Practice Room Number Three

Practice Room Number Three had always been yours. You had not bothered to stick a label on its door, for it was not required. You were inextricably bonded with that little enclosure, and had been since you first entered The Room of Requirement. You had chosen everything about this place - from the number on its door to the colour of its walls - aquamarine, it reminded you of the endless ocean.

Only a select few were permitted to enter your private sanctum - indeed, few knew of it, but only one was allowed to remain for extended periods of time as and when he liked. As you grew up, Practice Room Number Three became synonymous with comfort, soft music, and sometimes a pair of protective arms enclosing anyone who needed reassurance. Just one rule - never a word was spoken within its boundaries.

Most of the time you simply sat at the piano, playing a simple melody with one hand while the other supported your cheek. Sometimes you closed the instrument and used it as a table for your compositions or private writing. Often your friend would enter soundlessly, sit quietly with ahis back to the wall, and let the music you made wash over him - sustaining him, showing him he would never be alone while you lived. That music had accompanied his reveries, his revision, and his every emotion.

On rare occasions, the music would be slightly harsher than usual, a jarred note of pain breaking the normally smooth flow. It was then that he would slip in, and sit by you as you continued playing, or pick up the melody as you gave yourself up to silent tears.

You grew up over the years, and the number of people infiltrating your sanctum grew slowly. You remained unfazed, for there were few who dared breach your privacy when you did not welcome it. And when you were content, why would you grudge anyone the happiness your music could give them? Music, in addition, was what won you acceptance more than anything else ever could.

Your dearest friends suffered losses, whose pain they learned to forget as they imbibed the serene stoicism that had begun to show in all of your faces. The harsh notes in the music grew more frequent, and it was often that the children waiting eagerly for their daily revival were forced to turn away.

Pain forced words from your friends, words which infiltrated the silent communion that was Practice Room Number Three. Together, you and your friend sang of love, death, parting, and bitterness. No words spoken other than those sung, but your hearts slowly mended by the music you jointly made. The music of love, parting, and, above all, life.

Today you enter Practice Room Number Three to find him waiting for you. He is sitting on the floor, knees to his chest, and head in his arms. You know he is devastated - his world has been shattered, just like yours was so many years ago. A twitch of your lip betrays you, as you walk towards the piano and begin to play. A simple melody, composed partly of your memories, and partly of your emotions from so long ago. Feelings that you have never put into words, even though it has been a decade since you lost everything.

You remember, and the tears fall on the ivory keys as you play. You do not notice him rise, but a moment later you feel him kneel behind you, and strike a broken chord.

A gasp breaks from you as the melody you have so carefully constructed gets destroyed in an instant. It is then that you realise that he is simply continuing what you had begun - the story of your lives.

From then on, the melody soars higher. You can see the thunderclouds looming, and then the storm breaks... so much more than just a storm. His music tells you of the fighting which must come, the conflict, and then reaches a shattering climax, a roar of victory and agony alike. His fingers pause, and there is a lull in the music.

When he touches the keys again, the tones are buoyant. The melody speaks of sunshine, the scent of flowers, and bliss. A promise of happiness to come, yet somehow tinged with melancholy, and something you cannot identify. A thread of a heartfelt emotion, which you know you should recognise.

Then he plays the opening bars of one of your favourite airs...strangely enough, a Muggle air... and you look deep into his eyes - does he mean what you think he does? The two of you had listened to this together, and he had asked, "What does this mean? I cannot see it."

You had looked into his eyes as you do now, and you had uttered one word.

"Love."

But there is more than love that he expresses in the melody now breaking forth from Practice Room Number Three. There is sorrow, there is vulnerability, and yet there is a hope. A hope that there will be a future in spite of all you have seen and done, and that the future for you will be one spent together.

Your fingers brush over his as four hands now continue to weave a joint melody, a perfect harmony amidst all the discord.