Music from Another Room

Music from another Room

"What is love like?"

"You know how when you're listening to music playing from another room? And you're singing along because it's a tune that you really love? When a door closes or a train passes so you can't hear the music anymore, but you sing along anyway... then, no matter how much time passes, when you hear the music again you're still in exact same time with it. That's what it's like."

~Harry~

He only dances at night. Only at night, in the dark silence. I never know when it will happen, I just wake up and the bed is empty. Sometimes I hear distant music far away, like music from another room. Other times it's just him and the night. I leave the bed quietly, and walk to the room where I know he'll always be. I stand silently in the doorway, watching his movements. Seven years together; and yet he never ceases to amaze me. The blonde hair falls into his eyes as he does port de bras forward. Tonight he dances calmly, a gentle softness in his movements. It is always different, depending on his mood. Sometimes he does chaînés and piques in a mad speed in a diagonale, other times he does a slow adagio in the centre. Whatever it is, it is always just as heartbreakingly beautiful.

I remember one time, after we'd had a big fight. We had yelled at each other, words of anger that cut in my heart like a knife. Finally he had stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. We slept in different rooms that night. It took long time for me to fall asleep, painfully aware of the emptiness beside me, the place where normally a warm body would have lain. Eventually I must have fallen asleep, though, since I woke up by faint music, far away. I took my wand and my glasses from the bedside table and went out to the hall. The music was growing stronger, and by the time I had reached the room it was loud. It was a wild piece, violins playing a hysterical melody, as if desperate to escape the rage of the thundering piano. The door was open. I took a few steps towards it and looked inside.

Draco was dancing. Dancing with a power I have never seen before; a power so strong that it scared me. He threw himself into fast pirouettes, spun across the floor, and jumped high in the air. Sissonne, assemblé, pas de chat, pique, entrechat. It was the most terrifying and beautiful thing I had ever seen. I knew that his dancing always formed after his mood, which I guessed now wasn't the best. I stood in the doorway, just staring at him. I don't remember for how long, it could have been a couple of minutes. It could have been for hours.

The music suddenly stopped, and he was left right in the middle of a grand pirouette à la seconde. He took a few unsure steps and then sank down on the floor, head in his hands.

The wave of emotion that hit me was so strong that I didn't care about anything else. I rushed into the room, kneeling in front of him, seizing him by the shoulders. He slowly raised his head, and I saw that he was crying. I had never seen Draco cry before. Not when his mother died, not when his father had beaten him. Never. Our eyes met, and we drank in each other's gazes. None of us spoke. There wasn't any need to. Apologies were said and accepted.

And now I stand here in the doorway again, watching him as he moves across the floor. I am always afraid that I will disturb him; that my presence will shatter the beautiful moment. He seems so far away, in a world of his own. Sometimes I enter the room and play on the piano while he dances. I always believe that he will be angry or irritated with me for stepping in to his private world, but he never is. He does not seem to mind.

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But once I get going, then I forget everything and... it sort of disappears. Sort of disappears. I can feel the change in my whole body. Like this fire in my body. I'm just there. Flying. Like a bird. Like electricity. Yeah... like electricity.

~Draco~

He stands in the doorway again. I can feel him. He very rarely comes inside, as if he is afraid to disturb. I want to tell him that he does not disturb, that he can never disturb, but I seem to have lost the words. Sometimes he steps inside and sits by the piano, though. He always begins to play softly, very quietly, as if not to scare me away. After a while, when he sees that I do not seem to mind, the music grows stronger, he grows more confident of himself. You would think that I would grow tired of it, but I haven't. I will never grow tired of him.

Everything I do revolves around you, Harry. Every feeling, every gesture, every movement. Every heartbeat, every breath. They all belong to you.

He always affects me. I always have him in my mind. Whether I'm doing a grand plié, an entrechat or an arabesque it is always because of him. He is the reason I dance. I cannot imagine a life without dance, and neither can I imagine a life without Harry. He is a part of me, a part of my soul. I wonder if he knows.

I remember telling him of my childhood, of how I began to dance. It was my mother who wanted me to, and since I began to dance, eight years old, I haven't been able to stop. My father never liked it, but since my mother absolutely wanted me to continue he allowed it. For me it was like stepping into another world. In my dancing I took out all my anger at my father, and I could often control myself better when he was near since I knew that I would be able to dance away the anger later. I think one of the reasons he allowed it was that he saw the change in me. Every time he beat me or my mother I would stay quiet, thinking that later I would be able to dance through it, like so many times before. The dancing helped me to survive. I have told Harry all of this, and even now I am surprised that I allowed myself to open up this much to him. I usually have very hard to open up to anyone, but with Harry it's different.

A few years ago I would not have let anyone have such control over me. He could kill me if he wanted to, and he knows it. He could rip out my heart and leave me bleeding on the floor if he felt like it, but he never does. He never does.

He steps inside now, sits by the piano and let his fingers slowly trace over the tangents. I can see him in the corner of my eye. The first tones come floating into the room, a shy, questioning melody. I accept it, welcome it. Move with it. The music grows stronger, as so many times before. I let it become one with me.

Time passes. I don't know how long. Maybe hours. Eventually the music fades out into silence. I finish and stand still, back turned against him. I hear his steps behind me, and then I feel his strong arms around my waist. We stand so, quietly, for a long time. I close my eyes and I can feel his breath against my ear. Finally I turn around and our eyes - grey and green - meet. Words are so unnecessary.

I won't use words again
They don't mean what I meant
They don't say what I said
They're just the crust of the meaning
With realms underneath
Never touched
Never stirred
Never even moved through

If language were liquid
It would be rushing in
Instead here we are
In a silence more eloquent
Than any word could ever be