Title: The Composer
Author: Rei Furuzowa
Pairing: H/D
* * *
I loved the feel of it, the wooden grains slipping under my fingers, the smoothness of the strings. It felt almost.intimate; it fit against me so perfectly, like a lover.
I pulled the bow across slowly, closing his eyes as the first strains of melody filled the air. This was *my* kind of magic, not the kind that came from the end of a lifeless wand, but the kind that turned the mind, influenced the soul, more effective than any Imperius Curse that had been performed.
The music filled my head, bringing forth memories that I thought I had forgotten. Memories of when I was still a student at that school. Memories of when I had everything, money, respect..you.
I had composed on you. Your skin was my paper, my fingers the quill. The bars and scales that had fallen from your lips were etched indelibly on my mind and I played them now, unable to stop.
"What are you doing over there?" You had asked playfully, the moonlight shining through the latticed window creating patterns of shadow on your skin. I had been writing, writing frantically, capturing this moment in rests, notes, rhythms on paper before it could slip from my fingers back into your skin. I never finished.
The music stopped abruptly. I stood there, breathing hard, not noticing the blood running down my hands. The shell of the broken violin fell to the floor, also unnoticed.
I had lost my inspiration.
* * *
* * *
I loved the feel of it, the wooden grains slipping under my fingers, the smoothness of the strings. It felt almost.intimate; it fit against me so perfectly, like a lover.
I pulled the bow across slowly, closing his eyes as the first strains of melody filled the air. This was *my* kind of magic, not the kind that came from the end of a lifeless wand, but the kind that turned the mind, influenced the soul, more effective than any Imperius Curse that had been performed.
The music filled my head, bringing forth memories that I thought I had forgotten. Memories of when I was still a student at that school. Memories of when I had everything, money, respect..you.
I had composed on you. Your skin was my paper, my fingers the quill. The bars and scales that had fallen from your lips were etched indelibly on my mind and I played them now, unable to stop.
"What are you doing over there?" You had asked playfully, the moonlight shining through the latticed window creating patterns of shadow on your skin. I had been writing, writing frantically, capturing this moment in rests, notes, rhythms on paper before it could slip from my fingers back into your skin. I never finished.
The music stopped abruptly. I stood there, breathing hard, not noticing the blood running down my hands. The shell of the broken violin fell to the floor, also unnoticed.
I had lost my inspiration.
* * *