Hogwarts is famous for its bonfires.
Every seven years, starting the first year since the Second War, a huge bonfire is held behind the Quidditch field. Often the staff of Hogwarts invites parents and many other witches and wizards, and usually a Quidditch team comes in honour of the remembered heroes.
You remember the day Teddy came home from his second year, when you were very little, and he told you, his hair turning several violently neon colours, of the huge, dancing bonfire. Mum and Dad hadn't allowed you to go, then, because Hugo and Lily were still very young. But now it's your turn to see it all: the great, brightly coloured banners flying in the ash-filled wind, the whizzing players on broomsticks high above you, the food laid out on a huge, checkered tablecloth.
You remember, in the faded parts of your memories, the excitement, the joy in your soul, when Teddy told the stories. Where had it gone? Now, experiencing the bonfire, where is it?
All you feel is pain. No excitement, no joy. Because you know what you want, but you can't have it. You want it with each little strand of twisted fiber woven into your soul. You want it, and it hurts. It hurts like cutting yourself on a piece of sharp glass, but it doesn't heal. It doesn't stop. It pains you now, it pained you then, and it'll pain you forevermore. You'll never stop wanting, stop loving someone you can't have. Someone who doesn't love you the same way.
The ashes glide through the air, like snowflakes, some of them fiery embers. Laughter and happy voices resonate through the thick, hot air. Cheers and screams from the Quidditch pitch punctuate the laughter and often cover them up when a particularly exciting move is made. The smells of the huge banquet, with soups and chicken, beef and cakes and pastries, pumpkin juice, candies, and tea, fill the air with almost overwhelming scents. James had complained earlier that he'd start drooling if he didn't eat soon; you could hear his belly growling then.
Now you walk toward the flames, flickering, burning, strong, red, flickering. They reach for the sky's height with begging red-orange tendrils, then disappear to be replaced by more flickering, licking flames.
The ashes fall more heavily here, the air is thick and smoky. The smoke stings your eyes, and you cough, cover your mouth with your hand. It adds to the pain. Because he should be there, standing by you, helping you to breathe, commenting on the beauty of the fire in that deep, smooth, swaggering voice of his. Or maybe you'd be standing there. A strong arm would slip around your waist, pull you close, tightly, and he'd breathe in your ear that the flames are never as beautiful as a certain girl he knows.
You want to be that girl. Instead of staring at the ground in front of him, muttering something he can't understand. Instead of the butterflies in your stomach, or the tightening of your tangled insides. Instead of not being able to breathe.
But you know you can't. You are a Weasley; his name is Malfoy. There is no accord between your families. Not even for the sake of happiness.
Unbidden tears stream down your face. You know people stare at you, but all that matters are the flames, flickering, and the drifting snowflakes, the ashes. But still, you don't like it, so you slip off toward a secluded area of the lake, where no one will bother you and your heartbreak, your wants and wishes.
You reach out your hand and catch some ashes, clutching it to your breast. It turns to dust, and you let it fall, murmuring a soft goodbye. Another one lands in the palm of your hand, and you touch it, gently. It crumbles to soft gray dust.
And you know you'd crumble if he told you he didn't share your feelings. Just like the ashes. It only takes a few gentle words, like your gentle touch on the ashes, and you'd crumble to soft, gray dust.
A sensation similar to that of cobwebs brushing your face in soft, fine threads makes you turn. A voice, silky and baritone, calls your name with fervour. You turn you head to find gray-silver eyes staring back at you. They snatch, steal the breath from your whole body with their teasing, smiling, glittering gaze.
He asks you why you are crying. For a moment you cannot answer. Because you know there are others here who would hear you talk to him. It's wrong; you can't. You want him, but you can't have him. Having him would be wrong.
But you can't help thinking that wanting him is alright.
He repeats his question, and you realise you've been gaping at him for several minutes. Your face is very hot, like the flames and you cast your eyes to the ground. Your hair soaks up the tears. You mumble something even you don't hear or understand. You're painfully aware of how close he stands.
You risk a peek at his face and blink in surprise. He laughs. He tells you he knows. It's OK.
The tears find you again, and you step forward impetuously and gulp down a shuddering wave of tears. He mirrors your step nearer, and you feel his hot breath on your chin. Your heart pounds. You swallow everything you feel and say three words, ones you've longed to say to him but hadn't the courage for. He gawks at you in shock. You're wildly, terribly afraid, in the heartbeat of silence that follows, that this is a mistake, that you'll still never have what you want so desperately, desire with every corner of your soul. That you'll crumble. Like the ashes.
Then, leaning nearer, he whispers in your ear the three same words. The tears fade from your crimson curls, your red, puffy face, as the ashes turned to dust float down to the grassy ground.
...and it doesn't hurt anymore.