Author: Arsahi
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the characters therein. Sadly. J. K. Rowling owns them, the lucky girl.
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione
Rating: T/M
Chapter: One
Chapter Title: Play My Song
Notes: This is my first Harry Potter fanfic. This fic also takes place during the sixth year, and starts right after Narcissa convinces Snape to take a blood oath to protect Draco. Also, I have no idea what Draco's eagle owl is named, so I made it female and named her Circe, after the sorceress from Greek mythology that was the union of Helios (the sun god) and Hecate (goddess of the dark moon). WARNING: SPOILERS FROM HALF-BLOOD PRINCE.
Chapter One: Play My Song
His fingers moved gracefully over the keys of the piano, staring intently at the sheet music laid out in front of him. This was the only Muggle pasttime he allowed himself, under the watchful eye of his mother. It wouldn't do to show any inclination towards anything non-magical, no.
I hate my life.
He had taught himself how to play the piano last summer, when his father came into possession of the old Muggle instrument. His father couldn't figure out how to spell the thing to play itself, and when his father had questioned the sounds coming from the wooden monstrosity, he had answered that he had spelled it himself. After that, his father left him alone with it, commenting that it must be horridly ancient, and that Muggles didn't know how to preserve anything.
It was his only escape somedays. His life was utterly stressful, his house was awful. Nobody spoke to anyone, his mother was gone all the time, his father was locked away in a maximum security wizards' prison, and often it was only Draco Malfoy alone in one of the largest houses in this wizarding neighborhood. It was old, lots of dark colored wood and peeling varnish when looked at closely, staircases that led nowhere, tiny rooms that served as little more than large cupboards.
I hate my life.
And now he was wrapped up in the life his parents had sucked him into. It wasn't fair. He was only sixteen! What did he do to deserve to become a slave to Lord Voldemort, already? And he didn't even have the option of choosing to say no--his parents just automatically assumed that he wanted to be a Death Eater.
I hate my parents.
A painting of his great-great grandfather hung in the rear of the dusty old room that Draco had claimed as his music room. He looked a lot like Lucius, and Draco had long since hung a sheet over the old man when he wanted to play the piano. His owl sat, statuesque, on the back of the desk chair across the room. His owl never judged him. He never had to pretend in front of his owl that he was a big tough man, two of the greatest Death Eaters' son. He never had to pretend.
I hate myself.
Faster now, the notes fell from his fingers and onto the piano keys, and he didn't bother to look at the sheet music. He had it memorized. It was the only piece of music he owned.
I wish I was never born.
These thoughts had come with increasing frequency over the summer, spurred by the arrest of his father, the negligence of his mother, and the lack of communication with any of the people who claimed to be his "friends." The worst had been when Narcissa had taken him to see Lord Voldemort.
His fingers slammed on the keys of the piano all at once, producing the wanted shrieking noise he desired. Draco loved the way the notes all clashed together in a blending of sound unlike any music he could produce with his deft fingers. Closing his eyes for a moment, the young blond boy shook his head. "Circe," he said softly, holding his arm out for her. She fluttered to his arm and perched there. "Let's take you back downstairs."
It was another night of supper alone, Draco soon found out. Just recently, he had taken to asking the house elves to stay in the dining room with him and keep him company. They were poor company, but he was grateful for it. In a house with nobody but himself, Circe, and the house elves...
"Stay if you want," he said softly to the house elf who served his plate.
The house elf stopped and looked at Draco. "If master wishes..."
Poor company didn't cover the half of it. "You know, never mind."
The house elf scampered off. Finding he had no appetite again, Draco merely pushed around the food on his plate. "Where has Narcissa gone off to?" he wondered aloud, looking around the wide, empty dining room. He needed someone to hear his voice, needed to hear human speech from someone that wasn't afraid to speak with him. "I need to get my school things soon. That witch better be back in time to take me to Diagon Alley..."
He managed to swallow a couple bites of the tasteless food and with a sigh, forced down a gulp of pumpkin juice. Silently, he rose from his seat and headed off to the back door, looking for something to do with his time.
That night as Draco lay down to sleep, he heard a loud fluttering from outside of his window. Frowning, he headed to the window and slowly opened it, allowing a small pygmy owl to glide inside. "You look a lot like Weasley's owl," the blond boy commented to the bird, who merely landed on his wardrobe and held out its leg expectantly.
He untied the piece of parchment from the owl's leg, watching it warily. Scrawled upon the parchment was a letter addressed to him.
Malfoy, he read, and already knew it was from that annoying Potter boy.
I hate being constantly at war with you, so I am going to extend to you an offer of a truce for this school term. We don't need to be friends--far from it, I would rather gouge my eyes out than make friends with you--but I would like to avoid conflict with you this year.
H. P.
Looking between the letter and the owl, Draco deduced that Potter must be with the Weasleys already. Did that boy ever spend time with those Muggles he grew up with? Acerbically, Draco lifted his quill and grabbed a new piece of parchment, ready to let Potter have it.
But wait, said his subconscious. Would it kill you to have a bit of conversation with someone?
Potter has those bloody stupid traitors to spend time with, why would he want a conversation with me? he wondered back at his subconscious.
He took the time to write to you, didn't he?
Draco squinted suspiciously at the piece of parchment and finally patted it with an air of finality. "All right, Potter. We can have the truce."
Somehow, Draco spent the rest of the summer trading biting letters with Harry Potter, and he found himself not hating the Boy Who Lived so much anymore. He never would admit that to the famous boy, but it was probably his conversation that kept Draco sane. It was going on two weeks since he had last seen Narcissa, he hadn't seen his father for months now, and the only company he had was the piano and Circe.
At about the fifth day, the young blond wizard realized that his day had begun working around waiting for Potter's letters. He hated that, but it was the only other human contact he had. Draco was a social creature by nature, and he loved going to Hogwarts because he was surrounded by people, people he could associate with. He resented Harry Potter for not wanting to hang out with him. He wanted to be friends with Harry, the Boy Who Lived, because he was nothing like him. Harry had a kind heart and a knack for danger, a biting wit, but he was surrounded by tragedy.
I'm surrounded by tragedy, too.
Laughing bitterly, Draco made his way up the stairs and to the third floor of the house, heading towards his piano room. In his hand, he held a new book, full of sheet music...that Harry Potter had bought for him. It took a certain level of comfort with Potter for Draco to admit to him that he had a love of piano music, and Potter had probably shown that confession to his mudblood friend and her muggle-loving boytoy.
Oh well. He would just deny it at school, not like his friends would believe that he would participate in such a Muggle activity as playing the piano.
Allowing himself the luxury of a smile, Draco sat at the old bench that had come with the piano and settled the sheet music upon the front of the instrument. "Let's see if the music Potter got is any good, Circe."
The owl gave a wise hoot at her usual perch and ruffled her wings, turning her intelligent eyes to her master and friend. The boy with pale blond hair and gray eyes studied the music for a moment and slowly began to press the keys that coordinated with the scribed notes, letting the music consume him.
Potter has a good ear for music.
The first run through the song was a bit clumsy, but better than his first time through the original sheet he had, and Draco found himself thoroughly enjoying the new project. It was still a few days before school began, only being the first week of August. School surely didn't start for a while--he would have to master this new song before term began. No, two songs! Three!
A familiar smirk graced the boy's pale lips and he, for once, forgot that he was all alone in a mansion big enough to fit several families. He forgot the pulsing reminder on his arm of his forced allegiance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and he, under no circumstances, heard the approach of footsteps on the staircase.
Thanks, Potter. I owe you for this.
"Draco."
Fuck.
"Draco, what are you doing?"
His head bowed slightly towards the keys as he struggled to regain the sense of completion he had experienced just a few moments ago when he was playing Potter's music. "Go drown yourself, Narcissa," he told her acidly.
"What has gotten into you?" his mother demanded, making her way into the room. Circe, Draco's owl, swooped in front of her, impeding her passage for a moment, before landing upon her owner's outstretched forearm. "Are you dirtying yourself with that blasted Muggle toy?"
Inside, Draco felt the beginnings of the flames of anger lick at him. "Go, Narcissa. You have no right to be here."
"This is my house!" she protested. "I have a right to know when my son is dabbling in things he ought not!"
Draco turned an icy stare to his mother and drank a sip of satisfaction at her flinch. "Leave me be, Mother. I want to play music to keep myself company while you're off paying attention to other people who aren't your son."
Scowling, Narcissa reached for her wand, only to have Draco snatch it from her in a sudden cry of "Expeliarmus!" She gasped, grabbed her hand, and looked hard at her son. "What has gotten into you, Draco?"
"I'm tired of this," he said quietly, throwing his mother's wand to the floor and listening to it roll along the hard wooden surface. "Go back to whatever rat hole you crawled out of, Narcissa."
Narcissa Malfoy was truly afraid of her son, standing there in all of his regal, aristocratic upbringing, with his wand hanging loosely in his hand. Circe perched upon her master's shoulder and he looked for all intents and purposes like a true Death Eater, garbed in a black cloak and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing the mark of Lord Voldemort upon his forearm. His pale eyes hardened as he continued to gaze upon the defenseless Narcissa, icy, statuesque, and foreboding. A breeze from the open window fluttered his white-blond hair, making him seem even more motionless.
"Leave, Narcissa," intoned those ghostly lips.
Snatching up her wand, Draco's mother escaped from the music room and he let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. What was happening him? He had never felt the frozen fingers of rage grip him that tightly before. Was this the Dark Lord's influence?
Or had this been hiding in him all along?