of ghosts lurking in the corners of every building and in the shadows of every street. She loves Oxford for its University, its colleges, its library and for its history - for the thousands of small details that you have to deliberately look for to notice. Most of all, however, Padma loves Oxford for the life it has given her - the job of her dreams in the hidden parts of the University, reserved for Wizarding use, though the hallways are walked by Muggles as well, and the big flat of her dreams with both an office and a spare room that they still need to get fixed up. Padma loves Oxford, because Oxford has given her everything she could ever want (including Lavender).
Of course, if anyone had told her five years ago that she would end up with Lavender Brown of all people, Padma would probably have laughed out loud and told them they were closed ward material. Back then she had viewed Lavender as Parvati’s headache through and through and spent as little time with her as possible, quite simply because they had nothing in common (on the surface). After finishing school, one year late due to the war, Padma took a master degree in Ancient Spell Research and Development while Lavender (along with Parvati) started studying divination. Padma could not think of anyone she had less in common with than Lavender Brown. Five years ago…
Now she is twenty-five (she’s five years older), starting her second year as Head of the Mythological Hindu Spell Development Project (also known as the Gibberish Project to most outsiders) and Lavender and her have shared an apartment for almost two years; been girlfriends for almost three. All in all Padma thinks she is entitled to label herself “happy.”
Rounding the corner of their street, she starts loosening her tie, already looking forward to an early dinner and some quality time in front of the special-designed fireplace in their living room, probably watching Lavender write on tomorrow’s column. It is daily life as Padma prefers it, quiet and companionable with a good shag thrown in here and there. They have their routine and they have the caresses, the kisses and the sex, mixed up in a colourful blend of days passing by - almost unnoticed.
The building they live in is one of the solemn, reddish-brown brick villas from the late 19th century, with dark green shutters and ivy on the walls. Each storey has been lent out as a private apartment to those willing to pay the (admittedly high) price. Newly renovated and located in the “good” end of the city it is indeed not a cheap place to live, but Lavender had wanted no other home and Padma must admit that she has grown quite fond of the place as well. It is romantic and cosy - they even have their own ghost in the kitchen; an elderly lady who comes around at dinnertime to guide Padma through the most terrific recipes and (even though Padma was always a disastrous cook) the meals end up a great success every time Ursula helps her out. Lavender finds this fact hilarious and never misses a chance to point out that if Padma had to do it on her own, they would eat take-out every day.
They live on the first floor and Padma has gotten used to the staircase that is as staircases are most often in old houses. She ascends it in ten fast but careful steps, stopping in front of their door which is made of dark mahogany with the doormat (reading “Your arrival was foreseen” which is a joke on Padma’s part) lying neatly in front of the sill.
“I’m home,” she calls out as she opens the door, shrugging out of her University Cloak and handing it to the charmed hall tree, which takes it with an elegant bow. No one answers her, so Padma frowns. “Lavender?”
In the kitchen she only finds Ursula, sitting at the kitchen table, playing her eternal patience (she has always refused to tell them how she died). She looks up when Padma walks in, her wrinkled, transparent face more grave than normally, her faded, grey eyes somehow melancholic and sad.
“In her chamber,” she says in her raspy, hoarse voice and Padma gets the chilling feeling that something is very, very wrong.
Sighing, she makes her way through the living room, heading for Lavender’s special room that they have arranged on the small, glass-wall balcony until they find the time to finish the spare room. Opening the door and pushing aside the dark velvet curtain, she is careful not to step on any of Lavender’s pillows (from India, a gift from Padma’s mother when she found out that Lavender was Padma’s girlfriend) strewn across the stone floor.
“Hi,” she says, eyeing Lavender who is sitting in the corner with her teacup (today it is the one with the golden edge, Lavender’s personal cup - she is not reading leaves on behalf of the Prophet), writing notes on a long scroll of parchment next to her.
“Hey,” Lavender greets without looking up.
Padma doesn’t move, waiting for Lavender to ask her to leave - something she often does when she is reading tealeaves. She says it is because Padma’s vibes distract her, making it hard to concentrate, but Padma feels fairly convinced that it has more to do with Lavender’s ego. Divination is an element of her life that Padma will never really understand, simply because she has never believed in it. She fully accepts Lavender’s interest in her field of work and even has a grudging respect for the fierce faith Lavender shows in her own skills, but she does not really believe in fortunetelling.
Finally, after some ever-lasting seconds in which Lavender refuses to look up from her cup and acknowledge Padma’s presence, Padma utters an irritated sound, wondering if it is simply just that time of month or if maybe she has forgotten their 32nd month anniversary or some other stupid occasion that Lavender always insists that they celebrate.
“I’ll go make dinner,” she says, her tone snappier than she had intended.
“No, Padime,” Padime is the nickname Lavender has given her - in the beginning Padma hated it, but now she has come to realise that it is just Lavender’s way of showing affection, nothing else (nothing offensively silly), “wait!”
Padma turns back, meeting Lavender’s aquamarine-blue eyes. The cup with the golden rim is resting in Lavender’s lap, her fingers gripping it so hard that her fingertips are almost bluish white. Noticing how very bright her eyes are, Padma realises that the feeling she got in the kitchen wasn’t wrong. Something is wrong and the way Lavender’s usually smiling lips are trembling tells her that she should prepare herself for very bad news.
“What’s wrong?” Padma asks, making her way among the pillows to the small armchair that Lavender is leaning back against, hidden away in the corner. Lavender moves over, motioning for her to sit down.
They sit in silence for some time, Padma waiting for Lavender to make the first move. Lavender is still holding onto her cup, tipping it ever so often to one side or the other, gazing down upon the dregs in the bottom. “You remember the waning moon I told you about last month, the one in one of my readings that I couldn’t seem to interpret?” Lavender starts out by asking. Padma nods, because she actually does recall that particular event. It doesn’t happen often that Lavender turns to her with what she sees in her tealeaves, so when she actually does, Padma is bound to notice.
One evening some weeks ago Lavender had complained over dinner that she had seen a waning moon in her cup, but she couldn’t make sense of it because a waning moon had the general meaning of danger and combined with sword and maiden (not because Padma had any idea what those meant) it was a sign that something was taking over her life and she couldn’t find out what it was (everything is exactly as usual, Padma remembers her saying). Padma had held back a sarcastic reply about how divination generally didn’t make sense and they hadn’t talked about it since - before now.
“I went to St. Mungo’s today,” Lavender continues and Padma turns her head, eyes widening. She had no idea that Lavender had not been feeling well. Why hadn’t she told her? Lavender shrugs, sending her an apologetic look, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder. She always wears it loose when she is doing her daily reading of tealeaves (something about freeing herself) and Padma normally finds it kind of endearing.
“I’ve had some weird headaches lately,” Lavender explains, answering Padma’s unvoiced question. “Nothing too bad. I’ve been dizzy, too, and Madam Malady’s Potions didn’t help so I figured I should get someone to check on it for me.”
Another silence falls between them and Padma can feel her heart beat in her chest; a quick bump bump bump and she imagines how it pumps her blood around her body, her skin prickling from the sensation and her palms growing sweaty. The pure thought of something being wrong with Lavender (her Lavender) is enough to make her feel choked up and panicked (Lavender calls her a control-freak).
Lavender is staring into space, seemingly lost in her own trail of thought, making her look young and vulnerable. A hurtful and yet wonderful feeling swells in Padma’s chest at the sight and she feels like taking Lavender in her arms and telling her that she will never ever let anything happen to her; never ever let anything harm her.
Taking a deep breath, Lavender puts the cup on the low table next to the armchair, turning to face Padma fully. She has a look of determination on her face and every single move of her body, from her hands that are curled into fists to the tight line of her carefully glossed lips, speaks of her having made a final decision. For a moment, Padma feels almost afraid of this sudden show of self-control (Lavender is soft - soft laughter, soft giggling, soft smiles, soft curves, and soft kisses).
“Padma,” she says - voice tiny and sort of broken - and the use of her given name convinces Padma that she will not like to hear whatever Lavender has to say, because Lavender never calls her Padma unless she is angry or scared, “I’m HIV-positive.”
Padma shakes her head, trying to make sense of what Lavender has just told her. She has never heard that word before (HIV-positive) and it holds no meaning to her whatsoever. She frowns, trying to figure out what HIV is an abbreviation of; thousands of possibilities running through her head (Health-Invading Vibration? Hostile Infection-Vermin? Headache-Increasing Venom?), but none of the words seem right. Her inner Ravenclaw is somehow detached from the scenario - that Lavender is ill, though she looks perfectly healthy - and instead feels irritated and a bit humiliated by the fact that there is something she doesn’t know.
Looking up, she meets Lavender’s apprehensive gaze, feeling stupid because she has no idea how to react. How is she supposed to feel about an illness she has never heard about before?
“How bad is it?” she finally questions when the quiet between them has become loaded with tension and uneasiness, Lavender’s hands curling and uncurling until Padma can’t stand watching the constant movement and reaches out to entwine their fingers. She has always appreciated the difference in skin colour. She is dark brown, where Lavender is milky white and the contrast intrigues her feel of aesthetics.
Lavender’s eyes widen in surprise and her fingers tighten around Padma’s as she asks: “You don’t know what HIV is? Haven’t you heard about AIDS?”
Thankful that it is hard to tell when she is blushing, Padma shakes her head slightly, eyes never leaving Lavender’s.
Biting her lip, Lavender draws back, her hands coming to a rest in her lap and Padma lets her, because she can sense that she needs the distance (some minutes to herself). Instead of reaching out and stroking Lavender’s thigh - which is what she feels like doing - Padma climbs up in the armchair, leaning back into the comfort and soft warmth. Having to wait for Lavender to tell her what HIV is makes her feel desperate, useless and frustrated. She tries to place the illness in some kind of context, comparing it to things she knows about (Unforgivables, normal illnesses that a Healer can cure in seconds, just about anything really), but it doesn’t make her feel any better.
“It is a Muggle virus. It… attacks the immune system until it stops functioning properly.”
Lavender’s voice startles Padma out of her thoughts and she turns her attention back to her girlfriend who is resting her chin on Padma’s knee, looking up at her with wide, sad eyes. “The Healer told me that there were no recorded cases of wizards with HIV… well, before me, that is.” She pauses and Padma uses seconds of uncertainty to file this new information away in the back of her mind. This is the reason she has not heard about it before. Her family is of an old, Indian Pureblood lineage - even though she has got a more in-depth look into the Muggle world while living in Oxford, she’s still got great holes in her knowledge about everything Muggle. However, not having other cases to work from is never a good thing when it comes to treating illnesses; that much she knows.
“What cures are there?” she asks when Lavender remains quiet. Lavender looks away and it is in that moment something inside Padma breaks (her heart).
“There is no cure for AIDS, Padime,” she answers, her eyes filling with tears, and Padma feels her heart beating so hard that it physically hurts, something black and all-consuming filling her up from the inside.
“What?” she whispers.
“In the end AIDS will destroy the immune system to the point where a common cold can kill you,” Lavender says, finally meeting Padma’s eyes again, the tears catching in her eyelashes before running down her cheeks. Her fingers grip hold of Padma’s (whose palms are hot and sweaty from terror) as if to make sure she won’t run off even though that is probably the last thing on Padma’s mind right now.
Trying to catch her breath, she feels how the steady hold she always has on her magic is slipping, finally snapping as Padma gives in to the unbearable pain inside of her and the cup on the table next to her (Lavender’s favourite, personal cup, the one with the golden rim) splinters, the pieces falling to the floor like clumps of hard snow.
~*~
2. HIV/AIDS
Humane Immunodeficiency Virus/Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome
~*~
The following day Padma has difficulties concentrating at work. The floor her co-workers and she have been given for their project is far under ground level and even though Padma normally doesn’t think much about the dark atmosphere of her office and the other rooms on Floor Minus Four, the darkness only makes it harder not to let her thoughts drift. Time and again she finds herself absorbed by the sounds of the University, the bustling in the hallways above her head and the voices of the occupants of the nearby rooms. At noon she has yet to finish the sentence in “Wisdom of Vishnu” that she started reading when she arrived at nine o’clock.
Reminding herself that there’s nothing she can do, besides going with Lavender when she has an appointment at St. Mungo’s again Wednesday and hope that the Healers will soon figure something out (avoiding to think about what will happen if they don’t - it’s not even an option; they have to), she snaps the book shut. Suddenly Indian mythology and religion seems so unimportant. Padma has always hated not knowing, it is what got her placed in Ravenclaw in the first place and no matter how much she craves knowledge on every subject that exists, right now she feels that gibberish spellwork from mythological time is pointless. Lavender is going to die and Padma does not even know what it is that is going to kill her.
When Hermione opens the door, Padma is heading for the coat rack and the bushy-haired woman stops in the doorway, three long scrolls of parchment under one arm, her other hand resting on the door handle. “Oh,” she says, eyes going from the closed book on Padma’s desk to the cloak that Padma is about to grab, “leaving early today, Padma?”
Hermione joined the team a few weeks after the Ministry had given Padma dispensation to start the Hindu Spell research team. Padma had thought she would work on most of it alone, maybe with a secretary or two to help out with archiving, but since it was personal interest that had got her started she hadn’t counted on others finding this field of magic very interesting. Nevertheless, one day Hermione had stood before her desk, wanting in and today they are 20 people, spread out on three main offices with Padma as the Head and Hermione as Chief Supervisor. Apparently she wasn’t alone.
“Yes, I am,” Padma answers a little hesitantly, feeling off-balance, “I have some… things to research… at home.” Cursing herself for stuttering, she watches Hermione nod and turn around.
“I had hoped you would translate these for me. Newly discovered documents from the early Goddess Durga sects…” Hermione tells her in a teasing tone of voice, shaking one of the parchment scrolls temptingly and Padma would have been intrigued, had she had the energy to focus on any other feelings than the ones centred on Lavender being sick. Hermione gives her an investigating look and when she sees the expression (a mix of hopelessness and fatigue) on Padma’s face, she shrugs and gives her an encouraging smile, quickly adding: “Don’t worry about it, Padma. I’ll just let Jeevan have a look at them instead.”
Padma feels a rush of gratitude, taking her cloak and following Hermione out the door. As she stops in front of the lift, however, she turns on her heel, calling to the other girl: “Hey, Hermione!” Hermione comes to a halt, glancing at Padma questioningly as she turns around to face her. Feeling a bit foolish, Padma cocks her head with a shy smile.
“I wondered if I could borrow your library ticket… for the Muggle part of Oxford library?”
Raising an eyebrow, Hermione nods. Padma decides she doesn’t have to answer the enquiry evident in Hermione’s gaze as she hands her the small plastic card. It is still only a matter between Lavender and she… actually, when she thinks about it, Padma realises it is maybe even only Lavender’s business because Lavender only entrusted her with the information, which means that Padma giving it to others would be flat-out betrayal (it isn’t as if it is of anybody else’s concern, anyway, is it?).
Bodleian Library is the most beautiful building Padma has seen outside India. Ever since she moved to town she has been fascinated by the old library, especially by the round tower construction that is so distinguishable from the surrounding buildings. Of course she has been inside it, just to steal a look of all the six million books (and it is just as beautiful on the inside as on the outside, like walking right back into Hogwarts library, just with different books), but she has never borrowed a single one. Why should she? She doesn’t read Muggle books and there’s a Wizarding library on the first hidden floor under the University that she can make use of in relation to her work.
Standing in front of the reception desks, however, Padma is not sure she actually wants to borrow any book at all. The librarian closest to her looks stern and with a bun on her head tighter than even Professor McGonagall’s was.
“Yes, may I help you?” she asks when she eyes Padma, standing awkwardly on the other side of the desk. Padma clears her throat slightly uncomfortably before leaning forward, planting both hands on the tabletop. She needs to do this; both for her own and for Lavender’s fault. As far as she knows, they seem to have a fight in front of them and it is a fight they have no choice but to win (because they can’t afford to lose it; Padma is not willing to pay the price). The only weapon Padma can think of using now is knowledge - because that is the weapon she has always been best at handling (“A child of Rowena,” the Hat had told her, “no doubt about it. RAVENCLAW!”)
“I would like to find some material on HIV and AIDS,” she begins and the librarian types something on her… the thing, Lavender once told her was called a computer (it reminds Padma of a television, but according to Lavender it has a more complex operational system and a whole palette of functions).
“For scientific or personal purposes?” the librarian questions, her fingers tapping the keyboard with an irritated, quick rhythm. She looks at Padma over the top of her round glasses, her eyebrows raised, making her look even more like an impatient school-teacher.
“Eh,” Padma replies. She has not felt this stupid since Divination in third year. Does it really matter for what purpose she is reading the books?
Apparently the librarian thinks it does, because she rolls her eyes and mutters something about “newbies today, honestly; completely clueless as to what is going on around them” before specifying in a mock patient and rather patronizing voice that Padma doesn’t like at all: “Are you going to use the books as material for a paper or simply for an overall view?” Padma feels the sudden urge to hit either herself or the lady in front of her (it’s not supposed to be this hard finding a bloody book).
“An overall view, thank you,” she gets out through gritted teeth, the last two words dripping with sarcasm.
The librarian leads her to one of the modern parts of the library, giving her a stack of books before sending her off towards a row of desks with reading lamps attached to the side and soft chairs to sit in. Idly Padma thinks that desks like these would have been great in Hogwarts’ library - the perfect little oases for studying (though she is pretty sure that Lavender would either sigh melodramatically or scoff at the sight).
Padma looks around with a furtive glance when the librarian nods towards the nearest desk and chair before returning to the reception desk at the entrance of the library. A couple of men are sitting next to each other at one of the desks further down the row, pointing to sentences in the enormous book in front of them while whispering to each other in hushed voices, one of them taking notes from time to time. A black/white movie of happiness plays over and over in Padma’s head as she tries to imagine visiting this library every day as a University student (it is something close to Nirvana, to Paradise and every other ideal world ever created - to Padma, at least).
With a heavy sigh she puts her books on the desk and sits down, leafing through the first book without knowing what she is looking for. She wants to know what is wrong with Lavender, because the short explanation she got the night before did nothing to help her understanding. Leaning over the book (a thick volume called “Diseases of the 20th Century”), Padma acknowledges the feeling inside of her, the urge that makes her fingertips tickle. She wants to prove Lavender wrong; she wants to find a book (a page, a line) that tells her that there is a cure (that Lavender can go back to normal without Padma’s perfect life being ruined).
The index leads her to chapter 35, called “HIV and AIDS, Development of the Disease.” As always time and space disappears around Padma as she reads. Her surroundings are suddenly less important than these strange, new words which meaning is somewhat vague to her and everything else she has ever learned seems to be pushed back in her mind, making space for this fresh knowledge (this entirely new science, this sudden understanding).
The minutes (the hours) tick by as a whole new universe opens up to Padma. The two men further down the row of desks eventually close their book, stop discussing whatever they were discussing in the first place and leave their seats. The librarian walks past her more than once, giving her a sour look without Padma noticing, because in her mind HIV blooms and turns into AIDS that finally (finally) turns into a complex appreciation of what it means.
Words like retrovirus, CD4+ T cells, cellular immunity, opportunistic infections and transmission build up a shield around her that puts a cliff between her and reality (even though, to Lavender this must be the most relevant reality of all, and it hurts Padma to realise - but she can’t not think about it; she won’t). The professors in medicine that hide behind their fancy names in the beginning of every article write about body functions stopping when HIV turns into AIDS, they talk about the immune system giving up when enough damage has been done; they share personal stories about years and days with HIV, give out names on people who only lived mere weeks with fully developed AIDS before dying. Their long and academic explanations soothe Padma, even though there is no promise or guarantee of a happy end in their long, on-going sentences. Simply because she all of a sudden knows things that she didn’t know before their words absorb her until she feels ready to burst from all the new inputs.
However, when she mouths the word antiretroviral therapy her heart stops beating and the cliff between her and reality shrinks into an irrelevant nothingness. Padma leans back in her chair, her fingers brushing over the two printed words carefully as if they would disappear in case she were to touch them with too much force (therapy means treatment, treatment means improvement and improvement means cure). Taking a deep breath, Padma finds the glossary in the back of the book, excitement making her feel too warm despite of the coolness among the shelves of books.
With a trembling finger she follows the lines of the long clarification on antiretroviral therapy, but in the end Padma never reads further than the first couple of sentences:
“Antiretroviral drugs are medications for the treatment of infections by retroviruses, primarily HIV. Different classes of antiviral drugs act at different stages of the HIV life cycle. Combination of several (typically three or four) antiretroviral drugs is known as Highly Active Anti-Retroviral Therapy (HAART).”
She has snapped the book shut and found Hermione’s library ticket before her eyes have reached and recognized the last full stop. The words on this page are exactly what she has been looking for (hoped for, prayed for - even though she has no faith to speak of). There is a treatment (there is a cure). Padma staggers to the reception desk, her head swarming with the possibilities of this explanation. It means that Lavender can be saved and right now that is all Padma needs to know (everything else is beside the point).
… Because there’s hope.
“Lavender!” she yells when she gets home half an hour later, throwing her robe into the arms of the waiting hall tree. Padma toes off her boots quickly and violently, almost falling through the tiny hallway in her exhilaration.
Lavender is sitting in the office next to the living room, writing on the next day’s column for the Daily Prophet (“Lavender’s Cup of Tea”), a daily foreseeing of the next 24 hours’ general events (she always uses the simple, black cup for those readings).
When Lavender had got the job a year ago, Padma had felt pretty assured that it would only take a couple of weeks before people realised the future can’t be found at the bottom of a teacup, but against all expectation Lavender had quickly become the most read contributor to the Daily Prophet. She takes her job very seriously and in some ways Padma knows it is because her readers give her the acknowledgement Padma has a hard time showing when it comes to her skills in divination.
“Lavender…” Leaning against the doorframe, Padma repeats the name in a softer tone, gently and quietly - pouring her runaway heartbeat into the careful and well-known pronunciation. Her breathing is erratic and the book is held close to her chest as she waits for Lavender’s quill (peacock tail feather, Padma bought it as a gift once when she’d went to India with her parents) to stop moving.
After a couple of silent minutes, Lavender dots the final full stop and pushes the parchment aside, turning to look at Padma over her shoulder. Their eyes meet and suddenly the words are bubbling like lava in Padma’s throat, craving to be spilled from her lips because all the distress and the fear that has been inside her since Lavender told her is slowly dying away (they haven’t lost yet).
The sentence in her head comes out differently than she had imagined it, but the look on Lavender’s face as she speaks makes it insignificant. Holding the book out in triumph, Padma says in something that could be a whisper (perhaps if it’s said too loudly, Fate will be vengeful): “Lavender, there is medicine. There’s treatment.”
Next Part
Finally I can present you with my most recent piece of writing. This fanfic is my baby. I have no words to describe how much I loved writing this and how fond I've grown of the characters. Therefore I hope that you'll like it too. Reviews will be loved and reviewers hugged and kissed. Nice, right? ;) Enjoy!
(Yes, dearies, I even made a banner, because I'm so in love.)
Title: A Is For…
Author: animimares
Beta: LunaMoon224, all remaining mistakes are my own.
Word Count: ~ 31.700
Pairing/Characters: Lavender/Padma, mentions of Parvati/Seamus plus hints of Padma/OFC and Lavender/OMC and you’ll meet Hermione as well.
Rating: Oops.. *blushes* Forgot this the first time around. Mmm, light R.
Warnings: AIDS-themes, character death, angst.
Summary: Life lay open before their feet, but then everything changed…“Padma,” Lavender says - voice tiny and sort of broken - and the use of her given name convinces Padma that she will not like to hear whatever Lavender has to say, because Lavender never calls her Padma unless she is angry or scared, “I’m HIV-positive.”
Author’s Notes: This piece of fiction means a lot to me. The information in between the scenes is taken from wikipedia’s article on AIDS and therefore none of it is something I’ve made up. The lyrics in the end of the story belong to the makers of RENT the Musical which I love very dearly. Also, due to the length restrictions on LJ this story will be posted in five parts.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Potterverse. Anything you recognise, characters, places and events, is property of JK Rowling and everybody in relation to her publishing. I am only playing around in a genius’ sandbox. Forgive me.
Dedication: I dedicate this to juwely_d because she’s my muse in everything I do. Thanks for existing, dear.
~*~
1. Awareness
Approximately half of those infected with HIV do not know their HIV status until an AIDS diagnosis is made with an HIV test.
~*~
Padma loves Oxford for its atmosphere - for the hundreds of ghosts lurking in the corners of every building and in the shadows of every street. She loves Oxford for its University, its colleges, its library and for its history - for the thousands of small details that you have to deliberately look for to notice. Most of all, however, Padma loves Oxford for the life it has given her - the job of her dreams in the hidden parts of the University, reserved for Wizarding use, though the hallways are walked by Muggles as well, and the big flat of her dreams with both an office and a spare room that they still need to get fixed up. Padma loves Oxford, because Oxford has given her everything she could ever want (including Lavender).
Of course, if anyone had told her five years ago that she would end up with Lavender Brown of all people, Padma would probably have laughed out loud and told them they were closed ward material. Back then she had viewed Lavender as Parvati’s headache through and through and spent as little time with her as possible, quite simply because they had nothing in common (on the surface). After finishing school, one year late due to the war, Padma took a master degree in Ancient Spell Research and Development while Lavender (along with Parvati) started studying divination. Padma could not think of anyone she had less in common with than Lavender Brown. Five years ago…
Now she is twenty-five (she’s five years older), starting her second year as Head of the Mythological Hindu Spell Development Project (also known as the Gibberish Project to most outsiders) and Lavender and her have shared an apartment for almost two years; been girlfriends for almost three. All in all Padma thinks she is entitled to label herself “happy.”
Rounding the corner of their street, she starts loosening her tie, already looking forward to an early dinner and some quality time in front of the special-designed fireplace in their living room, probably watching Lavender write on tomorrow’s column. It is daily life as Padma prefers it, quiet and companionable with a good shag thrown in here and there. They have their routine and they have the caresses, the kisses and the sex, mixed up in a colourful blend of days passing by - almost unnoticed.
The building they live in is one of the solemn, reddish-brown brick villas from the late 19th century, with dark green shutters and ivy on the walls. Each storey has been lent out as a private apartment to those willing to pay the (admittedly high) price. Newly renovated and located in the “good” end of the city it is indeed not a cheap place to live, but Lavender had wanted no other home and Padma must admit that she has grown quite fond of the place as well. It is romantic and cosy - they even have their own ghost in the kitchen; an elderly lady who comes around at dinnertime to guide Padma through the most terrific recipes and (even though Padma was always a disastrous cook) the meals end up a great success every time Ursula helps her out. Lavender finds this fact hilarious and never misses a chance to point out that if Padma had to do it on her own, they would eat take-out every day.
They live on the first floor and Padma has gotten used to the staircase that is as staircases are most often in old houses. She ascends it in ten fast but careful steps, stopping in front of their door which is made of dark mahogany with the doormat (reading “Your arrival was foreseen” which is a joke on Padma’s part) lying neatly in front of the sill.
“I’m home,” she calls out as she opens the door, shrugging out of her University Cloak and handing it to the charmed hall tree, which takes it with an elegant bow. No one answers her, so Padma frowns. “Lavender?”
In the kitchen she only finds Ursula, sitting at the kitchen table, playing her eternal patience (she has always refused to tell them how she died). She looks up when Padma walks in, her wrinkled, transparent face more grave than normally, her faded, grey eyes somehow melancholic and sad.
“In her chamber,” she says in her raspy, hoarse voice and Padma gets the chilling feeling that something is very, very wrong.
Sighing, she makes her way through the living room, heading for Lavender’s special room that they have arranged on the small, glass-wall balcony until they find the time to finish the spare room. Opening the door and pushing aside the dark velvet curtain, she is careful not to step on any of Lavender’s pillows (from India, a gift from Padma’s mother when she found out that Lavender was Padma’s girlfriend) strewn across the stone floor.
“Hi,” she says, eyeing Lavender who is sitting in the corner with her teacup (today it is the one with the golden edge, Lavender’s personal cup - she is not reading leaves on behalf of the Prophet), writing notes on a long scroll of parchment next to her.
“Hey,” Lavender greets without looking up.
Padma doesn’t move, waiting for Lavender to ask her to leave - something she often does when she is reading tealeaves. She says it is because Padma’s vibes distract her, making it hard to concentrate, but Padma feels fairly convinced that it has more to do with Lavender’s ego. Divination is an element of her life that Padma will never really understand, simply because she has never believed in it. She fully accepts Lavender’s interest in her field of work and even has a grudging respect for the fierce faith Lavender shows in her own skills, but she does not really believe in fortunetelling.
Finally, after some ever-lasting seconds in which Lavender refuses to look up from her cup and acknowledge Padma’s presence, Padma utters an irritated sound, wondering if it is simply just that time of month or if maybe she has forgotten their 32nd month anniversary or some other stupid occasion that Lavender always insists that they celebrate.
“I’ll go make dinner,” she says, her tone snappier than she had intended.
“No, Padime,” Padime is the nickname Lavender has given her - in the beginning Padma hated it, but now she has come to realise that it is just Lavender’s way of showing affection, nothing else (nothing offensively silly), “wait!”
Padma turns back, meeting Lavender’s aquamarine-blue eyes. The cup with the golden rim is resting in Lavender’s lap, her fingers gripping it so hard that her fingertips are almost bluish white. Noticing how very bright her eyes are, Padma realises that the feeling she got in the kitchen wasn’t wrong. Something is wrong and the way Lavender’s usually smiling lips are trembling tells her that she should prepare herself for very bad news.
“What’s wrong?” Padma asks, making her way among the pillows to the small armchair that Lavender is leaning back against, hidden away in the corner. Lavender moves over, motioning for her to sit down.
They sit in silence for some time, Padma waiting for Lavender to make the first move. Lavender is still holding onto her cup, tipping it ever so often to one side or the other, gazing down upon the dregs in the bottom. “You remember the waning moon I told you about last month, the one in one of my readings that I couldn’t seem to interpret?” Lavender starts out by asking. Padma nods, because she actually does recall that particular event. It doesn’t happen often that Lavender turns to her with what she sees in her tealeaves, so when she actually does, Padma is bound to notice.
One evening some weeks ago Lavender had complained over dinner that she had seen a waning moon in her cup, but she couldn’t make sense of it because a waning moon had the general meaning of danger and combined with sword and maiden (not because Padma had any idea what those meant) it was a sign that something was taking over her life and she couldn’t find out what it was (everything is exactly as usual, Padma remembers her saying). Padma had held back a sarcastic reply about how divination generally didn’t make sense and they hadn’t talked about it since - before now.
“I went to St. Mungo’s today,” Lavender continues and Padma turns her head, eyes widening. She had no idea that Lavender had not been feeling well. Why hadn’t she told her? Lavender shrugs, sending her an apologetic look, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder. She always wears it loose when she is doing her daily reading of tealeaves (something about freeing herself) and Padma normally finds it kind of endearing.
“I’ve had some weird headaches lately,” Lavender explains, answering Padma’s unvoiced question. “Nothing too bad. I’ve been dizzy, too, and Madam Malady’s Potions didn’t help so I figured I should get someone to check on it for me.”
Another silence falls between them and Padma can feel her heart beat in her chest; a quick bump bump bump and she imagines how it pumps her blood around her body, her skin prickling from the sensation and her palms growing sweaty. The pure thought of something being wrong with Lavender (her Lavender) is enough to make her feel choked up and panicked (Lavender calls her a control-freak).
Lavender is staring into space, seemingly lost in her own trail of thought, making her look young and vulnerable. A hurtful and yet wonderful feeling swells in Padma’s chest at the sight and she feels like taking Lavender in her arms and telling her that she will never ever let anything happen to her; never ever let anything harm her.
Taking a deep breath, Lavender puts the cup on the low table next to the armchair, turning to face Padma fully. She has a look of determination on her face and every single move of her body, from her hands that are curled into fists to the tight line of her carefully glossed lips, speaks of her having made a final decision. For a moment, Padma feels almost afraid of this sudden show of self-control (Lavender is soft - soft laughter, soft giggling, soft smiles, soft curves, and soft kisses).
“Padma,” she says - voice tiny and sort of broken - and the use of her given name convinces Padma that she will not like to hear whatever Lavender has to say, because Lavender never calls her Padma unless she is angry or scared, “I’m HIV-positive.”
Padma shakes her head, trying to make sense of what Lavender has just told her. She has never heard that word before (HIV-positive) and it holds no meaning to her whatsoever. She frowns, trying to figure out what HIV is an abbreviation of; thousands of possibilities running through her head (Health-Invading Vibration? Hostile Infection-Vermin? Headache-Increasing Venom?), but none of the words seem right. Her inner Ravenclaw is somehow detached from the scenario - that Lavender is ill, though she looks perfectly healthy - and instead feels irritated and a bit humiliated by the fact that there is something she doesn’t know.
Looking up, she meets Lavender’s apprehensive gaze, feeling stupid because she has no idea how to react. How is she supposed to feel about an illness she has never heard about before?
“How bad is it?” she finally questions when the quiet between them has become loaded with tension and uneasiness, Lavender’s hands curling and uncurling until Padma can’t stand watching the constant movement and reaches out to entwine their fingers. She has always appreciated the difference in skin colour. She is dark brown, where Lavender is milky white and the contrast intrigues her feel of aesthetics.
Lavender’s eyes widen in surprise and her fingers tighten around Padma’s as she asks: “You don’t know what HIV is? Haven’t you heard about AIDS?”
Thankful that it is hard to tell when she is blushing, Padma shakes her head slightly, eyes never leaving Lavender’s.
Biting her lip, Lavender draws back, her hands coming to a rest in her lap and Padma lets her, because she can sense that she needs the distance (some minutes to herself). Instead of reaching out and stroking Lavender’s thigh - which is what she feels like doing - Padma climbs up in the armchair, leaning back into the comfort and soft warmth. Having to wait for Lavender to tell her what HIV is makes her feel desperate, useless and frustrated. She tries to place the illness in some kind of context, comparing it to things she knows about (Unforgivables, normal illnesses that a Healer can cure in seconds, just about anything really), but it doesn’t make her feel any better.
“It is a Muggle virus. It… attacks the immune system until it stops functioning properly.”
Lavender’s voice startles Padma out of her thoughts and she turns her attention back to her girlfriend who is resting her chin on Padma’s knee, looking up at her with wide, sad eyes. “The Healer told me that there were no recorded cases of wizards with HIV… well, before me, that is.” She pauses and Padma uses seconds of uncertainty to file this new information away in the back of her mind. This is the reason she has not heard about it before. Her family is of an old, Indian Pureblood lineage - even though she has got a more in-depth look into the Muggle world while living in Oxford, she’s still got great holes in her knowledge about everything Muggle. However, not having other cases to work from is never a good thing when it comes to treating illnesses; that much she knows.
“What cures are there?” she asks when Lavender remains quiet. Lavender looks away and it is in that moment something inside Padma breaks (her heart).
“There is no cure for AIDS, Padime,” she answers, her eyes filling with tears, and Padma feels her heart beating so hard that it physically hurts, something black and all-consuming filling her up from the inside.
“What?” she whispers.
“In the end AIDS will destroy the immune system to the point where a common cold can kill you,” Lavender says, finally meeting Padma’s eyes again, the tears catching in her eyelashes before running down her cheeks. Her fingers grip hold of Padma’s (whose palms are hot and sweaty from terror) as if to make sure she won’t run off even though that is probably the last thing on Padma’s mind right now.
Trying to catch her breath, she feels how the steady hold she always has on her magic is slipping, finally snapping as Padma gives in to the unbearable pain inside of her and the cup on the table next to her (Lavender’s favourite, personal cup, the one with the golden rim) splinters, the pieces falling to the floor like clumps of hard snow.
~*~
2. HIV/AIDS
Humane Immunodeficiency Virus/Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome
~*~
The following day Padma has difficulties concentrating at work. The floor her co-workers and she have been given for their project is far under ground level and even though Padma normally doesn’t think much about the dark atmosphere of her office and the other rooms on Floor Minus Four, the darkness only makes it harder not to let her thoughts drift. Time and again she finds herself absorbed by the sounds of the University, the bustling in the hallways above her head and the voices of the occupants of the nearby rooms. At noon she has yet to finish the sentence in “Wisdom of Vishnu” that she started reading when she arrived at nine o’clock.
Reminding herself that there’s nothing she can do, besides going with Lavender when she has an appointment at St. Mungo’s again Wednesday and hope that the Healers will soon figure something out (avoiding to think about what will happen if they don’t - it’s not even an option; they have to), she snaps the book shut. Suddenly Indian mythology and religion seems so unimportant. Padma has always hated not knowing, it is what got her placed in Ravenclaw in the first place and no matter how much she craves knowledge on every subject that exists, right now she feels that gibberish spellwork from mythological time is pointless. Lavender is going to die and Padma does not even know what it is that is going to kill her.
When Hermione opens the door, Padma is heading for the coat rack and the bushy-haired woman stops in the doorway, three long scrolls of parchment under one arm, her other hand resting on the door handle. “Oh,” she says, eyes going from the closed book on Padma’s desk to the cloak that Padma is about to grab, “leaving early today, Padma?”
Hermione joined the team a few weeks after the Ministry had given Padma dispensation to start the Hindu Spell research team. Padma had thought she would work on most of it alone, maybe with a secretary or two to help out with archiving, but since it was personal interest that had got her started she hadn’t counted on others finding this field of magic very interesting. Nevertheless, one day Hermione had stood before her desk, wanting in and today they are 20 people, spread out on three main offices with Padma as the Head and Hermione as Chief Supervisor. Apparently she wasn’t alone.
“Yes, I am,” Padma answers a little hesitantly, feeling off-balance, “I have some… things to research… at home.” Cursing herself for stuttering, she watches Hermione nod and turn around.
“I had hoped you would translate these for me. Newly discovered documents from the early Goddess Durga sects…” Hermione tells her in a teasing tone of voice, shaking one of the parchment scrolls temptingly and Padma would have been intrigued, had she had the energy to focus on any other feelings than the ones centred on Lavender being sick. Hermione gives her an investigating look and when she sees the expression (a mix of hopelessness and fatigue) on Padma’s face, she shrugs and gives her an encouraging smile, quickly adding: “Don’t worry about it, Padma. I’ll just let Jeevan have a look at them instead.”
Padma feels a rush of gratitude, taking her cloak and following Hermione out the door. As she stops in front of the lift, however, she turns on her heel, calling to the other girl: “Hey, Hermione!” Hermione comes to a halt, glancing at Padma questioningly as she turns around to face her. Feeling a bit foolish, Padma cocks her head with a shy smile.
“I wondered if I could borrow your library ticket… for the Muggle part of Oxford library?”
Raising an eyebrow, Hermione nods. Padma decides she doesn’t have to answer the enquiry evident in Hermione’s gaze as she hands her the small plastic card. It is still only a matter between Lavender and she… actually, when she thinks about it, Padma realises it is maybe even only Lavender’s business because Lavender only entrusted her with the information, which means that Padma giving it to others would be flat-out betrayal (it isn’t as if it is of anybody else’s concern, anyway, is it?).
Bodleian Library is the most beautiful building Padma has seen outside India. Ever since she moved to town she has been fascinated by the old library, especially by the round tower construction that is so distinguishable from the surrounding buildings. Of course she has been inside it, just to steal a look of all the six million books (and it is just as beautiful on the inside as on the outside, like walking right back into Hogwarts library, just with different books), but she has never borrowed a single one. Why should she? She doesn’t read Muggle books and there’s a Wizarding library on the first hidden floor under the University that she can make use of in relation to her work.
Standing in front of the reception desks, however, Padma is not sure she actually wants to borrow any book at all. The librarian closest to her looks stern and with a bun on her head tighter than even Professor McGonagall’s was.
“Yes, may I help you?” she asks when she eyes Padma, standing awkwardly on the other side of the desk. Padma clears her throat slightly uncomfortably before leaning forward, planting both hands on the tabletop. She needs to do this; both for her own and for Lavender’s fault. As far as she knows, they seem to have a fight in front of them and it is a fight they have no choice but to win (because they can’t afford to lose it; Padma is not willing to pay the price). The only weapon Padma can think of using now is knowledge - because that is the weapon she has always been best at handling (“A child of Rowena,” the Hat had told her, “no doubt about it. RAVENCLAW!”)
“I would like to find some material on HIV and AIDS,” she begins and the librarian types something on her… the thing, Lavender once told her was called a computer (it reminds Padma of a television, but according to Lavender it has a more complex operational system and a whole palette of functions).
“For scientific or personal purposes?” the librarian questions, her fingers tapping the keyboard with an irritated, quick rhythm. She looks at Padma over the top of her round glasses, her eyebrows raised, making her look even more like an impatient school-teacher.
“Eh,” Padma replies. She has not felt this stupid since Divination in third year. Does it really matter for what purpose she is reading the books?
Apparently the librarian thinks it does, because she rolls her eyes and mutters something about “newbies today, honestly; completely clueless as to what is going on around them” before specifying in a mock patient and rather patronizing voice that Padma doesn’t like at all: “Are you going to use the books as material for a paper or simply for an overall view?” Padma feels the sudden urge to hit either herself or the lady in front of her (it’s not supposed to be this hard finding a bloody book).
“An overall view, thank you,” she gets out through gritted teeth, the last two words dripping with sarcasm.
The librarian leads her to one of the modern parts of the library, giving her a stack of books before sending her off towards a row of desks with reading lamps attached to the side and soft chairs to sit in. Idly Padma thinks that desks like these would have been great in Hogwarts’ library - the perfect little oases for studying (though she is pretty sure that Lavender would either sigh melodramatically or scoff at the sight).
Padma looks around with a furtive glance when the librarian nods towards the nearest desk and chair before returning to the reception desk at the entrance of the library. A couple of men are sitting next to each other at one of the desks further down the row, pointing to sentences in the enormous book in front of them while whispering to each other in hushed voices, one of them taking notes from time to time. A black/white movie of happiness plays over and over in Padma’s head as she tries to imagine visiting this library every day as a University student (it is something close to Nirvana, to Paradise and every other ideal world ever created - to Padma, at least).
With a heavy sigh she puts her books on the desk and sits down, leafing through the first book without knowing what she is looking for. She wants to know what is wrong with Lavender, because the short explanation she got the night before did nothing to help her understanding. Leaning over the book (a thick volume called “Diseases of the 20th Century”), Padma acknowledges the feeling inside of her, the urge that makes her fingertips tickle. She wants to prove Lavender wrong; she wants to find a book (a page, a line) that tells her that there is a cure (that Lavender can go back to normal without Padma’s perfect life being ruined).
The index leads her to chapter 35, called “HIV and AIDS, Development of the Disease.” As always time and space disappears around Padma as she reads. Her surroundings are suddenly less important than these strange, new words which meaning is somewhat vague to her and everything else she has ever learned seems to be pushed back in her mind, making space for this fresh knowledge (this entirely new science, this sudden understanding).
The minutes (the hours) tick by as a whole new universe opens up to Padma. The two men further down the row of desks eventually close their book, stop discussing whatever they were discussing in the first place and leave their seats. The librarian walks past her more than once, giving her a sour look without Padma noticing, because in her mind HIV blooms and turns into AIDS that finally (finally) turns into a complex appreciation of what it means.
Words like retrovirus, CD4+ T cells, cellular immunity, opportunistic infections and transmission build up a shield around her that puts a cliff between her and reality (even though, to Lavender this must be the most relevant reality of all, and it hurts Padma to realise - but she can’t not think about it; she won’t). The professors in medicine that hide behind their fancy names in the beginning of every article write about body functions stopping when HIV turns into AIDS, they talk about the immune system giving up when enough damage has been done; they share personal stories about years and days with HIV, give out names on people who only lived mere weeks with fully developed AIDS before dying. Their long and academic explanations soothe Padma, even though there is no promise or guarantee of a happy end in their long, on-going sentences. Simply because she all of a sudden knows things that she didn’t know before their words absorb her until she feels ready to burst from all the new inputs.
However, when she mouths the word antiretroviral therapy her heart stops beating and the cliff between her and reality shrinks into an irrelevant nothingness. Padma leans back in her chair, her fingers brushing over the two printed words carefully as if they would disappear in case she were to touch them with too much force (therapy means treatment, treatment means improvement and improvement means cure). Taking a deep breath, Padma finds the glossary in the back of the book, excitement making her feel too warm despite of the coolness among the shelves of books.
With a trembling finger she follows the lines of the long clarification on antiretroviral therapy, but in the end Padma never reads further than the first couple of sentences:
“Antiretroviral drugs are medications for the treatment of infections by retroviruses, primarily HIV. Different classes of antiviral drugs act at different stages of the HIV life cycle. Combination of several (typically three or four) antiretroviral drugs is known as Highly Active Anti-Retroviral Therapy (HAART).”
She has snapped the book shut and found Hermione’s library ticket before her eyes have reached and recognized the last full stop. The words on this page are exactly what she has been looking for (hoped for, prayed for - even though she has no faith to speak of). There is a treatment (there is a cure). Padma staggers to the reception desk, her head swarming with the possibilities of this explanation. It means that Lavender can be saved and right now that is all Padma needs to know (everything else is beside the point).
… Because there’s hope.
“Lavender!” she yells when she gets home half an hour later, throwing her robe into the arms of the waiting hall tree. Padma toes off her boots quickly and violently, almost falling through the tiny hallway in her exhilaration.
Lavender is sitting in the office next to the living room, writing on the next day’s column for the Daily Prophet (“Lavender’s Cup of Tea”), a daily foreseeing of the next 24 hours’ general events (she always uses the simple, black cup for those readings).
When Lavender had got the job a year ago, Padma had felt pretty assured that it would only take a couple of weeks before people realised the future can’t be found at the bottom of a teacup, but against all expectation Lavender had quickly become the most read contributor to the Daily Prophet. She takes her job very seriously and in some ways Padma knows it is because her readers give her the acknowledgement Padma has a hard time showing when it comes to her skills in divination.
“Lavender…” Leaning against the doorframe, Padma repeats the name in a softer tone, gently and quietly - pouring her runaway heartbeat into the careful and well-known pronunciation. Her breathing is erratic and the book is held close to her chest as she waits for Lavender’s quill (peacock tail feather, Padma bought it as a gift once when she’d went to India with her parents) to stop moving.
After a couple of silent minutes, Lavender dots the final full stop and pushes the parchment aside, turning to look at Padma over her shoulder. Their eyes meet and suddenly the words are bubbling like lava in Padma’s throat, craving to be spilled from her lips because all the distress and the fear that has been inside her since Lavender told her is slowly dying away (they haven’t lost yet).
The sentence in her head comes out differently than she had imagined it, but the look on Lavender’s face as she speaks makes it insignificant. Holding the book out in triumph, Padma says in something that could be a whisper (perhaps if it’s said too loudly, Fate will be vengeful): “Lavender, there is medicine. There’s treatment.”
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