Melodies

MELODIES
~she plays for him~



He watches the hazy smoke of his cigarette drift slowly, succumbing finally to the overpowering wind. His place at the balcony is quiet; an escape from the bloodthirsty fighting that takes place past the castle walls. He misses her. He remembers a time when she trusted him. He remembers a time when she selflessly put herself on the line for him. And she still does, he reminds himself. She still acts selflessly. She still trusts him, even though he doesn’t understand why. She’s still here.

A faint brush of melody startles him out of his thoughts and he turns inside, to find her by the old piano inside the dusty ballroom. He lets the drag slip through his fingers, a flash of orange and then black and then his footsteps over it. She’s dressed in a pair of worn jeans and a red-splattered tank top, her hair falling wildly against her shoulders. She’s tired, but she’s beautiful. He knows she aches, but she’s beautiful.

Her hands poise directly over the ivory-yellow keys and he wonders if she’ll play even without any sheet music. He wonders why she’s decided to play at all. He wonders if she’ll play if she knows he’s in the room. She always knows when he’s near.

And then she plays. She plays so softly that he moves closer so that he can hear. Or does he move to be closer to her? He has never understood the power she has over him. Or was it power?

He finds himself behind the piano bench; his vision unfocused and his hands begin to tremble. There is something in the way in the way she plays. She plays with such fever and such grace and suddenly the music is choking him. The music chokes him because he doesn’t understand.

She’s still here.

She stops.

She stops and there’s silence once more. There’s silence and once again he returns to the shadows. Everything’s as it should be. Or is it? Why is he still standing behind her?

She turns to face him, her legs brushing against his and her neck craned to glance at him. He is reminded of the music as he gazes into her eyes. Warm and soft, then the fever, enticing and dangerous…

She’s still here. She’s still sitting.

She’s dangerous.

“Why me?” He finally speaks, his voice trembling.

She tilts her head to the side her eyes lingering on his own. She moves forward, entwining her fingers in his. Her eyes fall to their hands.

“Why me?” He repeats. He craves the silence. He craves the dark. He craves the night. He craves a peace of mind.

Why are you still here?

She’s still dangerous.

“Why not you?” She responds finally. Her hands are soft against his callused ones. They fit, him and her. They fit in ways that he’s frightened to understand.

“Will you play?” Will you still be here?

She motions for him to sit next to her on the bench in the dusty ballroom. Her hands poise and are ready, but instead she opts to turn. She leans over and brushes her lips against his cheek and suddenly all he can think about is jasmine. Jasmine and tea and music and love and hope and peace and…

She’s still here.

She smiles and he knows. He knows that she’ll stay. He knows that she trusts him far more than he’ll ever deserve.

She’s here.

And she plays.

She plays for him.

FINISHED

Another old drabble I wrote ages ago. *shrugs* I’ve always seen Hermione as a piano player. *shrugs* Let me know what you think.