Summary: HP/DM slash with a side of SB/RL, RW/HG A story about music that touches the soul, friends that refuse to go away, enemies that refuse to let you starve yourself, and lovers that never wanted to love and never want to let go now that they do.

Disclaimer: I do not own or remotely have any relation to Harry Potter or J.K. Rowling, though I do have the HP books. I do not have any permission to write this, and I do so solely for my own pleasure and am not making any profit from it.

Pairings: HP/DM, SB/RL, RW/HG and others

Timeline: Fourth book onwards and the fifth never existed in my happy imaginary world.

Chapter Four

Harry shivered as the cold wind bit into him through his robes and Invisibility Cloak. He bent forward slightly on his Firebolt, hunkering down against the chill, and urged it higher, higher… within moments he was on the Hogwarts roof, in the northernmost corner, landing on the stone flagstones. The wide stone ledge that ran around the edge of the vast roof made good seats, though there was the danger of losing your balance to the wind that blew strongly, mostly from the north.

The green-eyed boy sighed, frustrated that he had to use his second choice for his private hideaway. His first choice, a nice warm fire-lit room at the very end of the fourth floor, had been taken up tonight by a couple making out. He could hear the moans all the way from the end of the corridor. A quick check of the map told him that there indeed were two people in the room (the dots right on top of each other, as it happened), and that Filch was nearing his corridor. He had quickly mounted his broom and had flown out of the nearest window.

Shivering, the boy conjured up some wood, then muttered the fire-spell he had picked up from Hermione when she had used it twice in first year. He nodded, satisfied, when the blue fire burned the wood, casting an eerie blow glow all around. It made him uneasy, somehow. To see fire, something he looked at everyday, look so unfamiliar was just… well, it was creeping him out. But he shrugged it off and took out his flute.

The rough wood was familiar in his hands, and it reminded him of better times, when Hagrid had made the flute for him. When he had not truly feared and understood the dangers lying in wait, but just plunged into things unthinkingly. Now he seemed to be doing nothing but think, and now he knew how foolish he had been back then. Dragging Ron into the basilisk lair with him was stupid. He could have gotten killed – Harry himself almost had been! Even Lockheart hadn't deserved that. Hermione, too, had been a victim in trying to help him. Why hadn't he realized what the monster was sooner? He should have been researching it himself!

And Ginny – she had gotten hurt, manipulated, pushed within an inch of death, and it was because Harry had been too stupid to recognize the diary for what it was, for not telling Dumbledore. He'd foolishly trusted it, and turned on Hagrid of all unlikely people. Yet both Ginny and Hagrid still continued to admire him, to respect him, care for him – that was the worst part. He didn't deserve any of them. All he did was get them killed; Cedric and Dean and Luke and Sandra had proved that.

Shaking his head to clear away such thoughts, Harry lifted the flute again. Every night, he escaped from reality; it was weak of him, but he couldn't keep up his wall all day. He'd get better with practice, with time, but for now… He just let go, pouring out all the emotions he had bottled up the entire day to the black night, through his music. And it made him feel better, at least until he put down his flute and went back to the tower and the suffocating life he led in the daylight.

The natural talent Harry had at playing the flute had revealed its existence last year, when he had first brought it along with him on his nightly escapes as something to pass the time. Little did he expect how comfortable he was with the flute; he could pick out any tune he'd vaguely heard before without thinking about it. Sometimes he even tried his hand at composing his own. Everything fell away when he was enveloped in his music; it rivaled even flying. His Firebolt gave him exhilaration – his flute provided solace.

The first few, hesitant notes of a haunting tune that had been running through his head all day long hung in the night air, the soft, rich sound of the flute resonating gently. Then, as Harry relaxed further, the melody flowed eagerly forth from the hollow wood. Its sad, melancholy tone wove a tapestry against the backdrop of the majestic stone castle and the starburst cloth of night. Its sheer intensity carried away the frustrations of the lone figure on the roof, with his eyes closed and the blue light of the fire flickering over him, battling with the shadows for possession of this fragile, fallen boy.

The initially soft song gradually grew stronger with passion, as the flutist gave his all to the music. The notes, carried by the wind, haunted the ancient fortress of Hogwarts, immersing the castle in the liquid fire of his music. Grief, hurt, sorrow, hatred, sadness, guilt – everything that Harry held back inside of him into an unearthly song that left any person who heard it breathless with the powerful emotions that buffeted them, and brought tears to their eyes without quite knowing why.

Yet, with all its heavenly beauty, it seemed so lonely; a string of sound, incomplete. But a flute can only play a note at a time, and so, it was condemned to being alone, like how Harry had condemned himself to being alone. He would never reach out for help, because if he did, the death that surrounded him would swallow his friends too. So he had to stay inside the prison he had created for himself, inside the darkness; because nobody could know the real Harry, who wanted nothing more in the world than to be able to be with people who loved him and whom he loved back.

But I can't, a voice in him whispered, and the notes grew anguished. I can't, because my love only kills them.

Then Harry faltered in his playing, too stunned to continue. For intertwining with his flute, quiet enough to let the flute's melody rise above it in a solo, were the soft harmonious sounds of a piano's accompaniment.

Draco alighted silently onto the Hogwarts roof, in the warmest corner he could find, which happened to be on the south side of the castle, protected by high walls that blocked the winds coming in from outside the school. In this cold weather, he was thankful that he wore his warm cashmere clothing instead of his normal silk outfit. The fact that there were warming charms woven into the cloth didn't hurt, either.

Taking out his wand, he charmed his hands with another warming spell so that they wouldn't freeze up. Then, digging in his pocket, he took out a small hard box. Opening it, he took out what looked like a tiny replica of a grand piano and a piano bench, all shiny and black. Blowing gently on them to get rid of any dirt, he set them on the ground and quickly cast a spell before they could be blown away. The next second, Draco smiled as he trailed a pale hand along his piano, which was now the normal size, and then sat down on the sturdy bench.

He loved the piano, and had played it since young, but his father had soon banned him from playing. You spend too much time on this, he'd said. Draco had quietly accepted it, but his heart ached; then not a few months later for his birthday he'd gotten the box from his mother.

The box has an anti-shock charm on it, and it's padded, so the piano won't break, she'd told him after he'd thrown himself at her in a delighted hug. Don't use it where your father can hear, or find out. Always remember to shrink it after you're done. He'd been extremely careful with it ever since, and it hardly left his side.

This last year, the piano had become all the more precious to him, as it was his only companion in the night, when he would stay in his room and just… play. Play out his feelings, his agonized troubles, his confused emotions, his torn loyalties, his rage… it had become his refuge, sheltering him before he was overwhelmed. Lately it had become his life, one of the last few fraying strings that kept him tied to the sane world.

Sighing, Draco flexed his fingers – the cold hardly bothered him, but the wind was annoying; why hadn't he just chased Pansy and Blaise out? He was about to play whatever tune came to his mind when he froze. Was that… music? The word music hardly did it justice. It was alive, with a soul of its own, weaving in and out of the winds, weaving around the school, weaving around him. It was angelic yet devilish, burning the senses like fire and cooling the mind like water.

It cried out to him, and he knew all too well the pain it spoke of.

Have I finally lost my mind? He thought in wonder. This can't possibly be real… I've died, then, and gone to heaven. Except I don't think heaven's this damned windy.

All along, Draco had thought he was the only one who had abandoned himself through music, thought he was the only one in this world who felt so lonely, so helplessly lost. The only one so messed up, that he even thought his music alive. But here was someone who was in the same state as he was in, shared the same emotions, shared the same passion… the same music. He didn't know how he could understand all that just through music, but he could. He could feel the other person's sorrow through that lonely flute melody that reached out to his soul.

He was spellbound, simply reveling in that sound, when he realized he knew the song. It was a beautiful, heart wrenching instrumental piece that had haunted his mind for a long time the first time he'd heard it. That was one of the reasons why he had painstakingly listened to it on end and composed his own musical score for it, until he could play it by heart. It was one of his favourite pieces, called Sadame – Japanese for fate, destiny. And it was a Muggle song, too, which was also another reason why he chose to learn it, because he wanted to prove he would never bow down to –

But that wasn't the point, was it? Draco calmed himself down, knowing that he wouldn't play well with his composure agitated. He repositioned his fingers, lips moving as he counted the beat to the song, waiting for the right moment to join in, and then did just that.

He released his soul into it, playing like he always did, but holding back just enough so that it wouldn't drown out the flute. He felt the music being lifted into the air by the wind, to meet the flute's tune. Like two long-lost friends, the notes twined around each other, melting into each other like one whole, one seamless perfect song.

The other music hesitated, withdrawing into itself, stopping – and Draco prayed fervently that it would come back. It couldn't just stop – not now, not when he had finally found someone who could, perhaps, truly understand him. He let this worry flow through the notes, with a hint of a plea: reassuring that nothing mattered in the night except who you truly were. His music wrapped itself around the other, buoying it, a comfortable, steady support; like the constant strength of wood and of earth, of the flowing coolness of soft breezes.

Please understand… please don't go away. I won't ask anything. I don't need to know.

I just need you to stay.

Harry sometimes went for a walk in the Forbidden Forest, along the outskirts, nothing dangerous. Just deep enough into the woods that he was surrounded by the woody smell, the crisp green, the comforting feel of Nature, with the rustling sound of laughing breezes through the leaves. It comforted him, put him at ease; sort of like how he felt when he played his flute. Like he was safe, protected, and the trees and plants wouldn't let any harm come to him.

He felt that sense of peace now, with the piano music that seemed to twine around him. He could feel the other's hope for understanding, for belonging. He could hear the weary pain, and the plea. He understood enough, though he had no idea how, to know that this pianist – this pianist was like him. Enough like him to understand.

How could he give this up?

He let his music sing free, and the two harmonies found each other again. Now the song was so much more potent than before: it wasn't silhouetted against the sky, it was the sky; it was the aged stone of the castle. It was the teasing dance of the wind, the flowing silk of water, the burning passion of fire, the calm strength of earth… It was the vibrant laughter of life, and the bittersweet pain of death – a seamless melding of two souls, once lost and broken; now beginning to mend.

They were cautious at first, trying to determine just how much they could trust each other with. For even though they opened the door, it did not mean they let the other step inside and explore… not yet, anyway. But it was a start.

Hello, Pianist.

Hello, Flutist.

How are you this night?

Better than ever before. But you knew that.

Light laughter swirled through the music, lightening the undertone of grief. The two of them were communicating through the music they played. They didn't stop to wonder how it was possible to express words through music, because it was so natural to just let it flow. This was beyond words, a higher, purer form of magic – music itself was magic, perhaps the most beautiful kind of all. They spoke with their hearts, without the constraints of verbal speech, with music as their link; they could feel the other's emotions, and the truth and sincerity.

Do you always come to the roof at night?

No, I usually stay in my room with a soundproof spell on it.

I see… I play every night, in some empty room in Hogwarts.

Why?

Why what? I go to an empty room?

Don't play dumb. You know.

I… don't want my friends to worry. I don't want them to get hurt.

Because if they help you, they're bound to get hurt.

Yes, exactly. I don't want… pity. Excuses. I didn't do things I was supposed to, and I guess this is the consequence.

I guess we're in the same situation, except that I do things I'm not supposed to, and end up paying for it.

Yes, and because… there are some secrets that I just can't share with them. No matter how much they want to help.

Because they just won't be able to understand…

And you simply want to protect them.

And you have to get used to being alone because if you start caring, your wall might just crumble.

And you won't be able to live up to the image people expect of you.

And then you'd be letting them down.

And you never want to do that, because even though you can't trust them with such secrets, they're still the people you love most and trust most and you want them to respect you.

You know, it's a little unnerving to hear all your innermost thoughts and feelings expressed by someone else.

Tell me about it.

The song was about to end, and worried – and slightly scared – that he might lose this connection, Harry wracked his brain for a song that most people were likely to know. Hermione had given him a CD player and a CD of pop songs, but he hadn't really liked them; they were fake, soulless. Mrs Figg had let him look through her collection one day and there he'd found his treasure trove – beautiful songs that touched his heart, thought most had no words and those that had were in a foreign language. Those were the songs he'd remembered, and he was afraid that his Pianist friend wouldn't know them.

Then he realized that the Pianist already had started the next song, and it was one of his most familiar pieces – a heart-wrenching piece, Amethyst, by one of his favourite artistes. Letting his smile seep into his music, he felt an answering chuckle, and they sang on.

As the night wore on, the stars seemed to twinkle more brightly than ever, and the moon and planets seemed to glow, marking the start of an ancient prophecy and a new path fraught with danger and inevitable hurt, pain and betrayal, but also unity, hope and bliss. And two special individuals, who by deciding their own fate would decide the fate of the world, were setting out on that treacherous path.

But right now, they were just two confused boys reaching desperately for any ray of hope that stretched down to them, tentatively beginning to trust again. New friendships, love and alliances would be formed, old prejudices and feuds broken, fears and secrets brought out of dark hiding places, loyalties re-examined, and hard, painful decisions and choices made; all because of this one night that started it all.

I do hope the descriptions weren't too clichéd.

Apologies, by the way, for the late post - I was overseas without Internet access for the past week. This post makes up for last Saturday's; the next post will be this Sat like usual unless something comes up.

Sadame is a gorgeous orchestral piece from the anime X/1999, and not to be missed! The heart wrenching Amethyst orchestral is from Yoshiki, the genius drummer and pianist of the cult band X Japan, whose music is still loved to this day despite having started their career decades ago, despite having broken up, and despite losing their precocious, unforgettable guitarist, hide. Spelled with a small 'h', which people seem to keep forgetting, and pronounced the Japanese way, with two syllables. hide, by the way, is one of the prettiest men that ever lived, and may his memory and his music live forever. His music always makes me smile; X Japan's music moves me both to tears or head-banging cheer. Sheer genius.

Right then.

Next Chap: The meeting continues, and grown men cry. Sirius holds Remus, if only for a while. A stereotypical plot twist appears, but stereotypical in a good way.

Revised Bits: Not much has been revised in this chapter. It's mainly what they say to each other that changed, but even then it hasn't changed much.

Please review! And thank you to all those lovely people who reviewed previously.

Ashen Skies
"I just need you to stay."