The Harpsichordist

Chapter 1: Let's Start at the Very Beginning

"Luke, there's a letter for you," said Wendy as she closed the door. She slipped off her shoes and, sighing with relief, padded into the living room. "Luke?" she called.

The distant sound of music told her he probably hadn't heard her call, much less the fact that she was even home from school. She stretched briefly and, setting Luke's letter and the rest of the mail on the coffee table, went to the bathroom to wash up. A few minutes later, she was back in the living room, settled on the sofa, riffling again through the mail.

Apart from Luke's letter, which looked personal, there was nothing of much interest. A dozen overdue notices from the University library, the phone bill, and several credit card offers. The junk went into the recycling, the phone bill onto a large stack of things needed attention, and the letter stayed on the table for Luke to read.

The music coming from the back room of their cottage stopped. A moment later Luke entered the living room, flexing his fingers. "Hey," he said, by way of greeting, and kissed her lightly on the lips. "How was your day?"

"It was okay," Wendy replied. "First day of classes stuff. Reading lists, office hours, study groups." She shrugged. "Stuff."

"Wish I was taking classes," Luke said gloomily. He plopped down on the sofa next to her.

"Well, apply again next year. At least you're getting a chance to practice; I never have any time."

"We'll see," he said noncommittally.

Wendy felt her anger rising slightly, but didn't say anything. Luke had lots of talent -- gobs and gobs of it -- as well as dedication to his music, but he never put himself forward. Though it made him the most humble person she knew, it hampered him in performance, since he went all shy in front of other people and became boring and stammery.

It also meant that he hated auditioning. Both of them had applied to the university for graduate studies, but while Wendy had gotten in on the merit of her papers and a halfway decent audition, Luke had suffered his worst case of nerves ever: He'd stammered all the way through his interview and completely botched his audition. Wendy almost groaned in memory. But Luke could re-apply next year, and she was trying to get her hopes up.

"You got the mail?" he asked.

"On my way in," she replied, then pointed at the letter on the table. "For you."

"Who's it from?" he asked, leaning forward to pick up the letter.

"Didn't see," she replied. "It looked personal."

"I don't know anyone with this handwriting," he said, his tone curious. "Could just be junk, you know, they sometimes make the printing look like..." His voice trailed off as he opened the letter.

"Hmm?" asked Wendy sleepily. She was curled against the arm of the sofa, eyes half-closed. Luke stayed silent, so she reluctantly sat up. "What is it?" she asked.

Luke suddenly jumped up and gave a loud "Yeehaw!" of excitement.

"What is it?" she asked again.

He kept dancing. "Yes!" He was grinning wildly. "Yahoo! Yippee!"

"Luke!" she shouted.

He just pointed to the letter and kept jumping up and down in excitement, waving his arms over his head maniacally.

Wendy picked up the letter and opened it, noting briefly that the paper was of a wonderful thickness and that the ink was green.

Hogwarts School
Scotland

Dear Mr Navarra,

We are pleased to offer you the position as Professor of Music at Hogwarts School. Though we are not a conservatory, we have recently added music to our electives and are in need of a professor. A representative from our school will be calling at your place of residence shortly to discuss the matter with you.

Hogwarts caters to an unusual group of students, though I am sure that you will find it quite enjoyable.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster

* * *
Hermione Granger wanted to be perfect. She knew this was a problem, but it was the only goal that she felt was worthy of her. She knew how smart she was. She knew how talented a witch she was. She also knew that Ron Weasley was a complete idiot when it came to girls.

Hermione, Ron, his sister Ginny, and Harry Potter were all sitting by the fire at The Burrow. It was a week to go until school started, and the Weasleys had once again offered to host Harry and Hermione. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had already gone to bed, leaving the teenagers downstairs. Hermione was finishing a letter to Viktor, and Ron had just asked, "So how's Vicky?"

"He's fine, thanks," said Hermione stiffly. "And don't call him Vicky!"

"I'll call him what I want! And why are you still writing to him?" Ron persisted.

"Because he's my friend," Hermione replied. "Why do you care? Anyone would think you're jealous," she added.

"Me? Jealous of that git? What for?" Ron said casually, but his ears were turning red.

Hermione looked over at Harry for support, but his eyes were fixed determinedly on the broomstick he was polishing.

Hermione turned back to Ron. "Oh, I don't know," she replied acidly. It was amazing, the way Ron made her go from calm to completely peeved with a few choice comments. "You tell me, then, why you suddenly hated him when he asked me to the Yule Ball with him fourth year. Or why you tore apart his figurine that evening?"

"Well, I -- I -- " Ron bumbled. "I mean, he could be a Death Eater! You don't know anything about him except that he's a Quidditch star and he went to Durmstrang!"

"His mother is Muggle-born," Hermione said. "I don't think he's a Death Eater. And I know a lot more about him than his Quidditch team and his school."

Ron's face was now completely red. "But he's too old for you! He's what? Nineteen, twenty? And -- "

"He's twenty."

"Right," said Ron dismissively. "He's too old for you. You're not even seventeen! Who knows what he wants from a girl like you?"

"You sound like my mother," Hermione retorted. "And I'll be seventeen in less than a month," she said. Then she sighed and shook her head. She was tired of this argument. Hermione was friends with Viktor, good friends, and enjoyed their correspondence. She wasn't going to give that up just to satisfy Ron. Besides, Ron already had her to himself, really. She was best friends with him and Harry and spent loads of time with them. Why did Ron have to be so dense?

"I'm going to bed," announced Harry suddenly, collecting his broomstick and polish.

"Me, too," said Ron, shooting her an unreadable look. "I'll leave Hermione to her 'penpal.'"

Ginny, who had stayed silent through the whole thing, waited until the two boys were up the stairs before laughing. She then burst into a fit of the giggles, rolling around on the floor with melodramatic mirth. "P-poor Ron," she gasped. "He doesn't know what's hit him, does he?"

"I guess not," replied Hermione. "It's as bad as some Harlequin romance."

"What?"

"It's a Muggle thing. Really cheesy love stories about manly men and womanly women. Bad plotlines, even worse writing. And the boy always gets the girl in the end. Cute, but totally worthless."

"And how does my brother remind you of these stories? He's not exactly a manly man."

"Oh, he's all right," Hermione said absently. "But I feel like the girl who's caught her fish, but the fish doesn't know it yet."

"Like that horrible Hobgoblins song," Ginny said, giggling again. "You know, the one Luna's always quoting?" She started singing:

"Oh, yesterday I went a-fishing,
to escape my life
Then I saw what life was dishing,
And so I met my wife..."

Hermione laughed. "You've got a nice voice," she added.

"Thanks," said Ginny. "Mum's always wanted me to get training, but we could never afford it."

"There might be someone in Hogsmeade who could teach you," suggested Hermione.

"But how would I pay for it?" asked Ginny without embarrassment. "Mum and Dad are still pretty tight, even though it's just me and Ron at school. Percy and Penelope are going to move in soon, and Penelope's expecting."

"Oh, I didn't know that!" Hermione exclaimed. "That's wonderful!"

"That's why they got married," said Ginny mischievously. "Or so George told me. Who knows what they hear on those Extendable Ears?"

"Well," was all Hermione could say. They sat in companionable silence for a while, gazing at the fire.

"I still think you should get voice lessons," Hermione said eventually. "My grandmother was a famous singer in her day, and she always told me that the best thing her parents had ever done was push her to take lessons in school."

"Hmm," Ginny replied. She yawned and blinked a few times. "Well, it's late, I should be asleep. 'Night, Hermione."

"G'night, Ginny. I'll be up in a bit, I guess."

Hermione realized that the room was completely empty, and suddenly felt very alone. She wanted to cry. She was tired of Ron not noticing his own noticing her, tired of the Weasleys being too poor to do what they wanted, tired of always having to be perfect... Well, now was not the time to blubber. They were leaving for Hogwarts in another week, and she should probably add another few inches to the Arithmancy essay...

Hermione took a deep breath and headed up to bed.

* * *

"You cannot possibly -- " blustered Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic. He clutched his bowler hat in his sweaty fingers, leaving creases in the fabric.

"I already have, Minister," replied Albus Dumbledore, completely unruffled. "The letter has been owled, and I've sent someone to his home to speak with him immediately."

The Minister for Magic was not happy to be visiting Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry today. He had been called by that overly eager Weasley boy at a depressingly early hour of the morning with the most outrageous message, and, despite his attempts to ignore it as much as possible, it simply had to be dealt with. Not to mention how rash Dumbledore was being about the whole thing.

"But -- " Fudge started, then began again. "Albus, he's a Muggle! Merlin's beard, how do you expect him to survive here? We have enough problems already, with Lord -- Thingy."

"The more you insist on not naming him, the more power you give him, Cornelius," replied Dumbledore with infuriating calmness, reaching across his desk for a small tin. "Peppermint humbug?" he offered.

"No thanks, Albus," said Fudge rudely. "I want to get this matter settled now." He pushed his chair back and stood up. Placing his hands on the edge of Dumbledore's desk, he leaned forward in an attempt to look imposing. "I see no reason to start up this class in the first place! It won't fit in the syllabus. And furthermore," he added, trying to deepen his voice and give it authority, "it is absolutely absurd to have a Muggle teaching at Hogwarts. It simply isn't done. I just can't allow you to -- "

"Must I remind you that it was established last June how much power the Ministry has over Hogwarts?" Dumbledore spoke quietly and kindly.

Fudge's could feel veins throbbing in his temples. "There is no need to remind me, Dumbledore," he said through gritted teeth.

The memory of Dolores Umbridge's failure was still fresh and raw. The woman had been an excellent informant on Dumbledore's machinations, and also a very good way to keep that Potter boy out of trouble. Though Fudge was cooperating with the whole You-Know-Who thing, he wasn't going to let an eccentric old fool like Albus Dumbledore, powerful wizard though he was, completely ruin his vision of a proper wizarding world. And that vision certainly did not allow Muggles to teach Music in a Magic school!

Fudge's inner monologue caught him off guard for a moment before he continued. "I know you'll do what you like no matter what I say," he said as fiercely as he dared. "I just don't like it. Mark my words, it will be a complete failure. The man will have to have his memory modified by the end of next week -- unless the students hex him into mush first."

And with that, Fudge turned and left the office.

* * *

Dumbledore watched Cornelius Fudge go with a trace of sadness. He knew what Fudge was, knew that the man's love of blood purity was his only true fault. He could not be blamed for stupidity, nor could he be blamed for falling in love with power. Hadn't Dumbledore himself fallen for the same temptation? Wasn't he staying with the school for the very same reasons that Fudge wanted to stay Minister? And yet...

Dumbledore sighed. Why couldn't the man open his mind a little more; why couldn't he see that, unless they mingled more with Muggles, the entire race would die out?

Dumbledore could remember his own time as a student, before Voldemort, and even before Grindelwald. Back then, there had been thousands of students at the school, over five hundred students to a house, and many more professors. More opportunities to mix with other people, to learn a whole host of subjects no longer offered at the school. Why had it gone wrong? And when?

Somehow, in the days of Grindelwald's ascent in the thirties and forties, the Wizarding community had clammed up in fear. The Muggles had been making great strides in their own technology, which was, to many, threatening. Old families, afraid of feeling inferior, had seized upon their own heritage as a reason to feel superior -- for no longer did witches and wizards have such an incredible advantage over the Muggles simple by their magical power. The Muggles could shoot them, kill them with atomic power, point out to them the impossibilities of what magic accomplishes. What greater threat could there be than an age of unbelief?

Dumbledore absently reached for another peppermint and scratched his beard thoughtfully.

Well, no matter now, he thought. What Fudge thought couldn't be helped, and no matter what the blustery little man did, the school would stand up for Dumbledore. Through all trials and tribulations, through changes and adjustments, Hogwarts would always acknowledge him.

* * *

Severus Snape scowled at his reflection in the storefront glass. He hated Muggle clothing. It chafed and restricted, and, most importantly, showed everything. There was no bodily privacy in these -- what had Dumbledore called them? -- right, jeans. And even the shirt he was wearing felt like nothing more than a second skin. He could feel his muscles rub against the fabric as he walked, and scowled again.

But he had to admit he looked good.

Except for the hair. And he wasn't the sort to fuss over his hair, not like some he could think of.

Severus paused to check the address Dumbledore had given him. 2317A Spaulding Avenue. Well, here was Spaulding Avenue. So where was...? Ah, yes, across the street he could see a "2344 Spaulding" in large red letters across a faded yellow awning that led to the door of a tall square building, with identical windows set all across its front and sides. And to his right was a small building labeled, "2337 Spaulding." Next to it, further down, was "2333," another large building. So, if Muggles were at all logical... and there it was. He snorted softly to himself. Maybe they weren't as stupid as he'd thought.

As he pushed open the gate of 2317, he noticed that the fence was quite crooked and worn, and that the drab bushes in the front yard seemed quite desperate for any sort of attention -- whether with a hose-pipe or pruning shears didn't matter. A small sign just behind the gate read "2317A and B" and had an arrow pointing around to the back.

Severus's boots crunched the gravel path that led to a small backyard cottage. The flowers outside this building seemed slightly better watered than the poor specimens out front, but no more trimmed than Hagrid's beard. He did notice, however, a faint sense of cheeriness about the place, and felt his spirits, if not lighten, at least become less gloomy. Then he remembered that the man was a Muggle, and scowled.

All too soon he was at the front door, his hand raised to knock. After a moment's hesitation, he rapped sharply on the door twice.

"Coming!" called a woman's voice from the interior. It sounded startled, but eager. Severus wondered, not for the first time, why he had let Dumbledore talk him into doing this.

The door opened, and a woman with brown hair and green eyes smiled at him. "Yes?" she asked politely.

The woman was very pretty, Severus thought. Very, very pretty. Green eyes with more than a hint of intelligence and clarity -- brown hair that caught glints of the setting sun - and a small but curvy mouth that was open slightly, showing two slightly larger than average front teeth.

He came back to himself with a start. Ogling the Muggles was not acceptable. "Is Mr. Navarra home?" he asked. "I'm Professor Severus Snape from Hogwarts School."

The woman smiled, and Severus wondered why he couldn't stop looking at her mouth. "Oh, come on in. Would you like some coffee?" she asked. "Or tea, you British prefer tea, don't you?" She hurried off towards the interior of the cottage after closing the door behind Severus. "Luke!" she called. "There's a Professor Snape here -- he's from Hogwarts!"

"Already?" came a man's voice. It sounded nervous. "But the letter just got here -- "

"Yes, already. Come on!" She turned back to Severus and gestured towards the sofa. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Luke's coming. Would you like anything to drink?" she asked again.

"No, thank you," he replied brusquely. "I'd like to keep this short."

She went silent, thankfully.

Severus took a long look around the room as he sat gingerly on the sofa. It was nowhere near as gaudy as he'd come to expect from Muggles -- especially American Muggles. The furniture was mostly wood and natural canvas, and there was a large solid-looking desk against one wall. There was an impressive rack of electronic devices that Arthur Weasley would have paid a hundred Galleons to get his hands on, as well as multiple electric lights, which the woman was switching on as darkness settled in. She moved very gracefully -- rather like Minerva McGonagall in some ways, always confident of where she was going and how to get there, but very comfortable in her movements.

No, she didn't move like that. She moved like a Muggle, and it didn't matter. Severus stared at his hands.

He looked up when he heard a small noise of feet coming down the hall, and watched as a man entered the room. Luke Navarra was of average height, though thin, and hunched forward slightly with an annoying self-effacement.

"Professor," he said, extending a hand. "Thank you for coming."

Severus shook the man's hand as briefly as he could without being impolite. "Mr. Navarra."

Luke Navarra sat down on the edge of one of the chairs, trying to look comfortable and failing.

"I assume you received the letter?" Severus said without preamble.

"Yes," said Navarra. "It sounds wonderful, uh, Professor," he continued with a swallow, "though I do have a few questions."

"Of course."

If Mr Navarra was startled by Severus' calm, he didn't show it. "Well, first, I'd like to know how you heard of me. I'm not exactly a big name in the industry, you know, and -- "

"Davitt Moroney gave us your name," Severus interrupted, "when the Headmaster inquired for a music teacher."

"I see," Navarra said slowly. "I'm surprised he remembers me from all his students, but... never mind." He was clearly a little startled. He continued nonetheless. "And, secondly, well, I have to ask -- what's the salary?"

"I'm not sure of the conversion rates exactly," said Severus, glad for the moment that the man undoubtedly thought he meant pounds to dollars, not Galleons to dollars, "but I think it's approximately sixty or sixty-five thousand of your American dollars per year."

The woman made an excited noise.

"Right," said Navarra briskly. "That sounds quite, um, quite nice. And, what exactly is this school?" he finally asked. "The letter mentioned that it was somewhat -- um -- unusual? Special needs students, or something?"

This was the moment that Severus had been dreading. It went completely against all his training to talk to these Muggles like this, to tell them exactly what he was about to tell them. But it was Dumbledore's idea, and these days one did whatever Dumbledore asked, even if it meant traveling six thousand miles to talk to Muggles. There was always Obliviate, if he needed to change their memories.

"It's a school for wizards," he said abruptly, wondering vaguely what "special needs" meant. He simply didn't understand American.

"What?" asked the woman quickly, just as Navarra said, "Huh?"

"Wizards. As in magic wands, broomsticks, spells, and so forth," Severus said, a trifle impatiently.

The two Muggles exchanged glances, and Severus could tell they were trying to figure out if he was a loony. The woman had a faint hint of a smile around the corners of her mouth.

"Um..." said Luke.

"Do you need proof?" he growled at them, half-hoping they'd simply kick him out so he could go back to Hogwarts and announce to Dumbledore that one of his plans had finally failed. "Would you prefer me to levitate one of your items of furniture? Or perhaps transfigure something?"

The woman raised her eyes at Navarra, who shrugged, his expression perplexed and amused.

"Okay," he said slowly, with a clear subtext of Well, what's the worst that could happen?

Feeling more than a trifle annoyed at the entire situation, Severus raised his wand, pointed very carefully at the coffee table, and said, "Mesa Leviosa!"

Obediently, the table rose a few feet, hovered, then, directed by his wand, landed back on the carpet with a thud.

The two Muggles were staring at the coffee table, mouths slightly open with surprise. The woman ran her hand in the air above the table, as if checking for threads, and the man said, "Do that again."

Severus obliged. The gaze of disbelief on Luke Navarra's face was changing to one of pure delight. He turned to the woman, who was still looking dubious. "Well?" he asked her.

She didn't answer, and instead looked critically at Severus. Then she spoke, a little hesitantly. "I'm very sorry, but I'll need a little more proof than that. Not to doubt you, really, but the mind is highly susceptible..."

"Very well, then," Severus said, trying not to stare at her eyebrows, which were furrowed together. "May I use one of your magazines?" he asked, reaching forward to the table, which had settled on the carpet a few inches from where it had been before. The dents in the pile where it used to rest were clearly visible.

The woman gestured at the top of the table for him to choose any magazine he wished. Then she too noticed the dents in the carpet and knelt down to feel them.

Severus held the magazine at wand-length, praying he remembered his sixth-year transfiguration. "Canis Mutatus!" he proclaimed, and, to his great dismay, the magazine became a very furry, small dog with pictures of dishes all over its coat. He started to apologize for the incomplete transformation, but for some reason, the Muggles were even more impressed.

"Wow," they breathed.

Then Luke Navarra turned to him. "When do I start?" he asked.