Fic: Judas (Padma Patil/Theodore Nott)
Title: Judas
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Padma Patil, Theodore Nott
Word Count 1031
Author's Note: alsoknownas gave me a plot bunny. Actually, she gave me quite a few, and I finished two of them. This one is the more WTF of the two. Idea: Take your character and put them in a Post Apocalyptic World. Ie., Voldemort wins. Well, in a post apocalyptic world, Harry would most likely be dead, or stripped of his powers (and GAH, the PLOT BUNNIES FOR THAT), so I took Padma and did this:

The raids were methodical and exacting. By now, Padma knew what to expect. The house in Liverpool had been foraged through so many times that she'd taken to organizing it in the most efficient manner for them. The less time the Light Detectors spent in her home, the better. They always trifled through her books.

With her legs tucked beneath her, Padma glanced over the top of the book balancing in her lap, expressionless. It was better when one didn't show them the slightest bit worried. The hooded figures did their job, and she, certainly, understood how these things worked; after all, she'd seen the paperwork. Hell, she'd filed it. That didn't stop the Light Detectors from traipsing into her home once a month.

In the beginning, there had been nervousness. There had never been anything to hide, but those invasions would last for days. Her house had been left in shambles. It was those times when she was most grateful that she was a pureblood whose magic had not been stripped away.

It also helped that sympathy was not something that Padma Patil gave anymore.

Sure, it was hard for a moment when Parvati had been dragged away from her, kicking and screaming against the Dementors until she'd slacked in their grasp, submitting to poisonous thoughts and horrified memories. One would have thought the creatures had overcome Padma as well.

But they had, in a way, for it was Padma who turned her own sister in. It was an agreement she'd made with an old friend. He'd spare her from being experimented on, if she turned in bigger fish than the witch who'd created some of the brutal curses and hexes that His Death Eaters were suffering from. One by one, Potter's allies were mysteriously taken from their Unplottable locations.

She'd become something of a war hero or a cautionary tale, depending on one's skewed version of events. Padma would just say she was just too greedy, too tired, too scared, too angry to have committed to a side. That was the one thing about Ravenclaws; wit and learning wasn't a personality trait. Not like all the rest of the Houses.

War was waste. The sooner it was over, the better, and that was her motto.

Waste was the filth in Diagon Alley these days. Filth was the broken Light forces, wading in their own stink. They could have risen above it, saved a little of their pride, but not one of them thought that turning their backside on the Light was a suitable way of life. Padma thought it was Elysium.

Once she'd fallen into lassitude, Theodore Nott had proved himself to be quite the ally.

She never read that book anymore. It was the only book in the house she might have been worried about, if she didn't have the proper paperwork for it. Theodore had made sure of that. A compendium of Shakespeare's written works had no place in a pureblood's home, but considering his kindness for it, he'd secured authorization. That coupled with his inscription (and signature) fastened her safety.

A lazy twist of her wand brought the paperwork into her hands. The Light Detectors were so predictable. Their alert sparks went off monthly. The same book, the same outcome, the same embarrassed muttering. Pardon me, Miss Patil, we didn't know you were intimate with Nott.

"I wouldn't call it intimate; I'd call it consorting."

No, Padma hadn't made sense in a long time, but it was for the best really. No one was in their right mind anymore. When ennui failed her, she always had dogma to steady her. Routines made her (non)life possible. Every day, it was the same: wake, work, sleep.

Oh, and she reread the Dark Lord's credenda. It was interesting, the manner of words He chose, and so she found herself returning to it over and over again. That was always when Theodore would appear.

Every night, it was the same, like clockwork. A loud Crack! always signaled his arrival, of course. No member of His Glitterati ever really sparkled, not when it counted anyway. They all had that strange glassy-eyed stare until the rush of green blitz seemed to make them come alive, and only then.

His face was always as vanilla as her shampoo. She wasn't fooled by his condition; it always started the same. Her soft words were contrasted by her clipped tones; his affections seemingly went undermined by the look in his eye. It was when she wrapped whispers around the Dark Lord's words that he seemed alive.

'It's only in your darkest hour, that you dream of Death. I have Overcome.'

And when Padma spoke the words, she sounded strangely dull, not at all like her former self. She stared at Theodore placidly until he dropped to his knees. Every time he'd appear, she knew another one of her former friends was dead. She also knew that Theodore had been the one dispatched to do it.

He didn't usually prostrate himself.

"Who was it this time?"

When there was no answer, Padma slowly sank to her knees. For the first time in years, Padma felt real fear. Her fingers went to his shoulder. He felt cold to the touch; he must have been up north. Up north meant…

"You didn't…"

There was still no reply, and that sinking feeling magnified. North meant Azkaban. Azkaban meant…

Parvati.

When he looked back up at her, his eyes were red. There was emotion there that hadn't been there in years. It was odd to her that he was looking at her so peculiarly. And when he put his arms around her, she felt him shuddering. Her eyes darted to the encyclopedia-sized book on the shelf.

Unsurprisingly, once the fear was gone, Padma couldn't feel anything.

She stiffened then, unlocking his embrace. She lifted his chin, forcing him to look at her again. Padma gave him a calm, calculating look. It was the same look she gave him she handed him the morning paperwork or his tea or gave him the location of another one of her former cohorts.

"Well, there's not much Light left, is there? I've done my job well."