Competition: The Instrument Competition

Prompts: AlbusScorpius, piano.

Warnings: Very mild hints of suicide.

Notes: Gah, I love AlbusScorpius and here is my first attempt at it. I'm very sory for the lack of fluff, but seemingly, I have an inability to write it. Anyway, enjoy.

His long fingers dance over the ivory keys and you stare transfixed at the way his hands move effortlessly over the keyboard of black and white with such elegance, creating such beautiful melodies and symphonies that immerse you in so many memories and emotions that for one dangerously enticing moment, you forget who you really are.

You close your eyes and sink back into your seat and let the clusters of notes, rising and falling in haunting crescendos pull you under into a wave of memories.

You think of a fairy-tale castle and a big scarlet steam train and of endless possibilities, dangling in front of you on a fine, fine thread and of a thousand different paths you can take, all leading to dead-end after dead-end.

You think of flying: the wind whipping through your hair, the smell of broomstick polish, cheeks going rosy from the cold, flyaway black hair and of that familiar swooping sensation in your stomach, as you kick off from the muddy ground.

You think of classrooms and magic and your hands covered in ink and learning and spell books and a wand of unicorn hair and the feeling of 'I can make it in life'.

And then you think of Lily, with her shock of red hair, sienna eyes flashing with green and silver and her creamy skin and pale, delicate arms marred with the self-inflicted marks of hatred and potions and her tiny – too tiny – body lying still on her bed, with a slip of parchment crumpled up in her palm. Of your parents tears and of the praying, begging for a miracle and the fighting and the giving up.

You don't notice that he has stopped playing, until you feel his cool hand on your face. With effort, you force your eyes open and look into those grey eyes that seem to go on forever and ever and ever and ever and-

You think of him instead. You think of platinum hair and steely eyes that hide so much and Quidditch and that warm glow of perhaps and of hands brushing past each other and that confusing blur of what-ifs and maybes and of piano keys, tapped rhythms and hummed melodies.

You think of him.

It's enough to pull you back into the room and enough to remember who you are, that you're Albus Severus Potter and that you're drowning, drowning in grief, regret and broken promises, struggling against the tide that threatens to pull you under.

You look at him and you realise that he's your beacon and that he's saving you, pulling you back and stopping you from going under.

"It's going to get better," he tells you, his hand stroking your face and as you look into his never-ending silvery eyes, you believe him.

You let him take your hand and lead you back over to the piano and in that moment you feel complete and whole again.

Because he's Scorpius Malfoy and you're Albus Potter and he's a beacon of hope and you're a drowning sailor, fighting against the tide, but together you're albusandscorpius and you're shining.

It ends, eventually, because you, the ambitious little Potter boy you always have been, want to get far in the world and want to experience amazing things to compensate for what Lily can never experience herself. You get an offer to go and work in New York, New York, for the Ministry and you take it without even thinking.

(When she was younger and still had eyes of stars and promises, Lily always said she wanted to go to New York and be on the stage and see her name in lights.

Perhaps that's why you do it.)

Scorpius doesn't want to leave, because his father and mother need him right now and he can't imagine being anywhere else but England. He pleads with you to stay but you're adamant. You're going to New York with or without him and he tells you you're being selfish and it escalates from there. There's a fight and you both say some things you really shouldn't have and the next morning, you leave for New York alone and heartbroken, with a broken smile etched upon your young face.

You live in New York and it's incredible but you're never really whole again. Even though you love your penthouse and the skyscrapers and the night life and the flashing lights, you long for something much simpler. You long for England and a castle in Scotland and your family and a Quidditch pitch and crescendos and diminuendos and him.

You try and play the piano yourself, but your clumsy Quidditch calloused hands are suited more for gripping broomsticks and holding his than they are for gliding along monochrome keys and creating music that sounds like a million colours and endless opportunities.

You take your hands from the keys and sit back and you think about how you're drowning in this city of strangers and you need your beacon, your lighthouse. You think about platinum hair and grey eyes, aristocratic looks, falling for your best friend, that familiar swoop of desire in your stomach and you think about a piano and memories and loneliness. You think of him.

And then, you cry.

After a year, you bid goodbye to New York and return to England, London to be precise. You're wandering the streets that remind you of childhood and Scorpius and your once whole family. Lost in thought, you wander down a side alley and a hauntingly familiar tune emerges from a small bar.

You stop dead in your tracks and you listen – properly listen – to the notes that are surrounding you and engulfing you in memories: memories of pianos and monochrome keys, hope and promises, grey eyes and of a lighthouse saving a drowning sailor.

You duck into the small building, excitement pounding through your veins. You squint your eyes through the gloom, look past all of the people sat at tables, together and you look up at the stage, where a brunette girl is singing and a pianist accompanies her. You look at the pianist and just as you though, it's him, his long fingers dancing over the ivory keys with the same elegance and poise that they always have.

He looks a tiny bit older, his eyes a tiny bit duller but he's still heartbreakingly handsome, with his halo of platinum hair and aristocratic features. He's still Scorpius Malfoy and it still feels like he belongs with you. He glances up from the piano momentarily, and he catches sight of you. Emerald eyes meet silver and a flurry of emotions pass over his face: shock, sadness, pride, happiness and delight. He looks back at the piano keys and he carries on playing the beautiful melody he played to you, all those years ago, when you were just two teenagers, one with big dreams and one broken. His playing suddenly becomes more frantic, as though he's desperate for the piece to be over.

After he has played the final note, the singer has sung hers, he's given a bow and the audience have applauded, he runs from the stage, out into the audience, across the room and all the way into your arms.

It's a rush of smiles and tears and 'I've missed you', and finally, you feel whole again. Just as he has always done, he saves you, the drowning boy from sinking and you've never been more grateful for albusandscorpius to be back together. And, so, you forgive and forget and you heal each other and it feels right.

Scorpius takes your hand in his and you tell him "forever" and he says "promise" and you smile the first repaired, unbroken smile you've smiled since before Lily because nothing has ever been more perfect than you, him and the rise and fall of the melody his fingers create as they dance across the keys of ivory.