“You say goodbye, and I say Willow. Willow Willow.” A voice was singing. “I don’t know why you say goodbye, I say Willow.”
“Who’s there?” I called.
“You say yes, I say no. You say stop, and I say go go go!” Someone was singing but I couldn’t see them. “Oh no! I don’t know why you say goodbye I say Willow.”
“Who is it?” I called out again.
“It’s Black, Black, Sirius Black. I am here, but I can come back.”
“What?”
“Here’s Bella, Bella, Mr. Diggory, I’ll come back it you can see.”
“What?”
“James and Lily, it’s mum and dad. Couldn’t bring us back, but now we can.”
“I don’t understand!” I shouted.
“DON’T PLAY WITH MATCHES! YOU GET BURNT!” voices yelled, and I wrenched my eyes open.
I was still in Dumbledore’s arms in the ministry of magic; Dumbledore was looking at me more worried than I’d ever seen him.
I stood up, feeling hot, very hot. Boiling.
My blood burned within me, and it hurt.
A lot.
“Willow?” Dumbledore said softly.
“Get away from me.” I said pulling myself from his grip and backing up a few paces.
“Willow, It’s Professor Dumble-“
“Yeah, I know you’re Professor Dumbledore. I haven’t got amnesia, I’m just about to catch on fire, that’s all.”
“What?” said a hundred different voices.
And then I caught on fire, I felt my flesh burn. I felt my blood boil. I felt everything seem to die. No amounts of the cruciatus curse could compare to this.
Somewhere in the back of my flaming mind, I remembered reading a book (I did that, isn’t it weird?) Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire.
Now it’s my turn.
Willow Tree, the girl who was on fire...Let the wood burn.
I began to cry as I was engulfed in flames.
It fucking hurt, fyi.
I realised what Voldemort had done.
This was his test for my immortality.
He was going to try to kill me in a billion different ways.
He came back to the ministry obviously so that heaps of people know about it, and it would have to be published in the daily prophet, so he’d know if I died or not.
Yay.
So pumped for this guys.
I collapsed to the ground in pain, curling my knees up to my chest in itself was agony.
Don’t play with matches, you’ll get burnt.
“DOES THAT MAKE VOLDEMORT A MATCH?” I wasn’t sure if I shouted it, or if I got an answer. Or if I was capable of speech.
Rightio.
After a while, the flames stopped, and I saw my skin. It was burnt, red and bloody.
Oh, look, the whole fucking ministry of magic is here, and I’m burnt to a crisp, and my clothes were burnt off.
