Music of the Night by Kachi
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Soft sounds reached her ears. There was a feeling of warmth and peace surrounding her that was so complete she could not recall a time when she had not been this content. She reached out across the bed for him, but he wasn’t beside her. The feeling of warmth and peace vanished instantly, replaced by a cold chill and sudden worry. Stop it, she told herself. Stop being so irrational. He wouldn’t leave you in the middle of the night and you know full well that you mean more to him than just a one-time fling.
She pushed the bedcovers aside and rose from the bed; the cool air in the room embraced her and she shivered, her bare skin covered in goose flesh. She gingerly picked up her nightgown off the floor and slipped it over her head, looking around the dark room. No one was in the room with her. She took a few steps toward the bedroom door and opened it; a soft orange glow rushed to greet her as a fire crackled merrily in the hearth of the common room. Curious, she stepped further into the common room and realized why the fire was burning.
He was lying on the couch, fast asleep, his hair drooping over his eyes. On the floor beside him lay several sheets of parchment, along with a black quill and small jar of ink. She quietly walked to the couch and knelt beside it, looking at the sheets of parchment that appeared to have been ripped from a scroll. Only three lines graced the top sheet; she picked it up and held it close to her face.
Notes. They were musical notes. He had been writing music while she was asleep. Had their love-making inspired him somehow? Intrigued, she rifled through the other sheets of parchment in the hopes of finding something else, but to no avail; the rest were blank.
She neatly replaced the stack and turned to watch him. He was still sleeping. She leaned over and brushed the hair out of his eyes, then lightly kissed his lips before she rose to her feet. She made no sound as she slid back into the bedroom and under the covers. It wasn’t too long after that sleep came and took her away once more.
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You say these are dark times, times of sorrow and unease, of regret and humourless acts. But I see no darkness. I see hope and possibility in the growth spring brings. But this disheartens you. I’m not surprised that you have never been one to find contentment in peace and silence “
Hermione paused, thinking. She wanted to say so much more to Draco, but nothing else came to mind. How would she be able to convey seeing and feeling sounds? How could she explain listening to time as every second became the present, then the past? She sighed hopelessly and crumpled up the note, thinking, as she had on several occasions before, that it was a miracle she had yet to die from brain failure. That was bound to be her end, after all. No tragic death or heroic struggle; she would simply fall asleep with too many ideas consuming all her energy and never wake up again. Shaking her head, she tossed the crumpled piece of parchment into the rubbish bin and moved away from the desk in her room.
As Head Girl, Hermione had a room of her own that branched off the common room both Heads shared; Draco Malfoy occupied the residence of Head Boy. Later on in the school year, the two of them found out that they shared much more than just a common room but even then, neither of them had supposed that the “L-word” would wend its way into the picture.
Until last night. They had wholly yielded to the other; Hermione recalled the night with a fond smile. He had been so gentle, and not just for her sake “ he was new at this too, he had confessed. But their lack of experience didn’t matter, for Mother Nature always led her young lovers. Hermione found herself longing to feel his lips against hers again; she let the sweet memory linger a moment longer before it faded into the recesses of her mind. Snap out of it Hermione, she told herself, wishing the memory hadn’t faded so soon. When it came back even more vividly seconds later, she abandoned her bedroom, walked through the common room, and opened Draco’s door.
Draco was hunched over his own desk, writing something. Finishing with the music he had started last night, perhaps? Hermione stepped into the room.
“Draco?”
The blonde Slytherin stopped writing and turned around. He smiled when he saw Hermione standing in the doorway. Hermione took his smile as an invitation; she crossed the room and sat on his bed.
“What are you working on?” she asked. “It’s Saturday and we weren’t given any homework yesterday.”
“It’s something that came to me after you fell asleep last night,” Draco replied. “Some music…but there’s one part that I can’t seem to get quite right.” He ran his fingers through his hair.
“Now you’re a composer?” teased Hermione.
Draco grinned. “A fool of a composer, but not yet a worthless one.” He rose from his seat at the desk and sat beside Hermione, wrapping one arm around her and pulling her closer to him.
“What kind of music is it?” Hermione asked.
“Piano. My mother loves the piano. She begged my father for one and he bought it for her against his own wishes. He hates anything to do with Muggles but he loves my mother more than life itself.”
Hermione nodded absentmindedly, entwining her fingers with Draco’s. She curled up against his warm body and said, “Do you love me that much?”
“Yes,” Draco answered softly, and he kissed her to back up his reply. After several seconds, he broke away and abruptly stood up.
Hermione stared at him. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve just thought…It just came to me…” He took his quill into his hand, dipped it into the ink, and scribbled some notes onto the top piece of parchment. He read through them, scribbled another musical note or two, and read the entire sheet. Hermione watched as his expression of concentration turned into one of delight.
“I’ve got it,” Draco said. “I have this part done.” He read the music again. “It feels right…but “ “ He turned to Hermione. “Will you come with me?”
“Where to?” Hermione said, slightly confused.
“Do you remember in fifth year, that room I caught Potter coming out of on the seventh floor? Did he ever tell you about that?”
Hermione thought back to her fifth year and nothing rang a bell, until “
“Oh! The Room of Requirement!”
“Is that what it’s called? Well, that room. I have to show you something there.” Draco gathered up the sheets of music into his arms and said, “We’ll have to hurry there, as it is past curfew. Let’s go.”
Hermione left the bed and followed Draco out of the Head dormitory to the seventh floor. They hurried through the corridors as quietly as they could, thankful that the torches along the walls were nearly extinguished. Hermione recognized the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy almost immediately; she looked at Draco. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asked him.
He nodded. “I’ve been here at least twice before.” He walked past the stretch of wall three times, eyes closed as he focused on what he needed. Hermione remembered doing the very same thing when she, Harry, and Ron needed to find a place for the D.A. to meet. She didn’t ask Draco how he knew what to do in order to make the room appear.
Two minutes later a plain, unremarkable-looking door appeared in the wall. Draco seized the handle and pulled the door open, ushering Hermione inside. When the door closed behind him, he walked to the opposite side of the room. Hermione would barely make out his figure in the darkness. She heard the sheets of parchment rustle as they were set down, heard Draco mutter a few words and then the room was filled with light. Just as the corridors were lined with flickering torches for illumination, the room was lined with candles in brackets. Draco slipped his wand back into his robes and turned to look at Hermione, who was gazing with wonder.
A sleek, beautiful piano sat close to where Draco was standing; a desk stood in one corner, covered in bits of parchment; the walls were papered with sheets of music. Hermione shifted her gaze to the floor and realized she was standing on perfectly polished wood.
“You actually play the piano?” she asked.
“Yes,” came Draco’s reply. The Slytherin picked his music off the floor, set it on the piano, and sat down. “Not only do I play, but I might be good at it as well,” he said.
“Might?” Hermione repeated.
“The only time I was even allowed to touch the piano was when my father wasn’t home. Whenever he went somewhere, my mother tried to teach me the notes and how to play her piano.” Draco rested his hands on the keys. “I’m by no means the best at this, but,” he exhaled deeply, “it’ll have to work.” He struck a key and the resounding note hung in the air for a moment before fading away. Hermione crossed the room to the piano and laid a hand on Draco’s shoulder as he hit several more keys before plunging into the song.
It was dark and beautiful; the haunting sounds tumbled over one another in a rush, urging Draco to catch up to them. Hermione closed her eyes, listening to the music. It seemed to speak of the night Draco always talked about, the darkness of the times they were in. As quickly as the song had begun, it was over. Hermione opened her eyes.
“That’s all I have so far,” Draco admitted.
Hermione pulled her hand away, walking around the perimeter of the room. “What are these?” she asked, indicating several sheets of parchment that had been attached to the wall with a sticking charm.
“What do they say?” Draco said.
Hermione scanned the lines. “’Sometimes it’s hard to be silent when you realize the absurdity of the world we live in’,” she read.
Draco made a face and moved away from the piano, making a hasty attempt to rip the parchment from the wall. “They’re nothing,” he said; he splayed his hands across the parchment to hide them since they wouldn’t rip away as expected. Hermione looked at him quizzically. “It’s just stuff I write…when I’m not in a good mood,” Draco mumbled.
“Ah.” Hermione continued her stroll around the room and came to a stop at the piano. She ran her fingers over its smooth surface, sitting down on the bench. Draco joined her. After a few quiet moments Hermione asked, “Why is it so dark?”
Draco raised an eyebrow.
“The song,” Hermione elaborated. “Why is the song so dark?”
“Well…” Draco thought on that for a minute. “I guess it’s just what I feel,” he answered at last.
“Troubled? Brooding?”
The blonde shrugged. “I don’t really know.”
“You don’t know?” said Hermione, bemused.
“It just comes. Like speech. You know you’re talking, but half the time, you hardly give a thought to the words leaving your lips. They’re just there. They simply exist to let us know we’re alive.”
“What of being human?” said Hermione softly. “Surely if thoughts exist to let us know we’re alive, feelings exist to tell us we’re human.”
Draco sighed, “I’m in no mood for some analytical debate, Hermione.”
“That’s not what I was aiming for,” Hermione argued. “I was merely pointing out something.”
“Point away, then.” Draco rose to his feet and extinguished all but a few of the candles; he leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. Hermione watched him curiously. “Do you really want to know why the song is the way it is? I can’t give you a straight answer seeing as how I’m not entirely sure myself, but I can tell you what I think,” said Draco.
The Gryffindor witch nodded.
“It’s something I can lose myself in…that I do lose myself in. I don’t have to think about it. I don’t have to wonder if it will still like me tomorrow, if it will even be there tomorrow. It’s consistent. The song is everything I can’t put into words because words are no longer enough. The notes tell stories that tongues can never hope to tell, stories that can be heard everywhere if you listen.”
“I’ve never seen you write music before today, let alone leave with it,” Hermione said. “You must only play at night then, if you’ve yet to be caught.”
Draco held out his arms. “This is night, and I don’t mean that literally. Night is simply a period of darkness “ these are dark times. Even in daylight, the dark is waiting around the edges.”
“Aren’t you the optimistic one,” said Hermione sardonically. Before Draco could form a reply, she went over to him and pressed a finger to his lips. “The music you played is beautiful, I’ll admit to that, but look outside Draco! Look at the world we’re in! I don’t care what you say about “these times” “ this is spring. It can’t possibly be as dark as you make it out to be when this is a period of growth and beauty. As Muggles say, 'Stop and smell the roses.'” She let her hand drop back to her side.
Draco sighed; he ran his fingers through his hair. “I can’t suddenly change my perspective because you want me to.”
“I know. Just try,” Hermione said gently. “The world isn’t that bad of a place. You may find that you’ll actually like it.”
Draco skeptically raised an eyebrow and made no reply. He gathered his things together, extinguished the remaining flames, and took Hermione by the hand. They departed from the Room of Requirement and hurried back to the Head dormitory. The torches were still burning, giving off enough light to see six feet down the corridor at a time and no more. At the portrait, Hermione whispered “In esse” and the painting swung forward, allowing the pair entrance.
Draco set his things on a small table near the window and then collapsed on the couch with Hermione. He held her to him and she rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was music, even by Draco’s standards. Consistent and always there, telling stories without using words.
And that was real music.