Piano In His Blood

Obligatory

Draco's fingers were flying over the keys with an intensity not seen in other aspects of his life. He always saved Chopin for moods like this, when everything was going wrong and he needed an outlet. Chopin was complicated enough that it demanded all his concentration to execute it right, and when he did...

Lucius had insisted when Draco was a child that he learn to play the piano. Narcissa had protested that it was too Muggle, too common, but Lucius ignored her. Some standards of good breeding had leaked into the wizarding world from the Muggles, after all, much as Lucius was loathe to admit it. And so Draco had learned to play.

As his mind drifted, Draco lost control of the music.

"God dammit!"

This wasn't working today. He never yelled when he was playing, he never lost control, and he certainly never misplayed Chopin. He left the piano bench and threw himself into the stuffed chair he kept nearby the piano. Dumbledore had arranged for Draco's ivory grand piano to be transported from Malfoy Manor to the former Chamber of Secrets; Draco was secretly very pleased with the arrangement -- the high ceilings gave his playing the effect of performing in a concert hall.

Frustrated, Draco pulled out the quill Harry had given to him. He ran his fingertip along its point and shuddered as it broke skin; that was appropriate, he supposed. He watched thoughtfully as blood pooled on his finger. This was familiar; he knew how to deal with blood and violence. He had grown up in a Death Eater's home, after all. Riding a surge of adrenaline, Draco sliced the tips of all his fingers open, slowly. He noticed with satisfaction that the blood, streaming down his fingers now, effectively highlighted his palm lines.

Draco rose and reseated himself at the piano. He tentatively played a scale, wincing as his fingers glided over the keys. His hands were already aching, but he ignored it. He played the opening cadence of Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu, relishing his physical, if temporary, connection with the music he created. With every note he played, pain went shooting up his arms, but he couldn't stop himself now. He stared, disconnected from his hands as they moved with familiarity and of their own volition. He watched the blood smear a pale red on the white keys and gloss over the black ones.

Slowly, the pain faded away. Draco was thinking of nothing but the music, he could think of nothing but the music, but he didn't notice. Reality fell away, and he was alone, in the dark -- just himself and his piano... creating.

After a while, he felt the predictable dizziness coming on, and he reluctantly stopped playing. The throbbing in his arms returned and he stumbled back to the armchair. He hadn't realized fingertips bled so much. He thought about charming the wounds closed, but decided against it; he sat in the armchair until the dizziness passed.

He returned to his piano and resumed playing -- except he wasn't playing, he was flying, he was soaring, he was running away. The how wasn't important; he was far away, and now things could be all right.