“He” is Remus and “she” is Hermione. Everything will hopefully come together in the next part.
Disclaimer: Remus Lupin and Hermione Granger belong to Joanne Kathleen Rowling, and in writing this ‘tisn’t my intention to steal what her genius is responsible for. :)
Cities like these are the crossroads of humanity. Every morning, when Apollo’s lantern is lifted from behind the curtain of stars in the East, Fortune orchestrates his elaborate play, drawing together just as many people as Diversity can lend him.
As the sky diffuses with a rosy tint, the established gentry are already trickling out of their town houses and mingling in a swarm of guests and wanderers. They are the aged and the callow, the aimless and the decided, the righteous and the corrupt. Not everyone has a purpose, not everyone has a destination, but everyone has a life and with and of it a story. All are shrouded in anonymity, unidentifiable in the sea of faces. Here, Propriety encounters Bad Taste daily and never knows his name.
He came to the city after twilight, with his wallet in his coat-pocket, a small suitcase containing a few days’ changes of clothes in one hand, and his violin case gripped in the other. Fair Luna was glowing from somewhere behind the tall buildings and he stepped between short, silver shadows as he looked for the address of his boarding house.
He was a stranger here and he arrived under cover of night, when most of the city was slumbering and he could not offend them by turning up in the revealing light of day. Sunlight was for the reputable, and his reputation had always been tarnished. He hoped that here it would pass unnoticed.
Some choose to dwell in darkness, where their ink-stained hearts and underworld cloaks are camouflage; he was cast out into shadow by society, condemned for being what he could not help. He was unlike his contemporaries, faulted for what was no sin, no stain to defile his soul. But a deaf ear was turned towards his pleas for understanding.
Seldom did the upright have occasion to chance upon the scum that make their homes in sewers. He was exiled from the drawing rooms of the principled but too decent to sit in the gutter with the lawless. Nobody ever guessed that a demoralizing environment was a greater punishment to him than any. He tried to make the best of it always, for never was there another as high-minded and patiently enduring as he. Sometimes it took everything that was in him to not crumble; he wanted to lash out at the injustice, break free from the fetters of ignorance and willful intolerance.
But the world had doled out its inequitable provisions, and what prerogatives he was denied were supplemented liberally with hardship. He knew how take the thrashings of fate like a gentleman and how to carry himself with dignity. He always walked with his head held high; he clung to the scraps of his dignity because dignity was the one birthright that they could not conspire to steal from him.
Three days after his arrival, an ad had appeared in the classifieds column of the Sunday Times:
Academy of Music trained
Will compromise rates
For two weeks he had scarcely stepped outside, lest he missed a call or caller. That first fortnight yielded five interested customers, only three of whom followed through. But three students were better than none, and their tuition enabled him to secure another ad, and then another. He had survived the biggest hurdle and his students were accumulating. Life was always a struggle, according to his philosophy, and it was, after all, a blessing if you could make your way doing what pleased you.
He lived in the attic of an ancient boarding-house, cut into the side of the block somewhere along the Grand Avenue, sandwiched between an office complex and a shopping centre. The tottery, soot-stained structure boasted of four floors and twenty rooms, comfortably furnished and reasonably priced. The attic was let for a trifling sum, and cramped and neglected as it was, he counted himself lucky to have secured a home in the respectable part of town. Here at least he could gaze out the window and watch the tides of people ebb and flow beneath him.
He kept to himself mainly, so as not to arouse suspicion. He had made the mistake in the past of involving himself too conspicuously in the public. He knew that the surest way to avoid disclosure was to avoid outside ties altogether. With his students, he was validating and kind, with their parents, professional. His comings and goings, kept carefully unobtrusive, were disregarded. On the whole this state of affairs was preferable to being judged. If there was hunger in his heart to do something more creditable, he never let his frustration evince itself in a depression of spirit.
He was voiceless in the media, where great minds had already used their pens and cameras and implements of creativity for character assassination against his kind. He was an artist at his core, but in the artisan circles his sort were belittled, despised for their condition; in their galleries they were mocked as fools on display, and any work of his would be considered farce.
Besides that, paints and charcoal, typewriters and film, were an extravagance his budget could not accommodate. Wherever his reputation preceded him, he was unwelcome. So he kept inside and played his violin. And his music carried through his open window, and, unseen, he serenaded the city.
The notes were his tears, his passion, his inspiration - lyrical and contemplative, lilting, lilting, mingling with the breeze and stealing their way into homes where the maestro was shunned…
He would have told a person that he was content - he told himself so every morning. Solitude suited him better than scrutiny, and compromise - sacrifice - was elemental in survival. Time had unveiled tragedy and made him learn to live when life was shattered. He had learnt to bandage where he bled and smile because he was alive.
He had learnt to live off of hope, because for years it was all the nourishment he could afford. He was satisfied when occupied and being unhappy never crossed his mind. But there were always moments of quiet where he would contemplate the lost, the present, the inaccessible…
He may have thought himself happy, but his music sang of melancholy. He always wrote by moonlight, in that haunted hour where his thoughts would stray to the past. The soft silver light was lonely to him, introspective. It was the pale light of truth, and under it his soul was bared, with all its beauty and all its sadness.
She came from the school district on the other side of town. She had heard a whisper say of a phantom violinist whose music was heavenly and wise, as though his instrument was strung with angels’ hair. She was a student of music, and wanted very much to learn.
One night, strolling leisurely down the Avenue, she heard it. That haunting melody”new to her ears but unmistakable”stole over her and held her captive. For a few blissful minutes she floated, spirit-like, in a world only superficially physical. This was transcendence, where deep and unexpected wells of emotion were opened up and her soul soared in the dawn of profundity.
When the last lingering note quivered on the air, she stood still rapt and excited, and scanned the upper windows for any sight of her newfound idol. She saw the scroll of a violin peeking just above the highest windowsill of the boarding house. She saw a thoughtful face propped against a slender wrist; a poetic apparition, at once alert and languid, watching the crowd.
She made an inquiry the next day. “You must mean Mr. Lupin, the violin instructor!” said the woman at the receptionist’s desk, and directed the visitor to the top floor. Up a rickety flight of stairs that creaked alarmingly loud, to a door made of mahogany with a tarnished brass knob. Her tentative knock was answered by a tall man with a careworn face and a patient smile. She represented the purport of her visit and was invited in to explain herself.
It was a well kept room, she thought; a touch too warm to be comfortable, but a feeling of snugness suggested itself, thanks to an apparent effort to make it so. The unsightly storage corner, where rusty nails protruded jaggedly from the rough boards, was hidden behind a great quantity of moth-eaten scarlet drapery, which, shining in the fragmented golden light, lent the room a warm reddish hue. The same fabric had been employed as tablecloth, curtains, and a throw for the sofa; and though in places the cloth was lacy with age, its edges were all carefully hemmed and it was spotlessly clean and fragrant.
She seated herself on the sofa, and saw that one of its blond pillows had been patched, but holding it, found that it was soft, as though years of use had made it so. Humble as it was, the whole arrangement was conducive to comfort and contentment. His deference put her quite at ease and she ploughed through her tale without a trace of her usual discomfiture. At the end of the interview, he asked gently whether she would play with him, that he might have an entire view of the case. A spare violin was produced from the classroom corner and respectfully offered.
He rose, drew out his violin, and indicated she do the same; slowly, he started up the refrain of an old Stephen Foster tune. A musician herself, she appreciated the easy transition between notes and changes, fingers flitting along the fingerboard as effortlessly as a lark in flight. His bow glided fluidly against the strings, as though it was an extension of him, painting a smooth and wistful melody in the air, for his for his touch was sure and the notes resonant.
Tentatively at first, she rested the smooth body of the instrument against her shoulder, feeling up and down the strings for a moment. Her bow was poised and her fingers ready, but she hesitated; he smiled at her and inclined his head slightly, and she felt encouraged. A second strain filled the air, harmonizing beautifully with his. She closed her eyes and her confidence returned to her; the teacher bowed out and observed her as she played.
There was much to be wanted in terms of technique, but there was something in her style that excited the listener. She was blessed with an innate playing acuity, her manner was unpolished, youthful, invigorating. Little tricks and nuances hinted at a greater genius; there was so much feeling in her music that, when she finished, both stood in mutual respect for the other.
She lowered the instrument self-consciously and laid it carefully on its stand, nervously awaiting his answer. He regarded her with shady blue eyes, head tilted slightly, turning the case over in his mind, for she was older than any others he taught, and much further advanced, and in his humility he doubted whether he could be of any help to her.
But he thought it would be pleasant to try.
A/N II: Thanks for reading, and pretty please drop a comment to tell me what you thought. I’m particularly interested in hearing your feedback because this is a huge departure for me. I’d love to know how I can improve it, and any reviews will earn you undying gratitude. :)