Fire In Her Arms

The portrait door opened, cutting a swath of light into the otherwise black Common Room.

Outside those walls, the world slept fitfully, monsters and demons nipping at the corners of their dreams. But inside the womb of Gryffindor Tower, one girl on the threshold of womanhood waited in the darkness, accompanied only by the stars and a thoughtful cat.

Two boys strode into the room, their shadows worming through the pale light. Careworn lines danced on grey and pink faces as they marched in. Devils and evil did not wait at the borders of their sleep; they were alive and outside the walls of their haven, biding their time until it came to the moment of death.

The girl sat on the floor, holding wane flickers of flame in her stubby hands. The boys came and sat with her, watching as she mixed two bottles of liquid together, watching the flames die. Her movements were soothing, a reminder of a former life of dark dungeons and abandoned washrooms. In silence, there was solace, as the night sheltered them from unfriendly eyes and meddling hands.

She bade them to remove their shirts, and they did so without hesitation, although questions filled their minds. She moved to crouch before the first boy, with eyes a dull green from years of grief. One finger dipped into the mixing bowl, and the smell of iron, clay, charcoal and poinsettias mingled as she began to trace a shape on his chest.

The other boy, hair as bright as the sun but eyes clouded with exhaustion, watched as she drew a spiral on his torso. The smell of iron was thick, and the boys realized that it was the smell of fresh blood, her blood, mixed in with the flowers and soil. They knew, but said nothing, and watched as the girl painted a story of three children, two boys and a girl, and years of friendship, adventure, and loving sacrifice committed on the altar of life. The black-haired boy felt life as the symbols burned into his flesh and entrenched themselves in his bones, and he remembered.

Streaks of life, circles of breath, all danced on his aged-ivory skin as she let her fingers slide over him. Symbols of protection were repeated again and again, from the simple spiral to complex Chinese symbols.

The girl was logical, angular, straight-forward. But if these could save their lives, if they could bring her boys luck… she would remove her heart and use it to paint, if only to keep that which was most precious to her safe. The solution dribbled down her palm and encircled her forearms, a gauntlet of protection for what might be.

She pulled the other, taller boy closer and began to draw on him. Her tears, sorrow and fatigue and yet still hope drizzled down the boy’s stomach as she rested her head there and wept. Both boys smoothed her hair and rubbed her shoulders as she clung to them for sanity, for tomorrow. Her tears ran trails down the symbols, matting the downy hair on the boy's torso as she cried in perfect silence.

They watched her pull herself together and begin to paint again, fixing the blurred signs of divinity and streaking new ones across his chest. Over and over, echoes of devotion were burnt into his skin as she pressed harder, willing all her cunning, strength, and love to embed itself into his soul and mind. Her blood dried, flaked, but she pressed on, until there was more inky-grey and red colour on his chest than there was visible flesh. The boys stood, dark-eyed, as she surveyed her work with shaky satisfaction.

The green-eyed boy moved to stand behind her, his thin fingers burying themselves in the soft fabric of her camisole. The flame-haired boy stood before her and dug his palms into her arms, holding her, rocking her, as the other boy gently lifted her shirt. She gave no protest, made no sound, as the boys cut their palms openly awkwardly, letting their blood mingle together in the pot of dried up clay and charcoal. They plied their hands with paint and roughly smoothed the same symbols onto her arms, her back, her breasts, as they took their time to cry, fearing for tomorrow but hoping that in the end, they’d all survive. She felt the cool fingers of the black-haired boy brush across her chest as she splattered life and glory in straight, harsh lines.

The other boy sketched spirals and circles on her stomach, caressing her sides as he laid his head to rest on her neck.

The paint dried, the blood cracked, and they sat in silence. Cradled in one another’s arms, a tangle of legs and hair and deep, deep breaths encircled each other as the symbols took shape into their blood and souls. She kissed the boys once, twice, thrice, and laid them down to sleep, both holding her and waiting for the sun to rise. She drifted off at last, and knew that no dragons or devilry would impede her journey to dawn. She had the two most lucky talismans of all, and tomorrow would come with the dawn.

She could only wait, and feel their fire in her arms.

Fin