there'll be scary ghost stories
and tales of the glories of
christmases long long ago…
Her father often spent Christmas dinner in a chair near the window, gazing forlornly at the flurries of snow outside. She was still young, and so she had yet to ask why. And when her mother told her not to worry, to come to the table now and have dinner, she did.
She would bring his food over to him, plate teetering in her arms, and she did not notice the strained edges of his smile as he thanked her and took it.
Until one day, when she was not so young, when she had gone from ten to eleven, from young witch to Ravenclaw, and the riddles of the knocker each day had stirred the riddles and questions that existed within her.
And so, when she saw her father in his chair and went to give him his plate, she perched herself on the daybed opposite him, and asked, "why?"
He took a long, deep breath before speaking, his voice low, and soft. She leaned forward to listen, drinking in every word.
It was not what she had expected. He spoke of a day in May, a day that had started off sunshine and butter yellow, despite the dark times that had befallen them all.
He spoke of a school that had once flourished in the sunlight, now shrouded in darkness. Of the blazing flame that had been both its destructor and savior.
Of a spark of a boy, having been diminished for so long, who stepped forward when called upon. And of the bloodshed, he brought with him.
She listened intently, eyes wide, letting his slow, pained words carry her back.
Back to a time when the world had not been so free. At a time when the shadows had reigned, like ink that blotted out the light. And his words took her, plunged her into the thick of the battle, where spells were shouted, wands raised, and robes were covered in the blood of both friends and enemies alike.
Through the eyes of the fallen, he showed her the fray. The true meaning of what had been lost so that they might gain what they had.
For his story soon turned to one of rebirth. Like a phoenix from the ashes, he told of how the school had risen again. How they had picked up the broken pieces and rebuilt what they could, and how, though the world had tipped on its axis, they had not fallen with it.
Despite everything the great fire had extinguished, an ember had remained, hidden beneath the ash.
But as the fateful Chosen One had taught them, sometimes a spark was all one needed to set the world ablaze.
The phoenix's inferno was not a fire of destruction, but one of vitality. It was not a sign of death but one of the world reborn. And as her father spoke, she saw it unfold in his eyes. Saw the sorrow turn to hope, saw the world start anew.
And then he turned to her, the tears long gone. He took her hand and pointed out the window. Said the fire still blazed, the phoenix still soared. "And," he said, voice one of vigor, "if you look closely enough, you can see the embers ignited."
Eager at the aspect of finding something new, she pressed, "where?"
He took her hand, placed it on his heart before guiding it to her own. "This," he said, "is where the memories live on."
She spent her next Christmas at school, opting to be with her friends. Her mother did not push. Her father did not press.
But she left the feast early, traipsed back to her common room. And though the snow was bleak and white, she thought of her father and watched the phoenix fly above.