Fire, for Archer Theodore Duncan, entailed a starburst of misery.
Fire, however, was exactly what was going on in the grounds.
Hogwarts, as one could expect, was a school full of chaos. After all, stripped away the glitz and glamour, it was a public school; Archer never knew why his damned expectations were so high. He had had such high hopes Skirmishes and arguments he could live with, fights and ambushes he could tolerate, yet Hogwarts had proven to be far beyond such trivialities in its potential for harm. It was the breeding ground of traumatic bacteria, from stabbings at balls, poisonings had gatherings, and even terrorist attacks. For a school of magic, it failed to be as magical as he first thought. Or perhaps it was far too magical, and that was the cause of its problems.
Children should not be in control of fire; small issues stemmed into far larger ones far too quickly like the flames that spread through forests. Children were small, naïve, and they were impulsive. They jumped to conclusions before they could think, and often spells work against each other, sloppy and uncontrolled at the hands of non-duellists — or precise and malicious at the hands of his sport mates. Their castings were rarely based on decision, even for a seasoned duellist out of the duelling hall, but pure emotion. From anger, sadness, even joy, could have sprung forth a spell detrimental to their school environment. As detrimental as fire.
Archer Duncan, mind you, was having a inexplicably non-horrid day before he smelt the scent of charred grass in the air. He had been sat under his favourite oak tree, one reminiscent of the grand centrepiece his parents had chosen as the hallmark for home, casually leafing through the newest book in his collection, bored out of his mind at its questions on romance. Who the hell even reads such things? As the autumnal breeze drifted over Hogwarts, scattering the winds and accompanied by the squawking of crows, the leaves of the august tree fluttered down into the black of his hair, nestling themselves firmly in the tangles of locks. He did not grimace at the unexpected decoration, but allowed himself to settle into it as it brought the slightest of lights to a gloomy, wearisome November day.
As much as Archer wished for his predicament of dullness to be dispelled, he had imagined it through methods far different from, quite literally, ‘out of the frying pan and into the fire.’
He lifted his head with the utmost slowness at the sudden change in his senses. The wind had picked up on something else than just leaves, something far more baleful. It was the scent of something burnt, like a chicken put too long in the oven — an unfortunately common occurrence when Archer still had parents he could call that. Yet, simultaneously, such a conclusion made no sense, considering the kitchens were miles away and underground. Cocking his head in curiosity, the action far from the panic he might have displayed a little under a year ago, he stood up, leaned against the hard bark of the tree, and sniffed.
And so he had smelt it before he had seen it. But soon enough, his eyes found the explanation. Two children, whom he assumed to be first years, had been recklessly practicing their spells work on each other, an action he had only complained against moments earlier in internal monologue. Their shots had been wild, their accuracy far below their burly bodies, their power never comparable to their strength. Archer scowled: by this point they could just have a physical, hands on hands fight rather than insult his beloved sport with their crooked parody of it. One incendio went straight past the caster’s opponent, landing squarely in the dried, dying grass of autumn. What a perfect fuel for the fire that was about to spread. The wind was blowing in his direction no less.
Cowards, they must have been, as they ran away, too fearful to hold responsibility. He had chosen a remote location to read. Now that the two brats of boys were gone, there was hardly any people around him to help. Not that he needed it. More accurately, not that he particularly wanted it.
Caught before the sudden flames, he did not move, did not think. No instincts propelled him to do anything as what started as a simple patch of grass burning grew. The many leaves ripped from the trees joined the fray, dancing in the flames as they provided for its aching hunger to consume. After all, consume, wasn’t that the sole purpose of fires? So many things of Archer Duncan had been consumed by fire, even if that jar of his past had a lid he never dared to lift again. The villa in Lyon. The house in the land he loved. And his mother, of course, had been consumed in flames. But that was not the end to fire’s crimes against his life. After fire, he had been plunged into a long era of depression, lasting for months before, finally, something must have pivoted this new semester. He spent days in bed with more hours than he could count, rotting away as his innocence did the same thing. An innocence he had lost the day he turned thirteen. Thirteen. Just barely a teenager. Far too young. His entire childhood had gone up in flames.
And now, stood before another fire today, he knew a simple extinguo would have ended it all.
Yet then, frighteningly calm expression flashed over his features. His body relaxed. His eyes dropped to the ground with all the carelessness in the world. His lips almost pulled upwards in a slight smirk of amusement. Everything stilled, the churning storm suddenly coming to an end. It was not supposed to come to an end, not before its rain ceased the flames that burned through the grounds, growing.
It was just a fire. He had seen his fair share of fires, had he not?
