Walking Fire

Chapter One: Golden Rose

By Aleathiel

I slunk from my bed in the middle of the night. Of the others in my dormitory, only Ginny Weasley moved, turning onto her side and making gentle whispering noises into her pillow. I crept across to the window, avoiding the creaking floorboards. Six years in this room have taught me where not to step.

The silence felt heavy, repressive, the tranquil breathing of the other girls the only sound. The red drapes at the window were thick and plush and allowed no light to penetrate the room. My cold hand on the heavy fabric paused, shaking for no explicable reason.

Again I heard the sound. My blood froze to ice in my veins. The keening wail cut off as suddenly as it had begun. I stilled my thudding heart and laboured breathing. Gently, ever so gently, I lifted the corner of the scarlet velvet and bent so that I could see out of the gap. The moon was full and cast an eerie white light across the grounds, the lake in the distance reflecting silver and the forest an oppressive black.

I leant closer to see as a shape moving on the lawn caught my eye. My warm breath caused the cold glass to mist up and I lost sight of the shadow for an instant. I debated opening the curtain further, but the deep, fearful chill in my chest stopped me. Instead I waited silently for the condensation to clear, but when it had there was nothing to see. Just the grounds bathed in moonlight as I had seen them many times before.

With a shiver that had as much to do with my apprehension as with the temperature, I retired to by bed, curled tightly in a foetal position with my blankets clutched around me and tried to go back to sleep.

But the image would not go away. The haunting image of a figure bent double, slinking across the grass. Was it human? Surely no human could fold up so contortedly as that? A shiver of terror and excitement ran through my veins. Tomorrow I would stay near Harry Potter - if anything was going on he would be the first to know. Not that hanging around Harry Potter was a difficult task, or even an unusual one. With this resolve, I allowed sleep to overtake me.

~

I woke early and rose and dressed. Ginny was not in her bed, even though it was early, but that was not unusual. Laura and Marianne still slept, Marianne snoring gently.

It was too early for breakfast so I went outside instead. I forced down the fear that whatever I had seen during the night might still be lurking around, and headed towards the Quidditch pitch. The grass was still moist with the morning dew and I could feel its uncut length against my ankles. Patches here and there were flattened, probably from picnics the day before, I told myself there was no more sinister a reason.

Instead of going all the way to the stands, I turned about half way and walked in the direction of the greenhouses, passing through the outdoor gardens on my way. The herb garden was my favourite, although I had too often come across Snape collecting ingredients to feel completely at ease there.

I had nearly passed through the trellis arch into the rose garden when a murmur of voices made me hold back. I peeked through the trailing flowers and painted wood to see who was there. On the bench in the central area sat Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Neither of them had seen me because they were so engrossed in each other. Wards around them prevented me from hearing what they were saying but it was clear from Ron's red face and Hermione's flashing eyes that they were in the middle of a huge argument. I slunk backwards, embarrassed. Hermione was not a close friend but she had always been kind to me and helped me whenever I got stuck on a particularly knotty Arithmancy problem. Ron was the brother of my best friend.

It was not my place to see what was going on.

I turned and hid myself behind a larch tree as I saw Hermione's wand flick and crack the wards open. "...as you should well know, Ronald Weasley!" she shrieked, her voice now audible.

She stormed out past me, hotly pursued by her friend. "Now, that is not fair! I..."

"Shut up, Ron. There is nothing more to say on the matter."

He sighed in furious exasperation and turned and headed in the opposite direction to her: down towards the pitch.

My early morning serenity well and truly shattered, I proceeded nonetheless through to the recently-vacated rose garden. I tried not to think about what I had heard, but it preyed on my mind all the same. The last time the golden trio had argued so forcefully, to my knowledge, was three years ago when their friendship was threatened by Harry's inclusion in the Triwizard Tournament.

But then again, I reminded myself, for all I knew they might argue all the time. Some friends did. Laura and Marianne were inseparable most of the time but both had furious tempers and had been known on many occasions to start flinging things across the dormitory at each other. I remembered the horror on the face of the Viktor Krum poster when a china mug smashed against his printed shoulder during the most recent argument. And yet whenever they resolved their differences, Laura and Marianne were closer then ever. Maybe Ron and Hermione were similar. Maybe fighting was part of their friendship. And even if it wasn't it wasn't any of my business.

I sat on the bench opposite where they had been sitting. A small blue tit fluttered into my line of vision and settled on the outstretched hand of the statue reclining on a pedestal between the two benches.

The bright-eyed bird regarded me intently for a few seconds before hopping along the granite finger and taking off again. I followed its flight with my eyes, watching the tiny thing until it became a brown speck against the pale sky. Then my eyes sank to look at the garden. The dark twined, barbed stems of the roses were lightly decorated with flowers, pale pink, creamy white, rich red. A few dark, almost midnight purple, flowers remained tightly closed on the glorious shrub in the corner. I was glad that the flowers were tightly shut. I would never want to see them open. Death roses boded fearful omens.

A tiny, mangy bush on one side of the garden had only managed to produce one flower. But that one golden flower drew my attention as soon as I saw it, drew my attention more than anything else in sight. I believe that had Harry Potter walked in to the garden at the point I would not have noticed.

Trancelike I crossed the garden and extended my hand to cup the rose, gently, a lover's caress. Against my pink hand the petals glowed. Tiny pearly droplets of dew fell onto my fingers like tears of an empress.

The golden rose reflected the morning sunlight with such an intensity that I almost believed it was made of that malleable metal. But the warmth it infused into my hand, the delicate heat told me that it lived. It lived as clearly as I lived.

Slowly I drew away. My hands fell back to my sides, clutched into fists so as not to feel what they had lost. My gaze fixed onto the soil around this little shrub. Hundreds of tiny footprints marked the muddy soil.

I turned and ran. Thoughtlessly, without aim. Some icy bolt of terror had once more shot through my bones and imbedded itself deeply into my heart.