The streets of Surrey were silent, with only a few passersby around. Everyone seemed to be hurrying home in the dead night with his or her faces pale from the cold atmosphere. Children scurried with their parents through each corner, their naivety showing through the innocent looks on their faces. Ever since the war had subsided, the government seemed stricter to the mass population. It seemed to people as though their freedom was never fully gained upon the war's end. They held the same rules and left no space for democracy.
The curfew bell broke the silence of the night.
All citizens must report to their homes immediately. I repeat, all citizens must report to their homes immediately. Violators of the said curfew will be shot with no restraint by commanding officers stationed around the city.
The sound of the panicked tapping of shoes against the sidewalk started to reverberate around the area. People ran in every direction, their panicked mumbling masked by the faint cries of the children that were pulled on by their parents forcefully. One young man, although, seemed to feel differently than them. He skipped through the sidewalk, all the while whistling a happy tune as his jacket was slung over his shoulders. People stared at him in worry, noticing that his relaxed state did not, in any way, mirror what they were feeling.
Harry Potter was a happy young man.
The dimly lit sidewalk illuminated merely half of his figure. The smile on that played on his face was indeed, impenetrable. His successful performance rang in his head repetitively, moreover did the deafening applause resound in his ears. Yet, that wasn't the reason for his excitement.
It was she.
How he longed to see her lingering image once again, and to hear her sing to his lonesome melodies. That small part of him urged and pleaded for him to find her, and to see her face once more under the pale moonlight.
"Chase the civilian and shoot him! Hurry!" He heard a low, husky voice from behind. With the usual grin on his face, he started to run madly through the streets, which was now severely deserted. With increasing speed, he ran through the corner and jumped through the barbed fence, earning a scratch by his ankle that made him wince. Yet he continued on, the grin now fading, as he ran in sudden panic upon noticing how close they were catching up.
"Stop, or we'll shoot!"
Seeing a small crevice by the end, he snuck through the small-gated fence and hid behind the mass of bricks. Footsteps rushed by, owned by almost a dozen men with armed guns and uniforms. Holding his mouth with his calloused hand, he closed his eyes and prayed deeply that he would have another chance at a great escape. A bullet was finally fired, and it missed the side of the brick wall by inches. Harry shut his eyes tighter, his breath being cut short by his throat. Upon the fade of the footsteps, as well as the commands, he breathed a long sigh as he swiped the perspiration that formed by his forehead.
Then again, it was always like that.
"Harry, you're an arsehole." He whispered to himself, all the while gaining back the grin he used to have. Glancing upon his surroundings, he found a ladder by the side of an abandoned building. Brushing the dust off his shirt, he started to climb it with care. It led him through seven floors, all of which showcasing him with a several windows to several lives.
A drunken father, a prostitute's bedroom, a crying child…
This was not the world he used to know.
Reaching the rooftop, he was then greeted by the cool night breeze, as well as the display of the cosmic heavens. The scene was breathtaking, as well as enchanting to him. He stood by the edge, feeling the calmness and peace he'd been longing for the whole time. The sanctity of everything overwhelmed him to no end. His thoughts drifted onto that single piano that seemed to drive him into his own walls of sanity each time. How he longed to play it each and every minute to ease the pain, and to alleviate the problems that always seemed to find him. It might've been the overwhelming praise given to him, or the applause that aroused the extreme urge inside of him to play.
Or it might've been her presence there that made each moment he'd been experiencing absolutely worth it.
"I can't." he debated with himself. He couldn't possibly grow a fancy towards her, he mused. They both lived different lives, and believed different things. And it was obvious that she, in all her life, would never consider such a man like him.
But then, he couldn't help it.
Had his godfather known about his growing infatuation, he would've then been suffocated by the tightest hug he'd ever had. It saddened him immediately, knowing that he would never get to experience such a thing anymore. Sirius was, to his belief, dead and gone.
He smelled gunpowder circulate through the night, birthing once again the horrid thoughts he had wished to banish from his mind forever.
He was attacked years back, specifically 1946. It was 3:33 in the morning, just as he was reading his nightly novel. The door barged open, and he was instantly greeted by a loud clatter. Soldiers crowded his room, his neck pointed upon by uncountable guns.
"Wrap him up!" Harry was greeted by a temporary blindness as the black bag was secured around his head. His heart pounded wildly beneath his chest, as his hands struggled to free from the ropes that wrapped itself around them.
'Hadn't you taken enough from me, you filthy wrenches!' he thought inwardly. He then pondered on the fact that he could never succumb onto telling them such.
"Where's Black?" He heard an angry growl by his ear, yet his head was still pounded against the floor. He shook his head in honesty. A sharp abrasion was formed by his cheek as his head rubbed against the splinted wood. He groaned in pain.
"I don't know!" How he hoped that he sounded convincing, for his head started to bleed profusely. The novel he was once reading lay wide open on his bed: The Diary of Sirius Black; How he hoped that they were idiotic enough not to notice.
"Lies!" He felt the gun smash against his skull. The pain multiplied, sending shoots of electricity throughout his body. He was helpless, yet he tried to stay conscious.
"Tell us where Black is!"
"I don't know where Sirius is!" He tried screaming, yet it sent an excruciating pain towards his throat, making his voice crack. He felt a kick by his abdomen, one so hard that he felt a bruise form. His head was, once again, scraped against the splinted wood. The raw wound ached severely.
"Lift the Jew! I'll give him what he deserves!" Harry's eyes shot open. The discrimination was irritating, making a boiling anger rise in him. He clenched his fists tight behind him, luckily attracting no attention whatsoever. His body was lifted from the ground violently, the guard's grotesque hands digging into his skin roughly. He was pushed through the stairs, and dragged the moment he tripped. His back was now filled with bruises, all purple and terribly pitiful.
The cold snow burned his skin as he lay there, almost motionless. His nose bled profusely, just as he suffocated from the lack of air. The bag seemed to tighten around his neck, seeping deep into his skin. He was whipped at the back by a leather belt, making him shout momentarily. A mocking laugh was all he heard.
"Tell us, or it's your life boy! Where is Sirius Black?" He saw light. He breathed deeply. The bag lay bloody on the snow, just as his hair was pulled roughly. He was now gazing into a severely scarred face of a man, one that looked so unmerciful and cunning. He laughed at Harry's bleeding figure, and his struggle to stay conscious.
Pure hatred was all Harry felt.
Harry tried to cuss, yet his energy seemed to diminish each second. His face was pushed once more to the ground, his back disrespectfully kicked. There was an uncomfortable silence; One so sudden that it left Harry befuddled. Yet, it was then that it lay broken-
"Kill the useless bastard." The voice was so cold…so putrid that it stung. Harry's eyes shot open. His chest pounded violently, just as he heard the clicking of guns in every direction. Mustering up every ounce of energy amidst his estranged state, he yelled.
"Sirius is dead!" He heard a gunshot, yet surprisingly, he was still breathing. He lifted himself off the ground, only to see rifles pointed upwards. A sigh of relief escaped his lips, and he had never been more thankful.
"What'd you say?"
"He's dead. You're looking for something non-existent." He struggled to stand, yet he fell out of weakness. The soldiers kept silent, their hands dropping to their sides. The man stepped forward and circled Harry, whose spiked boots crushed the snow beneath him. Harry's breathing escalated just as he glanced at the leather belt that entwined in his opponent's hand.
"The job's done, men. Let's leave the Jew alone." They started to evacuate, and Harry took one last glance- one so weak that he didn't see clearly. He read the nametag on the man's uniform.
In assignment: Mackey White
Harry looked through the night and saw a towering white mansion by the east. A smile formed on his face.
"Home sweet home."
--thepianist-
She glanced out her window, hoping to find any trace of inspiration. The morning sun was blinding. Her hand lay suspended in the air, clutching an old paintbrush between her fingers. The canvass was empty and dull that it irritated her. She closed her eyes and tried to find any trace of sound that may inspire her, yet nothing came. Absolutely…
Her mind reminisced on the night before.
It was classical piano music, and it made her smile.
Her eyes shot open in an instant, before her brush made its first strokes onto the canvass. She knew what to paint now, and she felt idiotic for not thinking of it before. Starting off with simple brush strokes, she soon found herself creating a masterpiece. With a smug smile on her face, she paused as she stared onto the portrait. It surprised her on as to how serene and peaceful he looked…
"Who's the young lad?" She turned her head all too fast that she heard her vertebrae crack momentarily. He was leaning against the doorframe, his cane clutched tightly by his wrinkled fingers. Hermione gave a squeal.
"Grandpa!" Her chair creaked against the marble flooring. She hugged the old man tightly, just as he started to chuckle in amusement.
"Well, at least one person's happy to see me." Hermione let go quickly, her face beaming up at him. She led him slowly to the cushioned chair beside hers, placing his cane firmly by her dresser. His scarred, wrinkled face still accentuated his cheekbones, and it was a shock to them that at his old age, his build was still in tact. His white hair was brushed neatly away from his face, and his button down shirt was tucked neatly beneath his black pants. And yes, Hermione resembled him at some point.
"Grandpa, you never warned us that you were coming."
"Warned?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Did I say warned? I meant told." She batted her eyelashes playfully before laughing at her grandfather's amusement. Hermione scooted closer to him, just as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Hermione smiled softly before hugging him back, her head resting by his arms. "How's my little Hermie?"
"Fine, really. Although your little Hermie isn't little anymore." She looked up at him--up at his brown eyes that resembled hers. He smiled down at her.
"I know you're not." He whispered to her. It was a comfortable silence that followed, and all Hermione heard was her grandfather's steady breathing. She glanced down at his veined hands and found scars adorning it everywhere. It troubled her deeply, causing a frown to appear by her features.
"Your grandma warned me about going back here. She says people'll try to kill me and beat me with twigs." He suddenly said. It was a sensitive subject, Hermione concluded, yet they still strived to treat it with as much normality as any other topic.
"No they won't, grandpa." She protested slightly, her head lifting from his arm as she faced him with a pair of furrowed eyebrows. "That was a long time ago. Besides, it's been a peaceful year so far. I hardly think anyone still remembers what happened."
"I sure hope so. Back in Germany, me and your grandma couldn't help but ponder on the mistakes we could've corrected…and the millions of lives we could've saved." His hand fell from her shoulders and onto his cane, where he stood slowly. Hermione remained seated, looking at him with worried eyes. He strode his way to the glass door, completely translucent that he could see the valleys that hid behind it.
"You couldn't prevent what happened, Grandpa. It all happened for a reason, and somehow, we'll just have to accept it."
"I killed a lot of people, Hermione. That's something beyond forgiveness." His eyes said something beyond what he was feeling, and Hermione was left speechless.
"God forgives, Grandpa. Remember that." She turned back to her painting moments later, her brush in her hands. Her grandfather strode back to his cushioned chair, his breathing escalating a little. The sun shone its brightest at that time, just as a single ray passed through the glass windows of Hermione's room. It was then that she noticed his troubled expression once he glanced at the canvass.
"Grandpa, is everything alright?" Yet, she didn't receive a reply. He chose to stare continually at it, blank faced as his cane shook between his withered hands.
"Grandfather? Would you want me to call father-"
"Where did you meet the boy?" His sudden interruption startled her, noticing his voice rise with an inner anger and curiosity. Hermione stared at him with befuddled eyes, confused on what to give as a reply.
"He's no one, Grandpa. He's a mere acquaintance. I just fancied drawing him, that's all." She said in innocence. Yet her grandfather remained still, non-verbal and slightly troubled.
"Where did you meet the lad, Hermione?" His face was now furrowed, and Hermione found that it was the right time to lower the brush from the canvass. His cane shook violently within his fingers, seemingly making the ground shake with it. Hermione's fear rose for a moment.
"The Old Stallion. Father and I were there for Music Night. He was the pianist and-Grandpa!" His cane fell to the floor, almost dramatically, just as his frail body collapsed onto the chair he was once sitting on. His breathing remained quick and unsteady. The paintbrush fell to the floor with a clatter, red paint splattering to the marble flooring. Hermione lifted the old man, yet he resisted, pushing her arm away.
"Grandpa, should I call father?" Hermione's worrisome expression made the guilt rise in his stomach. He picked up his cane and walked through the door, muttering incoherently as his granddaughter stared back at him.
"Tell your father I went somewhere important. I'll be back by dinner."
To her disbelief, she was left hanging, just as her picture lay unfinished. It seemed as though the young man's eyes were missing their signature twinkle due to Hermione's state of confusion and hesitance.
She gave one befuddled sigh before glancing out the window, her inspiration faded and lost. Her painting lost its brilliance, just as she lost her will to continue.
Her breath was suddenly caught short.
She saw a familiar young man with the same unruly black hair and stunning green eyes as of the one in her picture, striding past their walkway. The adrenaline rush in her was unbearable, and she had the sudden urge to call out his name. In his hands lay layers and layers of score sheets, all bound by a single rubber band. There was an extra jump in his step that time, making her smile momentarily.
She heard the loud clutter of her screen door, followed by the sound of her grandfather's cane clumping against the stone steps. He was heading out to the sidewalk, where-meters away, Harry walked upon.
The young man, obviously Harry, turned to look at him. It was then that she saw his piano score sheets fall to the floor. His body seemed rigid now, so rigid that his shoulders seemed higher.
It was then that Hermione found him charging after her innocent grandfather that she forgot to breathe.
--thepianist-
A/N: I'm thrilled to have finished this in one sitting, actually. It was a bit of a struggle to finish this, having known that New Year's Eve fireworks were bound to just surprise me any moment. It's like those nerve-racking, honestly irritating suspense films. 'It's going to explode…now…no…now…no…when in the world is it ever going to-BOOM.' Would probably explain the feeling. So, while I struggled to keep my ears closed, I was able to finish this, which is a real blessing. So anyway, enjoy everyone, and Happy New Year!