Finding the Muse
By Rain Fletcher
Part 5
Just like that, it was over. Professor Sprout took her dulcimer from the lid of the trunk, allowing Ernie and Justin to start piling songbooks and instruments back into the seemingly endless space inside. Hufflepuffs continued to chat animatedly as they crowded around to hand in their books, and for a while Harry could only watch, his mind buzzing. He gradually became aware that Ron, Hermione and Luna were standing, and Ron was offering a hand to help him up.
As they joined the crowd at the centre of the common room, Professor Sprout looked up at the guests and spoke over the noise of the crowd. "Mister Potter, may I have a moment?"
"Oh… of course, Professor," Harry said numbly, taking a slight detour to where she was sitting and packing up her instrument.
"Tell me, Mister Potter," the professor began, "your song this evening… have you sung it before?"
"Um, no, that was the first time. I had that album when I was younger, though, and played it dozens of times."
"I see. Did you sing much at your muggle school, or in church?"
"No, not ever at all, really." He suddenly felt self-conscious, and it didn't help matters that Sprout had not yet looked at him: her focus was on meticulously fastening her dulcimer into its case. At least no one else would be able to hear their conversation over the hubbub. "Was it… how did I do?"
Here, the professor finally looked up at him appraisingly. "Well, from a purely technical standpoint, Mister Potter, it was amateurish at best. Your breath control was marginal, your support was nonexistent, and your tone was rather pinched."
Harry blinked. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, think nothing of it," Sprout snorted, waving his apology aside. "That's to be expected if you've never had any training. Rare indeed is the singer to whom these things come naturally. You did, however, do something quite extraordinary this evening."
"I did?"
"Indeed. Did you at any time wonder how it was that Mister Smith, Miss Bones and I were able to join in with you so easily?"
This had, in fact, occurred to him, but the way she said it made him wonder if he had been correct. "Well… you're all so good, I figured you just listened for what key I was in."
"Not precisely," Sprout smiled, looking pleased at the compliment. "As you heard, that song was a favorite of Mister Diggory's, so we have had some past experience with it. And you, Mister Potter, with no training and no previous performance, sang it precisely on-pitch, just as it was written. We were able to match your key because it was the correct one."
Harry tried to comprehend what she was driving at, but his mind seemed all but incapable of thought. "Is that… good?"
"It may be. It may be, Mister Potter, that you have either perfect pitch, or at the very least superb pitch memory. For you to be able to pull those notes out of thin air like that, having never performed that song - or indeed any songs at all - was quite a feat."
The idea that he might have any kind of hidden musical talent was too large and too alien to fit into his spinning head. "I… um, is there… how can we find out?"
Professor Sprout snapped the latches of her case closed, stood, and looked up at him. "Come by my office sometime; there are vocal tests we can perform. If I'm right, you have quite a gift, and it would be a shame never to know it." That said, she gave him one last motherly smile and headed toward the portrait hole, dragging her enormous case beside her.
It occurred to Harry that he still had to turn in his book and his drum, so he turned back toward the crowd. To his surprise, he found himself face to tearful face with Hannah, who apparently had been waiting right at his side. No sooner had he registered her presence than she threw her arms around him and gave him a crushing hug, a single sob escaping her.
"Thank you so much," she whispered. "It… it was like he was here again… like we'd never lost him."
"You're welcome," he said automatically, though he could scarcely imagine why she would be thanking him for something that was making her cry like this.
* * *
Since it was after hours, Ernie accompanied the four guests on their return trip to their houses, explaining that his presence would at least give them a non-Gryffindor prefect to corroborate their story. They headed for the Gryffindor tower first, unconsciously walking in step while they quietly recounted some of the evening's highlights. Harry did not add much to the conversation, though: once again his head felt full of white noise, and he was finding it difficult to say anything at all, much less anything relevant.
He was thus taken somewhat off-guard when Ron addressed him directly. "So, Harry… that song you did?"
"What about it?" he blinked at his friend.
Ron's face took on a look of confusion mixed with fascination. "Well, at the end? Does he really light her house on fire?"
Harry blinked again in reply. "What?"
"You know, at the end he wakes up, and the girl's not there, so he lights a fire! Is it for revenge?"
"Oh, that's not it at all!" Hermione scowled. "He does not light her house on fire! It's a metaphor."
"Sounded pretty clear to me that he lights her house on fire," Ron persisted. "Or at least her furniture, at any rate!"
"Ron, you can be so dense sometimes," Hermione sighed. "It's not meant to be taken literally."
"Alright, what does it mean, then?" Ron asked her, haughtily.
Hermione took one of her getting-into-it-with-Ron stiff breaths. "Well, first of all, Norwegian Wood was a type of cheap furniture that was once all the rage in spite of it being rather tacky. So in this song, you have a man who becomes fascinated with a woman, and thinks he wants her, but then once he sees what she's really like, he begins to realize that beneath the façade she's not everything he dreamed of after all. She wants something from him that he can't give her, and she can't give him what he wants either, so he refuses her, she leaves him, and in the end…"
"He burns her house down," Ron nodded, sagely.
"He does not!" Hermione insisted. "He… he burns the memory of her out of his mind, so that he can move on and find what he really wants in life." She gave a satisfied nod at this.
Ron shrugged. "I dunno, I think I like it better when he burns her house down."
Hermione pressed her lips together in annoyance. "Honestly, Ron, you wouldn't know a metaphor if it bit you on the foot."
"Perhaps not, but you'd sure enough feel the after-effects," Luna added. "You'd have fever and hallucinations for weeks."
There was a long silence in which no one dared speak.
"And anyway," Luna went on, "metaphors don't bite you on the foot. Everyone knows literary creatures always come back to bite you in the-"
"Well, thank you all for coming tonight," Ernie spoke up, covering the end of Luna's explanation.
"Oh, it was a pleasure!" Hermione grinned, apparently having already forgotten her spat with Ron. "Thank you for inviting us."
"To be honest, it was not I that invited you," Ernie smiled mysteriously. "I merely arranged for it."
"Any chance we could come back again sometime?" Ron asked.
"I'm sure it could be arranged," Ernie chuckled. "I'm sure everyone will want to hear more of the songs your brothers taught you. We're not doing music next week, but I'll keep you informed of when the next time will be."
"Why don't you share this with the other houses?" Luna asked suddenly.
Ernie looked at her thoughtfully. "I'm not sure I follow you."
"It was quite good of you to invite the four of us," Luna explained, "but we're just three Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw. Why not invite everyone? Why keep it a secret?"
Trust Luna to stroll right into the heart of things. Harry watched several emotions cross Ernie's face as he pondered an answer. "I… don't think the other houses would understand," he said in a measured voice.
"Perhaps not everyone would," Luna granted, "but it makes me sad that you feel the need to hide it from us. You shouldn't feel ashamed of your talents."
Hermione looked rather alarmed at these words, but Ernie didn't seem offended. "No, no, I'm explaining it badly. We're not ashamed at all. It's simply that..."
By this time they had arrived at the portrait of the Fat Lady (who was snoozing away), so the five formed a rough circle in the hall to continue their quiet conversation. "This is our tradition," Ernie said, waving his hands in small circles. "This is something that belongs to Hufflepuff, and has since the days of the Founders. It's ours. Ours to share within our house, and with our guests. And in many ways it's all we have."
"Ernie, that's not true!" Hermione frowned.
"Listen," Ernie went on, his jaw set. "I don't mean the four of you when I say this, but everyone knows what the other houses say about Hufflepuff. We're not brave like Gryffindor, or smart like Ravenclaw, or driven like Slytherin. We're the bloody leftovers, and nobody lets us forget it. You know as well as I do what everyone thinks of our house."
Harry felt a stab of remorse, as he'd been as guilty of this as anyone. Hermione, though, looked shocked and hurt. "That's not true," she repeated. "What about the way Hufflepuffs value hard work and fair play and loyalty? What's not to respect there?"
"Oh, yes, hard work and fair play and loyalty," Ernie nodded, smiling sardonically. "The professors would love to have everyone believe that. 'Here's a bone and a pat on the head, Hufflepuff, now go out there and lose the Quidditch Cup again, won't you?' Come off it, Hermione. You've heard the Sorting Hat: the other three Founders only took the bravest, the smartest and the most ambitious, and Helga Hufflepuff just shrugged and claimed what was left. And believe me, not a day goes by where someone doesn't remind us of it."
Harry traded uncomfortable glances with Ron, while Luna looked impassive and Hermione close to tears. At length, Ernie sighed and ran one hand back through his hair. "I'm sorry, I don't want to end the night by ranting," he smiled thinly. "The truth is, though, that this has always been Hufflepuff's secret. Let the other houses have their well-known standards to flaunt. We'd rather bring out the best in one another, and share something that's uniquely ours."
"Fair enough," Luna said, conversationally. "Though it still makes me sad to think that you have to hide your talents to enjoy them."
Ernie looked at her with a face etched with resignation. "And who would we share it with? You know as well as I do that there's no place for music at Hogwarts."
"Not yet, no," Luna nodded.
Ernie looked at his feet for a moment, then turned back to the others. "Again, I'm sorry for the tirade. I will keep you informed, though, if you'd like to join us again. For now, however, I should escort Miss Lovegood back to her tower before it grows any later."
"Oh, that's quite alright," Luna smiled, linking her arm with Ron's. "Ronald will walk me there."
"I will?" Ron blinked, looking confused. "I mean, yes, of course." He cast another look of terror mixed with amusement in Harry's direction, but Harry barely registered it. His mind was growing more crowded by the moment.
The five said their individual goodbyes within the group, then. After Harry shook Ernie's hand and thanked him again, Luna came and stood before him, giving him the oddest smile.
"Did you feel it?" she asked him, her voice pitched low enough to be unheard by the others amidst their own goodnights.
"I… I don't know what you mean," he whispered in reply.
Luna searched his eyes for a moment, then leaned in close. For a shocked instant Harry thought she was going to kiss him, but instead she ducked her head to one side to whisper in his ear. "I believe you did. Give it time, though. You'll find it."
At any other time, Harry would have asked what "it" was, but his head was still too full. "Good night, Luna," he said instead.
"Good night, Harry." And then was gone, dragging a bewildered Ron with her.
Ernie was about to leave as well when a thought forced its way through to the front of Harry's mind. Something important. Something that couldn't wait. "Ernie, hang on a moment?"
"Hmm?" Ernie smiled, looking back around.
Harry was finding it difficult to put the right words in sequence. "Listen, I… I hope that you know… I hope that everyone in Hufflepuff knows that I… I mean I… would never do anything to… disrespect Cedric. I never would have done that song if I'd known it was… one of his."
For a few moments Ernie stared blankly at Harry, then he looked away with a tiny, wry smile. "You didn't disrespect him, Harry. I don't think anyone in the house would think that you did. Cedric would have been the first one to stand and applaud you tonight had he been there. Like I said before, he had a very high opinion of you."
"But…" Harry started, but quickly trailed off. Cedric Diggory? Popular, handsome Cedric Diggory, who'd been dating Cho Chang? A high opinion of him? Had he just been too busy being jealous of Cedric to notice?
"Funny thing about that song, though," Ernie went on. "Cedric used to say that he was trying to work up the nerve to sing it to Cho Chang. I… don't think he ever had the chance, though."
Now there was more than just noise in Harry's head. Something was roiling under the surface, and for the first time the pressure was becoming downright painful. Then, quite suddenly, Hermione had one hand on his arm and the other supporting his back, and Ernie had a hand extended as though to stop him from listing sideways. "Harry, are you alright?" he asked.
"Yeah, of course," Harry lied, forcing a smile. "Sorry. I'm just… tired. It's been a long week."
"Well, we can talk more about this later," Ernie nodded. "Meanwhile, you get some rest."
"I will. Thanks, Ernie."
"Thank you again, Ernie," Hermione smiled, both hands still supporting Harry.
Harry was barely aware of what happened next. It was as though he was witnessing everything from a great distance: Hermione giving the password to the Fat Lady, the two of them entering the deserted common room, her steering them toward the couch and helping him sit down before sitting beside him, her hand never leaving his arm.
After a long silence broken only by the occasional pop from the embers in the fireplace, Hermione took a shaky breath and said "Harry, what's wrong?"
She sounded frightened, and Harry wanted to tell her that there was nothing really wrong, and that he would tell her what it was as soon as he knew it himself. He looked up into her eyes, which were filled with concern (as they had been so many times in the years he'd known her), and tried to explain it. The night's events had both opened him up and scraped him raw, and it hurt unlike anything he'd ever experienced - not worse than all of it, granted, but in deep places he'd either buried away or never known the existence of in the first place.
He felt a tightness and a heat in his face, and he was suddenly afraid that if he could not find the words to tell Hermione all of this, he might burst.
As it turned out, he didn't need to find those words after all. Concern turned to understanding in Hermione's eyes, and she silently pulled him close to her, held his head against her shoulder, and let him cry.
Once the first tears came, and once his face was hidden in her bushy hair, there was no turning back. Soon he was no longer crying but sobbing, not just with his voice but with his whole body.
He cried because Hannah and Susan had cried. He cried because Cedric had held him in high regard, and Harry would never have the chance to ask him why. He cried because he knew now that he and Cedric might have been great friends had things turned out differently, and he cried because Cho would never get to hear Cedric sing "Norwegian Wood" for her.
He cried because he never would have guessed that Ron would know what a bodhram was. He cried because he'd never given a second thought to the dark-haired songwriter who'd asked to come with him to the Yule Ball, and because he still didn't know her name. He cried because he might never have known whether or not he had perfect pitch, and he wasn't even certain what that meant.
He cried because he knew that Luna believed in him, and yet he still didn't know what "it" was.
He cried because Hermione had known right away that what he really needed was to cry.
"It's alright, you can let it out," she was whispering. And she was right. If anything, he didn't think he could stop letting it out at this point. All the noise and fog that had been crowding his head for weeks was pouring from him, and the thought that he had been holding it all inside was yet another kind of pain.
Gradually, though, the waves of sobbing subsided, and Harry just let himself breathe, his face still buried against Hermione's now damp shoulder.
"You okay, Harry?" came Ron's voice, somewhat unexpectedly. Harry looked up to see that Ron was crouched on the floor in front of the couch, giving him what looked like a worried look, though the tears on his glasses distorted the image somewhat. For a moment he wondered how Ron could have gotten back so soon, but then he realized that he had no idea how long he'd been crying.
"I'll be fine," he said, trying to give Ron a reassuring smile while wiping his glasses clean.
The three of them, over the years, had developed an occasional knack for sharing detailed conversations without actually saying a word. As a consequence, when Ron turned his concerned look to Hermione, and she nodded softly, Harry could all but hear him saying "Er, this looks like emotional stuff - can you cover this?" and her replying "Go on upstairs, I've got it." Even though he had just been crying his eyes out, the sight of this almost made him laugh.
"Right," Ron said, giving Harry what was probably supposed to be a bracing grin and a hearty clap on the knee. "See you in a bit, then?"
"In a bit," Harry nodded. "Thanks, Ron."
"Don't mention it."
After Ron's footsteps receded into the tower, Harry took a shaky breath and looked into the long-dead fire. It occurred to him that he should feel embarrassed at his breakdown, but he found he didn't have the energy.
It also occurred to him that Hermione still had one arm across his shoulders, and that her other hand had come to rest on one of his, and here he actually did feel the beginnings of embarrassment. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "You must think I've gone mad."
"Not at all," she replied, patting his hand. "Is there - anything you want to talk about?"
There was, and he knew it, just as he knew that there was plenty more that he would cry about in time. But for the moment, at least, his head felt strangely clear.
"Not right now," he told her, chancing a glance in her direction. "I mean, there is, but... it's just a big tangle right now. I need to sort it out first."
'Harry," she said, with a sudden and unexpected quaver in her voice, "please don't say that you will and then pull away again. Promise me that you will try to sort it out and not just hide from us. We want to help you - I want to help you. Please…"
"I will," he started to say, but she was already hugging him again, and suddenly he was the one reassuring her. "I will. I will. I promise, I will."
"You'd better," she whispered, pulling away slightly. Her forehead came to rest against his, and they sat like that for a long time.
"I promise," he said again, to break the silence if nothing else.
"Never forget that you have friends who love you, Harry."
"I know. It - it can be hard to remember. I'm sorry. I…" he broke off, swallowed past the lump in his throat, then went on. "I'm still not used to it. I… may need… reminding now and then?"
She actually smiled at this, then to his surprise, she gently pulled his head forward and kissed him on the forehead, right over his scar.
"Well, then," she whispered, "I promise you that in my life… I'll love you more."
That said, she stood up, smoothed her robes, and padded toward the stairs, giving him one last smile over her shoulder before she disappeared.
It was a long time before Harry could bring himself to move. He had been living for so long with a head full of noise that the comparative quiet was deafening.
He was distantly aware that something had happened tonight that would change his life forever, but for once, that didn't seem like such a terrifying thing. For once, he was grateful for the change.
- - - - -
Author's Note: One or two more parts to go, depending on how (or if) some of the next scenes work. I realize that some of you may be saying "Dammit, Rain, where's the snogging?" but… meh, I'll just say again that for me, the best drama still comes from what's left unsaid. I hope that it's enough. Thank you again for sticking with this story in spite of the fact that I'm averaging about a chapter a month. Your comments have been humbling and heartening, and I'm deeply grateful.
I'm also pleased that I finally cajoled Nacey into reading it, seeing as she was one of the ones who inspired me to get back to writing fanfic again - I've officially met another of my goals. (Now if I can just convince Goldy, Demosthenes, Anne and a few others, I'll be a very happy Rain.)