Author's Note: This story features strong sexual content. If you're not comfortable with that kind of subject please don't read it.
A cross-legged vagrant, clothed in nothing but a ragged turban, roosted down in the sand opposite their tent.
A single, quivering note broke the stillness of the afternoon. The vagrant had begun to play his flute. He coaxed several very pleasant keys, and Harry found himself eagerly listening for what came next.
He knew that he had never heard this song before, and yet it seemed strangely familiar. It was heart-breaking, charming, and poignant. It seemed to embody all of India; mostly capturing her fiery spirit, desperate beauty, and boundless tragedy. It moved him, drove him, caused him to focus on one thing: Molly Weasely.
Four sun-dyed-cotton-walls rose up around them. Molly was lying naked on their make-shift. Her posture was one of almost lazy sexuality. Her eyes however, were alive and full of mood. She could have played a hungry tigress on the prowl, Harry mused.
The flutist outside, manipulated his instrument with delicate skill. It sang so vividly, weaving its song into a panoramic story of love or war or both. Harry could not decide.
Inside the tent, Molly's body entwined with his. This mood, this music, made everything seem okay. Harry felt her warmth envelope him. His hips rocked to the rhythm of the song.
The intangible paralleled the tangible. The music seemed to match the harmony of their physical treatments. Harry's body adjusted; synchronizing, flowing melodically. Molly, he realized, was caught up in the action too. A lusty, starless, fire-driven stare had come into her eyes. It was sexual ballet, and Lord, they danced.
Soon Harry felt himself beginning to convulse in ecstatic spasms. His back arched. His heart pounded. His muscles tensed.
The flute played high, stuttering notes. O, o, o, o, o…
Harry's mind was swimming. He was high on fever.
"MOLLY!" he cried.
The flute screamed.
Harry experienced a sudden explosion of pleasure. It coursed through his veins, from scrotum to skull, much like a fix of good heroin or the touch of Jesus. During his orgasm the flutist played a furious sonnet that reminded him of three things: a cork popping, a rocket launching, and a volcano erupting. These things lifted his ecstasy to a special place.
"Thank you, ma'am," he breathed.
When it was finished Harry fell foreword in exhaustion. His breast pressed against her breast. The feeling was gone and his mind had become numb once again.
What have I done?
Harry searched for her eye. But she looked away. He read in her expression a mixture of compassion, love, and regret. But he knew none of these things could compare to the horror that she held within.
The flute continued to play. But the song was now far less intense. It had become a token lullaby, by which Molly was soon comforted into a fitful sleep.
But Harry lay awake. He thought of the past few weeks. He wondered if it was murdering Voldemort that had changed him so. You can't just kill someone and still expect to feel like a little boy, Harry; Ron had said. Perhaps he was right.
Argh, that aches. He had finally gotten around to thinking about Ron. I never meant to betray you. I swear it on my life. I never meant for this to happen. I know that if you ever find out you will never forgive me, but I have no choice but to tell you the truth…
"What have I become,
my sweetest friend
Everyone I know
goes away in the end" – Trent Reznor