Disclaimer: See chapter one
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Chapter Two
As dawn was breaking, Draco crept back into his dormitory and put the silver cornet with gold fastenings into its case. He then silently slid between the blankets of his bed and waited for the other boys to get up. He eventually got lost in his thoughts and his mind drifted slowly towards the Gryffindor tower, where she lay, fast asleep. Oh, how wrong he was.
For Hermione Granger was not asleep, she was far from it. In fact, she still sat on the roof of the Gryffindor tower, watching the sun rise. The silver flute with gold fastenings lay across her lap, shining in the dull morning light. She sat like this for a few more minutes and then climbed back through the window, put the silver flute back into its case, and awaited the sun's bright rays through the window. She drifted into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of that summer past.
*~Flashback~*
"Daddy, no!" Hermione screamed at the man advancing toward her, fitting brass knuckles onto his hand. Hermione screamed as the brass collided with her body, over and over again. Pain ripped through her weary body as she cried, yelling for help. But there was no one who could help her. Her mother had died of pneumonia and her father had blamed her for it.
"Hold still, you little bitch!" Her father yelled. Then he picked up a knife and dragged it along her stomach, warm red blood staining the steel blade. Then there was the whip, slicing across her back over and over again. Hermione blacked out.
*~End flashback~*
Hermione reached under the back of her shirt, feeling the scars that intertwined across her back. A single tear rolled down her soft, almost flawless cheek. Almost flawless. For ever so faintly, and hardly visible, a thin, white scar drew from the corner of her perfect lips to the outer corner of her deep, brown eye.
Her scars were deep and she knew from the bottom of her heart that they would always be there. She seemed such a happy, painless youth, but inside, she was torn and bleeding. The scars on her skin were only small fragments of the scars on her heart and mind. To deal with all of her pain, she played music, any kind, anywhere, on any instrument, or she sang, her sweet voice relieving her briefly. But then she would get tired or had to stop for some reason and the pain would only come back, worse by one hundred fold.
And little did she know that the same cycle was used for another. Another person shared the same kind of pain that she did. Another person played music to relieve himself of all his pain.