The Violin Teacher by stardust
Chapter Notes: This is it - I promise! I apologize for the length of this last installment. It was a perplexing struggle of impulses - not wanting to draw it out but not wanting to wrap up!
In humblest gratitude I want to thank those of you who've stuck with this story from start to finish. See you after the curtain closes - I don't want to clog up the beginning too much!
With a rush of excitement, and perhaps a throb of trepidation, Hermione rounded the corner and slipped into the crowds of the Grand Avenue. It was the same bustle, that ceaseless combination of discordant sounds and purposeful movement. The same soot-covered building with its four stories and its windows that gleamed in the midday sun. The same door with its large brass knob and tarnished knocker; how pleasant it was to feel its coolness against her hand again! As she made her way into the lobby she felt as though this was indeed her homecoming. So little about it was altered.
She had noticed at once the sign above the door, clanging in the violent gusts of the summer storm that was near upon them. It had taken on a sooty stain, like the great granite slabs it adorned, and but for the noise it made one might have overlooked it. Hermione smiled fondly at the scroll of the violin and couldn't help but be pleased at the camouflage. She had hoped that one day Mr. Lupin could achieve urban mundaneness. It would be enough if he could disappear against the scenery and enjoy the acceptance of being part of a routine. That his sign no longer gleamed like a beacon against the drabness seemed to her a pleasant omen.
She moved through the entrance hall without stopping to make an inquiry; glancing at the front desk, she noted that the receptionist was unfamiliar to her. Today was a day for revisiting and not for discovering. With a feeling of mounting anticipation, she summoned the elevator and was lifted to the fourth floor.
It seemed to take an age for the shiny scrolled grates to slide open. Here she was, facing the attic stairway, and it still smelled of wood stain and dust and mildew. She could almost hear Mr. Lupin tuning his violins upstairs.
Suddenly she felt insurmountably self-conscious. She breathed a moment in contemplation.
It was difficult to express her thought in words; it was too strong a thought to dismiss, but it sounded silly when put in colorless terms. For three years she had tried for a story of her own and had wound up using his. Wouldn't it seem rather foolish to him, who had been such a cogent advocate for individualism?
Removed from his sphere after only a brief stay, she had doubtlessly had a less forceful influence on him than he had on her. She could go so far as to believe that the impression must needs have been unrequited. He might have been a hero to her, but reverse roles and she was just another student. And how many dozens of budding musicians had made a paragon of him through the years?
But that prodding intuition was still murmuring encouragement. Because this piece was his as much as it was hers - he being the narrative and she but the narrator. She needed him to sanction it, to make it valid. Because even now, despite the praise and reinforcement of her critics, the taint of unconfidence wouldn't allow her to claim its merits until she had unveiled the portrait to the muse.
Her heart leapt to her throat as she turned the friendly doorknob, but it promptly sank when the bolt caught against the latch.
She found that the door was locked, and knew that he had gone.
The violin case she shouldered fell to the floor with a terrific crash. Then Hermione sunk down against the sticky oaken panels, brought her trembling hands to her face, and cried.
Many sleepless nights he had lain in bed, watching light shift and stretch as it caressed the walls and ceiling.
He had found housing in a parkside neighborhood, where there was no clamor to distract him after the raucous crowds deserted the area at nightfall. Lupin didn't know whether the unbelievable quiet of the lonely room suited him or not. Sometimes he desired nothing more than to sink into the silence, which had a peace of its own. Other times he would have given everything for any distraction that might be an escape from his thoughts.
No. Alone the cycle was inescapable. Sometimes happy and sometimes unhappy, thoughts and recollections, these were what were left to him at the end of a day, with no one to confide in. They were the necessary destination of every stream of consciousness.
Tonight, like the night before, the shadows flickered against the walls as the stormclouds sailed across the sky. The rustle of the trees sounded like the ocean, the rough gusts rolling in like waves. Wind tousling leaves and branches unbending, just like the water edging in over shells and pebbles and sand.
Fortune, he thought, was much like the tide. It came and went - some people built their castles in the damp sand, and their prospects were taken back by the tide whene'er it came. Some people made boats and anchors from insured woods and floated along - jostled about sometimes by the waves, but never lost at sea. Some had neither wood nor real estate - some drowned in high tide but some learned to swim, as he had.
He had always differed from his friends in that way, in their methods of weathering a tempest.
It had taken him years to understand the mind that could laugh against the winds of fortune and give chase to its vaunted prizes. Responsibility shook its finger at Temerity and cautioned from the sidelines whenever risks were too glaring. Perhaps there was a bit of pride involved; perhaps prudence was an identifying trait, something he alone could withhold or dispense, factoring into the friendship against their recklessness, bringing their group into balance. But who was then responsible when something went awry? The adventurers who could not alight without drowning, or the chary one whose withdrawal put him out of reach at the last?
Or was it just Fortune again?
They had always known that Fortune was a wanton master. Its frothing, chilly waters had deposited him, high and dry, on foreign shores. It would have been merciful of the ocean to swallow him up when it took the rest of them; but the instinct to swim is stronger than death; that grasping for life, for light, had always been his first impulse. If life stranded him he could at least try to make an island oasis of it.
Isolation, he learned, was never so desolate as in the open sea. Predators loom offshore and in the unfading charcoal haze of unseen traps and corners. Anxiety is constant, and human life scarcely seen. Nothing to do but work, scraping together the fundamentals for living. Nothing to live for but the sunrise, herald of a new day, and the sunset, visual serenade at its closing. Such passing, everyday things were nevertheless a type of richness. These were his happinesses, the satisfaction of seeing another unsquandered evening fade, and the untroubled conscientiousness with which he settled into sleep.
And there was always the dream of reunion. Friendly faces and ghostly presences, forced beneath the surface of his mind during the toilsome day, emerged as the night fell. In the twilight hour between sleeping and waking, waking and sleeping, he was conscious of their close proximity...
Alive to him for a spell, encouraging him to sail on.
A tentative voice broke the silence of the theatre. Words fell gently through the air upon the sedate assembly - as though offending their expectant ears as little as possible.
“Visiting this country has been a wonderful experience for me, and as it’s my last night here, I thought I'd leave you with something special and something new."
Lupin shifted in his seat and roused his attention once more for this, the final performance of the night. Only the very poor or the very private frequented the dark second balcony. Far, far from the floodlights, seats could be bought up at a pretty discount. He felt fortunate to take his solitary place there, where the speakers buzzed sporadically and the performers on stage looked like puppets in a hand-theatre.
"Germany has treated me so kindly and I really don’t know how to express what I’ve taken from it except in music. So please listen and let it be my thanks to you."
He thought of stealing down to the front of the balcony to get a better view of the stage but, lackadaisical, settled back into his chair. The unintrusive orchestra was emptying into the side wings, leaving a solo violinist to handle the encore. Hers looked a rather forsaken spot, enclosed in a blinding column of light that bleached out her features but did nothing to anonymise her. He remembered the tense laughter that preluded his group's outings, and pitied the youngster who had to confront the audience alone. The anticipation exhaled during her introduction hung thick around the glimmering chandelier.
"On behalf of Frau Pfrommer and the organizing committee for this programme, I'd like to thank you all for coming tonight, and encourage you to continue your generous patronage of this fine establishment..."
It was natural, he told himself, to feel slightly deflated when curtain call became imminent. Well, he had enjoyed his excursion - a rare interlude in the busy schedule he was compelled to keep with Winter close at his heels. He was tired - so tired; and when this early evening came, he betook himself to the heart of the city to find a remedy.
His medicine was found in the form of a twisting line outside a box office. He had wandered around the Arts District until the frosty air wore down on him and his long fingers were beginning to ache at the knuckles. The theatre's jolly chandeliers and warmly painted screens were irresistible. He pushed through the gathering crowd into the cozy hush of the lobby, then stood passive, heart beating fast, as the well-regulated mass flowed around him. The bite in the air unnerved him vaguely, like a sinister, barely-whispered secret, and his escape to the precipitate comfort of the theatre left him feeling rather overcome. It was so much a civilized environment, testimony to man's attainable upliftedness, and it was joy unspeakable to take in the walls and company that had been his prerogative during his performing years.
Now he wanted one more survey of the festive panorama, before his reluctant return to his loft and his bills and his students. The balcony held one advantage in its unmatched view of the theatre, and it impressed him deeply as lifted his gaze from the wide, well-kept stage to the august dome of the ceiling. These were the sights and sounds that were most homelike to him; like the modulating chatter that rose from a sea of freshly-coiffed heads; like the rehearsal strains of the orchestra, attuning chaos to order from its unseen enclosure. It was a cordial to him to drink in the happy anticipation of the people around him. It brought forth many spectral emotions, but was so comfortable that the dreaming seemed natural.
"And nothing more, except - auf Wiedersehen, and I hope you like this. I did write the first two songs during my stay; the last piece might be familiar to some of you; I wrote it in Vienna last year.”
The word swept him up unawares, wafting into his fancies like a vesperal breeze. Vienna... he remembered the city well. His friends had lodged there once - it was Christmastime and the sparkling wreathes and evergreens gave the city a merry aspect. Red ribbons and holly boughs seemed to brighten every memory of the place, until that halcyon snatch of time stood out amongst all the others.
Their days together then were like the carols they sang, marked by almost inhuman mirth and hope and cheer. There was a baby in their midst, and by general consent a twelvemonth hiatus was adopted, that their friend might enjoy his new family. With sunny spirits did they sing out the old year, feeling, with the indomitable zest of youth, that things could only continue to brighten for them in the new one. Two were to stay in Vienna, one to go home to England for a stay, and he, Remus, to seek knowledge and experience roving with Gypsies. They were all at sail then - a matchless quartet - and could little imagine what squalls were stirring out at sea.
How quickly a life can capsize! One violent gust - a senseless automobile - and two are gone forever. One moment finds you dreaming up future glories, and in the next comes the dreaded summon that rouses you from your peace.
He never felt more bereaved, more utterly lost inside than on that drive to the accident site - to some Alpine off-way in the dead of a starless night. If misfortune could ever have conquered him, it would have been then, as he looked upon the peaceful countenances of his incorrigible comrades. So brave and blithe in life, so solemn in slumber, and never again to waken with a smirk and a wile. And Lily, their flower - her fond green eyes looked on greener landscapes, and could not open again to meet and alleviate the world's worried glances. But what of innocence! Merciless fate distinguished neither father nor mother - the baby the sole survivor, yet the most wretched victim of them all.
They had been coming to surprise him, to bring him a bit of English festivity for Bonfire Night. It was always plotting with them; it seemed tragically apt that they'd go down in such a blaze. The musical world mourned the two smitten stars: names written in bold for a week; a spike in sales; a moment of silence at every venue; but then life moved on, as it invariably did, and they forgot to consider the other half of the foursome.
Peter, his only living friend, turned his back on him as soon as the funeral lament faded into the sorrowful sunset of a chilled November evening. He had his suspicions - unwarranted suspicions - and perhaps he knew that with the Quartet broken up, Lupin could only be a cloud on the horizon - of a solo career. The crowd dispersed and Peter went with it. Without so much as a goodbye, without knowing the grief and guilt that constricted Lupin's lungs more than the cold air did. He left Lupin alone at the gravesite - alone with the pastor beside the three newly-dug graves. . .
A slight turn in the melody hoisted him from the well of thoughts. He noticed only then that he had leaned forward into his hands, blocking out everything but his thoughts and - the music. The new strain was familiar, plaintive; it flowed, ran like a river alongside him, lending its living voice to his abstract ramble.
There were so many lonesome people, dependent on the passing kindnesses of strangers. So many people who languished where the world couldn't see them, who gave up on living for the want of a friend. A little more understanding could cure a world of evils. If harsh judgments were never made, then who would fear to own up to himself and who would wander the streets alone?
What use have other people for intrigue and artifice?, he thought. Pretensions mask our true qualities and reinforce the greater facade. How do goodhearted people become accessory to the degenerate system, where one side is bolstered up by hammering another to inconsequence? There is heartbreak enough in the world without their crooked commerce.
If loss and error were inevitabilities in life, then surely art and music were life's remedies. Whenever a person found a moment's respite in a song or a piece of art, the artist plying instrument became a messenger of truth and comfort. Here and now, the woman on stage had turned from an insignificant soloist to a doctor dealing medicine, transforming personal pain into something that could aid other people. Right now, it was enough for Lupin to feel that sympathy existed somewhere in the world; this musician, who bridled and expressed her sympathies on stage, for him, for a moment, combatted the force of antipathy that had oppressed him in society.
Lupin smiled, buoyed up by the lovely undercurrent of the wistful melody, and reflected; cheerful, heedless youth had gone, and the rainbow gold was lost when the first eclipse came. At first he had grappled with the desolation of his love and luck and his purpose - but now he liked to think that his antonymous circumstances had built him a more complete perspective, had helped him happen upon an unlikely crusade. Over the years, he had come to find that pleasant remembrances could be sown where ignorance hadn't yet taken root. If he was free from shame and acrimony, he represented his state in a new light to those whom he encountered. By hiding nothing but teaching well he could, person by person, elminate their misconceptions about him. It suited the mischievous spirit that would persist in him throughout the years - it was his subversive bid for an enlightened future.
Was he sure he would witness this happy change in his future? No, but he was willing to work and hope for work’s reward. And he couldn't believe that it was so far out of reach, sitting in communion with a diverse assembly as the music echoed his thoughts through the air. Music was magic. Music was healing. It could touch upon the longing in the souls of men for a more perfect friendship with the world and its kin. This minstrel had conveyed in a matter of minutes what years of patient discourse would fail to convey. She had captured a fragment of the human condition and released it into the world to say what words were inadequate in describing. If music like this could bring these strangers into such deep accord, perhaps it could also dismantle the prejudices that words had built up.
The ushers were stirring behind the fabulous drapes, and the solo piece - the beautiful, evocative piece - was winnowing to a tender, emotional end. The heart-wrenching ponderous feel of it lifted in the final strains, gliding at last into ones that were lighter, easier, happier, like the hope that rises with the sun, after a long, long night of mourning.
The significance of it hit him with the suddenness of a wave; this uncanny anthem piece: was it really unlikely at all?
Something tense and taut collapsed within him - his doubt swept away by the grace of this very solacing melody. And the most remarkable thing was happening: around him, people's eyes had glistened over with tears. There was a collective hush, a quavering breath, and then the applause engulfed them. The ovation went up like a wave - from the orchestra seats spreading to the very last balcony row.
He blinked his swimming eyes and focused with all his might on the slender figure on stage. The bushy brown head inclined in a graceful curtsy, the self-conscious grip of her bow and the half-proud shying away from the applause - he didn't need to see her face to be sure he knew her.
Hermione Granger. It had been years since he bid her fare well and fair sailing. He knew that she was rising in prominence, noting with a teacher's remote pride the frequency with which her talent was hailed in music columns and periodicals. One composition - this composition, surely - had been quite the sensation in Europe: an overnight classic. He hadn't known; he had never heard it; how possibly could he have expected this from anyone?
He didn't remember much else about the evening, except that the ushers came to secure the balcony before he rose, and the security guard - argumentative and uncompromising - wouldn't let him see her. Miss Granger was occupied and unable to mingle - old teachers were no exception.
His fingers were numb when he fumbled with his keys at his threshold. Nothing penetrated the profound gratitude and the succoring prospect that was unlike any comfort he'd known for a decade. More tired then ever, but quite at peace inside, he carried out his humble rituals and drifted into a dreamless sleep. The spirits of time had not gone, never gone, but they let him sleep undisturbed during their vigil.
Memories, too, rested peacefully 'til rays of gold warmed the rose-tinted rim of the horizon.
After one final, affectionate dusting, Hermione smoothed the emerald cover over her violin and shut the case with a snap. Life as a traveling artist, though gratifying, was demanding, and she tried to make the most of what meditative moments it afforded her. She had been delighted to discover a cozy little nook backstage, where she could read an hour or two in peace before the long ride to Prague. She informed the on-hand security that no person was to disrupt her solitude, and then curled up with a book and a box of chocolates.
There was always a surplus of chocolates these days, with her assortment of admirers on tour and abroad. Some redheaded oboist from a woodwind family group had been booked alongside her in a scattering of German shows. Though on occasion she had to ensconce herself in spare dressing rooms to evade him, he made her laugh and saw to it that she was always outfitted with flowers and sweets, and on the whole she was more amused than annoyed by his attentions.
A series of short raps sounded from the other side of the door. Hermione carried on with her reading. The knocks came again, more demanding this time. Allowing herself a roll of the eyes, Hermione relinquished the novel and turned the latch. A bouquet of scarlet preceded her awkward champion into the room, and a stammering discourse followed.
Here was a pretty spray of roses; noisy to be sure, but it would brighten up her cramped little corner. Wouldn't she like a change of scenery? She ought to consider taking dinner with him? She was leaving the country tomorrow and he wanted to treat her. He had a note for her; he'd wrested it from the security bloke when he'd spied her name on it; the man averred that it was from a fellow on the street, but he had a sneaky, truthless look in his eye.
Hermione laughed and extended her arm to take it. An unadorned white card in a crisp white envelope, embossed at the borders but no more than four inches wide. Someone had penned Congratulations on the front in silver ink. Such a tasteful little aesthetic piece; it called to mind all manner of friendly things. Chivalry, gentility, and the noble hands of gentlemen. She unfolded the card; somehow, she wasn't surprised by what she found inside.
Thank you.
Remus Lupin
The room seemed to compress around her. Colours and dimensions blurred - perhaps she had begun to cry. She felt as though a ghost had whisked by her, brushing up against her spirit. Was she shocked to finally encounter it, when it hovered about her constantly? No; but it was too suggestive of the supernatural to pass without costing her a bit of a shiver. Her soul felt very full.
The slow, pounding rhythm of her heart was leading her feet forward. Unthinking, she wove through the labarinthine backstage halls, with an urgency she couldn't understand, until she burst through the stage door, mindless of the indignant look she had from the warden. She looked up and down, but the back street was quite deserted. The street-light poured down on her shoulders, magnifying the vacantness and lending no warmth. She shuddered against the wind; her breath rose in little puffs above her head, and her ginger-haired shadow entreated her to step in from the cold.
She turned the card over in her hand. Disappointment turned to wonder as she pondered over the laconic message, scintillating lightly on the immaculate card.
She had never thought to see him again; not in this life, and not, certainly, as a guest in this nonnative land. Yet here their paths had intersected - time had brought them to the same place again - though she had walked along the wayside and he through the tunnels that harbored uncoveted treasures. Though it cost her a bitter pang to have missed him so narrowly, she could not but feel joyful. Frustration would not endure in the wake of this singular reunion - not when she held in her hands the words of validation she had so hoped to hear from him.
Hermione turned to her companion with a bracing sort of smile and a heart lighter than laughter. Smiles and tears were one to her then - joy or regret outpouring, there was no difference. Of the myriad tangled emotions overflowing within her, the only one discernible - fountained to the top, felt in and of the rest - was fulfillment.
Her little cup of happiness was full, and for once she felt at home in the vista stretching radiantly before her.
She knew that he would be down the road again, up against the world with all its prejudices, once more to the attics and basements begrudgingly given.
But it would be better for him now. For this was his song, and following his example she would play - even against the rolling thunder, even against the winds of Fortune and of Time.
THE END.
And there you have it! Tell me what you think now, please, if you haven't before! =D
And in no specific order - to invisiblenudnik, Mind_Over_Matter, sunshine, Blossomlily, MoonysMistress, GreyLady, Tess Potter, WonderfulWeasley, fantasygirl7, lilyevans91, LadyMI, wyckoff_chick, moonwalker, Ginevra Weasly, Phoenix5225, harryandginnyxx, Errie, Helz_Spellz, The_Half_Blood_Prince, fairies_r_real, Antipodean Opaleye, m00n_un1t_luna, and all the others who have lent me their encouragement through reviews and the like, I am very grateful indeed. Your critical input made the writing of this story so enjoyable for me and gave me more motivation to finish what I began. My thanks to each and every one of you, and I hope you liked it! I hope to see you all around the PotterFicsphere!
Disclaimer: Remus, Hermione, and the Marauders (and Ron!) are the creative property of Miss JK Rowling. Try as I might to make these characters my own, what I'm really seeking to do is capture a fragment of the life that Jo blesses them with so richly and effortlessly.