no comment
*
she would take out her violin, shining in the moonlight, and she would stand in the tower and play. alone, it was her secret. she would play songs of hate and cruelty and pain. she would cry for the songs...songs she remembered, songs she wrote, and songs by muggle composers that had magic in them even though the creator did not. she would tie back her hair and play to the moon. sometimes owls would watch her. sometimes her cat would fall asleep by her feet. sometimes a crying girl downstairs would hear her song and cry harder for lost love.
he would take out his cello, and no one knew, and it would reflect the moon. he would open his eyes to the world, and no one knew, and they would reflect the moon. and he would play, songs of war and rage and death. his tears would drop on the wood of his instrument. he would play from his memory, he would play from his mind. music was his secret. keep playing, always pushing back his limp hair. he wouldn't want others to hear him. but owls would watch him. and crying girls downstairs would hear him and cry harder for dying loves.
they would play together, music winding its way out of their towers, melting together in the outside air.
and in puting that hate and cruelty and war and rage and death and pain together, they would create love. love that their hearts would send around the world to all who suffered like they did, two hearts that knew love in an ocean of people who did not.
and no one knew it was them.
who would guess?
no one talked about it.
they all knew of the music that would come when you were alone and unhappy. you would hear it then.
but no one heard the songs blended together.
except one.
he would go outside every night, to the place where the songs would meet, and he would lie there on the grass, on the snow, on the fallen leaves, and cry for his lost love, his dying love, everything ever lost or killed.
every night.
and one night, he came outside with a black case. he opened it and the moonlight shined on the varnish of his viola.
he caught the strains of music coming from the two towers...
and he played.
*
she would take out her violin, shining in the moonlight, and she would stand in the tower and play. alone, it was her secret. she would play songs of hate and cruelty and pain. she would cry for the songs...songs she remembered, songs she wrote, and songs by muggle composers that had magic in them even though the creator did not. she would tie back her hair and play to the moon. sometimes owls would watch her. sometimes her cat would fall asleep by her feet. sometimes a crying girl downstairs would hear her song and cry harder for lost love.
he would take out his cello, and no one knew, and it would reflect the moon. he would open his eyes to the world, and no one knew, and they would reflect the moon. and he would play, songs of war and rage and death. his tears would drop on the wood of his instrument. he would play from his memory, he would play from his mind. music was his secret. keep playing, always pushing back his limp hair. he wouldn't want others to hear him. but owls would watch him. and crying girls downstairs would hear him and cry harder for dying loves.
they would play together, music winding its way out of their towers, melting together in the outside air.
and in puting that hate and cruelty and war and rage and death and pain together, they would create love. love that their hearts would send around the world to all who suffered like they did, two hearts that knew love in an ocean of people who did not.
and no one knew it was them.
who would guess?
no one talked about it.
they all knew of the music that would come when you were alone and unhappy. you would hear it then.
but no one heard the songs blended together.
except one.
he would go outside every night, to the place where the songs would meet, and he would lie there on the grass, on the snow, on the fallen leaves, and cry for his lost love, his dying love, everything ever lost or killed.
every night.
and one night, he came outside with a black case. he opened it and the moonlight shined on the varnish of his viola.
he caught the strains of music coming from the two towers...
and he played.