On Burning

By Miriam Heddy

The service of philosophy, of speculative culture, towards the human spirit, is to rouse, to startle it to a life of constant and eager observation. Every moment some form grows perfect in hand or face… A counted number of pulses only is given to us of a variegated, dramatic life. How may we see in them all that is to seen in them by the finest senses? How shall we pass most swiftly from point to point, and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy?

—Walter Pater, The Renaissance

Bob rarely did this, of course. It was unethical and, worse, there were far too few opportunities, as Harry tended to sleep rather fitfully, tossing and turning and often waking several times before morning. But tonight, circumstances were ideal. The heating had, at last, been paid up in full (thanks in no small part to his urging Harry to take the latest case; Bob had helpfully pointed out that, however humiliating Harry might find it to skulk about that girls’ dormitory looking for errant poltergeists, it was foolish to ignore the tantalizing potential of such an assignment should the poltergeists indeed fail to turn up as promised).

In any case, with the radiators hissing nicely, Harry had, all week, left off with his t-shirt—sleeping only in pyjama bottoms—until tonight, when he’d at last stumbled out of those before climbing into bed and passing out, cold—or rather, warm, as Bob noticed his t-shirt was damp with perspiration stains. Bob imagined Harry must smell of that and alcohol, though, even leaning in close, he couldn’t pick up even a trace of either and he felt a sudden, unnecessary reminder of his loss—to be trapped here, more insensate even than poor Harry (a man who had, quite stupidly, insisted he was “perfectly capable of holding his own” in a drinking match with Ms. Murphy.)

Bob inhaled a deep breath and closed his eyes, tightly, opening them only when he felt calm enough to begin. At first, he traced a circle in the air, liking the perfection of it, a snake eating its own tail, no beginning or end but just an infinite number of points moving around and around.

It took only a brief flick of his wrist to move the circle down so that it hovered just above the small of Harry’s back where a few drops of perspiration had pooled. He let the circle rest there and then urged it down just a touch, so that it settled on Harry’s skin, gently, ever so gently. Harry barely stirred. Good.

Next, he moved in closer and placed the tip of his finger to the point just above the nape of Harry’s neck, not quite touching him (as, should he do so, his finger would just pass through Harry, penetrating the thin barrier of skin as if it were nothing at all). He dragged his fingertip over the air and down the line of Harry’s vertebrae, counting them as he went. At the seventh down, Harry squirmed just a bit and his eyes fluttered but remained closed.

Further, then… the next step was to cross the line, bisecting the perfect circle, but before he did so, he let his hand trace just over the curve of Harry’s arse, shutting his eyes again and trying to recall what it might feel like—the texture of skin, damp with sweat, warm with blood, the light dusting of dark hair over muscular thighs. Lovely memories, though none of them were of Harry himself, whom he could only imagine, extrapolating from centuries’ old experience—a few, fleeting dalliances with men, none of whom he’d cared for as he'd cared for Winnie, and now Harry.

There. Across the circle and, at the end, a curved arrow, and it was complete—a spell cast in the air that might have no effect at all. He could only hope that, cast so near to Harry’s skin, and with the intensity he could bring to it, it might have offer Harry a modicum of protection above and beyond what his own mother could offer him from beyond the grave.

“Bob—”

“Hmm?” he answered, but Harry only repeated his name in a soft voice before rolling over, still asleep, apparently, though—Bob amended that thought, as a part of Harry appeared quite awake.

“Bob, Bob, Bob.”

Bob didn’t respond this time, as he couldn’t think of what to say. This, he remembered all too well, and he knew that Harry might be thinking—dreaming— of anything at this moment. He might well be arguing with Bob in his sleep only to have his body react in ways wholly unconnected to desire, or passion, or—

“HmmIAhBobIcan’t—”

Bob shook his head, prepared to turn away, then, but for Harry’s hand reaching out to him, brushing the very spot where he stood, but passing through him, ineffectually grasping at air. Bob shivered, though he felt nothing, and Harry’s hand merely came back to rest low on his own belly, his fingers curling inward into a fist and then relaxing.

“BobIwantIdon’tI…” And Bob watched as Harry’s hand moved down to his own erection, taking hold of it.

Bob noticed his technique, the manner of his grip and the rhythm of his strokes, reminding himself that such knowledge was useless to him now, though of course he could use such details to remember, to fantasize, were he interested in doing so.

“You taught him to count to ten in Latin and Greek—to handle a wand—well, a drumstick, as it turned out, and…” Bob tried, he really did try, but any attempt to talk himself into moving seemed destined to fail. It was, he reasoned, Harry’s own fault for keeping the damned skull so close—for keeping Bob so close—ever since Justin returned from the dead. Now, Bob no longer had even the comfort of knowing that Harry was on the other side of a metal door. No, now he was always just a short distance away, close enough to touch if Bob were able, but always just out of reach.

Never mind his role as Harry’s tutor, or even as his friend, Bob hadn’t asked for either of those things—hadn’t asked for Harry and, in point of fact, had at first protested to Justin that he had no particular interest in children at all (even had Winnie lived, he couldn’t imagine being a father, nor her choosing motherhood.) Though he’d never really thought of Harry as a child—and, existing as long as he had, one’s sense of time became distorted somewhat, as people he once knew were long dead, while others grew up as if in the space of a few seconds. Harry was a boy, then a young man, now this—and one day, should he make the right choices, Harry would grow old and die, move on, and not be damned as Bob himself was. And thus… what was the proper expression?

Memento Mori might be apt—but it was a bit too late for that, now, wasn’t it? Carpe Diem, then?

Asleep, Harry was only slightly less articulate than he was awake, though the low moan and uneven breaths he took spoke well of his self-satisfaction, and Bob was very much tempted to take seriously the phrase, “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” and to force himself on Harry—only this once (as Harry would certainly not allow him a second chance should he violate him in such a manner). Would it be worth it, to feel him, to, for just a moment, do more than merely pass through the same space and time without ever touching him?

No, it would not. Even if he thought Harry might forgive him for such a lapse, the Council would find some way to make even eternal damnation more miserable, if such a thing were possible. Morgan would probably love to be the fly on Harry's wall tonight.

And that thought was enough to break the spell.

Unsatisfied, as always, Bob turned away, so that, for a moment, he was just a spark hovering over Harry, burning for him brightly before at last moving away, back into the empty cavern of his own skull. And, from that vantage point, he watched Harry bring himself to completion, all the while whispering Bob’s name, which left Bob feeling very much the hard, gem-like flame—albeit, for the time being, safely contained, a lifetime away.

Feed the Muse.

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