RIDING THE WINGS OF MELODY

Author: VyingQuill

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended

A/N: Okay, okay, don't kill me for starting a new fic when Vengeance So Sweet is still unfinished! This plot bunny just popped into my head, and it just kinda expanded from there. I don't know if I'll get many readers with this fic, as it's a bit unusual. It's not a fifth year fic, or an any-year fic. It's more like the summers after fourth and fifth year, than it starts becoming one of those 'Harry leaves the magical world to live in the Muggle one', but it's different, trust me. After that, seventh year comes into play.

The first part…well, I guess you could call it dull :-). It'll get better soon, though. Please review with any suggestions, criticism, or comments.

"The first movement of the Moonlight Sonata

is widely considered to be reminiscent of

moonlight shining upon a lake—

plaintive, calm, and lovely;

and if that is the case, the third would be

considered to be like waves being whipped

up on frenzied waters—anxious, angry,

and violent"

Ludwig Rellstab

Opening Piece: Moonlight Sonata

Harry had always been of the belief that wherever he turned, Destiny would always be nipping at his heels, keeping him on the treacherous, pothole-filled path that was his life.

After emerging from the experience, he knew with ridiculous conviction that She would, to amuse herself and pass the idle centuries that made up eternity, take to manipulating lives and twisting one to collide with another that wasn't fated to meet the latter otherwise. He knew that She took immense pleasure in creating things that mortals called coincidence, and using these coincidences to create an entirely different path for the mortals involved, until each coincidence met with the next to form a fragile web of acquaintances and sequenced events that made up a secondary destiny that could be followed instead of the preset first.

And the first wholly coincidental event was set into motion the minute he took his first step into the Muggle world after saying good-bye to Ron and Hermione, promising repeatedly that he would send letters frequently.

His large, cumbersome trunk, with varnish scraped off the bottom due to the numerous times he had dragged it along the concrete ground, much like he was doing now, coupled with Hedwig's bulky cage, made it a difficult journey from the Platform to the loading zone where Vernon usually met to pick him up.

By some miracle, he made it to the car, only to be faced with a second task; lifting his trunk into the compartment. His Uncle offered no help as he stood off to the side, puffing at his pipe and blowing smoke rings at the occasional passerby who dared pause to glance curiously at Harry's snowy owl.

Sweating profusely, Harry gave the trunk a final heave, watching, satisfied, as it slid inside the car.

Vernon, pipe dangling crookedly from the corner of his mouth, unlocked the doors and plunked himself heavily into the drivers seat. Before Harry could settle himself into the passengers seat and close the door, Vernon took off, flooring the gas pedal and paying no heed to Harry's alarmed yelp.

Quite fortunately, he pulled his flailing appendages inside before another car whizzed by, passing through the exact spot where his legs had been dangling only seconds ago.

The rest of the trip back to number four, Privet Drive, was uneventful. Vernon grunted every two seconds, choked on bits of stray tobacco every two minutes, and made sharp, veering turns every twenty minutes that would have sent Harry flying painfully into the windshield had he not taken to clamping his hands around the armrests on either side of him.

Once Vernon pulled into the driveway, Harry relaxed his death-hold on the armrests (of which the soft plush was now marred with finger indents).

"Get that trunk and that—" Vernon shot a distasteful look at Hedwig—"nuisance of a bird into the broom cupboard. They're both getting locked up this summer; I won't have you going about with your hocus-pocus and setting your owl loose on anything with two legs and hair."

Harry opened his mouth to protest. "I need my schoolbooks." He smiled slyly before continuing. "And my godfather wouldn't be too pleased if he found out you locked my owl away in some cupboard."

"That damn godfather of yours, eh? I'm beginning to think that this whole convicted murderer story is nothing but a fib. Maybe you should invite him over so we catch a glimpse of this famous godfather?" Vernon sneered nastily, looming threateningly over his small nephew. "That's what I thought, boy. No more of that nonsense."

He violently wrenched Harry's trunk from the compartment, snatched Hedwig from Harry's arms, and stormed up the steps to the front door.

*****

The next few days, Harry admitted, were rather uneventful and dull. He went about tidying the house and weeding gardens, like he had done every summer, but was slightly disgruntled to find that the Dursleys animosity towards him had not been quashed with time, but had only heightened while he had been away.

Dudley, with a newfound girlfriend, Penny, that bore remarkable semblance to Petunia in both mannerisms and physical attributes—or lack thereof—, made a daily show of lifting Harry up by his collar and cuffing him sharply across the neck, just to show his friends and Penny that he could.

Petunia made no effort to keep the house clean, but instead slopped around the kitchen cooking dinner, dropping bits of ground beef and cheese casserole on the linoleum tiles and claiming to have 'accidentally' stepped on the chunks when Harry, having been ordered to clean the yellowish-brown smears adorning the floor, asked her about them.

Instead of paying the grocery boy to drop by and deliver their things, Vernon now insisted that Harry do it, free of charge, as a favor to their hospitality.

Thus, Harry was forced to ride a rickety bicycle to the market a quarter of an hour away, pick up the grocery items, and ride back while balancing the load in a rusty basket attached to the handlebars—and all this done in the dry heat of summer while wearing Dudley's baggy black jeans, the hems of which were constantly getting caught in the gears.

Whenever a spare hour where he had no chores or errands to run occurred, he would sit at his desk, moping dejectedly and thinking back to the happenings of his fourth year at Hogwarts.

It was during one such hour that a tawny owl, bearing the Hogwarts crest and a warped yellow envelope that looked as if it had undergone several storms along the way, glided to a rest on the protruding windowsill of the spare room, rapping curtly at the closed window to catch Harry's attention.

Downstairs, in the broom closet, Hedwig screeched.

Harry had already been on several rescue missions for her sake, but the lock over the broom cupboard adamantly refused to budge. An identical unyielding lock guarded his books, which were locked in a separate closet.

Each day around noon, when Hedwig would grow particularly rowdy from hunger, the Dursleys would shove a sliver of luncheon meat and bits of old turnips under the door, along with a shallow dish of brackish water. Harry had seriously contemplated using magic to unlock the door, but would stop each time when he remembered that doing so would result in immediate expulsion, thus sentencing both himself and his owl to a life of Dursley-induced misery. Thoughts like these would stop him dead in his tracks and make him reconsider.

Ignoring as best as he could Hedwig's shriek of boredom, he let the other owl in and untied the letter from around its leg. Without waiting for a return message the animal hooted its self-approval at a job well done, and flew back out into the mild summer breezes.

Harry broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter. It was far too early for the yearly start-of-term letter, so what could it be?

Harry,

I am obligated to inform you that we, and in this, I mean myself, Remus, Snuffles, and the Hogwarts staff, have decided it best to reinforce the wards around your summer dwelling, in light of recent events. One such reinforcement that has recently been activated is the Barrier. It prevents the use of any kind of magic inside, and only inside, number four Privet Drive. We feel that, should any Death Eaters wander across your path, this would be for the best. The temporary suspension of magic includes your own as well as that of intruders. Keep in touch with your friends and your Godfather.

Wishes for the best,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry dropped the letter into the space under the loose floorboard. His hopes of using magic to subdue the lock if circumstances insisted were dashed.

Sighing, he resumed his habitual pastime of wallowing in guilt.

****

At half past four, Harry dug the peeling old bicycle out from under a mass of dirty rugs, under strict orders from Petunia to be back before she started dinner. A list of vegetables he was to come back with were tucked into the folds of Dudley's old puce green flannel shirt, which hung about him in great, overwhelming folds of excess fabric. In Harry's opinion, which the Dursleys really didn't give a second thought to, he looked like a runaway stalk of celery.

An hour later, Harry exited the sliding glass doors of the supermarket and, dropping a brown bag exhaustedly into the dingy basket, clambered unsteadily onto the bike seat.

A wet splotch of something fell onto his nose.

Rain.

Harry surveyed the sky uneasily. Angry gray storm clouds were already swallowing up whatever patches of blue the sky retained, and the stray drops of wetness became more and more frequent as he pedaled across the parking lot.

Using one hand to guide the bicycle and the other to hold his shirt in place, Harry increased his pace, working himself into a panicked stupor as he lunged relentlessly through the curtain of rain.

Much to his dismay, a crack of lightning, followed by rolling peals of thunder, resounded across the slate gray background. The steady pitter-patter of rain became a mismatched, chaotic tirade of droplets slamming themselves against pavement. Harry was acutely aware of the fact that his bicycle was composed of metal, however rusty and decayed, making him a very able lightning rod. As it was, he supposed himself a very able ice box, the combined effect of freezing water and rushing wind causing his fingers to turn a vibrant shade of purple that clashed horribly with the decrepit brown handlebars.

Many of the small businesses that lined the street had already closed for the night ("Why in the bloody heck would they shut down so early?" Harry thought furiously), and the streetlamps had just recently flared to life. The bicycle skidded precariously as he rounded a corner, wobbling unsteadily on half-deflated rubber wheels.

"Damn!" Harry yelped, feeling himself being launched straight into a patch of foliage as the front wheel hit a wide crack in the sidewalk. Oranges and rounded bottles of soymilk rolled haphazardly after him, and packages of frozen drumsticks lay forlornly next to the fallen bicycle. "Damn and damnation!"

Overcome with a fit of rage, he scrambled to the bike and dealt it a good, hard kick. "Unreliable—filthy—trash—Dursleys—" Each venomous word was punctuated with a kick or two, until Harry's big toe began throbbing. Breathing heavily, he fell to the pavement, cold and bone-weary and, once the adrenaline began filtering out of his system, extremely drained.

Feeling exceedingly deadened inside, he decided to stay put, swirling his finger through a puddle of water and humming insanely to himself. Sporadically, a car would speed by, dousing Harry with a fresh wave of chilling rainwater, but he didn't care; no one cared for him, so why should he care for himself? Harry Potter was nothing, just a fancy in a foolish child's imagination; he had no real talent, he was worthless, and he was, most of all, loved about as much as yesterdays garbage.

Harry extracted his finger from the puddle and stared listlessly as the ripples settled into a layer of smooth satin. The reflection of a tiny brightly lit shop beamed up at him.

A shop? Harry, slowly, as if afraid to tear his gaze away from the picturesque reflection, turned, fixing his eyes blearily upon a solid replica of the shop. So it hadn't been some figment of his imagination!

Excitedly, he pulled himself to his feet and made his way up to the door. A small 'We are OPEN' sign hung crookedly at the frame, the most welcoming thing Harry had seen that day.

Vague scents that put Harry in mind of old gingerbread and thyme lingered about the warm air as he stepped inside. The place was dimly lit; it took a while for Harry to adjust to the change in lighting. Meanwhile, he busied himself with wringing water from his sodden clothing. A long, crimson gash ran down the side of one leg, his prize for being stupid enough to turn wet corners at unrelenting speed.

Once he looked up, however, all thoughts of bloody legs and band-aids fled his mind.

It was a piano shop.

Soft light from a blazing hearth bathed the instruments with an ethereal wash of glowing yellow-orange. The pianos were old-fashioned—all delicate, curving legs, well-polished wooden frames, and pristine white keys peeking out from under a thin protective covering of velvet. Their lids were honey-colored banners of shining wood extended proudly towards the ceiling, and row after row, they were lined accordingly from largest to smallest, each with benches tucked underneath its legs and music books piled next to its brass pedals.

And Harry felt it—the slight twinge in his chest, the slight thrumming that had sprung to life within himself, and the rush of majesty and peace and a force somewhere outside of his own body that directed him to the nearest piano.

He lowered himself haltingly onto the bench, fingers moving of their own accord towards the smooth ivory keys. Flickering shadows cast by the hearth danced across his face, reflecting the fire and passion that had kindled in his shining emerald eyes.

His fingers arched naturally over the keys, unmoving. He closed his eyes and remembered.

He remembered and remembered, calling up the image of his nine-year-self, at the only invite dinner that the Dursley's had taken him to. Mr. Karovitch, the director of Grunnings before it had been passed along to Vernon, had specifically invited the entire Dursley family to a small gathering with his wife and himself. Also, for the first time, Harry had found himself dressed in new clothes that fit—a nice pair of ironed black trousers, a stiff button-up shirt, and a plain brown tie; the cheapest things that Petunia had found that still looked somewhat expensive.

Harry recalled being completely awestruck when they had pulled up in the chauffeured limousine Mr. Karovitch had sent to fetch them. The house was nothing short of a mansion. It was a thing of astounding beauty, with its enormous windows, twinkling innocently at the visitors, and rising turret-topped towers.

Mr. Karovitch and his wife had shown them first to the parlor, where they chatted over a cup of tea while the finishing touches were being put on dinner.

Harry had obediently remained quiet, swinging his stubbly legs over the rug and watching with interest the young lady who sat at the grand piano in the center of the parlor. Her long, blue-black hair swished soundlessly across her back as she swayed in time to the sweet melodies that poured forth from the instrument. Harry saw nothing but her—her fingers flying up and down the keys, barely touching one before moving on to the next, her fathomless black eyes as they swept past her fingers to the music in front of her, the peculiar bone-white scar that grazed her jawline…and when he saw the blissful rapture on her face as her nimble fingers danced across ivory, he knew, in a rush of fervent, inexplicable emotion, that he had to play.

Unbeknownst to him, the Karovitchs had begun herding the Dursleys into the next room, leaving the mystified Harry alone with the piano player. He sidled nervously up to her side, set his chin firmly on a low-hanging mantle next to the piano, and stared; an awestruck, unblinking stare swimming with admiration and traces of jealousy.

The woman had gradually stopped playing and smiled benignly down at Harry, scar curving upwards with the friendly motion. Wordlessly, she scooted over, leaving a space on the corner of the bench just big enough for Harry to sit on. Bubbling with barely contained enthusiasm, Harry pounced onto the vacant area without a second's worth of hesitation, and it took a good few minutes for him to stop squirming over the slippery bench-top.

She had carefully—so gently, as if handling a crystal figurine—lifted his thin, bony wrist, placing it lightly above the keys. Harry's small fingers instinctively curved over, and, shot through with a spear of anticipation, he began applying the slightest of forces to the notes, savoring each tentative ringing sound before it died away under his fingertips.

The young lady made a pleased sound with her throat. She had spread her fingers elegantly over the keys, picking out a small ditty with her right hand. Harry echoed the tune, bringing a pleasantly surprised smile to the pianist's face. Bending over, she applied herself to teaching Harry the notes, the clefs, and, when he had soaked up the basics, she had taught him a few opening bars of Fur Elise.

Then, Vernon had rushed, grabbed him by the collar, and shoved him into the dining room, leaving the strangled notes calling hauntingly after him.

"Lovely, aren't they?"

Startled, Harry dropped his hands guiltily to his sides. "I'm sorry, I was just coming in from the storm and—"

His next words died before they could fall from his lips.

The woman, who he assumed to be the shopkeeper, regarded him with concern. "You'll catch pneumonia in those clothes of yours; I'll get you a cup of hot cider and a change of clothing, and then we'll see, shan't we?"

Still, Harry said nothing.

The woman blinked nervously, black eyes narrowing as she lifted a pondering finger to the white scar that marred her face. She crossed the room, closing the distance between her and the shivering boy. Blue-black hair shook slightly.

Harry made his way to an old rocking chair and promptly fainted, one thought emblazoned in his mind—It was, without a doubt, the young woman who had

played at Karovitch's.

****

Destiny had played her first hand of cards, and the coincidences—the dinner party all those years ago, the hired piano player, and an excursion out during a storm—had melded together.