A/N: Just something that came at the top of my head. I'm not writing as much as I thought that I would. But school and Merlin/Doctor Who keep getting in the way. Not that I mind the Merlin/Doctor Who part :) So yeah. Just read it you muppets.

Disclaimer: don't own because I just don't.

"Scratch"

by: PhantomPotterGirl

Scratch.

The head of the match lit instantly. Slick, broad fingers caressed the stick lightly, careful, but firm. Crackling flames danced around the match, its bright light reflecting on the glass-like winter wonderland. A tingle of warmth spread through his fingertips holding the match, he felt isolated; stuck in his own little world, watching his flame. In a second—the fingers released its gentle grip, and the match fell. Its flame burning brightly as the forces of gravity took over.

It fell.

The light was gone.

And the hunger for another flame took over him. His fingers craftily opening the fresh set of a matchbox he'd acquired from Siruis. He never asked where it came from, and neither did he care. Quickly grabbing the nearest match, he touched the rough sandpaper surface firmly.

Scratch.

Another flame to watch; another light wasted.

It had been going on for several hours. A litter of discarded matchboxes and burnt-out matchsticks lay at pools around his feet. He wasn't crazy, or angry. He was senseless, broken down by numbness. Nothing could satisfy him more than his fires. They were his beautiful burning lights, never leaving, always raging; roaring and never ceasing to amaze him.

They never left.

Momentarily distracted, the match slid from his fingertips and fell. He cursed at his clumsiness and the burnt stick; and reached for another match to burn. This time, he was sure to hold firmer.

Scratch.

A wisp of smoke escaped, and he watched eluded with fascination at the trailing line of smoke snaking into the air and disappear. Like a mouse into the bushes. Undetectable if you blink. He didn't blink, he wouldn't allow himself to. He was now musing bitterly at the thought of himself like this—reduced to this lowly act. What would his friends think?

At the thought of his brothers, he found himself imagining their reactions. How disappointed, angry or annoyed they would be. But he was sick of their judgements, the never-ending questions wondering if he was fine or not—and the burning; he resolved that this would his final burn. This would be his final act of worthless self-pity. He needed to move on. But before he could snuff out his final light, something else thought of interfering.

'What are you doing?'

He paused, 'Watching.'

'Watching what?'

'Fire,'

'Why?'

He found himself unable to answer the question, 'I don't know.'

'Well, you better stop then.'

'And why should I?'

'You might get hurt.'

'I'm just burning matchsticks. Where's the danger in that?'

'Didn't anyone ever tell you not to play with fire?'

He turned towards her; his eyes burning with intensity.

'I don't need that from you, of all people.' His laugh was dark, tainted by bitterness.

She shook her head. 'Then from who?'

'What's your point? Why are you here?'

'Nothing—I don't have a point.'

He felt frustration run through his veins, boiling his blood. In aggravation, he ran his hands through his hair—a trait that she was happy to see, for she hadn't seen that action in quite some time—but he was still furious. What more could he take? All words that he wanted to say, all those words that she made him feel was overwhelming—he wanted to scream hoarse to the world. But he found that as soon his mouth opened, nothing had come out. No coherent sentences formed in his head; nothing. Nothing made sense in his mind, all those words were buzzing, and flying around like flies attracted to honey; but never making any sense.

He sighed, 'What do want from me, Lily?'

She was silent, knowing the frustration that was in him. But all she could manage was a non-chalant one-armed shrug. He swore loudly, his hand ready to hit anything on sight.

'Well, you know what Lily? I'm sick and tired of waiting around and I'm just tired of wondering what on earth is happening between us. One moment you're kissing and laughing with me and the next—you're off frolicking along Hogsmeade with some other bloke!'

She was unbelievably calm at his rage—which only made James angrier.

'I mean—what's with you! It's either you want me or not! It's not Advanced Transfiguration, Evans!'

He started pacing, his feet crunching the snow mercilessly. Lily only watched him, unable to bring herself to intervene during his anger. Her eyes watched him pace back and forth, a never-ending cycle of relentless energy.

He turned towards her, 'And now! You're just standing there!' he gestured at her, 'not even reacting to a word that I say!'

There was a long silence. In which James grew more agitated, and Lily was sure that she couldn't speak. He was staring at her, his eyes focused unbelievably firm on her face. She wasn't able to look away—but she couldn't find herself to answer his doubts either.

The silence stretched on and on. Minutes ticked by and neither of them had said anything. It was only when they started hearing laughter and chatter in the distance, did they both realize that they were still standing in the grounds—only seconds away from a stranger's ears.

'So where does that leave us now?'

James had broken the silence. And this time, Lily had an answer.

'I believe it's called a stalemate.'

Another short silence fell upon them. Which, in that time, for some odd reason, Lily had the sudden urge to smile at him, and had barely time to stop herself or think from doing so. He looked surprised at her sudden change. A frozen look of indecision fell onto his shoulders. But before Lily could regret her act—he smiled weakly in return. Thus, lifting the tense atmosphere around them; and then, Lily found that their smiles had grown wider. And they kept growing wider, wider until they looked as if their faces were split into two.

Grinning madly like idiots, the pair found themselves giggling: giggling until they couldn't hold it anymore and burst into full-out laughter. Maybe it was the horrors of the last month; maybe it was the fact that there were disappearances and a morbid sense of death all around the school and no one smiled anymore. Maybe it was has been quite some bloody time since the school had had a proper laugh. But whatever it was—they were free.

They were free.

They were laughing.

And that was all that they could ever care about to think at this moment.

A/N: Just tell me what you thought, you sods.

(Can't be bothered) PhantomPotterGirl