Symphonie Fantastique

Written by French composer Hector Berlioz in 1830, the "Symphonie Fantastique" is based on parts of the novel Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, by Thomas DeQuincy, as well as Goethe's Faust and Victor Hugo's poem La Ronde du Sabbat. It follows the Gothic style of literature, and falls into the Classical era of Western music.

From the aforementioned works came the passage known as the idée fixe (ee-day feex) or the "fixed idea," a recurring theme symbolizing the composer's beloved, which I have turned into a theme of a plea that echoes through the Marauders' minds: "James," he thought, "please forgive me." The true spark of the "Symphonie Fantastique" was Berlioz's romantic interest in a Shakespearean actress named Henrietta Smithson, whom he eventually married. Berlioz copied bits of his previous musical works into the "Symphonie Fantastique;" the idée fixe is from a cantata he wrote called "Herminie."

The first movement, "Reveries-Passions," is the exposition of the idée fixe, which is repeated through this movement and indeed the entire work. The audience is introduced to this strange dream world and the hopeless love of a young man. The second movement, "Un Bal," or "A Ball," is a waltz. The man dreams of dancing with his love at a ball, but her appearance troubles him. The third movement, "Scene aux Champs," or "Scene in the Country," is a pastoral scene with a calm overtone and banter between the solo oboe and English horn. At the end of the movement, rolling thunder is heard in the distance with the entrance of four timpani (kettledrums), each played by a single player, as the man wonders if his love is deceiving him. One solo continues to play, but the other does not respond.

In sharp contrast to this is the fourth movement, "Marche au Supplice," translated "March to the Scaffold" or sometimes "March and Procession to the Gallows." The young man overdoses on opium, and has terrifying visions that he killed his love and is sentenced to die for his crime. This is the first time in the work that a full percussion section is heard. We do not hear the idée fixe until the end of the movement, when it is played once by a solo clarinet and is followed by a strike from the percussion section and plucking of string instruments (pizzicato). This paints an aural picture of the man's execution by beheading. The movement ends just a few seconds later with a brass fanfare and drum roll.

The fifth movement, the "Hexensabbat," sometimes "Ronde du Sabbat," or "Song d'une nuit du Sabbat," translated "Witches' Sabbath" or "Dream of a Witches' Sabbath," portrays a dance of witches, where the man ends up after being executed. He sees his love as an evil witch, and the idée fixe returns as a crude dance. The other witches are happy to see her, and they join in the dance. The low brass enters with the theme of a liturgical "Dies Irae," a hymn describing Judgment Day sometimes used in a mass for the dead. The grotesque idée fixe and the "Dies Irae" (Dee-is Ear-ay) are played against each other with a funeral bell tolling in the background.

As Berlioz took literature and created music, I am taking his music and creating literature. You do not have to know the "Symphonie Fantastique" well, or at all, to understand this fic. The information I've provided should give you enough background so you can see the parallels between the symphony and the story and appreciate how the music gives to the words. If you are familiar with the work, you will see how I have taken the theme, as well as the phrasing of the music itself, to create the sentences and paragraphs. The "Symphonie Fantastique" is one of my favorite orchestral works and it seemed to beg for a fic to go along with it. If you'd like to listen to the piece while reading, I recommend the recording of John Eliot Gardiner conducting the Orchestre Revoluntionaire et Romantique. Recordings may also be available online, or at your local public library.

The Trinity, he called them. The Triad. The Three. Although the four of them had been friends almost seven years, there was always a belief in the darkest unreachable place in his mind that he didn't fully belong to them. He was certainly intelligent and even excelled at Arithmancy, but it seemed to him that they glided through classes, their minds flexible and their talents tactile. Twice their number of hours of studying only seemed to get him halfway to their success, and it always felt like his body would not comply with his mind. He tripped on his robes and had to carefully think through every answer he gave in Potions. To James and Sirius school was an intricate dance to be performed ultimately to perfection. At the same time, he struggled with some of the basic steps, watching himself in the mirror and trying to imitate their grace. How was it that they always seemed to know just what to say and do? A flick of Sirius's wand and the charm was executed. A bend of James's wrist and objects changed form as though they had been constructed for the very purpose of being transfigured. Remus was not the student James and Sirius were, but he had a calm air of mystery and a way of making everyone feel welcome and understood, traits that could never be taught. Remus was the one who listened. He always had the answers James and Sirius could not give. It was Remus who defended his friends with wit, disarming his adversaries with charisma and slicing them to pieces with his words.

The Trio supported him and laughed with him, yet all along he knew he could never be one of them. He often wondered how they had come to choose him, although at the same time he knew they came to him because he rounded their personalities. He was the one who quietly challenged authority, using his skills as a rational thinker to present different sides of an argument. Whether he did it because he really had that famous Gryffindor bravery or because he simply wanted to prove himself he wasn't sure. In truth, he was always a little surprised when he found himself standing up for his ideas.

"James," he thought, "please forgive me."

"Nothing will keep us apart," James had said. Loyalty worthy of a Hufflepuff, such words slipped so easily from his lips. Had he ever felt like an outsider a day in his life?

Their natural leader, James was a champion the moment he stepped off the train. He was admired, even adored, with his bright, relaxed smile and deep blue eyes. It was he who discovered Remus was a werewolf. James had racked his brain for the better part of a semester trying to figure out a way they could help Remus. He had been the one to come up with the idea of becoming Animagi. While he had agreed with James after lengthy discussion that it would indeed be the best way to support their friend, he panicked inwardly at the idea of trying to execute such difficult magic. Together, they had studied endless hours to work the transformation, their friendship deepening in the bonds of secrecy. He had found himself watching James across their study table, running his hands through his black hair and twirling his quill in thought. The forbidden place in his brain hid his pleasure at seeing James struggle with something, even though he knew he would never be able to perform the spell without James's help. For years it was James he admired above everyone, James whom he asked for advice. It wasn't enough to be James's friend; he wanted James's place in life with all its agility and knowledge.

It was worth every second of lost sleep to see the look on Remus's face when they first transformed, Remus gingerly reaching down to stroke Sirius's fur, barely believing such a friendship could be real. At that moment, everything had seemed perfect; his sacrifice had cemented his place among them. He rushed forward, wrapping his tail around Remus's ankle, climbing his robes, and coming to rest on his shoulder. He had been initiated into their brotherhood and taught their ritual in long hours hunched over heavy books. In return he promised himself that he would strive to be worthy of his place among them. They cherished him, but was it enough? His hours of work could never seem to equal what came to them so effortlessly. It would forever be a dividing factor and, Animagus or not, he couldn't bear to think that someday they might come to the realization that he was never able to keep up with them. He loved them, but could not trust them any further than he could trust himself. They might one day abandon him in favor of someone who shone as brightly as they did.

"James," he thought, "please forgive me."

It was the wanting that would be his undoing. The wanting seen so clearly by Severus Snape and Lucius Malfoy, missed by the ones closest to him. They watched him as closely as he watched the Trinity. When he faltered, they saw. When he stumbled, they rejoiced. He saw victory in their heartless smiles when he gave a wrong answer. They never spoke to him when the other three were around, knowing he lacked the physical prowess and speed of mind to defend himself against their abuse. They would push him against the stone corridors and taunt him during Potions, but nonetheless he felt drawn to them. He knew they were destined for greatness. They were Slytherin's brightest, the ones who battled James and Sirius for the top spots in their class. Malfoy harbored winter in his movements, crisp with athleticism and the purest wizard blood. Snape did not have Malfoy's looks, but he compensated for that with knowledge of magic that seemed to surpass that of anyone he knew.

More than wit or a gift for Transfiguration, he wanted the education that couldn't be found in books. He wanted the steel he saw in Malfoy's spine and Snape's assurance in his repertoire. Anything, he thought. Anything he could give would never be enough if he could be a part of them and partake of the self-assurance his friends would not share. They could bring him security in exchange for his promises, which he could never fully see in Sirius's mercurial temperament. Though they were dangerous, they were unwavering in their sense of self. They had no love, only ambition, but he could trade love for power and personal gain. Just once, he wanted to feel fully part of a group and be sure of his anchor.

That night the library had been quieter than usual. He supposed it was because of Ravenclaw's Quidditch victory over Hufflepuff. They approached him while he sat among his books, wrist cramping around his quill. He was amazed by their ability to move swiftly yet silently, so controlled and precise. For a minute after they invited themselves to sit at his table, no one said anything. He dared to hold them in his gaze.

"You know, Pettigrew."

He did. With few words, they had taken him as their prisoner, baiting him with his own shadowy thoughts. Secretly he reveled in being their prey, knowing that once he allowed himself to surrender to them they would shape him into the man he wanted to be. He tightened internally at Malfoy's presence, a taut bowstring ready to release its arrow. A scream bubbled in his throat, but he remained silent.

Lucius Malfoy had eyes like diamonds and a voice to match and, as though he was glass, Malfoy's words cut him.

"You are ours. His."

He was. Fear held him there, as did the desire to possess what he could barely touch. They had chosen him. They could see his potential. He had no good reason to trust them, but he was willing to put that aside in his need to be a part of them. They knew his abilities, didn't they? They saw him as more than the dissonant note in the Gryffindor chord. He could be great, he knew. It was all in his head, and they would help him on his way to greatness.

"Your loyalties will be tested."

They would be. He'd heard in whispers of the rise of a powerful Dark wizard seeking a circle of disciples. Would he be able to live on both sides? James would be crushed. Sirius might kill him. Remus would try to talk him out of it. At that moment, pressed down by the still air in the library, he was willing to give everything he had to belong, even if it cost him everything he knew.

"James," he thought, "please forgive me." Malfoy and Snape rose and left the library.

A strange calm overtook him. Was it triumph? Seduction? Something had settled around him, a feeling of belonging tainted with the sense that he could never turn back. It was pride and trepidation, confidence and sacrifice, all coming together in one flawless cadence.