The eyes of a tiger glared at her menacingly from the floor. She sat stiffly upright in her chair, but wiggled her bare toes in the orange and black fur of the rug. The lit candles on the chandelier cast warm streaks of light across her face, making her eyes sparkle like opals. She picked up a box of matches from the table beside her, quickly striking on the arm of the chair. There was a black streak on the arm, where countless matches had been so expertly lit. She tossed the match stick into the dark fireplace before her. A bit of newspaper flared up. She watched, entranced, as the edge of the paper yellowed, then blackened, and was soon eaten away. Carelessly, she tossed a few unlit matches into the flame, only to watch them explode in fire. Thrilled as the flames leapt hire, she cast in several more matches. Moving to sit closer, she stared without blinking into the blaze. One by one, she plucked kindling from the basket against the wall, lighting the end, letting each one burn down to her thin, white fingers before cursing and flinging it into the inferno.
She crossed the room and grabbed a photograph off the windowsill. Resuming her place by the fireside, she daintily pulled the picture from its gilded frame. It was an old photo of herself when she was young. Her thick brown hair had been but wispy then, and the innocent face smiled gleefully at the camera. "What a beautiful childhood," she thought, as though the picture were of some other little girl. She scanned the picture again, noticing a blooming cherry tree by the house in the background. Glancing out the window, she saw that only a small rotting stump remained.
She had a sudden urge to yell at the little girl in the photograph, to tell her that no one could stay so pure and innocent forever. A feeling of loathing came over her as she studied the picture again and again. Pinching the edge, she held it over the receding flames. The paper began to bubble, darken, and disintegrate. Quickly, the portrait of the little girl was eaten away, leaving the blossoming cherry tree in a burning blaze.
There was a timid knock on the door. She gasped and stood up in a flash, dropping the picture in the fireplace.
"Hermione?"
"Yes, Mother?"
"Supper is ready."
"I'll be right there."
She crossed the room and grabbed a photograph off the windowsill. Resuming her place by the fireside, she daintily pulled the picture from its gilded frame. It was an old photo of herself when she was young. Her thick brown hair had been but wispy then, and the innocent face smiled gleefully at the camera. "What a beautiful childhood," she thought, as though the picture were of some other little girl. She scanned the picture again, noticing a blooming cherry tree by the house in the background. Glancing out the window, she saw that only a small rotting stump remained.
She had a sudden urge to yell at the little girl in the photograph, to tell her that no one could stay so pure and innocent forever. A feeling of loathing came over her as she studied the picture again and again. Pinching the edge, she held it over the receding flames. The paper began to bubble, darken, and disintegrate. Quickly, the portrait of the little girl was eaten away, leaving the blossoming cherry tree in a burning blaze.
There was a timid knock on the door. She gasped and stood up in a flash, dropping the picture in the fireplace.
"Hermione?"
"Yes, Mother?"
"Supper is ready."
"I'll be right there."