Flames

This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

The beauty of flames lies in their strange play, beyond all proportion and harmony. Their diaphanous flare symbolizes at once grace and tragedy, innocence and despair, sadness and voluptuousness. The burning transcendence has something of the lightness of great purifications. I wish the fiery transcendence would carry me up and throw me into a sea of flames, where, consumed by their delicate and insidious tongues, I would die an ecstatic death. The beauty of flames creates the illusion of a pure, sublime death similar to the light of dawn. Immaterial, death in flames is like a burning of light, graceful wings. Do only butterflies die in flames? What about those devoured by the flames within them?"

--Emile M. Cioran

Flames. That's all he saw when he looked at her. Just the dancing flames that licked at the sides of her ivory face. Sometimes she caught him staring. That was always when she stammered to herself and fumbled to tuck it into something tight and barely there. But he could always spot a runaway -- a stolen ember like a gift from Prometheus to compensate him for being human.

In the darkness of his chamber, he yearned for her-- yearned for her to bring the reddish glow that would fill his eyes. He hated the shadows. They consumed him, always ready to gulp away at him at the first flicker of twilight. Of course, he wasn't afraid of the dark -- not even the unknown of it. He could wear the darkness as his own skin and let it become him. But it WASN'T him. And he lusted for her fiery touch to scare the shadows away.

Once, they had lain next to each other for hours, staring at the moist ceiling of the Chamber. They stared so long, it was like they could almost see the stars -- pinpricks of fireflies trapped forever in the sky. But when they would look away, the illusion shattered. Their prison built up around them again and they realized their 'stars' were only the flecks of ultraviolet that the pressure had brought their eyes. They were trapped by the dank, stone walls and ceiling and no outside light could penetrate, no matter how hard they believed.

"Do you believe in Heaven, Tom?" she timidly asked him as she set her hair -- oh gorgeous hair -- in schoolgirl braids.

"What?" She turned to face him, her porcelain face unnaturally pale. He still remained lounging on his chair, but now he stared at her as if she'd grown an extra head.

"Heaven..." she repeated, settling herself on the ground with her head resting on his thigh. "Eden. Angels. That kind of thing. Do you think you'll go there when you die?" She seemed so serene even in discussing death; he couldn't hurt her by telling of his disbelief in any Almighty. And Heaven? No. There was no way with the horrors he had committed. He was prepared to burn forever. 'Well,' he mused to himself, 'at least I'll be surrounded by flames.'

"No. I don't think I'll go to Heaven, Gin." She shifted ever so slightly as she let out a soft 'oh'. He traced her braids with his finger as her mind filled with sentiments.

"Do you think I'll go to Heaven?" This time, the severity that breathed through her previous words was replaced by a twinge of deep anxiety and fear. Glancing down at her, he saw her eyes searching the stone for something -- maybe an escape. Maybe a sign. He couldn't bring himself to break her heart by telling her his true thoughts.

There was no way his Ginny would ever go back to Paradise -- especially after his plan for her was done. She would be forever tainted. Unless... her body could do the work while her mind and soul stayed in the Chamber. She could stay like the little lamb she was. Settled on his new plan, he brushed his finger on her lips so that she would meet his gaze.

"Of course you'll go to Heaven, Gin." Her face bloomed into a smile, brightening her countenance tenfold. "I won't have it any other way." Leaning over, he lightly touched his lips to hers. Not knowing what to do, she just waited until he pulled away and helped her to her feet. "Go back, Gin." An order, but she obeyed nevertheless. As she walked away, he whispered his new promise to himself. "I
will save you."

Flames swam within his veins as he dreamt: liquid heat. It pounded through his ears, making his forehead sweat steam. He could feel the coils of fire licking his body -- feel his skin ripple and give in to the temptation of the flames.

Then he saw her -- hands folded in her cream dress. Her fair skin didn't feel the urge to buckle under. It even seemed untouched by the inferno surrounding her. Her chocolate eyes only watched him, as if she was unaware of the world burning around them.

One foot was placed in front of the other. He grew nearer and nearer, trying not to notice the ash left in his place. Her hair blew with the flames, matching it. Her face only reflected her dress -- innocent and tranquil.

Seeing her so free in a sea of fire, he was filled with an animalistic thirst. The flames beat to and from his heart, spreading throughout his body in haste. Finally, he couldn't hold back, and he clutched at the milky white of her shoulders.

She gasped as her skin blistered beneath his fingers. The flame swallowed her hair, reducing it to blackened wire. The cloth of her dress caught and holes sunk into it. A shriek burned through her throat -- the scream of a teapot telling all of the boiling within. He jumped back, staring at his hands in astonishment while her skin was tattooed with his handprints and the heat. All sound was blotted out of his ears with the one plea she screeched: "SAVE ME!"

She whimpered, a few tears leaking from her eyes. He threw her an exasperated look. The damn child had been struggling since she came down to the Chamber. It was fastly becoming tiresome. Yet, he couldn't blame her. He supposed if his energy had been violently stripped from him and his life force slowly withered away, he would be struggling too.

"It hurts, Tom," she whined, straining to see the faint blue line of life in her wrist. He sighed and stooped to her level.

"Calm down, Ginny. It's supposed to hurt." He flexed his fingers, noting their outline getting clearer. "It'll all be over soon." Her sniveling quieted, yet the flow of tears increased silently. For a moment, he wavered, unsure what to do before he saw his -- now near-solid -- fingers brush her cheeks clear.

Before she could react to his show of kindness -- or mercy -- a torch flittered on in the distance. Both faces turned to the new light -- one in fear, one in confusion. The boy was near. Each of the six torches along the wall would turn on as the corresponding door was opened along the path to the Chamber. The Heir needed to have light shed upon him as he arrived.

He stood hurriedly, bent on disappearing into the shadows when her hand grasped his robe. "Don't," she forced herself to speak, although her breath came between each new word, "leave me. You did this." So, he stayed.

The world became deathly still as he watched her. Each laboring breath was a task. "I don't want to die," she confided as the fourth torch came to life. "I just wanted to be your friend." He rolled his eyes upward.

"I'm saving you, Gin. So, hush up." Her eyes narrowed to slits, but her lack of energy hindered her from pushing him away.

"I didn't ask you to save me!"

"Well, I didn't ask you to help me attack those Mudbloods!" he yelled, shifting his weight so he was practically on top of her. "But you did that anyway, because I was imprisoned in this damn Chamber!" Widening her eyes in recognition, her face seemed stunned and hurt. "You stupid, stupid girl..." The tears came again, but this time, he bet it had nothing to do with the dull ache.

She didn't speak again. Slowly, she fell into the final slumber, her shoulders tensing at the last moment as if she were trying to fight. But then she drifted away. The last light was about to turn on when he framed her face with his hands. Her head moved slightly, following his lead, but she was already gone. The firelight threw shadows at her body and that's when he saw that her hair didn't match the flames. In the odd darkness, the red just looked like blood, surrounding her face and fanning out like she'd been killed with a blow to the head.

"I had to save you, Gin." Then, the final torch erupted in fire, and he slipped into the shadows to await the imminent arrival. Her corpse lay in front of Salazar Slytherin like a sacrifice. How ironic since he was the sacrifice.

He had saved her from the hellfire, damning himself to them in the process. 'Well,' he brooded again, 'at least I'll be surrounded by flames.'