The Harpsichordist

Chapter 4: When You Wish Upon a Star

Snape swore.

How could Dumbledore do this to him? How could that wretched man possibly think that Snape would want to do this? Dumbledore knew how much Snape hated the prospect, knew that Snape wouldn't do it given a choice. Why did that bumbling idiot Gryffindor always assume that people would do whatever he wanted?

Because they did, of course.

And that was why Snape was swearing. "Merlin's balls on a stick!" he bellowed to his empty office, furious with himself.

He'd just agreed to continue giving that wretched Potter boy Occlumency lessons. But that wasn't the major problem.

He'd agreed to give Luke a tour of the school.

Why, why, why, on earth did Dumbledore think that Snape was a good choice for a tour guide? The man was a Muggle, he wouldn't even know the first thing about Wizarding Space, much less how to map in his head. Wizarding children picked it up easily through exposure, and even Mudbl -- Muggleborns -- learned it eventually. But a full grown Muggle trying to navigate the changing corridors of Hogwarts?

He sighed, wondering why Dumbledore kept throwing the two of them together -- first the visit, then the train station, and now this.

* * *
Luke meant to say, "Excuse me, but who are you?" but what came out instead was a sort of confused "pbleh?"

The creature turned, and Luke made the sound again. It had enormous brown eyes, more cartoon-like than real, and a nose that looked just like, well, just like a squashed tomato. It was about two feet tall and wearing a small towel, the kind you hang in the bathroom for guests to dry their hands on.

"Oh, sir!" it squeaked in a very high voice. "Winky is not finished, sir, Winky is sorry, Winky isn't meaning to be seen!"

Luke finally found his words after a few more confused splutters. "What -- who are you?"

"Winky, sir, Winky the house-elf," it said, with a bow. "Winky cleans rooms at Hogwarts and puts away sir's things while sir is at breakfast. Winky is not supposed to be seen!" it squeaked suddenly, looking frantic.

"It's okay," Luke said, trying to be reassuring through his befuddlement. "I'm not used to all this magic, it doesn't matter to me."

"Then it is true?" squeaked Winky. "You is a Muggle, sir?"

"Uh, yeah," said Luke.

Winky gazed at him in a sort of awed amazement. "And Professor Dumbledore is letting you in here?" it squeaked. "Professor Dumbledore has never let a Muggle into Hogwarts before."

"I'm supposed to teach music," said Luke, wondering if he could move any closer into his rooms. He stepped forward, towards the sofa. Winky didn't flinch at this, so he went over and sat down where he could still see the creature.

"Professor Dumbledore likes music," said Winky. It stared for a moment longer at him, not blinking, then seemed to come to with a shake of its head. "Winky should be cleaning!" it squeaked, and, with a crack!, the socks it had been holding vanished.

Luke knew he had to get used to this sort of magic, but it still startled him. "Um," he began, "um, should I just go away until you're finished? I mean, I can put my own clothes away and stuff..."

But Winky looked deeply offended and proclaimed, "Winky is a good house-elf, sir, and Winbky is putting away sir's clothes as I was told. Sir may stay if sir wishes, Winky will be as quick as she can." This last was said rather apologetically.

And Luke realized that the creature had called itself a "she." Female. So there were male house-elves, too, he realized. This world was weirder than he'd ever imagined.

Someone knocked at the door. Feeling somewhat relieved, Luke went to answer it and found Snape standing outside, looking sour.

"Hello," said Luke pleasantly. "Would you like to come in?"

With a glance over Luke's shoulder at the scurrying house-elf, Snape shook his head curtly. "I am to give you a tour," he sneered the word, "of Hogwarts. Don't ask me why."

"Oh," said Luke, trying to shift gears. "Well, then, um... are we going now?"

"I would assume so."

"Then let's go," said Luke brightly. Whatever Snape's sheetrock-sized chip was, Luke wasn't going to let it bother him.

They left Winky to her work and headed up the corridor. Snape was striding along so fast that Luke was hard-pressed to keep up. "So where are we going?" he asked, slightly out of breath.

Snape's voice was colder than ever when he finally replied, which was a while later. "We are going back to the entrance hall to begin the... tour."

* * *
The tour could have gone much worse, Luke thought. While not directly rude, Snape was definitely not polite and certainly not friendly. He dutifully pointed out the entrances to each of the four Houses, and introduced Luke to the guardians. It was a little odd to be introduced to a stretch of blank wall (which was the entrance to the Slytherin common room), but the wall did open when Luke requested entrance.

The major portraits were also introduced, and Luke was quite amused by Sir Cadogan, who insisted that Luke had to "stand fast and do battle!" before being allowed to roam the castle. Snape made a sound suspiciously like a genuinely amused laugh, though Luke wasn't sure, when Luke pointed out to Sir Cadogan that he was a painting, and that Luke didn't see how he could fight the knight.

The brief tour of the school taught Luke at least one important thing about the wizarding world: space was different. He had seen the outside of the castle, and it looked large, but definitely not large enough to hold seven floors of half-mile long corridors. And he would swear that the turns and twistings they took did not add up to the courtyard shape held by the outside. He supposed he'd get used to it.

Snape rattled off the rules for all the staircases, which Luke vainly tried to recite back as soon as he'd heard them. But knew that, for a while at least, he wouldn't be able to manage, and resigned himself to wandering around quite a bit and leaving early for his lessons.

Lessons. Panic didn't quite explode, but it began to seep upwards through his stomach and lungs like a disease.

He hadn't thought about lessons much yet. What exactly was he teaching? He had assigned a book for all students to read, but he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be giving instruction in. His instrument? There was no way he was teaching several hundred students to play the harpsichord. Singing? He could sing in tune, but that was about it. Basic theory and musicianship? Perhaps.

He had just closed the door behind Snape, wishing him a "Good afternoon," when a voice called to him from the fireplace.

"Luke?" It was Albus' voice, and his head was sitting calmly in the middle of the flames.

"Albus!" he said, frightened. "Are you all right?" He ran over to try and pull Albus out of the fire, thinking wildly of third-degree burn treatments. To his shock, Albus merely laughed.

"I'm fine, my dear friend. This is the Floo Network -- we can talk with each other through it. May I come over? We have much to discuss."

"Uh, of course you can. I'll see you in a few minutes, I gue -- " He broke off, because Albus was now unfolding himself from inside Luke's fireplace. Albus stepped out, dusted himself off, and stood up.

"How was the tour?" he asked pleasantly, taking a chair.

"It-it was all right," Luke stammered. "I don't think I'll remember most of it, though. Um, how did you do that?"

"Floo powder," Albus replied. "It allows us to travel through fireplaces that are hooked up to the Network. The communication aspect works simply by placing one's head in the flames, though you must remember to throw the powder in first. I recall one poor student of mine who forgot once... Terrible burns," he mused thoughtfully.

Now Luke recalled Wendy ranting about how she wished she could visit him using some sort of fireplace thingy, but Luke hadn't caught the name. Floo powder. Right. He filed it away, and then realized what Albus had said.

"Was he all right?" asked Luke, startled by Albus' nonchalance.

"Oh, yes," said Albus blithely. "Madam Pomfrey fixed him in about a day."

A day? There was that magic again.

"Now," said Albus briskly, "we need to sort out what your lessons will be this term. There are seven years, four houses, and they can be doubled, but we also have to take into account the electives of various students-"

"Let me get a notebook out," said Luke, and, getting up, rummaged through his backpack. which, fortunately, Winky had not emptied, and grabbed a blank spiral notebook, a mechanical pencil, and an eraser.

Dumbledore exclaimed delightedly when he saw what Luke had brought back to the table. "Muggle writing instruments! May I?" he asked, holding out a hand, into which Luke dropped the mechnical pencil. Albus clicked it experimentally, apparently delighted with the way the lead appeared out of the end. "I must show Arthur Weasley one of these days -- he has a real obsession with Muggles; I'm sure he'd love to meet you." He scribbled on Luke's paper. "Delightful."

"What do you normally use?" asked Luke, holding out his hand for his pencil, which Dumbledore obligingly turned over.

"Quills, ink, and parchment," said Dumbledore, waving his wand to make them appear. "Quite medieval, really, but we never got into technology the way Muggles did; we still insist on doing everything the way our ancestors did."

"Is it okay if I use my own things?" asked Luke. Dumbledore's reaction, while amusing, worried him slightly -- he knew he'd stand out as a Muggle, but would these make it even worse?

"Oh, by all means, go ahead," said Dumbledore. "But I don't know if you'll be able to get more of whatever it is that's filling it-"

"Lead, we call it."

"-yes, lead, in Hogsmeade. But don't worry about that for now. Back to the students," he said. "Part of the problem will be placing them."

"I have to examine every single student?" Luke asked apprehensively. "How many are there?"

"About three hundred. Don't worry, you'll have the first weekend to do that," Dumbledore assured him, because Luke now looked positively horrified. "The students are arriving on a Friday this year -- you'll have plenty of time. What we need to settle now is when you're lecturing on history. There's no point in having the seventh years sit through history; they won't need it as much as musicianship and theory. But the need for this education is urgent, so we cannot let any student go without learning something. There will be a few who already know their basic theory and who have some sense of pitch, but only a few." He sighed sadly. "Such a loss. So few parents deem music necessary nowadays."

* * *

The local public school in Ottery St. Catchpole had a music teacher, a nice, plump woman called Mrs. Gamut. She was a retired opera singer who had never really made it big in London, but she'd had her moments. After her husband had died and her children had grown up and left, she'd decided that she didn't have the energy to fight tooth and nail in the London opera business, and retired up to this little village to teach music.

Ginny had been something of her pet. At the age of six, she'd left The Burrow to come and receive a basic education with the Muggle children, and had promptly taken her place in the forty-minute music classes given once a week to all the children. They played with sticks and rhythm makers, sang songs, put on cute little musicals with the rest of the school -- the first-years were always the sheep, no matter what the subject -- and just had a good time.

Mrs. Gamut had taken Ginny aside one day when she was seven and asked her to sing for her, which Ginny did, singing their latest little song about ducks who went over the hill.

"My dear," Mrs. Gamut said, "have your mother come and talk to me next week, all right? She and I should have a little talk."

"Why?" asked Ginny.

"You have the best sense of pitch in this whole school, dear, and a nice voice, too. Perhaps we can arrange some lessons."

But the lessons would have cost more than her mother could afford, and Mrs. Gamut, though kindly, was not handing things out for free. So Ginny simply got a lot of attention during class, and a few pointers about singing.

"Stand up straight, dear," Mrs. Gamut would always tell her when Ginny would start to sing whatever solo they had.

And now, Hogwarts was offering music as a subject.

Ginny was thrilled. But she was also deeply regretting that she'd asked her mother for a broomstick in return for being made a prefect. What did she want a broomstick for, now that Harry would be playing again? She had a decent broom, one of Charlie's old ones -- she could play Chaser on that easily.

What she really wanted now were singing lessons. Perhaps their new professor was a singer; perhaps whoever it was would know some local teachers.

Ginny sighed and flopped onto her bed, grabbing her Charms text. O.W.L.s were coming up this June, and she had to study.

Just then, someone knocked on the door. "Come in, Harry," she said.

"How did you know it was me?" he asked, entering.

"No one else would knock, not even Hermione."

Harry smiled.

"What do you want?" she asked, hoping she didn't sound too rude.

To her surprise, Harry looked uncomfortable. "I, er, I -- well, first, congratulations on being a prefect."

"Thanks."

"And, er, are you still going for Seeker this year?" he asked, though it didn't seem he had come into her room just to ask that.

"I told you," said Ginny, "that I want to do Chaser. It's much more fun, I think. Besides, you're really good."

"Oh, thanks," said Harry, now quite pink. "Well, er, all right then. I'll see you around."

"All right, then," said Ginny.

"Er, bye then."

Harry left, closing the door behind him.

Now what on earth was that about?

If truth be told, she and Dean Thomas weren't exactly dating. She'd asked him out, but their letters this summer had been a little lukewarm. Friendly, of course -- he was quite talkative and nice -- but nothing that really got her to the heart.

She was over Harry, that was certain. No more little-girl crush, no more hero-worship. Harry was just Harry, with socks and underwear -- she giggled -- just like any other boy. You can't really worship someone after you've sorted their socks.

No, Harry was just Harry, and if anything, she felt sorry for him. Forced to live in a cupboard for ten years, living with those horrible Muggles; nearly getting killed at the end of every school year; having deadly enemies, all that sort of thing. No wonder the poor boy couldn't stand Cho crying all over him. He needed someone to cheer him up.

Ginny had always been a rather cheerful person. She smiled happily to herself as she got out quill and parchment and started studying.