Piano Keys

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Piano Keys

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The rain pattering softly on the windows reminds me of the years I took piano lessons. It reminds me of the soft, haunting melodies I wanted to play and of all the jarring, predictable tunes I had to learn instead. It wasn't until I started learning things like 'Pathetique' and 'Ave Maria' that I was pleased.

The year after that I got my Hogwarts letter, I stopped taking lessons to attend the school in Scotland. The summer after first year I finally found the time to sit at the piano in my father's study (the only place we had for it). It was a devastating experience. Five years of pounding out useless tunes and melodies of processed joy, and my fingers stumbled over the ivory keys. I had lost my 'Ave Maria', my 'Canon', even my 'Laudate Dominium'. All I had left was Beethoven and his stupid 'Ode to Joy.'

I felt deprived, confused and disorientated, like I'd lost my way. I ran my fingers over the keys once more and then closed then lid over the familiar--yet suddenly foreign--pattern of black and white. I haven't looked at it since.

The soft pattering of rain reminds me of the songs I used to know, though. It reminds me of the way I used to pound out hard, fast, calculated songs like 'Bear Tracks' and 'Scavenger Hunt' when I was angry. It reminds me of the careful way I played softer songs like 'Lyrical Prelude' and 'Porch Swing' when I was sad. It even reminds me of the Hanon techniques I learned when I had to.

Or maybe the rain doesn't remind me of pianos at all. Maybe I'm thinking about them because he reminds me of them, of those long-ago years.

*

"Hermione? Are you here?" he ventured slowly into the room, looking over all the dark corners.

"No, I'm elsewhere," I answered, pulling my nose out of a book and sticking it over the side of the couch. "Come sit."

He came over slowly, smiling in a way that made me think he didn't know he was smiling at all. I raised an eyebrow at him. He smirked back, and took my book out of my hands.

"Legacies: A Story of King Arthur," he read off the cover. "King Arthur?" His voice held disdain.

"Yes, King Arthur. All these references to Merlin as if he's God...don't you ever wonder? People always saying 'by Merlin' and 'for Merlin's sake' and such. Are all wizards this way? Or is it a Pureblood thing?"

He shrugged. "I started saying it because my mother said it once when she got really mad at Lucius. When I was little I thought it was a profanity."

I laughed lightly. His honesty wasn't something I had expected to find in him, but it was clear in the way he talked to me.

*

He does remind me of a piano, now that I've admitted it. He's definitely got the temperament of one, that's for certain. Press the wrong key and the pattern you've gotten it to fall into turns sour.

I lost him, too.

How is it that I still remember everything about him, though? Years have past and I don't feel as if he's gone. I feel like he's going to turn a corner and wrap me in a hug again. If he's so much like a piano, how can I still remember how he feels to me? Why can I close my eyes and see him there, when I can't close my eyes and see notes?

I long to touch him, to feel his milky white skin and his platinum hair again, his lips and his hands and his shoulders again. I want to feel his body close to mine and hear what he has to say and see his eyes, his silver, piercing eyes. Why don't I long for white keys and music this way?

I know why. Music never touches back.

And God, did he touch back. The memory of his lips on my cheeks, my forehead, my eyelids, neck, mouth...it drives me crazy. I remember the imprint he left as he delved his fingers deep into my hair, his body pressed close to mine, slowly melting into one. Everything he did was so tangible. Music is heard. It does not caress your cheek and comb your hair with its fingers. Not literally.

Everything I can remember about him comes rushing back in a flood of images and tears. The way his piercing silver eyes met mine, unblinkingly, the way he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. The questions he asked and the answers he gave, his voice dancing over and under the varying degrees of sarcasm. How he would lean against a wall or sit on a desk, his perfect posture teasing my own slouched position, my only excuse the books I carried around. The grace and elegance he portrayed, the reputation he upheld, while still managing to be his own person.

*

"You're beautiful tonight," he said, his voice low. I blushed profusely.

"Um...thank you...you look great too." I wasn't sure what to say. I had just thrown on a sweater and some jeans before coming up.

He laughed. "Don't get me started. I just got out of the shower."

He had, too. His hair fell in wet tendrils around his face, mirroring the light the moon tossed into the room through the windows. But he was wrong. He was gorgeous. His eyes, nearly colorless in the light of that moon, met mine and I could feel myself begin to melt. He was like a black and white photograph. Classy and sophisticated and yet personal, and somehow despairing, cold and lonely. The realization struck me, and I moved to stand close to him. I wanted to warm him up, heat his blood and soul. How?

"I love you," I told him, looking up into his eyes. He smiled gently, but did not reply. Instead he pressed his lips to mine and I succumbed to him.

*

He was precious to me, but he slipped under my fingers and away, much like my piano keys. Is that how I lost him? Did I give him up? Too much responsibility? Did I forget how much I cared? Stop caring? Could it be that I didn't give him up, but gave up on him?

The suggestions that surround my thoughts hurt. I still love him. I just don't know where he's gone. I know where my piano is and how I lost my music. Why can't I figure out where he is and how I lost him?

I believe I prefer to think that it is the rain that reminds me of piano keys.