A/N: Originally written for Amber's Pairing One Hour Challenge thingy on HPFC, which I failed spectacularly given this was supposed to be 1.5k in 2 hours and actually turned out as 1k in like a week. Listen. College is intense, yo.

Prompts are ParvatiLavender, the Rudy Francisco quote below, and the word "storm".

"Be with the one who makes you forget how terrified you are of falling in love."
–Rudy Francisco

Have you or have you not counted every single scar? Named each one for a body buried in the dirt? Have you or have you not followed the trail of your marred skin like a map, where X marks the husk of another fallen warrior? Have you or have you not let her walk the webbing of scars that cover you from neck to thigh with her cold and shaking fingers?

You are a survivor. You are a strong, beautiful, wretched body. A perfect ruin. Here is the thing, and here is the truth of it: she is love, and she is still here after all this time. After all this hurt. Now tell the girl she cannot have you. Tell her, recklessly, that you are supposed to be alone. You are supposed to be lonely. This body spells out the word in all its crisscross lines. You are supposed to be alone.

A lone wolf, moonlit and howling.

She has perfect teeth. She smiles often, is happy. Her gorgeous hair is plaited more often than not, pinned to her head in increasingly more intricate fashions. She has a tattoo of a feather just below her left shoulder blade. Her nails are always painted and she always smells of jasmine.

You were supposed to wear a white dress. The princess gown, with the sweetheart neckline and the plunging back. You were supposed to walk down the aisle and see your love in a black suit, white shirt, white smile, tears in his eyes. You were supposed to say I do and kiss him and love him til death do you part. You were supposed to take his name, give him children. You were supposed to let him hold you and protect you and keep you safe.

Every man who touches you in the months and years after wears Greyback's face. Snarling mouth, rotting yellow teeth. Gnarled and weathered face holding two lifeless grey eyes. Every man has your blood in his teeth.

But Parvati is so, so beautiful.

"Neville asked again."

"You should say yes. He's sweet."

"You know why I haven't said yes, Lavender."

Two mugs of tea, growing cold between them. Uneaten sandwiches. A thick, heavy silence.

"You should say yes."

Best friends share beds when the thunderstorms come. Best friends might even wrap their arms around one another in the dark, might even hold each other here in the dead of night. When the room flashes lightning white, you might find best friends playing lovers. Best friends don't kiss like this, you see. Best friends don't taste each other's sweetness, don't feel the softness of lips and skin and trailing fingers. Lovers… do. Lovers touch and stroke and reinvent the body as performance art, bring these bones and this skin and all of this lust to life, make them rage like thunder and throw fireworks at the lightning when it threatens to light up their secret shame. Lovers love.

Best friends roll away when the fireworks fizzle out and don't talk again til morning.

"You're right. He is sweet. Neville, that is."

"I told you so. And he's mad about you!"

"You know I don't want sweet."

"Parvati. Please."

"I don't. I never wanted sweet."

You are running out of excuses.

"I know. I'm sorry. I know."

Before all of this, what did you want? Who did you want?

What did you dream of when you were still pretty? When you could've had any boy? Who did you want? Dean had those dark, dark eyes, and Seamus had that Irish lilt, and Ron made you giggle uncontrollably. Harry was kind. Neville was sweet. Merlin, even Malfoy had that aristocratic fuck me stare.

But Parvati? God. Parvati was beautiful.

Long before you world fell apart, she was right there beside you, and she was as perfect then as she is now. She was as perfect then as she has always been, as loyal and as loving and as willing to break herself to hold you together.

You told her once that she was somebody's dream girl. You weren't ready to say she was yours.

Best friends don't only turn into lovers when the storm comes. Sometimes, best friends turn into lovers when the firewhiskey is hot on their tongues. Sometimes when one of them is crying and the other offers a comforting hug that turns into a comforting kiss that turns into another kind of comfort altogether.

Sometimes best friends turn into lovers in the morning for no reason at all, when the kettle whistles and she makes two cups of tea and gives you yours with a kiss on the forehead.

Sometimes, she says, "Nothing would change. I just want everyone to know, Lav."

Have you or have you not counted every single scar? Have you or have you not obsessed over this body and the aftermath it has become? Do you remember how hard it was to peel your clothes off for curious boys with wandering hands, but how your robe fell from your shoulders when she asked if she could see?

Do you remember what she said?

"Beautiful," she whispered softly. She ran her hands lightly across the damage and told it how gorgeous it really was, how special. "This one for Colin," she said, running her fingers across a short, thin line on your left hip. "This one for Professor Lupin," she said of a half-moon crescent on curve of your neck. "And his wife. And this for Fred. This one for Alicia's mum."

She stayed like that. For hours. Painting your survival as a memorial to the lost. Naming your body survivor, warrior, alive.

"This one for me," she said, and touched your lips with hers.

You love her. You have always, will always, love her.

You love her quietly. In the lulling moments where night fades into morning, you let yourself say the words to her sleeping body. She smiles in slumber as if she has heard you. A lover, you suppose, would run a pale hand across her warm cheek, would tuck stray strands of hair behind her ear.

Instead, you lie next to her, still as the morning air. You are not touching. You cannot feel it, but you know she is warm, and soft, and lovely. You know she smells of jasmine and sleep, that her bare legs are tangled in the sheet, that her arms will instinctively wrap around you if you get any closer.

So you don't. Not because you don't want to, but because you are too busy watching. Listening. The symphony of her breathing, her sighs. The rise and fall of her chest. Every twitch of limb. You are memorising. Cataloguing. Trying on all of these labels and seeing which one suits her most.

Best friend. Lover. Girlfriend. Wife.

Mine.

How terrifying, all of this, when all she is is Parvati. When all she needs to be is Parvati.

When she wakes, say this.

When she wakes, tell her.

The morning is sunlit. Golden. You are no longer howling.

"Good morning."

"I love you."

"Well, it's about time."