Firelight

I watched the firelight dancing on her skin and smiled for the first time that day. Of all the people I knew, Xiomara Hooch was the most amicable victim of the ravages of time. In fact, she didn't even seem to know, lying there in my soft, overstuffed chair, that time marched on, that age was crinkling at the corners of her youth, demanding without success acknowledgement from Madam Hooch of its dominance over all living things.

No, as I watched her sleeping in my most comfortable chair, feet curled behind her as she hugged the arm in a remarkably feline way, I felt certain Xiomara Hooch had a few choice opinions about the inevitability of age.

She was rapturous. I still couldn't believe the string of events that brought us here, so quietly together in this place. I could still taste on my lips the bittersweet stickiness of the wine she brought, the rich berries and cream we had for dessert. I could hear echoes of her laughter, so deep and full, in the very walls of my sitting room. The fire sparked wildly, as if to catch her attention, flaring raucously in an attempt to wake the slumbering woman.

I, too, was tempted to wake her. I wanted to hear that voice again, see those eyes in the flame glow. I wanted to taunt her with my loyalties in Quidditch, to force an impassioned objection from her and see the light of enthusiasm on that lovely face. I wanted to ask again how she was getting on with her new duties as flying instructor. How she enjoyed the cold weather, after so long traveling with the Harpies. How she found Hogwarts, after such an exciting career.

I thought she must be bored. I feared she would be bored. My heart panicked. Would I bore her? Did I bore her?

And I felt the fool. Xiomara Hooch was younger than I was, by several years to be sure. She was a world traveler, famous for her mad ways on the pitch.

I was a school teacher. Granted, a good one. Granted, assistant headmistress. I was no decrepit hag begging for a crumb of attention.

But my heart fluttered with foolish insecurities as we formed our friendship. She was lovely. She was popular. I was almost afraid, when I suggested she join me for dinner that night. Her immediate acceptance was jovial, as if I were a student suggesting a quick fly over the greenhouses. What fun, she said, and she'd be there by seven.

She doesn't snore. I should have roused her. It was wrong to watch her, sleeping sweetly, in my big, green chair. But it'd been months, and my hungry senses rebelled against my good manners, urging moment after moment of stolen observation. To watch her breathing, spare lips parted slightly in sleep. To see the barest flutter of her eyelids, darting to and fro through a dream I could only hope to imagine. To see the halo glow of her body, shadowed against reflected firelight, as it curled so comfortably, so casually, just out of reach.

But I couldn't do it. Hating myself, I knelt quietly beside her, leaning slightly over her as I whispered her name. My hair was down, and a strand of it fell on her shoulder. I envied that strand of hair as it danced across her robes, falling into the hollow of her neck and tickling her pale, soft skin.

She woke with a start, sending me tumbling slightly as I was too close to move away. Her hand was out in a flash, her reflexes, honed by years on a Quidditch pitch, cutting through her drowsiness. I apologized profusely, though my embarrassment had little to do with the clumsy way I woke her.

No problem, she said. Don't worry, she said.

I wanted to drink her in. I knelt there, watching her wake up, wanting to touch her, knowing I could not. I could not move. I could not force myself to bring a distance between us, now that my lonely skin had sensed hers so near.

To this day, I don't know what my expression was. She tells me now it was written all over my face, like a hungry child at a sweet shop window. She tells me now she'd known all along, that she'd held off, letting me make the move, letting me come to that moment in my own way and time.

But on that night, bathed in the glow of firelight, Xiomara Hooch said nothing. She reached out to me, hands strong and calloused against my cheek. I believe now that I kissed her palm, ravenous, heedless of anything but the taste of her. I believe now that I moaned her name, as we tumbled, both of us, onto the rug. Our robes were a hindrance soon removed, and our lips sought out places of power, of passion and sacredness, on the other's flesh. And in the glow of that firelight, I learned what love truly was, what desire was, as my soul found its home at last.

My Xiomara was home, and I welcomed her, mind, body and soul, to the hearth.