Finding the Muse

RFletcher

Rating: PG
Genres: Drama
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 03/01/2005
Last Updated: 20/06/2005
Status: completed

"We came here to learn magic," Luna said at length, "and there isn’t any music here. How can that be?" Harry and Hermione have no answer for her, but soon find themselves joining her in the search for their Muse.

Chapters

1. Finding the Muse - Part 1

2. Part 2

3. Part 3

4. Part 4a

5. Finding the Muse - Part 4 (continued)

6. Finding the Muse - Part 5

7. Finding the Muse - Part 6

8. Finding the Muse - Epilogue

1. Finding the Muse - Part 1

Disclaimer The First: This is my first foray into the remarkable world created by JK Rowling. No infringement of copyright is intended. Y’all know the drill. This fic takes place during sixth year, which means, basically, that I’d darn well better finish it before July of 2005. Please do not expect overt shipping – I am of the opinion that there is at least as much romance in what is left UNsaid…

Disclaimer The Second: I haven’t done this in a while. Several years, really. Lots of rust to knock off, doncha know. Please be kind.

Acknowledgements: Thanks to Cy Panache on FF dot net, and thanks to Nacey, Goldy and countless others here at Portkey for helping me get through these night shifts at tech support with some darn good reading.

Disclaimer The Third: Having heard the album Rubber Soul by the Beatles is not necessary, but it sure couldn’t hurt. This is not a song-fic, but there will be plenty of references to music.

FINDING THE MUSE

By Rain Fletcher

Part 1

As many times in the past, Harry’s trek from the Gryffindor portrait hole, down the several flights of stairs, out of the castle and onto the Hogwarts grounds was uninterrupted. No one called his name, stopped him to chat, or for that matter made eye contact for more than a moment without looking away. It had been like this since the beginning of term, and was frankly nothing new: certainly he had been avoided by his schoolmates many times in his five-plus years as a wizard.

This time, however, it was somehow less bothersome. This time he was not the suspected Heir of Slytherin, or the overexposed Tri-Wizard champion, or the attention-seeking boy telling crazy stories about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. This time he was the vindicated survivor, and when crowds parted to allow him to pass, it was almost out of respect. Or possibly just the natural inclination to keep a safe distance from someone with a target painted on his back.

Whatever the cause, Harry was grateful.

It was an uncharacteristically warm, overcast Saturday in September, just a few weeks past the start of Harry’s sixth year. Dressed in a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt (he had found himself wearing more black of late), he made his way aimlessly through the courtyard, still not entirely certain where he was headed. All he knew was that he needed space to ease the crowding in his own head.

It wasn’t a Hogsmeade weekend, so that was right out. He didn’t much want to see Hagrid either, because that would mean uncomfortable (though well-meant) attempts to Get Harry Talking. A flight to get some wind between his ears sounded vaguely tempting, but Hufflepuff had booked the Quidditch pitch, and regardless, he had left his broom back in the tower and didn’t much feel like going back for it.

Eventually, he found himself taking a stroll around the lake. This was as close to a refuge as he had yet found this year: the lake was probably the only place in Hogwarts which held no memories of Sirius, no reminders of that void in his life.

He had gone about a quarter of the way around and was approaching “their” tree: an enormous beech which had shaded many outdoor studying sessions with Ron, Hermione and himself. That seemed as good a place as any to sit and brood.

As he got closer, though, he heard the oddest sound coming from beneath the sheltering branches, and he realized that someone had beaten him to the spot. The sound was musical, but bizarre – somewhere between a frog and a duck with a head cold.

Baffled, but curious, Harry circled around until he found the source of the music. Seated on a wooden stool placed against the trunk of the tree, wearing a black dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat with corks dangling from around the brim like tassels, playing one of the most ungainly musical instruments Harry had ever seen, was Luna Lovegood.

Having known Luna for over a year now, having witnessed her peculiar choices in jewelry and clothing, having beheld her undying faith in the impossible, Harry had now and again begun to think that nothing this fifth-year Ravenclaw girl could do or say would catch him by surprise. And then, just when he felt safe, she would do something more mind-boggling than ever, like sitting under a tree by the lake on a Saturday afternoon playing a… what was she playing, anyway?

He peered at the instrument in front of her – several feet of bent-double wooden pipe propped against the ground, Luna blowing into a metal tube connected to it while her fingers worked the complicated series of stops – and somewhere in the depths of memory he pulled the word bassoon. Yes, that was definitely it. A bassoon. Luna and her bassoon…a.

As ridiculous as the entire scene was, and as much as it sounded like a particularly large waterfowl might sound if it were ever to try to sing, Harry found himself entranced. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the part from which he’d pulled the word “bassoon” in the first place, he realized that she was playing very well. Her hands moved with an ease that could only have come from years of practice.

He had been so focused on her hands that it took him a few moments to notice that she was looking over at him, watching him as he watched her. Suddenly feeling as though he’d been caught spying on something he shouldn’t have been seeing, he turned away guiltily, and then almost jumped out of his skin when he saw that Hermione was standing right next to him, fixing him with a worried look.

“Gah! Huh – Hermione?”

The worried frown deepened. “Harry, I’ve been calling your name since a hundred feet away. Didn’t you hear me?”

“Er – no, I was-” he stammered, glancing back over at Luna (who was no longer watching him), then back to his concerned friend. “I was – er – listening. Um, Hermione?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“What are you doing here?”

She smiled in a long-suffering way, but her eyes had a twinkle to them. “I was looking for you. I didn’t see you in the Common Room, and Ron didn’t know where you’d gone, so I thought I’d try here.”

“Oh. How did you know I’d be here?”

“Lucky guess?”

He nodded, again glancing over at Luna. “Hermione?” he said, more quietly this time.

“Yes, Harry?” she repeated.

“Am I hallucinating, or is Luna Lovegood sitting under the tree playing a bassoon?”

Hermione looked to the tree, nearly did a double-take, then mirrored Harry’s questioning look right back at him. “No, you’re not hallucinating,” she said, slowly. “Either that or we both are.”

Throughout their hushed conversation, Luna had never stopped playing, though she seemed to change moods here and there. At the moment she was playing a jaunty (but dark) melody that put Harry in mind of mischief-making goblins in the deepest forest. “Think she’ll mind if we listen?” he asked Hermione.

In her time at Hogwarts, Hermione had stood up to life-and-death challenges, hideous monsters and vengeful dark wizards, but it was obvious to Harry that nothing in the world unnerved her more than the prospect of interacting with Luna. “Perhaps we shouldn’t… interrupt?”

“Maybe she’d like an audience?” Harry suggested. He gave Hermione a half-grin and then stepped under the shelter of the tree, closer to where Luna was playing. Behind him, Hermione gave a tiny little sigh, but he heard the crunch of her footsteps as she followed.

They pulled up a few feet away, and again Luna looked up at him from beneath the wide straw hat, her large eyes somewhat obscured by the corks dangling from its brim. The only movement was that of her eyes, however, as she continued playing without missing the proverbial beat.

“Hello, Luna,” Harry smiled, making an effort to appear amiable. “Do you mind if we listen?”

She made no active reply, not even a blink, and Harry took this as a good sign. He seated himself amidst the leaves and roots, and Hermione settled herself beside him. Harry closed his eyes and listened for a while, enjoying the outright bizarreness of the situation. Luna continued playing for several minutes, sometimes melodiously, sometimes appearing to accompany a symphony outside of Harry’s hearing, sometimes seemingly making it up as she went along.

After a while, though, she stopped, and Harry opened his eyes to see that she was staring out at the lake, looking pensive and distant. He exchanged puzzled looks with Hermione, then cleared his throat. “That was very nice.”

“There isn’t any music here,” Luna said in a hard, quiet voice.

Harry blinked at her. She was still staring out over the water, and her face was impassive, but he was certain he’d heard a note of anger in her voice. “I’m sorry?”

“At Hogwarts,” she continued. “There isn’t any music here. It makes me sad.”

“But… but of course there’s music,” said Hermione. “I mean, there’s – there’s no wireless, since those don’t work here, but there’s…” She looked to Harry for support.

“The Sorting Hat sings,” he nodded, picking up the thread. “And the school song at the Welcome Feast.”

Luna turned away from the water and looked at him sadly. “One day of the year, and we get a cautionary tale from a hat and an anthem that everyone treats as a joke.”

“How about the Yule Ball two winters ago, then?” Harry pressed, but even as he said it, he knew what Luna’s reaction would be. That was only one day out of the countless years since the last Tri-Wizard Tournament.

“And what about Charms?” Hermione went on before Luna could give the expected reply. “I remember in fourth year, when Professor Flitwick charmed a harp to play all by itself. Didn’t he do that for you?”

“Yes, I saw that,” Luna nodded. “I would have been more impressed had he played it himself.”

Harry was about to say something about the logistics of tiny Professor Flitwick trying to reach around a full-size harp, but somehow he didn’t think that was what Luna had meant. “But… he’s the Charms professor,” he said instead, somewhat lamely. “He’s supposed to be showing us how to do things… with magic.”

“Yes, of course,” Luna nodded again, and Harry was surprised to hear a real edge growing in her voice, though it remained as quiet as always. “Why learn to do something with your own hands and lips and voices when you can have magic do it for you? Why sing, and learn to blend and harmonize, when you can conjure a choir of voices from the air, and charm frogs to sing bass for you? Why learn to play in tune with three other people when you can wave your wand and have your own string quartet? Magic…” She said the last word almost derisively, and Harry was frankly astonished. He looked back to Hermione, hoping for some sort of support, but found that she was studying Luna very thoughtfully.

“We came here to learn magic,” Luna said at length, “and there isn’t any music here. How can that be?”

Harry had no answer for her, and for once, neither did Hermione. It didn’t appear that she had been expecting one, though, as she once again brought the bassoon into position and continued playing exactly where she’d left off.

After a while, Harry stood, suddenly feeling as though he were intruding on something he could not possibly understand. He held his hand out to help Hermione to her feet, and the three friends shared a few wordless moments amidst the melodic quacking. “Um, thanks for letting us listen, Luna,” Harry said at last. “Can we come hear you again sometime?”

She gave them a barely perceptible nod from around the mouthpiece. Harry gave her what he hoped was a friendly smile before they stepped away.

Leaving Luna to her contemplative musical soliloquy, Harry and Hermione walked on, continuing their circuit of the lake. Neither spoke for quite a while, and the duck-voiced notes of the bassoon grew steadily distant with each step.

In spite of the seriousness of the previous conversation, Harry couldn’t help but chuckle slightly at the absurdity of what they had just seen, but out of respect for Luna he held back, remembering guiltily that ridicule was enough a part of her everyday life as things were. He settled for grinning at Hermione, but the smile faded when he saw her thoughtful expression. “Are you alright?” he ventured.

“Oh, yes,” she nodded absently. “I was just thinking about what she said… She’s absolutely right, you know.”

“Hang on,” Harry blinked. “Did I just hear you say Luna Lovegood was absolutely right? Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione?”

“Harry,” she scowled. “I mean it! Apart from those scattered moments, there really is no music at Hogwarts. It’s as though magic and the fine arts can’t co-exist. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

After a few more steps in silence, Harry shrugged. “I’ve never thought about it. I don’t really know music.”

“Oh, you must know some,” Hermione replied, glancing up at him. “You were raised outside the magical world, same as me.”

“I was also raised by the Dursleys. A cupboard under the stairs wasn’t the best place to gain any kind of exposure to the arts.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, giving him a sympathetic frown. “Did you learn any in school?”

Harry actually had to think hard on this one: his life prior to Hogwarts was not something he tended to waste energy on contemplating. “A little bit, I suppose,” he said at length. “Just bits and pieces, though. I remember studying Benjamin Britten’s Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra – that was the only way I recognized what Luna was playing. I never got to be in any kind of real music program at school, though, because that would have meant the Dursleys having to buy me an instrument, and that wasn’t bound to happen.”

“Did you ever sing?” Hermione asked tentatively.

“Once or twice, I suppose. Just class sing-alongs, though.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

Harry shook his head slowly, but not because he disagreed. “I honestly don’t remember. I try not to remember, really.” An uncomfortable feeling was welling up inside, and he stopped abruptly.

After another short silence, Hermione spoke again. “I’m sorry, Harry. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I can only imagine what it must have been like for you.”

At another time, Harry would likely have snapped at her. No, you can’t! You can’t imagine what it was like, because you weren’t there! You can’t possibly know! He found himself lacking either the heart or the energy, though.

Instead, to his own surprise, he went on. Somehow, being well on their way around the lake, with no one there but Hermione to hear, made it easier. “There was one time, though…”

He trailed off, uncertain of how to start. Hermione watched him thoughtfully, but did not urge him to continue.

“I was nearly ten years old,” he went on. “Term was just about to end at school, and I was walking home one day when I saw something lying by the side of the road, more or less in the gutter. It was a cassette tape – the real, store-bought kind, with the printing on it. It wasn’t in its case, so I can only imagine it fell from someone’s parked car as they opened the door, and then they drove off without noticing it. One corner of it was badly cracked, probably from where the wheel had gone over it, but other than that it was intact.

“Dudley had tapes and a tape player at home, so I knew what it was, but I’d never had one of my own. I picked it up and read it, and I even vaguely knew the name: it was the Beatles.”

“Which record?” Hermione asked, suddenly smiling brightly.

“Rubber Soul,” he answered, then blinked at her again. “You know the Beatles?”

“Of course I know the Beatles,” she grinned. “My parents love them. They… er… they were very popular, you know. And still are, really.”

“Well, I know that now,” he half-laughed. “Even then, I figured they must have been important, just because even with as little as I knew music, I’d actually heard of them. At any rate, I took the tape home, and I hid it. I didn’t want anyone to take it from me.”

At this point in the story, Harry was actually finding it difficult to speak and walk at the same time, so he stopped and turned to look out over the water. Hermione pulled up beside him, again giving him a thoughtful look.

“Term was over later that week, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia took Dudley out for the day. This time, though, I didn’t care that they were leaving me all alone. I took the cassette and snuck into Dudley’s second bedroom, where he kept his player, and I plugged it in, rewound it to the beginning, and…”

Once again, he trailed off, and it took him several moments to find the words. “I’d never heard anything quite like it. I don’t know what I’d expected really, but it just… swept through me. I listened to the whole thing, both sides, and then started over from the beginning. I played it at least five times, front to back, every song. After that I stopped and went back to my cupboard; I didn’t want to press my luck. All that summer, though, whenever they left the house, I’d sneak back upstairs and play it again.”

Even though he already knew how this story ended, having lived it, he could not help but smile at these memories. “The funniest part was that I memorized every word and every note, and yet the songs themselves really meant nothing to me. It seemed like every song on that record was either about having troubles with your girlfriend, or having troubles because you don’t have a girlfriend, or having troubles looking for a girlfriend…” His grin deepened as Hermione started to laugh. “I wasn’t even ten! It went completely over my head! Are all their other records like that, too?”

“Quite a few of them, I’m afraid.”

“Well, it didn’t really matter that I didn’t get it,” he went on. “I was so… happy. For once, I had something that was mine. Something I didn’t have to share with anyone. It never even occurred to me that anyone had heard these songs besides me. No matter how miserable the Dursleys tried to make me that summer, I found I could… endure it a bit more. It didn’t mean as much, because I had all these songs in my head, and every time those three left the house, I got to hear them all again, to keep them fresh.”

His face darkened, remembering what came next. Hermione, no doubt reading his expression like always, spoke quietly when he did not continue. “What happened then?” she asked, already sounding sad on his behalf.

“They… found me in Dudley’s room,” he sighed. “I’d fallen asleep listening to it, and I didn’t hear them come home early. Uncle Vernon thrashed me, of course, but that wasn’t the worst of it. They took my tape, my Beatles record, and…”

He took a deep breath, then for the first time in several minutes, looked Hermione in the eye. “Do you remember third year, when the Whomping Willow got my broom, and you brought me all the pieces?”

She nodded silently, and her face fell as she quickly reached the conclusion of what happened next.

“They made me watch,” he said thickly, “as Dudley ripped out every inch of tape and crumpled it into a huge tangled wad. Then Uncle Vernon gave him a hammer – actually went and got him a hammer – so he could smash the casing to bits, right there in front of me. Then they gave it back to me, and Dudley laughed at me, and said I could use it as streamers to decorate my cupboard.”

Hermione’s eyes began to fill with tears, and Harry found that he could not look at her, so he gazed out over the lake again. “When you brought me the pieces of my broom, it was the same feeling. This… emptiness, like something that was so much a part of me had just been ripped away. As bad as things had been, growing up there, this was so much worse than any of it, to have this… hole inside me, where nothing could…”

He stopped himself, because he was treading on dangerous ground, and he was not going to talk about the most recent hole in his life. Not now. He knew where that would lead, and he would not let Hermione see him cry, not this time.

“Harry,” she said, in a broken voice, reaching out to take his hand in both of hers, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you ever had to live like that.”

“I know,” he whispered. Part of him wanted, almost instinctively, to pull away from her, but he did not.

“Did you… still remember all the songs?” she asked at last.

“I tried to,” he nodded, looking down. “When things got bad again, I tried to remember, but I couldn’t. Every time I tried, I remembered Dudley, and that hammer, and… I learned not to think about it anymore. For once in my life I’d had something of my own, and I let them take it from me, just like they’d been taking from me all my life.”

“Oh, Harry,” she sighed, and then, without warning, came around and hugged him tightly. This time he even felt himself flinch, as though to back away, but he did not, and eventually he hugged her in return.

“Thank you for telling me that,” she said, her voice very close to his ear.

“Sure. Er, I didn’t just tell you so you’d hug me.”

“I’m serious,” she said, and for just a moment the normal exasperated Hermione was back. “Really, I know it’s hard for you, and it means a lot to me.”

“Well, I guess if I can’t tell you, who can I tell? Ron would probably fall asleep.”

“I doubt that,” she whispered, squeezing him more tightly before breaking away. She reached up to wipe the tears from her eyes, but managed a smile for him. “Harry, I’m sure all those songs are still inside you. Buried away, maybe, but not gone away. You’ll find them again.”

“Maybe,” he sighed. “But then, maybe Luna’s right after all. Maybe there’s just no place for music here.”

They resumed their stroll, each of them lost in thought. “Maybe,” she repeated, looking back over her shoulder, to where Luna was still playing. “But it’s nice to see someone doing something about it in her own way. We could all learn from that.”

“And now you’re talking about learning something from Luna Lovegood?” he asked, smiling in spite of his darkened mood. “Come on, out with it, where’s the polyjuice potion?”

His quip was met with another of the resigned sighs he had grown accustomed to. “Harry…”

2. Part 2

FINDING THE MUSE

By Rain Fletcher

Part 2

Monday’s classes took somewhere between a century and eternity to drag by, and Harry was finding more and more that he could not focus as well as he needed. Never before had reading required such effort, not even studying for O.W.L.s the previous spring. The voices of his instructors, the words on the page, none of them were breaking through clearly over the noise in his head.

Nor, as he was coming to discover, was Quidditch practice. They were doing extensive Keeper drills today, which essentially meant that everyone rapidly took turns at being Chaser and attempting to fire the quaffle past Ron, giving him as many different “looks” to defend as possible. While Katie, Ginny and even some of the team’s several newcomers had been able to give Ron all he could handle, Harry’s goal-scoring attempts had been uninspired at best, and Ron had smothered every attempt handily.

And so it was that as the team made its way back to the castle in twos and threes, Ron fixed his friend with an odd look and said “Mate, be straight with me. Were you going soft on purpose?”

“What?” Harry blinked, having been lost in his own thoughts.

“Just now, at practice. Were you going easy on me? ‘Cause you don’t have to – I’m loads better now, I promise. You don’t have to worry about squashing my ego.”

“Oh, right. Er- no, I wasn’t trying to go easy on you. I just… didn’t have my head in the game today. And chaser’s not my normal thing anyway.”

“Intimidated by King Weasley,” Ron nodded, airily. “I understand, of course. If I had to face me, I wouldn’t have my head in the game either.”

“Exactly,” said Harry, absently.

After several more steps in silence, Ron gave a bark of laughter. “Harry, I was joking! You really are lost in the clouds lately, aren’t you? Are you spending time with Looney Lovegood or something?”

A passage of bassoon music flitted through Harry’s head, which he then shook. “I just have a lot on my mind, Ron. Sorry I haven’t been the best company lately.”

“Listen, Harry,” Ron said, in a surprisingly serious tone, “if there’s anything you need to talk about…”

Harry was trying to think of the right way to say that he didn’t know what the anything was, when Ron finished his sentence: “…I’m sure you could catch Hermione in the common room later.”

“What?” Harry said, pulling up short and turning to face Ron, who was giving him a quirky half-grin.

“Merlin’s socks, Harry, that was a joke too. Seriously, mate, I’m trying here, but you’re going to have to meet me halfway – I’m running out of witty quips. What’s eating you?”

For perhaps the hundredth time, Harry almost told him about the Prophecy, but again, as every time before, a wall came down somewhere in his own mind, and he could not even begin the story. “That’s just it,” he said instead, wearily. “Whatever it is that’s truly wrong, whatever it is that I need… I don’t know what it is.”

He started back toward the castle, Ron quickly falling into step beside him. “Okay,” the older boy said after a while. “But if you figure it out, and you do want to talk about it?”

“I’ll be sure to find Hermione, thanks.”

“Good man. In the meantime, maybe what you need is to get your arse handed to you in a game of chess. Fancy a go later?”

“Maybe in a bit, sure.”

The chess game did not immediately come about, however, as by the time Harry was out of the shower and changed, Ron was snoozing lightly on his four-poster. Harry decided not to wake him – Ron had a tendency to get worn out by Keeper drills at the best of times.

There was reading he should have been doing, and he knew it, but he couldn’t bring himself to crack open any of his textbooks. He wondered darkly whether he’d be able to concentrate sufficiently to retain any of it anyway.

With the evening meal still a good distance off, Harry instead took to wandering the castle halls at random, replaying the conversation with Ron in his head. He had summed it up for himself beautifully, on reflection – he simply had no idea whatsoever what he needed.

It was then that the thought came, like lightning crashing through the fog in his brain. He may not have had an idea of what he needed, but there was something – or more accurately somewhere – that might know. Striding with a purpose, now, he took the nearest staircase upward, starting the winding path toward the Room of Requirement.

A few detours later (thanks to the constantly shifting staircases), he was in the correct hall, but to his dismay, he saw that the room was already in use, with the door propped open just slightly. It was probably just as well, though, as he was more than a little dubious at the thought of what he might have found there.

Before he could turn around, however, something oddly familiar reached his ears, and for the second time in three days he found himself stopped short by the nearby sound of music. Someone was playing a piano.

Harry started back down the hall toward the Room of Requirement, and sure enough, the music was coming from inside. He paused at the door, which was hanging open just enough for him to slip inside. Curious as to what (or who) he might find, he did so.

The Room of Requirement had become a cosy recital hall. Glass-fronted cabinets lined two of the walls, their shelves filled with musical instruments of every shape and size: horns, pipes, percussion, reeds, strings and more. The shelves on the remaining walls were filled to bursting with books of sheet music, books on technique, studies of instrument types, and other volumes simply beyond his experience. In one corner, an elaborate percussion kit was assembled. In another, three harps of varying size stood side by side.

And dominating the room, in the very center, stood a beautiful grand piano, its lid propped open. Seated at the keys, constantly looking between her sheet music and her fingers, face screwed up in almost comic concentration, was Hermione.

Harry blinked a few times, somewhat startled to find her there. Stumbling across Luna out by the lake playing a bassoon had been one thing, but Hermione? In all the years he had known her, she had never even hinted at this particular skill. Why hadn’t she told him about it?

The song was distantly familiar to him, but he could not place it. It was slow and haunting, equal parts concert hall and horror movie. And for all her look of terrified focus, she was playing it rather well, to Harry’s ear.

He stepped quietly closer, approaching her from one side. Just as he was trying to consider the least startling and most polite method of drawing her attention, though, she looked up and saw him.

The song stopped dead in its tracks as Hermione’s face went through several different emotions at once, among them surprise, happiness to see him, and flat-out mortification, but she quickly reassembled them into an embarrassed smile. “Hello, Harry,” she said, somewhat lamely.

“You play piano?” he asked, then mentally kicked himself. “I mean, obviously you do, sorry, I just had no idea.”

“I started lessons three years before I came here to Hogwarts,” she told him, absently massaging her fingers. “But since I’ve been here, I’ve really had no chance to practice, what with studies and homework and now prefect duties, and… I suppose I stopped thinking about it much.”

Harry found himself a chair and pulled it up alongside the piano bench. “Well, you sounded great for being that far out of practice. What are you playing?” He craned his neck around to try to get a look at her sheet music, but could not find a title.

“Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata,” she replied. “It was one of the last songs I ever learned to play, and even then I had to fudge it a little because my hands were too small to play it properly. I was so proud of myself, though.”

Hermione was actually beaming with that pride as she remembered this, Harry noticed, though she still looked more than a little shy. It was a different sort of pride than he was used to seeing, too. He was far more used to the Hermione who expected perfection of herself, and who upon achieving it looked more relieved than anything else. This was something more akin to the Hermione who felt she had truly accomplished something by knitting elf-hats for S.P.E.W., or the one who had come up with the means for the D.A. to communicate their meeting times.

“What made you decide to come up here?” Harry asked, glancing around the room. “I mean, it’s obvious enough what you came here for, but why?”

“I was thinking about how we met Luna out by the lake on Saturday,” she said, suddenly appearing very interested in a speck that had gotten under her fingernail. “And… I was thinking about how I scarcely gave the piano a second thought once I arrived here. There was suddenly so much else to learn, and master. Every summer, I’d think about it again and practice a little, but less and less every year, and…” She looked up at him, frowning softly. “It never even occurred to me that I should ask McGonagall or Dumbledore if I could continue studying music, and looking at it now, I don’t think I could have if I’d wanted to. There really is no music here.”

“I wish I could tell you otherwise,” said a soft voice, startling them both. Harry looked over to see that Luna was inexplicably standing there at the crook of the piano, looking at them sadly.

“Luna, do you always have to sneak up on people like that?” he sighed, running his hands back through his hair.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “It behooves one to step quietly in a recital hall. Are the two of you playing a duet?”

“Oh, no, I was just… seeing how much I remembered,” Hermione said, looking embarrassed all over again. “I was just telling Harry how I’ve hardly played in years.”

Luna nodded, then turned sleepy eyes to Harry. “Do you play?”

“Me? No, not me. I’ve never tried, really.”

“That’s a shame. I like playing with others.” She turned back to Hermione. “May we hear you play again, then?”

“Oh, I… I couldn’t possibly.”

“Why not?”

“Luna, I haven’t played in front of other people since my last recital! I was eleven years old!”

“You played in front of me just a few moments ago,” Harry pointed out, grinning in spite of himself at Hermione’s expression of growing desperation.

“But I didn’t know you were there!”

He shrugged. “Then pretend we’re not here now.” He scooted his chair back away from the piano to give her some room. “Here, I’ll back up. I’ll even look the other way if you like.”

“Harry, don’t be silly,” Hermione snapped, but she looked more nervous than angry. She took a deep breath, let out a terse sigh, turned to the first page of her score, then nodded to herself more than to them. “Fine. I’ll play.”

There was a long silence, as Hermione stared at her hands, Harry tried to stare in any direction other than hers, and Luna stared toward the glass-fronted cabinets of instruments. Finally, Hermione began, letting the slow, haunting, three-count sonata gradually fill the room. Harry chanced a quick glance at her, and saw that she was completely absorbed in her work, her face creased more than ever with the effort of it.

Several measures into the song, Luna left the crook of the piano and started toward the display shelves, padding silently across the hardwood floor. Harry watched, curious as to what she might be up to, as she opened one of the glass-fronted cabinets and began rummaging through several of the shelves. She appeared to be assembling something.

Harry had a sudden uncomfortable mental image of Sonata for Piano and Bassoon, but when Luna came back, it was with a much different instrument: a flute made of a glossy, dark wood, with polished silvery stops. Still treading silently, the Ravenclaw made her way back around the piano, settled herself at the crook, and briefly gave Harry a particularly dreamy smile before bringing the flute to her lips.

And then, with the next change of movement (or tone, or mood, or chord, or whatever the technical term might be – Harry couldn’t be sure), Luna added a surprisingly low-pitched trill (Harry would not have expected a flute could play so low), perfectly underscoring the mood, gradually broadening it into a melody that both matched and countered Hermione’s own playing. Harry found himself again shocked at Luna, this time at the way she’d so quickly and effortlessly joined in.

Almost immediately, though, Hermione started making obvious mistakes, and finally ground to a halt. Luna took the flute from her lips and gazed blankly at the other girl for a moment, then said “Please, keep playing.”

“I- I’m sorry, Luna,” Hermione replied, looking a little flustered. “It’s just that… I’m really very much out of practice, and… no offense meant, but that was very distracting.”

Luna blinked slowly, but her expression did not change. “I thought you might like it.”

“Yes, well… it sounded lovely, but… it’s been years since I played much, and it’s all I can do to get it right.”

“Get it… right,” Luna repeated, and now there was the trace of a smile on her lips.

“Yes, I used to have this song memorised, you see, but it’s been years, and now I can scarcely keep up with the notes on the page.”

Luna nodded slowly. “You want to play perfectly.”

Hermione flushed slightly. “Well, no… not perfectly, but…”

“I think you do,” Luna interrupted. “Writing is very powerful in its permanence. You’ve always trusted books to show you perfection. I think you exhaust yourself trying to live up to the written word.” She pointed absently at the score. “Or the written notes.”

For a moment, Hermione could not answer, and Harry was caught between amazed at Luna’s observation and amused at the way Hermione was opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water. “But- but-“

“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” Luna went on, patiently. “It’s your song, after all.”

“But it’s not my song,” Hermione protested. “It’s Beethoven’s song, and he wrote it this way.” She waved her hand over the sheet music for emphasis.

Luna gave her a wide, drowsy smile. “What a silly thing to say,” she chuckled. “It’s not Beethoven’s song. He’s dead.”

“Yes, I know that,” Hermione sighed, showing the first telltale signs of genuine frustration, “but this is the way he meant it to be played. I have to be true to the music.”

“True to the music,” Luna echoed, nodding faintly. She looked thoughtfully into Hermione’s eyes for a moment, then stepped closer to the keys, reached out, and plucked the pages from the stand atop the piano.

After making a show of studying them carefully, she handed the pages to Harry, then turned back to Hermione. “That isn’t music,” she said, in a voice barely over a whisper. “That’s dots and lines. That’s how Beethoven gave it to you, so it could be your song, too. But the music comes from here,” Luna raised one hand to her chest, then lowered it to point to Hermione’s hands “and here.”

There was a long silence, and Harry looked from one girl to the other. Luna had the look of someone telling an important secret, and Hermione appeared puzzled, though no longer exasperated.

“Could you play it again, please?” Luna asked at last.

Hermione looked from Luna, to Harry, to the music in Harry’s hands, “But… I do still need…”

“Try without it?” Luna insisted. “Trust me?”

“Al- alright,” Hermione agreed, placing her hands over the keys. She stared down at them for a long while, as Luna took a step back toward the crook of the piano.

At length, Hermione started playing. At first, she continued glancing between her hands and the now-empty music stand atop the piano, but then she started focusing all her attention on the keys, her face now showing an odd mix of determination and dread.

Shortly thereafter, Luna raised the flute again to her lips. At first, she was barely audible, adding only a soft layer of accompaniment to the melody. Harry stared at her, watching her fingers glide over the stops, frankly amazed at the ease of her movements. Playing a flute seemed as natural to her as breathing. As Harry watched, she closed her eyes, but continued playing, swaying gently in time.

They played on, Luna’s piping growing in complexity as they continued. More than once, Harry heard Hermione hit a wrong note and saw her wince, but she kept going, and the momentary lapses were quickly forgotten.

He closed his own eyes for a moment, letting the notes wash over him, around him, and through him, and for a while he could think of nothing else. The entire experience seemed impossible. Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood, probably the two most dissimilar girls Harry had ever met, were somehow creating something together as they played: something with shape, color, texture, and… magic of its own. There was nothing else to call it.

Then and there, as each swell from the piano was met with rapid runs from the flute more delicate than birdsong, Harry understood what Luna had meant when they had met her under the tree on Saturday. How could there be no music at Hogwarts? How could anyone claim to be studying magic without moments like these?

Then the song faded to a close, and the feeling was gone, even as he tried to grasp it. Harry’s eyes popped open, and he looked from Hermione, who appeared thoroughly confused, to Luna, who seemed almost sad.

The silence was broken by the sound of someone clapping, and the three looked over to see Ernie MacMillan, a sixth-year from Hufflepuff, leaning against the doorway. “Well done,” he nodded, looking quite impressed.

“Er- th-thank you,” Hermione stammered, now appearing almost disoriented. She stood up from the bench, again massaging her fingers absently.

“When I saw the door open, I thought you might have decided to have a D.A. meeting without me,” Ernie smiled. “But this was certainly a pleasant surprise.”

Luna cocked her head at their visitor. “Do you play?” she asked him.

Ernie was a bit taken aback by her answer. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. “But… that’s for another day. Please, carry on.”

With that, he bowed slightly, waved, and headed off, but not before Harry saw an odd smile light up his face. He hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was: the last thing they needed was more grist in their already overworked rumour mill.

Luna, meanwhile, had crossed over to Hermione, and with the hand that wasn’t holding her flute, she reached out to take Hermione’s own. “Thank you,” she smiled. “Wasn’t that nicer than dots and lines?”

“How did you do that?” Hermione asked her. “I should never have been able to play without the score. Did you do something?”

“I played a duet with you, silly.”

“But… how was I able to..?”

“I haven’t played a proper duet since before Mum died,” Luna went on, the sad look returning. “She played the piano very well.”

Hermione’s mouth opened into a small “o” of surprise, and Harry remembered that she hadn’t known about Luna’s mother. “Oh, Luna,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry.” She then, without hesitation, reached out and hugged the younger girl.

“It’s alright,” Luna assured her, but returned the hug nonetheless. “She’s never far.”

The two broke, and Luna smiled more widely. “I have to finish an essay for Potions,” she told them, the smile not flickering for even a moment at the mention of this subject (to Harry’s continued surprise). “Can we do this again sometime, the three of us?”

“Oh, of course!” Hermione nodded.

“Only what do you mean by the three of us?” Harry put in. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“You took part,” Luna told him, in the You-Needn’t-Bother-Arguing-With-Me tone she usually reserved for discussion of crumple-horned snorkacks and the like.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Hermione smiled, and there was no questioning that she really meant it.

Luna gave the two of them one last contented smile, then without another word crossed the room to put the flute away. She disassembled it quickly, closed the cabinet, then left them alone, all without speaking.

Meanwhile, Hermione was looking dazed, but happily so. Once Luna was gone, she turned to Harry. “Be truthful with me, Harry. Did she use magic to make me play well? Did you see her do anything?”

“I didn’t see her do a spell, if that’s what you mean,” Harry shrugged. “Wand stayed tucked behind the ear, like always.”

“But she must have done something,” Hermione insisted. “I had no business playing as well as that without the score.”

As much the perfectionist as she was, Hermione was invariably the last one to give herself credit for doing something well. It was something that occasionally irritated Harry: he would be more than happy to even approach her level in most things, and couldn’t understand how she could never be happy with her performance. Seeing her sitting here now, though, again in denial of her own talent (but this time happily so), Harry couldn’t help but find it endearing.

“Or maybe,” he said patiently, “you’re just good.”

- - - - -

Author’s Note: Thanks to all who reviewed! Part three is going to be, er, a bit long, and may take a while to get here unless I can find a logical break point somewhere in the middle.

For those of you who have never heard Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata (and you actually may have - it’s one of those songs many people have heard, but do not necessarily know by name), you can listen to a MIDI of it at http://members.cox.net/rfletcher/music/sonata01.mid - I found this one on the net, and it actually sounds like someone playing it with two hands (including mistakes!). For a more technically accurate version, which could not possibly be played by a single person, try http://members.cox.net/rfletcher/music/sonata02.mid instead.

3. Part 3

Finding the Muse

By Rain Fletcher

Part 3

The next few days passed with no further music, accidental or otherwise. Homework and practice conspired to rob Harry of any free time he might have otherwise had, the situation made even more dire by his earlier procrastination. He barely saw Luna at all except in passing, and his time in Hermione’s company was spent with noses in books, leaving little time for idle conversation. For her part, Hermione did not bring up the events of Monday evening, and Harry followed her lead. As much as he hated to think such things, he found himself reluctant to bring it up in Ron’s company: he couldn’t help but wonder whether Ron would find Hermione’s piano playing laughable, never mind Luna’s surprising talent.

As much as Harry liked Ron, as much as they had experienced together, and as close as they were, Harry’s recent episodes with Hermione and Luna seemed like something he just couldn’t share with his red-haired friend. Their conversations were about quidditch, and classwork, and teachers, and Ron’s sometimes overbearing family. How could Harry explain something as intangible and emotional as this to him?

Either Ron wouldn’t get it, which would make Harry feel foolish, or he’d get suspicious that Harry and Hermione were doing something without him, which would make Harry feel badly for leaving Ron out, or worst of all, Ron would possibly laugh the whole thing off, which Harry uncomfortably realized would make him angry.

And of course there was the matter of Ernie’s appearance at the Room of Requirement, and the odd expression he’d given them as he’d left. How long before the entire castle was gossiping about musical interludes with two Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw? And how would Ron react to finding out about it from the rumour mill? This, as it turned out, was not nearly the problem Harry had feared: either Ernie had told nobody at all, or those who had heard weren’t going out of their way to tease Harry, Hermione and Luna about it. Since the latter possibility was patently ridiculous, Harry could only conclude that Ernie was keeping their secret, at least for the time being.

He was therefore taken somewhat by surprise when, at Friday breakfast in the Great Hall, he suddenly heard Ernie’s voice over his shoulder. “Harry, Hermione, might I have a word?”

Harry and Hermione, seated together at the Gryffindor table with Ron opposite them, looked first at one another, then back at the Hufflepuff prefect, who stood behind them with his hands across their shoulders, smiling pleasantly. “Hullo, Ernie,” Hermione said. “Is there something wrong?”

“Oh, nothing at all, nothing at all,” Ernie replied in his usual airily dramatic voice. “I just wanted to… ask something of the two of you, based on our last meeting.”

Harry again exchanged glances with Hermione. He couldn’t help noticing that Ron was looking at Ernie with open suspicion, no doubt wondering at the nature of this “last meeting.”

Oblivious to this, Ernie leaned in closer, and spoke in a conspiratorial stage-whisper. “Hufflepuff House wishes to request the honour of your company this evening in our common room at eight o’clock, along with the charming Miss Lovegood, whom I might add has already accepted. Would you be so kind as to grace us with your presence?”

“Er- what for?” Hermione asked.

If anything, Ernie’s smile deepened. “More, I cannot say, except that I believe you will enjoy yourselves.”

“Can Ron come too?” Harry asked, suddenly. He immediately wondered if he should have asked, given his lingering doubts about Ron’s possible reactions, but when it came right down to it, Ron was his friend, and he couldn’t bear the idea of willingly excluding him from anything.

The smile flickered, and Ernie looked up at Ron, seemingly noticing him for the first time. “Oh… Er- I… I didn’t ask… It was, er, only the three of you Monday night, so I asked permission for just you. I’m sorry, that was silly of me, wasn’t it? I should have assumed that you’d want him to come as well.”

“Come where?” Ron snapped, sounding very annoyed. “And what happened Monday night? What are you three going on about?”

“We’ll explain later, Ron,” Hermione sighed. “Ernie, we couldn’t possibly go without Ron.”

Ernie nodded, working his jaw silently for a moment as he thought about this. “I’ll need to ask. The invitation is not mine to give, you see. It was already a bit… unusual for me to request permission for the three of you. It shouldn’t be a problem, though.” He said the last hastily, giving Ron an ingratiating smile.

“Well, far be it for me to cause a problem,” Ron scowled in reply. “Don’t put yourself out on my behalf. You two just go on and have a good time with Looney and the Hufflepuffs.” He tossed his fork onto his plate, stood, and stalked off, muttering under his breath.

“I’ll talk to him,” Hermione said, automatically, getting up and following Ron out of the Great Hall, leaving Harry and Ernie to share an awkward silence.

“Sorry about that, Harry,” Ernie said at length. “That really was quite dim of me. But… if you don’t mind my asking, why wasn’t he with you Monday night?”

“He was having a nap,” Harry said truthfully.

“I see. Well, I’ll ask, at any rate. Honestly, it shouldn’t be any trouble.”

Ernie beat a hasty retreat, and Harry took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. He had the sinking feeling that there would be trouble, whether Ernie thought so or not.

* * *

Harry didn’t catch up with Hermione and Ron until Care of Magical Creatures, by which time Hermione had apparently managed to smooth Ron’s ruffled feathers.

“What did you tell him?” Harry asked Hermione when he was able to catch her alone in the common room later.

“Well, I told him the truth – that we don’t know what Ernie’s up to, but that we wouldn’t go unless he came with us.”

“And what did you tell him about Monday night?”

She frowned, and he could tell that this had been difficult for her. “I told him that Ernie had interrupted… a conversation you and I were having with Luna, and that whatever’s happening tonight probably has something to do with that conversation.”

“You didn’t tell him about playing the piano, then?”

She flushed very slightly. “I couldn’t. It’s… still something very private. Music, I mean. I was worried that he wouldn’t understand.”

“I know,” Harry nodded. “I’m not so sure I understand it myself.”

“Harry, whatever’s happening at Hufflepuff tonight, it must have something to do with music. Why else would they have just invited you, Luna and me?”

“More to the point, why didn’t they just invite you and Luna? You’re the ones who actually have talent.”

“For heaven’s sake, Harry,” she frowned. “You really need to stop speaking so poorly of yourself. You were… a part of things, like Luna said.”

“Look, first thing, you’re actually agreeing with Luna a lot lately, and it’s getting a bit scary. Second thing, I was just sitting there, listening. How was I a part of it?”

Hermione’s features fell, and she suddenly could no longer meet his eyes: her gaze went to her hands, which were clasped in her lap.

“You… didn’t laugh at us,” she said, finally.

Harry gaped for a moment, then made a liar of her and laughed. “Hermione, why on Earth would I have laughed at you?”

”People don’t always need a reason. What’s important is that you didn’t. You listened.”

There was something left unsaid, and it didn’t take Harry long to pick up on it. “Do you think Ron would have laughed?”

For a while, she bit her lower lip and said nothing. “I think he might have,” she then whispered. “Honestly, Harry, I think sometimes he lives for the chance to belittle the things I find important.”

The words hovered between them painfully, made even more so by the fact that Harry could not bring himself, on the inside, to disagree. “I don’t know that I’d go that far,” he said, lamely. “Ron’s a good guy.”

“Of course he is,” Hermione replied, though her words did not at all match her expression.

A few awkward moments passed, and Harry was about to speak again when he heard the sound of the portrait hole swinging open. Ron’s head of messy ginger hair poked in first, looked around to find the two of them, and then the rest of him followed. He took a seat in one of the nearby armchairs and gave Harry an unreadable expression.

“Hey, Ron,” Harry said, because someone needed to.

“I just saw Ernie,” Ron told them. “He said he got permission for me to come to whatever it is tonight.” His brow furrowed. “Though I have no idea why in Merlin’s name anyone would want to spend a Friday night in the Hufflepuff common room.”

“Well, we don’t have to go,” Harry shrugged.

“I… think I’d like to, though,” Hermione said then, with some difficulty. “You know, to get to know them all better outside of classes and DA meetings. There’s been so much talk about trying to unite the houses, and… I think it’d be nice to accept their hospitality.”

Ron looked at her with the expression he typically wore whenever Hermione perplexed him – a look Harry was finding increasingly familiar. He then shrugged. “Guess there’s no harm in it, though I can’t bloody well imagine what their idea of a good time might be.”

* * *

The evening meal passed, followed by some studying (at least, Hermione studied Arithmancy while Harry studied new and different ways to lose to Ron at chess), and eventually, it was time to head out.

To his own chagrin, Harry found that he only had the vaguest idea of how to get to Hufflepuff’s portrait hole. Here he was, well into his sixth year of study at Hogwarts, owner of the most detailed map of the school ever made, and he didn’t know where a quarter of his classmates even lived. Hermione, on the other hand, seemed to have the route mapped out in her head (probably along with every other detail of Hogwarts: A History), and he was content to follow her lead.

They passed through several unfamiliar corridors within smelling distance of the kitchens, and at last reached an immense painting of a tiny rocky island jutting up from stormy seas.

“Should we knock?” Ron asked.

Without warning, a stunningly beautiful golden-haired mermaid emerged from the choppy seas and perched on the rocks, smiling as she looked from Ron to Harry.

“Password?” the mermaid asked them in a many-toned voice, sounding like an otherworldly choir.

This caught Harry somewhat off-guard, as Ernie had never mentioned the password. He looked from Ron, who was staring agog, to Hermione, whose frown was bordering on a scowl.

“Er- we were invited to come over tonight,” Harry tried to explain as the mermaid cocked her head to one side. He had to struggle to look her in the eyes as her gesture made her long hair shift and fall in ways that…

The painting suddenly swung open from inside, and Ernie poked his head out, smiling as he saw them. “Hermione, Harry, Ron, Luna! So glad you could make it.”

Harry was about to say something about Luna not having come with them when he heard the Ravenclaw’s voice behind him. “Thank you, Ernie. May we come in?”

“In a moment,” he assured them, pushing the door to and standing (mercifully) in front of the sighing mermaid, who flounced back into the ocean behind him. Harry chanced a glance sideways to see that Luna was standing between him and Ron as though she’d always been there, clasping what looked like a small instrument case in both hands. She smiled at him.

“There is one… formality we need to observe before you can join us,” Ernie explained, clasping his hands before him. “I need to ask each of you to make a promise.”

After a suitably dramatic pause, he went on. “As you may know… well, Hermione certainly knows… giving your word has a magic all its own. I must ask each of you to give me your word that you will divulge nothing of what you see and hear tonight in Hufflepuff House. To break that word,” he smiled devilishly and waggled his eyebrows at Hermione, “well… let’s just say that Miss Edgecombe knows the perils of that all too well.”

“I give you my word,” Luna said, without hesitation. Harry felt the hairs on his right arm stand up, as though the air around Luna had become electrically charged.

“Thank you,” Ernie smiled, then looked expectantly at the others.

“I… I give you my word,” Hermione said next, looking somewhat puzzled. Harry again felt the tingle in the air, this time to his left, where she was standing.

Wondering what he might be getting himself into, Harry nodded to Ernie and said “I give you my word.” This time he felt a surge of magic within quite unlike anything he had ever felt as a wizard. The only comparable feeling was the moment he had chosen (or been chosen by) his wand: it felt almost as though it were a magic more ancient than Hogwarts itself.

This left only Ron, who looked skeptical (as Harry had expected), but did not protest. “Okay, I give you my word.”

“Excellent,” Ernie smiled as a fourth rush of magic faded. “Hufflepuff House bids you welcome, honored guests. Please, follow me.”

He swung the portrait door open and slipped back inside. Luna entered at once, followed by Hermione.

“Mate, what have you gotten me into this time?” Ron sighed.

Harry shrugged, somewhat humored by the fact that he had been asking himself the same question moments before. “I dunno, Ron. Let’s find out.” He stepped through the portal, Ron a stride behind him.

Next: Hufflepuff’s Secret

Author’s Note: Ah, the dreaded Setup Chapter. This was originally intended to be the first part of a much, much longer episode, but in the interest of getting some more of it posted, I went for the only suitable breaking point and split it up. Consequently, this could be considered one of those fanfic chapters in which Nothing Actually Happens. My apologies for that. Thank you very much for reading.

4. Part 4a

Author’s Note / Disclaimer: I wanted to have more of this part finished before posting, but since (a) it’s been forever since the last chapter, and (b) this one was getting very long, I figured I’d find the best stopping point I could and break it up into two parts. The next will hopefully not take as long as this one did (I already have quite a bit of it done). I have, in past fanfics, been accused of boring the readers needlessly with my descriptions of music in this silent medium, and that in mind, perhaps it’s best not to post all of it at once anyway. Thank you for your patience.

Finding the Muse

By Rain Fletcher

Part 4

The Hufflepuff common room was bustling with activity as Harry and Ron entered: it seemed as though all seven years worth of the house had crowded into the space, making it far more cosy than expected. The air was abuzz with laughter and chatter, and Hufflepuffs of all ages were engaged in animated discussion all around them. Harry stood on his toes and looked desperately for Hermione and Luna, and found them standing near the centre of the throng with Ernie, who was rummaging in a large battered wooden trunk. Giving apologetic excuse-mes to the students in front of him, Harry wove a path to them, just in time to see Ernie hand each of the girls a thick hardbound book that looked as battered as the trunk. By the time Harry managed to reach them, Ernie had also handed Hermione an odd stringed instrument that resembled a small harp tacked sideways onto a board, with several wooden bars running across the strings.

“Ah, there you are,” Ernie nodded at Harry as he shouldered his way to Hermione’s side. “Now, Luna… you have your own, I see?”

“I do,” Luna nodded, indicating her instrument case.

“Very good. So, Harry, Ron, what do you play?” Ernie passed each of the boys one of the enormous books, and Harry saw that each was decorated with the Hufflepuff crest in faded yellow and black.

“I… don’t, really,” Harry admitted, completely bemused.

“Then you’re a drummer for the evening,” Ernie nodded, reaching into the trunk and pulling out a one-headed wooden drum in a sort of bent cylindrical shape. “Ron? Drums for you as well?”

Harry chanced a look at Ron, and was amazed to see his friend looking into the trunk with a surprised smile. “Oh, wicked, you don’t have a bodhram in there, do you?”

“I think we might,” Ernie muttered, rummaging for a moment before emerging with another drum, smaller than Harry’s. This one was a simple ring of wood with two bars crossing in the center (for support, Harry could only imagine) and a single head. Ron took it from Ernie’s hands along with a wooden beater in an oddly elongated figure-eight shape.

Just as it occurred to Harry to wonder how Ron had known what a bodhram was, Ernie spoke again. “Well, find a place to sit anywhere, if you can. We’ll be starting in just a couple of minutes.” And then he was assisting a first-year with a book and another small drum.

“Come on, there’s a spot over here,” Hermione said, adjusting the harp and book under one arm so she could use the other hand to pull Harry’s sleeve. She led them toward one of the walls, then settled down on the floor. Harry sat down next to her, and Ron flanked him on the other side. Luna filled out the quartet by sitting beside Ron and fixing him with a sleepy, contented smile. Ron, for his part, was engrossed in studying every detail of his drum.

“Do you know how to play that?” Harry asked him.

“No idea,” Ron grinned, giving the bodhram a few experimental hits with the beater. “But Mum has one of these. She’s never let me touch it.”

Harry nodded, but found that he had to look away, as his head was simply buzzing. All of a sudden, nothing made sense. He looked past his oldest friend to see that Luna had opened her case and was busily assembling yet another woodwind, this time a polished black clarinet. Hearing a strumming sound over his opposite shoulder, he looked to his right to see that Hermione had set the harp-thing flat against her lap, and was testing the strings with what looked like a guitar pick while pressing down one of the bars crossing the strings.

Feeling that he was not yet ready to face the idea that Ron might secretly be a musician as well, Harry decided to talk to Hermione instead. “What is that, anyway?” he asked her.

“It’s an autoharp,” she beamed at him. “You see how the keys here are marked with the names of different notes? All you do is press the key for the chord you want and then strum. It dampens all the strings except the notes in that chord.” She demonstrated by strumming while pressing C, then F, then C again. “They were first made in Germany, but they really became popular in America in the late nineteenth century, and sort of worked their way into folk music retroactively. I’ve always wanted to try one – much easier than a real harp, that’s certain. And I love the drum!”

Harry could have hugged her: Hermione giving a complete discourse rather than a simple answer was refreshingly normal in the midst of this unfamiliar scene. It thus took him a couple of seconds to realize that she was now focused on the drum he had been given. “Oh… yeah. Er… do you know what it is?”

“Not specifically,” Hermione admitted, studying the instrument in Harry’s hands. “I’m guessing it’s either Middle Eastern or African, though. See where it tapers here in the middle? You could hold it between your arm and your body and play it with the opposite hand, or you could hold it with your legs and play with both hands. It might be a djembe – I didn’t study percussion very much at all, but I have some books back in my room, so I can look it up later if you’d like…”

“No, no, that’s fine,” Harry assured her. He adjusted his legs so that he was sitting cross-legged, as she was doing, and tried different positions for the drum.

At that moment, the portrait door opened again, and Professor Sprout, Herbology mistress and head of the Hufflepuff House, stepped in, carrying a large oblong case beside her. “Good evening, Hufflepuff!” she called over the general rumble.

“Good evening, Professor Sprout!” the Hufflepuffs said in unison, ceasing their conversations to greet their House leader. They immediately began to pile onto the chairs, couches and floor, forming a rough semicircle around the battered trunk of books and instruments. Professor Sprout waved her wand a few times, causing the trunk to close and latch, a stool to appear next to it, and an upright piano and mobile blackboard to slowly roll out of an open closet door.

The plump Herbology instructor seated herself on the stool and smiled around the semicircle, her eyes widening in happy recognition when she reached the far side of it, where Harry and his friends were seated. “Well, Hufflepuff, it appears we have guests tonight! I take it they have been properly warned?”

“Yes, Professor Sprout,” Ernie nodded, looking over in their direction and winking. Harry had to wonder about the professor’s choice of words – why “warned?”

“Very good. Names on the board, please! We’ll begin in five minutes!”

With that, Professor Sprout set to opening a complicated series of latches on her instrument case, and conversations resumed amongst the Hufflepuffs as several of them went to the blackboard and started writing their names in a neat column down the left side. Harry took a look around the room and realized, again to his chagrin, that he did not recognize many of them at all. Ernie was easy enough to spot in any crowd, and Harry easily recognized Justin Finch-Fletchley, whom he had become friends with after a shaky start in second year. Others he knew only from the DA or Quidditch: he spotted a pigtailed Hannah Abbott chatting animatedly with two other girls after returning from the blackboard, and Susan Bones was seated on the arm of one of the chairs tuning the strings of a violin. Looking toward the far end of the arc, Harry was somewhat taken aback to see that Zacharias Smith was staring right at him, his eyes hooded and skeptical as always. He was holding a guitar over one knee and absently picking at the strings, and when he noticed Harry was looking back, he gave one slow nod and then turned his attention to his fingers.

Meanwhile, the professor had finally gotten her case open and pulled out one of the oddest instruments Harry had ever seen. It looked something like two of Hermione’s autoharps placed end to end, but with no chord-bars across the strings. She set it on the flat top of the closed trunk and reached back into her case to pull out two small metal beaters, one in each hand. She then tapped several strings in sequence, causing them to give forth a beautiful ringing sound. It reminded Harry of the two or three times he had ever heard the sound of a harpsichord.

Beside him, Hermione all but gasped. “Oh, how beautiful!” she whispered to Harry.

“What is that?” he whispered back, unable to take his eyes from what the professor was doing.

“A hammered dulcimer,” Hermione informed him. “I’ve heard recordings, but I’ve never actually seen one played.”

Harry watched Professor Sprout continue testing the hammers against the strings stretched taut over the body of the dulcimer, occasionally using a small tool to tighten or loosen a string to get it more in tune. Her gnarled hands were as deft with the hammers as they were with any of the magical plants she worked with on a daily basis. This only added to Harry’s growing sense of unreality – it made perfect sense, and yet was completely foreign to everything Harry thought he had known about his jovial Herbology instructor. A small part of his mind wondered what Neville would think of this, and he felt a pang of regret that he would not be able to tell his classmate about it.

At length, once her instrument was tuned to her satisfaction, the professor set the hammers aside, then clapped her hands twice to get the room’s attention. “Let us begin, Hufflepuff!”

“Professor, the Fat Friar’s not here yet,” someone piped up.

“Oh, he’ll be here,” Sprout frowned. “Now, we’ll begin with rhythm. Drum if you have a drum, shake if you have a shaker, and clap if you have neither. Here’s your quarter note!”

That said, she began clapping out a slow beat, a little faster than one per second. Most of the Hufflepuffs joined in right away, as did Hermione and Luna. Harry traded glances with Ron, who shrugged at him and started tapping his bodhram with one end of the figure-eight beater. Harry gave his own drum a tentative tap, and it responded with a deep, quiet tone.

For a while, that was all there was: more than fifty drums, shakers, tambourines, rattles or pairs of hands holding to a single pulse. Harry experimented with different ways of hitting the drum, figuring that if he messed it up no one would hear him anyway, and by giving it a good slap in the center he found he was able to get a resounding thmmm that he could feel more than hear.

“Listen to each other, listen!” the professor called over the pulse. “Clean the ragged attack. One voice, Hufflepuff!”

Harry wasn’t at all sure what “clean the ragged attack” meant, but after listening to the way the players responded, he figured it out. They had not all been exactly on the beat, making each pulse sound something like a wave hitting a rocky shore. As he listened, he was able to hear that he had been one of the ones missing it – only by a fraction of a second, but it was enough to make a difference. Concentrating on the beat now, he did his best to time each slap of the drumhead with the sound around him.

As the crashing wave tightened in focus, Harry closed his eyes and concentrated less on what he was hearing than on how the beat actually felt. The vibrations of his own drum, and those of the others in the room, swept through his body and caused the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck to stand up. It was like the heartbeat of some enormous creature, and he felt compelled to match it and become part of it.

“First through fourth years and guests, stay on the quarter note,” Professor Sprout instructed. “Fifth through seventh, I want eighth notes starting… now.”

With that, all of the older Hufflepuffs began drumming out beats in double-time. Harry had been so focused on maintaining synchronization that this threw him completely off for the space of two or three beats – he did not know which to follow. After this, he got back on the original pulse, so that his beat matched every other beat from the fifth- through seventh-years.

By now he was beginning to get an idea of the purpose behind this exercise: it forced them to listen to one another, and match one another, even while playing different rhythms. Soon the professor called for first- and third-years to start sixteenth notes, and they began hammering out four beats to one, doubling the already doubled speed of the older drummers.

“Mister Finch-Fletchley, Mister Cauldwell, Miss Madley, Miss Lorenz, I want triplets! Give us threes against the fours. The rest of you continue as you are. Starting… now!”

What came next made Harry extremely glad he was still playing the basic beat, because suddenly the four players named by Professor Sprout were playing a rhythm completely off-set from any of the others, with three counts to each of his one. Then he realized that they were not offset at all, because even though there were now four rhythms going, each of them had one beat in common – the original beat. All of them hit simultaneously for that one count before continuing on to do their separate patterns. That original pulse continued to hold them together. He looked around at the players only to find that they were each and every one of them focused, alternating between watching Professor Sprout and one another. It seemed to be as much about concentration as listening – they had to hear one another well enough to share the common beat, but play against one another well enough to match their assigned rhythms with their own sub-groupings.

“Very good, Hufflepuff! Cut off now in three… two… one… DONE!”

The drumming stopped with one last resounding THMMMM, and suddenly the common room was very quiet. Harry was somewhat surprised to discover that he was sweating, and that he could still feel the beat sweeping through him, even now that it had ceased.

“Very good!” Professor Sprout repeated. “Let’s stretch out our voices, shall we? Turn to page twenty-eight. Everyone sing for the choruses, and I’ll point out soloists for each verse. As always, those who wish to play along, feel free, but I want voices most of all!”

There was the sound of more than fifty books shuffling open, with pages flipping madly. Harry did as Hermione was doing and set his book on the floor in front of him so that he could have both hands free for his drum. There were noises of approval from some of the students as they found the indicated page, and Professor Sprout began playing well before Harry managed to reach page twenty-eight. This turned out to be the written score for a “Skye Boat Song,” and he felt a moment of panic – he had no idea how to read music. There were words, however, and that was something he knew he could follow.

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing

“Onward,” the sailors cry

Carry the lad that’s born to be king

Over the sea to Skye

During the final line of the chorus, Professor Sprout pointed into the crowd, giving the first verse to a Hufflepuff known to Harry only as Stebbins, from the house quidditch team.

Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar

Thunderclouds rend the air

Baffled, our foes stand by the shore

Follow they will not dare

The chorus joined in again, and Harry tried to sing along based on what he’d heard before. Hermione and Luna seemed to be having better luck than himself and Ron. As the chorus neared its end, the next verse was given to Susan Bones, who turned out to have a pleasant, lilting tone to her voice, more so than could be heard in her spoken words.

Tho’ the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep

Ocean’s a royal bed

Rock’d in the deep, Flora will keep

Watch by your weary head

With the third repetition of the chorus, Harry was beginning to get a feel for it, and actually managed to get out more than half the words this time. He exchanged glances with Ron, and his friend gave him a look somewhere between humor and sheer panic as he stumbled along with it.

Then, to Harry’s surprise, Professor Sprout pointed at Luna to give her the third verse. He was even more surprised when Luna began singing it as though she’d known it since birth.

Many’s the lad fought on that day

Well the claymore could wield

When the night came, silently lay

Dead on Culloden’s field

Another chorus, another step closer to putting words and tune together. Harry couldn’t help noticing that most of the Hufflepuffs seemed to know this one by heart, as they were not even looking at their books. More than a dozen were even singing and playing their respective instruments at the same time. Not for the first time that evening, Harry felt as though he were an outsider witnessing a ritual, and he wondered how long this had been going on in Hufflepuff without the other houses knowing.

The final verse was sung by a deep-voiced older Hufflepuff boy who like so many others was vaguely familiar, but whose name Harry simply could not place.

Burn’d are our homes, exile and death

Scatter the loyal men

Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath

Charlie will come again

Feeling strangely determined to make himself a part of this, Harry gave the final chorus everything he had. Somehow it was not enough to merely witness the ritual.

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing

“Onward,” the sailors cry

Carry the lad that’s born to be king

Over the sea to Skye

Almost before the final chord faded, Professor Sprout called out “Page forty-eight!” Again, the pages shuffled, again several of the Hufflepuffs gave noises of happy recognition, and again, Professor Sprout led them in, with Zacharias and several of the percussionists following suit with practiced ease. When the vocals came, it was with a raucous abandon befitting the text.

Look ahead, look astern, look the weather in the lee

Blow high! Blow low! And so sailed we!

I see a wreck to windward and a lofty ship to lee

A-sailing down along the coast of High Barbary!

This was the first time Harry had ever heard a real sea chantey, and he found it surprisingly easy to join in, as each verse was precisely the same tune. Beside him, Hermione was strumming away on her autoharp, following the written score for the chord changes.

After the six-verse battle with pirates, Professor Sprout called out another page number, and scarcely taking time to catch their breath, they followed her through an Irish folk song (at least, that was what it said next to the title).

Near to Banbridge Town, in the County Down

One morning in July

Down a boreen green came a sweet colleen

And she smiled as she passed me by

Oh, she looked so neat from her two white feet

To the sheen of her nut-brown hair

Such a coaxing elf, had to shake myself

To be sure I was really there

Oh, from Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay

And from Galway to Dublin town

No maid I’ve seen like the brown colleen

That I met in the County Down

In all, they sang more than half a dozen folk songs from the British isles with barely a pause between them, and the longer it went, the more caught up in the spirit Harry was becoming. The entire event had a sort of pleasant anarchy to it: there was an unrehearsed feel to everything, but it was obvious the Hufflepuffs had been singing together like this for ages. Those with drums or other hand-held instruments played and sang with equal abandon, and those whose instruments required more attention, like Susan with her violin, alternated between singing and playing along seemingly at random.

The fact that Luna picked right up on the vibe of the room – adding the mellow tones of her clarinet when appropriate and singing when it was not – was no longer much of a shock to Harry. Nor was he particularly surprised that Hermione seemed to have a good grasp of this muggle-born music, and was thoroughly enjoying the combined challenge of singing along and mastering the autoharp.

The focus of his surprise, as it turned out, was Ron.

First of all, amazingly enough, Ron seemed to be having a good time. Harry realized that he had been expecting (in fact dreading) a reaction of derision, but Ron’s good humor seemed genuine rather than sarcastic. While it was clear that he had very little idea of what he was doing with the bodhram, he was an enthusiastic enough singer, and by the fourth of fifth song he was even allowing Luna to give him pointers on how to properly grip the beater (by the center, to allow for rapid strikes with either end of it).

The bloody git was enjoying himself! After all the worry Harry had invested in how all of this might drive a wedge between them, with Ron on one side and Harry and Hermione on the other, Ron was actually grinning a lot, and laughing at his own mistakes on the choruses, and showing dogged determination to play his drum, technique be hanged.

Variations on this thought had been haunting the back corners of his mind for some time now, and in the midst of all the emotions swirling through him, Harry felt a little ashamed of his lack of faith in Ron. He should have realized that they would find a way to come to an understanding, the three of them, no matter what.

The relief Harry felt at this realization was making him almost light-headed, though he imagined the full-voiced singing might have something to do with that as well. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he genuinely felt that he hadn’t a worry in the world. He was free to enjoy this evening with his two greatest friends, with a room full of surprisingly talented schoolmates, and with the one who’d started it all with her bassoon last Saturday at the lake.

After the chorus wrapped up the final verse of a Welsh folk piece called “Migildi Magildi,” Professor Sprout finally brought them to a stop. “Oh, very good, Hufflepuff! Give yourselves a round!” She began applauding, and her students followed suit, congratulating themselves and one another.

“Rest your voices, children,” Sprout continued, pivoting on her stool to take a look at the chalkboard. “Now, let’s see what we have tonight for recitals. Mister Finch-Fletchley, Mister Smith, Miss Bones, it would appear you’re first on the list! What do you have for us this week?”

“It’s a Spanish song, Professor,” Justin explained, getting up from the box he had been sitting on and picking it up. He and the other two made their way to the centre, stopping between the trunk and the circle of students. He set the box down, then sat on it again, and Zacharias with his guitar and Susan with her violin flanked him.

Just as Harry was beginning to wonder what exactly Justin had brought the box for, he reached down and struck out a complicated rhythm on one face of it, and it gave an amazingly clear sound. More than that, Justin was able to get several distinct percussive tones from it depending on whether he tapped the center or the edge, or whether he hit it with his fingertips, his knuckles or the heel of his hand. It was as though he had an entire percussion kit contained in this box he was sitting on.

Zacharias joined in next, his fingers blurring over the strings. Rather than using a pick, this time he was plucking the strings with all five fingers of his right hand, and the notes were coming in wave after wave. Susan added a soft, haunting violin part moments later, the sweeping sound contrasting markedly with the rhythmic guitar and drum.

Now that he was watching rather than participating, Harry was nothing short of mesmerised, and his eyes darted from one set of hands to the other, marveling at the speed and accuracy of their movements. He wondered how long the three of them must have worked together in order to play so flawlessly as a unit, and he was suddenly flooded with mental images of the Hufflepuff dormitories filled with practicing musicians, the halls and common room always ringing with sound.

Ron must have been thinking exactly the same thing, for at that moment he leaned in and whispered “No wonder they’re so lousy at quidditch.”

Harry just nodded, but for a moment he had to wonder which house it was that truly had its priorities in order.

The trio brought its song to a close, and Harry added his own enthusiastic applause to that of the Hufflepuffs. “Very good, very good,” Professor Sprout cheered them as they went back to their seats. “Who’s next, then?”

The next group was a vocal quartet, two boys and two girls (none of whom Harry recognized except Stebbins, who appeared to be singing the lower of the two male parts), performing what they introduced as an English madrigal.

Say, love, if ever thou didst find

A woman with a constant mind

None but one – none but one

And what should that rare mirror be

Some goddess or some queen is she

She, she, she, and only she

She only queen of love and beauty

This time, in spite of being quite the amateur, Harry was able to tell that this song was a work in progress, as the performance was far from perfect. There were a couple of moments where one singer or another would drop a couple of words, but they never fell out of tune, nor did they stop – with every error they quickly recovered and carried on, which in some ways was more impressive than perfection.

After the quartet returned to their seats (to the applause of their schoolmates), Professor Sprout turned and gave the four visitors a long look. “So, Hufflepuff, we appear to have three Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw with us this evening. It’s certainly been a long time since we’ve had this many guests all at once – longer than any of you have been here, I do believe – but nonetheless, we must observe tradition and give our guests every opportunity to contribute something. Agreed?”

The Hufflepuffs gave a rumble that was equal parts applause, laughter, encouragement and challenge, and Harry’s mouth went dry. He desperately found Ernie in the crowd and shot him a distressed look, as if to say “You did not warn us about this,” but Ernie just grinned wickedly in reply.

Luna, however, was already standing, and after pausing to clear her throat, she addressed the crowd. “Hermione and I will play a duet for you, if you’d like.”

The cheers of the Hufflepuffs drowned out Hermione’s shocked “We will?” Then Luna crossed over to help her to her feet, leaving her to hurriedly pass her autoharp to Harry.

Professor Sprout vacated her stool and came around to watch from the crowd as Luna led Hermione to the upright piano. All the while, Hermione was whispering frantically to the Ravenclaw girl, eyes wide with terror, but Luna’s face remained the very picture of contentedness as she whispered back.

“What’re they playing at?” Ron asked Harry. “Hermione doesn’t play piano.”

“I thought the same thing a week ago,” Harry said back. “Don’t worry. Luna knows what she’s doing.”

“I think your head’s come loose.”

As Ron said this, Harry noticed an interesting exchange between the two girls: Luna leaned in close to Hermione, her eyes wide even by her standards, and she whispered one last thing while taking Hermione’s hand and giving it a squeeze. She then stepped to one side the piano, positioning her fingers on her clarinet and standing ready. For her part, Hermione looked puzzled, but then she took a deep breath and focused her attention on the keys.

After a long silence, Hermione began to play the increasingly familiar haunting tones of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. There was a tiny buzz of recognition from the crowd, and on more than a few faces there were expressions of surprise and genuine admiration.

Harry sat back and closed his eyes, remembering the unlikely meeting in the Room of Requirement, and how Luna’s flute combined with Hermione’s piano had been something chillingly beautiful. This time, however, the mood was decidedly different with the presence of the clarinet: rather than trilling and fluttering like a winter bird, Luna was playing a slow, apparently improvised melody, and the warm, mellow voice of her instrument brought an almost jazz-like feeling to the classical piece.

As well as Hermione was playing, she was still very much out of practice, and occasionally she hit an incorrect note. However, Luna would then immediately work that same wrong note into her accompaniment, making it sound as though they had planned it that way all along. Harry remembered Luna’s assertion that the song belonged to them, and not to Beethoven, and hearing this familiar yet radically different rendition, there was no doubt about it.

They drew to a close, with Hermione repeating the final chord beneath a last bluesy riff by Luna, and the Hufflepuffs went slightly mad with cheering. “Bloody Hell,” Ron nodded, his eyes never leaving the pair of them as they turned and gave a small bow. “Loony’s good! D’you reckon that’s why she’s so far gone in real life?”

“Couldn’t say,” Harry replied, trying not to laugh at the bemused expression on Hermione’s face as the two girls returned to their seats.

“Miss Lovegood, Miss Granger, that was wonderful,” Professor Sprout congratulated them as she returned to the centre of the room. “You see, Hufflepuff? It’s good to have guests once in a while! Now, let us continue with… page seventy!”

Over the sound of pages turning, Hermione leaned in and whispered in Harry’s ear. “I don’t understand how she does that.”

“Sounds to me like you were both doing that,” Harry grinned.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” Hermione went on. “I’ve no business playing that well without magic. She must be doing something. I just don’t understand it.”

He looked over at her, and his planned witty rejoinder stuck in his throat as he took in the look of confusion in her brown eyes. “Hermione,” he said, his smile softening, “has it occurred to you that there are some things that no one can really understand? Not even you?” He said the last with the tiniest smirk.

She gave him a decidedly sardonic look, but her reply was lost amidst the singing voices of Hufflepuff House.

To be continued

Next: Harry sings! (You didn’t think Luna and Hermione got him off the hook, did you?)

5. Finding the Muse - Part 4 (continued)

Finding the Muse

By Rain Fletcher

Part 4 (continued)

Over the sound of pages turning, Hermione leaned in and whispered in Harry’s ear. “I don’t understand how she does that.”

“Sounds to me like you were both doing that,” Harry grinned.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” Hermione went on. “I’ve no business playing that well without magic. She must be doing something. I just don’t understand it.”

He looked over at her, and his planned witty rejoinder stuck in his throat as he took in the look of confusion in her brown eyes. “Hermione,” he said, his smile softening, “has it occurred to you that there are some things that no one can really understand? Not even you?” He said the last with the tiniest smirk.

She gave him a decidedly sardonic look, but her reply was lost amidst the singing voices of Hufflepuff House.

By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes

Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond

Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae

On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond

O, ye’ll take the high road and I’ll take the low road

And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye

But me and my true love will never meet again

On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond

They sang and played together through several more folk songs before Sprout turned her attention back to the board to call forth the next recitals. The first came from a very nervous first-year boy who gave them some shaky Mozart on the piano. He was frankly not very good (though it appeared to be fear rather than lack of talent), but the Hufflepuffs listened raptly and applauded, and he was roundly thumped on the back by Ernie and Justin as he returned to the crowd.

Following this, Professor Sprout looked again to the board and all but crowed with laughter. “I see Miss Wells is next!” There were some bordering-on-lusty cheers from some of the boys, earning them mock-surly glares from the professor.

“Miss Wells” turned out to be a seventh-year girl Harry had only ever seen in passing, and her appearance seemed at odds with the boys’ reaction: she was decidedly mousy, barely five feet tall if (that), with thick glasses and loose-fitting clothing. Looking almost timid, she brought a sheet of music to Professor Sprout, then turned to smile shyly at her housemates.

Once Professor Sprout started the accompaniment on the dulcimer, however, her face broke into a wide, decidedly wicked smile, and she began to sing the most unlikely of lyrics in a trilling soprano:

Young I am and yet unskilled

How to make a lover yield

How to keep and how to gain

When to love and when to feign

Take me, take me some of you

While I am still young and true!

Stay not till I learn the way

How to lie and to betray

‘Ere I can my thoughts disguise

Heave my chest and roll my eyes

Take me, take me some of you

While I am still young and true!

Could I find a blooming youth

Full of love and full of truth?

He that has me first is blest

For I may deceive the rest!

Take me, take me some of you

While I am still young and true!

The cheers from the boys were nothing short of raucous, leading to many eye-rolls and swats from the girls (who nonetheless applauded the song), and Wells, once again shy and mousy, gave a tiny curtsy before returning to her seat.

“For the benefit of our guests,” Professor Sprout explained, “Miss Wells is our resident expert on, shall we say, the art of the bawdy song. Thank you, my dear. As always, that was frighteningly close to the limits of decency.”

“You get to sing bawdy songs in here?” Ron piped up suddenly, looking incredulous.

“We have been known to dabble,” the professor replied, “so long as we refrain from the truly vulgar. Why do you ask, Mister Weasley? Have you something in mind?”

Ron gaped, having obviously not expected this. “I – that is to say, I – know a couple that my brothers taught me…”

“WEASLEY!” Ernie suddenly cheered, clapping his hands loudly. He then led several of the Hufflepuffs into a chant of Ron’s name, clapping their hands in time. “Weas-LEY! Weas-LEY! Weas-LEY! Weas-LEY!” Soon the entire room had taken up the chant, and here again, they seemed genuinely encouraging rather than derisive.

Ron gave Harry a wide-eyed expression of pure terror. Before Harry could think of any words of encouragement, though, Luna leaned in and whispered something in Ron’s ear. His expression gradually softened, and then he nodded. Screwing his face into a look of determination, he stood up, and as the chant died down, he took a breath and began to sing.

Reflecting later on his friend’s performance, Harry found that words failed him. He understood very little of the text – it appeared to be filled with puns and double-entendres unique to the wizarding world – and all he could really tell was that it had something to do with a hedgehog.

Most of the Hufflepuffs, however, hung on his every verse, and giggles and hoots accompanied each of his punch lines. Professor Sprout looked maybe a little glazed, but did nothing to intervene. His finale was met with thunderous applause and a partial standing ovation, and when he sat down again, Harry was surprised to see that he was both smiling and blushing beet-red.

“Thank you, Mister Weasley,” Professor Sprout said evenly, though it appeared that she herself was trying to contain her laughter. “I daresay we’ve not heard… that one in some time. Well! Let’s move on, shall we?”

Another solo singer followed, performing a decidedly operatic piece in Italian, and he was followed by a fourth-year cellist. Both were met with encouragement and approval. Harry found himself growing more and more amazed at not only the music, but at the reactions to it: every action of the house showed its solidarity and its members’ belief in one another. Even the weakest performances (and none of them were terribly weak, truth be told) received applause and laud.

At this point, the Fat Friar made a belated entrance, much to Professor Sprout’s scolding. She gave him the floor for a time, and he led a small choir of the deeper-voiced boys through some beautiful (and haunting) Gregorian chant before leading the entire house in a choral lesson, teaching them a four-part liturgical piece by a composer named Tallis. (The four guests did the best they could to pick an appropriate part and follow along, with Harry and Ron attempting to be tenors and Hermione a soprano: Luna, predictably, had the alto part spot-on after the first go.)

The evening had already been a little disorienting for Harry, but he found the presence of this obviously sacred music even more so. He had almost never been to church while living with the Dursleys, and religion was never much of a topic at Hogwarts, even at Christmas and Easter. It was as much a contradiction as the Fat Friar himself, who had apparently been both a wizard and a monk in his life. Harry made a mental note to follow up on this, though he wasn’t quite sure where to begin.

Once the Fat Friar was finished, Professor Sprout again took the helm, this time to lead them through some rousing choruses from a couple of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. Harry found that he had actually heard some of these: he had vague memories of this sort of music drifting into his cupboard, probably from the television. Whatever the source, he found it easier than ever to join in and sing full-voiced with his friends and schoolmates.

For he is an Englishman!

For he himself has said it

And it’s greatly to his credit

That he is an Englishman

That he i-is a-an E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eeeeeeeenglishman!

“Wonderful! Well, sung, children!” Professor Sprout again looked over her shoulder to consult the board. “Well, now, it appears we have one last trio, and then we’ll wrap things up with another chorus. Miss Abbott? What do the three of you have for us this evening?”

Hannah and the two friends she’d been talking to earlier detached themselves from the crowd and took their place at the front, standing shoulder to shoulder. “This one is an original composition,” Hannah told the house, looking to the dark-haired girl standing in the center of their trio, who flushed and smiled shyly. The three then leaned in close, and the third of them (a blonde girl anonymous to Harry) hummed a note, which Hannah and the dark-haired girl matched softly. They then took a breath together and began singing, their voices blending together so seamlessly that Harry was strongly reminded of the multi-toned voice of the mermaid on the portrait outside.

Girl… in the long grass, now

Watching the clouds stroke the sky

Tears in your eyes…

You… you are my dearie

My heart aches so clearly ‘cause I…

Made you cry…

During this verse, the dark-haired girl in the middle (apparently the composer of the song), opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on Harry. It was at that moment that he recognized her: she was the Hufflepuff girl who had, out of the blue during his fourth year, approached him in the hallways between classes and asked to be his date for the Yule Ball. He had declined as politely as he could at the time considering his lack of experience in such matters, and had never given her another thought.

And now here she was, singing a melancholy love song and looking at him. It was only a brief glance, but for that moment her eyes locked with his, and he could see in those eyes that she still remembered, even as he had forgotten. For a moment he wondered why she would sing such a song to him, as she had never made him cry, but then it dawned on him that the song was not for him, but for herself.

Won’t you forgive me my sins, love?

Won’t you touch me?

You’re… alone in the heather

Healing your heart so another

May hold you close

Harry’s next breath came as a shudder. Somehow, all these years later, those songs that had gone straight over his head were beginning to make sense. Even tonight, in the midst of all the folk songs and classics, many of the lyrics had been about love, or love lost, or love unrequited. Suddenly everything was connected, from the singers of old to the Beatles to this Hufflepuff girl whose name he’d never known, or even taken the time to learn. How long had music and love been so connected? And how had he never known this?

Whether it was because she had heard his shudder, or because she had some inkling of the turmoil in his thoughts, Hermione’s hand was suddenly on his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Could they ever love you so?

The way I did you? Ah!

Please… just look my way, love

Smile and say that you will love me…

Again…

Their final chord faded while the room held its collective breath, and then the cheers came. Harry applauded numbly as Hannah hugged her friends, whispering congratulations of her own to the song’s composer.

“That was quite lovely indeed,” Professor Sprout smiled maternally as the three seated themselves. “Well, Hufflepuff, our time grows short. What shall we close with this week?”

Several hands went up, waving frantically for the professor’s attention, but Susan actually spoke up as she raised her own. “Professor?”

“Yes, Miss Bones?”

“Professor, I don’t think we’ve heard anything yet from Harry!” She shot an amused glance at him as she said this, and even winked.

“Bless my soul, so we haven’t! Well, Mister Potter, we can’t let our guests leave without offering them the opportunity to share. Do you have anything for us?”

Harry blanched. Just like that, every eye was on him, and he made a silent vow that Susan would pay for this. “I- I’m sorry, Professor Sprout. I’ve never played anything at all until tonight, or sung anything for that matter. I don’t really have anything of my own.”

“Oh, it can be anything, dear,” Sprout assured him. “This is Hufflepuff House, Mister Potter. No one will laugh at you.”

Harry swallowed nervously. “I appreciate that, but honestly, I can’t think of anything…”

“Oh, come on, mate, you got to hear me sing,” Ron prodded him.

Before he could shush Ron, though, he felt Hermione’s hand on his once more. “Perhaps something… buried away?” she said, quietly.

He looked over at her, and saw that her mouth was turned upward in the tiniest smile. For a moment, he could not for the life of him think of what she might be driving at, but then it hit him with such force that seconds passed before he could even take a breath.

“Okay,” he said to Professor Sprout, though he never broke eye contact with Hermione. “I… think I know a song I could sing for you.”

“Very good, Mister Potter. Please, stand. Will you need accompaniment for this song?”

Setting his drum to one side, Harry pushed himself to his feet, looking nervously about at all the Hufflepuffs. “I’m afraid it’s a little different than tonight’s music,” he said, somewhat lamely. “It’s by the Beatles.”

Zacharias gave a single snort of laughter, but by the expression on his face it was genuinely good-humoured. “Oh, we know a thing of two about the Beatles,” Sprout grinned, shooting a glance toward the guitarist. “Why don’t you go ahead and start, and if it’s one we know, we’ll jump in?”

“That’d be… brilliant, thank you,” Harry nodded. “I’m – er – not sure what key it’s in.”

“Sing it however you’d like, Mister Potter. We’ll make do.”

“Right.”

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to pay too much attention to the way his heart was hammering against his ribs. After the shared experience of the evening’s music, he suddenly felt very alone and vulnerable.

Realizing that there was nothing else for it but to take a breath and sing, Harry did so.

I… once had a girl

Or should I say – she once had me…

In his head, he heard the guitar accompaniment from his oft-played tape join in, and it heartened him. It was different, somehow, but it still sounded perfect.

She… showed me her room

Isn’t it good – Norwegian wood…

As he came in on the next line, where two of the Beatles had sung in harmony, Harry was shocked to hear another voice add itself to his own – a girl’s voice. His eyes popped open, and he nearly dropped the line as he saw that Hannah was singing the harmony to his melody. Moreover, the guitar he’d been hearing was not in his head at all, but was being played by Zacharias. In just one verse, they’d managed to match themselves to his pitch to provide a perfect accompaniment.

There was no time to marvel at musicianship, though: there was a song yet to be sung.

She asked me to stay and she told me to sit anywhere

So I looked around and I noticed there wasn’t a chair

With the next verse, Justin joined in as well, tapping out the beat on his seat-drum. Professor Sprout had the hammers poised over the strings of the dulcimer, apparently waiting for the right moment to enter.

I… sat on the rug

Biding my time – drinking her wine

We… talked until two

And then she said – it’s time for bed

An instrumental bridge followed. In the recording, the melody had been played by a stringed instrument that Harry had never been able to identify. In this performance, though, it was played by Susan and her violin. Susan played with her eyes closed, a solemn expression on her face. Harry closed his eyes again to finish the song – a part of him felt unworthy to be accompanied by musicians like these, and he found he could no longer watch them.

She told me she worked in the morning and started to laugh

I told her I didn’t, and crawled off to sleep in the bath

And… when I awoke

I was alone – this bird had flown

So… I lit a fire

Isn’t it good – Norwegian wood…

The impromptu quartet finished out the last few measures of the song, leaving only silence. A few moments passed, and Harry slowly opened his eyes to see that most everyone in the common room was staring at him. A few of the younger students looked like they wanted to applaud, and were glancing around at their classmates as though waiting for the signal to do so.

Harry looked to Zacharias, who was gazing at his strings, to Hannah, who had her hands over most of her face, leaving only her wide, unblinking eyes, to Susan, whose face was streaked with tears.

The silence was unbearable, so Harry smiled awkwardly and spoke. “I’m sorry. I… guess that wasn’t very good, was it?”

“Oh, no, Harry,” Hannah said, sounding breathless and on the verge of weeping. “No, it was beautiful, it’s just… that song… that song was…” She broke off, and the tears welling in her enormous eyes began to fall.

“It was one of Cedric’s favourites,” Zacharias said quietly, not looking up from his guitar. “One of the songs that he used to sing for us here.”

Harry felt as though a bludger had knocked the wind from him. “I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“It’s alright, Harry,” Ernie assured him, though even he sounded as though he were fighting back tears as well. “I’m sure Cedric wouldn’t have minded at all. He always spoke very highly of you.”

“Yes, he certainly did,” Professor Sprout agreed, smiling sadly. “Thank you, Mister Potter, that was very well sung.” She then made a business of scolding her house by saying “For Merlin’s sake, Hufflepuff, a round of applause for Mister Potter.”

The students applauded, and Harry carefully seated himself on the floor, suddenly feeling as though his legs might give way if he stood any longer. “Nice job,” Ron whispered from his left, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

“Yes, Mister Diggory had a great fondness for the Beatles,” Sprout went on as the clapping died down. “In fact, I do believe that would be as good a way as any for us to close the evening. Page one hundred seventy-four, Hufflepuff! Mister Smith, kindly lead us in.”

Another mad shuffle of pages ensued, but Harry felt too numb to even pick up his book. As it turned out, he didn’t need to – the introductory measures played by Zacharias were more than enough to remind him of the words to another song he’d long thought forgotten. He added his voice to the chorus of Hufflepuffs, singing in spite of the lump in his throat.

There are places I’ll remember

All my life, though some have changed

Some forever not for better

Some have gone and some remain

All these places have their moments

With lovers and friends I still can recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life, I’ve loved them all

Harry felt another hand take his own, and he looked to his right to see Hermione smiling at him as she closed her fingers around his. Fresh tears shone on her cheeks, but she looked nothing but happy as the singing continued.

But of all these friends and lovers

There is no one who compares with you

And these mem’ries lose their meaning

When I think of love as something new

Though I know I’ll never lose affection

For people and things that went before

I know I’ll often stop and think about them

In my life, I’ll love you more

To his left, Ron and Luna were sharing a book (she appeared to know the words, while he most certainly did not), and both were smiling as they sang – Luna with a sort of distant joy, and Ron with humor as he tried to follow along with her.

Though I know I’ll never lose affection

For people and things that went before

I know I’ll often stop and think about them

In my life, I’ll love you more

The hand holding Harry’s squeezed more tightly, and he suddenly felt very full of warmth. A song he had thought of as his and his alone was now something to be shared, and the idea of this was more than he could fathom. It was something beautiful and at the same time terrifying. Somehow, though, he had the feeling that everything would be okay.

In my life… I’ll love you more

The song drew to its quiet close, and after a moment of silence, Professor Sprout again clapped her hands twice, as she had at the beginning. “Good night, Hufflepuff!”

“Good night, Professor Sprout!”

* * *

“Girl in the Long Grass” – words/lyrics/music © 2003 Nancy Lorenz - Lyrics used with permission. (Thanks, Nacey!)

“Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)” and “In My Life” – words and music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, performed by the Beatles, from the album Rubber Soul – darned if I know who holds the copyright nowadays, but it’s not me.

Author’s Note: If you want to hear an mp3 of “Girl in the Long Grass” by Nancy Lorenz (yes, the same Nancy Lorenz who wrote “The Snitch” and several other amazing fics), click here. Thank you for bearing with me during a chapter which has been, quite frankly, very difficult to write. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated.

6. Finding the Muse - Part 5

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.)

7. Finding the Muse - Part 6

Finding the Muse

by Rain Fletcher

Part 6

The weekend was, all things considered, rather uneventful. Harry, Hermione and Ron fell into their regular patterns of study, practice and leisure, and on the surface it was almost as though the evening at Hufflepuff and Harry’s subsequent breakdown had never happened. There were occasional signs, though, such as Ron asking Harry how he was feeling maybe two or three times more often than usual, or Hermione occasionally catching his eye over the top of one of her many books and smiling knowingly, or the frequent realization that he was tapping out a beat on the spine of his own book as he read.

At no point did the three of them discuss Friday’s events, and Harry was quickly coming to the realization that it was going to be difficult to keep his promise to Hufflepuff and not let details of their ritual slip out in everyday conversation.

Almost certainly it was their shared discomfort at having to keep their silence which landed the three of them, plus Luna, in the Room of Requirement Sunday afternoon after the scheduled Ravenclaw-Slytherin quidditch match. Back again was the recital hall with the beautiful grand piano (which Hermione played idly while Ron and Harry tested different hand-drums and Luna improvised on an oboe), and for quite a while no words were spoken between them.

It was Hermione who eventually spoke, prefacing her words with a heavy sigh. “It’s… frustrating, really.”

“What do you mean?” Ron asked.

She played a progression of chords, then stopped, folding her hands in her lap. “Now that I’ve had a taste of it again, I don’t want to stop playing.”

Luna sat back from her oboe and smiled across the room at the other girl. “Then don’t.”

“There won’t be enough hours in the day,” Hermione frowned. “There’s already so much to do as it is, and there will only be more as we get closer to exams.”

With all the reassuring Hermione had been giving him of late, Harry was glad for the chance to return at least a little of the favor. “We’ll find time,” he told her. “If it’s important to us, we’ll find the time.”

“It is important,” Hermione said quietly, though her tone indicated that she was still uncertain of how they would manage it.

“Never thought I’d live to see the day that you said something other than books was important,” Ron snickered.

Harry was almost expecting this to be the first shot fired in another row, but Hermione refused to take the bait, instead looking at Harry and saying “Books? Cleverness? There are more important things…” He returned her slight smile, remembering quite well the circumstances under which he’d first heard her say those words.

Ron just snorted, apparently not noticing their exchange. “I don’t know when, exactly, but I know the time’s going to come when I get to remind you that you said that.”

At this, Hermione frowned and turned toward Ron, and sensing that the recently avoided row might have a chance of starting after all, Harry said the first thing he could think of to change the subject. “Luna, what does having perfect pitch mean?”

This actually got both Luna and Hermione to look at him, the latter with some surprise and the former with a single cocked eyebrow. “Why do you ask?” Luna replied.

“At the end of things on Friday, Professor Sprout said she thought I might have it, because I was able to sing that Beatles song in the exact key it was written in. What does it mean, though?”

Luna regarded him with a studious quality he was not used to seeing from her. “It’s a bit difficult to explain. Think of the way your eyes see changes of colour. If you saw blue change to green and then to yellow, you’d be able to say `That was blue, then green, then yellow.’”

“Okay,” Harry nodded, not entirely certain what she might be driving at.

“A person with colour-blindness, though, would only be conscious that a change had happened, and wouldn’t be able to give you the names of the colours. Most people’s ears are like that. They can hear changes of pitch, and they can tell you if a pitch goes higher or lower. But a person with perfect pitch can tell you exactly how much higher and lower, and can even tell you the name of the pitch just as easily as you can look at a blade of grass and say `This is green.’ Hermione, could you play me a note?”

“Er, of course. Which one?”

“Any one will do.”

Hermione shrugged and played a single tone on the piano. Luna cocked her head to one side and listened for a moment, then turned back to Harry. “You see, if you had perfect pitch, and a bit of training with Western music theory, you’d be able to hear this note and know that it’s the G-flat above Middle C.” Hermione looked momentarily startled as Luna gave the name of the note, and Harry realized that someone in the room definitely had this perfect pitch thing, whether he did or not.

“Well, what do you use it for?” Ron asked.

“Do you remember the trio that performed near the end? Right before they started, one of them hummed their first pitch without having to get it from an instrument. More than that, though, you’d be able to tell if a note were being played or sung out of tune, just like your eyes can see subtle differences between shades of green.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Professor Sprout said there are tests she can do to see if it’s really perfect pitch, or just pitch memory.”

“There are. When are you going to meet with her?” Luna asked.

“Tomorrow evening, I think,” Harry decided, feeling strangely excited at the prospect of it. “I’ll drop by her office sometime before dinner.”

* * *

When Monday evening came, Harry wasted little time getting thoroughly lost as he searched for Professor Sprout’s office. He was vaguely aware that it was close to the greenhouses, but only after a fairly extensive tour of the area did he find a door tucked away behind Greenhouse Two bearing the name “Pomona Sprout, HeD.” Beneath the placard was tacked a faded handwritten note that said “Come in! (Mind the creepers.)”

Harry opened the door cautiously and peeked inside. The room beyond appeared to be more a workshop than an office, and as could be expected there were plants everywhere: potted plants with enormous green leaves, hanging ferns that appeared to be actually breathing, a dozen flowerpots on the sill jockeying for position to catch the last rays of the setting sun, a row of tiny fruit-bearing trees under strange purplish-green lamps, several tendrils of the aforementioned creeping vines (which scampered out of his way as he came into the room) and something which Harry could only guess was a bonsai version of the Forbidden Forest in a small wooden box.

Of Professor Sprout, however, there was no sign, except that there were faint voices coming from a second door which presumably led to an inner office. Harry looked around for an unoccupied chair, which turned out to be somewhat difficult, and finally had to shoo a couple of creepers out of the way to avoid sitting on them as he took the chair closest to the miniature forest.

He sat there for a few minutes watching the trees under the lamps exchange individual fruits as though they were trying on one another’s jewellery, and then to his surprise the muffled voices behind the door began to grow louder and somewhat higher in pitch. It sounded a lot like an argument, and it occurred to Harry that he might have arrived at a bad time.

Just as he was considering leaving, however, the door to the inner office was flung open from inside, and out stomped none other than Luna, who was positively seething. The expression of unbridled fury was so alien on her normally placid face that for a moment Harry had to wonder if it was really her. Any doubt he might have had regarding her identity was dispelled, however, as Professor Sprout appeared in the doorway and shouted after her. “Miss Lovegood!”

Luna whirled around and scowled at the Herbology mistress. “You claim to consort with the Muses, and yet you hide behind a siren!” she said through gritted teeth. “You hoard something that should belong to us all!”

“Miss Lovegood, you will not take that tone with me!”

“You shame the Muses,” Luna said in a quiet voice still edged with fury. “And you shame Helga Hufflepuff.”

For a moment, it was as though all the air had suddenly left the room. Every plant stilled, and both Harry and the hanging ferns held their breath, awaiting the explosion.

Professor Sprout, however, gaped at Luna as though too shocked to be angry. “How dare you,” she said at last. “How dare you say that to me? A fine artist you may be, Miss Lovegood, but what do you know of Hufflepuff?”

Luna stood up straight and raised her chin haughtily. “Only that Helga Hufflepuff opened her house to all that came. Can you say the same?”

That said, she glanced over at Harry, gave him a brief, intent look, then swept from the room in a flourish of blue and black robes.

“Um,” Harry said into the ensuing awkward silence, “if this is a bad time, I could always come back later.”

Professor Sprout visibly deflated, and for a moment looked very old and tired. She then rubbed one hand over her face and gave Harry a weary smile. “Not at all, dear boy, come in. I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

Waving for him to follow, she stepped back into the inner office. Harry came in after and took the seat on the near side of the professor’s desk. Like the workshop, this tiny room was crammed with plants of all varieties, but there were a few touches to indicate that the occupant was a musician as well (not the least of which being the upright piano set against the back wall).

Sprout sat rather heavily on her own stool, letting out a sigh as she did. She was composing herself well, Harry thought, but it was still apparent that she was a bit flustered by her encounter with Luna.

Fearing suddenly for his friend’s welfare after pointedly telling off a professor, Harry cleared his throat and said “Er, about Luna, Professor? Um… she’s been… under a lot of stress lately. Probably doesn’t even know what she said.”

“No, my dear, she knows very well what she said. That girl is one of the few truly honest people left in this world, bless her.” She then smiled thinly. “Fear not, Mister Potter. Our conversation was, at her request, strictly off the record. I know full well that musicians can be incredibly emotional people, and she’s not in any trouble. Now, as for you: have you come to test my suspicions about your own potential talents?”

“Yes, yes I have.”

“Excellent,” the professor said with a wider smile. “We’ll be testing your voice and your ears mostly. It’s a pity you’ve never learned any theory, but better late than never. Now. Sit up straight, breathe deeply from the diaphragm… yes, like that, good lad… and repeat these phrases back to me.”

She swiveled on her stool, placed her gnarled hands over the keys of the piano, and began playing five-note ascending and descending scales, which he did his best to sing back to her in reply. They gradually worked their way higher until his voice began to crack with effort, then descended in pitch until he felt as though the low notes were scraping the inside of his throat. They then started upward again, each five-note passage higher than the last, and after the fourth one, Sprout turned to look at him.

“Very good. Your range is small, but promising. With a bit of work, we could probably make a serviceable low tenor or baritone out of you.”

Harry had little idea what to make of this. “Is that good?”

“It means that your voice is, pitch-wise, almost precisely average for adult male voices.”

“Oh,” Harry frowned, deflating slightly.

“None of that, Potter!” Sprout grinningly scolded him. “Your voice also isn’t finished developing yet. I doubt you’ll ever be an operatic tenor or a basso profundo, but there’s something there to work with, certainly. The fact that you can match pitch at all puts you head and shoulders above many. Now, let us see how you fare with something other than scales.”

The professor turned back to the piano and began playing five-note passages, the first several of which he recognized as snippets of melody from some of Friday night’s folk songs. After this, though, things got a bit strange, and there was nothing at all melodic about it: some of the notes seemed to be played almost at random. Each one was more complicated and more bizarre than the last, with the gaps between the notes never remaining constant. He did his best to repeat them back, but it was getting harder to keep up, and he realized with some discomfort that he was beginning to sweat.

After one last particularly un-melodic progression of seven notes rather than five, Sprout nodded thoughtfully at him. “Rest your voice, Mister Potter. This next exercise is for your ears. I’m going to play the same passage twice, but the second time, one note will be different. I want you to listen for which one.”

She played a five note ascending scale, as she had at the beginning, but upon the repeat, the third note was distinctly different. “Third note,” he said.

“Was it higher or lower the second time?”

“Lower.”

“How much lower?”

Harry blinked a couple of times. “Er, I don’t know, exactly. Not very much at all, though.”

She once again nodded thoughtfully at him, then went back to playing. After each set of two, she asked him the same three questions. Hearing which note was different was easy enough, as was saying whether it was higher or lower the second time. Each time she asked how much higher or lower, though, he was stumped for an answer. After a few, he was able to compare them to one another by saying “About as much lower as the very first one we did,” and such.

After about a dozen of these, she swiveled back around on her stool, folded her hands on her desk, and looked him straight in the eye. “Lastly, Mister Potter… would you be so kind as to sing back to me the very last passage we did in the previous section?”

Harry was momentarily stunned by the request, and for a moment, could not even think of where to begin. He then closed his eyes, thought hard, and did his best to repeat the seven seemingly random notes, only daring to open his eyes at the very end.

“Well done, Mister Potter,” Sprout nodded.

“You mean I got it right?”

“Oh, not entirely, no, but I scarcely expected you to.”

“Oh.”

The Herbology mistress steepled her fingers and gave him a searching look. “You’re a very interesting case, dear boy. Very interesting indeed.”

“So… do I have perfect pitch?” he asked.

She studied him for a moment before she replied. “Were I to give you my best guess, I would say that you likely do not.”

“I see,” Harry nodded, feeling a very real disappointment at this news but trying to keep it from reaching his face.

“The difficulty lies in the fact that you’ve never had formal ear training or any theory to speak of. I can’t very well to ask you tell me that you hear a half-step here or a minor third there when you’ve never been shown what those are. What I can say is that you have an incredible ear for even the most difficult of intervals, and your memory for pitches is excellent. Even if it turns out that you do not have the textbook definition of perfect pitch, you appear to have some impressive gifts, Mister Potter. Now, as you know, there is no formal instruction given in the musical arts here at Hogwarts, but I have some texts you can study from if you choose to pursue these talents further. And I do hope that you will.”

His mounting disappointment was lightened by these revelations, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what they meant. “I think I’d like to, Professor.”

“Splendid, splendid,” she smiled at him. She then reached across the tiny room to take a thin volume from one of the crowded shelves, gently nudging a flowerpot aside in order to reach it. “Since you’ve no instrumental training, we shall need to find an accompanist for you to study with, and to tutor you in some of the basics: reading notes from the staff and so forth. Preferably someone who knows their way around a piano.” She pulled a scroll from the clutter on her desk and scanned through it. “Hmm, Miss Wells hasn’t many students at the moment... or perhaps Miss Abbott, since you’re already familiar with her… and Mister Finch-Fletchley might also be a good choice, though his emphasis is percussion…”

As much as he liked the idea of working with Hannah or Justin, another idea came to mind that he found infinitely more appealing. “Actually, Professor… would it be alright with you if I asked Hermione? I’ve… er… been studying with her for years now, you see, and…”

“Of course, of course,” the professor smiled, passing the book to him. “You’ll both find everything you need here. And I’ll put your names on the list for the second-floor rehearsal rooms: you’ll notice a few more doors the next time you pass through the near hall.”

“Thank you, Professor.” A thought then struck him. “Er, would it be alright if Ron and I asked Justin to work with us a little on drums sometime?”

“Ah, yes, I’ll add Mister Weasley to the list as well. And you needn’t ask my permission to speak with Mister Finch-Fletchley, but I appreciate your courtesy.” Sprout then glanced at a cuckoo clock on the wall. “Meanwhile, young man, it’s nearly time for the evening meal. You’d best be off to the Great Hall.”

“Right, of course,” Harry nodded, standing quickly. “Thank you again.”

He turned to go, and his hand had just touched the door handle when he had a sudden, vivid image of the look Luna had given him just before leaving. It occurred to him that she had been trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t for the life of him place it. It also occurred to him to wonder why she had chosen today of all days to visit Professor Sprout, since she had known he would be there for his testing.

“Er, Professor?” he asked, turning around slowly to see Sprout again looking over her roster scroll. “If you don’t mind my asking… what did Luna ask you about?”

Professor Sprout’s features fell into a guarded frown. “I don’t believe it would be proper to tell you in detail, Mister Potter. However, I will say that Miss Lovegood is… of the opinion… that Hufflepuff House should open its Friday Festival to all of Hogwarts.”

“Oh,” Harry nodded, having suspected as much. “She asked Ernie about that the other night. He said something about it being a tradition of the house?”

“Indeed,” Sprout nodded. “One of the only traditions we have left, to be painfully honest.”

Harry went on nodding, but he scarcely heard the professor’s words. His mind was elsewhere: the Gryffindor common room Friday afternoon. Hermione had said something – something about the reason for going in the first place.

Something clicked in his head, and he slowly returned to the seat in front of her desk. “Er… can I say something off the record as well, Professor?”

“Of course,” Sprout replied, looking at him with a mix of humor and skepticism.

“The way Ernie talked about it made it sound like you’d be… losing something if you shared your music with everyone else.”

The professor sighed. “As long as we are speaking off the record, Mister Potter… I do not truly disagree with Miss Lovegood. She is not the first to make this… suggestion over the years. However, I am loath to risk tampering with my students’ greatest source of pride and solidarity. These days, being sorted into Hufflepuff is hardly considered a great honor. Some parents have even tried to have their children re-placed upon hearing of their sorting. I cannot take away the traditions they value most.”

“I understand,” Harry nodded, surprised at how calm and reasonable his voice remained. “At the same time, though… regarding the whole pride and solidarity thing? Well… I think that’s something all of Hogwarts could use more of, nowadays and all. I’m not saying you should give up your traditions, but maybe… you and Hufflepuff could find another way to bring music to the rest of the school? If it can do for the rest of us anything like it’s done for your own house… well, it seems to me it could only help. And… maybe it’s just me, but I think it’d feel great to belong to the house that helped bring everyone together like that.”

It suddenly occurred to him that he was sounding an awful lot like an adult having a conversation with another adult, and was both startling and strangely embarrassing. He stood again, feeling his face flush. “That’s all, really. Thanks again, Professor Sprout.”

Just as he was opening the door, however, she called after him. “Mister Potter?”

He looked back around at her, half-expecting to get the tongue-lashing of his life, but her expression was tired and thoughtful rather than angry. “Yes, Professor?”

“If at any point you feel… stuck,” she said, indicating the book he was carrying, “feel free to drop by anytime. My door is always open.”

“I will. Thank you.”

He closed the door behind him, took a deep breath, then carefully maneuvered past the creepers in the outer office and back into the early evening air. To his surprise, he found Luna waiting for him outside.

“How did it go?” she asked, conversationally.

“Well, apparently I have an average voice with a small range. Er- have you been listening in on us?”

She gave him a cryptic smile. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she explained. “Anything I might have overheard in the process is simply extra.”

“Right.”

Her smile slowly broadened, and she reached out to take his hand and give it a squeeze. “I was right, you know. You did feel it.”

“I did?”

“Mm hmm,” she nodded. “You should go find Hermione right away and ask her. She’s going to love being your partner in this.”

“You think so?”

“I believe it, yes.”

Harry knew quite well that Luna believed in some pretty strange things. At the same time, though, she was perhaps the only person Harry knew who could use the words “I believe” with such innocence and conviction. With her believing in it, there was really no reason to think otherwise.

That and the fact that it was a pleasant thing to believe in. Heartened immensely by thoughts of the music yet to be shared, Harry started back toward the castle proper, Luna smiling knowingly at him as they went.

To Be Concluded

Author’s Note: Looks like I might get this done before the release of Book Six after all. Thanks to all for reading, and special thanks to those who’ve taken the time to say a few words afterward. It’s a cliché to say that your comments make it all seem worthwhile, but ya know, these things become clichés for a reason. Best wishes to you all.

8. Finding the Muse - Epilogue

Finding the Muse

by Rain Fletcher

Epilogue

It was a clear, mild Saturday in October, exactly two weeks since Harry’s chance meeting with Hermione, Luna and a bassoon out by the lake, and once again, Harry found himself wandering aimlessly through the halls of Hogwarts, through the courtyard, and out onto the grounds.

It had been an eventful week to be sure. Hermione had been more than willing to tutor Harry in the basics of reading music, and had used the textbook given to them by Professor Sprout to come up with all manner of lesson plans and worksheets for him. She no longer seemed as concerned by the idea that they would not be able to find the time to pursue music amidst their magical studies: if anything, putting her in the role of the teacher had only increased her focus. As a consequence, every evening after finishing his actual schoolwork he would find himself up to his ears in dots, lines, All Cows Eat Grass and Every Good Boy Deserves Favour.

For the moment, he was enjoying it immensely, but he recognized that this was probably because it was something he really wanted to do rather than something that had been foisted upon him. More than this, though, it gave him something new to share with his friends. The trick would be in remembering that and not letting it somehow turn into unwelcome work.

Another, more unexpected change was that Hufflepuffs were the friendliest they’d ever been with him, frequently exchanging small talk in shared classes or the Great Hall, or making eye contact and sharing a knowing smile and nod with him in the hallways. Only after this did he notice that Hufflepuffs had something of a silent language amongst their own, and he was surprised and even a bit humbled that they had begun to open up to him.

Today’s venture out onto the grounds had been free of such interactions, though: the halls had been all but empty except for the occasional Ravenclaw or Gryffindor. It seemed that most everyone was either already out on the grounds or holed up in their dormitories studying (that was where Harry had left Ron and Neville, at any rate). He hadn’t seen Hermione since breakfast, but she had mentioned having something to research in the library, thus making her likely to be missing for the day, if not the weekend.

Mindful of this, Harry was a bit surprised when, just as he reached the well-worn path to the quidditch pitch, Hermione’s hand closed on his forearm. “Harry,” she said, stepping up from behind him, “are you busy?”

“Not in the least,” he smiled at her, but the smile faded when he saw the intent look on her face. “What is it?”

“Would you come with me, please? I need to find Luna, and I… need to have you there when I do.”

“Of course, but… what do you mean? What’s wrong?”

Hermione let out a tense breath. “Nothing’s wrong, really, but… I’m going to confront Luna with something, and I want her to tell the truth. I have the feeling she’d be more likely to tell the truth if both of us were there.”

She steered them toward the lake, and they walked in step for a while as Harry tried to figure out what she was driving at. She had a book under her opposite arm, but the cover did not look familiar, and he could not see the title from his present angle. “Hermione,” he said patiently, “what’s this all about?”

“Do you remember how I’ve been wondering why it is that I can play so well when I’m in a duet with Luna? And how I thought there must be magic involved? I couldn’t put my finger on what it might be, but then after you told me and Ron about what she said to Professor Sprout, I had an idea.” She held up the book so that he could read its title: MYTHTORICAL MAGIC: Muggle Mythology and Wizard History.

“This is an advanced Muggle Studies book that’s been out of the curriculum for a number of years,” Hermione explained, “but they still have copies of it in the library. It’s all about which elements of Muggle myths and legends had some basis in fact within the wizarding world.”

“Alright,” Harry nodded, “but what does that have to do with Luna?”

She proceeded to open the book and page through it. It never ceased to amaze Harry that Hermione could do just about anything while reading a book, including walking sure-footedly down the sloping earthen path that wound toward the lake. “The part where she talked about shaming the Muses and hiding behind a Siren got me thinking, so I looked in the section on Greek mythology and found this about the Muses.” She paused to clear her throat, then began to read.

“`Famed in myth as the inspiration of Muggle artists and scientists, the nine Muses were said to be the children of Zeus, king of the Greek pantheon. Each of the sisters presided over a sphere of influence. Calliope, the eldest and leader, was the Muse of Epic Poetry, and thus was the Muse of the great Muggle poet Homer. Her sisters included Clio, the Muse of History and Heroic Poetry; Erato, the Muse of Love Poetry and…’ erm… `Erotica,’” (Hermione again cleared her throat, but Harry thought it best not to laugh at her expression) “`Euterpe, the Muse of Music; Melpomene, the Muse of Tragedy; Polyhymnia, the Muse of Sacred Poetry; Terpsichore, the Muse of Dance and the Dramatic Chorus; Thalia, the Muse of Comedy; and Urania, the Muse of Astronomy and Astrology.’ And then skipping ahead a little, there’s this: `Some of the best-known legends of the Muses involve their rivalry with the Sirens, and the singing contests between them.’”

“So the mermaid on the Hufflepuff portrait door is a Siren?” Harry asked, having not made the connection until that moment.

“Right,” Hermione nodded. “In some of the legends the Sirens were hideous bird-women, but in others they were mermaids. But I haven’t even gotten to the interesting part yet! Listen to this: `While little direct evidence remains from this period in magical history, it has long been held by magical scholars that the Muses were a coven of witches who practiced magic, music, art and science as equal disciplines, effectively blending their arts and sorcery in a fashion yet to be equaled by modern practitioners.’ Don’t you see, Harry? Music and magic were the same thing to them!”

“Well, that explains why Luna might know about them, but…”

“I’m not finished,” she interrupted. “Here’s more: `To seek divine inspiration, a Muggle artist would begin each work with an invocation of the appropriate Muse.’ There’s a sidebar here with the opening lines of Homer’s Odyssey, but I’ll skip that. `If the Muse found the artist worthy, she would bestow a blessing in the form of her faith. The magic of faith is, of course, scarcely understood even to this day, but it is generally accepted to be a power akin to the great Mysteries. The Muses, by all accounts, were unsurpassed in their skills with faith magic, and were able to inspire greatness by bestowing that faith upon those they favoured.’”

Harry nodded, as he was beginning to see what Hermione was driving at. “So you think Luna might have some sort of…” he groped for the word, “affinity with this faith magic?”

“Yyyeeesss,” Hermione said carefully, “but… I think there’s more than that. Listen: `While several pureblood Wizard families claim descent from one or more of the Muses, there is only anecdotal evidence to support their claims. Many believe that such “Muse-touched” descendants exist in both the Wizard and Muggle worlds, exhibiting unusual talents within the spheres of one or more of the Muses.’”

“Alright, then you think Luna’s… `Muse-touched?’” Harry asked.

“No, I think Hufflepuff is,” she answered with an impatient sigh. “We’ve seen their talents with music, but if you look back into the school’s history, Hufflepuff’s strongest subjects are traditionally History of Magic, Astronomy and Divination, all of which are related to the Muses.”

He considered this. Luna had mentioned something about Hufflepuff claiming to consort with the Muses; maybe there was something to that claim after all. “That’s very interesting, Hermione, but it doesn’t explain why we’re on our way to confront Luna.”

Here, Hermione finally stopped and thrust the book into Harry’s arms. “Look here,” she said, turning to the next page and jabbing her finger at the page. “This is an artist’s depiction of Euterpe, the Muse of Music.”

Harry looked closely at the indicated picture. Euterpe was a young woman whose long ashen-blonde hair was strewn with flowers and leaves, and her eyes were as wide and blue as the sea. She smiled dreamily as she played a double-flute, and she danced as she played, her hair swirling about her. The picture was in constant motion, just like a magical photograph.

“Does that look like anyone we know?” Hermione asked.

Euterpe winked at him from the page, and Harry’s jaw dropped. “But – it can’t be her! She’s younger than we are!”

“That’s why I want to talk to her,” Hermione replied, taking back the book and continuing toward the lake. “All the pieces fit. One of Euterpe’s symbols is the flute, and we’ve never seen Luna play anything other than wind instruments. You and Ron and I have been capable of things in her presence that we could never have done without some form of magic. There’s a connection there, and I want to know what it is, whether it’s that she’s a devout follower, or...”

“I still don’t understand why you wanted me to come with you.”

Hermione sighed. “Because she… I just don’t…” There was a pause while she chewed her lower lip in thought. “She knows you better than she knows me. I think she’ll be more likely to give us an answer if we’re both there.”

She said nothing more, and Harry did not press her, as he was still more than a little confused by Hermione’s brief dissertation on Luna’s potential place in mythology.

As they approached the familiar beech tree, Harry became aware of the sound of music coming from beneath its branches. Sure enough, Luna was there, wearing the same straw hat with its cork tassels. She was seated cross-legged on the ground this time rather than in a chair, and she was playing an instrument that looked rather like her clarinet, but made of brass rather than wood. It sounded a lot like a saxophone, but was not curved like one.

Hermione paused for a moment before ducking under the branches of the tree and settling to the ground in front of their Ravenclaw friend. Harry sat beside her, and Luna smiled at the two of them around the mouthpiece of her instrument.

“Hello, Luna,” Hermione said, somewhat hesitantly.

Luna stopped playing and set the instrument aside. “You have something to ask me,” she said as a statement rather than a question.

“How did you know that?” Hermione asked, startled.

“If I had a mirror I’d show you,” Luna smiled. “It’s all over your face.” She then turned to Harry and nodded in greeting, much like the Hufflepuffs had been doing of late.

“We… I do have something to ask you,” Hermione admitted, absently pulling at her fingers. “It’s a bit awkward, but… I really have to know, Luna.”

“Alright,” Luna nodded. “Ask me.”

Rather than come out and ask a question, though, Hermione took another approach. “Two weeks ago, when you played that duet with me in the Room of Requirement, I’d barely touched a piano in years, and yet… with you there, I was able to do it almost perfectly without the sheet music. I thought it might have just been luck, and the fact that I’d just been playing it before you’d arrived, but… then just before the duet at Hufflepuff, you said something to me, and I was able to do it again, days later, without any further practice. Do you remember what you said to me?”

“Of course,” Luna smiled. “I told you that I believe in you.”

“Yes, exactly,” Hermione nodded quickly. “And then Ron… he was so nervous when they were chanting his name, asking him to sing, but then you leaned in and said something to him, and he was able to stand up in front of the crowd and perform for them. I asked him later what you told him, and he said you told him the same thing: that you believed in him.”

“You were doing something worth believing in,” Luna replied. “It would have been silly not to.”

“Yes, but…” Hermione paused again, and Harry was a bit surprised to see that she looked genuinely nervous. “Ever since we saw you out here two weeks ago… things have been happening. Harry, Ron and I have been… inspired… in ways I’ve certainly not felt in years, if ever. And… it all comes back to you, Luna. You’ve been there all along, believing in us. And there’s something I have to know.”

Luna nodded, but said nothing. Hermione held her breath for a moment, then went on. “Luna… are you a Muse?”

At this question, Luna slowly closed her eyes and turned toward the lake, and for a moment Harry was sharply reminded of the fact that she was only fifteen. Her eyes had always made her appear much older than she actually was.

“Are you our Muse?” Hermione asked.

For a long while, only the birds spoke, but finally, a small smile appeared on Luna’s face, and she looked back at them with eyes half-lidded. “Of course I am,” she whispered. “But only because you allowed me to be.”

Hermione looked thunderstruck. “You… you are a Muse?”

“Oh, yes, but no more than you are,” Luna nodded. “You’ll be a fine Muse for someone, I’m sure. In truth, I believe you already are…”

She gave Harry a knowing look as she said this, but before the implications of this could fully set in, there came the sudden sound of drums from fairly close by. A staccato, martial rhythm struck them in a wave of percussive force, rolling through them, past them and over the lake. All three whirled around to find the source of the sound, but saw nothing.

“Where’s it coming from?” Harry asked.

“Back there, toward the castle,” Hermione replied. “What do you think it is?”

The clear and unmistakable sound of bagpipes rose above the drumming, playing the familiar anthem of “Scotland the Brave.” The three exchanged questioning looks for a moment, then as one took off running toward the source of the sound.

On the grassy knoll not far from the castle gates, Hufflepuff House was present in force, some of them drumming, some playing bagpipes, and others carrying tall flags bearing the crest of Hogwarts and the badger of Hufflepuff. They were dressed in traditional Scottish garb, right down to the kilts of yellow and black tartan. Professor Sprout stood in front of the formation, directing them with her wand as though it were a conductor’s baton. The drummers were led by Justin Finch-Fletchley, whose sticks were a blur on the drum slung at his side. Among the pipers Harry recognized Hannah Abbott and Zacharias Smith, and several of the flag-bearers, including Susan Bones and Laura Madley, were in fact engaged in a synchronous dance that looked equal parts traditional and martial.

A crowd had already formed by the time the three of them arrived on the scene, and more were arriving by the moment, flooding from the castle and the grounds alike to investigate this singular occurrence. There were a few confused-looking professors amongst them, but the greater part of the throng was comprised of students, whose expressions ranged from surprise to awe to happy amazement.

Meanwhile, off to one side of the formation of musicians, flag-bearers and flag-dancers, Ernie MacMillan was busily unloading drum after drum from a familiar battered wooden trunk, directing a few first-year Hufflepuffs to begin distributing them to the crowd. Soon Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and even the occasional Slytherin were practically lining up for the chance to receive drums of their own.

At the end of the first anthem, Professor Sprout’s voice rang out over the noise of the crowd. “Those of you who know the songs, by all means, join in! Those of you who do not… by all means, join in anyhow!” That said, Justin led them in with a marching beat, and the dozen drummers and eight bagpipers followed him into another traditional piece whose title Harry could not place.

For most of the length of this next song, Harry, Hermione and Luna stood at a distance, as though not daring to approach. While most of the crowd was still watching, a few had taken to their drums, playing them enthusiastically if inexpertly, while still others were clapping along with the basic beat, and a few were even bouncing on their toes and almost dancing in place.

Hufflepuff had found another way to bring music to Hogwarts after all.

Harry looked over at Luna, whose smile was particularly dreamy at the scene before them, then back at Hermione, whose shock was only matched in her expression by her delight.

“Well,” said Luna with a shrug, “it’s a start.” Then she was off to join the circle, gratefully accepting a hand-drum from Ernie.

More and more of the students were drumming along now, and Harry saw no end of familiar faces: Neville, Seamus, the Creevey brothers, even Cho Chang, looking happier than he’d seen her since before Cedric’s death. Draco Malfoy stood in a crowd of other Slytherins, doing their best to look disdainful and pointedly not participate, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to care. They didn’t get it, and if anything he felt sorry for them because of that. They’d never know what they were missing.

At that moment, Ron broke off from the crowd, spotted the two of them, and waved frantically. “Harry! Hermione! Get over here and get a drum!”

“Shall we?” he asked her, smiling hugely.

“Oh, I believe we shall,” Hermione laughed, grabbing Harry’s hand and pulling him toward the circle.

The End

Author’s Notes: And that’s a wrap. I would be remiss if I did not give thanks at this point to those who’ve been my Muses for this story. First is my wife Rachel, who is my Calliope, first and greatest amongst Muses, and the inspiration for the Epic that is marriage and family. Other Muses, in no particular order, have been Nancy Lorenz, Cy Panache, Prongsphile, Goldy, Maple Mountain, Demosthenes, Carondelet and Anne U (you may all feel free to discuss amongst yourselves which of the other eight you are). Thanks go out as well to all who have read and posted words of appreciation and/or encouragement. This was my first sustained narrative in years, and it felt good to get back to it.

Incidentally, I realize in retrospect I should have used the spelling “bodhran” rather than “bodhram,” this being a story set in Britain and all, but… oh well.

Thanks also to Portkey and fanfiction dot net for providing a place to do this sort of thing.

Traditionally, at the end of every story I give a recommended soundtrack. This time, however, I think that part has been made pretty self-evident… =)

Last, but not least, thanks to JK Rowling for creating such an amazing world. Book Six, here we come!