Chapter 1 Throw Glory to the Wind
Throw Glory to the Wind
Cast Dreams into the Sea
Rip wisdom limb from limb
For the heart’s silent plea
Thrum.
The small green leaf vibrated with the sounds, giving it an excited appearance. As if it wanted to jump up off the stem and soar through the winds.
Tap.
Hannah let her heel collide with the stone wall, trying to drain out the thrumming noise that filled her ears. She could almost sense it traveling around the room making the cookies shake in their spots on the smooth white plate.
Thrum.
Her heart was now beating in rhythm to the irritating noise.
Tap. Tap.
Or maybe the noise was moving in step with her heartbeat.
Thrum.
Or maybe it was her heartbeat.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She traced its path. From her heart up through her throat, making it tickle and clench at the same time, and past the small vibrating leaf.
Thrum.
”Dad, no please… Dad, not now!”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Please don’t go, please not you too, please, please, please…” the words she never got to say. They replayed over and over, at will, as if there would be a chance to say them later. As if it wasn’t too late.
Thrum. Thrum.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“I love you…” the words drowned between the echoes of her heartbeat’s song. Her bitter, merciless song.
Thrum. Dum.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Miss Abbot,” the familiar voice broke her foot’s bitter twirling dance. She let it hang in midair before allowing it to slump noiselessly beside its twin. Too deep was she in fresh memories to understand what was being said.
A mere second, that was all it took for the life, the beautiful blessed soul, to be ripped from the body. From her father’s body. A lifeless, rigid body. She did not want to touch it and feel how cold and dead it was. She did not want to grieve or scream, or cry. She wanted to get rid of the frightening emptiness. The cold, hollow emptiness that filled the world after a soul had left it.
She lifted her hand from its frozen position in front of her. She gently, ever so gently, swirled it in the air as if to bring the life back with magic. But there was no magic to bring back the dead. The beautiful, beautiful dead. She knew that very well, but her other hand still came up with the same movement.
She turned around and stared at the empty blankness where the killer had stood. His image flitted through her mind, and danced before her eyes as if perhaps by some strange chance he would really materialize once more. Perhaps she would have a chance for revenge. Perhaps that was why people went after revenge, to rid themselves of that hollow, empty, cold feeling. That tight, breathless, numb feeling.
She brought her hands to her sides once more and concentrated on the imaginary killer that stood before her. She lifted them with a swift rapt movement and something, something, rose into the air and cracked against the ceiling.
Crack.
And then the storm came. The storm that issued from her tight, breathless lungs. The storm that tore the house apart from top to toe. The storm that swirled and twirled and swallowed the green haze in its path. The storm that screamed and cried without a single tear or sound.
“Are you listening to me Miss Abbot,” Hannah came out of her memory with a jolt and stared at the woman through her blood-shot eyes. She tried to decide whether the voice was harsh or worried. McGonagall never was one for showing her fears and emotions.
Hannah did not answer. She simply lifted her foot and began the merciless tapping once again.
“Simply terrible,” they would say in their uniform voices.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Did you see what the girl did to the house?” they would ask, as if they really meant the question.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“We must develop this power, Minerva. The girl must be taught how to control it, this could very well be a deciding factor in the war.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Power, she thought. Who ever thought Hannah Abbot would be called powerful? Who ever thought Hannah Abbot could be great one day? Like a Gryffindor or a Ravenclaw.
Tap. Tap Tap.
And her heart responded.
Thrum. Dum.
She leapt down from the window ledge, planting her feet firmly in the ground. Trapping the momentum of her magical tapping song. But it would not be trapped. It came out, from everywhere, but especially from her fingertips. She let herself drown in the peaceful song of her heart’s excited beat.
Thrum. Thrum.
She lifted her hands again. What was the word for it?
Thrum. Dum.
“Very good Miss Abbot,” she could barely hear the professor’s words from behind the wall of throbbing, musical, magical relief.
“But I’d like you to speak with me a little,” she hadn’t spoken since, it was true. She hadn’t cried since. But what was the point of that anyway? Nothing could bring relief the way a flick of the finger and a slow magical thrummmm could.
She raised her right hand and spoke to her professor, not because she felt compelled to, but because McGonagall actually cared, and the woman deserved something for that uncharacteristic show of feeling.
She spoke in her own language, because Hannah Abbot had no use for human words today. She lifted her right hand and swirled it in the air and she could see the calm, sweet, relaxation wash over the Professor. She could see the woman close her eyes momentarily and give in.
She lifted her left hand and tapped a finger against an invisible wall. And she could hear the slow, rhythmic tap, tap, tap on the windowpane. She twirled her hands and let her whole body swivel on the spot and she felt the strong, warm, rush of wind engulf the room.
She twirled again and again and again, and realized that the table had cracked in half. Right down the middle. She lifted the plate of cookies from the floor and let it twirl around the room with the tornado that was her dance. And Hannah Abbot never wanted to stop.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrummm.
And a small, green, excited leaf was ripped from her stem and she twirled and twirled and twirled and then she sagged and slumped and lay on the floor at Hannah’s feet waiting to die. Because leaves can’t fly but once.
The tapping on the window ceased. And the plate came crashing down, and the thrum, thrum, thrum became a long, low, tired moan.
Thrum. Dum.
She stepped back from the tiny thing as if it would bite her.
Thrum. Dum.
She turned around in the most ungraceful, frightened manner and she flew. Hannah Abbot flew. Far from her glory. Far from her beautiful dance. Far from her pulsing, thunderous magic. Far from the tiny dying leaf.
