Draco sat on the edge of the piano bench, hands folded tightly between his knees. The brand on his arm burned viciously, a constant throbbing that he had not yet grown accustomed to. He took a shuddering breath and tilted his head back, gazing at the high ceiling as if in prayer. Tremulously, he lifted his right hand, closed his eyes, and lowered delicately arched fingertips onto the ivory keys.
He was three, standing in the doorway of the same room. His mother was playing softly, the hands he had inherited from her flowing over the piano. She had red in her hair, and a pale bruise spreading across her temple.He glanced back down at his hands, pressuring one of the keys just enough to lift the hammer, but lacking the force it needed to strike. It had been so long since he'd played anything...
It was his fourth Christmas, and he'd been given a new toy broom. He was laughing, spinning around the room. He hadn't meant to hit the vase, but seconds after it shattered, he felt his father's hand hard across his face.Draco hit the key again, allowing it to ring into oblivion, watching the sound fill the windows and tracing it up the ornate walls. With a little more confidence, he played a scale… Two, then three octaves falling beneath his pale fingers.
He was six, and his father was yelling. Seven, and his mother was sitting in a darkened room, tears running silently down her face. Eight, and he had finally mastered the art of escaping to the edge of the garden when the house grew too angry. Ten, and he knew that he would be at Hogwarts soon; he would have his own wand... He would learn to protect himself. Eleven, and he was holding out his hand to the one boy he'd been told he must hate, offering his friendship because of that glimmer of promise, the hope that maybe there was something more to be seen in the light. Thirteen and his dreams were faltering.The music flowed freely from him now. Swift and sad, it rippled down from his shoulders and out the tips of his fingers, releasing him from his hauntings. He played out his memories by measure, and then begged for the redemption of his future, abandoning the minors and elevating the key until he could give no more.
Again, silence crept over the carpets and he lowered his hands to his knees. With a slight bow, he rose, exited the room in six long strides and turned, just outside the doorway. With a sigh, he closed the door on his memories, and the only room he could call home.