Hello all! I have once again written a Sirius and Mary romance. This story takes place in the same universe as my previous story, I Have Measured Out My Life with Coffee Spoons, but you don't necessarily have to read that one to understand this one. This was inspired by a small glass piano I found while cleaning out my mom's treasure cabinet.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," from which the title comes.
Beneath the Music from a Farther Room
Early autumn wind blows through the window of the study room and is barely strong enough to brush the curls away from the tops of her shoulders, but it seems to carry the musical notes which float in the air as the old classical sonata plays from the nearby radio. Splayed onto the table top are Mary's fingers, short with tips crudely painted scarlet. They press into the well-worn wood almost covertly, barely acknowledged. Knuckles and joints glow the faintest shade of white, barely noticeable against the watery milk of her skin. The black edges of her robe sleeves fall to her knuckles, hiding the broad expanse of the back of her hands away from the cold air of the open window beside her.
Her book lays forgotten on the table before her, and in years to come, Mary will never quite remember what subject she was studying, but she will always be able to recall his little details. The heavy sound of his scuffed shoes on the floor as he tries to sneak up behind her, the scent of his presence (smoke, dog, and butterbeer), the heat of his stomach against the back of her head, the weight of his hands as they rest upon hers. His slender fingers stretch over her crooked ones, carefully taking the same shape at awkward angles.
She shuts her eyes for just a moment, just a single second to feel Sirius's breath wash over her face delicately. The warmth of his breath duels against the chilled wind and her skin feels alive. Then she opens her eyes again and her world is suddenly full of gray eyes, smiles, and the sonata's lingering notes. Another song begins, and she moves her fingers beneath his, childishly mimicking the graceful movements, pretending to know what it is to play a piano. He follows along fluidly, his hands never leaving hers as they pretend to play the song. Quick-paced, they play, no, dance across the wood with lightning energy as the tempo picks up, and they are swept up in a symphony of sound.
"Never knew you could play," he notes with his deep voice heavily colored in amusement.
"I only wish I knew how," she tells him regretfully. She feels like a child, like a fool, to lose herself to this moment. Her hands slip away from his, falling into her lap idly as she pulls her fingers further inside her long sleeves.
"I will get you a piano, and you will learn to play breathtaking music as I sit there enraptured by your talent."
His compliments grow more lavishly and extravagant, occasionally colored with crude and sexual comments as he details their future life. Her laughter mixes with his and it is lovelier than any sonata she has ever heard.
The carpet is worn beneath her bare feet as she crosses the room with mild happiness and a busied nature. The house still smells like the old owners, but a few days of steaming dinners and shampoo-scented showers will banish the ghosts of the previous family who once crossed the same threshold. Tangerine sunset through the lace curtains lights up the cardboard box beside Alan, a burnt orange against the beige of the carpet. The cabinet's glass door is open in front of him as he gingerly arranges each object from the box onto the shelves.
Mom, where did we get this?
Mary tries to forget how deep his voice is and glances at the object before the breath catches in her throat. The finest goblin-blown glass shimmers in the fading sunlight, its sharply cut edges ricocheting rainbows onto the floor and walls. Her hand remains steady as she reaches out to hold it in her grasp.
A glass piano. Slightly larger than her frozen face, a flawless replica of a baby grand. Her fingers slide over the texture of the keys, and in her mind, she can hear the scale reverberate in her empty house. Everything, down to the last detail, is perfect and immaculate, and none of the corners are smoothed down from the many times she ran her fingers over it, waiting for the outcome of his never-to-be trial.
Just an old gift. I didn't realize you packed it.
Alan leaves, uncomfortable with his mother's expression, and she is left alone with Sirius's gift from so many years ago. She toys briefly with the idea of breaking it as it stands alone as a symbol of the promises the world refused to let them keep. But instead, Mary gives herself to the moment, to the quiet of the room, the natural magic of the orange-gold light that can never be recreated from a wand.
Her skin is more ash than ivory now, and there are no hands to cover her own, no sleeves to hide under. Yet, she still places her hands on the floor below her, trying to conjure in her mind the songs that once played unbidden in her dreams. But nothing comes to memory, and her fingers lay motionless on the carpet, a significant feeling of absence when no weight befalls them.
The moment breaks, and she forces herself to forget.
Please review.