CHAPTER FOUR

The next night found him, again, in his chambers, silently pondering the stone wall, this time with anticipation. His violin sat like an amber bird, spindly yet solid, awaiting his touch. The day had gone surprisingly quickly, evaporating in a steam of unimportant details as he thought of her playing the night before, as he reveled in the first, good night's sleep he had gotten in a long, long while. Ironically enough, he had taken his sleep in the crevice of his wall and floor. He shook his head, running his fingertips along the horsehair of his bow, testing the flexibility of a familiar tool. As the first note sounded from beyond the wall, he looked up, smiled. Picking up his violin, he listened for a moment, poised as he was with the instrument beneath his chin, and readied his bow. Ah, Mozart tonight. Steadying his posture, he breathed in deeply through his nose, and on his exhale, brought his bow to meet the strings, releasing a steady hum of harmony to her own note behind the stone wall. Playing along with her, they got through most of a movement before she noticed his presence. He felt her stop, her bow wavering, and turn towards his wall. He could almost see the expression of curious wonder on her face as she questioned, "Did I just hear.?" In a moment, the music continued, this time Bach again, a concerto. He picked up beside her, the song of the violin ringing out in melodious tune with her fine playing. He heard the music waver as she realized he had started again, but she was quick to recover her surprise, and through the tone, he could hear her excitement. They continued this way, well on into the night, as the duet rang on through the muffled halls of Hogwarts, separated by a stone wall, yet in all things, completing one another so perfectly.

In the small hours of the morning, as they finished a tune, both panting and exhilarated, she paused, before sounding one long, low note of obvious thanks to him, before closing up her cello. He smiled from the other side of the wall, replacing his violin into his worn case, letting his hand pass along the wall in a signal of unseen affection. Whether she could tell it was he or not, he was glad they had played together. Perhaps, someday, they would play in the same room as one another. Smiling and shaking his head, he retired to sleep soundly once again with visions of her breathless from exhilaration dancing in his head.

She took a moment outside the practice room to steady herself. The hallway was cold and dark compared to the intimate setting in which they had shared their music. She stopped herself from smiling too broadly, sneaking sideways glances at the door that led to his chambers. 'Of course it was him,' the thought seemed desperate, 'there's no one else who lives down here. And only he could play the violin with such obvious feeling.' She imagined him, broodingly bent over his instrument, his posture straight and bowing arm flying, his long, thin fingers working over the neck of the violin, playing in rhythm, in harmony with her, and she suddenly felt the unmistakable flush of arousal. They had shared something intimate, something deeply personal and exclusive to he and she. Smiling at his door, she turned to walk back to her own rooms with a light heart.

The next morning, she stood outside on the Hogwarts grounds, feeling the rush of cold air through her small front lawn enclosure, where she stood drinking coffee and watching the sun sparkle on the snow. Her thoughts were on the previous night, and her surprise at finding a musical soulmate in the teacher she had considered her soulmate in all else for a long while. Hugging herself, she pondered whether to ask him to join her this evening, to actually play together, as opposed to through a stone wall. With a resolved sigh, she turned, and went into her rooms to prepare for the day of study.

At night, full of new knowledge and the anticipation of hearing him play again, she hurried to her chambers to change into more comfortable clothes. She hummed idly as she dressed, and walked down the stone hallway to the doorway that led into her practice room. She paused there, her hand frozen on the doorknob, willing herself to face him. In truth, it would be a simple request, from one musician to another, to join her, to duet face to face, able to hear without the muffling wall, the true interweaving of their combined notes. But then, the very visceral crux of the question itself (would you care to join me?) would be posed to a man fond of his solitude, who's biting criticism and vicious perfectionism made him a strange companion to spend the evening with. Shaking off her fear of rejection, she gathered her cello and bow, running her fingertips over the burnished golden wood and taking strength from the familiar curves of the neck of the instrument, and stood resolutely outside the door to his chambers, her hand raised to knock.

The knock came as a surprise to him, to say the least. He sat again in his comfortable chair, musing on the wall, the fire forgotten, awaiting the first tremulous sound of a note from behind the wall. He had looked foreward to it all day, in fact, imagining, upon seeing her pale face at the breakfast table, that she radiated the sweet tones from her very skin. Their encounter the night previous had left him exhilarated, and more than a little pleased at their remarkable compatibility as musicians. In all honesty, he was out of breath for more than the mere exhilaration of finding a partner to play with, but the thought of her beauty and elegance, as the vision of her pale arm as she extended it to bow, excited him to a level beyond arousal. A woman, many years his junior, still,, a woman with the same personal intensity as his own, a vital beauty that often left him speechless, and the shining talent and imagination that could only be expressed through the miraculous playing that ate away at him throughout the day, working it's way into his chest and squeezing. Hard.

He longed to watch her while they played, to see her expression as he matched her, to watch the graceful curve of her neck as she wrought the clean, clear notes from the depths of what could only be her very soul. Perhaps, he thought, he would knock on her door, invite her to join him, implore her, cajole her. He was unable to contain a smile at the desperate wish he had to see her. As her teacher, he had been a cold and bitter man, but their slight friendship had begun to take place towards the end of her time as a student. He recalled those days well, working feverishly to develop the thesis, gathering data from their groundbreaking work, and the pleasantness of their brief interactions. Perhaps, perhaps, they could regain that closeness through their music. Perhaps, he dared to hope, they could cultivate a more personal relationship if they were to play together... At that moment, the knock sounded, startling him out of his reverie