The Harpsichordist

Chapter 12: Free Falling

A week passed. Everyone seemed to know that Luke wasn't seeing a relative in California, and that something horrible had happened to Tonks, but no one was quite sure what.

Luna Lovegood told anyone who would listen--namely, Neville, who was too nice to push her away--that Tonks had been abducted by the Wailing Mountain Goat Worshippers of Wales, and was awaiting rescue in a cave. "But she's been provided with plenty of food," she assured Neville.

Meanwhile, the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, was approaching. The Gryffindor Quidditch team, with two new Chasers--Ginny Weasley, of course, plus Catherine Eggers, a third-year--were training hard. Harry and Ron had been out on the pitch almost every night that week. Unfortunately, so had the Slytherins. The daylight lasted just long enough for two sets of hour-and-a-half practices but, as the Slytherins were scheduled before the Gryffindors, the Gryffindors had been lucky to get an hour to themselves, and had been forced into nighttime training.

Harry was grateful more than ever for Hermione's brilliance, and for her now steady relationship with Ron, because she invariably appeared just after sundown, imploring them to come in, and, when she invariably failed to convince them, would conjure up a handful of fireballs to light the pitch, enabling the team to practice until curfew.

The Saturday of the match dawned cold and clear, with the promise of fine weather. Wind was a bit strong, though, and Ron rattled on about compensation and equilibrium forces all through breakfast.

Harry ate his bowl of porridge, trying to ignore the pain in his scar, which had bothered him on and off all week. What was that all about? he wondered, spooning treacle onto a second helping of porridge. Was Voldemort up to some new plan? Harry realized with a jolt how exposed everyone was during a Quidditch game, out in the open, with nothing but the castle gates to protect them from the outside world. What would happen if the Death Eaters decided to attack the school?

"Harry, you coming?" It was Cat Eggers, the other Chaser. "It's quarter-till."

"What?" he said. "Oh, yeah, thanks." He swung himself off the bench and collided with Ginny, who was passing. "Sorry!" he exclaimed, reaching out to steady her arm. She was much smaller than he'd have expected, with a thin layer of softness just covering Quidditch muscles.

"It's okay, Harry," she said, finding her balance with a grin that made his mood lift.

The stands were completely full when Harry walked out onto the pitch a quarter hour later. Students screamed and sang and waved banners--mostly with Gryffindor colors on them, because Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw wanted Slytherin to lose as much as the Gryffindors did--as the team emerged onto the field.

Harry mounted his Firebolt and rocketed upward, finding a place about fifty feet above the pitch from where he could watch the general mayhem of the Chasers.

"Captains, shake hands," said Madam Hooch.

Harry noticed that Draco Malfoy was back--he'd not been in Potions that week, but, as Harry wasn't really on chatting terms with the Slytherins, hadn't bothered to inquire... or care.

Malfoy moved forward and took Ron's hand as though it were a two-week dead lark, and let go after one shake

Madam Hooch blew her whistle and tossed the Quaffle into the air. Ginny caught it and bounded forward towards the Slytherin end of the pitch.

"And they're off!" shouted a voice Harry didn't recognize.

He looked to the commentator's box and saw a fifth-year Hufflepuff he didn't know. But the game was on, and he listened as he searched the pitch for the Snitch.

"...Weasley with the Quaffle, great all-around player she is--last year as Seeker for the team, this year a Chaser, and handling that Quaffle well, passes to Katie Bell--no, intercepted by Warrington. Warrington with the Quaffle, heading for the goal--ducks a Bludger by Sloper, nice try, he's heading for goal--can Weasley do it? Tricky times last year--He shoots ... YES! SAVED BY THE KEEPER!"

The pitch erupted with cheers and Harry did a few victory rolls. He spotted a glint of gold, but it was only Ginny's bracelet. Crabbe sent a Bludger his way, which he ducked easily as Andrew Kirke came to get it. Malfoy was also circling the pitch, looking sour.

"And now it's Bell with the Quaffle, passes to Eggers, Eggers back to Bell, Bell passes to Weasley, Weasley with the Quaffle--duck, it's a Bludger! Nice save from Sloper--this team has worked hard to put itself together this year--and Weasley almost at the goal, with only Keeper Bletchley, now in his eighth year, by the way, in front. Weasley shoots --she scores! Yes! Ten-nil, ten-nil to Gryffindor!"

More cheers. The game continued. Slytherin got in two goals to Gryffindor's three more. Forty-twenty--they were still up...

The Chasers flew wildly around in search of the Quaffle, which seemed to have a mind of its own, passing from one Chaser to the other; Crabbe and Goyle were hitting Bludgers at anything moving, including their own team; the Snitch was nowhere in sight. It was absolute mayhem. Harry loved it.

Thirty minutes passed while no one scored. Gryffindor took a penalty shot when Goyle aimed a Bludger at Ron, but, unfortunately, Bletchley saved it.

Harry circled higher and higher, starting to feel cold. Clouds gathered in the sky on the horizon, threatening rain. Wouldn't the Snitch please show up?

And then he saw it, fluttering golden against the sky, three hundred feet above Malfoy. Careful not to make any sudden moves, for fear of attracting Malfoy's attention, he drifted towards it.

* * *

Up in the stands, Hermione sat with Luna and Neville. She cheered with the rest whenever Ron blocked a goal, and groaned when one got through, knowing that Ron would treat her to a full replay after the game. Harry circled the pitch, at least three hundred feet up, a speck in a brilliantly blue sky scudded with clouds. She saw him pause in his circlings, then drift idly off to one side. Had he seen the Snitch? She scanned the sky, but couldn't see anything against it.

And what was Malfoy doing back at Hogwarts? He'd been gone from classes for a week; the Lavender-gossip had mentioned a few appearances in the library, in the corridor outside the Headmaster's office, or in the dungeons, but no one was really sure if these were true. Crabbe had mentioned something about Malfoy's father letting him back for Quidditch, though, Hermione recalled.

She snorted to herself; trust a family like the Malfoys to be so thickheaded about things that, even when the son botched a major kidnapping attempt, he came back to school simply to compete at a Quidditch match.

Up in the air, Malfoy dove, and Hermione expected Harry to follow him, but he didn't, just lay there in the air, drifting idly. The crowd gasped, and people began screaming at Harry, but he didn't move.

"What's Harry doing?" asked Neville. "Shouldn't he..."

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe he's faking it."

Malfoy pulled out of the dive, no Snitch in sight. Hermione understood--Malfoy had tried the Wonky Faint thingie, but Harry hadn't fallen for it. Which must mean that he knew where the Snitch was.

Malfoy evidently thought this as well, because he shot upwards towards the sky.

Harry suddenly lunged.

* * *

Harry lunged, but it wasn't for the Snitch.

It was for the small figure with pink hair that he'd seen materialize out of thin air in front of the castle gates. Floating beside her was a body. The figure looked extremely bedraggled and was stumbling. It had to be Tonks--he knew that hair, he knew that figure.

And then four hooded figures also materialized along the road, twenty feet from Tonks--hooded figures with cloaks and masks. They ran towards her, shooting spells, and Tonks turned to defend herself.

Something grazed Harry's elbow--a Bludger, perhaps, but he didn't care about Quidditch anymore, this was more important--as he shot towards the Death Eaters like a cannon.

They were so far away that they didn't see him coming until he was right on top of them.

"Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!" Harry shouted.

Three figures fell, startled. The one remaining Death Eater turned, and a female voice he'd know anywhere began saying, "Avada--"

"Expelliarmus!" Harry cried, and the Death Eater's wand flew into the air. "Stupefy!" he shouted. He noticed that the broomstick gave him much more maneuverability, and watched with glee as Bellatrix Lestrange fell.

"Tonks!" Harry shouted. He landed with a thud and ran towards her.

She was crying, but standing up straight. "Harry," she said, in that same cracked voice he had heard in his head five days ago. "Get inside the gates... need to be inside..."

* * *

But where on earth was Harry going? thought Hermione. He was headed out of the pitch, Malfoy staring after him stupidly. Hermione didn't know much about Quidditch, but she did know, thanks to Harry and Ron's constant discussions, that the Snitch had limits as to how far outside the pitch and how high up it could fly.

"What the hell is he doing?" cried the commentator into the megaphone. "It's not against the rules, though, and play is continuing... Bell has the Quaffle, passes to Eggers, who... er... drops it... and Warrington catches it, heading for goal... nice Bludger shot by Kirke, and another one by Sloper--good work, boys... and Weasley catches the Quaffle and is flying off towards the other goal--you can do it, Ginny! She shoots... she SCORES!"

As the Quaffle passed through the hoop, there was a deafening metallic CLANG that reverberated throughout the stadium, making the seats tremble.

Hermione gasped with everyone else.

"What the bloody hell was that?" came a magnified whisper.

Dumbledore stood up, and all eyes were riveted on him. The stadium immediately quieted. "This game has been cancelled," he said, his voice carrying through the crowds. "Will the Head Boy and Girl, and the prefects, please lead all students back to their common rooms. Teachers, please, come with me."

Everyone groaned, and hundreds of feet clattered down the wooden risers as Hermione sought out Ron in the crowd.

"Where the bloody hell is Harry?" he asked her.

"I don't know," she said.

"We should find him," Ron said.

Hermione nodded, worried.

"Quickly, now, follow me!" Ernie MacMillan was calling to a bunch of first--and second-years, who were staring around in apprehension. "Back up to the castle now!"

Voices were calling all over, making a horrible din as students scrambled this way and that, looking for housemates, friends, teachers, and groaning about the interruption. "This way, please!" "Make way, Head Boy coming through!" "Hurry up!" "Keep moving, keep moving!"

"What's going on?" "Why did he cancel the game?" "It's like the Chamber of Secrets all over again!" "What the hell was that noise?"

Ginny struggled up to them, Neville and Luna jostling along behind her. "What's going on?" Ginny shouted over the din. "Come, on let's go."

"In a minute," Hermione said.

"Go on, we'll catch you up," said Ron.

Ginny gave them an odd look, but allowed herself to be swept along, calling, "If Harry's been hurt, you come tell us right away, okay?"

Hermione and Ron nodded, then let themselves be buffetted by the crowds streaming past, until they were alone on the pitch. The teachers had vanished--where, she didn't know.

"Let's find Harry," said Ron. "Get on."

"What?" she asked.

He had mounted his broomstick. "On the back. We'll be able to see more if we're up in the air."

"I hate flying," she moaned, but climbed on behind him.

"Just hold me tight," he said reassuringly, "and it'll be fine."

Hermione thought wildly that those words could mean something completely different under other circumstances, then hoped fervently that she lived to see those other circumstances. Then they were up in the air.

The broom felt like nothing underneath her. The Thestrals had, at least, been reassuringly solid, if invisible. But this--just a stick of wood between her legs, and the rush of air in her face, and the ground disappearing away from her.

They flew over the stands in the same direction that Harry had disappeared. Hermione clutched Ron very tightly, and hoped he was enjoying it, because she certainly wasn't.

The strangest sight met their eyes out at the edge of the grounds: a group, clustered at the gates.

A figure with pink hair, bent over a body. Harry, standing back and looking extremely awkward as the teachers swarmed around. And the gates--

The gates were shut. Hermione had never seen the gates of the school closed before. Not only were they closed, they were warded, with a huge golden web that stretched from the winged boars on either side of the gate. It glittered in the sunlight, and was apparently sticky, because trapped in it were four struggling Death Eaters.

"Oh," Hermione shouted, into Ron's ear. "I read about this in Hogwarts, a History. When the school detects evil intent, it can close the gates and trap the people who are planning to do harm. But someone has to invoke it, and they have to be important to the school, somehow; the book never really explains what that--" She broke off, screaming, as Ron dove sharply for the ground.

Ron and Hermione landed next to Harry. Hermione, slightly wobbly from the broomstick ride, held onto Ron's arm as she looked over to see what the teachers were doing. On one stretcher lay Tonks, talking to Professors Dumbledore and Snape. And lying on the other stretcher was Luke. His eyes were open and glassy, his skin waxy, his flesh hanging bloodless from the body.

"Oh, my," breathed Hermione. "Is he... dead?"

Harry nodded. "I think so," he said somberly.

"You should have said something," said Ron. "When you saw--"

Hermione kicked him, and he shut up.

She looked over at Wendy, who was touching Luke's cheek gently, and didn't look shocked at all. Rather she looked resigned, and sad.

Snape, who had been asking Tonks urgent questions, left her and went over to Wendy. He inclined his head, and Hermione saw his hand hover tentatively at her back, then drop. Wendy just shook her head at him.

Meanwhile, Hagrid and Professor McGonagall set about immobilizing the four Death Eaters stuck to the gate, roping them and confiscating their wands. The teachers formed a procession, hardly glancing at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and headed up the sloping lawns to the castle.

The trio followed at a distance. "What was that all about back there?" asked Ron. "At the game?"

"Oh," said Harry. He looked up at the teachers, and seemed reassured that they were ignoring the three Gryffindors. "I was up high, looking for the Snitch, and then I just saw Tonks, outside the gates. And there were four Death Eaters after her. I didn't have any choice," he added defensively, as if expecting them to berate him.

"Of course you didn't, mate," said Ron.

"Harry, I'm sure you did the right thing," said Hermione. "But the gates," she said, awed, looking back at them. "What happened?"

"Tonks told me to get her inside the gates, so I pulled her through, and the Death Eaters started coming around and grabbing for their wands. I couldn't Stun them again, because both my hands were busy. I thought we were done for," he said, shaking his head. "But then Tonks said, 'I ask for help in this hour of need,' or something like that, and the gates just closed--that made the huge clang--"

"We heard it over on the pitch. It was loud," said Ron.

"And when the Death Eaters charged at the gate, the winged boars came to life, and shot this sticky stuff out at them. They were trapped, and any spells they tried to shoot at us simply dissolved."

"That's incredible," said Hermione. "I mean, I knew the castle had defenses, but that--"

"Pretty wild," agreed Ron. "Good, though, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Harry earnestly. "Hang on a minute," he said, scratching at his elbow. "Something--keeps--tickling me--" Harry stopped walking, and rolled up his sleeve.

There, nestled in the folds of his bright scarlet Quidditch robes, its golden wings fluttering in its attempts to escape, was the Snitch.

"Brilliant," said Ron with a grin.

"Boys," muttered Hermione.

* * *

The talk in the Gryffindor common room that afternoon was whispered and urgent; everyone wanted to know what had happened after the match had been cancelled. Harry wasn't sure how much to tell people, and was forced to avoid giving definite answers until Professor McGonagall appeared in the portrait hole, looking somber.

"Professor, what's happened?"

"What was that noise?"

"What about the Quidditch match?" That came from Ron.

Hermione tutted.

"Quiet, please," said Professor McGonagall, holding up her hands. The room fell silent.

"It is my sad duty to inform you that Professor Luke Navarra has died," she said simply, and there were a few gasps. "His body was returned to the castle by Professor Tonks, who risked her life to escape from Lord Voldemort."

More people gasped, and a few screamed and fell out of their chairs at her use of the name.

"I must ask all of you not to question Professor Tonks about her ordeal. If she wishes to tell people, she will tell. And as for the Quidditch match, Mr. Weasley, I imagine Madam Hooch and I will have a discussion about it, as the game never ended--"

"Professor," Harry interrupted her, digging in his pockets, "I found this in my sleeve after... er... afterwards."

A few people laughed shakily as he handed the Snitch over to her.

"I know it's not important," he said quickly, "but it might be nice if..." he trailed off.

Her lips twitched. "I shall tell Madam Hooch, Mr. Potter," she said. "While I am not familiar with the rules of Quidditch and I do not believe it to be a priority at this time--"

"I know, but--"

"I do believe that Gryffindor may have won the match," said Professor McGonagall, with a hint of a smile. "I will talk to Madam Hooch. We need all the good news we can get, these days."

She climbed awkwardly out of the room, and everyone clamored for Harry to talk.

"Tell us, Harry!"

"What happened?"

"C'mon, Potter, stop keeping secrets!"

Harry looked pleadingly at Ron and Hermione, hoping they could rescue him, but they too were looking at him expectantly. "What--now?" he said.

"Harry," said Ginny exasperatedly, "come on and tell us. We all liked Luke--" her voice caught, "--and I, for one, want to know as much as I can about his death. If we can get revenge--"

There was a general murmur of agreement.

"So," Ginny said, meeting his eyes square-on, "spill."

Egged on by those sincere eyes, and by the murmuring, expectant crowd, Harry spilled.

He told them about spotting the figures by the gate, and dive-bombing them, then helping Tonks over the threshold of the castle. He told them about how the gates had shut suddenly, and the deafening clang that announced the sealing of the castle wards--"at least, that's what Hermione said," he added, and a few people laughed. And he told of how the Death Eaters had tried to attack him and Tonks, but been caught by the web and held there.

"Wow," said a few people.

"Wicked," said Seamus.

"It's amazing," said Colin Creevey, and as Harry obviously wasn't going to say more, the Gryffindors finally began talking amongst each other.

"You know," said Hermione, as the crowds around them dispersed, "that conversation Ginny and I heard in the Three Broomsticks--when we went to the bathroom--makes sense now."

"Yeah, it does," said Ron sadly. "I wish we'd been able to do more to help them."

Ginny sniffled, and Hermione put an arm around her. "It's just so sad," said Ginny. "Luke's--gone. Just like that. Wendy must be so heartbroken."

* * *

Wendy wasn't sure how she felt. The loss of Luke from her life was, to say the least, unsettling. The castle was filled with him, with shared experiences and sensations. Every corridor she walked, every meal she ate, she thought of things they'd done together, things he had said or pointed out, times they'd gotten lost together or bemoaned having to eat shepherd's pie yet again. She kept expecting Luke to walk through the door of their rooms... her rooms, now.

Every night that she lay in the big double bed, she lay awake for hours, twitching every time someone clattered noisly down the hallway outside, starting whenever Winky or another house-elf popped in to tend the fire or tidy up the living room. Wendy kept hoping desperately that she would wake up and discover she'd only dreamed something so horrible. But sleep would only come after hours of dry-eyed staring at the ceiling, her stomach burning with the sourness of guilt and hurt.

She'd packed up his things and sent them away with the house-elves--to disappear, to be burned, to be given away to charity, she just didn't care--the day Tonks had brought his body back.

Tonks.

The two women had shared a look as they stood over his body in the Hospital Wing--two women, both broken in spirit. We loved him, each in our own ways, the look had said. Clear as daylight.

Wendy couldn't begrudge Tonks that right. And she had to be grateful to the other woman for bringing his body back, and, in a very real sense, for taking Wendy's place in what would certainly have been a fateful encounter with Lord Voldemort.

And yet that was the most unfair part of the whole thing, really. Tonks had lived to see Luke's last moment, and Wendy had been stuck screwing that lout, that waste of breath, that sordid piece of humanity, while Tonks had been struggling to save both herself and Luke from those dementors. Who was the better woman in that scenario?

Wendy felt dirty, unwashed, unclean. Unworthy of Luke, who had been a good, pure person.

If he had been so pure, why had he gone off with Tonks, though?

Because you were occupied with Severus, said a voice in her head.

Tonks had told Wendy and Albus the entire story, beginning with the Ball and ending with her uncomfortably easy escape from Azkaban prison--thanks to a borrowed wand and a suspiciously sleepy guard--over a cup of strong tea in Albus' office. Neither Tonks nor Albus had made any strange remarks about Wendy's absence, Wendy's faithlessness, waving it away in a cloud of "oh, yes, the Additive" explanations.

But that just wasn't good enough, was it? Because how could an Amorousness Additive that "increases lust and libido" throw her into Severus' arms out of nowhere?

And there was the kernel of the problem:

Wendy hadn't loved Luke enough.

The thought kept her up every night, made her toss and turn, gave her nightmares of Luke. Visions where he told her that if she hadn't been with Severus, that she could have died with him and been worthy; nightmares of how he might have died, in a crumpled, bloody heap on a stone floor; and, the worst, dreams that Luke was trying to forgive her, trying to tell her he loved her anyways. She would wake up from these sobbing and gasping and reaching for something to hold but finding only pillows and empty sheets rather than warm flesh.

Albus had asked Wendy, very gently, if she wanted to take a week off before continuing to teach.

"No," she had said at once. "It's bad enough having to stay here. I'd rather be doing something useful than just hanging around."

One of the hardest parts had been writing to Luke's father, who, having gone mildly senile, was in a retirement home in Florida. She'd written many, many drafts of the letter before settling on something awkward and truthful. It was impossible to write these sorts of letters eloquently.

Dear George,

As I'm sure Luke told you months ago, he and I came to Scotland to teach music together at a school for unusually gifted children. Last week he was kidnapped by some local radicals who wanted to rid the area of foreigners, and was killed as a demonstration of their hatred.

It was a horrible, horrible accident, and I miss him terribly. I know you do as well.

There won't be any ceremony; Luke once told me he didn't want one. The body has been donated to a nearby hospital.

Love,

Wendy

If George was cognizant enough to understand the letter, it would suffice.

No ceremony--Wendy didn't think she could have handled putting on black and parading her grief around for the school to see. She was slightly relieved that she and Luke had once had a half-drunk conversation about how they wanted to be buried. Luke had been most clear: donate the body to science, and no ceremony.

It still left Wendy feeling somewhat at a loss for what to do, and Luna Lovegood's calm, "Oh, you'll see him again," certainly didn't help.

Wendy didn't bother writing to her parents--they wouldn't care one whit what happened to her; she had been disowned long ago, after deciding not only to pursue a career in music, but also to date a musician who had no prospects. Her father was a banker, her mother a social climber, and Wendy knew that they'd simply say, "I told you so," to any letter she sent announcing Luke's death.

She and Luke had always been somewhat alone in their relationship, and now, without Luke, Wendy was alone in her grief.

She had never experienced grief like this before, and didn't know how to handle it. It left her puzzled and hurting. Even the anger and sadness she had felt after that terrible fight with her father, and her mother's stricken face as Wendy had stormed out the front door, had barely come close to this sense of loss.

Why? she kept thinking. Why? Why me? Why him? That was obvious in the political situation, but why had they even had to get involved? Why did Lord Voldemort have to target the two of them? Why couldn't Wendy have been there, instead of Tonks? Why hadn't she gone off with him that night? The unfairness of it was staggering.

So Wendy threw herself into the work, assigning essays and research projects and composition assignments that had even Hermione Granger gasping at the workload. She began to organize performing groups--a string quartet here, a singer and keyboardist here, a madrigal group here--and gave them weekly coaching sessions. She did her best to be extremely exhausted every night, in the hopes that she could just fall asleep quickly and not hear Luke not coming in.

* * *

It was late on a Friday evening. Wendy hadn't been able to bear the oppressive silence of her rooms anymore, and had wandered through the corridors aimlessly until she found herself at the door of the classroom. Blinking her dry eyes, she opened the door and crossed to the instrument room.

Opening the door, she saw that the room was quite dark, except for the moonlight coming in through the high windows. She found herself groping absently for a light switch before she remembered that wizards didn't use them. The moonlight was bright enough, though.

Wendy made her way carefully across the dim room towards one of the cello cases. It had only been a month since she last played cello--exactly a month, in fact, since the night before the Halloween Ball--but it felt like a lifetime. After opening the case and getting out the cello and bow, she squinted around for a chair and carried the instrument over.

Sitting down, Wendy arranged the cello between her legs. She hoped that her body remembered how to hold a cello without an endpin to support it against the floor. Apparently, it did, though her left quadriceps felt tight.

Her fingers on automatic, she tuned. The A string--slightly flat, turn the peg, struggle against it slipping, damn, I need to fix that, why don't these wizards keep pencils around? graphite's the best lube for these things--fifth between the A and D; D is flat, too, as usual, up, down, sliding intervals between tritone and minor sixth until you hit the perfect fifth and the overtones resonate all through the body of the cello; D to G only a little off, the G peg is slippery, too, though not as much; G to C, fixed. Check the harmonics. Cello in tune.

A thought struck her, and Wendy retuned the cello, moving the A string down to a G and adjusting the D string so that there was a perfect fifth and a perfect fourth between the first three strings, an octave G and G between top and third string. She was going to play Bach's fifth suite for solo cello, even if she hadn't played it in months. What better piece to get her fingers back in shape?

She struck the opening low octave and began to play the overture half of the Prelude, with its slow scales and dotted, lilting figures. The gestures came easily, phraselets and segments of melody: a pause here, a lift there. She was rather surprised at how much her fingers remembered.

When she hit the final octave of the overture she had to retune--the strings had obviously stretched--before she could begin the second half, the fugue. She stretched her fingers and shook out her right hand, which was feeling a little stiff, especially just below the thumb. She would have to work on her bow grip; she wasn't as used to the baroque bow as she was to the modern bow.

Wendy began the fugue, slightly under tempo because she wasn't sure she remembered all the notes. The first statement danced in a stately way under her fingers... then came the second statement, in a lower voice, with double stops to remind the listener that the first voice still exists, and then a countersubject, and how could there be so many voices with just one bow and four fingers on four strings?

Wendy was swept up in the structure of the fugue and the beauty of the music, and didn't notice anything odd until the first cadence, where the texture thinned.

She wasn't sure at first if they were just in her head, and blinked several times, though she didn't stop playing. Her fingers knew the piece much better than she thought they did--or was it her fingers moving? They felt disconnected, not quite under her control--and she listened with all her might. Yes. They were there.

There were other voices, not quite cello voices, but not quite human voices either, filling in the missing gaps in the fugue, the notes that the cello couldn't actually play. She realized that this must be the Bach Effect that Luke had told her about.

Luke had told her about this.

Luke.

Wendy had to stop, but the voices didn't--they carried on until the end of the movement.

She retained enough sense to set the cello down carefully on the floor, but the bow fell with a clatter as Wendy buried her head in her hands and wept.

She wept for missing Luke, for wanting him back. She'd give anything--yes, anything--to have him back, have him beside her, holding her, kissing her, playing with her, smiling at her, playing his silly La Folia variations night and day, screwing up in auditions all the time, making oatmeal for her at six in the morning when she had early classes, knowing just where to rub her shoulders in the "cello spot" between left shoulderblade and spine that always hurt if she practiced too much, grabbing her hand like a boy and dragging her over to see something he wanted to show her...

Keep playing, sprang a thought into her head. Keep playing, and play well, and the pain will go. Promise.

She shook her head to clear it. She didn't want to play right now. She wanted Luke. Nothing else.

Play, something insisted.

She wasn't sure if it was her brain or the voices, but she obeyed, and picked up the cello again.

* * *

Severus Snape, in the midst of his midnight prowl, was already quite satisfied with tonight's tally: he had come across Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger performing experiments in human anatomy in an empty classroom--Granger's giggle carried quite far in the still corridors--and had taken a round hundred points off them. Weasley's face had turned a lovely shade of puce, and Granger had stammered stupidly until Weasley dragged her off.

Severus stalked down the marble staircase and was about to head back to his room to try to get some sleep when he heard music drifting down the side corridor.

Who was playing?

Thinking idly that it might be a student practicing, getting in some last-minute work before some rehearsal or other, Severus stalked across the Entrance Hall and pulled open the door to the music classroom. Sure enough, the noise--all right, music; he had to admit it sounded pretty damned good--was coming from the instrument room.

He strode across the dark room and whipped open the door. Whoever was in there hadn't bothered to light the lamps.

Severus waved his wand and, as the lights flared into life, said menacingly, "What do you think you're doing at this hour?"

"Practicing, Severus," said Wendy calmly, not stopping.

Severus froze. He couldn't see her face, but her voice was steady. So she wasn't crying. "I'm sorry," he said abruptly. "I thought you were a student."

She played to the end of the passage before responding. "Obviously I'm not." She tuned the cello. "Do you think you could bring me that stand?" she said, pointing to one near him that had a sheaf of music on it. "Now that someone's turned the lights on."

Severus blinked, but picked up the stand and set it a few feet in front of her.

"Thank you," she said. She stood up and twisted her spine this way and that, making it crack, then resettled herself with the cello resting on her calves.

He watched as she checked the cello's tuning, adjusted one of the strings, though there was nothing he could hear wrong with it, and riffled through the pages on the stand in front of her. Then she settled back and began to play.

Severus thought he recognized the piece, vaguely--perhaps he'd heard it on the wireless. It was low and rich, slow yet elegant, sad but not weepy. Wendy kept stopping, however, and would go back and play something again, and again, and again, until it apparently satisfied her.

At one point she stopped to shake out her wrists, and Severus asked, "Do you ever play anything through?"

She started, then looked around at him. "Sorry, I didn't know you were still here," she said. "I'm practicing. It means that I don't play things through, that I fix whatever I don't like, and there's a lot to fix in the Bach." She gazed evenly at him. "Do you want me to play it through for you?" she asked.

What was going on? Why hadn't Wendy fled, or attacked him, or... Why was she being so calm and collected? The last time they had been in the same room--apart from meals, where Albus pointedly sat between them--she had screamed at him. Severus studied her face briefly. Her cheeks were streaked from tears, but her eyes, though slightly reddened, were not bright or brimming with tears. They were very level, and slightly loose, as though she'd been indulging in one of the more illicit versions of the Calming Compound. Where she would have gotten such a potion, he didn't know.

"All right," Severus said and shifted from one foot to the other. If he took a chair, would it look strange?

Wendy took a breath, closed her eyes, circled the bow around and started moving it against the strings. She played the entire piece through without stopping.

It had two parts, a slow and a fast one, and the fast one had a melody that kept coming back in different registers. The moment she started the fast section, he connected the word "Bach" with the music, because the magic in the room shifted ever so slightly, and the molecules aligned. Other voices began filling in the missing parts quietly.

Extremely beautiful, and poised. The music was, too.

When Wendy stopped, the air quivered for a minute with the final chord before resuming its usual randomness. There was still a layer of magic coating the room.

"That was lovely," Severus said truthfully. Somewhere in the course of the piece he'd come to stand nearer to her, where he could see her face.

"Thank you," she said, "but it still needs more work. I should get to bed." She sighed.

There was a moment of silence while Wendy fiddled with the bow, turning something on the end. The hair stretching along its length went slack.

"I'm sorry about Luke." Severus hadn't known he was going to say it until it came out of his mouth. They weren't quite his words, and they stood in the air in front of them, almost visible.

Wendy paused with the cello halfway to the floor, then set it down with a rather loud thunk, which made the strings vibrate. She winced. "You don't really have anything to be sorry about," she said.

"No," he said, "I'm not sorry for anything I did, but I'm sorry that you're in pain."

It was suddenly as though all angry things they'd ever said to each other had been swept away, leaving an almost-clean slate.

Wendy nodded and got up from the chair, picking up the cello and bow as she did so. She had wiped the strings clean, strapped the cello into the case, and returned the case to its spot next to the five others before she spoke. "Thank you," she said quietly. "It means something to me."

"Oh?"

"That--" Wendy sat down heavily on the chair she'd been using earlier. "I've just--just felt so alone--these last weeks... I'm sorry, I'm sure you don't care."

She stood up, and Severus realized he was only inches from her.

It was a moment that he had only experienced once in his life, and that had been with Lily, and it had been awkward and almost playful, and there had also been an undercurrent of pity in Lily's eyes.

There was no pity in Wendy's eyes. They were dark eyes, betrayed, saddened with loss, open wide to the troubles of the world.

"I do care," he said, his voice low and rough.

He took Wendy's face in his hands--she was so thin, these days!--and brought his face up close to hers. She didn't blink, didn't flinch, didn't move away, and she held his eye contact. He could read very easily the mixture of emotions on her face: I miss Luke, I'm lonely, I want to be loved, How can this ever be right?

Their lips met, very gently. Wendy's breath escaped in a puff as she sighed. She trembled.

The kiss lasted two seconds, if that, before Wendy pulled away. "I'm sorry," she said, looking anywhere but Severus. "I'm sorry--I know what you want, and I know you mean well, but it's--it's too soon, it's only been a month. It wouldn't be right, not fair to Luke--"

"Luke's dead."

She closed her eyes in pain for a moment, then opened them. "I know he's dead. I know he's not coming back."

"I'm here."

"And what?" Wendy's voice was rising again--would she go hysterical?

"And--" he sifted his words carefully. He really didn't want to get into another argument, go through another month of avoiding her eyes. "And I--I care. I care--that you--I want you not to be sad," he finally said, and thought it was rather lame.

"I don't need a lover," Wendy said bluntly. "Not now. But I need a friend, Severus. I need a friend more than anything else. I'm so alone here." Her brow creased in sadness. "I don't need a lover," she repeated, shaking her head slightly, blinking.

"I've never been anyone's friend," Severus said.

"Never?"

"Never."

"What about--about Lily?"

"Lily?" he asked, almost laughing. "We were never friends. I loved her, I worshipped her. She let me kiss her, once, when we were sixteen. Then Potter came to his senses and she went out with him." He couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice.

"I just need someone to talk to," Wendy said desperately.

"I have ears."

Wendy smiled.

* * *