Golden One: Forest Fire

A forest fire/Nibbles at your veins/Crawls up your arm/Runs away with your mind/And burns dry thoughts like leaves/Eyes stare up/But something's in the way

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The boy lay there, crying like a child, as helpless as an infant. He had no idea of where he was, only that he could feel that it wasn't the forest. It wasn't the Labyrinth; it wasn't the faerie mists... it wasn't anyplace he'd been trapped, nowhere he'd been for as long as he could remember. But it felt safe, homey - even though currently "it" was a dead-end alley, on an old, discarded mattress. He didn't even know how he had gotten there, or how long he'd been, just that he certainly hadn't come on purpose.

And then he heard voices, not the kind that the bad man - Voldemort? Maybe that was his name - had set on him for torture, but ones that were human. If not kindly, they sounded real and warm, and though he couldn't make out the words, they were comforting. A voice he knew, maybe? But he couldn't remember where he'd heard it, who it belonged to... a friend, certainly. An ally. Maybe someone he loved. There were too many variables in this equation, too many guesses to make.

"Aw, 's just another drunk, Ally. C'mon, we can probably find s'more customers - it's only 3 AM, after all..."

"Goddamn it, I told you! I might hafta sin for a living, but I ain't gonna turn my back on som'one who needs help... you see that cut? Christ, it's up and down his whole goddamn leg, and he smells like he's been rollin' in a pile of shit." Now that the voice mentioned it - one of the voices - he could feel a dull, throbbing pain from his left calf. There was no energy to move, but he knew there was something warm and sticky and wet on it. Blood.

"Lookit, Apollonia, he's gotta have someone take care of him. Call the ambulance, at least. We'd better just make sure he's alive - that cut's awful big - I'll see if he's OK," and this was the voice he was sure he knew. He tried to open his eyes, feeling a gentle hand on his forehead, moving his hair off his forehead and temples - then a gasp, and the hand moved away. He could feel the sleep in his eyes, and it was hard to open them, but then the world sprung into view.

Three women were standing by his mattress in the alley: a tall black girl with many piercings and a lot of cheap jewelry, an anorexic-looking blonde with tight jeans and only lingerie for a top, and kneeling next to him, a woman in pleather miniskirt and jacket with too much makeup and masses of curly brown hair. They looked like prostitutes... where was he? The last girl was shocked, and her recognized her. Just like he had recognized the voice, and the place, and everything else. "Harry..." she began, her sentence trailing off as she stood up.

"Come on, we have to take him back to the apartment. He's someone I know." The curly-haired girl turned back to him, laid her hand on his face. "Harry, it's going to be OK. We've got you." He remembered her name now, remembered her face and figure as a serious schoolgirl with books in her arms. Hermione.

Her golden one had returned, not in a blaze of glory but in a haze of blood. No memory remained to him, perhaps, but she remembered. Somehow, they would find a way to make it, to finally overthrow Voldemort. To make him pay for his sins. To force the Devil to absolve himself. And maybe, just maybe, to turn him to the good. If not, to kill him and rid the world of a fiend.

Until then, it was a dream. Perhaps it would become reality, perhaps not. But it was believed, and as long as someone remembers and believes it, a dream can never die.

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In the Bible only angels have wings/And the rest must wait to be saved/A dry tongue/Screams at the sky/But the wind just breathes words in/As a strange bird tries to fly/Amen/

-----finis 1/1