The Harpsichordist

Chapter Six: Eight Days A Week

Luke contemplated cancelling all his remaining placement tests and running over to Albus' office to ask about -- well, about whatever the hell it was had happened with Hermione, but there were still at least forty more students to place. He realized he wasn't going to get a break.

Sighing, he went to the door to the corridor, opened it, and poked his head out. A handful of semi-nervous teenagers sat against the wall.

"Is Geoffrey Hooper here?"

The testing continued; the H's to the P's were pretty uneventful. There was one very promising student, though, named Neville Longbottom. The boy was quite uncertain of himself, though Luke couldn't for the life of him figure out why. Neville had near-perfect pitch, could carry a tune, was just as capable as Hannah Abbott of reading music. His singing voice wasn't gorgeous, but it was accurate, which was more than any of the previous students could boast. Luke was very happy to tell Neville that he'd be able to skip most of the basic musicianship, and that he was one of the best students Luke had yet encountered. Neville looked extremely surprised, then gave a faint smile and practically fled.

Around four in the afternoon, the extremely flirtatious Parvati Patil finally left, taking her tone-deafness with her, and a thin boy with untidy black hair and round glasses walked into the room.

"You must be --" Luke consulted the class roster. "-- Harry Potter." Then he blinked down at the name. Potter... Harry... this was the boy who... He looked up at Harry, who was standing in the middle of the room, giving off a distinct aura of anxiety and nerves. It was as though he expected to be shouted at. His eyes were red and puffy, as though he'd been crying, or not sleeping, or both. "So you're the one everything happens to, eh?" Luke said, watching Harry's face.

Harry looked extremely startled by this. He blinked a couple of times, almost as though fending off tears, and nodded curtly. "Yes, sir."

"Oh, don't call me sir. It makes me feel old. Call me Luke."

Harry was clearly confused. "But you're a professor, don't you want --?"

"Don't bother. It's an American thing. If I'm not going to call you 'Mr. Potter,' which I'm not, then there's no need for you to call me 'sir' or 'professor.'" Luke gave Harry an encouraging smile, which Harry returned only with his lips; his eyes stayed solemn. "Now, if you can tell me what musical experience you have?"

"None, sir -- I mean, Luke." Harry seemed very uncomfortable, but he went on to answer Luke's questions. "My aunt and uncle wouldn't have paid for music lessons, and my previous school didn't offer anything."

"That's all right. If you can come to the keyboard and sing back to me what I play?" Luke settled himself at the bench and picked out a two-bar little phrase, all stepwise motion.

Harry blinked again, then opened his mouth and sang it back. Note-perfect, same tempo, with absolutely no uncertainty.

Luke smiled. "That's very good. Let's try something longer."

He added another two bars on. Again, Harry sang it back perfectly. "That's quite impressive," Luke said encouragingly. And added two more bars. Then two more. And two more. At a sixteen-bar melody, Luke was very excited, though a little unnerved. How much could this boy remember? He finally stopped and looked at Harry.

"You have no musical training."

"No."

"But you can sing back to me a sixteen-bar melody, note perfect."

"Only you did keep playing the beginning over and over, so it was easy to remember."

This was true. "All right, I'll play a longer melody that you've never heard before -- this time with leaps."

Thinking quickly, Luke decided to stick with something he knew, and played the opening bars of a Bach fugue. He had to leave out the entrance of the second voice, of course, but the counter-subject was just as melodic as the subject, so it worked adequately.

Harry, who had closed his eyes to listen, stood still for a minute. Luke was about to ask him if he wanted to hear it again, when Harry took a deep breath and began to sing it back. Not only was it note- and rhythm-perfect, but it was accompanied by an echo in the air of the second voice at its proper entrance.

Harry's eyes stayed closed as he finished singing, and the other voice faded away, but not before it had sung a few more notes of the second voice, beyond the measures Luke had played.

Luke sat rooted to his bench. That was simply -- well, simply magical.

"That was unusual," he finally said. "I'll have a lot to talk to Albus about." Understatement of the year, he thought. Between this kid and Hermione...

"Don't you know what that is?" Harry asked Luke curiously.

"No, I've never heard that before." Luke was picking up a pen to jot down a note -- he doubted he'd forget, but he wanted to write down as many details now as he could.

There was a moment of silence, then Harry said, almost in an accusatory voice, "That's a ballpoint pen."

"Yes," said Luke, looking up. "Why?"

Harry's expression went from surprised to shocked very quickly. "Wizards don't use ballpoint pens. You're a Muggle, aren't you." It wasn't a question.

Luke nodded, waving his hands as though to quell something. "But don't spread it around, please -- Albus wants it to filter quietly."

"All right."

"We'd better get on with the exam," he said. "Can you read music, Harry?"

"Er -- no, not at all."

"I think that's everything, then. You may go. And send in the next person, please?"

* * *

Ginny walked nervously into Professor Navarra's office. She felt that her entire future hung on this one interview -- and perhaps it did. If he could help her find voice lessons... She did wish her heart would stop thumping.

"Ginny Weasley?" said a voice. "Please come in."

Luke Navarra looked tired and bored, Ginny decided. He was rather good-looking, though, and Ginny couldn't blame Parvati for flirting with him. She had to admit that the American accent was a little strange, but when you're kissing, who wants to speak? She felt a telltale flush spread across her cheeks.

"Yes, sir."

"Please, call me Luke," he said. "And before you say, 'But you're a professor,' I'll tell you that, in America, it's common for teachers to ask their more mature students to call them by their first names -- especially in music. Now, let's see... How much musical experience do you have?"

Ginny told him about Mrs. Gamut and about the singing lessons, and Luke looked suddenly happy. "So you can read music?" he asked excitedly.

"Of course," she said.

He smiled. "That's excellent. First, though, I'll take you through the sing-back part. If you can come to stand by the keyboard, please?"

Ginny walked over to the instrument. "Oh, that's a gorgeous harpsichord!" she exclaimed. About eight feet long and four feet wide, it was made of solid wood, with a simple base of gently curving legs. "Mrs. Gamut only had a piano -- well, she was a Muggle, they're not much into harpsichords, are they? -- but I did once go to a recital when I was nine or ten and I saw one. I really like its sound; even though it's a little odd at first." She was babbling, but Luke was smiling at her.

"Yes, they're great instruments," he said. "Now, can you sing back to me what I play, please?"

It was a very easy little tune, and Ginny sang it back. "Very nice," he said. "Can you harmonize with me as I sing, then?"

"All right," she said.

They sang together for a few minutes, and then Luke had her come to the keyboard and sight-read a short piece.

"That was really good," said Luke when they were finished. "I think that's everything I need. Thank you."

Ginny stood there for a minute, thinking fast. Why not go for it? "There's one more thing," she said.

"Yes?"

"You see, I really want to learn how to sing better, and -- and, well, do you know of any voice teachers in Hogsmeade?" She watched Luke anxiously.

He looked blank for a minute. "Teachers in Hogsmeade?" he repeated. "Not off the top of my head, no, I'm sorry. But I can look into it for you. You do sing beautifully."

Ginny felt another blush spreading across her cheeks. "Thanks, sir -- I mean, Luke." It wasn't so hard, she realized. He was young, he was good-looking... all right, he was pretty darned cute, Parvati was right... and he wasn't really like Professor McGonagall or Professor Flitwick. He seemed a lot less stern than them.

"You're welcome," Luke said, smiling. "Can you send in the next student?"

Ginny went back out into the corridor, where Ron was waiting for her.

"How'd it go?" he asked her.

"He's going to ask about singing lessons in Hogsmeade!" she said, grinning.

Ron grinned at her. "Brilliant."

* * *

"How did the placement exams go?" Albus said to Luke, silently offering him the dish of hard candy.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," said Luke, irritably waving the dish away. "Some strange things happened with a few students."

I'll bet they did, thought Albus. "Oh?" he asked. "With whom?"

"Hermione Granger and Harry Potter," said Luke. He outlined the events of the afternoon. None of it was particularly unexpected, though Albus expected Miss Granger was most frustrated by her inability to succeed in music as easily as she did other subjects. When Luke told of the voice accompanying Harry, though, Albus was a little surprised. He had heard of the Bach effect, naturally, though he'd never witnessed it firsthand.

"What do you mean, 'the Bach Effect?'" asked Luke when Albus used the term. "Bach wasn't a wizard... was he?"

"Yes, he was," said Albus. He explained.

Johann Sebastian Bach was born at a time when the Wizarding World was just beginning to separate itself from the Muggle world, and was one of the last wizarding composers to work in the Muggle world. "He wasn't a particularly powerful wizard," Albus explained to the gaping young man in front of him, "but he had a talent for music and was an extreme perfectionist."

In a way, Sebastian was lucky he worked with Muggles, who were too imperceptive to be affected by his peculiar brand of magic; and if they were, well, they simply chalked it up to a holy experience brought on by Kapellmeister Bach's strange religious music.

"After Bach, most wizards were so busy hiding their identities to explore music, and Bach's example -- discover, if you will -- was simply forgotten."

"But what exactly was his discovery?" asked Luke, exasperated.

"Simply put, Bach managed to entwine his music with strands of nature. He chose fugal subjects and chordal progressions that resonated the same way particles of dust distribute themselves in the air, the same way the petals on a rose grow or the seeds of the dandelion scatter to the wind. And this alignment with nature," Albus continued, cutting off Luke's sputter, "can cause peculiar happenings around places particularly thick in naturally occurring magic, like Hogwarts, or when an exceptionally strong wizard, like Harry, is focusing on it."

Albus watched Luke ponder, his eyes absently sweeping the room. Luke's gaze landed on Fawkes, who was in splendid color, and as though the young man was trying to talk about something closer to his normal range of experiences, asked, "What sort of bird is that? It's gorgeous."

"This is Fawkes; he's a phoenix."

"Really?" breathed Luke. "And does it --"

"He."

"Yes, and does he really burst into flame?"

Albus nodded. "When it is time, he burns and is reborn from the ashes. Phoenixes can also carry extremely heavy loads; their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets." Albus immediately recalled how well Harry had taken advantage of Fawkes' many abilities over the years.

Fawkes, hearing Albus talk about him, fluttered over to perch on the desk in front of Luke. His claws scrabbled on the polished wood surface as he clattered over to inspect the newcomer.

"Fawkes, this is Luke Navarra," Albus said. "He's our new music professor."

Fawkes tilted his head sideways, eyeing Luke beadily.

"Do I... stroke him?" asked Luke tentatively.

"If you like," Albus replied.

Luke stretched out a nervous hand and stroked Fawkes' back. The phoenix, leaning into the caress, let out a trill of contentment. Luke froze as Fawkes' pleasant trill burbled into a real note.

* * *

The room was subtly brighter, the cheery glow of the candles friendlier. The tinkling silver instruments in the background now added not just noise, but a comfroting jangle; and the anxiety pressing down on Luke's chest -- fears of inadequacy, of failure, of being hexed by the students -- suddenly weighed a lot less.

"Phoenix song lends courage to the true of heart," Albus was saying. "I believe Fawkes has assisted Harry more than once in such a capacity."

A faint crinkling noise announced that Albus had unwrapped another candy.

Luke felt a smile suffuse his face as he continued to run his hand along the phoenix's brilliant plumage. "He's amazing," he whispered.

He stroked the bird for a while longer as Albus crunched away at the candy. Then Luke recalled Hermione Granger.

"About Hermione," he said, reluctantly withdrawing his hand from Fawkes. He explained the incident to Albus.

"Oh, yes, I'm not surprised at all at that," Albus replied, when Luke had finished.

"Oh?" Luke said, blinking.

"She's an extremely powerful witch, as well as a singularly determined young lady. When someone with her power puts all that focus into aligning pitches, especially if she's been inaccurrate for a while, there's bound to be a spectacular release of the built-up energy around her. By missing the pitches, she sent the surrounding matter into confusion; when she finally matched them, the power that she put into that task must have been more than enough for the actual pitch, so the excess was released in another form."

Luke nodded as though this information had not completely turned his world inside out, and stroked Fawkes once more before taking his leave.

* * *

Hermione was a singularly determined young lady who was also singularly frustrated. The library was closed for the evening, and she hadn't found out yet what that ... reaction, for lack of a better word, was all about. It had felt so incredible, so right when she'd finally hit the note, and when the world had suddenly glowed, she'd known that it was more than just satisfaction at accomplishment, it was magic.

Parvati, Lavender, Erica, and Gwendolyn were sitting on Lavender's bed, telling giggling stories to each other about their summers, their boys, their parents, and their siblings. Hermione didn't really mind, nor did she feel left out; it had been ages since she'd felt a need to do the girly thing. She did often wish, however, that there were girls her own age with whom she could discuss schoolwork without feeling like -- or actually being -- a tutor. Ginny was nice, and intelligent, but she was a year younger and a class behind Hermione. And it wasn't just discussing schoolwork; Hermione did want to talk about boys, two boys in particular, but not in kissing terms.

Oh, it was useless. Hermione threw down her quill in disgust. The parchment upon which she'd been scribbling was covered with circular speculations about the Experience, as she was beginning to call it, but none of her ideas could actually go anywhere until she had done some basic research. And she didn't want to wait.

She got out of bed, shoved her feet into her slippers, and was at the door before her roommates noticed her.

"What are you doing, Hermione?" asked Lavender.

"She's sneaking off," giggled Gwendolyn.

"Ooh, tell us, tell us," squealed Parvati.

"Where were you planning on going this late?" asked Erica slyly.

"Out." And Hermione closed the door on their open mouths. She padded down the stairs to the common room, then resolutely padded up the stairs to the sixth year boys' dormitory and knocked. Dean opened the door.

"Hi, Hermione," he said, grinning.

"Hello, Dean," said Hermione, smiling back. There was an awkward moment of silence. "Er, can I come in?" she asked, looking pointedly into the room beyond.

Dean stepped back from the door and extravagantly gestured her inside, bowing. The other boys looked up and gave their hellos, with little more than a few curious glances. Her presence, after all, wasn't that surprising, as she was Harry and Ron's good friend.

"Have a moment, Harry?" she asked as she approached his bed.

Two minutes of whispered conversation and a lengthy rummage in Harry's trunk for a book Hermione had "lent" him, and she was back down the spiral staircase, a silvery bundle in one hand and an old parchment clutched in the other. She pushed open the Fat Lady.

"Already?" grumbled the sleepy portrait. "Is it just one of you, or all three?" Hermione didn't answer, as she was halfway down the corridor.

Hermione kept a close eye on the Marauders' Map as she crept towards the library. Filch was patrolling the seventh floor near the Room of Requirement; Mrs. Norris was lurking in the astronomy tower, about to surprise two students whose names she didn't recognize. Dumbledore was pacing his study, and Snape wasn't anywhere to be found.

She briefly wondered where he was, then decided she probably didn't want to know. As long as he wasn't breathing down her neck, she had no real interest in his whereabouts or activities.

She pushed open the door to the library and made her way, past Madam Pince's throne and the study carrels, over to the shelves. Where to begin? She only knew a little bit about music from her grandmother, and from the WWN. She could dredge up nothing in her memory about matching pitches and glowing witches. But she had to start somewhere, and so she went to that old faithful, Hogwarts: A History, her own copy having been left at home because there was no room in her trunk -- again.

* * *

Three hours later, Hermione sat back and rubbed her neck muscles, stunned. It had taken some serious index and bibliography scouting to find a starting point, but once she knew the kind of references she was looking for, information had begun finding her.

The history of musical energy was documented in England back to the seventh century, when a witch with perfect pitch had discovered that her sheep only came in when she whistled exactly the same sequences of notes. Transposed to any other pitch, the tweedle did nothing and the sheep just sat in the meadow. But the right pitches made them line up to follow her.

There was, of course, the story of the Pied Piper. True, though greatly exaggerated, as all these tales were. He hadn't quite gotten all of the rats in the city, just most of them, and was helped along by someone's pet Kneazle bringing up the rear.

The Hogwarts library was annoyingly Anglo-central, so the references she was able to find to an ancient Finnish wizard, Väinämöinen, were tantalizingly short. He had managed to vanquish enemies by singing and causing things to happen to them, though as the library did not contain a copy of the Kalevala, the nineteenth century Muggle collection of Finnish folktales, she was at loose ends. Perhaps he had existed, perhaps he hadn't. If he was real, then he had existed sometime around the founding of Hogwarts, and as magical history was quite spotty from that time, she didn't know if she would ever find out the truth.

But there was more information later on: around the Renaissance, in the fifteenth century, a few wizards tried working in the Muggle world as musicians, finding employment mostly in churches as resident composers. There were snobbish reports of Muggles constantly mistaking what the wizards called "alignment" for religious ecstasy. Giovanni da Palestrina, though not a wizard, was an extremely perceptive Muggle, and was able to use alignment in his settings of the Mass Ordinary without fully understanding his actions.

And then came Bach in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. The last great wizarding composer, and a genius. And his works were so well crafted that they'd left an indelible mark on nature itself, which would explain Harry's strange experience at his exam. Incredible.

But something nagged at her, eating away at her joy of research: what was the purpose of all this, then? It was fascinating and certainly enjoyable to read about, but what was the point? Hermione was a fan of education in general, but so far her career at Hogwarts had included mostly useful stuff -- apart from Trelawney, who she'd dropped faster than a dirty rag. Hermione simply couldn't see the use of this albeit interesting effect.

* * *

The night was dark and silent. The figures were hooded and cloaked, and stood in a circle with two in the middle. One was kneeling before the other, kissing the hem of his robes.

"You may stand," said the leader.

The man stood.

"Tell me what you know."

"The old man has hired a Muggle, my Lord," said the servant. "He will be teaching the children music. I do not know why he has done this -- perhaps to give the children some distractions while their world crumbles around them."

"Indeed. And?"

"The Muggle cannot even find his way around the castle. He is helpless in the magical world."

"Does he have... family?"

"There is a woman."

"Indeed."

"She lives in America."

"Find her. A Muggle has no place at Hogwarts. He must be persuaded back to his proper place. You may kill her if necessary."

"Yes, my Lord."

Harry awoke suddenly, his scar prickling, and tried to remember the dream. There had been darkness, and many cloaked figures; two familiar voices -- one silky and smooth, one high and cold. Snape, and Voldemort. Talking about the school... and a Muggle. And his family.

Harry shook his head and got up to pour himself some water. What did it mean? Voices, darkness. Obviously a Death Eater meeting...

But was it real? Or was Voldemort now sending him false images, hoping to lure him again to somewhere he could be killed? And what would Snape think when he saw that dream the next time Harry went for Occlumency?

Harry wanted to punch something. It really wasn't fair. Why did he have to continue those lessons when it was obvious they weren't helping? Snape seemed about as eager as Harry to continue them.

"As the Headmaster wishes it, Potter, you shall be continuing Occlumency this term with me. I believe anyone who knows your O.W.L. score will not be surprised to learn that you need more Remedial Potions."

Harry supposed it did make an excellent excuse. He'd only gotten an E in Potions, rather than the required O, but as McGonagall and Dumbledore were both adamant that Harry be taught Potions, Snape had to acquiesce to their wishes.

In any case, Hermione had told him that Snape "really couldn't keep you out of the class if you wanted to take it, because I've read all about those guidelines, and you only need an A to continue an N.E.W.T subject, so if you want to take it, he can't stop you, especially if your Head of House and the Headmaster both give permission. It's in the N.E.W.T. Educational Standards of 1994." To which Ron had rolled his eyes and Harry had simply nodded. Sometimes Hermione did read too much.

Harry's schedule was quite full this term, especially with N.E.W.T. subjects being as time-consuming as they were. He had Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, and Music. He hadn't wanted to give up Care of Magical Creatures, but it was being offered only at the same time as Potions, and he really needed Potions to train as an Auror.

Ron, though quite disappointed at having his hopes for being an Auror dashed, had nevertheless been happy to give up weekly horror with Snape and continue in Care of Magical Creatures. Hermione, true to form, hadn't wanted to give up a single class. Unfortunately -- or was it fortunately? Harry didn't know -- the Ministry wasn't too keen on giving her a time turner, so she had had to make some decisions. She'd finally settled on her choices only after researching thoroughly and then telling them in detail the requirements of each class and the potentials for careers in Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Astronomy, and Arithmancy. She'd had to drop Runes and Care of Magical Creatures as well, and was thoroughly put out by it.

Ron, however, was looking forward to Snape-free years, as he was signed up for Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Care of Magical Creatures, and Music. Both Harry and Ron were thrilled to give up Divination.

There was still that question: why on earth was Dumbledore making them all take Music? Harry knew there was magic in it -- no doubt about that, especially from what had happened earlier that day. But what sort of magic was it? He remembered Dumbledore saying, his very first year at Hogwarts, that music was "a magic beyond all we do here." Was he going to learn something about that? But why now? Why, just when Voldemort was beginning his second offence on the Wizarding World, was Dumbledore taking up precious time to teach them something new?

And why was there a Muggle teaching it?

Which brought Harry's thoughts back to the dream. He drained his water glass, set it down next to the pitcher, and climbed back into bed, gazing out of the window across the room. If it had been a real dream -- and he would bet his Firebolt that it had been real -- then the Death Eaters now knew about Navarra, thanks to Snape. The greasy git! Why hadn't he simply kept quiet?

A very reasonable, Hermione-sounding voice at the back of his head said that Snape had to walk a fine line as Dumbledore's spy, and would sometimes have to tell Voldemort information that he didn't really want to. Of course that made sense, but it still didn't seem right to Harry that Snape would give up Luke's girlfriend so easily.

A yawn escaped him. It was strange, really, he mused. Normally a dream like that would have had him lying awake the rest of the night, wondering about it and its consequences. But he still felt calm and -- well, not exactly glowing, but definitely content from the incident at his placement test. He really needed to find out what that was all about. It had certainly felt good: as though the world was aligning to support him, and as if he hadn't been singing alone. Or doing anything alone, for that matter.

He'd ask Hermione more in the morning. Hopefully she would have found something in the libr...

Harry's eyes drooped closed, and he slept soundly for the first time in weeks.

* * *

"Master Luke, Master Luke, please wake up. Please, master Luke, you is ought to be at breakfast. Winky isn't wanting to wake you, as you is so tired from last night, but you must go. 'Tis eight o'clock already, master Luke."

Luke sat bolt upright, his foggy brain fighting the remaining tentacles of sleep. "What?" he said blearily.

"'Tis eight o'clock, master Luke," Winky whimpered. "You is ought to be eating breakfast -- you is teaching in an hour."

"Shhhh.... it," Luke hissed, and rolled out of bed. He shaved hastily, brushed his teeth, and gathered up all the papers from last night. These papers were the cause of his current sleep-deprived state, as he'd been up until at least two trying to cudgel together a schedule from the mishmash of exam results and class lists. Finally, after three cups of coffee, he'd squeezed everyone into the appropriate slot, and sent Winky off to Albus with the groupings. Presumably Albus would work some sort of magic to schedule all these groups with the rest of the classes, and presumably Luke would have at least a few minutes to prepare for whatever class he had first this morning, as he did not yet know.

The corridors blissfully cooperated with Luke as he hurtled towards the Great Hall, his shoes pounding and the still unfamiliar robes billowing out behind him. He had had just enough presence of mind to remember the staff entrance on the side, and then he was inside the Great Hall and trying not to run to his spot at the Head Table.

"There you are," said McGonnagall testily. She handed Luke a scroll of parchment. "Your timetable," she informed him loftily. "I'm very glad I'm not in your shoes," she added in an undertone, which he wasn't sure he was meant to hear.

Luke glanced down at the parchment in apprehension. What a schedule! The only free blank spots were the weekends -- and those had blocks marked in for "private lessons as needed" -- and a few hours before breakfast! Even his time after dinner several times a week was claimed. Maybe he'd be able to find an assistant.

He bolted his breakfast and hurtled across the Entrance Hall to the hallway where his classroom was: room ten. Next door, room eight, was the school's instrument storage room, containing a number of harpsichords, clavichords, lutes, guitars, a box of recorders and wooden flutes, tenor, treble and bass viols, five violins, two violas, three cellos, a set of bagpipes, two natural horns, an assortment of oboes, and several drums.

Albus had offered to replace any of the instruments, apologizing for their age: the last music teacher had retired in 1725 when she'd been offered a job in the burgeoning English music publishing industry. "They've been under a Preservation Charm, of course," Albus had gone on, "but they're still almost three hundred years old. This room hasn't been opened since she left, I'm sorry to say."

Luke laughed aloud, now, at that -- he'd explained patiently to Albus that the older the instrument, usually the better, and upon inspecting the instruments, had pronounced them mostly in good condition. The instruments all needed tuning, but that would only take a few hours -- unless the strings broke, in which case they'd need to be replaced, a small matter. But the Preservation Charm should have kept them from getting brittle.

Luke now picked up one of the cellos lying on a padded rack in the corner. The charm had done its work well, he thought, looking at the unblemished wood. Almost three hundred years of neglect hadn't dried or warped the wood. Wondering how old it actually was, he tilted the instrument to let some light into the box, and peered through the soundhole for a label.

Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1716

He nearly dropped the instrument. Of course, it could be a fake -- there were so many. But it was far too coincidental. A label from 1716, a room locked from 1725? Luke glanced inside each of the other instruments; all were Stradivari instruments, with dates between 1716 and 1720. He reverently placed the viola he was holding back in its stiffened leather case. If these instrument were originals, he'd just made a major find.

But the instruments would have to wait. He had less than fifteen minutes until the students came, and he needed to prepare a double lecture. He went next door to sit at the desk and think.

At nine o'clock he got up, unlocked the door to the classroom, and looked out to see students milling around in the hallway. Eighty children. He swallowed, nodded at them, and stepped back to allow them inside.

They took their seats quietly, many curious looks coming his way. A few faces were openly resentful, a few bored, many tired. There was one set of angry eyes, and those belonged to Draco Malfoy, the pale blond boy from Slytherin house. Luke had heard from Minerva that Draco's father was involved in the Muggle-hating business -- what were they called again? Death Riders? Death Eaters? Oh dear, Luke thought, seeing the hatred boiling. Well, you can't make everyone like you. He nodded to the class, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

The only thing Albus had told him about course material was not to worry about who was a wizard and who wasn't. Most of the time, especially in the middle ages, no one knew, and the students would probably assume they had all been wizards.

"Welcome to History of Music," he said. "I'm trying to learn all of your names, so please bear with me." He smiled weakly.

No one smiled back.

There went that. Oh, dear. "I could, of course, just lecture," he offered, "as I've heard tell happened last year with Miss Dolores Jane Umbridge."

A few people looked up at the name; one or two made sounds of disgust.

"But I imagine you'd be very bored by that. So, instead, I'd like to have a few volunteers tell me something they already know about music history -- a composer, a musician, important theories -- anything, really."

Draco Malfoy rolled his eyes. "This is stupid," he whispered loudly to Vincent Crabbe.

"And why might this be stupid, Draco?" Luke asked loudly. Malfoy started. He clearly hadn't expected Luke to actually respond to his comment. Most teachers probably ignored him as best they could, or intimidated him so that he didn't even dare to speak out of turn. "Please, do enlighten me."

Draco glared at him, and they locked eyes for a brief eternity. The class was extremely silent. He was suddenly aware of the lack of a classroom clock ticking away. Luke finally cocked an eyebrow at Draco. It might not be easy, but it very well might be fun, he thought, as Malfoy looked away, grumbling.

"Very well, then," Luke said, trying not to smile too widely, though inside he was grinning. "Would anyone besides Draco like to volunteer a piece of information?"

* * *

Harry was amazed. Luke had challenged Malfoy, and apparently won. And more importantly, the teacher had asked for a volunteer to talk, and Hermione's hand was still in her lap.

"Aren't you going to raise your hand?" Ron hissed from behind Hermione. She shook her head, her mouth shut. "I never thought I'd see the day when you didn't jump to your feet when the teacher asked a question. I wish Colin were here, he could take a picture -"

"Would you like to volunteer something, Ron?" Luke said suddenly.

Harry heard Ron groan, and suppressed a grin.

"Um," said Ron, obviously thinking fast. "Er, didn't most musicians used to be wizards?" he asked.

Luke nodded. "Go on," he said encouragingly.

"I just know that after the Statute of Secrecy, music became a sort of Muggle thing," Ron said.

"Exactly," said Luke. "We'll learn more about that later, but it's very true that, until the Statute of Secrecy, the lack of separation between Muggles and wizards meant that more wizards took up music as an occupation. Anyone else?"

Hannah Abbott from Hufflepuff raised her hand slowly. Luke smiled at her to speak. "We learned in my village school that there are four periods of music history," she said. "Medieval, Renaissance, Baroque, and Classical," she recited.

"Excellent," said Luke. He turned to the chalkboard and began to write the periods across the top of the board. "There are two other so-called 'periods' of music," Luke said. "Anyone? Hermione?"

Hermione's hand was finally up. "Romantic and Modern," she said promptly. Luke added them to the top of the board.

Harry noticed whispers breaking out in small clumps across the classroom. He knew exactly what was causing them: every other teacher used a wand to write on the chalkboard -- it was much faster and cleaner. The rumors would be all over the school by lunchtime that Luke Navarra was a Muggle, or a Squib. Thinking of what Malfoy would do to Luke, who already had the problem of being sorted into Gryffindor, and thus an automatic enemy of Slytherin, if Malfoy learned the truth, Harry suddenly understood why Argus Filch was so unpleasant to them. It wasn't jealousy at all -- it was to keep them too scared to hex him!

Luke was currently trying to get the students to give him names of composers and pieces that fit each era. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were contributing the most to the discussion, the Gryffindors less, and the Slytherins weren't even talking at all -- not even amongst themselves.

Harry saw that Malfoy had fixed a glare on Luke, glancing meaningfully over at Crabbe and Goyle on occassion. They, for one, weren't cracking their knuckles. Goyle looked puzzled -- nothing new -- and Crabbe looked... he looked thoughtful. His eyebrows were furrowed so that they made an unbroked line of thick hair across his forehead; his chin rested on his hands, and his eyes actually had something going on behind them as Crabbe studied -- yes, studied -- Luke.

Something small and papery flew past Harry's ears and landed on his desk. It was a paper crane. Harry unfolded it, glancing up to make sure Luke wasn't looking. He was engrossed in conversation with Parvati and Lavender, so it was safe.

Barnabas the Barmy? the note read. It was signed "T.B." Barnabas the Barmy? What did that mean? Harry knew who that was; it was that character on the tapestry on the seventh floor, across from the Room of Requi... of course. Dumbledore's Army. Who was T.B.? Tuberculosis? Tom Brown? Terry Boot. Right. Now that Harry had the message figured out, and Luke was still occupied, this time talking to Hannah, who was sitting next to Lavender and Parvati in the front row, he had to answer it.

"What's that?" hissed Hermione.

Harry passed it over to her, still thinking. Were they going to resume? It had been such a good idea, and they'd been so successful. If Luna, Neville, and Ginny hadn't learned how to defend themselves last year, they'd never have survived the Department of Mysteries. And Neville wouldn't have passed his O.W.L. Hermione passed the note back to Harry, raising her eyebrows. He shrugged.

But Tonks would be teaching, now, and she was a competent Auror. So, what was going to happen? The honest answer was maybe, that it depended on Tonks' plans. Harry thought for a second, and scribbled a reply: Maybe. Pink hair. Terry was a Ravenclaw; he could figure it out.

Harry glanced up again to make sure Luke was still occupied, then surreptitiously pulled his wand out of his bookbag and prodded the paper. It crumpled. It was supposed to turn back into a paper crane. He smoothed out the paper, one eye on Luke, and poked it again hopefully. It flopped weakly, refusing to fold properly.

Hermione snorted softly, then reached over with her own wand and tapped the paper. Harry watched as the note neatly folded itself back into a crane and zipped back three rows to where Terry was sitting. He opened the note, frowned, then gave a satisfied nod.

Hermione poked him. "Harry!" she hissed. "He's asking you a question."

"Wha -- what?" Harry asked Luke. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"Honestly," Hermione muttered. Malfoy snickered.

"What piece would you like to add to our list?"

"List? So- sorry, I wasn't paying attention."

"That's obvious," said Luke, though not as if he were really upset. "We're compiling a list of composers to study, and I'm asking each student to contribute a piece or a name."

"Oh. Er-" Harry didn't know much music. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never took him out to concerts, and the music Dudley played on his stereo wasn't very tuneful, and Harry was sure it didn't count as classical. "I don't think I know anything," he confessed.

"Sure you do," said Luke. "Hum something, anything."

There was that one thing, from that space movie, with the classical piece in the background as a space station came closer -- the weird movie, 2001. "Er... La-la-la-la-la --- la-la --- la-la," he sang.

"The Blue Danube," Luke said. "Sorry, already got that one. Anything else?"

Goodness, this was difficult. "I'm sorry, I really don't know anything," he apologized.

Malfoy sniggered. "Potty doesn't know anything," he whispered loudly to Pansy Parkinson, who giggled vapidly.

"Draco, Pansy, do either of you know a piece you'd like to add to the list?" Luke said mildly.

This man was like Remus, Harry thought. The same calmness, the same patience and courtesy. He was also able to keep Malfoy and the Slytherins off his back.

"Palestrina," Malfoy said challengingly. "He wrote loads of stuff and he's not up there yet."

"Indeed he did," said Luke, "What period does he belong in?"

Malfoy was silent. He didn't know? He didn't know! Harry could sing.

Malfoy mumbled something.

"What was that?" said Luke. "Sorry, didn't catch that."

Malfoy's face worked furiously. "I said I don't know," he growled.

"That's quite all right," Luke said cheerfully. "I expect there's a lot you don't know." Unless Harry was hallucinating, Luke's mouth was working very hard not to crack into a smile. "For your information," he continued, now addressing the whole class, "Palestrina lived from around 1525 to 1595, and is usually classified as part of the Renaissance." Luke turned to the blackboard and wrote "Palestrina" under the column "Renaissance."

Now that Harry actually looked at the chalkboard, he could see that there were a handful of titles and composers under each period heading, clustered in the first four periods. He suddenly remembered something, he raised his hand.

Hermione stared at him.

"Yes, Harry?" Luke asked.

"What about Beethoven?" he said. He'd heard the name once or twice on the wireless during cleaning sessions with Aunt Petunia, but couldn't remember much more, beyond a vague impression.

"Yep," said Luke, very American for a moment. "He's very important. Do you know when he lived?" he asked, his hand poised over the chalkboard.

Harry had a guess. "The eighteen-hudnreds?"

"Seventeen-seventy to eighteen-twenty-seven," Luke said. He wrote, "L. v. Beethoven" so that it overlapped the two columns "Classical" and "Romantic." "Beethoven's a very important composer in music history, because it was his work with musical forms and with the role of the composer that changed the way musicians thought about history. Thank you very much for bringing him up, Harry, since we'll be spending at least one lecture on him."

The bell sounded, and there was a scramble to pack bags and books.

Over the din, Luke said, "Wait just a minute! I haven't dismissed you yet! Please, sit back down."

There was a grumble, but everyone sat.

"First, thank you to everyone who participated -- you've earned 3 points each; I've kept track of your names. Those of you who didn't participate -- and I know who you are," his gaze rested near the Slytherins, "have lost a point each."

There was a gasp of outrage.

"It's not much, don't complain," Luke said over the noise. "It's just that this class is going to be very boring if I'm the only one who talks all the time. I want to encourage you all to participate, and to bring questions to class. For homework, I want that exact thing: a list of ten questions -- and none of this 'yes/no' or 'when did so-and-so live' stuff. Five questions about music history in general. Feel free to come to me for ideas. Any questions? Then you can go. Enjoy your lunch."

Harry bundled up his supplies and followed Ron and Hermione out of the classroom. He was about to ask them what they'd thought of the lesson, but he saw Malfoy entertaining a group of Slytherins and had a bad feeling. "Wait," he said, grabbing Ron's and Hermione's robes. "Malfoy."

"What about him?" said Ron dismissively.

"I've just got a bad feeling," Harry muttered. "If he knows about Luke..."

"Knows what about Luke?"

"Honestly, Ron, even you should have noticed."

"Noticed what? What are you two keeping from me?"

"We're not keeping anything from you, Luke is."

Harry let them bicker as they trailed down the corridor to a point where Malfoy was audible. Then he shushed them, and Hermione bent down as though adjusting her bookbag, so that they didn't look suspicious.

"He doesn't deserve to be here," Malfoy was saying to Crabbe and Goyle. "He's not our kind."

"But he's real nice," said Crabbe slowly. Harry shook his head in disbelief. Malfoy and Crabbe arguing?

"Crabbe, you dimwit. Of cousre he's nice," Malfoy sneered. "He's an American. They're all nice." He put on a horrible fake accent. "Howdy there! What can I do fer you? Have a nice day!" He switched back. "He's got no place here. Father always said Dumbledore was the worst thing that ever happened to this school, and I agree. Navarra goes."

Harry felt a jolt of fear. His dream last night -- and now this --

"But what are we going to do about it?" asked Goyle, as though this was his normal line. Crabbe stayed silent.

"Oh, not much," Malfoy said maliciously. "I've got a few ideas. Father sent me a letter this morning telling me to go ahead, too." He laughed, a horrible, soft sound that held no trace of real humor.

"Oh, dear," said Hermione as they quietly left. "I don't like this. I don't like this at all."

"What do you mean? Malfoy's never been anything but rude to the teachers -- why should this be any different?" asked Ron.

"Ron," said Hermione in her why-are-you-being-so-thick voice, "haven't you noticed unusal things about Luke?"

"Like what?"

"Using chalk, not his wand," said Harry.

"So?"

"Have you ever seen him use a wand?" asked Hermione in a whisper.

"No, but-"

"Ron, use your brains! Your dad works all the time with Muggles!" she exclaimed.

Ron's eyes widened. "You mean, he's a Mug-" he started to exclaim loudly. Hermione clapped her hand over his mouth. He pulled her arm away. "He's a Muggle?" he whispered.

They nodded. "This could be bad," he said.

"We know."

* * *

The rest of Luke's day passed much more easily than the nerve-wracking first class. The younger students were certainly biddable enough, and he set them to music-reading exercises easily. There was still one big problem -- practice rooms. There was simply no way the school could accommodate three hundred students, all of whom would need a place to practice in the evenings, even if it wasn't every student, every evening. They'd need thirty or fourty rooms, all with keyboards. Clavichords were, of course, the ideal instrument, as they'd take up only a few feet either direction and create almost no noise. Several clavichords could even be in the same reasonable sized room without their players hearing each other.

Luke briefly wondered about the possible existence and practicality of Soundproofing Spells on practice rooms.

Some of the more advanced keyboard students, of which he hoped there would be several, would certainly want harpsichords, though, and the school only had four, two of which were single manual, rather than the more standard double, with the additional keyboard situated above the primary one.

So his mental shopping list now included ten double-manual harpsichords in addition to the thirty-five clavichords he wanted.

How was the school going to pay for all of this? He supposed they could just conjure money out of thin air, but part of him suspected that a strong code of ethics would prevent Albus from doing that. But the Headmaster had been so cheerful and confident -- "Anything you need, anything you want, just let me or Minerva know" -- but forty-five instruments?

The clavichords would cost at least three thousand dollars each, with no frills, and though his own harpsichord had been thirty thousand, the results of a small inheritance and five years of savings, simple ones would be at least eight. That made -- Luke did some quick mental math -- eighty thousand dollars for the harpsichords and ninety thousand for the clavichords. A hundred and seventy thousand dollars on instruments? How much was that in pounds...no, Galleons?

And where would they get them, he wondered? If so much of the magical community was isolated from Muggle products, how could they obtain quality instruments without arousing suspicion? Did any wizards make instruments these days? Did they still make harpsichords?

Considering the fact that several students seemed to have been raised with an exposure of Baroque music and no knowledge of anything past Bach, Luke wondered if perhaps the wizarding community had continued to make harpsichords and other baroque instruments while the Muggles moved over to the piano and the modern incarnations of other instruments.

He imagined, fancifully, a family that had been making keyboards in the same manner since the sixteenth century, without any break in tradition, passing down knowledge and tools from father to son.

That evening, Luke visited the library, getting his first real chance to explore the place.

Irma Pince, whom he'd met at lunch the other day, regarded him condescendingly as he approached the desk.

"'Scuse me," he began politely, "but I was hoping you could help me."

"Oh?" she croaked, pursing her lips.

"I was wondering -- is there a section on music?"

She positively cackled. Quietly. Far be it for Irma to disturb the sacred silence of her dusty domain. "If you can find it, there will be," she replied, her eyes glinting.

He opened his mouth, realized that anything he said would sound stupid, and closed it. "Thank you," he grumbled sarcastically. Irma hadn't been particularly polite to him at the meal, especially once she'd realized his Muggle origins. Yet another prejudiced person, he thought, not without rancor. He hoped they'd all realize soon that his lack of magic wasn't a barrier to his intelligence.

There were shelves upon shelves of ancient books -- one fascinating volume entitled "Hogwarts: A Firste Historie," had a printing date on it of MCCXI, and was tattered but still in one piece. More Preservation Charms, he assumed, carefully returning the book to its place next to a glossy-covered "How to Tell if Your Dorm Mates Have Stolen Your Socks, And Other Survival Tips for Hogwarts Students."

There weren't too many students, as it was only the first day of school. Many of those present were studying only leisurely, and some couples Luke encountered in his explorations were too carefully perusing the shelves to be convincing. One couple broke apart so quickly that they knocked several heavy encyclopedias off their shelves, and looked guiltily at Luke as though expecting a reprimand. He merely smiled knowingly and whistled tunelessly as he passed, carefully looking the other way. The couple -- fifth-years, by the look -- giggled. Luke kept going, running idle fingers down spines as he passed.

"Evening, professor," said a voice.

"Hi, Hermione," said Luke, recognizing the face behind the two-foot high pile of books. "Lots of homework?"

"Oh, no, it's just a project," she said, balancing the stack on one knee and reaching up for another book. She was too short, though, and her fingers couldn't quite grasp it. He silently reached up and plucked it off the shelf for her.

"Thanks," she said.

"What's your project on?" he asked.

"It's my Arithmancy term paper," she said.

"Oh? When's it due?" he asked. He really wanted to ask, What the hell is Arithmancy? but thought better of it.

"December first," she replied, depositing the books on a nearby table that she'd obviously already staked claim to. It was completely covered with parchments, books, and strange charts of numbers and symbols that seemed fuzzy on the paper, as though the symbols weren't really sure they wanted to be there.

"Starting early," he commented.

"I like to stay on top of things." Her voice held a note of defensive challenge.

"That's very good," he said.

"You really think so?" she asked desperately. "Harry and Ron always tell me I'm just being 'Hermione,' but I think it's important to finish assignments early on so you don't have to worry about deadlines, or about something horrible happening out of nowhere. I mean, there's always the chance here of something happening, some emergency or other, or simply another big assignment. You never really know. And with a term paper, I always find that starting early gives me the chance to do more research."

She was babbling, but Luke understood. "I completely agree," he said earnestly.

Hermione smiled gratefully. A moment of strained silence descended.

"Oh, I asked Albus about your placement exam," Luke said, remembering.

"Really? What did he say?" she asked eagerly. "Do sit down, professor," she added, gesturing to a chair.

"Thanks." He sat. "It wasn't that complicated, really. According to Albus, you're quite a powerful witch-" she blushed "-and when you focussed your magical energy into matching the pitch, it Resonated." He tried to embue the word with the capitalization Albus had seemed to give it.

"That sounds right," she said, nodding eagerly, "I did some research of my own, and I thought that might have happened."

"What books did you use?" Luke asked. "Where are they? I can't seem to find a section on music," he confessed.

"They're rather scattered, but I've got a list," Hermione said, hauling her bookbag up to the table and rummaging inside. "Here." She pulled out a scroll of parchment neatly tied and labeled along one end, "Music -- Booklist," in minute capitals.

Luke unrolled it to see about a dozen books listed. "Could you show me?"

* * *

It was a huge section, completely deserted except for Luke now that Hermione had returned to her table. He scanned the shelves hungrily, thinking wistfully of Wendy's face when she saw these. She'd always been a nineteenth-century scholar, but the resources here for Medieval and Renaissance Studies were unparallelled in his knowledge.

Was that -? Yes, it was! A first printing of L'Art du Toucher le Clavecin, Franois Couperin's great treatise of harpsichord playing from the 1720's. In perfect condition, as though it had been printed yesterday.

Shelves upon shelves of medieval polyphony, motets, Gregorian chants, old English songs, French chansons, all in original bindings with excellently preserved pages and ink. A compact but astounding collection of treatises, including Zarlino's Le istitutioni harmoniche, 1558, and everything ever written by Vincenzo Galilei, a cousin of the more famous astronomer Galileo. And, in that bottom corner -- was that a gilded gold title of De mensurabili musica, Johannes de GarlandiaÕs treatise on meter and rhythm from the twelfth century?

Wendy has to see this, Luke thought rapturously. This was a positive gold mine. And there were dozens of titles that he didn't recognize, many of which had perhaps been lost to the Muggle world. He wondered if there were parts in the versions here that had been excised from the copies he knew, after the Statute of Secrecy. That would be an interesting investigation.

But amongst all these treasures of the Middle Ages and Renaissance, and quite a collection of early eighteenth century keyboard works, there were no Mozart operas, no Haydn symphonies, no Beethoven piano sonatas, no Mahler symphonies or Wagner operas. Nothing from the classical era or beyond. No copies of Oliver Strunk's ubiquitous Source Readings in Music History, the staple of most music history courses. No composer biographies even; that trent hadn't begun until the early nineteenth century.

Hermione's list of books was most informative. Luke had never heard of any of them, and found them tucked away on an end shelf (somehow Luke got the feeling that the library had quickly reorganized itself, as Hermione had implied that they'd been scattered throughout this general area). Detailed accounts of Palestrina's effect on Muggles, on the Seer Hildegard von Bingen's prophecies, and some highly convoluted volumes on Resonance, which he was now positive rated a capital "R."

Luke hunkered down between the shelves and opened "Resonance and Half-Hard Deflection Mechanisms in the Enchantments of Numerous Composers" on his knees. He had just gotten the hang of the cramped typeface when slapping feet and panting breath announced the arrival of a very pale Harry Potter.

"Professor," he gasped, "Professor, I have to tell you -- I have to tell you --"

"Calm down, Harry," said Luke, rising as best he could. Harry's lightning-bolt scar was standing out on his forehead, bright red against the pale, sweaty skin. "What's the matter?"

Harry took a deep, steadying breath. "The Death Eaters are going after Wendy."

A million thoughts assailed Luke at once. He had to get Wendy to safety. He had to reach her, but how? He had to help her -- but how? Owl post took time! How did Harry know? They could answer that later. The boy wouldn't lie -- no one knew Wendy's name! And why her? The why was barely out of his brain before the answer came: obviously, to scare him away from the school, to frighten him back into the world of Muggles. Well, they were definitely scaring him, but he wasn't backing down.

"Dumbledore," said Harry.

"Albus," said Luke at the same time.

Irma Pince could go hang, Luke thought as they pounded noisily out of the library door.