Vivaldi
By a true Elsewhere

Vivaldi spiraled notes together, altering between eerie sonnet of the A minor to the natural grace of G. He combined complicated movements together with an ease and art that simply was called his Seasons.

It was strings that brought in autumn, four of them that enchanted it's audience into a fit of applause.

Vivaldi spiraled notes together, allowing it to be eerie from time to time, and beautiful in others. He combined complicated movements together artistically and simply called it his seasons.

While strings brought in Autumn, Harry stood at the platform, humming a tune of a song he had heard long ago at a symphony. Dudley had found it boring, his aunt and uncle were very annoyed at the fact they had to bring him along (they found no sitter to watch him and didn't dare leave this "worthless freak" at home) and glared at him whenever their eyes meet. He didn't dare look as if he enjoyed the orchestrated way in which the instruments combined together, afraid of getting a mouthful from his uncle. Instead, he adopted Dudley's expression onto his face, but his ears were wide and open in sweet ecstasy of the intricacies the music brought to him.

But that was years ago. Now Harry was lucky if he could hum out the correct notes from the fragments of music scores that were instilled in his memory. But still, the music was burnt deep within his mind, playing in a silent, colorful manner, acting as his only means of escape when all things felt lost to him.

His uncle had left him at the station far earlier than was expected but both his Uncle and Harry didn't care much for that. Harry was happy to be away from them, while his uncle was happy to be able to get rid of him, even if it was to a freak school.

Hedwig cooed at him, as he smiled at the snowy white owl, his hand outstretched for her to nip at him. The tune continued to dance within the back of his head, a variation of music notes and instruments. "Sometimes," he told the owl as he attempted to capture the fleeting notes at the tip of his mind, "I wish Hogwarts taught music instead of magic."

The owl let out a hoot.

Harry wondered how a violin felt in one's hands, pondered the intricacy of the wood and the delicacy of the strings. He contemplated if the bow chooses you the way a wand does, sending you a jolt of energy when you find the one or does it act docile and allow you to chose it instead? What would his friends say if they were to know that what he wanted most in the world was not the newest, fastest broom out in the market but a violin, any violin would do, for him to hold and cradle within his hand while experimenting with the notes?

He amused himself at the image of Ron's appalled face before humming some more.

He heard Lydia playing softly in the background, his broom high in the air, staring about, curiously. He dove around, looping about in large circles and figure eights, in search for Lydia. Lydia was what he had dubbed the low murmuring cello that sank itself behind the chiming of his schoolmates' cheering and his teammates exclamations. Lydia liked to play games with him, teasing him in the midst of a high note, luring him into the beautiful complexity of her music. He attempted to reach deep within the strangled noise of the Quidditch field and pull her into his grasp, allowing her wanton melody to tickle the palm of his hands. But all he found was a discordant chatter.

Harry was thoroughly frustrated. He ignored the pushing of the blonde that rammed against him with his own brute strength. He just speed up and searched deeper for Lydia.

Lydia giggled at him, her come hither melody made him reach out his hand once again and try to grab her once more. He grabbed the air, feeling Lydia tease him, brushing herself at his fingertips before flying off again.

Harry gritted his teeth. He was losing his patience. Taking a deep breath, he decided to look for her one more time, knowing that he wouldn't ever give up until he found her. He grabbed hold of his broom (the polish feeling strange against his hands as he gripped the broom tightly) before diving to her, hoping to grab her by surprise.

And he did. Lydia yelped, her enchanting melody trapped within his grasp. She attempted to pluck her way out of this compromising situation, freeing herself of his grasp. He ignored her protest, high with excitement from finally being able to catch her. He could feel her, the rawness of her in the palm of his hands. He felt the notes inch its way up through his hands, passing through his skin and into his very core with a chill. He felt the way she spread through out his body, warming the deepest part of him, until she dug herself so deep within his mind that he wondered if there ever was a moment that he was not encapsulated by the magic she held over him.

With a thrill of possession, he held her up for everyone to see, for everyone to appreciate.

But the never saw her magnificence, they never appreciated her allurement.

All they saw was a yellow ball.

Harry sometimes wondered whether or not Voldemort had been musically inclined and whether or not he had inherited his ability to listen the way he does. He developed parseltongue in that manner and therefore it was possible that he had possessed the musical inclination from the Dark Lord. But after being captured and promptly tortured by the man in a manner that could only be called inartistic and discordant, he was proud to say that his passion for music was something that had come from him, not from the Dark Lord.

He spent three days straining for the songs he had heard at the symphony that day as agony stroke through him. While he screamed he heard the violin solo accompany him, a sweet melody that hastened quickly into a complex string of notes, melody, tale. It took him many days after to learn how to not scream and just listen as the violin serenaded him, comforting him until he no longer found any relief in the concept of screaming.

It was on the seventh day that he remembered himself once again, through Lydia and the soloist, he remembered. He recalled the faint outline of people's faces, the way the building looked when he first stepped into it (it was like when he first discovered music), and the way everyone invested all their hope into him, the boy-who-lived.

It was with their images that he recalled where he was, why he was here, and what he was meant to do. While music would always wait patiently for him, the Wizarding World would not. Because of this, he did it, calling out something he didn't know he had deep within him until it sprouted out like a sporadic composition willed by sudden inspiration, he did what he had to do. He destroyed the man who had no musical appreciation and was half tone death while humming Spring.

He left partly satisfied.

This is a very rough story that's fairly short. I meant to extend it but I've been pretty busy and haven't had the time. However, I really like it and so I decided to post it up anyways. It isn't thoroughly edited, so I apologize for any spelling or grammar mistakes that might be in here.