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.

Dedication: For my piano teacher, who passed away after having taught me for five years. I want him to know that I really miss him, that I'm sorry for not doing my best at times, and that I owe him so much for being patient as I made mistakes, understanding when I got nervous playing for him during lessons and looking past that, and teaching me *everything* I know about the art. I've never meet a greater pianist than him, and never will. Not ever.

A/N: It's been a while since an update of any kind, hasn't it? Well, anyways, I was cleaning junk files out of my computer when I found *gasp* a chapter of this fic that I forgot to post (poor, poor Vengeance So Sweet) *winces as readers throw fruit and call out various bits of profanity*.

I figured something was better than nothing (I am *so* not lazy! Watch me go!)…and, continuing my trend of post-a-new-update-aphobia, it will most likely be a long HP-writing hiatus…especially with the fifth book coming out. But I suppose after that, I'll churn out stuff quicker, b/c of it being summer and b/c of the new material to work with. But anywhoo, I'd still be ever grateful for reviews (when am I not? I am such a review pig…).

OK, enough babble from me, onwards ho!

"The beginning is calm,

and the middle 'Agitato' is a fantasy of being buried alive,

transcribed into notes on paper…

Rachmaninoff had bizarre fears of

being buried alive…"

--John G.

Piece #2: Rachmaninoff Prelude in C# Minor

Harry had never thought it possible to be as comfortable as he was now. Seated in front of the blazing hearth, the last lingering remnants of cold evaporating from his fingers, he suddenly felt a surge of gratitude towards the woman.

He now donned a pair of flannel pajamas, which proved to be warm and dry, albeit slightly excessive in length, and was wrapped snugly in a quilt with cotton-stuffing bulging from its ripped seams. He sighed happily, knowing that he should show some courtesy and thank the woman before doing anything else, but was to attached to the peaceable stillness, cut through with periodic cracklings of the fire, to break it.

So the woman broke it first with—"Tell me, Harry Potter, how you came to be here?"

"Got caught in the storm," he said, becoming very interested in a loose thread dangling from the quilt. "Fell from my bicycle and saw your place;  was the only one open on this street."

"Quite amusing, really, seeing that I would also be closed by now—except today…today, I had naggings to just keep the place open." The woman smiled benignly, her ebony eyes glowing in the dim lighting. 

Harry mulled this over for a moment before shaking off the peculiar sensation crawling up his spine. "I should say thank you then."

"No need."

The two lapsed into another interlude of silence.

"Your shop is nice," Harry offered weakly, sweeping his hand half-heartedly in the general direction of the pianos.

"And that is entirely due to pianistic character, related in no way to my handiwork."

Harry nodded awkwardly, pretending that he understood. "And your name?"

The woman failed to answer, remaining silent for so long that Harry supposed she hadn't heard him.

"Can I have your na—"

"My name you will not know, but you may call me…" The woman drifted off, her downcast eyes clouding over with a sadness so acute that it was thickly tangible, like molasses crawling down the side of a jar—"Medea."

"Medea."

Saying the name when addressing the woman before him felt wrong, as if it simply didn't fit with her nature; failed to reflect the immense talent she possessed, or the incredible understanding and wisdom in her soft voice that immediately stamped her as one who had seen and experienced much more than her appearance would show.

As if realizing that she had exposed more than intended, Medea jerked upright, tipping over her mug of cider in the process.

"So," she chirruped, too brightly, "I caught you at the piano's when I stumbled in. Have you played before?"

"Only once." Harry reddened, but plowed on doggedly. "Once, at the Karovitch mansion—and—and—you taught me."

Surprise registered across Medea's face, soon combined with an expression of pleased recognition. "But of course. I recall now; then a mere child, so young and innocent, but bruised, without the naivety I should expect you to have."

Harry blushed further. "My parents died when I was young."

"That I am already aware of, Harry Potter." Medea busied herself with wiping the puddle of cider inching its way towards the table edge. "I sense more potential within you than you could even begin to fathom."

"Me? The only knack I have is for attracting trouble and death," Harry said, thinking back to Cedric. A leaden weight settled in his chest, as it always did when he thought of such things. He suddenly felt very small and afraid and alone in a gray world where the only certain things were hate and fear. "Since I can't, will you play for me?"

Without a word, Medea drew out a bench and sat, wielding the piano like a weapon and obliged with a hauntingly despairing piece.

It's almost like, Harry thought, she's reading my emotions, and twisting them into something much, much more.

****

He thinks I play for him—a song that bears his name and his troubled soul. I can see it in his face, in the stormy depths of his eyes and in the way I can see them reliving things that had already passed. And he does not yet know that it conforms to my soul, my past, too, but for the fact that while his actions were noble, mine…mine were less than admirable.

I can see in the way he speaks to me, in the way he picks his way carefully among words so as to not offend, that he raises me on a pedestal, the untouched image he has treasured from his eight-year-old views of me as a shining figure capable of no hurtful things.

And he is wrong.

He has no clue as to the events I'd brought into existence in coalition with my cowardice. How could he know of those, when he does not know my true name, or remains ignorant to the fact that I am not a Muggle? How could he think of me as an untouchable when I am, in fact, covered in far more filth and grime than he could ever be?

*****

Harry caught himself just in time to applaud Medea as she struck the last resonant note. "That was great," he said admiringly, laughing as she did an elaborate curtsy for show. "D'you think maybe one day I could play like that?"

This time, Medea answered immediately. "I know."

Harry smiled, peering out the window and noticing that the dark clouds had begun receding from the sky, and that raindrops splattered across the window between lengthier periods of time. "Thank you for putting up with me, then. I'd better be going…the Dursleys—my relatives—will be raving mad when they find out I'm late."

Shrugging the blanket off his lap and gathering his sopping clothes into a tight bundle, he made for the door, only to find that Medea had been quicker and was blocking his path.

"You will," she said, "drop by tomorrow, say, around one, and pay a lonely acquaintance a visit? Perhaps we'll find ourselves tinkering on the pianos a bit." She winked, and nudged him gently out the door. "After all, who am I to deny visits from a famous young man with a wellspring of potential? Good-bye, Harry Potter, and fare thee well in all your endeavors!"

The last thought that occurred to Harry as he made his way back to 4 Privet Drive was the brief wondering of how Medea knew his name, when he had never mentioned it.

****next day***

"H-hi…Ho-how are you d-doing…" Harry wheezed, clutching at his ribs as if he'd just run a marathon. Sweat bunched on his forehead in glistening clusters, breaking apart and trickling down the sides of his face. "S-sorry so lat-late, fa-family issues."

And it wasn't an entire untruth…if twisted and quirked to the side, the events prior to Harry's meeting with Medea might be seen as that…Harry shook his head. No, what had happened couldn't be considered by anyone to be a 'family issue'.

Medea ignored his greeting, and instead reached a slender, cool hand to his cheek, watching as Harry winced when it grazed the edges of a raw, pink burn, glistening wet with lingering remnants of ointment.

Harry moved back nervously, turning his face away self-consciously. "Dropped a pepper shaker into the soup." He waved a hand dismissively over the burn, too large to be a result of soup splashes.

"And this?" Medea kneeled and passed her hand over another patch of peeling skin peeking out from under the cuff of his too-short pants.

"Erm…burned it on the stove while making said soup?" Harry suggested uncertainly, mentally wondering why the throbbing heat emanating from the burn had ceased when Medea touched it, replaced with a clean, distinct iciness that proved a welcome change from the sharp pains.

"Please sit; I suppose I should find a roll of gauze in one of the kitchen cabinets—I usually have some in case of small knife slip-ups, always handy…"

Harry sunk onto one of the piano benches, heavily padded, and dedicated himself to staring blankly out the window until Medea left the room, upon which he immediately bent over to examine the burn over his leg, which strangely seemed to be healing, but that was impossible, utter nonsense, wounds didn't heal this quickly, especially not when one's diet consisted mainly of stale leftovers…

He sighed, tugging his pant-leg back down.

~

He knew he should have climbed out the window and slid down the gutter pipe the moment he appeared from his room and saw Dudley, armed with an oversized lighter (given to him just recently) and three of his cronies, gathered at the foot of the stairs, seemingly waiting for something.

Which Harry soon discovered was actually a someone.

Thinking that he could always outrun a small whale, accompanied by three rats, he had proceeded down the stairs, taking two at a time, spirits high in anticipation of his rendezvous at the piano shop.

Before reaching the landing, the group surrounded him, pushing him against the banister, with Dudley flicking his lighter on and off interestedly.

"Hey freak, wanna know what I figured out today?"

"Wasn't it Piers who had the book?"

"Shut it, idiot." Dudley shoved the offending speaker, a boy to his left, away. "I learned that there were freaks like you back before…before…"

Harry raised an eyebrow, waiting expectantly.

"Before…" Dudley continued.

"Mega-Mutilation Part Seven!"

"Before Mega-Mutilation Part seven—thank you Piers—and do you know how they got rid of these freaks?"

Harry swallowed. He had more than a faint inkling where this was going.

As if suspecting Harry to bolt, the gang closed around him until Dudley had Harry's arms pinned. Harry squirmed under the pudgy hands, but to no avail, as one of boys dove for Harry's flailing legs, locking them spread-eagled against the wall.

"Piers, you helped me out once, tell me again—how'd they pick off these buggers?"

"Burned at the stake," Rat-Boy squeaked.

"That's right. And I suppose my trusty lighter—" and here, Dudley allowed his lighter to flare up spectacularly in front of Harry's perspiring nose—"would do the job alright."

Harry's heart slammed against his rib cage. Of course Dudley would do no such thing—he was cruel and taunting, but to go as far as this? Live burning? It was unthinkable, but Harry knew he didn't want to wait around and see what would happen.

Arching upwards, he wrenched his leg free and kicked out randomly. Dudley, momentarily surprised, released his grasp. Harry ducked under his cousin's legs and pulled himself to his feet, running, running, to the door, and he was almost there, the doorknob was winking at him through a haze of relief

_Almost there, I'll pay him back for this…I'll get out of here and come back again and make him pay_—

and a hand grabbed him from the back, wrapped around folds of oversized shirt, dragging him backwards

_No! Bastards, slimy bastards, if only I had my wand, get off of me_—

until he tripped over the first stair and landed on his rump. He was roughly hauled up, and carried bodily into the backyard, empty of Vernon or Petunia, where

Piers was waiting with a length of thick cording. Next to him was a wooden beam, nailed lopsidedly into the ground. Before he knew it, Harry found himself bound to the wood, hands behind his back, and Dudley was knelt over on one fat knee, feeding a pile of dry grass with a hearty lick of flame.

And then the hem of Harry's pants caught a spark.

And it burned. It burned its way up his leg, slowly sizzling and melting jeans against skin, traveling steadily over the edge of his sock, the rubber sole of his shoe drooped down, soft and acrid-smelling…

His mind whirred, groping for anything that might help, and then it came to him. A passage from a textbook, something that read along the lines of 'on the rare occasion, when they managed to catch a real witch, the burning induced merely a mild tingling sensation once a certain spell was cast', spurred him to action, and though he had not the slightest what the incantation might be, he tried.

An ice bath. Cubed ice. A great vat of it. He fixed these images firmly into his mind, next to an image of himself—and he'd climb into the pot of ice, water, freezing, numbingly cold water, would rush into him, slopping over his skin, wonderfully cold and tingling, without any trace of damned heat or flames.

He didn't realize his eyes were squeezed shut, tears forming at the corners, until he opened them. He almost choked when he saw that he was up to the waist in flames, which licked hungrily at him and fell back unabated. It was a rather pleasant feeling; the fire seemed to dance along the surface of his skin, producing an effect like a thermal wrap or a hand against a warm heater, and his clothes seemed immune to the flames (which was quite a lucky thing indeed, Harry supposed, as it would be an awkward thing if he met Medea in virtually nothing).

He also saw that he was alone.

They left me to burn, Harry thought bitterly, thoughts of revenge clouding his thinking. A foreign heat, with a cause that had nothing to do with the roaring fire, washed over him, dull redness ringing his vision, and his blood felt as if it were boiling over from the inside. I hate them. I hate the Dursleys.

Suddenly, the ropes around his wrist split down the center, and he felt the beam to which he was bound shatter, cracks running down charred black wood. With a yell, Harry ripped his hands free of the remaining tendrils of rope-thread and leapt away from the crackling beam.

Panting, Harry backed away and watched as the fire slowly ate up the wood, a cold glint radiating from his darkened eyes.

~

"You're in luck," Medea said, re-entering the room with dressings and a green bottle. "I'll help you clean up."

She licked her thumb and unwound the gauze, soaking it in the green bottle. Gently, with the same tentative caution he remembered from years ago, she applied it to the burn on Harry's cheek, and then forced him to roll up his jeans so she could bandage the numerous wounds on his lower leg.

"And now, let's try out that piano."

The gray veils that had hung over Harry's eyes since the incident pulled away as she withdrew the cover on a deep brown grand, and he was once more a child in Karovitch's manor.

**

And Destiny, at her table of cards, laughed as she discarded her old set and drew up a new hand.

Medea's name, I forgot whether it was from Greek mythology or Latin, actually has a deeper meaning, and offers quite a bit of foreshadowing. Also, I'd write a longer response to each review below, but my mom's just about to charge in here and rip the keyboard away from me…so that's all the time I could muster…Oh, btw, one more thank you, you awesome reviewers you!

Faerydust909: Thank you! It's hard to be original in this category, because it seems every concept has already been written out…but I'll try.

Angelxd14: Whew. Blush, blush. :-). That made me preettyyy happy when I read it.

Siri Kat: Thanks for reviewing! Beware, third part even longer in coming since I'm sure I don't have it hidden among my (newly cleaned out!) computer files…hehe.

FireChild3: Yay! I caught someone's interest! Now if only I can keep it… LOL, now there's only two chappies, hope you're less disappointed :-)

Sasery: One word that speaks volumes…thanks.

Spacecatdet: Good. You should be curious. 'Cause I say so. Now there. Hehe, j/k. I'm such an idiot when I want to be.

Myra: Thankies for reviewing, hope you enjoyed. *crosses fingers*

Glimmer: Strangely beautiful? That's awesome, it was the effect I was going for; kinda ethereal and…strangely beautiful. Yup.

Black Heart: Soften away! Sirius is really just a big fat soft joker…anyways, good ideas, good ideas.

HamletTheDane: Me too, she can also be quite mean to me. I find myself liking the Moonlight too. And of course, when you think Harry Potter, you think half-insane frozen creature, how can you not? Most endearing image, I'll soon buy a HP doll, throw him into the freezer, then cuddle…:-)

Lily: Please don't lost your patience! And Harry the Pianist has a luvverly ring, eh?

CatRxn: Okay, here's a post, no more laying for you!

Catatonic Reaction: Wow, thanks! *ego inflates*

I'm a little teapot (short and stout): You know, just the other day I had that stupid muffin man song stuck in my head…

Katrina: Awww, hope you'll get it now, and that I didn't mess with your head too much.

And to four of the first fic-reviewers that've probably noticed I didn't mention them—FF.net won't let me go onto that review page! It keeps coming up errors, darn thing. I'm so sorry, but I'm guessing you're all relieved 'cause you don't want me to say something stupid to you :-).