A/N: Trying something different! This was super fun to write.

i. tinder

He was raised on summer days and the devotion of a father who loved him as best as he was able. And it didn't matter that he wasn't good at reading or Quidditch or any of the other things that his friends were, because he knew his father loved him.

His favorite time was in the evening, after the sun had set, when his father would lean back in his massive wooden chair that looked like a throne and tell him stories about the glory days of the Crabbes. They were the true Slytherins, his father would always say with that faraway look in his eyes, resourceful and determined and clever. The nakedly power-hungry were idiots, after all. They didn't consider that blatantly proclaiming their love of Dark magics made them the first target of the Ministry. And so the fall of arrogant families like the Malfoys was inevitable, just as the Crabbes would survive forever because they were overlooked.

He loved best the stories about the secret magics utilized by the Dark Lord and his followers, the spells that would carve the innards from the body, break the bones, slice open the skin and let that dirty, muddy blood seep out. But as his interest grew, his father seemed to pull away. Something not unlike fear wavered in his eyes whenever he stared at his son, like he was seeing specters of the past or perhaps visions of the future. The stories' frequency dwindled until they finally stopped.

When he turned eleven and received his Hogwarts invitation, his father gave him a candle. "Touch it only briefly," he warned. "Graze your finger through it, and it will not hurt. Let it linger, and you will burn." But he immediately reached for it, ignoring his father's advice, and let out a wail moments later when his hand was burned. "I told you, Vincent," his father scolded. "Fire is like the Dark Arts: beautiful, useful, but unpredictable. Untamable. Only the best can master either. All others should avoid it. Do you understand? You must avoid it." He nodded obediently, but his thoughts were full of the flickering, alluring flame. He could hear it singing.

ii. spark

He was only good at terrorizing children. He'd never been smart, not like Draco was, with his casual arrogance and elitism that put him at odds as much with the other Slytherins as with the other students. He'd never been politically savvy, not like Daphne or Theo, with their half-glances and double meanings that made navigating any conversation with them as likely to succeed as he was likely to receive an O in Transfiguration. He'd never even been sharp, not like Pansy or Blaise, with their cutting insults and feigned compliments that he sometimes didn't recognize until weeks later. He was stupid, obtuse, dull.

Small wonder that people laughed behind their hands at him when his feather wouldn't float or his potion turned green. Small wonder that even Potter's pet Mudblood was higher up in society than he was. For years he'd turned to bluster and Muggle-style fighting to achieve what his wit and skill couldn't, all the while wishing that something- anything- could make him great. He wanted to be respected. He wanted to be feared.

Oh, and if he'd dreamed of being a great wizard, then what happened could only be the stuff of nightmares. The Dark Lord was back and he, barely worthy of his family name, was finally important. His father sent him a terse note about honor and dignity, his handwriting shuddering across the page. Avoid it, his father had demanded so very long ago. Don't make the same mistakes I did. Around and around and around they go; the serpent swallows its tail and the phoenix is reborn from flame. Around and around and around.

But who was he to refuse the Dark Lord? He sent this question to his father, his writing harsh, jagged, so sharp a fall onto it would break a heart. The next day his father's owl returned, carrying a collection of books so Dark they oozed black ink like blood. He spent the last few months of his sixth year outside of the Room of Requirement while Draco fiddled with the cabinet, disguised as a little girl holding a potion bottle and a perfectly unobtrusive book.

(Then, he was only good at terrorizing children and the Dark Arts.)

iii. blaze

He went through the book in sequence, studying by the light of the sputtering candle his father had given him so very long ago. He began with colorful little spells that poisoned the blood or made the victim go temporarily blind. Once he'd mastered these on rats from the kitchen, he began to work his way down the list. The Imperius Curse frustrated him, the Cruciatus Curse excited him, the Killing Curse scared him. If death was so easy to administer- a flick of the wand and Avada Kedavra- why didn't the Ministry have some sort of way to be alerted when the spell was cast? Surely if they could track the accidental magic of children, they could monitor where and when the curse was used. He supposed that if he wanted to protect himself, he'd just have to strike first.

But his favorite spell wasn't the sickly green of inescapable death. No, his favorite left his wand in coils, spiraling out in a steady stream of flame, tendrils pouring through a tiny crack in the lid of an unbreakable jar before he hurriedly slammed it shut. Carefully, he picked up the jar, cradling it gently in his massive hand, and held it up close to his eyes.

Miniature faces danced in the flames, mouths mutely open in what might have been a scream or a song. Twisting, howling creatures so inhuman he could barely stand to look at them flung themselves against the glass, twining against one another until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. He thought they were beautiful.

Something faint began to fill the air, like a sigh, like eyes on his back. The hair prickled up his spine as he cautiously brought the jar closer to his ear. The almost-song grew louder the closer he moved it, now like a single icy finger stroking just inches from his neck, intangible yet somehow corporeal. He could almost hear something whispering beneath the noise, a flicker of static that he somehow knew resembled words.

He was just on the verge of deciphering it when it screamed. He screamed, too, and flung away the jar, watching it bounce unharmed against the floor. The flames petered out without the sustenance provided by his wand, and he felt like he'd just lost a friend. He reached out despite himself, hand shaking, but immediately snatched it away when the door burst open.

Draco, aristocratic face marred with contempt, sneered down at him. "What are you doing sitting there on the floor, Crabbe? You're not a dog, although you certainly resemble one. You're allowed on the furniture, you know." His eyes flicked over the discarded jar, the hastily-closed book, his frightened face, and found them unimportant. "C'mon. I need you to guard the Room again." He tossed a small vial to him, then stalked out of the room, leaving him behind.

With one last mournful glance at the jar, he downed the potion, swapped his robes, and fled.

(In a corner of the bottle, so small its sole writhing face could scarcely be seen, a single spark of Fiendfyre remained.)

iv. pyre

He was in the Room of Requirement. (It always seemed to circle back here, didn't it? Magic was fickle like that. Around and around and around.) But he was in the Room with Draco and Greg, watching Potter and Weasley and the Mudblood hunt for some item- he didn't care why. All he knew was that the Dark Lord wanted Potter and he would be the one to reap his praise, Draco and Greg be damned.

Spells flew from his wand and, for the first time, he felt powerful. Oh, even Draco was afraid of him now. A bolt of green shot but missed, and then flames erupted from the tip of his wand. Fire had always mesmerized him, even as a child. It was infinitely more beautiful now that it was his.

But it wasn't his. It shrugged off his control like he was the same weakling who'd let his finger burn and pursued them all through the tottering towers of books and junk. He was at the lead, sprinting for his life, until he caught a flash of movement. He halted and whirled, a green jet of light whipping towards the object, but it only bounced off the frame of a very large mirror.

He stared at his reflection- no, that couldn't be his reflection, for he was certain that the Dark Lord was far away on the battlefield and not initiating himself into the inner circle. And there was his father, looking prouder than he'd ever been, and his mother, alive once more and crying from happiness, and Draco curled up at his feet begging for mercy. Get Potter, his reflection hissed, so strong and handsome and feared. Get Potter, and all of this will be yours.

But as he nodded sharply and turned to sprint off again, he stopped. There it was again, the same hauntingly beautiful song that had captivated him so very long ago. He could almost make out the words buried beneath the swirling melody. They hummed of secrets and power beyond his wildest dreams, beyond even what the mirror had showed him. And the flames drew nearer, and the song grew louder, and he knew he should run but he was caught and rooted to the ground as animals surged from the flames, jaws open as they sang the song of the fire, and they were closer and closer and flames were lapping at his robes and he could almost hear the music, he leaned forward into the wall of fire-

o. ashes

The song of the fire is something so deadly it can scarcely be described. But when he was trapped within a swirling vortex of flames melting the flesh from his bones, in too much pain to even scream, he heard it, for a split second.

It sounded like silence.