A Tune For His Music

cakeandmilk

Rating: PG
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 20/08/2009
Last Updated: 20/08/2009
Status: completed

Life’s music, Harry Potter thinks. It’s a compilation of scenes of Harry and Hermione’s love story with how Harry thinks Hermione is this precious music box. It’s better than it sounds. Trust me.

Chapters

1. A Note; A Tune; His Music

1. A Note; A Tune; His Music

Disclaimer: Harry Potter - not mine.

Rating: PG

Summary: Life's music, Harry Potter thinks. It's a compilation of scenes of Harry and Hermione's love story with how Harry thinks Hermione is this precious music box. It's better than it sounds. Trust me.

WARNING: Character death (at the end)

AN: Dimethylmercury, my beta reader, once again helped me through this story when it was on the verge of falling off the cliff and me on the verge of tears while trying desperately to save it. So, yeah, thank you Dimethylmercury!

AN2:The pronoun usage is a bit confusing. Mostly I used `she' and `her' referring to Hermione and `he' and `his' referring to Harry. When other characters present themselves, I use their respective names. Aside from his title “A Note; A Tune; His Music”, this story also goes by the title “A Tune For His Music”, a less mouthful of a name. Enjoy!

It is a chilly November night in Muggle London. The usually busy streets of London are quiet, dark, and abandoned.

Shops and stores are closed, street lights are switched on, and a few cars and buses occasionally pass by.

A simple park sits nearby - with trees, swings, sand boxes, and benches stationed at some of its area. Right beside the tree is a small pond, its water glittering and reflecting the moonlight.

It is calm. It is peaceful.

Two tall shadows make their way to the trees. They are of a man and a woman who want to be a boy and a girl again.

It is past midnight. The two stand by the tree, whispering to each other sweet words only they can hear. Chuckles and quiet laughs play and tinkle around the cold air of the night.

They face towards the pond, their faces illuminated by the eerie glow of the moon, and smile at its beauty.

The man has jet black hair that goes out in all directions. His face is pale but his eyes retain their vivid green beneath the wire-rimmed glasses. The woman has curly brown hair that is as messy as the man's. Her face, too, is pale and plain but exquisite in his eyes. She has the deepest of brown eyes and her lips are quirked upwards into a stunning smile.

She feels his stare on her and turns to look at him. He gives her a small smile before taking her hand and spinning her.

She laughs as she turns and he laughs with her. She swings and spins once again into his arms. A couple more turns and she finds herself facing him nestled in his arms with her hands on his shoulders and his around her waist, pulling her close.

She raises an eyebrow. “You've been practicing, Mr. Potter?”

He blushes but his eyes never leave hers. “I may have been practicing a step or two,” he whispers.

She smiles up at him then rests her chin on his shoulder and closes her eyes. He leans his gently at hers and she feels his breath on her ear.

They start to sway with the moon's glow bathing them, their rhythm threatening to lull them both to sleep.

She breaks the silence, her eyes still closed. “We are dancing but we do not have any music.”

He smiles and whispers, “We do not need any.”

“Of course, we do.”

She starts humming an unfamiliar tune but it relaxes him. He closes his eyes as they sway with her created tune under the pale moonlight.

It's his melody — the symphony of his life, the flourish humming music of his love.

*~*

He enters the room and immediately spots her sleeping peacefully. Smiling, he lies down beside her.

She stirs and brown eyes peeks from beneath closed eyelids. Eagerly, she snuggles closer to him.

Staring at her form as she sleeps, he smiles. Her hair is wayward from her slumber yet she is more beautiful every time he sees her.

He rests his head on her chest, just above her heart, as he listens to its beat like a child listening to a song.

He does that almost every night - listening to her heartbeat until it calms him to sleep. It helps keep the nightmares away, it helps keep the dejection at bay, and it helps keep the solitude within reach.

It is his lullaby — the tempo of his sleep, the interlude before his dreams.

He loves her that is for sure. He knows it with every fibre of his being. He knows it with his very soul.

And he's never going to let go. Ever.

*~*

He comes down from the stairs as a raucous laughter booms through the kitchen walls.

He knows that laugh. Upon entering the kitchen, he sees a redheaded stuffing his mouth with cereals.

“Nice,” he says without any malice.

“Morning, mate!” Ron Weasley's voice greets him.

“Raiding our fridge early, Ron?” he asks as he stands behind his wife, looking over her shoulder as she fries bacon.

She smiles without taking her eyes off the pan and he wraps his arms around her waist while dropping kisses on her neck.

“Oi! None of that while I'm eating!” Ron exclaims.

“Well, you should not have come here so early to eat breakfast then,” she retorts good-naturedly.

Ron pretends he has not heard her and continues eating.

He grins and fixes himself a cup of coffee. She places his breakfast in front of him as he sits beside Ron.

“Hey Harry, Mum gives her thanks for the silver platter and the basket full of snacks you sent to my flat. Though I wonder why the bloody hell you sent carrots and radishes as well,” Ron says.

“Why is your Mum be saying the `thank you' when you are the one recipient?” she asks incredulously.

Ron just shrugs.

She rolls her eyes and he cannot help but to smile at her `Hermione'-ish ways.

Then he stops short. “Ron, I did not send you anything…”

She looks at him surprised and it is his turn to shrug.

“You did not?” Ron asks.

“Nope.”

“Then who sent it?” Ron questions, baffled.

A moment passes before her laugh interrupts his and Ron's thoughts.

“What's so funny?” he asks, a grin forming in his own lips. He cannot help it. Her laughter is infectious.

“Honestly, Ron!” she gasps out between peals of laughter.

“What?” Ron asks densely.

“You mentioned there were carrots and radishes?” she confirms, the grin on her face still present. Laughter is threatening to spill from her again.

“Yes, lots of them.”

And then Harry understands. He starts to laugh as well.

“What is it?” Ron asks irritably as he looks back and forth between his two best friends.

“L-Luna sent them to you, mate. Not me,” he states matter-of-factly.

Ron pales and he forgets his food. The sound of the spoon dropping to and clanging against the table makes her laugh harder.

Ron stares past the walls of the kitchen ostensibly, his mind wandering over to a blonde girl with a radish-fetish.

Harry barely registers Ron's “Bloody hell!” for his eyes are once again fixed on the laughing girl - no, woman - in front of him.

Her eyes are sparkling with mirth and her form shaking silently from amusement. She is leaning on the countertop. Her hair is as uncontrollable as ever but despite the messy appearance, he remains spellbound.

He loves hearing her laugh. It is uplifting - her laugh.

It is one of his favourite sounds in the world.

At times when she is careworn from work, he will do utterly anything to make her zealous again, to bring that bookish energy she always has with her.

When he succeeds, he is awarded with those breathtaking smiles and that laugh that makes everything worth it.

It is his coffee; it is the tune of his power and the melody of his happiness.

*~*

He comes home to a dark living room.

He feels cold. What happened?

She is supposed to be here waiting for him. Or in the kitchen busy with work.

But she is not.

He trudges up the stairs towards their room and he finds her there.

Her crumpled form is on the bed.

He moves towards her. “Hermione?”

She does not answer but he can see her shoulders shaking.

His knees buckle. He holds onto the doorframe and shakes off this despair.

He hates seeing her cry with those anguished tears. When he sees her cry like this, he wants to murder whoever is responsible. When he sees her cry like this, he wants to enclose her in a shell and protect her from all harm.

He slowly approaches her shaking form and wraps his arms around her.

She automatically responds to his touch and hugs him tighter.

Her sobs racks her body and he cannot think of anything to say.

“I tried to save him,” she sobbed.

“We were this close to finding the cure but h-he let go.” She cries harder.

“It's okay, love,” he whispers. “You did everything you could.”

“I love him like my own son,” Her voice shakes with emotion.

“I know, Hermione….” His heart goes out to her.

Knowing her, he's sure she keeps a strong facade at work. Being a Healer does not guarantee her to freely express emotion in public for both the patients and the family.

But now, in this moment when she is off-duty - now, when the glaring lights of St. Mungo's and the stiff white clothing of a Healer disappear from around her for a moment, she lets go. Tomorrow, or probably later, she will pick herself up again. She will not forget a lost life. No, that is far from what she will do. She will remember it and turn it into an inspiration to work harder. He knows this.

But for now, she mourns. She lets go and he catches her again.

She is beautiful, even with the puffy red eyes and the tears staining her cheeks. She is beautiful even with the crumpled face and shaking lip. She is beautiful when she is crying. But oh! how he hates it. Seeing her cry like this and hearing her sobs, it breaks his heart.

He hates it.

It is his frailty. It is the crescendo of despair and the staccato of every shard of his shattered soul.

*~*

She swings her arm and a ball of snow lands onto his arms.

She laughs and gathers more snow.

He smiles mischievously and grabs his wand. He mutters an incantation and a large amount of snowballs whiz towards her. She squeals and tries to duck but it was a useless effort.

She is under attack for a long minute before she manages to escape, snow scintillating in her hair.

She scowls at him and the next thing he knows, it is his turn to be under a heap of snow.

When he finally gets the snow off him, she is standing in front of him, gloating, and a triumphant smirk in her face.

He tackles her onto the snowy ground and he hears her squeal again.

She laughs underneath him.

Their gazes lock and for a moment, everything that has happened between them is defined - highlighted and stands out among anything else.

Her breath catches, and so does he.

His eyes unconsciously lower to her lips, and she whispers, “Harry…”

He loves that sound. The way she whispers his name sometimes when they are about to kiss, that long drawn “Harry…” that comes from her lips as he stares at them; it makes his insides turn into jelly.

He leans down and captures her lips with his. And he feels her breath whooshes out from her in an instant.

He kisses her tenderly, slowly, dotingly. And she responds as well.

His hands, once wrapped in gloves, are bare and they find her cheek where new warmth welcomes them. Her hands find his hair and he gasps before kissing her again.

Deepening the kiss, he feels her lips part and it is a whole new world for him.

The kiss intensifies - both of them trying to taste as much of the other as possible. He falls on the bottom of a blissful sea. Abysmal as it is, he senses solace.

His head is dizzy but he does not care. She is making these purring sounds at the back of her throat and he, he is falling in love with her all over again.

Everything about her touches makes him feel alive.

When they kiss, she whispers his name and makes soft sounds and his mind goes crazy.

When they make love, she whispers his name, she moans his name, and she sighs in that loving way and his whole being shatters into her loving embrace.

He loves those sounds. Each murmur, each sigh, and each word that comes from her lips — he loves it.

It is his identity. It is the note that defines him and the timber that rocks his core.

*~*

He dreams of her, her energetic form, her paramount intelligence, her dancing brown eyes, her smiles, her laugh, her hug, her kisses, her `I love you's', and even her bossiness.

He dreams of her almost every night.

This time, he dreams of her youthful beauty in front of him, staring at him, smiling at him, murmuring `I love you' to him once again. His hair is jet black again, he notices. His skin is back to its youthful glow.

He feels light - so light. Like a feather. It is `leviosa' not `leviosar', a voice bounces at the back of his mind.

He chuckles.

She is beckoning him. She is calling for him. She says it is time to go now. She says he has held on for too long and it is time to be with her again.

He nods. He smiles. I am coming, Hermione.

He walks towards her and he hears her soft voice humming that same tune they dance to in a nocturnal time at a park many years before.

He barely hears a soft voice, a voice that bears resemblance to the humming voice, whispering, “Say hi to Mum for me, Dad.”

Then he lets go of the hand he's holding weakly, a hand — a grasp that resembles that of her mother — and holds on to another equally familiar hand - a hand he has waited to hold again for a long, long time now. Her hand. At last.

Lilly Potter-Weasley lets a tear fall from her eyes. They are together now, her Mum and Dad. They are together again.

The curtains close, the music fades.

She smiles and looks at the serene face of her father.

Life reaches its final note. The song is finished.

~*~

AN3: It is my first fic so be gentle. ;) What do you guys think?

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