WARNING: There is restricted content in this chapter. For the sake of younger readers I have not changed the overall rating, but the section with the restricted content is marked as follows ( etc.) If you choose to read the section, you do so at your own peril Please be mature about the content. I have warned you.
Life, As Experienced Through Your Fingers
Gold-Snitcher
Chapter 10: Heartbeat
"This has got to be the cheesiest, most sentimental assignment I've ever received in my life!" Ron moaned, and Dean snickered.
"I think it's sweet," Blaise disagreed, batting his eyelashes and smiling innocently. "Come on, Ronny, don't you want to practice for Hermione?"
"Urgh, you don't think she'd ask me to do something like this, do you?"
"I don't know, Ron," Dean said teasingly. "It is Valentine's Day, girls are liable to expect anything."
"It's true, you know. God knows what Pansy wants from me," Blaise said sombrely.
"I don't see why you're making a fuss," Harry insisted as he finished brewing his cocoa. "It's just poetry."
"It's not JUST poetry, Harry," Ron corrected. "It's LOVE poetry, and I'm going to have to recite it to the entire class."
"We're all reciting it to the class," Harry persisted. "It's not a big deal." Draco smiled and shrugged and Seamus nodded his agreement. Harry came over to the couch where Draco was seated and, when Seamus offered to move over, waved him off, opting instead to settle in his boyfriend's lap. Draco grinned and wrapped one arm around Harry's waist and placed the other on the ebony haired boy's leg for balance.
"There's nothing wrong with it, Ron's just being melodramatic," Neville said offhandedly, and Harry chuckled.
"Nev's right, Ron. It's not even like it's an all boy's school and you're reciting love poetry to a bunch of blokes. There's girls in your class, and if you do it right, they'll go all dovey on you!" Blaise encouraged.
"I'm sure Hermione will appreciate that," Ron muttered.
"Anyway, have you picked something out yet?" Dean questioned.
"I have," Seamus interrupted with a glint of pride. "I'm doing a Robert Burns poem, 'A Red, Red Rose."
"Hm. That's a good one," Nevillle commented.
"I've never heard of it," Ron admitted.
"O my luve's like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in June ..." Seamus began dramatically before being smacked in the back of the head by Dean.
"I'm already painfully aware that you've chosen one, Seamus!" Dean hurriedly interrupted. "It's bad enough I'm in your class and have to hear you recite it yet AGAIN come Friday. I don't think I can take anymore of that bloody poem!" He turned towards where Blaise and Draco were sitting and, with a desperate look that made them laugh, cried out in dismay, "He recites it in the morning when he's brushing his bloody teeth, and on the way to class, and then at meals!"
"It's a good fecking poem! It's not my fault you have no appreciation for the art form! Anyway, I've got to memorize it somehow, don't I?" Seamus defended.
"Just not around me, please," Blaise pleaded.
"Anyone else chose theirs yet?" Ron asked. "I'm open for suggestions."
"I'm doing a poem by one of the Earls of Rochester," Blaise said.
"Which one?" Seamus asked with a quirked eyebrow.
"I dunno, someone named John Wilmot. Anyway, he wrote it in some woman's prayer book."
"What's it called?" Ron asked.
"Written in a Lady's Prayer Book," Blaise said with a smirk.
"That sounds about right," Ron muttered. "And I suppose it's as filthy as your mind is."
"Hardly. But it's amusing - considering it was in a prayer book."
"I've never heard of it," Draco said. "Don't suppose you'd do a recitation?"
"Oh sure, let him say his poem, but throw a knock on me when I try to say mine!" Seamus whinged.
"We've heard yours, Seamus. It's a classic. I've never heard of this one!" Neville said.
"Hem hem," Blaise cleared his throat dramatically as he rose from his chair and gave a bow. "Written in a Lady's Prayer Book, by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester," Blaise began.
"Fling this useless book away,
And presume no more to pray.
Heaven is just and can bestow
Mercy on none but those that mercy show.
With a proud heart maliciously inclined
Not to increase, but to subdue mankind,
In vain you vex the gods with your petition;
Without repentance or sincere contrition,
You're in a reprobate condition.
Phyllis, to calm the angry powers
And save my soul as well as yours,
Relieve poor mortals from despair,
And justify the gods that made you fair;
And in those bright and charming eyes
Let pity first appear, then love,
That we by easy steps may rise
Through all the joys on earth to those above."
"So, basically, stop praying and lets go shag," Ron muttered. "Should have known you'd choose something like that."
"Pansy thinks it's amusing," Blaise defended.
"What happened to being all romantic and lovey-dovey?" Neville asked.
"It's romantic. He's wooing her," Blaise defended.
"That's hardly wooing," Harry muttered. "Anyway, Ron, if you're having trouble, I'll look through some poetry books with you. I haven't chosen mine yet, either."
"Me neither," Draco said. "Can I join you, then?"
"Yeah, why not?" Ron said. "Should we do it after class on Wednesday?"
"Sounds good to me," Harry said, and Draco nodded in agreement.
"Aren't you cutting it close?" Dean said. "I mean, you've got to have it memorized by Friday."
"I'm pretty good with that kind of thing," Draco said and Harry nodded in agreement.
Ron simply shrugged. "I'll manage."
"Have you picked a poem, Nev? And Dean, what about you?" Harry asked, wondering if they'd like to come as well.
"I've picked one," Dean said with confidence. "I'm doing Richard Cranshaw's 'Wishes to His Supposed Mistress'"
"That's a nice one," Draco commented. "Long, but nice."
"I've got it half-way memorized already. It's pretty simple with poetry because there's a flow in it. It sticks in your head pretty easily."
"Yeah, I know what you mean," Neville agreed. "And don't worry about me, Harry. I've chosen mine already as well."
"What is it, then?" Ron asked, trying to find inspiration for his own search, but also intrigued by Neville's blush.
"Uhm, it's Percy Bysshe Shelley, called 'To-'."
"That is a really romantic poem," Harry said with a smile, a slightly dreamy look in his eyes which Draco didn't fail to miss. Harry was a shameless romantic and Draco found his boyfriend's antics incredibly adorable.
Neville flushed darker. "I was thinking I might recite it again - later," he mumbled.
Harry grinned wider and nodded enthusiastically. "Ginny would love to hear it. You should take her off campus after class. Some nice restaurant and then, afterwards, go for a walk in the woods or something, and recite it to her then," Harry advised.
"You are NOT advising Neville on how to woo my sister right in front of me!" Ron said, aghast.
"Ignore him, Nev, I think Gin would love it. Whatever you have planned," Harry said with confidence when Neville looked mortified at Ron's reaction.
"I think I'll take you're advice, Harry, if that's okay," Neville murmured.
"Perfectly, I wouldn't have given it otherwise," Harry said with a grin.
"If anyone else needs romantic advice, go to Harry, for only ten pounds per minute he'll meddle in you love life!" Blaise advertised.
"Sod off," Harry muttered, looking incredibly embarrassed. Draco laughed and shook his head, ruffling his boyfriend's hair and trying to think of something he himself could do with Harry for Valentine's day.
"You can borrow my truck, if you want," Harry said to Neville.
"You wouldn't mind? That would be really great," Neville said with excitement. "I should probably go and tell Gin not to plan anything with her friends."
"Nev, it's Valentine's Day, I seriously doubt Ginny's going for a night-out with her friends," Seamus said with a grin.
Neville bit his lip. "Just in case though," he said, and hurriedly jumped from his seat and rushed out of their section.
"Uhm, er - Ginny?" Neville called, albeit softly, as the redhead and several of her friends were exiting the large gym where they had been practising their fencing.
"Neville!" Ginny greeted and waved her friends on as she slung her bag full of gear on her shoulder and walked over to Neville. "How were classes today? Was Snape an utter wanker again?"
"Uhm - no - well, yes, actually, but uhm ... I just." He stopped and examined his feet. He mentally ran through the way each of his friends would go about this, each with a good deal more grace than he was currently managing. Well, with the exception of Ron, but no doubt the boy would bluster about to the extent that Hermione would find him utterly adorable, as opposed to Neville, who was simply feeling a bit stupid. He glanced at Ginny to see if there was any sign of her finding his ineptitude charming, she was smiling softly, but she usually smiled so that wasn't any indication "I wanted to ask, Ginny, if you would like - I mean, if you're free on Friday - that is - would you like to go to dinner with me?"
Neville looked at anything except his girlfriend. He had heard that it was supposed to be easier to ask your girlfriend someplace - in fact, hadn't it been Seamus who had confidently informed him that after you were an established couple, the nerves weren't bad anymore? Neville made a mental note to inform Seamus of how very wrong he was. When there was still silence, Neville glanced at Ginny and was surprised to see that she was grinning, and her eyes were slightly glassy.
"Hey," Ginny greeted when his eyes met hers. She tilted her head to the side and raised a hand gently stroking the sensitive spot under his chin. "Of course I'll go to dinner with you. I'm looking forward to it." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek and Neville was painfully aware that he was blushing horribly but at the moment he really couldn't bring himself to care.
"Are you going back to your residence?" he questioned after recovering his faculties after the giddy rush that simply being near Ginny always seemed to initiate.
"Yes, I've just finished with my practice," Ginny confirmed.
"I'll walk you back," Neville said and snatched the bag from Ginny's shoulders. "I thought your fencing was on Thursdays."
"Yeah, well," Ginny shrugged as they started walking off. "Oliver's gone a bit nutters over the tournament coming up and he's been after everyone to practice whenever they have the time. A group of us set up some loose practice hours."
"But I thought the tournament isn't until April?" Neville asked, a bit concerned that he had forgotten the date. He was quite horrible with remembering things and thus made an extra effort to record any significant dates for upcoming events in his day-book. He was almost certain that the date for Ginny's tournament had been April 15.
"I know," Ginny stated, and Neville took a moment to congratulate himself on remembering this fact. "But you know Oliver. He wants us to win this year."
"But we always win," Neville said with a frown. It was true, their school was renowned for many things and their fencing team was own of those thigns.
"Yeah, which means there's more pressure," Ginny explained with a shrug. Neville decided it was best to let this go. The inner workings of Oliver Wood's mind was just one of many things Neville felt certain he wold never understand.
"And, of course, I'll have a dozen roses," Ron finished confidently, and Harry grinned and shook his head, rolling his eyes at his best-friend's antics before returning to his book. They were alone in the common room and Ron was going over his Valentine's Day plans. "Oh bugger," Ron suddenly muttered. "Do you think a dozen roses is cliche?"
"It is a bit over done," Harry agreed.
"One rose, then," Ron supplied. "How's one rose? Too trite?"
"It's passable. Definitely better than the dozen," Harry said, turning the page in his novel.
"You're not helping! In fact, you're confusing me. You've just said that a dozen roses is over done, and now you're saying one is a tad trite."
"Well, Valentine's Day isn't about the flowers or the little gifts, it's all about the feeling. If you're just doing something because everyone else is, or because no one else is, then that's just silly. It's supposed to be that, whatever you do, it's from the heart, and if that's true, then you can't go wrong. So if a dozen roses are from the heart, then that's that," Harry said, finally lowering his book and quirking his eyebrow at his friend. "But if you're still on about romantic plants, than I feel I should tell you that there are other flowers in existence."
"Romantic flowers?" Ron asked.
"Yes, and several are a lot more romantic that roses. And there are arrangements you can create that have their own meanings," Harry supplied.
Ron looked sceptical and leaned back in his chair, frowning at his old friend. "Like what?"
"What do you mean, 'like what'?" Harry asked, being difficult simply because he could. "You mean off the top of my head? Well, purple violets mean that she occupies your thoughts, weigelia symbolize a faithful heart and honeysuckle is devoted affection. Narcissus, so that she will always stay as sweet as she is, and gardenia, to say she is beautiful. And moss rosebud and myrtle because, together, they're a confession of love"
"Fuck me, Harry." Ron took a moment to stare dumbfoundedly at his friend. "Do you just walk around with all this plant knowledge in your head?"
Harry blushed. "You wanted my help," he defended lamely.
"I know, but you were like a bloody encyclopaedia on vegetation or something!" Ron protested. "Where the hell did you learn all that, anyway?"
Harry blushed and tried to hide in his book. "I just, read it in a novel somewhere and it stuck with me." He glanced over the book and met his friends amused eyes. "Well, you know how I am with romantic things," Harry tried to protest. Ron continued to smirk at him. "I can't help it!" Harry tried. "Oh, sod off!" Harry cried and returned to his reading. Ron simply shook his head in amusement.
Harry stepped out of the smaller conservatory where his private violin lessons were held. Unlike the concert hall where he and Draco had first met, and where the concerts were held, this room was less formal and Harry had always liked the way the music would bounce off the rounded walls.
He breathed a sigh and adjusted his grip on his violin case. The lesson had gone quite well, and though his fingers were a bit stiff, Harry felt exceedingly pleased with himself. "Harry!" a familiar voice called and he smiled and waved as Luna Lovegood paused in the hallway ahead of him. He walked over and nodded in greeting, smiling faintly. "You've come from practice?" she questioned.
"Yeah," Harry said with a smile as they began heading through the hallways, slowly making their way to the courtyard by the dorms. "You?"
"I've come from biology. I can't believe how boring it is! Half the time I don't even know what the professor is saying!" she whinged, and Harry's smile increased as he shook his head. He hadn't enjoyed science, he'd taken biology because, with his hatred of mathematics and his tendency to zone out during long and complex processes, it had seemed the most suitable choice. He had taken a course as well, over the summer, in astronomy, and that had been interesting, up until he found himself being swamped by various co-ordinates to various planets and stars and phenomena in the night sky. Though biology had been tedious at times, Harry had managed to do reasonably well and he'd actually found certain parts interesting.
Harry blinked when he realized he'd been lost in thought and had not been paying attention to Luna's monologue. He shook his head slightly to focus and turned back to her. "I wish I could hear you play, Harry. I always have to wait until the concerts, and even then, it's not the same," she whinged. Harry felt a faint blush rise to his cheeks. He hated when people gushed over him, it was incredibly disconcerting and half the time, Harry had no idea how to react. It was true that Luna and he were friends, but Harry wasn't so close to Luna. He would certainly not consider playing in front of her like he did for Draco, and Ron and the others, he and Luna were simply not that close.
Luna must have seen his awkward flush and she bumped against him playfully, slapping his arm gently. "You're too modest," she cooed and Harry lowered his head, feeling his blush intensifying.
"Harry!" another familiar voice called, and he and Luna stopped just outside the courtyard to await Dean who jogged to catch up. "Hey, Harry! Hi, Luna. How are you two?" he questioned as they started walking again.
"Fine," Harry mumbled.
"Wonderful," Luna grinned. "I was just telling Harry that he's far too modest about his music," she paraphrased for Dean. Dean, who was about to comment on this statement, was cut off when Luna turned back to Harry. "Have you chosen your poem?"
"Er - not yet," Harry admitted. He felt a bit foolish, choosing a love poem for the class should be simple, and, more importantly, Harry should have done it already. But it was only Monday, and he had time, after all, since Valentine's Day, and thus, the English class where he would have to recite his chosen poem, wasn't until Friday.
"Oh, I wish I were in your class," Luna huffed. "I bet you read really well. I've got English with a bunch of absolute dunderheads who wouldn't know poetry if it danced naked in front of them in a thong! I'm dreading their recitations." Harry chuckled at the image and Luna grinned at him. When the reached the two diverging paths, one to the girls' dorms and the other to the boys', Luna stopped and placed a hand on Harry's arm, smiling cheerfully at him. "If you need help choosing a piece, come and talk to me, I'll help you," she offered.
"Thanks, Luna, but Ron and Draco and I already plan to work on it on Wednesday," Harry said.
Luna's face dropped a bit, but then she smiled winked. "Leaving it to the last minute? Anyway, Harry, if you need help, the offer stands," she waved at Dean before retreating down the separate path.
"Man," Dean muttered. "Why doesn't she just say 'if you need inspiration for you love poetry recitation on Friday, come to my room and I'll give you all the inspiration you'll desire," he cooed in a voice that sounded disturbingly similar to Luna's.
"Dean, stop it," Harry chided, though he was snickering. "Luna's a friend, she's not like that."
Dean looked at his friend in bewilderment. It always baffled him how Harry could be so innocent. "Harry, she was all over you."
"That's just how she is, she can't help it," Harry defended. "She's always been a bit odd, and she's clingy, but that's just the kind of person she is." Harry unlocked the main entrance to Hart Hall and they made their way up the stairs. Dean shook his head at his friend's excuse. It was blatantly obvious that Luna had a thing for Harry. A blind man could have spotted it in the dark.
"Settle down, class!" Professor Tillingson ordered from his perch on the large oak desk at the front of the classroom. Harry winked at Draco and turned to face-front. "Before we get into the rest of the poetry unit I want to go over Friday's assignment. I've had a few questions and I feel I should clarify." From their seats beside each other, Harry and Ron exchanged dubious glances, both wondering how much clearer the instructions could get. "The only specification I have for the poem that you choose to recite is that it be a love poem, in the spirit of Valentine's Day. Whether the poem is humorous, long, short, sad or otherwise is your choice. Also, these are published works. We'll get to our own poetry later, for now I want you to find a piece from a published poet." Blaise, who was seated between Draco and Pansy, rolled his eyes and, discretely, pulled his tie up pretending to be choked.
Professor Tillingson was a very energetic man who, though he was well into his sixties, looked young for his age, and certainly had more energy than some of the teenagers in his class. He picked up a poetry book from his desk and peered over his spectacles at his students. "As an example, I am going to recite a poem to you by George Herbert, entitled, 'Love (III)'." He cleared his throat and flipped to the appropriate page.
"Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lacked anything.
"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here":
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"
"Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat."
The class waited as the old professor closed the book and set it down. "And of course, I will expect a certain amount of applause after each recitation " professor Tillingson chided. "It is quite difficult to recite love poetry to an entire class." Harry quirked an eyebrow at Ron who rolled his eyes and joined in with the rest of the class as they began to applaud. "Good," the professor said, clapping his hands together once, loudlly and everyone settled down. "Now, I am giving you a free work period to compose some poetry for your portfolio assignment which is due at the end of the unit. Get started!"
Explicit content
Draco's fingers felt heavy as he moved them over the keys. He played slowly, continuously looking for something, though he wasn't sure what it was. It didn't feel right. Ever since he had returned home for the break Draco hadn't felt right playing. He tried again, leaning into a run, though his fingers moved stiffly over the keys and the notes did not flow properly.
He heard the heavy sound of the doors closing softly and felt a smile tug at his lips. He knew that he was staying out late. Dinner had started fifteen minutes before but Draco didn't feel like eating, not until he figured out what was wrong. He smiled softly as he heard the soft shuffling of footsteps and knew that Harry had come looking for him. He felt a bit guilty, but his frustration with himself and his instrument over-ran his guilt for troubling his boyfriend.
He played another bar and then another, increasingly dissatisfied with the sound until, finally, Harry leaned forward and wrapped his hands around Draco's wrists, effectively ceasing Draco's movements. "Stop," Harry chided softly. Draco sat back and took a breath, shifting over to allow Harry to sit beside him. It had been a while since Harry had come to his private practices, or he invaded Harry's practices. Work had been heavy and there had been many things preoccupying the both of them.
"I don't know what happened. And I don't know what to stop," Draco muttered in frustration. He felt like kicking the stupid piano for all the trouble it was causing him. Instead, he huffed and Harry tilted his head to the side, watching Draco closely.
"It's not the piano, Draco," Harry chided, as if reading Draco's thoughts. "You've changed the way you approach it."
"The way I approach it?" Draco asked dubiously. He turned to look at Harry who had seated himself facing Draco, straddling the piano bench. Draco was aware that Harry's eyes were reflecting the light from the lamp which was the sole source of light in the room.
"Here, rest your fingers on the keys," Harry said, picking up Draco's right hand and placing it on the piano keys. "Do you feel that? Stop doing that."
"Doing what?" Draco asked. He had learned that Harry was quite skilled at getting him to let go, and he had long since learned to trust his boyfriend when he gave out his strange and cryptic instructions.
"You're touching it as if it were an instrument; a tool," Harry explained. Draco turned to look at Harry, who looked as if he were trying to figure out a better way to explain what Draco was having difficulty with.
"It is an instrument," Draco said slowly, and Harry sighed.
"It isn't," Harry disagreed quietly but emphatically.
"Then how am I supposed to touch it?" Draco asked, feeling his frustration rise once more.
Harry let out a huff of breath, shifting backwards as his eyes scanned the room, as if looking for some kind of aid in his explanation. Finally, his eyes darted back to Draco and he eyed him closely once more. "How would you touch me?" he asked finally, almost too quietly to hear. Draco felt a lump rise in his throat and his stomach flopped about like a fish out of water. He was aware that his breath was perhaps coming a bit faster and that he was leaning forward, closer to the ebony haired boy who continued to watch him, hypnotic green eyes pulling him further into the strange dream - for that's what it had to be. "How would you touch me, Draco?" Harry repeated, and carefully removed Draco's hand from the piano and pressed it against his chest.
Draco stared at his hand where it rested against Harry's black shirt. It was a startling contrast, pale flesh against dark cotton. From where it lay, he could feel the faint beat of Harry's heart, as well as the quick breaths the boy was taking. Everything seemed so surreal, sitting there in the dim light, and Draco couldn't stop himself from leaning forward in slow motion and pressing his lips against Harry's, kissing him slowly and heatedly.
It felt as if a dam had burst. After months of patient touches and shy smiles and chocolate kisses, Draco was immersed in feelings so intense that a single word could not describe them, and neither could a paragraph of exclamations and adjectives. His head was spinning and he couldn't get enough. Harry tasted spicier than Draco remembered, perhaps from whatever meal Draco was missing in the dining hall, but there was still the chocolate and the intoxicating taste that was simply Harry. Draco thought he could very easily get drunk on the taste of him.
Harry groaned, his fingers curling into Draco's hair and Draco pulled him closer, so that the ebony haired boy was almost seated in his lover's lap. Both boys were aware that something had changed between them, and neither boy had any inclination to stop. Draco was already slipping his hands under Harry's shirt, and Draco had never been more happy that the boy wore his shirts untucked.
The gasp he was rewarded with as his hand brushed against a nipple sent electric shivers through his body. "God, Harry," he whispered breathlessly as they finally parted. Draco leaned forward, pressing Harry back against the piano bench and the other boy shivered, shifting his grip from Draco's hair to the back of his neck and tugging him down for another kiss.
They were pressed against each other, illuminated by only the single piano lamp which Draco had turned on to practice, the rest of the room was dark and the sun had already set. Their breathing reduced to frantic gasps whenever they could part far enough to take them in. "Anyone can come in," Draco said when they parted again to catch their breath.
"I don't care," Harry said breathlessly. "Don't stop," he pleaded, and Draco sighed, shifting lower as he slowly unbuttoned Harry's shirt. He had been wanting to touch the boy, had imagined it before, but it had never felt so right, so electric in his dreams. With the shirt unbuttoned, Draco set to work exploring the pale expanse of flesh beneath him, admiring the way certain spots could make Harry arch off the piano bench so intensely that Draco rose with him, and other spots made the boy moan deliciously.
He was aware of Harry's hands struggling to get access to Draco's own shirt, and he paused to press the hands down. When Harry looked bewildered, Draco kissed him again, slower this time, and then nipped his ear gently. It was another thing that struck Draco, that, at the moment, all he was thinking about was touching Harry, was soaking in the boy's every reaction, tasting every part of him. Draco, though aroused, wasn't thinking about any reciprocation. He wanted Harry. Now.
Draco let go of Harry's wrists, giving him a look that hopefully communicated his wish that they stay where he had placed them. Before Harry could voice his protest, Draco's hand bumped against Harry's belt and Harry froze, looking up at Draco with suddenly wide eyes. "May I?" Draco asked quietly, already preparing himself for the negative response he was expecting.
"Yes," Harry answered , catching Draco off-guard. He looked into Harry's eyes, the colour of fresh moss, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other. Whatever confirmation Draco had been searching for, he found, as well as a startling trust and love that made his chest constrict and forced him to catch his breath.
Draco moved slowly, watching for any sign that Harry might have changed his mind, but moss green eyes, now darkened with desire, stared right back and Draco opened the belt and tugged down the pants and boxers. He caressed Harry's inner thighs as he slowly kissed and licked his way down the boy's abdomen, smirking slightly as he saw Harry's grip on the edge of the piano bench tighten and then, relenting, Draco took Harry into his mouth.
Harry's reaction was a sharp gasp and a strangled moan, and Draco didn't think he had ever heard anything more arousing. He worked slowly, taking in all of the dark haired boy's reactions and was surprised to find that he was following Harry on the rise to climax. Draco hadn't had much experience, but he had never come simply from touching another person. Yet, as Harry arched his hips up and let out a strangled gasp, his head hanging over the side of the piano bench, Draco felt his own body tense and as he swallowed Harry's release, he closed his eyes as he found his own.
After a moment, when he had managed to collect himself, he shifted and tugged Harry's boxers and pants back up, slowly redoing the belt before looking up to meet the dazed emerald eyes. "You okay?" he asked, rather stupidly, he felt, as Harry simply watched him, looking deliciously dishevelled.
"Yeah," Harry answered, still obviously glazed from the intense climax. The response prompted a grin to spread across Draco's face and he bent forward and kissed Harry gently. "That was ..." Harry tried after a moment.
"I know," Draco answered when it became clear that Harry couldn't finish his thought.
Harry smiled shyly at him and then frowned. "You didn't ..."
"I did," Draco answered, blushing slightly and he turned his head to study the piano.
"Oh," Harry answered. Draco stood up and straightened his clothes before offering a hand to help Harry up. Grabbing his music and flicking the light off, Draco was about to head out of the room when he felt Harry grab his hand. "I love you," Harry whispered, and the way he said it, Draco couldn't do anything but believe him. They kissed briefly, tongues exploring tentatively though not desperately as they had earlier.
"Come on," Draco said and, still holding onto Harry's hand, they waked out of the piano hall.
End of Explicit Content
When Draco walked into the piano hall for his private lesson on Wednesday morning, he made a point of sitting at a different piano. If Snape noticed the change, he did not comment on it, but Draco found that, no matter how hard he tried, his gaze was continuously drawn to that innocent piano bench where he and Harry had been two nights ago.
Still, the memory was fresh in his mind and several times, Draco lost track of the music as he remembered how Harry had looked, or got distracted by a note that reminded him of one of the sounds that had echoed off the walls.
Naturally, Snape grew frustrated with Draco's inability to concentrate, and after being thoroughly scolded, Draco was reduced to practising scales and runs. His professor, who usually showered him with praises, ended the lesson with a sarcastic remark and advise that Draco should practise - a lot.
His day seemed to spiral down from there. A surprise quiz in mathematics, which was far from being one of Draco's strengths. He had misunderstood the homework in his history class and ended up writing an essay on the wrong subject. The professor had refused to look at Draco's work and had, on top of the new essay that was assigned, ordered Draco to repeat the last one properly. In Draco's defence, the instructions had been cryptic, and he was not the only one to make the mistake.
Added to all of this, both his regular pen and his back-up pen had run out of ink and he'd been reprimanded for not being prepared for class. It didn't matter that Blaise was there to cheer him up and lend him another pen that he could keep for the rest of the day.
By lunch, his patience was short, and he had forgone eating to start his history essay. His afternoon theory classes had been arduous because, by then, he was already in a funk and the class, quite a slow one, grated on his patience. He was aware that he was not in the best frame of mind by the time he dropped his books off in his dorm and headed to the library to meet Harry and Ron, but he also knew that he needed to pick a poem as soon as possible so that he would have tine to memorize it.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Harry asked, looking at the tense frown as Draco leaned over one of the poetry books they had set down on their work table in the library. They'd been reading for a while already and Ron had retreated once again to the stacks to try and find a more suitable anthology.
"I'm fine," Draco answered, caught in a poem by Lord Byron.
Harry watched his boyfriend with concern. It seemed obvious to him that Draco was troubled by something but there wasn't much he could do if the blonde didn't want to talk about it. Instead he flipped through his book and smiled at one of the poems. He had picked out a collection of love poetry and had found one of the classics, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnet XLIII, "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways," Harry murmured out loud and smiled to himself. He read on, "I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight."
"Can you read in your head?" Draco snapped, and Harry stopped, biting his lip.
"Sorry," he mumbled. He didn't bother to protest anymore than that, worried that whatever was bothering Draco would only be further aggravated.
They worked silently for a bit, with a harsh tension in the air, until Draco finally shoved the book of sonnets he had been reading away. "This is the most ridiculous waste of time ever," he snarled. Harry was both relieved that they were in the Library and Draco was forced to keep his voice low, and frightened by the angry look in his lover's eyes.
Harry had never seen Draco very angry before. They had fought once, but it had been a silly spat fuelled by nerves from their impending separation. This was something different. Draco was frustrated and angry and it was completely obvious to Harry that this outburst was the result of stress from school, frustration and full-out anger at his parents.
Harry pressed his back into his chair, trying to keep away from Draco. He may have not seen Draco angry before, but Harry was well-acquainted with what frustrated anger looked like, and what it could do to whoever encountered it. Part of him was angry at himself. He wanted to calm Draco down and sort out something to make whatever was bothering Draco easier. But the rest of Harry was simply terrified. He had already been a bit nervous around Draco, not really certain of what to do after their intense intimacy only the night before. The conflict in Harry had him paralysed and he could only watch as Draco shoved his chair back and rose to his feet, towering over Harry. He was still ranting about the 'stupid assignment' and how he hated Valentine's Day because it was a stupid consumer holiday that didn't mean anything and that there was no reason for such a frivolous and pointless assignment to celebrate it.
"Then," Harry managed, finally catching his breaths, which were panicked, staccato gasps for oxygen. He licked his lips as Draco's attention turned completely on him. "W-we can just forget it. We don't need to celebrate it, Draco if - if that will make it easier -"
"This isn't about you, Harry!" Draco hissed. How he was managing to keep his voice low with all the anger, Harry didn't know, but he was fervently wishing that Draco would shout, because this silent rage was twice as terrifying. "For once, this has nothing to do with you! But you wouldn't be able to understand that, would you?" Draco snarled, advancing slowly until he was very close to Harry. "You wouldn't know what it feels like to never live up to your father's expectations, no matter how hard you try. You wouldn't know what it feels like to try and try and try and never manage to make your own father proud. You wouldn't know what it feels like to watch your own mother walk out on her life, on the person she loves and know that it's your fault. So fine Harry. Lets not celebrate bloody Valentine's Day, because suddenly that makes everything so much bloody better!"
Harry knew there were tears in his eyes, he didn't care. He knew that this wasn't really Draco speaking, this was Draco's anger, and Harry wanted to reach forward and pull him into a hug and do whatever it took to convince him that his parents' divorce wasn't because of him, and that Draco was anything but a failure.
But Harry was terrified, and now he was angry as well. Because Draco was right. Harry didn't know what any of that was like, but Draco didn't know how much Harry would give if he could have even that much of his parents back. "You're right, Draco," he murmured. "I don't know what any of that is like." He took a shuddering breath and was suddenly very calm and very steady and very very hollow. Harry stood up and picked up the poetry book he had been reading. With a gentle hand, he pushed Draco back so that he could get by and walked out of the Library.
"Hey," Ron called quietly as he grabbed Draco's hand before he could leave the library. "What happened? Where did Harry go?" he asked, wondering why his friend wouldn't have told him that he was finished.
Draco shook his head and shouldered his bag. "He went back to res," Draco said. "Do you mind?" he asked, indicating where Ron still had a grip on his arm. "I have a lot of work to do tonight."
"Draco," Ron began but Draco had pulled his arm out of his grasp.
"Leave it," Draco ordered and walked away. Ron watched him go and frowned wondering what he'd missed while he had been searching for his poem. With a defeated sigh, Ron grabbed the book that he had found with the poem he had chosen inside and hurried to the desk to check it out. He made his way through the hallways quickly and was picking up speed the closer he got to the dorm.
When he was inside the common room, he dropped his bag on the sofa and made a beeline for Harry's room. The door was shut and he knocked on it. "Harry?" There was no response so he knocked a bit louder. "Harry? You in there?"
"Yes," came the soft reply.
"Why didn't you let me know you were leaving? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Harry answered, though Ron was unconvinced. "I'm just tired, Ron. I'm not going to come down for dinner. I'll see you at breakfast."
"Alright, if you're sure. Did you find a poem?"
"Yes, thanks."
"Okay, then, Harry. I'll check on you later?" Ron's answer was a soft sniffle, and Ron sighed but respected his friend's desire for privacy.
"Miss Parkinson," professor Tillingson called as he noted that the girl's hand was the only one that was raised. "Would you -" Toe door to the classroom was opened and a dark haired boy who Andrew Tillinson knew quite well stepped in looking a bit sheepish. "Mr. Potter," he greeted.
"Professor," Harry greeted. "I'm sorry to be late, I was -"
"That's quite alright. Please, take your seat," he motioned for the boy to take his seat and smiled slightly at the plain relief on the boy's face. "Now, Miss Parkinson, I believe you had volunteered?"
Pansy Parkinson walked confidently up to the front of the classroom and flashed a smile and a coy look before she cleared her throat. "One Perfect Rose, by Dorothy Parker.
A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet -
One perfect rose.
I knew the language of the floweret;
'My fragile leaves,' it said, 'his heart enclose.'
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.
Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose."
She finished and everyone was laughing and clapping. As she walked back to her seat, she winked at Blaise, who grinned back. Slowly, people in the class began to volunteer. Some readings were quite atrocious. Some forgot lines in their poems, or put the wrong emphasis on words, but all in all, it was fun. Ron eventually recited a Theodore Roethke poem entitle 'She'.
Finally, mustering his confidence, Harry raised his hand. He erected the fourth wall as he walked up to the front of the class, using the drama technique to conquer his nerves. Though he was used to crowds, he was reciting this poem for Draco, and since they hadn't seen each other until this class, it was quite nerve-wracking.
"Valentine, By Carol Ann Duffy," Harry began, and then drew himself up tall and looked directly at Draco. "Not a red rose or a satin heart,
I give you an onion,
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.
Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.
I am trying to be truthful.
Not a cute card or kissogram.
I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.
Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.
Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife." Harry didn't wait for the clapping to die down, he glanced at his professor and then quickly returned to his seat where he sat with his back straight, not facing Draco. Though Draco had maintained eye contact, there had been no sign that he was in any way significantly affected by it.
Finally, Draco stood to recite his poem. He was the last person in the class to go, and for some reason, Harry found himself holding his breath. If he were honest with himself, he knew exactly why he was nervous. He was thinking that, perhaps, Draco would have thought the same way Harry had, and used the poetry to express what he had wanted to the night before. "Two or Three: A recipe to Make a Cuckold, by Alexander Pope," Draco stated clearly. Harry felt his heart drop. Draco wasn't thinking about him at all, obviously, as he recited the poem.
When Draco had finished his recitation, Harry had already packed his bag, and before Draco had even made it back down the isle to his desk, and just as soon as the bell rang, Harry was up and out of his seat and hastily leaving the English classroom behind him, not even stopping to spare a glance a Draco and thus, missing the worried glint in the soft grey eyes.
Blaise stood in front of the door and adjusted his tie. He was dressed casually but still quite stylishly as it was a significant occasion and Blaise didn't want anything to go wrong. He knocked on the door and tried to blow an errant strand of hair out of his face. He was still huffing at it when the door was opened and he abruptly stopped and tried to look casual. "Is Pansy in?" he asked. The girl who answered looked him up and down and then winked before retreating back into the room.
From behind the door, Blaise could hear the girl calling Pansy and, after a moment, the door opened again, and Pansy smiled at him. "You haven't stopped by for a panty raid, have you?" she teased and Blaise grinned.
"Alas, no," he said and then stepped forward to give her a kiss on her cheek. "I'm sorry I'm a bit late but I had trouble finding a suitable basket."
"A suitable basket?" she questioned doubtfully.
Blaise grinned and pulled the picnic basket from where he had been holding it behind his back. "I humbly request your exquisite company for a picnic," he said and mock bowed.
"Well, how can I turn an invitation like that down?" Blaise was already grinning wildly but he felt his smile widen as he tucked a hand around his arm and kissed the spot just below his ear briefly before motioning for him to lead the way. "I've picked the perfect spot for us," Blaise explained as they walked through the halls.
He held the heavy doors to the Dining Hall opened as she walked through them and then he followed her in, motioning her to a spot by the large windows, more or less in a corner. He opened the picnic basket and pulled out the blanket he had snatched from his room, it was a quilt his mother had made for him when he was first starting school. Spreading it out on the ground, he held out a hand and Pansy accepted it, smiling as she settled onto the picnic blanket and watched him pull out the food he had nicked from the kitchens. It was quite the satisfactory dinner, though it wasn't either his or Pansy's favourite meal, since he could only convince the cook to give him what had already been made, but it was still delicious and Blaise was looking forward to it.
With everything laid out on the blanket, Blaise poured her some of the grape juice that was passing as wine, since eating in the Dining Hall had restricted his choice of beverage. "To roses and limousines," Blaise toasted, and Pansy rolled her eyes.
"To making everything romantic," she corrected and they sipped their grape juice.
They ate their dinner, talking about everything and nothing and when they were finished, they sat back on the blanket and sipped their grape juice. "I got you something," she said hastily after they had set their drinks aside. Feeling a little silly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small box wrapped in blue metallic paper with a green bow. She handed it over to him and looked at him nervously.
Blaise pulled off the wrapping slowly and then lifted the lid on the small box. Inside were five guitar picks, each with a romantic saying on one side and a picture on the other. He carefully picked up a black pick with 'I Love You' written in pink on one side and a rose on the other. "Thank-you," he said and leant forward to give her a kiss. "I got something for you as well," Blaise said, with a smirk. He pulled out a small box that was plainly wrapped and one lone stem red rose. Pansy accepted the parcel and raised the rose to smell before she set it aside carefully.
Setting to work on the box, she tore the wrapping aside and lifted the lid to the box. "How did you know?" she said in surprise. She started to laugh as she pulled the toy limousine from the box.
"I went out after school today. I couldn't pass up an opportunity like that!" he said, and they both laughed.
"Thank-you," Pansy said once they had stopped laughing, and Blaise could tell she didn't just mean for the silly gift. He grinned and pulled her in for a kiss.
Harry had been through it before, but it had been different, then. He had always loved Valentine's Day, even though he had never had anyone to enjoy it with. There was something about seeing happy couples sharing thoughtful moments with each other that had always made Harry feel optimistic and content. It hadn't mattered before that he was alone, because there would be a time when he wouldn't be, and when that time came, he knew he would be just as shamelessly sappy and lovesick as everyone he was seeing. Valentine's Day, without the cliche cards with someone else's words printed out neatly and impersonally, and without the blatant and obvious things that it symbolized, was one of the most potent and emotional days he could think of.
Today, however, Harry found that he hated the red and pink ribbons that had been hung in the hallway, and he had caught himself sneering twice when he had seen happy couples professing their undying love for each other. In fact, Harry was getting quite depressed and bitter, and what was worse, he had no one he could talk to about it. Everyone he knew was off with their significant other, even Dean and Seamus had left with dates, and Harry was simply alone.
He rolled his eyes as he saw a boy humbly offering a bouquet of roses to a simpering girl and he hastily turned the corner only to be confronted by more gaudy ribbon. He rolled his eyes, there would only be one place that was safe from the tacky decoration, and that was the art hall.
Harry nearly walked into a wall as a thought occurred to him. Sirius. Of course. Harry actually managed a half smile as he hastily changed direction and headed up the stairs to the art wing. When he got there, he breathed a sigh of relief, there was no sign that it was Valentine's Day here, only the safe and comforting paintings and sculptures that students had created in class.
Hurrying down the hall, Harry knocked on Sirius' office door. "Sirius?" he called softly, knocking once more. When there was no answer, he headed over to Sirius' classroom. "Siri? Are you here?" He looked around inside and then opened the door to the Pit and peered in. There was no sign of Sirius anywhere. Harry was now, undoubtedly, alone for Valentine's Day.
He heaved a sigh a sat down on top of one of the art tables, dropping his bag beside him and simply feeling sorry for himself. With another sigh, he let his head drop into his hands and he closed his eyes tightly. Perhaps he could hide away in one of the small music rooms and simply play. That was what he needed, he decided and, sliding from the table and with a new burst of confidence, Harry headed out of the art room, only to pause and step backwards, back into the room. His eyes slid sideways and he frowned.
What he had at first dismissed as a simple art piece now caught his full attention, because his name was written in large letters on the chalkboard at the front of the class.
He advanced on it slowly, examining the small table that was cluttered with coloured paper, with neat handwriting marching boldly across in fine black curves. There was a single rose in a glass soda bottle accompanying the pieces of paper and, with a shaky breath, Harry picked up one of the pages. It was a poem entitled 'I Miss You' by an anonymous author.
Reading it through, Harry felt a smile hesitantly creeping across his face. More poems, one for each page on the table. Harry read them all through, before he slipped them into his bag. There was a small folded card beneath the rose, and he picked it up. It said, simply: Hart Hall, Section Common Room. Picking up the soda bottle, and smelling the rose, Harry turned and exited the art room, a giddy bounce in his step.
Neville took a deep breath and began to recite his poem. They were seated at a booth in the restaurant that Dean had recommended. Neville had been happy to find that it was very secluded and quiet, though the restaurant was certainly filled. He was relieved that he had made a reservation, and Ginny had seemed flattered, which was encouraging. As they waited for their meal to arrive, Neville took her hands in his and just started to say his poem. It wasn't what he'd had planned. He had wanted to wait until they were walking through the forest or something a bit more romantic that this, but it just came to him.
When he was finished, there were tears in her eyes and she was smiling at him. In response, Ginny recited the poem called 'Flowers' by Wendy Cope, and Neville had to blush shamelessly because it was pretty much exactly what he had done when he had come to Ginny's residence to bring her out. When she had finished, she shifted around the table to sit beside him, resting her head on his shoulders. "Neville?" she asked after a moment.
"Y-yes?"
"Don't ever change," she said simply, and kissed his cheek causing him to blush profusely once again.
"Draco!" Harry called as he came bounding into the section's common room. There was no one there, and he looked around, a frown of confusion on his face before he caught sight of the vase on the window sill.
There were, once again, pieces of paper arranged around the vase. As Harry walked over to it, he grinned. It was the exact arrangement he had recommended to Ron several days before. His best friend must have been passing on hints to his boyfriend. The thought made Harry feel a rush of appreciation for Ron and his other close friends. He grinned at the meaning behind each flower and picked up one of the pieces of paper. More poems. The first one he read was by Lord Byron, entitled 'Stanzas for Music'.
As Harry read the various poems, he felt himself feeling lighter and lighter and he couldn't keep a smile from his face. Finally, after placing these poems into his bag, he reached for the folded card. Bedroom. It said, rather abruptly, and Harry's breath caught and he turned his head to look at his bedroom door.
Suddenly he found it very difficult to breathe.
Parvati Patil shook her head emphatically and rolled her eyes. "That can't be though," she said. "You can't possibly say that FGM is unconscionable because it's a part of their culture! Who are you to say what's right or wrong? It's their culture!"
"It's a violation of human rights!" Hermione disagreed as they walked.
"What human rights? Those were made by Western states! We can't impose our beliefs on their culture, that would be corrupting their culture!" Parvati said, Padma, Parvati's sister, shook her head as she listened to her two friends bickering. They had just come from philosophy class and the debate they had staged there had obviously sparked their interest.
"So then, we shouldn't ever travel, and exportation should be banned and people should be left to starve in their own countries if their out of supplies or suffer from a disaster because under your theorizing, any interaction would be corrupting another culture!"
"No, if people are dying ..." Parvati edged.
"So you draw the line at dead? So, you're now saying that everyone has a basic human right to live?" Hermione asked.
"No, I just - who's that?" They stopped walking and Hermione turned to face where her friend was pointing.
"Ron?" she asked, smiling suddenly. "I'll see you later, okay?" she asked, Parvati and Padma both nodded and waved, glancing over their shoulders to watch their friend rush over to a strange red headed boy who they had never seen before. "What are you doing here?" Hermione asked, though she was grinning.
"Hi, Happy Valentine's Day," Ron greeted, offering a single bright orchid and a small box of pencils with cheesy love sayings on them. Hermione grinned and kissed him on the cheek.
"Thank-you," she said. "How long can you stay?"
"The weekend," Ron said with a grin.
"Really? Or is it, you can stay the full weekend if you forget your homework and leave it for the last minute."
"Hermione, it's Valentine's Day. Work is the furthest thing from my mind. 'Specially now that I've gotten here."
She smiled widely and pulled him in for a welcoming kiss. "Oh, alright then," she huffed. "But I fully intend to harass you about work later."
As Harry pushed the door to his bedroom open, he gasped. There were flowers everywhere. Roses of varying colours, and lavender, his favourite flower, and his room was permeated with their fresh scent.
The lights were dim, and as he stepped further into the room, he noticed Draco, who was sitting on Harry's lambs wool blanket.
"Why do I love you?" Draco began, and Harry stepped further into the room, watching Draco cautiously.
"I love you,
Not only for what you are,
But for what I am
When I am with you.
I love you
Not only for what
You have made of yourself,
But for what
You are making of me.
I love you
For ignoring the possibilities
Of the fool in me
And for laying firm hold
Of the possibilities for good.
Why do I love you?
I love you
For closing your eyes
To the discords -
And for adding to the music in me
By worshipful listening.
I love you because you
Are helping me to make
Of the lumber of my life
Not a tavern
But a temple;
And out of the words
Of my every day
Not a reproach
But a song.
I love you
Because you have done
More than any creed
To make me happy.
You have done it
Without words,
Without touch,
Without a sign.
You have done it
Just by being yourself.
After all
Perhaps that is what
Love means." (1)
Harry sighed and shut the door quietly, taking another step forward. "Harry," Draco ventured. "I wanted to apologize for being an enormous prat. There isn't an excuse for it. I didn't mean to hurt you, I was just really frustrated, and it was wrong of me to take it out on you because it had nothing to do with you." Harry took another step forward towards the blanket, standing just on the edge of it.
Draco shifted up onto his knees. "I'm not proposing or anything," he said, nervously, as he pulled out a small box from his pocket. "But I wanted to give you this, as a promise I'll always love you and I'll be there for you, no matter what." Gently, Draco opened the lid of the box and turned it to face Harry. Harry looked a bit dazed and dropped down onto his knees, now right in front of Draco.
It was a simple gold ring, but as Harry lifted it, he realized that it was on a chain so that he could wear it as a necklace. Dropping it onto his palm, he examined it more closely. On the inside there was an inscription that read: A Ma Vie De Coer Entier. Harry looked up at Draco, fighting the lump in his throat as he translated the inscription in his head: You have my whole heart for my whole life. "Thank-you," he whispered, and Draco shifted forward hesitantly.
Knowing what he was suggesting, Harry offered the necklace to him and allowed Draco to fasten it around his neck before he pulled his lover in for a tight embrace. Harry was aware that he was shivering, though he knew it wasn't from the cold. "Don't ever do that to me again," he scolded quietly. "Talk to me before you get to that point, promise me?"
"I promise," Draco agreed, whispering quietly into Harry's ear and smiling at the shiver that ran through his lover. "I'm so sorry."
"And don't think you can buy my forgiveness with romance," Harry teased with an impish grin.
"I wouldn't dream of it," Draco said. They looked at each other for a moment, just getting lost in each other's eyes until, like magnets, they moved as one and their lips touched, soft at first, and then, as their heartbeats became more frantic, and their hands more teasing, Draco's tongue ran gently over Harry's bottom lip and Harry let his mouth open, accepting the intruder willingly.
Harry settled back onto the soft blanket and tugged Draco down. When they parted for air, Harry curled into his lover, one hand running through Draco's hair, mirroring Draco's own movements, and his other hand clasping his gift. Harry closed his eyes and smiled.
TBC
Hello! I hope nobody found this chapter too corny, I couldn't help it, the boys wouldn't have it any other way. I know in the teaser in the last chapter I mentioned something about a winter cold. And I even had a reviewer who guessed EXACTLY what I meant by that. But, I have laid out exactly what's going to happen in each of the upcoming chapters (there are three more until the end!) And in the interest of keeping everything around the same length I had to move it to the next chapter. So, yes, someone will be getting themselves sick soon. I promise.
Sorry about the love poetry, if some of you found it too much or something, I couldn't help it. These are some of my favourites and I had to include them somehow! If anyone wants a full copy of the poems which were just referenced you can email me and I'll send them to you.
NOTE: I got a review from a reviewer that was disappointed with the music that I chose for this fic. First, I want to thank this reviewer for giving me the site to where I can find some more complicated pieces, I promise to use it for the sequel. Next, I would like to explain how the music that's here got here. I didn't realize that this fic would actually tap a body of readers who are competent musicians. A lot of people noticed that I've refrained from using a lot of musical terms and I did this because I wanted people to understand what was going on, irregardless of whether they were musicians or not. The music I chose really isn't what you'd expect a child prodigy to play but I chose it because it really fit the mood of the section I was writing, and also because a lot of people would be familiar with it. I mean, the Moonlight Sonata, though simple, is well-known. So, that was my reasoning, but I definitely WILL look into choosing some more complicated pieces for the sequel (unfortunately I already have the pieces that are to appear in the remaining chapters chosen).... And thanks again to Moi!
This chapter is dedicated to SILVER LADY. Thank-you so much for your review. I'm really happy to hear that you've picked the violin back up. I had a similar experience with cello. I started playing when I was five, and at my school (outside of lessons) I was always skipped over and that was incredibly discouraging. But, after a while of ignoring my own little Susser, I realized that it was incredibly silly of me to be sulking like that, because whenever I played it was always so energizing and such a release so I picked it back up and haven't turned my back on him since. Which is, in a way, how this fic got started because it was the first time I couldn't play for an extended period of time and I was going stir-crazy! Thanks so much for the review, again, and good luck with your violin work! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
TEASER:
Trouble in Paradise
Harry gets taken out for a comfort dinner
Winter Cold (Really. I mean it this time. Honest!)
1. 'Why Do I Love You?' by Roy Croft