fic: harmony
Title: Harmony
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: G
Prompt: 'Music' for 100quills; table here
Word Count: 728
Summary: Post-war, Harry feels like he's the only person who's mourning the war, until he hears a piece of music which captures the essence of it all perfectly.
At the Ministry of Magic gathering, a niche just large enough for one held the body of the only person who was likely to be missed at this particular gathering. Ensconced away in the deep window seat, Harry Potter curled his thin body into the space with the curtain drawn across the window, having hidden away after the remembrance service. Reflected in his glasses were the garish orange streetlights outside, but he didn't notice them; his eyes were turned upwards towards the nothingness that seemed to have been carved out of and yet into him.
Vague babbles of small talk filtered through the heavy curtain to the young man, and he thought slightly of how meaningless the sounds seemed when muffled. He also thought about how meaningless the words themselves were even if he could hear them. Weaving its way through the screen of talk was a soft piano piece. Harry didn't know much about music at all, but the piece seemed to capture his mood completely. All of the soft chords harmonised to bring a sense of wholeness, and yet there was a sense of aching. Everything had been accomplished, but there was still a sense of longing for somewhere far away and yet here. It was, Harry realised, the wish to go back in time, to retreat into his memories of the beautiful. It was, Harry also realised, impossible, and that was where the sadness came from.
Living in the past was something that Harry Potter could not do. He thought this over as he stretched out one leg, slightly cramped, and ended up stretching out both and swinging himself off the window seat. No, he could not afford to live in the past. He could dream of it, remember it, hold wispy fragments of it in his hand, but not go back to it. The piano piece finished with the same snippet of poignant melody that Harry had first heard, and he swept aside the curtain, searching out the piano.
Several people tried to stop Harry for a quick word, but as conversation had not been important earlier, so it held no interest to him now. He politely declined with that innocent smile which still had not been pulled from his face, and skirted the main bulk of the company. Drawing curiously around the large grand piano as another equally simplistically evocative piece started, Harry started as he realised who was playing.
Blond hair was smoothed down, and combined with the pale face and plain black robes, gave a somewhat celestial and yet unholy glow. Light eyes flicked up from the pale spectres of fingers floating effortlessly across stark black and white keys and pale lips turned upwards slightly, but not as if it were happy. "Potter." The word dropped with ease into the melody like just one more resonating note, a smooth baritone that seems made for accompanying this melody.
"I didn't expect you," Harry watched the fingers flit curiously, speaking softly so as to not ruin the music. "Especially here." Surely there must be something against a Death Eater playing the music for a celebration gathering of the Light side? He felt an urge to run a finger over just the last few keys like a child does, but that would ruin this whole atmosphere; this atmosphere that's only felt, it appeared, by the two at the piano.
The fingers flex as if they have taken on a life of their own; Draco Malfoy's face is impassive. "I can play live." That seemed to be the only reason that he was offered the position. Harry suddenly realised that what he sees are mourning clothes. They are just like his: plain, simple, bare. He lifted his black head just slightly, sweeping a look around the room. A myriad of bright blues, reds, purples, greens and more met his eye.
It seemed so strange that of all the people here who have lost relatives and friends, the only person openly mourning was the one whose friends and relatives will not be mourned. This piece of music described the situation so perfectly; it was precisely what Harry felt. Hopeful but bittersweet; complete, yet so empty. Harry turned back, somehow slightly nauseated, and grey eyes caught his own. Caught and held.
There are only two people in this entire room who are even listening to this melody.
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: G
Prompt: 'Music' for 100quills; table here
Word Count: 728
Summary: Post-war, Harry feels like he's the only person who's mourning the war, until he hears a piece of music which captures the essence of it all perfectly.
At the Ministry of Magic gathering, a niche just large enough for one held the body of the only person who was likely to be missed at this particular gathering. Ensconced away in the deep window seat, Harry Potter curled his thin body into the space with the curtain drawn across the window, having hidden away after the remembrance service. Reflected in his glasses were the garish orange streetlights outside, but he didn't notice them; his eyes were turned upwards towards the nothingness that seemed to have been carved out of and yet into him.
Vague babbles of small talk filtered through the heavy curtain to the young man, and he thought slightly of how meaningless the sounds seemed when muffled. He also thought about how meaningless the words themselves were even if he could hear them. Weaving its way through the screen of talk was a soft piano piece. Harry didn't know much about music at all, but the piece seemed to capture his mood completely. All of the soft chords harmonised to bring a sense of wholeness, and yet there was a sense of aching. Everything had been accomplished, but there was still a sense of longing for somewhere far away and yet here. It was, Harry realised, the wish to go back in time, to retreat into his memories of the beautiful. It was, Harry also realised, impossible, and that was where the sadness came from.
Living in the past was something that Harry Potter could not do. He thought this over as he stretched out one leg, slightly cramped, and ended up stretching out both and swinging himself off the window seat. No, he could not afford to live in the past. He could dream of it, remember it, hold wispy fragments of it in his hand, but not go back to it. The piano piece finished with the same snippet of poignant melody that Harry had first heard, and he swept aside the curtain, searching out the piano.
Several people tried to stop Harry for a quick word, but as conversation had not been important earlier, so it held no interest to him now. He politely declined with that innocent smile which still had not been pulled from his face, and skirted the main bulk of the company. Drawing curiously around the large grand piano as another equally simplistically evocative piece started, Harry started as he realised who was playing.
Blond hair was smoothed down, and combined with the pale face and plain black robes, gave a somewhat celestial and yet unholy glow. Light eyes flicked up from the pale spectres of fingers floating effortlessly across stark black and white keys and pale lips turned upwards slightly, but not as if it were happy. "Potter." The word dropped with ease into the melody like just one more resonating note, a smooth baritone that seems made for accompanying this melody.
"I didn't expect you," Harry watched the fingers flit curiously, speaking softly so as to not ruin the music. "Especially here." Surely there must be something against a Death Eater playing the music for a celebration gathering of the Light side? He felt an urge to run a finger over just the last few keys like a child does, but that would ruin this whole atmosphere; this atmosphere that's only felt, it appeared, by the two at the piano.
The fingers flex as if they have taken on a life of their own; Draco Malfoy's face is impassive. "I can play live." That seemed to be the only reason that he was offered the position. Harry suddenly realised that what he sees are mourning clothes. They are just like his: plain, simple, bare. He lifted his black head just slightly, sweeping a look around the room. A myriad of bright blues, reds, purples, greens and more met his eye.
It seemed so strange that of all the people here who have lost relatives and friends, the only person openly mourning was the one whose friends and relatives will not be mourned. This piece of music described the situation so perfectly; it was precisely what Harry felt. Hopeful but bittersweet; complete, yet so empty. Harry turned back, somehow slightly nauseated, and grey eyes caught his own. Caught and held.
There are only two people in this entire room who are even listening to this melody.