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COLD METAL grazes her fingertips as the flip-top lighter makes a home of her left hand before she even realises it's there, found its way out her pocket in the subliminal clockwork automation of her movements.
Around her, the animated paintings covering the walls of Dumbledore's office bustle about in their self-indulgent business, making light conversation from frame to frame. Their incessant whispers and averted eyes graze against her nerves. A bespectacled man in one of the frames scowls disapprovingly down at her over the rim of his circular, wire-framed glasses, evidently recognising her from the weekly counselling sessions she's dropped by the Headmaster's office for. She ignores him.
In the sea of two-dimensional conversation from squabbling photographs, Dumbledore's quill scribbles frantically in his absence, moving of its own accord, its sharp tip scratching against a long roll of parchment. Crimson lines of ink shape into neat, cursive words. She ignores those, too. Knees bouncing in agitation, Sawyer watches the sun set through the window in Dumbledore's musty office. She flicks the flame on and off, on and off. The hollow clicking sound ricochets in the silence as she waits. And waits. And waits. Fingers dancing through the flame, toying with the searing pain pricking at her rough skin as the tiny wildfire licks and bites at callouses and old burn scars, not enough to incinerate but enough to let anyone know, given time, it could. The pain keeps her from snapping. Keeps her mind from venturing elsewhere. She builds stone tunnels around it, blocks off all the other highways, so it's the only thing she can ever feel.
Moments later, Dumbledore sweeps into office with a letter in his hands. The first thing Sawyer's eyes latch onto is the cataract of a shimmering beard, just inches from sweeping the ground, swaying with every elegant step. Eyeing her with a measured look Sawyer didn't care enough to decipher, Dumbledore takes a seat behind his desk, and dumps the letter in a drawer under the desk. Even though its master is present, the enchanted quill continues its unassuming, frantic scribe.
Instantly, the bespectacled man in the portrait turns his nose up and grunts, loudly, "disrespectful little swot, this one. You ought to chuck that lighter out the window one of these days, Albus. Ghastly little muggle thing."
Dumbledore arches a brow, but doesn't turn to face the man even as he addresses him directly. "Now, why would I do that, Professor Fronsac?"
"Any witch with an ounce of self-respect would never have to rely on that abomination of a muggle-made item when their wand could do it for them," Professor Fronsac huffs, indignant. He shifts around on his frame, judgemental features twisting in repulsion. "Such insubordination."
Sawyer flashes the portrait a toothy grin, but otherwise makes no effort to engage with the talking painting. Not even to retort that she'd been born running on an empty tank in regards to self-respect.
