Chapter Seven: Fire
Lily was the kid who jaywalked, played with matches, and talked to strangers. "Did you know," she would whisper to whoever was passing by, "that the porpoise is the secondly most intelligent animal on the planet after man?" Or, "I made Bobby Fitzpatrick's tongue stick to his nose today, and he couldn't get it off."
Looking back, everyone who passed her on the corner of her home must've thought her absolutely crazy, but they smiled benignly anyways, and continued walking past her. So when Petunia finally walked out on all those nights leaving her to deal with their father, she had already gotten used to the sight of someone walking away from her. From the back, everyone looks innocent. From the back, everyone looks the same. It is the face itself; the life experiences hidden in the eyes, the wrinkles around the mouth, the way that they carry themselves, that differentiate one person from another.
When she crossed the streets, she did so freely – she danced in the streets and ran back and forth many times a day just to feel the exhilaration of standing in front of an oncoming car. She would laugh and quickly dart out the way, footwork light and airy.
She often waltzed into hotels, pretending that she was living in the finest suite, nose held up high as the suited workers opened its glass doors for her. She would make her way to the front desk and ask for two boxes of matches. "Mummy and Daddy are trying to light a lot of candles, and they keep running out of matches."
The people at the front desk would once again smile at her and hand over the smooth, white boxes along with a warning. "Be careful with those, young lady. You don't want to hurt yourself."
She would grin back. "I know."
Later, at home, she took one stick after another, striking each one against the grainy, rough side of the box. She would run her fingers quickly over the surface, feeling the heat from friction rising through her fingertips to spread to the rest of her body and marvel that a little strip of red could ignite so much.
She held a romantic affair with fire. She hated how anyone said that her hair was the color of fire. Her hair was just plain red, but fire…fire. It was scarlet and gold and tangerine orange and blush and the tiny hint of crystalline blue all dancing entwined within each other. Her eyes would water as they focused on that hint of brightness in her dull existence, watching it burn down the wood and eating away at everything. She loved how the wood turned black and ashy after the fire passed through it, how it crumbled easily underneath her fingers as she rubbed them against each other. She loved how when she burned paper, the edges curled in, almost protectively, as if trying to protect the body of the paper before that too was erased. She would let the fire burn down, many times scorching her fingers.
Her perfume was smoke and ashes. The blisters that adorned her fingertips became her rings.
In that year, she became a fire nymph.
And for the life of her, she can't remember why she stopped burning. She can't remember why her fire was ever quenched.
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"Prongs, pass over some drumsticks."
The Great Hall was alive with dinner.
First, there was the sight of a hundred plates on one table, each winking invitingly to be filled with food. The dishes that lined the long tables like a catwalk for a model showed off the House Elves to their best. And the smell…oh, the smell…it rose in wafts and curls to settle over the heads of the students, from Rubeus Hagrid to the smallest first year. Classes were done for the day, and the students knew it. Dinner was a time for relaxation, to lean back and take a break before delving back into their homework. Remus Lupin privately entertained the thought of him in a maroon bathrobe, propping his feet up on an ottoman with coffee in one hand and a cigar in another, reading the newspaper and listening to the wireless. It was very pleasing.
"….so then I took her to that new little diner next to Honeyduke's and I asked her what she wanted to eat…"
James was retelling his date with Amber Tymlerland to anyone who would listen which, pathetically, was a large number of people.
Down at the other side of the table was the spoken one herself, surrounded with the same gaggle of friends. She seemed like she wasn't aware that she was currently the topic of in-depth discussion with the fifth year males of Gryffindor, yet if you looked closer you could see her eyes shift to James every so often. Privately, she enjoyed her role.
"Moony!" James clapped him on the back. "Look sharp, my boy!"
Remus looked at his face, which seemed to have popped out just under his nose. "I'm older than you, James."
He shrugged. "It's not the logistics that matter anyways. What does matter is the questionable appearance of a fine gentleman like yourself at my weekly Exploding Snap tournament tonight in the dorms. What do you say? Are you in, or are you in?"
"Neither," Remus replied dryly.
James gasped, placing a hand over his heart. "Oy, my palpitations are coming on again! What's the meaning of this 'neither'?"
Remus twisted his noodles three times around his fork before shoving it into his mouth. When he had finished swallowing and thus, guaranteed enough of a space so that James was finally interested, he continued. "What I mean is, I've already got plans."
"Plans!" James crowed. "Plans! Moony, you old hag, why didn't you tell us earlier? Who is she? I might've gone out with her before, and I could tell you what kind of flowers she likes." He finished the last part rather suggestively, referring back to the incident in which involved Remus, his first date with a Ravenclaw, severe allergies to daisies, and an overnight visit to the Hospital Wing.
"Not that sort of plans. I'm meeting Lily in the library to work on McGonagall's project."
James frowned. "Evans?"
"Lily."
"Right, whatever. It hurts, Remus, it really does, that you would choose to spend your evening in the library with Miss Hogwarts instead of your old chaps."
Remus turned around, sighing.
"Just kidding, just kidding! Sarcasm, Moony, sarcasm. You should try it sometime. You might lose those premature wrinkles."
"Right, I'll keep that in mind, Prongs. Thanks." He lifted his rucksack from the table and swung it over his shoulder. "With that, I bid you adieu. I'll see you later tonight."
James waved gaily. "Have fun, Moony!" He bounded back to his awaiting crowd, once again on the topic of the spectacular move he had made in last week's match.
Remus smiled. "I will."
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Peter hates fire.
He hates how deceiving it is. How from afar, it's bright and merry and crackling happily, but once you get close, it overpowers you. How when you get too close, it feels like the heat is drying out every single drop of liquid comprehension in you, how you end up sitting there for hours staring so intently at the mocking colors that later when you close your eyes, you can still see it on the inside of your eyelids, taunting and teasing you so that your dreams are filled with torches being thrown at you. How when you wake up from these dreams, it's because you're sweating so much that you've absolutely spoiled your bed with the covers tangled in a web around your feet, your entire body sticking to fire.
When he was eight, his mother and father held one of those cheesy family reunions. They all gathered together at a park. There was a beach nearby, and at night, they lit a bonfire and roasted marshmallows. When Peter asked why they weren't doing any sort of wizarding traditions, his mother smiled and ruffled his hair.
"Oh Peter, some things are just much more enjoyable coming from nature, not from magic."
As a child, he loved fire. He doesn't remember running off and jumping waves, nor making sandcastles, nor attacking the picnic table as his other relatives were. He only remembers standing in front of the fire, seeing it twist in and out within itself, a creature trapped in its own existence.
Two of his cousins had suddenly pushed him into the oncoming bonfire.
When he tried to recall the memory, all Peter got was a viewing in slow motion, as if he was the one inside the fire watching himself fall. He saw the surprised expression on his face first – shock at being pushed over so suddenly. Then his eyes twisted and the expression turned into one of horror when he realized that in his direct path was the roaring bonfire. He saw in his own bright blue eyes a burning red reflected within them. The blue should've quenched the fire, should've stopped it from coming.
Lucky for him, he stumbled once, landing so that his hands fell on top of the burning stones instead of the fire itself. A jolt unlike anything he had ever experienced coursed through his body, running from his fingertips all the way to his head in the space of a second until he felt like his brain was going to burst open.
Someone was pulling him off now, dusting him off, and crying over his hands. "PETER!" his mother was screaming. "My God, are you alright? Look at your hands, all burned up – get some water, quick!" she shouted at his father. "Lucky for you, you fell with your hands. Lift your head up, dear, let me take a look at your face…no burns, good."
But my head is burning! It's twisting and there's a creature inside it!
"Jane, you had better keep those boys of yours away from Peter!"
He remembers his other cousins telling him for the rest of the night that he looked like he had put on old-lady makeup. He remembers darting into the bathroom and staring at his own face, flushed and pink. His eyes were no longer the brilliant blue he thought them to be – they were now dull and lifeless. But then again, didn't everything pale in comparison to the brush with fire he had just experienced? He glanced at the back of his head, expecting to see some sort of grotesque protrusion, but it was still as flaxen and smooth as yesterday.
How can that be? Look inside, please, someone!
The jolt had traveled to his head and stayed there. It was a continuous pulse against his eyes; a drum beat with no actual drummer. It eventually faded and wore out. In fact, when he began Hogwarts, he had almost forgotten about it.
But it was back again now. It had suddenly reawakened and continued its relentless pounding day in and day out. It was telling him to do something – a calling – but for what?
These days, he tried to avoid the Common Room and its crackling fireplace. He no longer participated in the midnight pot roasts the others would initiate. He flinched away from the lamps of Hogwarts' halls and their every glowing fire. And he would not let himself be clumsy and trip.
Lily Evan's hair was fire personified.
So why was it that he was following her today?
Her steps were precise and slow. She trailed her hand against the walls and whispered something that he could not hear to herself. There was something written on her hands, most likely a quote from some Muggle classic she was reading to herself. She twitched her lips, biting them unconsciously. There had been one bite that had broken skin, and there was a smear of red now, standing out shockingly against her pale skin.
Peter felt an urge to wipe it off so intense and sudden that it was almost physical. He staggered, and thus gave away his position.
Lily turned around slowly and stared at him. Her body was still poised to go forward with her head turned back; it seemed to be a statement on Peter's life.
"Pettigrew."
It wasn't a statement or a question. Her voice was neither flat nor delighted. She seemed indifferent about him.
A week ago, we would've thought the same about her. But now he found himself caring, caring so much that it scared him where this was coming from.
"Your lips are bleeding."
She didn't frown or look disgusted. Her tongue darted out quickly and licked it away, clean like a vampire. "Thank you."
There seemed to be an innumerable amount of time that stretched out between the two of them now. He was acutely aware of such things like his steady breathing in and out and her watch ticking routinely. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence; on the contrary, it was frankly the most peaceful he'd been all week.
She seemed thinner these days, collarbones jutting out sharply. When she flexed her fingers, he saw bones dancing underneath the thin skin. Her ankles were thin and he was surprised they did not snap under her weight. Lily was not a large girl, especially not these days, but there seemed to be something that made her seem so much heavier than she actually was.
In that moment, Peter felt that if she was tired, he would yawn for her.
Her lips parted slowly. "What are you doing."
Again, her voice was cryptic. She did not ask that as a question. She already knew what he was doing here. Either she wanted to hear him admit it himself or she was just being polite.
"I needed help," he found himself replying.
A raised eyebrow. "That could apply to a lot of things."
"Homework," he gulped out. "Muggle Studies," he adds as an afterthought. Why Muggle Studies? Why did he choose that subject? In truth, he had not even looked over the assignment yet.
"You come across someone hanging off a bridge. He started off wanting to commit suicide, but now he wants to back out. Unfortunately, he can't get up. There is no one else around." His mouth was off and running now, and he could not stop it. "Will you stop and help?"
"I don't remember that being one of the homework questions."
"It was," he insists sharply. She flinches. "It was," he says again, softer this time.
Staring into her eyes was like looking at himself all over again. He had always associated green eyes with liveliness and laughter. They should've been the thing that someone noticed first, due to their startlingly color and rarity. They shouldn't have been the first thing someone noticed for any other reasons.
Lily's eyes were blank, and they jumped out at him.
"Why," she begins with a trace of resentment in her voice, "should I help?"
Her eyes were blank, and yet like the rest of her body, they bore down a weight heavier than they first seemed. This weight seemed to have shifted and as she stared at Peter, he felt each stone drop heavily on his own shoulders. How, he wondered, can something so lifeless have so much power?
"Well, by the Muggle laws, you probably shouldn't. If you ended up dropping the person and killing them, you could be sued."
Irony dances across her face.
"I meant," she smirks, "why should I help you?"
Peter needs to remind himself that dropping his jaw would be considered impolite. Quiet, unassuming Lily Evans was ridiculing him. Peter, a member of the Marauders.
"I know what you're thinking," she continues. "How can I say that to someone like you? You're part of the Marauders, and people don't go around talking like that to them."
"No," Peter denies even though he feels his cheeks flushing. "That's not what I was thinking."
Green bores into blue. Dull challenging duller. "You needn't contradict it, Pettigrew. Everyone knows that of course the Marauders are subject to no rules whatsoever."
Was that sarcasm in her voice? It was flitting and quick, cleverly hidden in.
Peter blinks. "You don't think much of me, do you?" he asks, even though, like Lily, he already knows the answer.
She scoffs. "I don't think about any of you, period. You're a bunch of testosterone bundled together on legs who wouldn't be caught dead with anyone or anything that doesn't meet up to your supposedly 'high' standards."
"Oh, yeah? Then why am I here with you?"
Lily grows silent and hides behind her hair that has fallen from her clips.
"And plus," Peter's voice grows stronger, "isn't that what you're doing too?"
She looks up with her blank eyes. "You're rich, aren't you? Go pay one of those teacher's pets to play your tutor."
"Who says I'm rich?" Peter's voice vibrates down the hallway.
Lily rolls her eyes. "Please. Don't pull the emotional, spoiled rich-boy act on me."
"Shut up! Shut up!"
"Hey!" she snaps. "You're the one who came to me for help, not the other way around!"
Peter breathes in deeply, in and out, in and out. He is aware of the fact that dinner seems to be drawing to a close soon in the Great Hall, and soon the corridor would be swarming with students.
He starts over. "Would you do it?"
"Tutor you?" An incredulous look comes over Lily's face. "No way."
He waves his hands. "No. I meant, stop. At the bridge."
Her breath hitches. For the first time tonight, something else besides dullness comes into her eyes. "Yes," she finally agrees quietly. "Yes. Because even though I might get sued, helping someone out who needs it is the right thing to do, all the time."
This time, it is her eyes that search out Peter's.
He clears his throat. "Do you really believe in that?"
She looks ashamed first, then masks her face. To buy herself time, she chews on a hangnail. The reality of the situation slams into her, and she finds herself questioning how she got herself in a real conversation with Peter Pettigrew in the middle of the third floor corridor.
"Yeah. I do."
Peter locks stares with her.
"Then how," he says, "can you walk away from me?"
Heh.
Well, I guess "sorry" would be useless at this point.
Let's go on to something happier:
Thanks to anon, Gulldara (we really must get together, dahling), MinorMistake99, lils03, WordsxUnspoken (I think I'm in love with you, seriously!), tweenyweeny, theORIGINALmeathead, Silverspinner (who I need to find time to email back), Stasya, Elyra'Darkwynde' Haliwell,clyana, wwc other guy, whimsical89, and everyone else who read this and didn't burn their eyes out afterwards!