He asks her, Who the hell are you? She laughs like a trickling, bubbling stream.
Ginny Weasley.
He remembers.
He remembers fluffs of red. Red hair, red cheeks, red skirts, red eyes.
What are you doing here?
Her smile turns bitter, like a secret. She won't answer, because she's a mute, really. She tells him she doesn't know how to talk; she's never been taught, and he understands perfectly.
He takes her hand and he feeds on her soul, her brown, wide soul blinking at him so innocently, like an old, old, tired woman too wise to be smart.
The room is tall. The room is like an entire universe because these walls are unrestricting. It is an infinite amount of space contained in a thimble-sized thought. She loves it.
She sees the floors first. The floors are thin and cracked. The floors are patterned intricately. There are heartbroken angels and beautiful, sinful women. Does it mean something? she asks him with a shudder. He shrugs. Someone told me it is art. She stops.
Art is silly.
Why do you think so?
Well, it's frightening, isn't it?
He sits down.
What are you doing?
Playing.
And he does. It's a tune that doesn't echo in the massive small room. The notes hang in the air and then they are crisply cut away to make room for new notes, then more, then more, until it is a fast, sharp melody that rings harshly in her ears, forcing her heart to beat in the same, painfully fast motion.
Stop, she begs. Stop.
He won't stop.
Please, she cries, a slow trickle running down her face. Her hands tremble beside her, tremble with the sweet reverberations that he is causing.
He only goes faster. Faster and faster, and she remembers how she thought that only slow, mournful songs, like Chopin, were beautiful. Those are the only kinds. Fast is superficial.
But this is not. It is raw and too real, like a hurricane wind whipping across her face, leaving bright red lash marks upon her cheeks.
His fingers fly. The elaborate climax reaches a single, pounding note, threading through the air with surprising gentleness.
She arches, and he thinks she's never looked so pretty as his fingers work harder and harder until finally, the sounds drift away into the walls, seeping into and disappearing forever. He could never touch them again.
She breathes. She opens her eyes and her heart is struggling to find its own pace again. Her naked body is still slightly arched and she is still covered in shining, sweet sweat.
What was that?
That was art.
She pauses. Grins bitterly. Everything about her is bitter. Bitter, like dry, dry almonds.
Frightening, isn't it?
He smiles a feathery smile.
The most.
And then, he plays again.