The Pianist

mangolee_schnooglesquee

Rating: R
Genres: Romance, Action & Adventure
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 25/12/2007
Last Updated: 25/05/2008
Status: paused

Harry had lost everything in life but his talent for music. With the world still recuperating from the war, Harry tries his luck at a new life. Yet it is beyond his knowledge that this new step in life would not only bring him a love he had longed so long for, but a new enemy his father had left behind for him. [AU, set in the WWII era]

Chapters

1. The Prologue

2. The Accapella

3. The Elegy

4. The Cadence

5. The Ritardando

6. The Prelude to Bloodshed

7. The Dance of the Demon

8. The Silenced

9. II: Precaution

10. The winding asphalt

11. The Paranoia

12. The Raging Fire

13. The Unexpected

1. The Prologue

It was the spring of 1942.

It wasn't like any other spring at all. No one dared to blame the weather, for all they really saw these days were black clouds hovering above the sky. The humidity rose greatly, and the air seemed to stick to their skin tightly. The soil was dyed a deep color of jet-black, and only those dense enough would think that it was all normal.

Everyone was aware that the war wasn't over. Yes, it may have subsided, but it wasn't done. Up to now, children clung on tightly to their mothers’ waists, calling out for their fathers who, beyond their knowledge, have died whilst fighting for their freedom. The orphans still continued to line the streets with their battered bodies, hands outstretched to rushing passersby and begging for a little bit of sympathy. There, in the far distance, remained loud explosions that echoed through the whole nation, causing the ground to vibrate endlessly. Outlines of bodies that formed onto the soil were disregarded, paid little or no respect at all. Citizens were still very meticulous with their actions, just as government decrees adorned each post and each corner of their setting. They knew of the dire consequences given to those who do not wish to follow.

Rationality and Equality did not exist, and never will.

1940, though, had robbed them most of every reason to live. They suffered upon watching families brutally murdered, and cities massacred in the pique of violence. Harry Potter, at the age of 17, succumbed upon watching the bullet come in contact with his parents’ heads.

“Harry, would you give me a hand?” Harry sat by the windowsill and forced himself to look at the barbed fence that served as a view for him. 2 years have past, and the same resounding scream from his parents’ lips haunted him up to now. Now, he feared that he would loose someone else so entirely close to him. Why had the earth been so unkind to its inhabitants, he asked himself over and over again. Yet, he knew that they were to blame. Him and his own kind were to be directed with hatred and anger. They deserve to be led into execution.

He glanced behind him and found his godfather peaking against the small crease of the door. He returned a small smile, one that was small and lasting.

“Of course.” He replied. Sirius gave him one nod. Just a single one, and Harry knew perfectly well that he was thinking the same thing. Strapping the supporters to his shoulders, he walked silently by his godfather’s side, their silence as a means of communication. He stared onto his godfather’s frail body, so similar to his. He feared that he wouldn’t make it, that he would be left alone once again.

To himself.

To no one.

Sirius looked back and found his deep expression. Stopping midway to wait, he wrapped his arm around Harry’s shoulders and smiled. His eyes looked into his godson’s emerald ones, and tried to share his optimism. Harry refused to take it.

“Everything’s going to be fine, sonny. I’ll be back for dinner the next day.” Harry tried his best to believe him, although he knew that the effort would be deemed useless in the end. They walked slowly down the narrow staircase, Sirius having a smile plastered on his delicate face. Harry then feared that it would be the last he’d ever see from his godfather.

He grasped the knob of the old oak door gently, feeling the dust entwine through his fingers. With a soft push, another cloud of dust-greater than anything he has ever seen, met them both. They covered their noses in defense, Harry feeling himself itch in irritation. He felt Sirius brush past him and into the darkened room. Amidst its darkness, Harry sensed the clutter around him.

“Open the light, my boy. It’s a bit dark in here.” Said Sirius, who seemed to have gotten to the far end of the room. Harry groped for that single string and pulled it down, and in an instant came brightness. Cobwebs brushed past the tapestries, with spiders crawling through the faded boxes. He felt the floor creak below his leather shoes, and he felt the sweat dripping from the side of his cap. Sirius was farther into the room, seemingly struggling against old pieces of furniture, moving them one by one. The floor beneath them vibrated endlessly.

“Uncle, what are you doing?” said Harry, who was now approaching in caution.

“What do you think I’m doing, sonny? Come on and help an old man, will you?” replied Sirius. He was now moving a dresser twice his size. Harry pushed beside him, and soon enough, the dresser remained stationary by the crevice. Sirius was now panting, his curly hair dripping with sweat. Harry felt himself worry again.

“Okay…push that sofa for me, will you sonny? I’ll be by the boxes.” Sirius walked slowly away, and Harry could still hear his heavy breathing. If he were to have a say on all of this, he would not permit him to go in that condition. He would not risk loosing the only person he had in the world. Not ever. He had lost too much.

That familiar hollow feeling by his chest rose, and he chose to ignore it. Pulling both his sleeves up to his elbows, he amassed every piece of furniture and pushed it to the side. By the time everything was done, he was nearly lying on the floor with his skin glistening in perspiration and his chest heaving. He then closed his eyes and drifted temporarily into nothingness.

He wished everything were that peaceful. It was said that certain people find peace amidst darkness: he took that phrase quite literally, yet it was true. The worry was evident inside of him. The world had been so unfair to him during the entirety of his existence. He’d done nothing but wait and hope for something good to happen for once in his life. His ill point of view on the world had taken over him. He’s been living in a land of corruption, and he had accepted his fate a long long time ago.

Hesitantly, with one more relaxing sigh, he fluttered his eyes open. He’d expected to be greeted with a multitude more of fading boxes, yet he was greeted with something else.

A door.

It seemed so clean, with its pristine white color and its golden design. Not a single speckle of dust adorned it, and it piqued Harry’s curiosity. In all the places, he pondered on as to why an elegantly carved door would be found in the most unlikely (and certainly most unusual) place in the house. He paced towards it slowly, feeling his cap tighten around his head. He gripped the long spiral handles, whose material seemed slightly faded, and pushed it open slightly. The door slowly opened, and Harry heard the creaking of its hinges reverberate in the dark room. With one breath, he took a step forward.

The wood no longer creaked, nor squeaked, nor moved at all.

He felt the carpet massage the soles of his shoes as he groped for any light switch, curious on what the contents of the room may be. Finally finding that familiar chain, he pulled it down.

His breath may have been cut short at that moment.

The room’s walls were a translucent white, contradicting the red velvet carpets that masked the marble flooring. Score sheets crumpled beneath his feet, showing notes so complex and far beyond his own understanding. It was an odd feeling that ran through him at that very moment. He paced the room silently, running his hands over the white walls that squared the room. It stunned him and made him feel heavenly, surrounded by this bountiful amount of brightness. He'd never dreamt of seeing something so calming, having his mind set on the illusion of gunfire and ash. He took one deep breath and imagined smelling something floral, something that appealed to his own senses.

It was then that he halted and stared at it.

It may have looked ordinary. With it's worn out keys and it's webbed exterior, one may think of it as pure rubbish, yet he found it fascinating. Each note, from it's letter C to it's letter G seemed out of tune, and each black sharp rang noisily through the room, leaving echoes beneath the wooden creaks on the floor. The once glassy, black exterior shone brighter than it had in the dark.

Basking in it's past grandeur and elegance, it now lay still.

A Grand Piano.

Harry found himself approaching it, a particular need to play arising inside of him. He ran his hand smoothly through the top, feeling its dustless surface. The chair lay cushioned and comfortable for him as he sat down, and the eagerness was now evident. He played a key…and another…

Fa...So...La...

He quietly played, having the tune reverberate through the crowded space. A few more keys were pounded on, letting out little melodic nothings that circulated in the air. Harry smiled inwardly, now placing his two hands on each known key. He was starting to play a tune unfamiliar to him, somewhat involuntary that it surprised him. The notes rang in harmony around the room, making Harry smile inwardly. He felt an unknown pleasure seep through him, mocking the odd feeling he had felt moments ago. He then went an octave higher, making him smile wildly in reply. The room was filled with notes that played itself, a jive that Harry had never even heard of before.

Soon enough, he found himself dancing on his seat, his feet swinging and his body swaying. His hands moved rapidly through each key, going an octave higher and lower in less than half a second. It tantalized him in a sense, something indescribable that even he thought about it. Was it the way the melodies stuck together, its rhythm pleasing him? Was it the way it reminded him of grace, somewhat like a woman? Then again, he was too young to ponder on that.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” An unpleasing pounding of keys, and Harry swiftly tuned around. The chair fell behind him with a resounding clatter. Sirius was leaning against the doorframe, his hands folded squarely by his chest.

“Uncle! I’m terribly sorry! Was I disturbing or anything? Are they here to capture us?” He stared back at his godfather’s quirked eyebrow, making him frown defensively. He had shown fear, and all Sirius was doing was making him feel embarrassment.

“Oh sonny, not at all! We're completely safe. Actually, I would’ve preferred it if you went on. It was just lovely.” Said Sirius in reply.

Harry shook his head in rejection and replied, “I’d rather not, Uncle. In honesty, I didn't even know what I was playing.” Sirius sniggered slightly, hands in his pockets as he approached his godson slowly.

“Sonny, it’s not a crime to play a piano.”

“Uncle, please. I know I risked our lives when I started to play loudly. The men might take hold of where we’re hiding and capture us.” Harry attempted to leave the room, yet his godfather stopped him before he could go anywhere else.

“Then let them capture us.” Was all he said. Harry stared at him in disbelief. He suddenly felt disappointment and anger.

“Uncle, that’s rubbish--”

“I would not let a colony of pathetic megalomaniacs stop my godson from doing what he’s passionate about.” The irritation was now evident in his voice. Harry looked up slowly, trying his best to convey his hesitance through his eyes. Sirius noticed such and said,

“Sonny, I may not be your parent, but I still know what’s best for you. Now, I say that you should continue playing. Your father would have wanted you to. He did give that to you.”

“It was a one time deal, Uncle. I couldn’t repeat what I just played, I’ve told you!”

“People have had their own share of one-time deals, sonny. Some of them were fortunate enough to have those ‘ones’ turn into ‘forevers’.” There was silence, and Harry looked at him questioningly. He, in full honesty, didn’t know whether to smile or frown at the vague statement. Sirius knew that he’d tell him someday…yet, that particular day wasn’t the day.

“You’ll understand in time, sonny.” He gave his godson a small wink. Harry tried to return the enthusiasm, but he was cut short upon Sirius checking his wristwatch. Harry knew it was time, and he couldn’t help but fear the worst.

6:33pm.

Their door upstairs opened in a loud bang, and Harry’s heart seemed to have skipped in fear. He looked at Sirius, who seemed to have feeling quite the opposite. He looked calm and serene. With one last look at his godson, he gave a small nod.

“Uncle, don’t go to that war!” Harry fought the tears that tried to sting his eyes. Sirius Black! Where are you? Come out! It’s time! He heard from beyond the creaking ceiling. Sirius took Harry’s cap from his head and put it on his own, before running his hand through his godson’s jet-black hair. His tears started to flow down his cheeks, and Harry tried his best not to do the same.

“You’re a brave man, Harry James Potter. I have faith that you can get through all of this alone.” Harry shook his head in contradiction, the tears now flowing to his cheeks. He hugged his godfather, trying to convince him to stay, yet he could tell that Sirius was firm with his decision.

“No, Uncle! You’re not leaving me here!”

“Harry, I must serve this country. I’m doing this for you, sonny! This is all for you!” He released slightly and held Harry by his shoulders. “Someday, fate will bring you someone who will truly care for you and love you just as your parents and I did.”

“No! You’re lying! I’ll be left alone! I don’t want to be alone, uncle! I don’t…” He let go with haste, giving Harry one simple nod of assurance.

“Happy Birthday, Harry.” Harry clutched onto his sleeve tightly, yet Sirius gave one look and walked away. Harry did nothing more but let go. He knew it was all a lie.

Glancing back at the piano, he sat down idly and stared onto the name carved by its sheet stand.

Jane.

At that very moment, he knew that there was nothing left to do but play music through his whole journey in the unknowing world. He knew that it was all he had left, and he very well knew it was the last thing he would treasure in his life. It was a mission, as well as a promise to both his parents and his uncle.

Just him and that particular piano, beating the chaos and entrancing the world with their beautiful music.

Yet, it was beyond his knowledge on what lies ahead.

--thepianist—

A/N: The prologue is finally finished. For those who still need their facts straightened, this (quite obviously) is an AU fic. No magic. I repeat, NO MAGIC. I’m basing this on historical events. Yes, they wear clothes from the 1940’s, all up to the 1950’s. This is not entirely based on the movie The Pianist. My plot is quite different from the movie’s. Harry’s 19 here, by the way.

I guess that’s it. Happy Holidays to everyone! ^-^v

2. The Accapella

1948

He glanced up at the repetitive blinking of the bar’s sign: ‘The Old Stallion’. The night shone its brightest, just as the stars started to twinkle above him. His 23 Year old self had not completely taken in what he was about to do. He was starting to doubt himself and his own talents, which seemed to be fading with each breath of nervousness he took. His body trembled slightly, and he knew that the cold weather was not to blame. The fear of disappointment started to haunt him again, and the image of his godfather started to whisper to him.

Make me proud, Harry.

Sirius didn’t come for dinner the next night, and it was clear that the promise was broken long before that. The events that followed were all a blur to Harry. The hysteria he passed through would’ve alarmed everyone around him. Yet, he pondered on the latter statement and realized that there was nobody left to actually care.

“I can do this.”

His Norfolk jacket hung loosely against his shoulders, and his bowler hat was tightly placed above his head. He suddenly felt insecure, and most certainly nervous. The perspiration was thick on his forehead, and he chose to wipe it away with his handkerchief. With his hands nervously placed in his pockets, he marched through the oak doors in one breath.

He was instantly greeted by the loud cacophony of people talking from each side of the room. The bar was half full, all lined with gentlemen who seemed to sag down the table from their drunken state. Waitresses, all in uniforms completely alike, snaked through the crowd with their trays of alcoholic beverages and appetizers. The odor that emanated from each side mocked those of vinegar and strong perfume, making Harry wince in distaste.

He continued to walk through the crowd, all the while staring at the stage by the far end. His knees were shaking beneath him, and he was most certain that the perspiration he had irritably wiped away a few moments ago formed once again. The fear of rejection overpowered his confidence once again, and he had the sudden urge to walk out the door quickly. Yet, all his plans were disrupted upon seeing his very piano: Jane, which was standing idly in the middle of the stage. He suddenly felt his fingers turn eager and restive, just as his head suddenly turned light.

The fliers given out to him (one that said Open Night: Musical Extravaganza at the Old Stallion) seemed to have made the whole task look so easy.

“Harry Potter?” sounded a voice. He gave a small jump before turning to see Gregory Lockhart approaching him, dressed in his infamous top hat and waistcoat.

“Mr. Lockhart! It’s wonderful to finally meet you.” He held out a polite hand, which was shaken in turn with an unsuspected glee. Mr. Gregory Lockhart held a smile, one so cheeky and wide that it haunted Harry inwardly. His cheeks were nearly red, his previous plump face thinned over the past year. Harry also noticed that beneath his top hat laid his receding blond hair.

“Oh, bullocks. It’s wonderful to finally meet you. So, are those fingers ready to play?” said Lockhart in delight. Harry tried to smile back and diminish all traces of nervousness.

“Not quite. Would it be all right if I ask for a bit of preparatory time?” he pleaded. Lockhart’s quick answer surprised Harry at some point.

“Take your time, boy! There’s no rush. An eager audience is a happy audience, as I always say. ” In honesty, Harry didn't quite know what Lockhart meant, yet he assumed it was non-important. With a farewell, Harry made his way through the velvet curtains and into the backstage.

Now, it is expected to have a backstage flooded with busy crew members and performers, running to and fro from stage left to stage right in a frantic motion. But what Harry saw contradicted just that.

It was silent. Not a single trace of chaos was seen. All there was was a webbed ceiling adorned with unused lights and props, as well as a set of chairs lined by the far windows. For a moment, Harry wondered if he went through the right curtains.

“You’re the pianist, am I right?” Harry’s steps were halted upon as he looked back and saw a man staring back at him, wearing a braced smile and holding a cello by his palms. His hair was the lightest shade of brown Harry had ever seen, cut just by the nape of his neck, yet long enough to touch a minuscule part of his shoulders. Harry had also noticed a scar just by his left cheek, and his receding hairline that was almost just as similar as Lockhart’s. He was wearing a morning coat with a waistcoat underneath, adorned with the chain of an oval locket that hung from his breast pocket.

“Yes I am, sir.” He replied, quite unsure of what he was doing, and what the stranger’s intentions were. In Harry’s point of view, the man seemed humble enough by appearance. Yet, he couldn’t shake off the feeling of doubt and the disquieting thoughts that started to ring in his head.

“I'm sorry if this may come out rude to you but, who are you?” Harry asked. The man smiled back politely, once again showing his braced teeth, and replied,

“Oh, my manners. I'm Richard. Richard Granger. You may call me Richard if you want.” Harry shook his outstretched hand, nodding as he returned the smile given to him.

“I'm Harry Potter. It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise. So anyway, what brings you here, Harry? This is such an unlikely place for a young boy like you.” Richard motioned for them to sit by the crevice, where 5 chairs lined the dusty walls. Harry agreed and followed him, both of them taking a seat quietly.

“Well, I honestly don't know.” Richard gave him a look of sheer amusement. Harry grinned in embarrassment, all the while scratching the nape of his neck.

“You don't know?” He asked.

“Hey! Well sir, I’d like to tell you that it’s not really the easiest of all questions. If I asked you the same thing, would you bless me with a proper answer?” Richard’s small chuckles subsided, yet his smile did not. Harry eagerly waited for an answer, yet he didn't get one. Instead, he saw Richard struggle in his seat. It was then that a bow lay present within his palms, and soon enough Harry found himself listening to a Cello Sonata. It was soft and nothing less than the most melodic thing he had ever heard. He saw Richard’s hands change from note to note, moving up and down the cello’s neck. Harry watched in awe, as well as in silence, utterly speechless and dumbfounded.

With a few more resounding notes, Richard reached the finale. The last note lay suspended in the air, and Harry couldn’t help but beam and show all traces of his bottled interest. Richard, who noticed the young man’s ecstatic expression, smiled and gave one bow.

“That was amazing.” Exclaimed Harry, who was now clapping his hands in enthusiasm. Richard nodded back at him in thanks, a grin playing on his face.

“That is why I’m here, Mr. Potter.” He stated. Harry’s clapping fell silent as he lay still on his seat, a spark of admiration forming in his eyes.

“Father, look at this!” Four-year-old Harry Potter clasped the butterfly firmly within his palms as he ran excitedly through the front yard and into the living room, where Lily lay snuggled within James’ arms on the couch. A small smile formed on his father’s face as Harry hopped on his lap, the butterfly then fluttering away and landing on Lily’s nose. In an instant, her figure jumped off the couch in panic.

“James! Get it away! Get it away!” Lily stood, frantic as she closed her eyes tight and waved her arms by her sides. Harry’s laugh resounded around the four walls of the room, his hands clapping in front of him.

“This is not funny, James! Get it away from me, I may go blind forever!”

“Oh relax, honey. It’s a mere butterfly.”

“Exactly! You know how I hate these things!” She exclaimed. James stared at her in amusement, his hands folding across his chest.

“Do it yourself, honey. Come on. You’ll have to get over the phobia somehow.”

“I refuse to touch it! The last time I touched a butterfly was when I had to get it out my knickers because that rudy Bellatrix from the movement thought it would make a funny joke!” Harry was laughing hysterically beside James, his hands resting firmly by his aching stomach. James glanced at his son for a moment, his grin widening.

“You see? Your son thinks it’s funny.”

“James!” the shrillness in her voice surprised James for a moment, before he rolled his eyes on her and turned to his son.

“Harry, why don't you go help your mother?” He nudged at him, who nodded and stood up immediately. Lily bent down to the height of her son, who cupped his hands over her nose and grasped the butterfly tightly. Lily let out a deep sigh of relief, before jerking her head towards James in a swift motion, wearing a deathly glare on her face.

“Oh, you are oh so definitely going to hear from me, James Potter!” She muttered in a dangerously low voice, before walking out with her hands clenched tightly into fists by her side. Harry looked worried for a moment, his eyes glistening with tears and his cheeks turning a faint color of red. James approached him quickly, sniggering all the while.

“Father! Mummy’s mad at me!”

“No she’s not. She’s just playing with us. Now, what was it you were going to show me?” He ran his thumb through the nervous tears that fell on Harry’s cheeks. With a sniff, Harry opened his hands and revealed the same baby butterfly, whose wings seemed slightly disfigured, but still colorful enough to entrance them.

“I was going to give it to you as a present, but mummy broke his wings!” He cried, more sniffs emitting from his nose. James got the butterfly from his son’s grasp and put it on his own, smiling as he bent down to Harry’s height, his other hand running through his son’s hair.

“It’s a beautiful present Harry. Thank you.”

“But, it’s broken!”

“Harry, it’s a baby butterfly. It still has time to grow and fix itself.”

“But what if it dies?”

”Then, I’m sure the butterfly would’ve had the satisfaction of knowing that he started out as something beautiful—just like you and me.” Harry’s tears stopped flowing, his small cheeks red, as well as his nose, which was also swollen.

“You’re not going to die soon, are you father?” Harry asked in worry. He noticed James’ smile falter slightly as he replied,

“No son. I wont.”

They heard a resounding applause from the audience beyond the velvet curtains, marking the end of the previous performance. In an instant, a man peaked through the tapestry and called on Harry.

“Hey Potter! You’re up in 5.” He said before disappearing once again. Richard looked at him, who seemed to have noticed that he was wiping the perspiration off his forehead.

“My dear boy, there’s nothing to be worried about.” He touched Harry’s shoulders in assurance, yet he continued to tremble. Harry tried to give a smile, but it was masked with an expression of restiveness.

“It’s just my first time to perform in front of a crowd, that’s all.” He replied quite shakily. Richard squeezed Harry’s shoulders tighter.

“Now listen here, boy. The crowd doesn’t matter. It’s the music. It’s the rhythm, the melody, and the harmony. It’s just you and that piano out there, no one else.” Harry shut his eyes tight, his hands shaking in his pockets. He took deep, long breaths and struggled to find any trace of inspiration. It was him and his piano…music was all there is… “If you’re scared on doing something you love, then you shouldn’t be doing it at all, Sonny.”

“I’m not scared.” His voice stung with determination, yet Richard saw the evident fear in it. It was then that he saw Harry’s emerald eyes that he was reminded of himself when he was young: someone so clueless and afraid.

“I know how it feels like Harry, but sometimes you’ve just got to face the music.” As if an epiphany, at that very moment Harry knew what he was supposed to do.. Face the music. It rang in his head repetitively, and it was the only thing he would live upon. His whole mission in life was summed up in that single phrase, a phrase that supplied him the greatest amount of inspiration he has ever received.

Face the music.

Everything starts off as something beautiful.

He looked up at the man and smiled, knowing that Richard had seen the amount of gratefulness in his own eyes.

And now put your hands together for the newbie, the jive-arsed son of a gun himself: Harry Potter!

“Thank you.” A series of applauses were heard outside, and Harry knew that it was time. With one encouraging look from Richard, he stepped through the velvet curtains to be greeted by blinding flashes of light, and a multitude of curious eyes staring at him. The applause faded, and in a surprising instance, the whole setting was silent. Harry took a gulp, sitting down on the cushioned chair afterwards.

“Come on Jane. We can do this.” His whisper was barely even heard by himself. With both his hands on the keys, he closed his eyes; He heard a few murmurs from the room as he did so, some of them skeptical and negative. With one nerved smirk, he started to play.

What he did next was a shock to him.

His hands transitioned swiftly from key to key, and he found himself playing a fast-temped tune. His left hand was playing with extremity, while his right started to wander from octave to octave, just as his perspiration flowed through the nape of his neck. He felt his fingers pound on each key, and he couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction. He opened his eyes, only to be surprised to see his fingers move in such a quick motion that he merely saw outlines of blurred skin. “Bloody hell” he whispered to himself.

“Oh goodness me, it’s the BNB!”

“The Blue note boogie?”

“Unbelievable.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” From a far distance, he saw Lockhart jumping with extraordinary glee that his plump cheeks bounced with him. Soon enough, he heard saxophones and other aerophones accompany him in his musical performance. He looked over his shoulder, only to see Richard Granger plucking his cello to the beat. Overwhelmed with happiness, he continued to play violently, his fingers aching with a pleasure so surreal to him. Just as quick, the crowd started to stand and make their way towards the dance floor. Petticoats started to swing, just as hair started swaying, and heels started tapping against the floor. Everyone was dancing to his music, and it delighted him to no end. His feet started to tap as well, and he looked back once again to see Richard smiling delightfully back at him.

“More! More!” The audience shouted at him, and he smiled wildly in reply. He transitioned to a different tune, the bar now echoing with his own music. He looked once again to the audience, a grin plastered on his face.

Through the blur of dancing colors, he saw her.

Suddenly, everything went slow. It was she, with her auburn dread locks and her stunning cinnamon eyes. He continued to stare at her slow laughing figure, her facial expression showing enjoyment towards his music. She seemed so temptingly radiant in his eyes, and music ceased to nothingness. It was only her and her image that would stay implanted in his mind forever.

He blinked back into reality and found himself continuously playing, people never ceasing to dance around him. He glanced back and saw her retreat through the velvet curtains he once entered. He felt a surge of excitement, something that he couldn’t control. With a few more measures of quick playing, he ended it with the repetitive playing of two notes, making everybody stop and clap deafeningly at him. He stood up shakily, still at awe at what he had just done, and bowed with his hat by his chest. A more deafening applause resounded, now including the men with the formal overcoats just by the back of the bar. He smiled back gratefully, his chest pounding with incredible force and his fingers aching in excruciating pain. The spotlight shone its brightest at that moment, and all attention was directed to him. He took one more bow, greeted once again with a deafening applause, before retreating through the velvet curtains, all the while with an overwhelming excitement.

And there she was, sitting neatly on the chair Richard once sat on.

He felt his throat constrict, and he suddenly felt the restiveness he used to feel minutes ago. His collar seemed to tighten around his neck, and the temperature seemed to rise by 5 degrees. Noticing his presence, she glanced up and smiled instantly. That particular smile, for some odd reason, made his heart palpitate.

“Mr. Blue Note Boogie. You played up quite a storm out there.” She stood up slowly, straightening her pink poodle skirt. He approached her slowly, unsure of how to react. “You do know that The Blue Note Boogie is one of the hardest piano pieces to play?” The way her eyes fluttered unintentionally made him feel extremely light-headed. She took one more step towards him and stretched a hand in front of her.

“I’m Hermione.” The way her hand was gracefully suspended in air awed him. He took her soft hands into his and shook it lightly. The way her piercing eyes looked into his was tempting, and she was shocked as well to see such bright emerald ones staring back at hers. It was then that they noticed that their hand holding lingered.

“I’m Harry.” He mustered to say. Their hands released, to his surprise, quite reluctantly. She took a step closer, and it was only now that he noticed the strong smell of sweet vanilla that emanated from her skin.

“I’m assuming that your middle name isn’t Jane?” She said in amusement. Harry chuckled slightly, his head shaking in decline. “Oh, good. I wouldn’t want to share a middle name with a man.” Hermione added, who was now giggling. This statement piqued Harry’s curiosity,

“Hermione Jane?”

“Why, yes. Is there a problem?” she inquired with a single eyebrow raised.

“Oh, nothing of course. It’s just…interesting. That’s pretty much all.” It was an awkward silence that came next. He glanced back at her, suddenly feeling an odd need to, only to see that she was nibbling on her bottom lip repetitively. Somehow, he found it quite adorable.

He scolded himself of thinking such after.

“So Harry, are your parents here? I mean, they must be thrilled to see you like this!” Her enthusiasm was cut short upon seeing Harry’s face drop to a blank expression. She furrowed her eyebrows for a second, diffident on what she has done. “Did I say anything wrong?”

“They aren’t here. They were killed during the war.” Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth in shock.

“Oh dear. I’m so sorry, How insensitive of me. I didn't mean to-“

“It’s all well, Hermione. They’re long gone, and I guess I could say that I’ve learned how to live with it.”said Harry. Hermione’s delicate smile was his to keep as a reply. It was soon that he noticed her hand gripping his arm softly.

“I admire you, Harry Potter. Not so many of us are as brave as you are.” She said in a subdued tone, almost mocking a whisper. It was so gentle and calm that it nearly lulled Harry to close his eyes. She gave his arm one lingering squeeze before letting go, and in an instant he once again felt incomplete. He walked towards the velvet ropes and peaked through the small crease. The bar was about to close, and absolutely no people were left, the staff as an exception. All that was left was his piano.

“Hermione?” It was an indivisible force that led him into what he was going to do.

“Yes?” She asked. There was a long pause in between as he struggled to find the right words to say to her. It was then that he knew just what to say.

“May I play you a song?” he felt the anxiousness rise in him once again. She quirked an eyebrow, which was then accompanied by a skeptical smirk.

“Yes, you may. But don’t even try and make me sing. I’m practically tone deaf.” She said humorously. Harry emitted a deep chuckle.

“Don’t worry. I won’t.” He led her through the curtains and into the dim lit stage, where his piano lay idle and unmoving. He felt her arm grip his gingerly as they walked through the creaking stage, and he suddenly felt the nervousness surface once again. She leaned slowly against the side of the baby grand, her back slightly arched that it distracted Harry severely. Sitting down with one deep breath, he placed his foot against the una corda and started to play. His left hand played softly against the lower octaves, while his right hand drifted against the higher ones. After a few measures, he cast a quick glance at Hermione, who had an undecipherable expression on her face.

A soft melodic voice rang in his ears.

His head quickly turned, and he soon found her singing, her compelling eyes completely closed as a smile formed on her face. She was evidently lying about her being tone deaf, for she had the most angelic voice he had ever heard. It seemed to tranquilize him, just as his hands started to drift from one key to another. She was swaying her head back and forth, her arms swinging against the glassy exterior. It was then that he felt the need to play some more.

“I still remembered how you smiled and said: ‘was that a dream…or was it true?’”

He gave another drift from key to key. She neared the end of the song, and he gave his final keys before entering the finale. He stepped onto the sostenuto and the damper for one final time—

“And like an echo far away…”

His hands moves gracefully against the keys, not noticing her intent stare on him and his fingers.

“A nightingale sang in Berkeley square.” Oh, how delightful it was to him to have finished, for his chest pounded quite loudly that he felt lacerations forming. She gave him one dazed smile before standing straight, tucking a loose curl to the back of her ear. He stood slowly, a certain eagerness for what her reaction may be. She was standing with her hands clasped by her waist, her smile still plastered on tightly.

“You’re quite a charmer, Harry.” He tried to restrain the blush that threatened to creep up his cheeks. She was now walking down the stairs, and Harry hesitated upon running after her and letting her stay.

“Well, you’re quite the liar. Tone deaf? That was far beyond tone deaf. That was simply…simply—“

“No room for flattery here, Harry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to start practicing my violin. I wouldn’t let you take all the musical glory now, would I?” And before Harry could give his statement her untold musical talent, she spoke again.

“Someday, somehow, we’ll be making beautiful music together.”

Her smile was the last he saw before her image drifted into the darkness. If fate were kind to him, he would see her again.

Someday. Somehow.

--thepianist—

A/N: I'm actually glad I was able to finish re-editing this by this week. It would have taken me forever if I’d done it sooner. Just a few facts: The first song Harry would be performing is called The Blue Note Boogie, which was performed in the movie The Majestic. The second would have to be A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square, performed by Rod Stewart. I’ve nothing else to remind all of you so, enjoy and Advanced Happy New Year to everyone! :]

3. The Elegy

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!

4. The Cadence

Hours before

He was at the pique of his momentum. The living room was filled with the sound of continuously ringing notes, all echoing and reverberating around its thick walls. The perspiration started to form on Harry’s head, yet he kept on going. The song he was playing was dreamt of, actually. It all seemed to be a mere offspring of his imagination.

But it was beautiful, if he did say so himself.

Upon reaching the end, he smiled and gave a deep sigh as the last note resounded in his ears. He grinned in contentment, wiping the sweat that formed by his forehead with a clean white handkerchief. He sat there, in the middle of the darkness, smiling to himself with the satisfaction of knowing that he had just produced some very entrancing music. With the unbelievably surprising thought instilled inside his head, he stood up softly and retreated to bed.

The sun was going to rise soon.

Yet, he was halted suddenly by the sound of the phone ringing. Furrowing his eyebrows in curiosity, he walked briskly towards the crevice and held the receiver.

“Hello?” His voice was already husky from the cold atmosphere, as well as dry from the lack of water for the past hours.

“Mr. Potter! You don't know how glad I am to find that you’re awake at this time of day!” He recognized the over-enthusiastic voice within a split second.

“Mr. Lockhart? What brings you to call at this time?” Harry’s eyes held a questioning look behind his wide-rimmed glasses. He heard Lockhart chuckle by the other end of the line.

“Well, funny you should ask. I was trotting along the old streets of surrey when I stumbled upon a man, which I assume you’ll find very useful in your future.”

“My future?” Harry couldn’t stress this enough. The curiosity was immense inside of him, and he couldn’t help but fidget with eagerness.

“Yes, Harry. Yours. Now, let me finish. He was asking for the score sheets from the previous night’s performance. I’m assuming you have them?”

“I’m sorry sir. I didn't have any score sheets with me when I performed.” Harry replied questioningly, recalling the performance perfectly in his head. The music just seemed to have been played by heart, he thought.

“That’s nonsense. You must’ve had some notes to practice on, didn't you?”

“I’m sorry sir. Honestly, It was all played by heart and memorization. Nothing more.” He could hear Lockhart grunt in irritation by the other line.

“Well, find some, boy! This is for your future, and not to mention, your career. Without those, I guess you’ll be getting neither of that.” He was nearly shouting, sending loud decibels to echo inside Harry’s ear. Harry moved the receiver away from his ear for a second’s time to avoid any more discomfort.

“Then where do you suppose I find some?” Harry replied forcefully.

“Figure it out, Sonny! You should know! Your father used to—“ Lockhart halted suddenly. Upon hearing the mention of his father’s name, Harry’s ears perked up.

“My father? You know my father?” he asked. Lockhart kept silent for a moment’s time before answering,

“Ugh…well…Anyway Harry, bring the sheets over to the house of Richard Granger over at Northanger 24.” The name rang in his ears, and the familiarity started to seep in. The aging, humble cello-player backstage, he remembered. Yet, those facts seemed infinitesimal to him, due to the subject of his father that Lockhart had seemingly brought up.

“Gregory, you know my father?”

“Well—“

“You know my father? Where? You were able to talk to him? You were able to—“

“Good Day, Harry. I’ve lots to do. Good bye.” The receiver on the other end hung up, and a constant beeping filled Harry’s ears. Harry stared at the phone for a minute’s time, furrowing his eyebrows in curiosity and frustration. Gregory Lockhart knew his father? With that thought locked in his head, he heaved a deep sigh of irritancy before heading off to find the score sheets, which were inexistent in the first place.

It was a going to be a good day.

--thepianist—

Yes, Harry Potter was a frustrated young lad.

The score sheets lay bundled within his arms, banded and fading. It had taken him hours to ransack the whole house and look for them. His panic grew just before he found them, ironically, under his bed. It was a comedic moment no one should’ve missed. The events after, including the frustrated screams, were indescribable. It also came as a shock to him, knowing that these existed after all. The thought of Lockhart’s connection with his father continued to trouble him, though. Had history repeated itself? Was he the next performer of the piece he had played at The Old Stallion? Had his father performed the same thing years back?

His childhood was a blur to him. It was as if the war had not only wiped out their land, but their memory as well.

At the very moment everything was prepared, including him, he made his exodus onto the outside world. Yet, it wasn’t really an exodus without the splitting of water and an Egyptian chase so, he erased the term out of his head.

Turning onto the multitudes of streets, he walked his way to 24 Northanger road, his signature Norfolk jacket hanging loosely by his shoulders. His constant whistling attracted a few stares, yet he replied to them with a mere smile.

“Where in the world…” He muttered to himself as he looked distantly at the grandeur of houses that adorned the streets. All of them were adorned with blue shutters, all identical and painted a shade of pristine white. Yes, they all seemed quite similar to his, yet he found a more pleasing respect for these.

It was then that he saw the big gold numbers, 24.

Smiling inwardly, with a hint of nervousness, he walked his way excitedly towards it. Its great oak door seemed intimidating, yet its pristine whiteness seemed surprisingly calming. It stood four stories high, with a blue roof that decorated the top. He clutched onto the score sheets tightly, his hands shaking anxiously. He walked slowly towards it, but was halted upon the opening of the screen doors.

Harry blinked a few times, staring at the aging man that was walking slowly down the porch’s steps.

A loathing so deep, in fact, that it made him shake, started to surface. His body went rigid, his shoulders rising as his knuckles started to shake. He saw the man look at him in nervousness, a fear so familiar that Harry recognized it as his own before. He recognized the man. He remembered everything of his past and what he did to them, more specifically, to him.

Mackey White.

Everything else seemed unimportant at that moment.

The score sheets fell, almost dramatically, to the floor. He no longer cared. The fury was in him, imminently supreme and uncontrollable. His knuckles clenched tight, pale and severely numb. The befuddling thoughts in his head were starting to arouse an inner conflict; It was extreme and unbearable.

“White!” He screamed. The aging man turned to look at him, and Harry immediately lost all moral sense.

He charged violently after him.

“Come and face me!” He gritted as the man stepped desperately backward. His cane shivered violently beneath his palms, before dropping helplessly onto the floor. White tried his best to balance himself up, amidst his knees’ loud protests. Harry walked closer, briskly and confidently as the sweat poured down his forehead.

”Don’t hurt me! Please!” White pleaded, yet Harry’s face remained firm. He gave a mirthful laugh.

“Ha! Funny you should say that. It reminded me of a similar thing I said before you beat the living bloody hell out of me!” The old man, all else failing, tripped onto his porch’s steps. Harry stood above him, holding a deathly glare and a scowl so impenetrable.

“Forgive me! It was my mistake!”

“Of course it was!” Harry bent down and clutched his collar tightly. White whimpered under his grip. “And through the years? I made it my personal mission to hunt you down and treat you the same way. And now that it’s happening, I couldn’t be any happier.” His fist rose up in the air, clenched tight and ready to land straight onto his wrinkled face.

‘ones’ could turn into ‘forevers’…

He stopped.

A force seemingly pulled him back. He finally understood. He could kill the man if he wanted to, yet it wouldn’t change the fact that he couldn’t bring him back. With an apprehensive breath, his hands landed by his sides, his chest rising and falling heavily.

White had his eyes shut tightly, his hands shielding his unscathed face. Harry then found the time to back away. He stood there, idle and weary with his fists unclenching slowly. White stared at him, his chest heaving and his sweat dripping to his brow. Harry, diminishing all thoughts, started to move towards his cane. White stared at him, confused.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asked shakily. Harry handed him his cane.

“Im sparing you.” He stated, before turning away slowly with the music sheets flying beneath his feet in all its messiness. White stood up, his knees shaking occasionally.

“Why? You could’ve killed me if you wanted to. Do it now!” White said quite bravely, yet Harry shook his head in rejection.

“No. I wont do that, sir.” Upon hearing the respectful remark, White turned sharply to look at him.

“Sir? What kind of rubbish is that? Stop playing games, Potter! Just kill me now!”

“No!” Harry turned once again to face the man, who was now seething with anger.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll be just as pathetic as you.”

The screen door opened with a sharp clang, and it was then that Hermione emerged from it with a panicked expression. Harry looked back, his hands in his pockets as his glasses softly slid through the bridge of his nose. It was then that he saw her there, standing, and he pondered greatly on the chance of her living in the house ordered of him to go to.

“Harry.” Amidst her flustered expression, he tried his best not to smile and greet back. She looked from her grandfather and back to him, noticing their exhausted expressions.

“What’s going on?” She demanded, her flustered expression turning into a frown. White looked away quickly, his back slouching slightly under her stare. Harry continued to stare at her, his hands shaking beneath his pockets.

“Someone answer me!” She stated, aggravated. Hermione glanced back at him, yet all she saw was his retreating figure. She refused the urge to call out his name. White quickly turned to her, forcing a smile that was obviously insincere.

“Now Hermione, don’t bother the man. He has other places to go to. Now, why don’t we just go inside and have some pastries—“ But his hand, that was gripped on her arm, was shrugged away. “Hermione!”

Yet, she was already catching up with him, her dress flowing behind her.

“Harry!” She spoke out. He halted immediately, turning around slowly to find her meters away from him. Somehow, his anger seemed to fade upon seeing her there.

“Well, I was just taking a walk.” He answered bluntly. She grunted, her eyebrows furrowing by her forehead. Her eyes were still red with the panicked tears she’d released moments ago, and Harry saw a drop fall by her cheeks. He resisted upon wiping it away with his thumb.

“Rubbish. You attacked my poor grandfather! I want to know why!” She took a few steps closer to him, and Harry soon felt claustrophobia surface in him. His breath seemed to quicken, and he pondered on how pathetic it was. “I want to know.”

“I hardly know you. In fact, I don’t even know you at all. So then, why should I tell you?” He replied stubbornly. She folded her arms across her chest in frustration, which Harry, in turn, replied upon with him putting his hands back into his pockets.

“Because you know you can trust me, stranger or not.” Her tone was soft and gentle, and Harry saw the sincerity twinkling in her cinnamon eyes.

“Fine then. Under one condition.” He said with an unknown confidence. Yet, he felt his heart palpitate violently against his chest. Hermione gave an exasperated sigh as her hands fell to her sides.

“What is it then?”

“Walk with me.”

--thepianist—

He was walking back home with his head cast down on the floor. The wind was heavier now, and the score sheets lay unorganized within his arms. He looked back for a while, before choosing to let his gaze linger on the high-towering house.

She said no.

Had he been too overconfident, he didn’t know. All he knew was that the embarrassment was immense. And so, he bade goodbye with a simple nod to Mackey White before setting off in all his sulkiness. His feet brushed stubbornly against the floor as he walked towards the deserted park. He hadn’t noticed that the afternoon sun was just beginning to fade behind the tall trees and withering buildings.

A swing lay idly in the middle of the grassy setting, its chains swinging it back and forth to the rhythm of the wind around him. He walked to it slowly, somehow cautiously, before taking a seat. The loneliness was incredible. Had he known that it would lead to that type of rejection, he wouldn’t have done so.

And so he swung back and forth.

Alone.

Bringing him a single memory. A memory that he had forgotten ever existed. And a memory so valuable that it seemed impenetrable. He had just wished that he knew what it all meant.

“Harry, don’t wander too far.” Lily stated, brushing away the bangs that concealed Harry’s face.

“Mummy! Stop it!” His small hands scratched his face irritably. Lily heaved a frustrated sigh, before smiling in defeat. James came in later with two ice cream cones in both his hands.

“I’ve got two ice cream cones here for all of us!” Harry squealed as he grabbed the other cone from his father’s right hand. In an instant, his face was filled with something that illuminated the color of bright pink. Lily raised an eyebrow at her husband, who held the cone tightly in his other hand.

“So. You and Harry get all the goodness, while I’m left with nothing?” Her voice made James smile unsurely.

“Well love-“ His arms snaked around her shoulders, making Harry squint in disgust. Lily looked at him pessimistically, her eyebrows remaining raised by her forehead. “I thought we could share.” The wink that followed afterwards made everything seem worse. Harry, unaware of what was happening, continued to smudge the ice cream all over his face as little sprinkles started to scatter by his cheeks.

The strawberry flavored treat that came from James’ hand dripped onto her lavender Sunday dress. Her face turned sharply to his, which now seemed fearful and very much afraid. His hands backed away slowly as Lily’s breathing started to escalate.

“James Potter!” Six year old Harry Potter giggled back, his cheeks red and plump as he started to run towards the empty sets of swings that ran through the whole playground. Lily’s voice continued to echo through the setting.

‘I cannot believe you, being the self-centered person that you are! This is what you always do, leave and forget that you have a wife that’s working her arse off and feeding the child that you’re to blame for and working non-stop and not bothering to tell me where you are and leaving every appliance in the house on and always being late for dinner and I still cannot believe that after all those years of you being mean to everyone and being the spoiled brat that you are and making everyone feel inferior around you and…’ She trailed on, seemingly in one whole breath. James’ expression, to others, may have made their day.

‘But love, you know I love you and all!’

‘…and everything else that you’ve done! Severus was right about you!’ Her hair flew dramatically by his face as her back turned to face him. He attempted to touch her shoulders, but she shrugged them away.

‘Honey!’ This muffled statement was followed by a dramatic ‘hmph’. A nearby couple resisted the urge to roll their eyes on them. Amidst this, little Harry continued to run excitedly, his sneakers squeaking against the grassy grounds. He sat on one and started to swing.

A small smile started to play across his lips.

“Hey. What are you doing?” Asked a small voice beside him. He looked a little and saw a redheaded girl in small pigtails looking back at him, her hair flowing as she swung with him.

“I’m swinging.” He replied.

“Me too! I like swings. I’m Ginny, by the way. My brother used to like them too, but he fell after. Gave him a big bruise on his knee! My mum was really angry afterwards.” She elaborated. Harry, in full honesty, couldn’t care less. He was, at that very moment, laughing at the poor swinging attempts of his fellow playmate by his left.

“Well, anyway. Why are you swinging so high?”

“My uncle said if I swing high enough, I might see Merlin!”

“Who’s Merlin?” She questioned him. Harry merely shrugged.

“I don’t know. But my uncle says his name all the time, especially when he’s in the bathroom.” At that point, Ginny said no more. She just swung, her small jumper loosening around her shoulders. The other girl to Harry’s left continued to struggle with the swing that seemed to give up on her just as she reached momentum. Harry fought the urge to stop and try to help her.

He continued to swing higher and higher, feeling the chains squeak against each other. His knees started to hurt from its continuous bending, yet he went on. He swung higher, still. In the far distance, he could hear his mother’s frantic callings to his father. ‘James, look at your son! Make him stop!’

He noticed Ginny stop to his right, sitting still as she chose to stare at him. This caused a ripple of other stares; Those of parents and children alike. Little Harry’s laughter echoed through the grounds as he reached his peak.

He swung once more.

In a sudden turn of events, the swing chains loosened, and his small head turned sharply to see what it was. A handle went loose in his highest momentum. There were screams everywhere, causing Harry to do so as well. Harry’s small glasses flew in the air and landed onto the ground nearest to him. His body flew in the air, and at that moment little Harry thought he’d seen Merlin at last.

There was a horrible, reverberating scream from his mother. Frantic footsteps, those that belonged to his father, seemed to approach him by each second. Ginny’s small cry was heard as well, yet Harry hadn’t heard the last one that seemed to have come from his left.

His forehead scraped against the floor. It bled.

The little girl to his left walked beside him and placed his cracked glasses by his side. He was carried immediately by James, amidst his mother’s frantic cries. Ginny was sobbing by her mother’s chest, with her twin brothers taunting her in the background.

And the little girl. That of whom sat back on her swing and struggled once more to get it all right, just as an unconscious young boy was rushed to a nearby hospital.

That little girl’s name was Hermione.

Yet, the last part he didn’t know. That scar on his forehead remained permanent and impenetrable. It was there forever, and he’d learned to accept that. How many times he teasingly cursed his uncle on the Merlin idea, he didn’t know. All he knew was that it all happened for a certain reason.

Supposedly.

As he swung in all his matured glory, a small hand tapped him at the back.

“Walk with me, please?”

It was Hermione.

--thepianist—

A/N: I’m really sorry for the delay, everyone. I’ve been experiencing extreme writer’s block, and I guess it was also accompanied by laziness. Out of all the days, I picked this one to do this so I’m pretty glad I did. Hopefully, I’ll be able to update sooner than I usually do. Good day, mates!

5. The Ritardando

They walked slowly through the streets of Surrey, with nothing more but mere gazes as an exchange. They’ve run out of things to say, and they knew of the unbelievable silence that started to surface between them. The small talk seemed to have faded between them, and Hermione started to feel tense and uneasy. Harry, amidst her knowledge, started to feel the same thing. They knew of what was to come next, and Harry knew perfectly well that Hermione had been avoiding the topic. He glanced sideways at her for a moment, and heard her small, frustrated whispers to herself.

“Hermione, tell me something.” He spoke. She was startled by the sudden sound of his voice, but relaxed after and furrowed an eyebrow.

“Tell you what?”

“Why you decided to walk with me. There must be some reason why you asked me.” He glanced back at her, and saw her nibbling on her bottom lip.

“Well, I just wanted to get well acquainted with you.” She answered.

“I’d love to believe you Hermione, but it’s pretty obvious that you wish to discuss something else.” He received silence as a reply. He heaved a deep sigh as he glanced up at the darkening sky, with the thought of Sirius and where on earth he might be at that same moment. How he prayed for Sirius to be with him at that moment, and guide him through each event he would reveal to her eventually. Everything seemed so vague and fragile at that moment that he was afraid to let go of anything.

“Tell me what’s holding you back, Hermione. Because honestly, our small talk is taking us nowhere.”

“Won’t it be awkward for you and I? It’s such a sensitive topic, and I know you’ve been thinking about the same thing for the past half hour.” Harry halted in his tracks, leading Hermione to stop as well. In a sudden move, he turned to face her, leaving Hermione breathless as the emerald eyes beneath his glasses seemed to pierce through her own. The space between them was evident, yet Hermione felt him stepping closer and closer to her.

“Tell me what you want to know.” He said in a bare whisper that seemed to give her a sense of assurance. She closed her eyes momentarily and looked down to heave a deep sigh, before facing him once more with a vague look in her eyes.

“What did my grandfather ever do to you that made you so begrudged up to this time?” She looked up at him and noticed the way he glanced away for a moment. “My grandfather seems so troubled all the time, and I just want to know the severity of what he has really done. And maybe someday, he can be vindicated from all of this and just live life the way he used to.” She noticed the vast expression in his eyes, and decided to just retreat with the topic.

“Harry, you don't have to do this, honestly. It was a stupid idea to bring you here, I’m sorry.” She gave him one more gaze before walking away, cursing inwardly on how insensitive she could be. Yet, a foreign hand tugged on hers, and she was absolutely sure that it was his. She turned to look at him with a questioning gaze, yet he held the same expression on his face.

“Let me tell you what happened, please. It’s the only thing that would liberate me from this.” Almost at the same time, they glanced at their entwined hands and decided to let go. Hermione looked up at him and sighed, merely nodding. They led themselves to the benches by the far end, surrounded by great oak trees and a darkened sky.

“It was 1942. My uncle, Sirius Black, was the only family I had then. When my parents passed, he took me in. We lived a quiet life, so cautious of what was going to happen next if we make a mistake. There were explosions everywhere, and gunshots that reverberated in the distance. Yet, we both remained strong and courageous. It was World War II, and we seemed to be the only people that had truly accepted what came to be.

“I was celebrating my birthday when he was recruited into the army. Nights, I hoped for his return to come home in one piece. Yet, deep down, I knew that that was impossible. So the prayers stopped, and I knew deeply that I was left with my music and myself.

“They came soon after for the holocaust. They demanded for my uncle, yet he wasn't there. I stood there, motionless as they tortured me severely. It was a horrible night for me, that it’s just purely indescribable. There was nothing left of me to do.

“One of them ordered for my imminent murder.” She looked at him intently, unsure whether to stay or glance away from embarrassment.

“That man’s name was Mackey White. He’s your grandfather.” She chose to look away, her gaze unable to look back at him due to the immense shame that started to build inside of her. He gazed through the clear winding road and heaved the last sigh he swore to himself. She remained silent, her breathing escalating and echoing in the air. She was speechless, and the silence became uncomfortable for both of them. There was a heavy awkwardness that followed, one that both of them acknowledged.

“I don't know what to say, Harry.” She halted abruptly and cast her head down onto the asphalt. Harry’s gaze never left her image.

“You don’t have to say anything.” He assured of her, yet she shook her head in rebuttal.

“No, I have to. I feel so responsible for all of this.”

“You don’t have anything to do with this. He was long forgiven.” He looked back at her, trying to send a gaze of assurance towards her. Yet, she remained befuddled and in utter disbelief on the revelations she had just heard. For all those years, she still couldn’t ponder on the fact that her grandfather had done so much harm to a fair amount of innocent people. She thought of the other millions begrudging him, loathing him and everyone related to him. Suddenly, her heart felt so heavy and burdensome. It pained her chest, and made her head swirl in a plethora of confusion.

“I apologize.” She then whispered. He looked at her with a firm smile on his face. With a small hold of her hand, and a questioning look from Hermione, they both stood up from their seats, having Harry lead her through a multitude of different streets.

“Come with me.” They walked in silence, unable to say anything more. Yet, it was comfortable. Uneasiness seemed absent from them that time as they walked side by side, their eyes avoiding each other’s gazes. Harry suddenly turned right through a small lane, and Hermione obediently followed. By the end, she glanced upon a small flickering light. It was orange as it mingled with the sky above them, and the atmosphere that started to turn warm. Approaching eagerly, she saw a single candle with a dancing flame, one that stood firmly by one of the posts of the tall mansion gate.

Hermione stared at the towering house in awe.

“What is this?” She asked. Harry unlocked the chains entangled by the gate’s sides.

“This, Hermione, is my Home.”

--thepianist--

They entered through the huge mahogany doors and were instantly greeted with a suspended darkness. Harry groped the wall for a few moments, just as Hermione stood meekly by the doorstep. She resisted the urge to wince at the profound smell of gunpowder that continued to linger inside, arousing a feeling of unwelcoming inside of her. Through the cloth of darkness, she saw Harry’s small movements. The loud tapping of his heels against the floor seemed to be the only evidence that someone beneath the darkness existed. In an instant, the room brightened with a mellow, orange light that emanated from the chandelier. The way her eyes sparkled seemed to catch Harry’s attention, earning an amused chuckle from him.

“Harry, this is all yours?” She asked breathlessly. He grinned back at her as he hung his jacket by the coat rack, his shoes squeaking against the flooring.

“My parents’, actually. My uncle’s as well. Come, I’ll show you around.” She smiled excitedly as her heels followed his eagerly. He climbed the flight of stairs, looking back occasionally to find her trotting after him. It still amused him to see the lasting awed expression on her face. The way her face lit up seemed to urge him to smile with her.

“Whom do you live with?” She suddenly asked. He looked back slightly and replied such,

“No one. I live alone.” She looked at him, a raised eyebrow adorning her face.

“All of this, and you’re the only one who benefits from it?”

“Well, yes. It’s really all I have.” He stopped by the top stair and sat down. Hermione did such as well, her knees bending sidewards as she sat beside him. “It’s the only memory I have of the past that used to be mine.”

Hermione felt something at that moment, and she had merely disguised it for pity. She looked at him, her face softening as his own looked through the far flight below them. The raw emotion that flashed from his eyes at that same period piqued her own as well, and made her long to swipe it away and return the jolly expression of the man she had grown fond of for the last few hours. The familiar silence they both knew of resurfaced, and Hermione chose to hug her knees close to her.

“Do you still ponder on the fact that he may still be alive?” She suddenly spoke. He glanced at her, his questioning gaze urging her to elaborate.

“Who?”

“Your uncle.” He nodded vaguely.

“Everyday. Sometimes I envision him coming through those doors as if nothing happened. Like it was just an ordinary Sunday, and that he’d come and scold me for not cleaning the attic like he instructed me to.” She tried to smile, yet her lips resisted. The way the light flickered in his eyes signaled the fall of the tears that seemed bottled up inside of him for too long. “It’s just been too long for the hope to stay alive…” he muttered between sniffs. Amidst the rebellious screaming in her head, she chose to hold onto his hand and stroke it gently as a comforting gesture. For a moment, she’d thought she saw something else flash through his eyes as he stared at her own.

“The hope’s still alive, Harry. It’s grasped tightly in your palm. You’ll just have to hold on before it breaks lose and fades away forever.” He broke his gaze, seemingly affected by her choice of words. She let go of his hand quickly, afraid of what his reaction might be. She noticed his knuckles turn white as he squeezed them tightly into a fist. The veins stood out obliquely, and at that moment his upper arm started to shake from the force he was exerting.

“Harry, what are you doing?" She asked in worry.

“If it’s attempting to break loose, then now’s the best time to grasp it while its still there.” Somehow, the struggle that played through her eyes made her smile gently. In a quick motion, she wrapped her own hands around his fist, noticing it loosen as his gaze fell on her. In a way, they spoke through the suspended silence, saying nothing as their stare continued on.

“We’ll hold on to it together, then.”

--thepianist—

A/N: This may have taken a considerable amount of time to make and for that, I apologize. There was a major writer’s block going on in my head, and all my sources of inspiration seemed to have bailed out on me. Hopefully, the wait didn't take so long. ^-^

6. The Prelude to Bloodshed

It fell freely, like crystals under the scorching sunlight. It wrapped around her clothes, her hair, and her very flesh. She looked through the foggy windows of the mansion and into the living room, where the vision of Harry sleeping soundly by the couch remained. The vague sound of rain continued to reverberate, deafening her for a split second. She bid a soft goodbye, her hands marking through the mist as she longed to run a hand through his hair. He cried himself to sleep that night, and she had wished so much to wipe the tears away from his face. Yet, something stopped her. Something called out in rebuttal, causing her to erase such intentions and continue to watch him, helplessly calling out to the only family he had left. He sobbed against his rough, calloused palms, his shoulders racking violently. Yet she remained useless, and did nothing but watch him internally suffer.

She feared so much to leave him like that, and to know that he would wake up the next day alone once again, with no one to greet him and tell him that a new day has sprung.

But she had to, for his own safety.

If history threatened to repeat itself, she would merely loose the will to live.

“I don’t want you to go.” She whispered desperately into his ear, her breath tickling the bare skin on his neck. He traced small circles by her naked back, her arms tightly wrapped by his waist. The sun was rising fervently, filling their room with small rays of orange light.

“We don’t always get what we want, Hermione.” It was a cold morning, Hermione thought. A very cold one. Seemingly, every second was built with despair and fear. The paranoia of what was to come flooded her mind with thoughts completely malevolent.

“I don’t just want you. I need you. Isn’t that enough?” The kiss planted on her forehead eased the worry for just a while, before it made its reappearance, leaving her in the middle of dread once again. The small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips made her yearning grow, her desperation deepen, and her heart shatter.

“Nothing’s ever enough for people, Hermione. That’s the thing we’ve learned to accept.” Pure and heartfelt tears fell onto his bare chest, soaking the soft skin of her cheeks. He wiped them away, grazing his thumb against her face. At that very moment, she’d wished for that position to linger forever.

“Well, I haven’t. It’s not fair for me.” She held onto his hand and entwined it with her own. He looked down at them, unsure of the hurt that was about to come, not merely to him, but to her as well. “Don’t go.”

“Hermione, if I had a choice, I wouldn’t go. But that’s just it. I have no choice.” He sat up, the hair by the back of his head standing uncharacteristically, unlike most days when it remained neat and groomed. His fingers rubbed against his temple, just as his face scrunched up in pure concentration.

“Don’t let the government make the decisions for you!”

“Hermione, listen to yourself!” His flustered and most sincerely aggravated tone left Hermione confused, and possibly taken aback by the sudden force. She sat up, the sheets falling all the way down to her waist. Her sudden exposure startled him, yet she remained confident as she held onto his face and cupped it gently.

“I don’t bloody care about any political decision, nor do I care about any government stand! The fact is that I love you, and they are not taking you away from me! Do you hear me?” His eyes shouted in reply, strongly just as it started to mystify.

“I need to go to this war, Hermione. I need to save all of us.”

“You can’t just go around saving people, Ronald!” He looked deep into her crystalline eyes, scared on ever gazing away. She held onto his face in desperation, clinging onto him as hard as she could. “You’re not a superhero.”

The silence that followed was deafening, just as the sun started to scorch their skin. It had fully risen, and both of them knew that it was time. Without a word, the sheets fell onto the carpeted floor, just as his figure wrapped around a robe and retreated to the door.

“Ronald—“

“I may not be a superhero Hermione, but at least give me a chance to try and be yours.”

The foreboding memory traced every inch of her brain, clouding it with thoughts too sad to even take. She wished for all of it to go away, yet somehow she didn’t find the courage to erase them. She hadn’t found the heart to diminish them completely, and leave them with the other pile of memories that served as a useless pile of rubbish to her. Somehow, this seemed to be the last memory standing in her head that she could grasp tightly as an evidence of a life once worth living.

She walked hesitantly down the stone steps, refusing to look back and linger her gaze on what could’ve and what may have happened. She ran, amidst the pitter-patter on the sidewalk and the whooshing of the trees around her, to a place that she dreads the most.

--thepianist—

The Old Stallion was barely occupied. The lingering sound of soft, dragging music hovered around its walls, entertaining no one but the insects that clung onto it’s webbed ceiling. Lockhart was seated by the far end of the bar, holding a single glass of brandy and displaying an utterly bored face. “One of those days.” He whispered to himself. The band seemed to be a tad close to drowsy, as the music started to go softer and softer each second, and blatantly out of tune.

“Bloody mucks. Went somewhere else to party and left this shack to wither with rubbish they call music.” He mumbled under his breath. Seamus, the bar tender, gave a small smile and tossed his boss another glass.

“It’s a Monday, boss. No one has fun on Mondays. It’s a written rule.”

“Oh, the hell with Mondays! Weakest day of business. I hate it.” He took a big gulp from his glass, blinking a few times in his tipsiness. Seamus gave an amused chuckle before heading out the back door, his apron hanging by the small stand visible by the wine shelf. In a sudden moment, the bar doors opened.

“Lockhart.” Upon the sound of his name, the glass was left unfinished. Lockhart stood up, creases and folds by his blazer, and extended a hand at the silver-eyed stranger.

“Welcome sir to the Old Stallion. I’m—“

“I know who you are, Gregory.” His deep voice certainly reverberated in his head, the familiarity sinking in. Yet, Lockhart still couldn’t get a hold of his name. His hand, reluctantly shook, sank beneath his pockets as the gentleman took a seat by the farthest table from the right. He eyed the band in signage, causing a happy tune to play around the venue. The man offered him a seat, which Lockhart took with no resistance.

“You probably don’t remember me.” He stated.

“I regretfully say that you’re right. Forgive me, but who are you?” He questioned. The man gave a smirk beneath his cap, shading a quarter of his face. Lockhart was sure that he’d seen the person before.

“I’m going to let you guess, Greg. You were always good at guessing and assuming. You know, the best battle points…battle plans…enemy strategies…” The deep voice trailed off, followed by a small chuckle that seemed too soft that Lockhart had thought he had just imagined it.

“I’m sorry, I still don’t—“

“Spring of 1942, Greg. Or should I say Sergeant Lockhart?” The piercing eyes met his, and it was then that the horrid images filled his head. His pulse quickened in panic, just as his eyes bulged wide in fear.

“No…it—it can’t be.” The stuttering voice was drowned by the trombone that sounded by the stage, as the band played in full swing.

“It is, Greg. It is.” His hand slowly grasped the cap before pulling it down. If Lockhart was holding his glass, it would’ve dropped in fear and anxiety. The brown hair was, in all its character, still there. The piercing eyes that manipulated thousands of men still remained. The cunning smile lingered.

“C-captain.” The screeching laughter that came from him panicked even the band that played. It surprised Lockhart, making him jump momentarily on his seat.

“Aren’t you happy to see me, Sergeant?” He said, a conniving smile forming on his face. Lockhart’s face swelled, just as it flushed and turned a pale shade of white.

“But…you’re dead! No, no…this is insane! This is just—I’m drunk. I am. Severely.” He tried to stand, yet a force seemingly refused to let him. It was the manipulative stare that hypnotized him, and it seeped deep into his flesh that he couldn’t let go of it.

“Where are you going? Stay! We have a whole lot to talk about.”

“Who else knows?” Lockhart asked in a bare whisper.

“Knows that I’m alive? Oh, just you and White. No worries. My big debut is yet to come.”

“White knows?”

“Of course. He did request for all of this.” Lockhart was in a state of pure disbelief. The very thought of his captain’s re-existence made him shiver inside. Had anyone knew of what this gentleman was capable of doing, it was him and his fellow soldiers. They had witnessed blood from him, and utter brutality. These factors made him witness the fear of turning his back and walking away.

“What is all of this?” he questioned meekly.

“Well, he told me that the boy’s alive and well.”

“I thought White refused to battle again?”

“Didn’t you as well? You know, after you brutally murdered his parents?” The pumping of his heart by his ears heightened by this statement. The guilt rose again, and he had broke his own promise of trying not to remember. James and Lily Potter. He had murdered them in front of their son. Their son…the realization dawned on him. Their son was recently in his bar. Their son performed for him. Their son thought of him as a good man. An honest, civilized man…

“No. I refuse to do anything.” He stated firmly.

“Oh, come on! It would be fun. It’ll be World War III this time.” The way he stated this made Lockhart uncomfortable. It seemed like such a relaxing idea for him, like it was something completely done out of a hobby.

“I will not kill the boy.”

“Who says you have to do it? White will be responsible for that. However, I do remember James’ big payments towards Europe’s army.”

“Payments?”

“Well, he did owe them a large sum of money. Their captain, I mean. Who was it…Pettigrew? Yes. I believe it was him. He built a mansion for his wife as a wedding present. Pity they didn’t have much time to live in it.” The cold mirth of his laughter angered Lockhart inwardly.

“What do you plan on doing? Raise another war from country to country?” He exclaimed. The gentleman remained unperturbed.

“Well, it’s already starting actually. You see, after the little government scandal I started, Europe’s bound to get a hold of the English once again.” Lockhart started to palpitate in paranoia and anxiety. It was happening again.

“What do I need to do to make you stop bothering me?” He whispered fiercely. The gentleman put back his cap, once again covering a quarter of his face.

“Well, I’ll need you to lure the boy into our clutches.” A small grin played on his face. “By any means necessary.” Lockhart gave a small gulp. The headache that crept onto his head was severe, making him clutch onto it tightly.

“…alright.” He agreed weakly, the headache growing by each second.

“Perfect! I knew you couldn’t resist!” He held out a hand at Lockhart, yet he refused to shake it. Nonplussed, he drew it back and gave one nod.

“Thank you for being cooperative, Greg. Right now though, I’m going to fulfill my promise.”

“What promise?”

“The promise of my story. I’m pretty proud of it, actually. I call it: ‘The re-birth of Tom Riddle.’”

By the far end, Seamus stood still and watched as the conversation progressed. He vowed that night to approach Harry the next day.

--thepianist—

Hours before…

Striding past the stone steps of her home, she opened the screen door slowly as to not awake her sleeping parents and her grandfather. Placing her soaked coat by the coat hanger, she made her way slowly to the spiral staircase. Yet, upon reaching the middle, she heard small muffled sounds echo from her grandfather’s bedroom. Small flickering rays of light emitted from the door’s small crevice, causing her to halt completely at a safe distance, yet close enough to hear the conversation.

A low voice was speaking, one with a certain huskiness that reminded her quickly of Harry. The other was her grandfather’s. Yet, she furrowed her eyebrows upon hearing the sudden change in his tone. It seemed darker, heavier, and more determined that she sensed a fear grow inside of her. The small tenderness and softness to her grandfather’s voice was gone.

“You’re alive.”

“Well, yes. Quite obviously, I am. Now, I sensed that you needed something?” This statement piqued Hermione’s curiosity, causing her to lean in for a more widened opportunity to hear the conversation.

“Yes. Well, the boy’s alive. Apparently. I assumed that we killed him that day due to brutality, but I guess the bastard remained alive and well.”

“The son of Evans?”

“Yes.”

“…well, this is interesting.” The conniving tone that echoed through the walls rose goosebumps on Hermione’s skin. It was beyond her knowledge on who the boy was, but the pity and worry in her started to rise.

“I need you to make a scandal, captain. Anything to raise another war. I know you have connections with people from the government.”

“And what do you expect me to do?”

“Raise a controversy, lie! Steal! Whatever’s going to give a proper excuse for a battle.”

“It’s not that easy to raise World War III, White. It needs to be something big.”

“Then make it big! You’re smart enough to make something up.” There was a sudden silence. It was the kind that buzzed in your ears, causing Hermione to think that she had gone temporarily deaf.

“ha, if I were idiotic enough, I’d take that as a compliment.”

“Please, Tom. Im asking this as a friend. I need an excuse to kill the boy, and this might be the only excuse reasonable enough.” The words that came out of her grandfather’s lips put Hermione into a complete state of shock. She was terrified right now, to the point of her whole body shivering in anxiety. The air was much colder that time, and she’d wished to have just kept her coat on.

“What makes this boy so special that the world has to go through World War III just for him to get killed?”

“…my granddaughter fancies the bastard.” The small gasp that escaped from her lips might’ve been heard, for there was a total shift into silence once again. Hearing the footsteps towards the door, she hid herself beneath the impalpable darkness and prayed that she would not be seen. The door opened, and her grandfather emerged from it. Even through the darkness, she saw his outline and wondered if that was really him; the innocent old man she knew and loved. The fear inside of her now was completely different, and she had feared that she would never look at her grandfather the same again.

“Bloody rats!” She heard him exclaim, before hearing the door slam once more. She tried to close her eyes and extract all that she had heard to stop the worry from being implanted into her head. It was Harry, she thought. The poor boy was Harry. There was suddenly a protective sense inside of her, and she thought of nothing but going to him and shielding him from anything that threatened to harm him.

“So captain, do we have a deal?” Silence.

“…Oh yes. Expect that boy dead by Christmas day.”

--thepianist—

A/N: I’m officially pathetic. I’m terribly sorry. You could poke me with a pitchfork now. It’s been two weeks without an update, and I deserve to be called a lousy little psychopath (go ahead. I wont bite). XD Anyway, I just hope the wait wasn’t as long as you hoped it would be. Again, I’m so terribly sorry. XD

7. The Dance of the Demon

“-The tension in the British parliament is now building up. Certain sources have said that rumors of a surprise bombing at Greater London would happen this Sunday, April 13th. The facts are yet to be straightened, yet we alert all citizens to live in caution as the investigation goes on.”

Seamus stared blankly at the fading television screen. His chest rose and descended slowly, but his heart palpitated otherwise. His hands shook in the sudden coldness that coursed throughout his body, and he suddenly felt lightheaded by the pressure clouding in his head. The surrealism of everything not only bewildered him, but his companion as well.

“I couldn’t believe it. That’s just bloody insane!” He suddenly exclaimed, startling the young woman beside him.

“Oh, don’t act so surprised. We had it coming anyway. You know the lot of them, sneaking up on you even in times of recuperation.”

“Oh, sure. The whole of Greater London had a clue that some lot of merciless arseholes planned on bombing our entirety and dispersing us from the face of the earth!” The young woman looked at him with a mix of disbelief and disgust, just as her arms folded across her chest.

“Merlin Seamus, you don't have to be so bloody sarcastic about everything!” She exclaimed. Seamus heaved an audible sigh before standing up and heading for the kitchen. Ginny Weasley was left on the couch, scowling after his retreating figure.

“Oh, sod off Ginny! You know the whole world’s coming to another end which we all have to endure…again!” He exclaimed from the kitchen, before coming out with a glass of whiskey on each hand. He handed one to Ginny, who grabbed it with no trace of gratefulness.

“Oh, listen to yourself. Some end of the world prophecy wouldn’t answer that report. It may or may not be true!”

“Fine! What makes you say this isn't true?” He eyed the red-head intently as she opened her mouth, yet nothing came out. She frowned the next second, before huffing in defeat.

“You see? This is true!”

“But it’s just a rumor, Seamus. A rumor would always be a rumor. I still stand by the possibility that this may be another scam to keep us paranoid, while the government does something behind our backs!” Seamus fell silent. He closed his eyes quietly, just as images of the bar’s incident flashed in his mind. He’d seen and heard personally what was being planned, and he had a good feeling that the first phase was nearing.

“You know what? Why are we arguing about this anyway? Screw the government, and screw those arseholes for fooling us. We have our own lives to worry about.” Ginny took a small sip of whiskey from her glass, before twirling it slowly between her fingers. Yet she still noticed the befuddled expression on Seamus’ face, and started to worry about him.

“Seamus? Are you all right?”

“You’re wrong, Ginny.” He whispered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re wrong. All of this is real. I know it, and I know it’ll happen. Innocent lives won’t be spared from this, and I’m not going to be the first to witness the death of someone I love.”

“Seamus, what are you talking about?” Ginny now stood up and laid a hand on his shoulder, only to be shrugged away immediately.

“I heard them talking about it. They were serious. Those bloody scums were serious!” The anxiety that flashed in Seamus eyes made Ginny worry completely. He started to pace around the small room, going back and fourth repetitively as Ginny watched, unsure of what to do and how to react.

“Scums? What? Seamus, please calm down!”

“I will not calm down, Ginny!” The sudden raise in his voice startled Ginny as she stood still on her spot. Seamus was breathing heavily in paranoia, and Ginny held her head down in befuddlement. She glanced up slightly, only to find Seamus’ face filled with so much conviction.

“I-I have to go.” He whispered.

“Where?”

“To someone who’d be affected by this the most.” He walked briskly towards the door, his coat wrapped securely around him, before exiting without a word. Ginny stood immobile for a minute, before grabbing for her coat and running after him.

-thepianist-

Harry stared blankly at the static-filled television. The news was reported hours ago, yet he remained still on the couch. He felt it beneath his skin, tingling and boiling. He felt it hover heavily in the atmosphere, and it made fear surface inside of him. The imminent fear of what was yet to come stay put beneath his chest, which rose and descended heavily. It was the same the last time: Parliamentary arguments, destruction threats, allies of different sorts, and death. It was a cycle he had already endured before, and a cycle that brought him the worst case of trauma he had ever experienced. Witnessing, in person, the death of both his parents was hard enough for him. Loosing his only family was worse.

He pondered greatly on the chances of it resurfacing again. Signs of an uprising are evident, and it brought tears to his eyes to know that he would be witnessing the same sight of suffering as last time. If history were to ever repeat itself, he would rather take his own life in fulfillment, rather than die begging for mercy from the worst kind of people.

He feared for the chaos that was to happen. He feared for the innocent. He feared for those lacking a second chance. He feared, surprisingly not for himself, but for someone else that brought him immediate heartache. Seemingly, the mere thought of Hermione getting hurt scared him to no end. The mere thought of hearing her cry in pain made him feel a sudden protectiveness that was impenetrable. He sat there immobile, unsure of what to say or what to think next.

The doorbell rang insistently.

He refused to stand.

The doorbell rang again.

He merely wanted to sulk.

A knock was heard.

In all irritation and curiosity, he pushed himself off forcibly from the couch amidst his body’s refusal to.

The door opened.

She stood there meekly, her dress billowing forcefully by her side. Her hair was in a frivolous state, with loose strands hanging from her bun. She looked exhausted. It was then that he noticed the small tears that seemed to be dripping to her cheeks. She glanced up at him, her cheeks flushed and rosy from the cold.

“Hello Harry-“ Her whisper was cut short upon Harry’s thumb caressing the lone tear by the side of her lips. Her cinnamon eyes sparkled effervescently at him, as he showed an indignant expression of worry. Instantly, she wrapped her arms around him, sobbing by his shoulders and exclaiming in pure sadness.

“It’s okay, Hermione.” He whispered in her ear, instantly sending shoots of calmness in her. He traced small circles by her back, the breeze from the open space ubiquitously swirling around them. “I’m here.”

She calmed down at the latter statement. Her hand snaked through his neck, down his chest, before finding themselves back by her sides. For an infinitesimal moment, Harry had felt an overwhelming sensation by the pit of his stomach, which he hid calmly from her. He looked down at her, who seemed to be recuperating from the cry she gave moments ago.

He closed the door behind them, suddenly feeling the entirety of the wind vacuum out of the mansion. He held her by her waist, before slowly leading her to the couch. Somehow, the grasp of his hand made her feel secure.

They sat down, Harry being polite enough to let go and sit a safe distance away from her. She was calm now, yet her eyes didn't seem to sparkle in joy like before. It seemed sober from something. It showed desperation and depression, and all Harry wanted to do was make it better.

“I’m scared, Harry.” She whispered, barely making her voice audible enough for Harry to hear.

“Scared? Why?”

“I’m scared on what’s happening. It’s all resurfacing.” There was an uncertainty in her voice, which made Harry fear greatly for her.

“I’m scared too, Hermione. But honestly, it’s something we could not avoid.”

“I’m scared for our lives, Harry. Everywhere isn't safe anymore. People I treasure dearly couldn’t even be trusted anymore. And the last person, on whom holds the key to my trust, is in danger.” With her sudden momentum, she couldn’t help but stand listlessly. Harry, having seen her sudden action, decided to do the same.

He stared at her, just as her eyes penetrated through his. It was melancholy, yet aggressive that it tugged at his heart to find her in such a state of befuddlement. In a sudden movement, He felt her hands entwine within his, which sparked an infinite joy inside of him. He stared at the entwined figures, and felt his heart palpitate with an unpredictable glee.

“Harry, you’re the only person I trust now. The last thing I’d want is to loose you to this.” These words seemed to engrave itself into his head. Her voice was soft and meaningful, and sincerity seemed to overflow with each tear that trickled down her cheek once again. He tried to reply, but the stare that seemed to seep into him held him back.

“Hermione, the last thing I’d want is to see you so vulnerable like this. Just tell me what’s all this about, and maybe I could help you.” He said this gently, yet she seemed to stand firmer than usual.

“I can’t do that, Harry. I can’t jeopardize anything.”

“Please, Hermione. Tell me.”

“No. I just want you to keep the promise that you would keep yourself safe.”

“Hermione, how could I promise something if I don’t know why I’m promising it in the first place! Please, Hermione.” His pleading eyes were irresistible, yet Hermione remained firm.

“No, Harry!”

“Why not?”

“Because!” The frustration was now evident in her voice, just as it strained within her throat. She coughed momentarily, before turning back to face him, whose face seemed to show mutuality with hers.

“Give me a good reason, Hermione. Give me a good reason why you shouldn’t tell me.” His face frowned slightly, which made his grip on her hand tighten gradually. She held back a sob, her emotions suddenly so volatile.

“Harry, please. I don’t want to.”

“Just tell me, Hermione!”

“It’s because I care about you too much!” her voice reverberated in her head. I care about you too much. There was an awkward silence that followed, one that was impenetrable. Her hands slowly untwined with his, and Harry suddenly felt the emptiness seep back into him.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. Before he could reply, she had already ran through the doors, leaving him alone once again.

It was cold.

It stabbed through his heart and left him breathless. Suddenly, the urge to chase after her rose inside of him. Then again, he held the temptation back and chose to let her be. The sudden loneliness was heartless. It made him feel unwanted once again. And right now, he was just as vulnerable as she was.

He hated vulnerability.

With these thoughts cluttering his brain, he walked silently through the living room before placing himself slowly by his piano. Had he wished that everything were simpler those times. He had also wondered on the small underlying fact the world and all its complexity had to exist.

He sat down and played. The notes resounded around the room.

Dance of the Demon.

It was Eduard Remick’s masterpiece, played last 1906. Harry remembered the score sheet vividly when he and Sirius browsed through the attic.

Harry played each note forcefully. The sweat started to form by his forehead, but he kept on going. Tears collected in his eyes, blurring his vision momentarily. As he reached the historical ending, the tears rolled down his cheeks, soaking a G on the piano. He sighed. He missed his parents dearly, and the lingering thought of them beside him still remained alive in his mind.

“Happy anniversary, mum and dad.”

The doorbell rang.

He wiped the tears off his cheeks.

It rang again.

In an instant, he got off the chair and walked briskly to the door, where he had hoped on seeing Hermione smiling back at him once again.

He opened it.

He was greeted by a set of blue eyes. Those on whom he recalled from his childhood days, where on a certain fateful day, he gained the infamous scar on his head.

“Hi. You must be Harry. I’m-“ Familiarization seeped through him.

“Ginny. Of course, how could I forget?”

One glance at his emerald eyes was all it took for Ginny to forget all possible intentions.

---thepianist---

A/N: I’m sorry for the terribly late update. A lot had happened these past months that I haven’t had the proper time to update. If you want the main reason why I’ve suddenly become idle is due to the fact that I lost a father recently. He died last month and we’re still recuperating from his loss. I hope all of you understand. So forgive me if this entry may seem boring, too sad or emotional, or even crappy. I’ll make it up to all of you somehow.

8. The Silenced

She was suddenly entranced. Dear Lord, she was paralyzed on the spot. The thoughts that circled her head were suddenly much more profound than the way she usually thought at those kinds of situations.

It was quite clear that she was elated that he recognized her, even if she didn’t recognize him in return. But then, the latter fact made her see herself as stupid, scolding herself for not remembering someone as gorgeous looking as him.

“Seamus! You’re with her as well?” Her reverie was broken upon the sound of Harry’s voice. The two shook hands enthusiastically, before she offered her hand to his as well. She could feel Seamus glare behind her.

“I’m glad you both came. Come in! I wouldn’t want both of you to freeze out here.” He disappeared behind the door, and Ginny suddenly felt the urge to run after him. Seamus whispered violently into her ear.

“Ginerva Weasley, don’t you dare.” She smirked.

Both of them followed his retreating figure, until the pair settled onto the couch that was placed just by the fireplace. Harry then turned to face the two, who seemed to be whispering violently to each other.

“So what brings you here, mates?” His voice resounded through the room, immediately breaking their heated conversation. Seamus looked mortified for a second, and Harry noticed the sweat that started to form on his forehead. He quirked an eyebrow for a moment’s time, before turning his head to Ginny, who seemed to grow eager each second.

“So, Ginny! It’s been a while hasn’t it?”

“A really long while. I hope you don't take this the wrong way but…where have I seen you before?” His laughter made her jump for a second.

“Well, I’ll just let you have a glance at my scar. Maybe that way you’ll remember.” He swept his bangs away from his forehead, making way for the scar that was placed just by the right side of his temple. Ginny’s eyes grew large.

“Goodness me. It’s you!” It was either joy or overexcitement. Either way, it caused her to jump off the couch and hug him tight without any intention of doing so. The sudden blankness of his mind caused Harry to stand still. By her shoulder, she saw Seamus glaring insistently at her.

“It’s nice to see you again too…ughm, Ginny.” In an instant, Ginny released. She stared at him for a while, seeing the confusion swimming within his eyes. She glanced back a bit, and noticed the scowl that was being thrown to her by her best friend. She blushed madly at both of them.

“Oh, I’m so sorry Harry. I’m just really like that, right Seamus?” She turned hopefully to him, yet the scowl remained still on his face.

“No, she’s not.” Her face dropped.

“Seamus!” She turned to look at Harry, yet he was already seated on a separate couch in all of his befuddlement.

“Don't mind Seamus. He’s drunk.” His eyes turned from irritancy to disbelief.

“I am not drunk. Harry, don’t believe her. She’s had too much whiskey since we left.”

“What! I did not have too much whiskey, Seamus!” Her claim was cut off by the sound of his snickering. Both of them were silenced, and each surrendered instantly. Having known what more embarrassment both of them might get into, they stayed still on the couch and merely waited for a response from Harry, who was smiling gently at both of them.

“Now that all the tension’s out of the way, may I ask why you came to visit?” Seamus closed his eyes for a bit and phrased each and ever word he had to say in his head. Ginny glanced sideways at him and noticed that, surely, what was bothering him for the past few days was gravely important.

“Harry, have you noticed the sudden changes lately?” His voice was low and slightly crackly, but was audible enough for Harry to understand.

“Changes, you say?”

“Yes. I’m sure you’re aware about the government rumble these days?” Upon this statement, Harry’s ears perked.

“Oh, that. Well yes, certainly. I was just watching the news.”

“How do you feel about it?” The room was silent. Ginny was now listening intently, all the while noticing the sudden mood change in Harry’s features. He turned melancholy as his eyes drooped down to the floor.

“Well, It’s rubbish. I’m betting that everyone thinks so too.”

“Yes, I’m sure they feel the same.” Silence. Seamus fumbled irritably with the loose thread that hung from the sofa’s armrest. Somehow, he sensed Harry’s temper growing.

“I’m sure it must’ve hurt when your parents suffered drastically-“ Even Ginny sensed the insensitivity in her companion. Harry’s head snapped back up to look at him, and somehow, a small scowl formed on his face.

“What?” Harry’s eyes were now bright, and somehow blazing with the reflection of the fire by the fireplace. He spoke forcefully, with a slight sarcasm that made Seamus stutter.

“Well…yes, you know. They suffered greatly-“

“Well, that’s pretty obvious. The whole damn world suffered, if you hadn’t noticed.” The sarcasm was impenetrable. Harry’s voice raised a decibel higher, and Ginny looked at Seamus in caution.

“Look, all I’m saying is that it must’ve been so hard for you.”

“Damn right it was! What kind of arse would state the obvious?”

“Harry, we share in your mourning. We’re here to help you!” Harry’s face formed into a glare. It was something so deep that Ginny felt the aura seep through her. She turned to Seamus one more time, trying hard to talk to him through her pleading eyes. Yet, it was left unanswered.

“Mourning? You think I’m still mourning for the murder of my parents? You’re maniacal! Of course not! I don't need anyone to dictate how I feel. Especially people who don’t know me. In addition to that, I don’t need your help! I don’t need anyone’s help. I can take care of myself. So please, bugger off and mind your own damned business!” With that, Harry stood up in finality and exited the room briskly. From the far end, Ginny could see his face redden in irritability and anger. Seamus stood up and ran after him, even amidst Ginny’s loud protests.

“Seamus, no!” Ginny whispered.

“Harry, wait!” Seamus called out, yet Harry continued on.

“Don't talk to me, Finnigan.”

“Would you please stop!” Seamus grabbed him by the shoulder, but was only replied upon with a hard blow by his jaw. By the far end, Harry heard Ginny scream as she rushed down to help her bleeding friend. Harry was breathing heavily, all the while glowering at Seamus, who struggled upon standing up once again.

“You’re a madman, Potter!”

“And you’re a bastard. Now get out!” Seamus threw a punch at his jaw in reply. Harry stumbled for a while, before regaining his balance and charging after Seamus once again. In an instant, Ginny halted the two as she stayed in the middle.

“Stop it, both of you!” She pleaded, but she remained unnoticed.

“You git! You insensitive fuck! How dare you dictate to me how I should feel!”

“Oh, shut up Potter! I’m trying to help you here!”

“Well you can help me by shutting your mouth before I beat you to a damn pulp!”

”I’d like to see you try!” With that, Harry forcibly escaped from Ginny’s grip and threw another punch at Seamus, who stumbled just like before.

“You sick fuck, stop it! He’s not doing anything to you!” Ginny screamed quite loudly as she pushed Harry away. Harry took deep breaths by the side, glaring at Seamus’ struggling figure.

“Harry.” Seamus said in a low voice. “You have to listen to me. I want to help you. I need to help you.”

Harry remained silent.

“I-“ Ginny helped him up by the arms, just as his speech slurred slightly.

“I have to tell you something. It can affect you, and everyone around you. And damnit, it can even get you killed if I don’t tell you!”

“What is it then?” Harry looked expectantly at Seamus, yet he remained still.

“Just as I thought. You have no guts, Finnigan. Your stay here was just a big lie so you could rub the death of my parents onto my face!”

“No, that’s a lie!”

“Oh shut it, Finnigan. You’ve been jealous of me since elementary school. You always hated me, and I knew it. You envied my lifestyle, my parents—everything! And this is just some psychotic plan of yours to make my life more miserable than it already is!”

“Just listen to me, Harry. Please!”

“No, You listen!” His voice was almost a scream that it made Ginny jump momentarily. “All you ever did was make my life miserable. You, Seamus. Ever since our childhood days, you did nothing but accuse me of being the snob that I was. You made my life a living hell by spreading rumors about me to the whole damn prep school. I was an outcast, Seamus. A goddamn outcast, and it’s all because of you!”

“And I apologized for it, Harry! I repented!” Ginny looked incredulously at both of them as she remained silent by the crevice. The sudden realization on as to why Seamus refused to talk about his past suddenly kicked in, and made her gasp silently. Harry approached Seamus and glowered at him, and Ginny noticed the intensity of his stare on her helpless friend.

“You disgust me, Finnigan.”

“I-I’m sorry!”

“Get out.” His voice was low and threatening, but Seamus stood still.

“Get the fuck out, Seamus.” His voice showed finality, and Seamus didn’t bother to reply. With his head cast down onto the floor, he held Ginny by the shoulders before heading out the big doors from which they entered moments ago.

Harry was alone.

He wept.

Not for Seamus.

Not for Ginny.

Not for the world.

But for himself.

---thepianist—

II.

Hermione walked silently through the sidewalk. The aftermath of what just happened lingered in her head. Upon her will to say what she felt to Harry, she suddenly saw the look of betrayal of her grandfather in her head. She saw the disappointment in her father’s eyes, and the pure sadness it will bring him if she remained disloyal to them.

The air was cold as it swept pass her.

She remembered Harry’s figure holding onto her firmly. His eyes said so much that it merely hurt her to think that she had left him immediately out of vulnerability.

She sighed loudly, and quite exasperatedly.

Suddenly, the mere thought of Harry holding on to her made her heart palpitate.

She didn’t know why.

She didn’t know how.

She…

Halted.

Standing just kilometers away, she saw the most horrid vision she had ever seen.

She wanted to scream.

But she couldn’t.

They might hear her.

She ran.

---thepianist—

A/N: It was one huuuuge struggle to write this, due to the major writer’s block I’ve been experiencing for the past months. Anyway, writing it was fun though. I love fight scenes. XD Anyway, the Roman numeral II holds a deep significance for events so please don't think it’s MS Word’s fault. XD!

9. II: Precaution

Hours Before

“Status report.” They were seated by a round table, with a single light bulb hovering on top of them. It smelled like soil and rusted iron. Then again, the atmosphere didn’t matter.

“It’s going as planned. I’ve recently met with Bourne. He approved the claim. We’ll be getting the key codes tomorrow.” White stated proudly. A small smirk played on Riddle’s lips.

“Well, that was easy.” He stated in his usual low voice. White grinned teasingly at his fellow mates, making them scowl at him with great irritation.

“But sir, we can’t just kidnap the speaker of the House of Lords!” Heads turned to face the silhouette of Gerard Barron, whose face was overshadowed by the darkness. He sat still, almost immobile as Tom Riddle stared at him with eyes of malice. Barron tried to speak, but his lips seemed to have been glued together.

“Tell me Gerard. What makes you think we’re not capable of doing this?” His voice was calm and collected, but knowing Riddle, everyone saw it as a threat. White turned to Barron, who moved forward instantly in respect. He tried to hold his gasp.

With eyes a deep shade of red, Barron’s face merely showed what was left of his burnt skin. Half of his face remained disproportional to the other, and his right eye bulged out abnormally. His lips were pale and cracked, and his hands were wrapped around a dirty cast that was peeling by the ends. White stared at him in horror.

“Sir, I did not comment on our capability. I just said that the idea isn’t—“

“What makes you say that this plan wouldn’t work, Barron?” Riddle interrupted. White glanced around and noticed the horrified looks of the other seven men that remained present. Surprisingly, these weren’t directed to Gerard, but to Tom Riddle, whose eyes glistened more with malice.

“Sources, Sir! We don’t have enough! We don't have backup. We don't even have a troop!” He fell silent.

Laughter started to reverberate around the small room.

But no one was laughing.

Except Riddle.

It was the kind that made the hair stand by the back of your neck. It scourged through each of their bodies, and Gerard immediately saw the awkwardness of the situation. White saw the men’s looks deepen with fear, and he came to the conclusion that his face mirrored theirs as well.

“Look around you Gerard. Isn’t this a troop?” Everyone shifted silently on their own seats, some with proud smiles on their faces, and some with worried ones. White was a part of the latter group.

“Gerard, don’t tell me that your traumatizing past still haunts you up to this day?” Riddle quirked a boastful eyebrow, making Gerard sit meekly than he was before.

“Sir, please don't bring it up.”

“Oh, no. I want to! And of course, you wouldn’t want to leave your troop members in suspense, would you? So come on. Tell us what happened. Shed some light on your already putrid past.”

He remained silent.

“Oh bloody fuck, Barron.” Draco Malfoy stood in aggravation, facing the nine other men that suddenly shifted their attention to him.

“To those of you who don't know, Gerard here was a spy amongst the Nazis. Banter Wilson, a good friend of my father, sent him there to become an army man for the Germans. Father was a counselor as you all know, and Gerard served as a big help to this forsaken country. There were 374 other spies sent to Germany as an army man, but Gerard was the only one who knew how to update us inconspicuously. Eventually, the bastards found out. They pushed Gerard into an extermination camp. It burned down right after the day he was enrolled. The cause of the fire is still unknown, but what we know is that Gerard is the only spy to survive it.”

“Lucky Bastard.” Zabini mused. The table started to laugh, with Gerard as an exception. He sat low on his chair, his teeth clenched and gritting violently.

“Okay, that’s enough. Now Gerard, what have you got to say?” Riddle said, half chuckling from the statement made earlier. Gerard said nothing.

“What a shame it is then, to have silence as your last words of wisdom to us.” In an instant, a gunshot was fired straight towards Gerard’s head.

Riddle smirked.

“There goes the last one.”

---thepianist---

“What the hell was that, Seamus?” Ginny slammed the door close, just as Seamus sat sluggishly onto the couch with his hand rubbing the bruise by the tip of his jaw. The walk home was infuriating for both of them, having Ginny scream into his ear each time, and having him refusing to answer her demanding questions each time.

“Answer me, damnit!” Ginny yelled, but to no effect.

“What gives you the right to know?” Seamus retorted. Ginny gave him a huff of disbelief.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I’m your bloody best mate, you idiotic pillock! Oh, and maybe because you dragged me into this whole mess!” Her sarcasm left him nonplused.

“That’s not a good enough reason, Ginny.”

“Oh, would you stop being so stubborn, Finnigan!” She screamed in frustration. Her cheeks were now flushed red with anger as she stood right in front of his relaxed figure, her breathing escalating every second he remained silent.

“Ginny, I have nothing else to tell you.” He said, his eyes slowly being heavy lidded.

“Yes, you do!”

“Harry basically summed up my childhood and my personality. I’m a pillock and apparently, an insensitive prick. So lets just leave it like that.” Seamus said stubbornly, his voice slurring at some parts. Ginny breathed a heavy sigh, her hands landing on both sides of her waists.

“Seamus, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” She mumbled. She cast a side-glance at Seamus, who merely looked away. She felt exasperated and tired, and felt lightheaded and dizzy, feeling a migraine creeping it’s way up to the tips of her temples.

“Fine, have it your way. I’m tired of this. You have to figure this out by yourself, Seamus. Obviously, you don’t need my help.” In aggravation, Ginny stepped out of their medium sized flat, making sure to forcefully close the door as she went out.

“Bloody hell.”

Ronald Weasley stood dead still on the spot, his pupils dilating as his fists clenched in anger. Seamus, amidst his companion’s enraged state, tried to hide the smile that attempted to form by the corners of his lips.

“Finnigan, this isn’t the time to kid around.” Ron whispered violently. Seamus gave a mere shrug.

“I’m not kidding, mate. Wish I were though.” Ron was seething now, his face reddening in a deep shade of crimson. With a nod to himself, he ran quickly into the hall, where Harry was seated silently by the long table. Seamus followed briskly after Ron, the grin evident on his face.

“Potter!” Ron bellowed. Harry looked up from his food, an eyebrow raised at the sudden raise Ron gave to his voice.

“Ron? What’s wrong, mate?” he questioned, standing up slowly from his chair. Ron, his patience thinning, took the chance and pushed Harry forcefully by the chest. He stumbled backwards slightly, but gained balance quickly. Harry’s face formed a deep scowl, his eyes blazing with aggravation.

“What the h-“

“You’re a bloody piece of shit, you know that?” Ron seethed, his face flushed completely. Harry looked at him in disbelief.

“What?”

“Oh, you bloody well know what I’m talking about!” The hall fell silent in a second’s time. Harry felt the stares of a thousand eyes stare at him, seeping through his very being as he stood there, helpless and unbearably clueless.

“Ron, please. Believe me. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” He pleaded sincerely, only to receive a scoff back.

“Shut up, Potter! You know what you did! Now, stand up to me like a man!” Harry’s throat went dry, not out of fear, but out of speechlessness.

“R-Ron-“ Harry was silenced upon feeling the stabbing pain reach his cheek. The entirety of the hall gasped, except for Seamus, who watched gleefully at the back. Ron shook his grazed knuckles slightly, feeling small shoots of pain inside.

“You shagged her, Potter!” Ron yelled. Harry looked up at him from the floor in awe and befuddlement.

“Who?” Was all Harry could muster to say.

“My girlfriend, Potter! You shagged her fucking brains out behind my back!” Harry shook his head in defense.

“Girlfriend? I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend!” Harry replied honestly, before balancing himself up once again. Ron attempted to charge after him again, but the people behind him held him back.

“Oh, don’t act so clueless, Potter! You know what you did!”

“Ron, trust me! I'm honestly telling you now that I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Harry tried to reason out, yet Ron remained firm, his eyes blazing with a rage he’d never seen before.

Ron heaved a big sigh, before facing Harry eye to eye. The tension hovered thickly in the air, and the silence buzzed loudly in their ears.

“Best mate my arse, Potter. This friendship’s over.” The enraged whisper made Seamus grin, before he exited the hall silently in accomplishment.

---thepianist-----

A/N: Writing this was extremely difficult, knowing how much complications it will bring in the future chapters. But then again, it is so totally worth it *snickers*. I’m sorry for the overuse of swearwords. I just really needed to add them for essentiality (and for dramatic effect xD). Questions about Ron? Feel free to ask. Yes, Ron and Harry were best mates before. It took a lot of time to think of how to portray this, and I thought this was the best opportunity to show this small underlying fact. As it was stated by Harry himself, he didn’t know that Ron had a girlfriend (I’ll leave you to figure out who she is *wink*). I wouldn’t elaborate more on that, because it might ruin the rest. (hopefully, you don’t find the story too confusing. XD!)

[PS: there are some parts in the flashback that aren’t italicized. Don't mind those. They’re still parts of the flashback. :D]

Good day, mates!

10. The winding asphalt

She sat on the swing, holding onto the chains barely as her thoughts drifted endlessly to the events that she had just experienced. She hadn’t noticed the tears that were starting to freefall to her cheeks, before slowly staining the hem of her dress.

The swing set creaked with each movement she made, and somehow, it soothed her.

Staring blankly at the oak tree in front of her with eyes of cinnamon brown, her face slowly flushed pale as her mind wandered through the multitude of thoughts that started to stack up in her head. Her face was blank, almost expressionless, as her senses were merely filled with the lonesome sight of an old playground, and the reverberating sound of silence.

Inside, she was sobbing in fear.

She stood there motionless, almost as if her feet were glued to the floor. Hermione pondered on the facts of her hallucinating, but seemingly, after blinking a number of times, she found herself wrong for the first time.

The ground lay firm beneath her feet. The sun was setting midway, behind the strips of clouds that kept Hermione shaded for a moment’s time. The wind stopped flowing, leaving her in suffocation, merely wanting to feel the cold breeze again.

Blood spattered onto her basement window.

Her gasp was barely audible, but her face said so much more. The look of mortification was strewn through her features, leaving her limp and paralyzed. She wanted to run in panic, and scream in futility.

She disregarded her latter thought as she ran, her feet scraping against the asphalt, and her tears speeding through her.

And the moon started to rise above her.

She looked up, but saw nothing but a fraction of it. It was bright, but not full, she observed. The wind blew beneath her feet, giving her a slight chill as she wrapped her arms around her. She closed her eyes, her toes numbing from the cold.

“Harry…” Her voice was soft, but overshadowed by the deep sobs that attempted to escape from her throat.

“Hermione? Is that you?” His voice rose a bit. Hermione closed her eyes, soothed by the mere sound of his voice.

“Harry, pick me up please.” Her sobs became more audible.

“Calm down, Hermione. It’s okay.” She sobbed louder.

“Harry, I’m scared!”

“Wait for me, Hermione. Just stay still and hold on.”

She breathed in deeply, feeling the evening air fill her from head to toe. By now, her body had relaxed, and she suddenly felt a calmness that came unexpectedly. She closed her eyes in bliss, finally feeling the closure she’d needed provided by nature itself.

She felt two hands grasp her by the arms gently. He stroked down, slowly wrapping his arms around her. She snuggled into him, her eyes still closed from the sudden comfort she was feeling.

He dug his face into her neck, and at that instant her eyes opened in befuddlement.

“Harry, I don't think-“

She turned her whole body around, the swing moving slightly beneath her.

She jumped up and gasped.

Her eyes widened in fear as her body remained inches away from him.

“Hello, Hermione. It’s been a while.”

She blinked once.

“Malfoy.”

Hermione felt herself sink slowly onto the ground. Surprisingly, someone caught her.

“Potter!” Draco scowled.

---thepianist---

Harry ran swiftly through the sidewalk, his coat billowing behind him. The air swept roughly through his face, and he felt it sting heavily. The mere tone of fear Hermione gave him sparked not only worry, but fear in himself as well. At that moment, he knew that only God himself was aware on how nerve-racking this situation was for him.

The images that ran through his head were too gory to even mention, and he had scolded himself inwardly to actually think of them.

He glanced at his wristwatch anxiously, just as the sweat dripped profusely from his forehead. His chest heaved violently in tiredness, but he carried on with the mere image of Hermione in his head.

Upon turning the corner, he stopped momentarily, leaning his hand against the brick wall as he gasped for breath. He was just meters away from the park, and he took one last breath before he continued to run. His feet were suddenly numb upon the realization that he had just run two kilometers in rapid speed. The exhaustion started to seep through him, but he remained determined to get Hermione back home safe.

The sudden shift from asphalt to grass was slightly relaxing beneath the soles of his feet, and he looked around frantically for her.

“Hermione? Are you here?” He called out. He received no answer.

The post lights remained off, blinding him with the darkness brought on by the night.

“Hermione-“

“Harry, I don't think-“ His head jerked to the left.

“Hermione? Is that you?” He walked briskly, yet cautiously, aware of the obstacles he might step on. The silhouettes started to become visible to him, and he inched closer in eagerness.

“Hello Hermione. It’s been a while.” The mere sound of the stranger’s voice enraged Harry, making him walk faster than he did before.

“Malfoy.” He saw her silhouette sink down to the floor, and he ran immediately to her rescue. She lay frail in his arms, her eyes groggy from exhaustion. A ray of moonlight reflected part of her face, and at that moment, he felt the rage rise up to his head.

“Potter!” Draco scowled.

“How do you know me?” Harry asked, his eyebrows meeting in ferocity.

“There are lots of people that are aware of your existence, Potter. Hell, half of Great Britain probably knows you.” Draco mused to himself, both his hands folding across his chest. Harry swallowed, his face now showing traces of confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

“We know you’re alive.” He said in a hushed tone. The moment he looked up, Harry was pulsed by the eyes that stared fiercely back at him.

“And we want you dead.” Draco fell silent.

“…We?” Harry murmured. In an instant, a multitude of silhouettes appeared from every direction. Harry held tighter onto Hermione, whose face was now nestled calmly beneath his chest. He squinted his eyes, trying his best to make out the faces of everyone around him. He heard a resounding laugh of mirth that made his skin tingle, and made fear rise up to his chest.

“Who are you people!” He exclaimed. All of them chuckled.

“Oh Harry. We’re nobody, really.” Harry looked around frantically for the voice that had just resounded.

“Leave us alone!” Harry exclaimed once again. By his back, he heard a soft whisper.

“Harry, run.”

For a moment, Harry pondered on the action. It’ll show weakness, he thought. Then again, this situation wasn’t about weakness.

It was about saving her. Whatever it took.

In a swift motion, he ran through the men behind him, making them stumble to the floor as he ran and disappeared through a series of trees. Draco attempted to run after him, but Riddle held him back.

“Let the boy run. In the end, he’ll be running back to us anyway.”

-----thepianist-------

A/N: I AM OFFICIALLY LOUSY. Updating is such an easy thing to do, but I always refuse to do so. Anyway, I’m glad I got this finished. I have to tell you, I am now experiencing a major migrane, so forgive me if the chapter seems boring and dialogue-anorexic. I’ll make up for it in the next chapter.

Good day, loves!

11. The Paranoia

He was sitting by the soil, almost lifeless and immobile. She had never seen Harry so vulnerable in her whole life. She walked slowly to him, cautious of her every move. Is he angry, she thought to herself. Is he upset? These questions were strewn widely across her mind, making herself even more nervous as Harry lay inches away from her.

What have I done? She thought to herself.

If he hadn’t met her in the first place, he wouldn’t be in this mess. She scolded herself inwardly over and over again, out of shame and pity. She felt embarrassed to have ever put him in this complex situation.

“Harry?” she softly said. He was sobbing, with his face cast down on the soil. His whole body racked and shuddered, just as his tears flew quickly onto the floor. She wanted to cry with him.

“Harry, please stop crying.” She pleaded. He remained still.

“Harry.” She reached out to touch him.

She gasped.

Her hand went through his figure. She stared down at herself, only to find her whole body intact.

“Harry, can you hear me?” Her voice now showed traces of panic, as her mind swam in confusion. Harry remained immobile once again, his sobs non-existent once more.

“Answer me, Harry!” She felt her heart palpitate beneath her chest.

“You murdered me, Hermione.” She was left breathless. She gazed down at him, her mouth agape in pure shock and befuddlement.

“Wh-what?”

“You know what you did.”

She screamed.

His eyes were pitch black, and his face was pale-almost a shade of light blue. His neck was scarred severely with lacerations, and the flesh around his eyes were a dark shade of crimson. She stumbled backwards in horror.

“Harry—“

“Get away from me, Hermione!”

“I…I can’t!” He stood up seething as he approached her, his face glowering down at her. Their faces were inches away, almost touching, and Hermione felt herself hyperventilate.

“Get away, Hermione. I don’t need you.”

“But I need you!” He gave a laugh of mirth.

“Why?” She yelled it out.

“Because I love you!”

Her eyes shot open.

A fire was blazing in front of her, and the thick smell of incense started to fill her senses. She lay there in silence, her breathing escalating slightly. She went on with the usual saying that Dreams aren’t real. Yet, there was something about this dream that shot through her heart. It affected her so much, that merely the thought of it made her stomach clench. She wanted so much to forget about it, but the images remained firm in her head.

Giving up, she leaned up slowly, her head spinning slightly by the sudden change in atmosphere. She moaned slightly, just as her hair fell loose by her shoulders. She slouched lazily on the couch, with her eyes heavy-lidded.

“You’re awake.” She jumped slightly by the low sound of his voice. She didn’t notice his presence moments ago, for he was standing just inches from the fire place with his back turned to her.

“Yes, yes I am.” She said groggily, with a hint of amusement in her tone. She heard him chuckle slightly.

“You’ve been out for quite some time.” He mused. She blinked a few times on her seat, her head suddenly feeling light once again.

“I noticed. What time is it?”

“5 am.” He said, before turning to look at her. She was suddenly left breathless, almost like in her dream. There was something different, she thought. There was something about him that she considered at that moment to be one of the most attractive things she’d seen. He left her in a state of pure confusion, and she was fully aware on how dazed she looked at that moment.

Maybe it’s the fire behind him, she thought.

He looked exhausted, just as she. His hands were in his pockets, and his hair was ruffled and shaggy as it fell just above his shoulders. His collar was standing by the nape of his neck, and his sleeves were folded just by his elbows. His shirt lay untucked above his black pants, and his glasses lay askew by his nose.

She hitched a short breath.

“You look tired.” She mumbled. He took in a sigh, his head cast down on the floor.

“Well, that’s pretty much normal. My whole life is just tiring.” He mused to himself. She tried to say something, but no words came out from her lips. The sheets that once covered her slipped down to her lap, exposing the sheer material of her dress.

“How was your sleep?” he asked.

“It was…disturbing, to say the least.” A small smile crept up the corners of her lips as Harry quirked an eyebrow.

“Disturbing? How come?” He walked towards her, but stopped once again just as she started to speak.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I just dreamt of a crazy, psychopathic parallel universe where you looked like a deranged zombie.” He looked blankly back at her for a second, before breaking out in laughter. She chuckled with him, her chagrin growing within her.

“Well, that’s pretty flattering now, is it?”

“Pretty much, yes.” She replied.

“Well, don’t take this the wrong way. But next time, try to think of something more creative. Honestly, zombies?” She huffed in disbelief, her eyes twinkling in amusement.

“Oh, honestly. It’s not like you can think of something better.” Hermione said in rebuttal. Harry snickered.

“Oh, I can.”

“Show me.” She challenged him with an eyebrow raised. He nodded in acceptance.

“Fine. Let’s see…” Harry paced around the room, his shoes tapping against the marble flooring. Hermione looked at him skeptically, inwardly smiling by the sight of him in deep thought.

“Picture yourself amidst hills of pure green grass, and multicolored flowers. You’re on the very top, with the sunbeams illuminating yards and yards of mountains covered in grass, which are sparkling in snow. You take in a deep breath, feeling the chill of the fresh air soothe and calm you. You stand there and ponder on how life couldn’t be more perfect than it already is.”

He smiled slyly, seeing her face soften at his descriptive attempts. With a breath, he continued.

“You’re standing there, with your beautiful dress billowing behind you. Your bare feet dig deep into the soil, and you feel it soak them completely. Your face shows deep contentment and happiness ad you stand there, with your hair flowing behind you. You’re at complete and utter peace.” In that moment, he saw her eyes slowly close. At this, his face became somber. He took that time to ponder on what happened moments ago. He realized on how nervous he got at that point, being in the middle of his own vulnerability. He remembered that at that moment, all he wanted was to save her.

And there she was, unscathed.

And finally at peace.

With another breath, he continued.

“With each breath you release, comes the release of each burden: the burden of life, the burden of society, and the burden of love.” At that statement, he saw Hermione’s eyebrows frown for a moment. He smiled, drifting closer and closer to her.

“As you stand there, it’s silent. And you feel him.” He smirked at the sudden shift in her posture.

“You feel him behind you, and you smirk slightly. You’re about to face him, but he holds your arm to stop you. His grip was firm, but gentle as he caressed your arm gently. It sent shivers down your spine, and you stopped yourself from swooning into his arms.” The latter statement made her grin slightly.

“You feel his head by the nape of your neck, his hot breath against the surface of your skin.” He positions himself behind her, before placing himself just inches from her ear. He whispers slightly.

It made her jump.

“You want to face him. You want to look into his eyes and surrender yourself to him. But he doesn’t let you. He lets you stand there, still.” Hermione stiffened by the feel of the hot air brought about by his whispers. She tried to keep her composure, yet her toes started to feel eager.

“And lastly, he whispers those three words that mortify you to no end.”

She held tightly onto the armrest of the couch.

“I’m a werewolf.” Her eyes shot open with a mixture of amusement and disappointment. Harry walked briskly in front of her, a goofy grin playing on his lips.Her arms folded by her chest, as her lips formed into a pout.

“Was that your poor attempt at humor, Sir Potter?” She teased him. He gave a bow, with his hands by his bent stomach.

“Well, yes. And it was pretty creative, don’t you think?” She laughed.

“Oh, I don't think so.” She said in wittiness. Harry looked at her with a teasing look of shock.

“What? Well, I’m scandalized Ms. Granger!” Hermione gave a small laugh in reply.

“You actually think that was decent?”

“Yes.” He answered plainly. Hermione gave a teasing scoff.

“Oh, honestly! To me, that was a sexual fantasy.” By this statement, Harry folded his arms across his chest.

“Oh, you think so?”

“Now I know what you think about late at night, Sir Potter.” Hermione mused, her smile widening as she saw the look of disbelief on Harry’s face. She gave a small wink as he pouted, taking a seat beside her on the couch. She scooted farther to her left to give him space as he crossed his legs briskly.

“Well Ms. Granger, how are you so sure that those fantasies stop with I’m a werewolf? Because honestly, I can think of some more scenarios that can leave you speechless.” Hermione side-glanced him with another look of skepticism.

“Wow.” She said slowly, her lips forming into a perfect ‘O’. Harry quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Wow, what?” he asked.

“You’re one randy gentleman.” She laughed. He looked at her, nonplussed.

“Oh, I can say the same for you.” Her eyes widened in amused shock as she spanked him teasingly on the arm.

“Oh, touché Sir Potter. I’ll get you next time.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.” He replied, a smile now present in both their lips. At that moment, the sun had completely shown through the windows, having illuminated half of Harry’s face. Hermione saw his eyes twinkle slightly.

“It’s probably late. I’ll get us some tea. Would you want some?” He suddenly asked, snapping her out of her reverie. She gazed back at him with a lazy smile.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Okay, wait here.” He said, holding her hand for a split second before standing up and walking briskly towards the kitchen. Upon his exit, she gave a small sigh, feeling her palm tingle slightly where his hand used to be. She bit lightly on her bottom lip, her cheeks reddening greatly as she sat there, motionless.

Somehow, the world didn’t seem so cruel at that moment.

---thepianist---

“Hello?”

“Riddle. It’s Pettigrew. We have some unfinished business.”

Riddle smirked.

---thepianist---

A/N: Oh, loveliness. That small scene with our beloved couple gave me a few squees here and there. Honestly, why didn’t JKR just let them end up together? Ughk. Oh well, we can’t do anything about it. I’m just glad our fandom remains up and running.

[P.S: I hate Microsoft word. Le Period]

Good day, loves!

12. The Raging Fire

She didn’t really bother taking another sip from the cup of tea that was nestled firmly within her palms. She was in too much pain to do so. The first sip had burned her tongue, and now it was throbbing endlessly. Harry was seated beside her with a crooked smile on his face. They sat there in silence, and it was almost too silent for Hermione to bear.

Harry immediately noticed her uneasiness.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked her in a worried tone.

She jumped slightly. “Oh, uh, yes. Yes I am.” She closed her eyes momentarily as she inwardly scolded herself. Harry gave a slight chuckle, whilst taking another sip from his cup.

“You don't like my tea very much, do you?” She looked at him too quickly that her vertebrae snapped momentarily, making her wince. Harry looked at her with innocence.

“What makes you say that?” She asked in a slightly stuttering manner.

“Well, I’m almost done with mine. And as I can see, yours is still just as full as it was two hours ago.” Harry took his last sip before placing the mug onto the coaster. Hermione stared at his empty cup for a while. Harry chuckled slightly.

“I apologize. Then again, who could blame me? The tea practically paralyzed my tongue.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And that gives you the right to leave the poor thing broken and shattered on the inside, sulking in such low self-esteem, knowing that he wasn’t good enough for a young lady who apparently drank at the wrong time?” She was left speechless. No, not because she didn’t understand a word he had just said, but because at that moment she had remembered the occurrences that happened the night before.

Harry noticed her lack of amusement, and hid the chagrin that started to show by his cheeks.

“Sorry. My attempts at wit need a little practice.” He mused to her. She nodded in a monotonous manner. He smiled with as much enthusiasm he could muster, yet she remained nonplussed. She now seemed dazed, almost hypnotized by the blazing fire in front of them.

“Hey,” He grasped her by the hand, causing her to look at him in a swift motion. She looked at his hand on top of hers and tried her best to get back to her thoughts, which seemed to have drifted away.

“Are you okay? You know you could tell me anything.” He said in a much more serious tone. His voice was low and hushed, and she blinked once as a reply. Harry sighed to himself before letting her hand go.

“You’re just tired. Come, I’ll show you to your room-“

“Harry.” She held onto his left knee before he could stand up fully from the couch. He looked back at her with questioning eyes.

“We can’t keep avoiding the topic of last night’s events.” She whispered to him. Harry looked down slightly, with his hair shielding his face fully.

“I just thought it would be nicer if we discussed it at a more appropriate time.” He mumbled.

“This is an appropriate time. It’s better than having to keep it in the dark.” She felt his heart palpitate, just by the mere look on his face. He looked fearful, almost vulnerable.

“I’m sorry you had to get involved in this, Hermione.” She heard him mutter.

She detested him for apologizing. “Rubbish. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I got you into this mess. The real reason they’re doing this is because of my parents and me. God knows what they have against us, but it seems pretty strong that they’re willing to affect the people around me.”

“You didn’t get me into this mess. Everything happens for a reason, as cliché as it may sound. Things have changed for you, and for me as well, and the only way we can solve this is to accept the fact that we live in this mundane, psychopathic…almost perfect reality.” She was speaking, yet she didn’t feel that it was really her talking. Her brain seemed to have shut itself out by the first few words of her sentence. She seemed more empowered, and more enlightened than she had ever been. He looked at her, and it almost shocked her to find herself tantalized by his sunken eyes.

“I just don't want you getting hurt because of me.” The sincerity in his tone almost justified the escalated beating of her heart. Almost.

“And I emulate your feelings. Trust me when I say that you’re the last person I’d want to see hurting.” She took in a deep breath that pierced through her lungs. She was thankful to at least see an effort to smile in him. It tugged at the corner of his lips, and she smiled with him as well.

“I won’t say some useless rubbish like ‘we can get through this together’, because that would make me uncertain. What I am certain about, however, is that we will try to surpass this.” Somehow, his eyes sparkled vividly at her words, and that certain feeling of accomplishment started to seep through her.

“Harry, what I saw last night was morbid and wrong and just…completely maniacal, that I couldn’t even bare talking about it without feeling nauseated.” Harry looked at her with an amused look.

“Was that random or what?” He chuckled. Hermione remained blank for a few seconds, before analyzing what she had just said. She snickered with him for a minute’s time before composing herself once again. She scolded herself inwardly on saying the stupidest things when she tries to make a point.

“Oh, of course it wasn’t random! I just really wanted to express how much it made me want to puke out the beans I had the day before. Or maybe it had gone in a different direction…?” She said laughingly, a look of sarcasm present on her features. Harry’s chuckles morphed into a bemused laugh. Soon enough, both of them seemed to be lost in their own laughs, gaping for air once in a while. Hermione looked sideways, only to hear Harry’s genuine laugh reverberate around the walls of the living room. This, in turn, made her glad that somehow, he found the time to laugh amidst the chaos they had brought themselves into.

Harry’s attempts at stopping only made it worse, as his feet tangled within Hermione’s crumpled sheets, dragging them both from the couch to the floor. Now, Hermione found their current position very compromising, to say he least. Soon enough, she found herself very uneasy, rather than chagrined by the fact that she was leaning, quite forcefully, on top of him.

Harry was still laughing, obviously unaware on how awkward this situation was for her.

“My apologies, Hermione.” Harry said in between chuckles. She smiled shyly, her elbows nestling, quite comfortably actually, on his chest.

“It’s okay.” She whispered breathlessly, and still in full knowledge that Harry was clueless on the effect of this on her. Harry’s laughter died down immediately, and it was then that Hermione stared down at him.

It wasn’t a very cinematic moment, but it would do.

Harry smiled up at her, and she had done nothing but smile back widely. Too widely actually, that she had suddenly gone conscious of her teeth. She frowned instantly, her embarrassment showing by her cheeks. With a sigh, she rolled over to his side unsatisfied.

“That was fun.” Harry said as he looked sideways at her. She looked back at him, their faces within a safe distance from each other.

“Agreed.” Simultaneously, both looked back up to the pristine white ceiling, with nothing but contented expressions on their faces. The carpet beneath them seemed so comfortable to Hermione, that somehow, she was tempted to go back to sleep.

“Thank you for the laugh, Hermione. I needed it.” Harry said softly.

“Well, you’re very welcome. Thank you for taking me in at my moment of weakness. I needed it more.” She replied.

“You’re welcome.” Harry said in a low, drowsy voice. With that, Hermione’s eyelids slowly closed themselves. She wanted to drift into a deep sleep once again, and wake up to a night filled with full teacups and endless hours of chat with him. She was so fascinated by him, and his whole story. And somehow, wherever it was hidden, she fancied his whole being. She adored him.

“Hermione, I might’ve just had an epiphany.” Harry suddenly said. Her eyes opened immediately.

“And what might that be?” She asked, curiosity piqued inside of her.

“We might just need each other more than we think.” He didn’t bother to look at her, and neither did she to him. It was understood.

“You might’ve just summed up everything in my head right now.”

The sun was at full blast, and Lunch neared. Hermione figured she didn’t need to eat anymore. She’d had enough tea for the day.

---thepianist---

“Sir Pettigrew. How lovely to see you this morning.” A short stout man walked briskly through the small doorframe with his chin up high. His petticoat billowed behind him as the wind flew violently past the both of them. His top hat sat firmly on top of his head; Too firmly perhaps, that people may assume that it is glued to his head. Other than that, Riddle still felt that jolt of excitement in him.

“Same here, Sir Riddle. Now, would you please lead me to a table so we could discuss some serious matters?” Peter Pettigrew demanded hotly. Riddle obliged to his requests immediately, calling out Draco’s name, who was assigned to watch over their conversation on that day. Peter eyed him questioningly, but Riddle assured him that Draco would keep the confidentiality of their dialogue sacred.

“So Sir Pettigrew—“

“Please. Call me Peter.” He interrupted. Riddle nodded in respect.

“Peter, my apologies. So as I was saying, you called me days ago to discuss something with me?” Riddle questioned. Peter looked at him with distaste for a second.

“Ah, yes. Well, I shall explain it to you bit by bit so that you may realize the grave importance of the situation-“ Draco coughed by the far end, interrupting Peter for a second. He mumbled a small sorry, urging Peter to continue.

“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,” Draco glared at him. “Tom, it seems to me that your whole army owns us a sum of money.” By this time, Riddle seemed confused.

“Army? What army?” He asked in all befuddlement. Peter rolled his eyes for a second in frustration.

“Your bloody English army from the war! You borrowed a sum of money from our side, if you don’t recall.” The image of James Potter flashed in Riddle’s head, and an immediate smile appeared on his expression

“Oh, you say? I don’t really recall any…”

“Don’t play with me, Riddle!” Peter exclaimed furiously. Riddle seemed non-pulsed.

“Look Peter, I think your shouting is unreasonable. Let us handle this as gentlemen, not as degenerates.” Peter sat down as Riddle asked of him, yet still seething from the rage he felt at those moments.

“Tom, I am talking about serious matters here. A representative of yours borrowed a large amount of money from us. Now, we expected it back a week after, but it never came. Knowing that you were the General of the troop, you should know where it is, or at least take the initiative to give it back to its rightful owners.”

“Peter, I can honestly say that I don’t know any money-borrowing matters such as that.” Peter sighed deeply. Somehow, Riddle was having fun playing this game of his. The smug smile on his face said so.

“Tom, you are well aware that I was a spy for the German army, am I correct?”

“Well, of course! One of the finest, actually.”

“And I’ve stuck to that mission up to now. What I can say now, however, is that the government over there doesn’t seem very pleased with what they’ve lost. They’re starting to threaten you, Tom. Soon enough, they’ll be threatening our country.” Peter’s face was blank, and his voice was almost monotonous. Riddle, however, remained composed on his seat.

“They know about the money that we ‘allegedly’ borrowed?” He asked.

“Sadly, yes. They found out about it missing, but not exactly who stole it. They’re on a serious search right now.” Peter gave him a knowing look, and Riddle nodded his head in agreement.

“Ah, yes. Of course. Well, I’m sorry to say this but I’m completely clueless on this whole situation. Perhaps if you give me the name of the representative, it can refresh my memory?” Peter remained silent in thought, and from the far end, Draco smirked to himself.

“Yes, yes I remember. His name was James Potter. He said you requested for the money to build campsites in five different locations.” Riddle looked more pleased than he has ever been.

“Well Peter, First of all you’ve been cheated on. I didn’t request for anything. And secondly, James Potter is dead.” The way Peter’s face paled seemed so amusing to Riddle that it made him chuckle to himself.

“You-you’re bloody kidding me.”

“No, I’m afraid I’m not.” Peter looked stricken at that moment, as he sat immobile on his seat.

“Condemn me to hell, why don’t you?” Peter muttered to himself. Riddle shifted in his seat, to have himself facing Peter directly in the eye.

“Peter, I don’t know if this is enough, but I know something—actually someone who can satisfy your needs.”

“I don’t need a bloody prostitute right now!” At this remark, Draco snorted in amusement at Peter’s stupidity.

“No, you randy bastard. I’m talking about an heir to James Potter.” Peter remained dead still as his pupils dilated in mischief.

“He has a son?”

Riddle’s plans were going quite well.

---thepianist---

A/N: I find Riddle to be one of the sexiest people alive. Honestly. His mischief is just too adorable (excluding the utter adorableness of Harry and Hermione, of course). Well, I have to tell you, this little piece was written amidst the state of pure writer’s block. You could tell how crappy some parts are (and by crappy I mean totally cliché).

Thank you to the Hot IQ’s for serving me a dose of their awesome music to keep me writing.

13. The Unexpected

Harry tried to decipher how he truly felt at those small moments as he woke up once again. It was a mixture of nausea and light-headedness, which apparently made his eyes droop. He glanced out the window to see the sun setting. His head was still firm against the carpeted floor, and he’d wondered how he fell asleep in the first place.

It was then that he felt his right arm numb severely.

He attempted to pull away, yet a heavy weight disrupted him. Hermione lay cuddled within his arm, her breathing steady as she got lost in her own deep sleep. Harry suddenly felt himself grow conscious. He closed his eyes for a second as he tried to distract himself from the shoots of numbness that started to fill his whole body, as well as the tight clenching of his stomach by the mere sight of her. She shifted slightly in her position, before slowly draping her arm to his chest.

His breathing escalated.

Her face was now dangerously close to his, just as her head rested idly by his shoulder. It was a sight strong enough to drive him mad. The mere feel of her breath against his skin caused his heart to beat rapidly beneath his chest. It was enough that their bodies were too close for comfort.

His breath hitched.

Hermione’s hand snaked slowly, almost featherlike, down to his stomach, making Harry’s mind go blank. He heard her sigh in her sleep in contentment, and noticed a small smile that started to form on her lips.

By this, he finally attempted to sit up from his compromising position, but was then halted by the small, almost inaudible whisper from Hermione’s lips.

“Harry…”

He remained still, cautious of any more movement that may wake her up.

“Oh Harry…”

The small moan that escaped her lips made his eyes widen. He dared not to imagine what was going on in her subconscious at that point. If he dared to, it might lead to him doing something drastic, which he certainly didn’t want.

Yet somehow, the mere thought of their bodies entangled within each other made his mind clear out of all possible thoughts…

He slapped himself mentally. The thought brought him into a state of perversion. Shaking his head slightly, trying to brush out every single thought related to Hermione’s small moans, he turned his head slightly to look at her. By the sight of her, his heart warmed deeply. It had actually shocked him on how much they have gone through the past few days, even amidst being strangers, up to their immediate friendship. Involuntarily, he felt himself brush a stray strand of hair from her face, leaving it bare for him to see.

She was so beautiful, it entranced him and left him speechless.

His eyes remained firm on her, traveling from her forehead, to the freckles by her nose, down to her plump lips that remained slightly parted as she slept. Harry suddenly had the urge to kiss them, and to brush his own against it and feel her moan through her swollen lips. He blinked a few times to vanish the small fantasy. Instead, he traced it lightly with his thumb, feeling her lips brush smoothly against his skin. He gulped down deeply, feeling the familiar clenching in his stomach once again.

It was then that he brushed his palm softly against the length of her arm, tracing each and every inch of it, down to the very last finger that lay softly by his stomach. It somehow pleased him to see the small goosebumps rise on her skin. She shifted on his arm once again, and Harry had inwardly prayed that she wouldn’t face the other direction.

His prayers were answered immediately.

Her hands snaked back up to his chest, yet her face inched closer and closer to his. Harry looked at her, his face so near to hers, as he shifted his whole body to face her. Her hands fell lightly onto the carpet, and somehow, he had missed the feel of her hand against his skin. Finally, her eyes started to flutter open. Slowly, she was greeted by a tantalizing pair of green eyes.

Somehow lost in a daze, Hermione stared at him breathlessly. Even amidst her droopy daze, she was still quite aware of the current situation she was in.

She held her breath. An inch more, and their foreheads could touch. Harry was looking at her intently, somehow courageously, just as she did the same to him. She tried to say something, yet she seemed incapable of doing so as she felt her own voice abandon her. Her lips remained parted as she lay there, almost speechless at their display of intimacy.

“Hermione, I…” Harry licked his lips slowly, somehow making Hermione’s heart palpitate beneath her chest. His voice was incredibly husky that it took her some time to recover from the heat that suddenly surged through her.

“I just…” He continued. Somehow, at the same time, both of them sat up slowly, their eyes still heavily gazing at each other. A sleeve of Hermione’s dress fell slightly from her shoulder, revealing that bare skin that traced all the way up to her neck.

Harry gulped.

Their bodies were so close that it somehow excited both of them. Hermione could feel the shoots of anticipation all over her body, and somehow, she knew that Harry felt it too.

Slowly, their faces inched closer to each other, even amidst Hermione’s subconscious debate with herself. She felt her heart pumping through her ears, and it slightly deafened her. She felt her palms grasp tightly onto the carpet as it shook slightly.

The images from her previous dream made her even more anxious than she already was.

Neither of them spoke, afraid to ruin the moment they both shared. They feared that even the smallest sound, even as infinitesimal as a pencil dropping, could ruin it.

Their closeness was incomparable, having them feel each other’s breaths brush against their cheeks. Slowly, Harry’s lips brushed against hers slightly. The mere contact made Hermione’s mind go blank. Their lips still weren’t in full contact, and Hermione suddenly felt restless by the mere tease of Harry’s lips against hers.

Harry felt her growing need, and finally took initiative.

With as much courage, he pushed him lips forward—

Hermione sighed.

He found himself swearing inwardly to himself, and with much coherency, as his lips landed onto her cheeks by the insistent knocking on the door. His eyes shut close in embarrassment.

“Bloody Hell.” He whispered to himself. He stood up, his face in a full frown as he approached the door. Hermione’s face was downcast, her eyes shut closed as well by the sudden feeling of disappointment.

Harry opened the door slowly, all the while aware of how he would seem to the person behind the door if they saw the frown on his face.

“What-“ He was cut off.

“Sorry to bother you, Harry. I need a place to stay. Would it be all right if I crash here first?” He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

“Ginny?”

---thepianist---

“I didn’t want to intrude or anything. It’s just been such a long day for me.” Ginny voluntarily carried her luggage into the house, before dropping it audibly on the floor. It caused a small series of echoes through the ceiling.

“Oh, not at all…I guess.” Harry stated, his face forming into a frown as Ginny made her way towards the kitchen. He followed after her slowly, making sure to cast a sideway glance at Hermione, who looked just as confused as he was.

Upon entering, Ginny was already seated by the counter, holding a beer bottle within her palms.

“Ruddy bastard. Can’t even get his head straight for one whole minute! He’s like a child that needs a nanny! Honestly!” She exclaimed in between sips. Harry leaned by the wall, obviously uninterested in her rant.

“Look Ginny. I don’t mean to sound rude but, why the hell are you here?” Ginny stopped midway in her drinking, obviously pulsed by Harry’s sudden question.

“Am I not welcome here or something?” Ginny asked in a worried tone. Harry looked at her with a straight face, obviously unsure on what to answer her.

“It’s not that. I mean, one day I’m punching your best mate, the next you’re here asking for a place to stay.” Harry took the seat next to her, his hands placed firmly on the counter. Ginny stared blankly ahead of her, the beer bottle twirling softly within her fingertips.

“I apologize, really. It’s just—ever since you brought up Seamus’ past, it’s all he ruddy talks about. He’s like a walking guilt-stick! He’s been sulking and whining, and it’s irritating the wits out of me!” Her last sentence echoed through the small walls of the kitchen.

“I’m sorry…?”

“Nah, It’s not your fault. The git brought himself into this mess. I mean, he was the one so eager to visit you that day. ‘Dunno what in blazes got into him, but he looked pretty confused before we arrived here that day.” She took another sip from her bottle, and with a soft pop of her lips, she spoke again.

“Although don’t get offended by what I’m going to say next, but you never really gave him a chance to talk.” She looked at Harry with an honest frown. Harry sighed beside her, his face looking down onto the floor.

“You’re right, I didn’t. But he still didn’t have the right to say those things to me.”

“Ah hell, but it’s all over now. Besides, he needs as much space as he can get. And being his best mate, I should be the first to give that to him.” She glanced sideways at him, only to find him staring back at her with an expressionless face. Somehow, she couldn’t hold the blush that started to form by her cheeks.

“You’re doing a wonderful thing for him, Ginny. I really commend you on that.” A small smile formed on his lips, making her blush even more.

“Thanks, I guess.” She said finally, before looking straight once again. Harry looked at her with an intense look of confusion. Something about her interested him, and it piqued his curiosity.

“So, anyway. You’re free to stay here. We have an extra guest room upstairs.” Ginny suddenly looked worried.

“We?” She questioned. Harry opened his mouth to answer, but was halted midway as Hermione entered the kitchen. She was wearing a small smile on her lips, with her hair tied neatly in a bun by her nape. Ginny eyed her suspiciously, somehow skeptically, before throwing Harry a questioning look.

“Oh-Ginny, this is-“ Hermione took the initiative and extended her hand out to her.

“I’m Hermione.” Ginny stared at her hand for a few moments before nodding her head in reply.

“Ginny. Hi.” Hermione retreated her hand, which was hanging idly in midair. She tried to hide her agitation towards Ginny’s apparent rudeness. The two girls stared at each other in silence, both of their faces expressionless. Harry, noticing the sudden awkwardness, suddenly spoke.

“So anyway, should I carry your luggage upstairs?” He asked Ginny, who then looked at him with a frown.

“I didn’t know you had company. Are you sure I’m not intruding on you two or something? I mean…” She cast a knowing glance to Hermione, which made both Harry and she blush furiously.

“Oh, no. Hermione’s a…friend.” Somehow, his statement made her heart drop down to the floor. Amidst that, she tried to nod in agreement with him.

“Yeah. I just needed a place to stay too so Harry offered me to stay as well.” She explained. Ginny looked at her skeptically at first, before nodding as she stood up to get her luggage.

“So, where to?” She asked.

“Right upstairs. Follow me.” Harry said as he stood up, purposely brushing past Hermione as he exited. His fingers brushed against her arm, and she tried so hard to stand still. Inwardly, she felt her knees start to buckle beneath her. She looked back slightly, only to find him side by side with Ginny as they rushed upstairs. The familiar scent of his perfume still lingered by her side, and it intoxicated her to no end.

Suddenly feeling lonely, she walked back to the couch, her back slouching as she tried to hold back the look of confusion that threatened to play on her face. She pondered greatly on what this all meant- having known that the events that happened earlier weren’t just an accident. Harry had obviously, really intended to kiss her.

It gave her chills just thinking about it.

Her heart palpitated beneath her chest at the mere imagery of the past events. It was such a gorgeous moment, that she resented Ginny for ruining it. Suddenly, her face frowned.

The nerve of that girl! she huffed to herself. The rudeness she displayed moments ago was unacceptable. And to think that she actually had the nerve to volunteer herself to stay here. Bloody prat! she thought begrudgingly. She had seen the way she looked at him earlier. If she was not mistaken, she was actually flirting with him.

I refuse to be jealous of that insensitive woman! She exclaimed inwardly, her hands now clutching onto the throw pillows tightly in aggravation. But then, that same thought brought her into a moment of realization.

I’m actually jealous! She pondered. The thought of actually being jealous of Ginny was, even to her, absurd. What was she jealous about? This question rang in her head repetitively. Maybe, she thought, it was the way she scooted herself closer to Harry upon saying her thanks. Or maybe it was the way she threw herself at Harry…

But she didn’t even do such a thing! It was a mere conversation between two acquaintances! Ruddy hell, I’m jealous about a small, stupid conversation? She thought incredulously. But then, she couldn’t really blame herself. Who could, honestly? She had just experienced the most intimate moment with Harry earlier, that she had almost combusted right on the spot. Who could blame her for suddenly being too protective?

She’d known him for a fair amount of time, and their immediate friendship was something she did not regret at all. She would be damned if she didn’t go to The Old Stallion that fateful night. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have met him. She wouldn’t have known him.

And with a small pang as she thought of this, she wouldn’t have been in this mess.

She felt utterly stupid for actually thinking of it, but it was somehow true.

As she stared at the ashen fireplace, she had imagined her life without Harry. She imagined a life where she had never met him, and where she had never befriended him. Upon this thought, all she saw was her own misery.

Closing her eyes slightly, she sighed.

She could not deny, however, that she had wished that life were normal once again for her, and possibly, for Harry as well. The mere thought of his whole life as a struggle pained her deeply and made her eyes sparkle with tears. Maybe that’s why she was there.

She was his savior.

And he was hers.

“We really do need each other more than we think.”

---thepianist---

Peter Pettigrew sat impatiently on the wooden rocking chair, his eyes slightly droopy as the moon started to rise. Riddle had been on the phone for the past hour, talking non-stop to someone that was beyond Peter’s knowledge. He spoke in a low tone, almost inaudible for Peter to hear, and his face was expressionless.

“Hey Riddle, My time is the last thing you’d want to waste!” He exclaimed. Riddle cast him a small glance before turning back to his conversation. By the far end, Draco waited patiently by the door, both his hands firmly by his back.

“Hey boy!” He called out to him. Draco paid no attention to him.

“Hey boy! I’m talking to you!” He shouted louder. Still, he was remained unnoticed. Out of irritation, Peter finally stood up.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, you bloody son of a b-“ he was silenced as Draco pulled out a pistol and directed it straight at his forehead. By the far end, Peter saw a small grin form on Riddle’s lips.

“W-What do you think you’re doing!” He stuttered. Draco smirked.

“I can pull this trigger right now and blow the brains out of your bloody head, but out of respect, I won’t.”

“Are you threatening me?” Peter screamed incredulously. Draco seemed non-pulsed.

“Yes, you idiot. Now sit down and wait for the General to finish. If you wish to do otherwise, consider yourself dead.” Draco glowered at him, the gun still firmly placed in front of Peter’s face. With a deep scowl, Peter retreated back to his seat, muttering silently under his breath. Draco retreated the gun as well, hiding it once again by his back pocket.

Minutes passed, and Riddle was still in the middle of his heated conversation. Peter tapped his shoe impatiently onto the hardwood floors, earning a glare from Draco. He stopped immediately, threatened by the smirk that played on his lips.

“Peter.” His head snapped up, only to find Riddle facing him at last.

“Finally. Who were you talking to anyway?”

“Just a friend. I’ve brought you some good news, and some bad news.” Riddle said, taking a seat across from him. Peter looked at him expectantly with eyes of curiosity.

“Go on.”

“The good news is, my friend knows someone who can track down Potter’s whereabouts.” Peter’s face lightened up.

“Fantastic!”

“Well, the bad news is, your little friends at Germany have just arrived in Britain.” By this statement, Peter’s face had paled.

“…You’re bloody serious?”

“Yes. And they’ve got some weapons to prove their point.”

---thepianist---

A/N: It’s been a bloody two weeks, and I can honestly say that I tried my best to update. But it seems as though my inspiration only arrived recently. For that, I terribly apologize- not just for the lateness of this update, but for the tease I gave you at the first part. Amidst that, I hope some points of this chapter didn't disappoint all of you. (: