"Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent."
- Victor Hugo, Hugo's Works: William Shakespeare
They had danced around each other for weeks now. She knew it had been partly her fault. She could just have left early the way she had always done. She could have done as said and just left the copy of the sheet music for "Storm" - as she had called her composition – on the piano. Instead she had played until the very last minute of her slot to find that Draco came in a minute early – which was also unheard of. He shrugged apologetically and gave a twisted smile. And he had still looked like hell. He had thanked her for the sheet music and there had been an awkward silence before she had bolted out of the door as fast as she could.
After that very first incident, they had always met each other either at the door or in the hallway or inside the room. It was always a pretty weird situation to be alone with one of your worst enemies yet strangely unable to see him as your enemy at this very moment.
Three weeks after he had entered on her finishing off the "I hate Ronald Weasley and his idiotic girlfriend Lavender"-tune, Draco arrived five minutes early for his slot. He looked even worse than usually. His light blonde hair was disheveled, the white shirt creased, his face worn.
"You know there's really no point in trying out to go without sleep for a month", said Hermione, letting the last notes of "Wild Mountain Thyme" fade into silence.
Draco gave a half-smile.
"Noted, Granger. Although sometimes you can't really fall asleep, even if you want to."
He hesitated for a second, then continued whilst pulling out some sheets from his folder and placing them on the piano: "I have been unable to sleep properly for weeks on end now. I toss and turn and try to sleep but I just can't because I can't stop thinking."
His fingers were trembling and the veins on the backs of his hands stood out like dark blue rivers against the paleness of his skin. He leaned against the piano with both arms outstretched. It looked as if he was in pain, like someone who was tormented physically or psychologically. Hermione waited. After a while, he looked up and shook his head before coming over and sitting down next to her on the piano stool. She had never been that close to him before. She could smell his shampoo from this close – something with herbs, probably peppermint.
"I am not sure what to say, Granger. I would so love to talk to someone. But I can't, I just can't."
He balled his fists and closed his eyes. His whole body was trembling. Slowly, hesitant, because she knew how the Draco she had always known would respond to this, she reached out and rested her hand on his back. He did not pull away, jump up, shout at her and call her a Mudblood. Instead he seemed to relax a little.
"I can't tell anyone", he repeated over and over again.
Hermione helplessly stroked his back a couple of times.
"Then don't", she said.
He stared at her with a bewildered expression.
"Don't say anything", she repeated. "Just play. I will stay and listen, if you want me to."
She sat down in the old armchair, pulled her knees up to her chin and closed her eyes. The music room was always well-heated and as it didn't have any windows, it often felt stuffy. But today, after she had got drenched to the bone twice on her way to and from Care of Magical Creatures, the warmth was a welcome counterpart to the rain and cold outside the castle.
Draco bustled about for a bit, arranging sheets, screwing the stool a bit higher, to make it fit his longer legs. Then he started playing. It was the saddest, most desperate melody Hermione had ever heard. It spoke of loneliness and peril and of darkness. Only at the very end there were a few lighter harmonies woven into it, small bits that almost sounded hopeful. Almost. Not quite. The piece ended in b minor.
She did not speak afterwards. Neither did Draco. She only got up, went over to the piano and hugged him. Again, it struck her as odd how he just accepted it. Some part of her was still waiting for him to call her a Mudblood and a filthy Muggle and push her away. But it didn't happen. He clumsily returned the hug and waved when she almost fled through the door.