This work is based, in both structure and plot trajectory, on Franz Schubert's Fantasie in F Minor for Four Hands D940. If I have failed in my endeavour to stick strictly to these parameters, I trust I have been able to successfully emulate the quiet joy, pain and longing evoked by Schubert's masterpiece.
Although larger works may seem to dominate this story, they are not deemed suitable for this type of treatment, but rather as worthy mechanisms for its message and meaning.
DisclaimerAll characters belong to J. K. Rowling and Wizarding World. All original characters are additives. All lingering errors are my own.
DedicationFor Riverwoman, whose extraordinary writing, friendship and Beta skills are a constant support to a misfit among misfits.
1 Allegro Molto ModeratoThe hospital corridor seemed endless. He felt that if he just kept on walking, he could do it for the rest of his life — and that would be ok. The susurrus of his shuffling, slippered feet blended with the soft sounds of a busy hospital in an afternoon lull: the clinking China and soft rubber-wheels that told him afternoon tea was concluding, murmuring voices which faded the further he walked, the odd echoing footstep in some corridor far from him.
There had been few visitors today, none of them for him, thank Merlin. They had long ago given up after finding that he could no longer speak with them coherently. He might respond to their enquiries after his health with a grunt or — if they were more fortunate — a 'fine. Just fine.' He was capable of no more without the greatest difficulty.
The thing was, he had an equally difficult time trying to make people understand that. His speech, when he could manage it, was mostly as clear, his vocabulary in tact and his inflection little changed from the man they had known. He even looked "normal" — whatever that was.
He'd once been a gregarious man, even after years of torture and imprisonment in Azkaban, but fleeting contact with the Veil had been a step too far. Now, each word must be assembled, weighed, measured and sorted before it ever came out of his mouth, or it couldn't come at all.
Only his Harry remained faithful. He would arrive fairly regularly (though his visits were also gradually tailing off as life took over) and just sit, silently holding his hand. Sometimes, if he managed to ask Harry to read, he would do so. Those times were enjoyable: the sound of his voice as he read through David Copperfield, Tom Sawyer and Robinson Crusoe was soothing. It somehow kept him anchored to a world in which he could no longer participate.
No one in the magical world had been able to help, so the muggle one had stepped in and he had learned to write and read in Braille — at least well enough to begin reading for himself. He'd also started on Braille music and was swiftly devouring scores of increasing complexity — slowly absorbing and memorising them so he could play them inside his head (no one had thought to give him a piano). Well, he thought as the never-ending corridor continued, what else have I got to occupy my brain?
This had been a great boon as Harry's visits had grown increasingly infrequent. He could hardly blame him: the boy was young, still famous following the defeat of Voldemort, and he had a life to lead and a beautiful woman to pursue. His godfather could only wish him all the luck in the world.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the high, tiny windows as he passed, warming his face but not piercing his storm-grey eyes which he kept mostly closed. They disconcerted people because they looked completely as if his old self was staring back out of them, except that the brain behind them had been damaged in some crucial way following the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. To the wizarding world's healers he was an enigma — a man out of time, never meant to survive. Sometimes — quite often in fact — he wished he hadn't. He wished Tonks hadn't tripped him just at the moment when he would have fallen backwards and … what? He didn't know. All he knew was that he had once been someone different.
Would this corridor never end? Where was it leading? He shouldn't be so far from his rooms, and without his white cane, but he just had to get out and get moving — somehow. Now it sloped very slightly downward and he came to a halt, thinking he could hear something new. What was it? Music? He played inside his head constantly, so perhaps not. The sound grew louder, however, and after a little time he could no longer tell himself that it was generated by his imagination.
It was the sound of a piano somewhere in this building, and it was playing … what? His feet drew him relentlessly on towards the sound until he could finally identify it as Beethoven's Choral Symphony being played by a piano. Amazing. It was the second movement, the Scherzo, and the pianist was currently enjoying himself immensely playing the Fortissimo which followed the bars with those distinctive syncopated timpani.
The slippers began a rhythmic tapping to the bouncing beat as the man stopped to listen more closely. It couldn't be much farther; he could hear the music quite clearly now and his whole soul began to lift in response. It had been some years (how many he had no clue) since he had last heard actual music outside of his own skull, and even longer since he had heard anyone actually playing, longer still since he had sat at the square grand in his parents' old home.
He himself had learned to play as a very small boy at his mother's insistence. He had not been a child who pleased his parents, but for that one thing — he was good at music. Of course, he'd been good at many other things: charms, spell work, map making. He and a group of friends had made a wonderful map which kept track of everyone in the school building; it had come in extremely handy whenever there was mischief to be had — and also for the other reason, to protect one of their group, whose physical needs would have earned him outcast status from most of the school had he been found out. How many years ago had that been? He could no longer remember. He didn't like going there too much either, since one of the friends had been part of the chain of betrayal which had eventually led to his current condition.
Lost in these memories, he failed to realise that the corridor had abruptly terminated in a blank wall, so he was brought up short when his forehead collected smartly with plastered concrete and he swore aloud. But the music was close, very close — only a few doors to the left if he was any judge —and he could not stop to assess any damage.
Down the new corridor: one, two, three on the left and turn in …
The one at the piano was as lost to the world as the one who approached. For him, expression through music was a crucial part of his recovery because, until recently, speaking had also been difficult — though his injuries had been more physical and psychological than neurological. Like the approaching listener, he had fought the same war, almost laying down his life at the last when Voldemort's snake had attacked. This had left him all but mute, and even more bitter and alone than he had dreamt possible.
Every attempt to shower him with awards had been roundly and consistently rebuffed. Others had fought valiantly to clear his name, however, engineering a ridiculous public relations exercise, speaking at the Wizengamot — even accepting the Order of Merlin First Class in absentia.
Although he was famed for his stubbornness (among many other traits) he was far from stupid. While the award itself lay somewhere at the bottom of a trunk, he had known where his interests lay, and had reluctantly accepted the accompanying pension. This more than covered his ongoing medical expenses, even the exorbitant cost of the muggle drugs he would need to take for the rest of his life.
Unlike the one who approached, this man was not — had never been — gregarious, popular or conventionally attractive. Surrounded by enemies for as long as he cared to remember (this included his father), he had determined that the end of the war would allow him finally to withdraw from a society which had offered only false promises, faux friendships and hollow love. Any approaches by well-wishers, many of whom he was convinced would not have otherwise given him the time of day, only confirmed and further cemented his contempt.
The psychotherapy had been long, arduous and necessary — he knew — in order to help him reach his final goal of being left in peace. But though he had also worked extremely hard on his physical recovery, his larynx had simply been too damaged even for magic to be of much help. Then, a doctor had learned of a rare muggle technique known as a laryngeal-Pharyngeal transplant, in which a larynx, thyroid and part of the trachea from a person recently dead could be successfully transplanted into a living person to give them a natural-sounding voice. Deciding that his voice had always been an asset, and despite the raging controversy it caused (Why it was anyone's business but his own was baffling to him.), he had consented to the surgery and now recovered in long-term rehab and speech therapy with his brand-new larynx. He might not sound quite the same as of old, but it was already immeasurably preferable to the guttural rasp which was all he had previously been able to manage – and would only improve with time and healing. At least now he had a voice which was more than vaguely recognisable to him and to others.
To an eloquent and articulate person unable to verbally communicate, life had been sheer hell until he had managed to convince the medical staff of his desire to play the piano. He had first learned as a small boy from his paternal grandmother, then from an elderly neighbour when he needed to escape his father's tirades. Later, he had kept up the skill as best he could when the summers freed him temporarily from the duties and burdens of his work. Now, with time on his hands and no other demands except recovery he had first reclaimed, and then improved, his skill to prodigious proportions and sat, bent slightly more forward than was usual in order to accommodate his poor eyesight, hooked nose almost touching the closed score, completely lost in Franz Liszt's transcription of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. He heard neither the curse from down the hall, nor the shuffling feet, nor did he notice anyone standing in the middle of the room — listening rapturously.
The listener worked his way into the middle of the room and stopped, transfixed. Just now, he could hear the second theme of the Scherzo, the tripping D major theme which always sounded to him as if someone was running to catch up with something which constantly eluded them. On the piano, and had he been in a calm frame of mind, he might have reflected that the grand symphony had lost something in the transcription, but he was in no condition to be anything other than enraptured as the notes filled all his senses. He could do nothing, unanchored as he was to any solid physical landmark in the unfamiliar room, so he felt his knees buckle as he sank to the floor and let the music wash over him.
He felt like a starving man who had finally been given the food of life, and a tiny ember of something all but forgotten was kindled inside of him. This was hope — not for recovery (he didn't even know what that was any longer) but for something better and finer than his current existence.
Oblivious to his audience, the pianist played on, concluding the Scherzo with a flourish and pausing only a few seconds before switching to the Adagio, which he began in deft, tender quietude — almost picking his way over the notes as though they were delicate blooms which he did not wish to bruise. To the listener, the tenderness of each key caress felt like the softest, gentlest touch at his heart, and he began to shake. By the time the music changed time signature he was sitting with his knees drawn up, tears coursing silently down his wasted cheeks, his thin body shuddering helplessly. And still the pianist played on.
Both listener and pianist wandered through the many changes in key and time signature, losing themselves in the grand reverence of the piece while their minds were elsewhere. Unbeknownst to the listener, the pianist played from memory with his own eyes closed and a smile on his thin lips which would have surprised many who thought they knew him. Every note, every chord, every progression was faithfully, faultlessly and reverently executed as if the notes sprang not from his fingers but from deep within him.
For his part, the listener absorbed every golden sound as if it was both dart and caress. Overcome as he was, he nevertheless followed every nuance and, by the time the Adagio wound its way to its calm conclusion, a new feeling had begun to take root — longing. Through his tears, all he wished to do was sit beside the pianist and share in his playing. He even began to imagine what it might be like to sit at a piano again and lose oneself in the music, just as this person was doing. There would be no need to struggle for words and no need to wish hopelessly for things which could never be again. There would be only the music: what he could give to it and what it could give in return.
How appropriate, then, that the fourth and last movement had been called "Ode to Joy". The pianist approached it with all the gusto which the Presto could muster, interspersing it with the wise counsel of the recitative as if he really did hold a full orchestra inside him. When the pianissimo notes of the main theme spread their magic through the quiet of the room, the listener lifted his tearstained face from his knees and attended with all the wide-eyed wonder of a child. The longing and hope inside him sang gentle counterpoint to the soft, simple melody which carried a hope for the whole world. His rapt attention did not fade as the theme's treatment increased in exuberance, mirroring the blooming hope inside him and the burgeoning euphoria inside the pianist.
Inside both their heads, they heard the exhortation of the baritone,
"O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!Sondern laßt uns angenehmere anstimmen,
und freudenvollere.
Freude!
Freude!
Freude, schöner Götterfunken
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!..."
followed closely by the other soloists and then the full choir as the main theme now became the property of the entire consort.
Neither one realised that the other was smiling as the change in key and time signature signalled the deliriously happy song led by the tenor which presaged the full-throated exuberance of the entire combined choir and orchestra — the sopranos at the very top of their range — as the main theme was elevated into the stratosphere.
At this point, the pianist, much to his chagrin, was forced to hesitate in order to gather himself for the demanding, left-hand octaves of quavers required to hold up the theme with the right hand. A small part of him continued to be frustrated that he still needed to do it after so much practice. The listener, on the other hand, did not notice. He simply marvelled at the ability of the pianist to faithfully reproduce all the notes with only 10 fingers.
As the pianist continued through the dreamy section usually sung by the choir, he wondered fleetingly what he would do when the piece was finished. He had promised himself that he would work on this piece — and only this — until he was satisfied. That hesitation before the main theme had been unacceptable.
The listener had begun to wonder whether there was, in fact, more than one pianist — such was the skill and complexity of the playing. On the heels of this, however, it occurred to him to wonder what would happen when he was caught sitting here on the floor, sobbing his heart out. A frisson of fear folded itself into the euphoria like an oil slick into a sun-warm sea, and he drew his arms tightly around his knees as the piano began its final lightning run to the conclusion. Presto, indeed, thought the listener as a small part of him longed to applaud into the silence which stretched out to greet both men — one relieved at what he considered a mostly adequate performance, the other completely undone with fear, hope and longing.
The pianist pushed back his stool and stretched himself luxuriously, rolling both his shoulders, stretching his arms and his back until it clicked audibly. He was definitely growing stronger and, despite that annoyingly persistent need to hesitate whenever he encountered one of Liszt's fiendish runs, he could leave this room confident he had not wasted the past 90 minutes.
It was not until he turned that he spied a form in drill khaki pants and shirt, huddled on the floor, knees drawn up to its chest and long, dark, grey-streaked hair hiding its face from view. Too shocked to utter a sound, the pianist slowly approached to give the form time to notice that he had been noticed. However, the man (it was obviously a man) did not move, even when the pianist halted directly in front of him and stared pointedly at the top of the dark head. It was only when he extended his hand, intending to help the man up, that the man rose abruptly to his feet, causing the other to take a hurried step backwards.
If the pianist was shocked at the discovery of an audience, it was tripled when the man's dark hair fell back from his face to reveal a visage which the pianist had hoped to forget. The last time he'd seen that face it had been snarling at him across a table in the kitchen of the then headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. How long had that been? Not long enough, judging by the way the pianist's fists were automatically bunching themselves in readiness. Then he took in the other details of the man's appearance: the tears on the wasted cheeks, the grey eyes which seemed to be looking past, not at him like they should, the way his whole body seemed to be vibrating all the way down to the slippered feet with (What?) fear? And well you may, thought the pianist as he struggled to martial his fizzing thoughts and emotions.
The listener opened his mouth but, as usual, nothing came out. When would he learn? He merely stood, vibrating with emotion, wondering what the other person was doing. They'd reached out for him and, fearing to be touched without warning or by someone he did not know, he had taken the initiative and risen as fast as he could. Now he desperately wanted to tell this person what their playing had meant to him. Who was this? Was he (he thought it must be a he, given the sandalwood and myrrh cologne) but beyond that he had no idea — only that he wished to thank him with all his damaged heart and soul.
Meanwhile, the pianist was fighting not to just wrap those long, elegant fingers around the other's throat and keep them there until he ceased to exist. Here was the man who, as a boy, had once lured him out of school towards mortal danger. He had only been saved by another boy — another enemy — when he had found out what this boy was up to. These two boys had been everything he was not: handsome, rich, popular and talented — damn them. He hadn't even been able to comfort himself with the knowledge that they had been more brawn than brains because they had been the two best at everything in school: sports, classes, everything. They had hated him on sight and the feeling, which had been more than mutual, had only developed over the seven years of their schooling.
To top it all, one had wooed and married the love of his life. That They had become a key couple — their deaths signalling the end of the first war (he didn't want to think about that) and the other had been imprisoned for crimes that the pianist had been forced (grudgingly) to admit that he had not committed, but had eventually escaped. The two had barely been able to tolerate each other's company during this last war when it had been necessary for them to work together.
Now, here was this one, just standing there like a stopped clock.
'Um um,…' said the stopped clock.
The sound of the voice, inane as it was, broke the other man's paralysis.
'Black!'
The word held more breath than voice, but it contained all the venom that years of bitterness and self-loathing that his newly-made voice could muster.
'Who'sthat?' blurted the other in a rush.
The pianist gaped at him. Surely, he had not changed that much. Then he understood: the still way the man was standing, the movements of the head as if constantly testing the air, the way his eyes looked past him. Black was blind! The knowledge hit him like an ice shower, dousing the heat of his fury and leaving him cold and clinical. Now the tables had turned, oh yes. Now he could, if he wished, have his revenge. It would be doing the man a favour.
'Hello?'
The word came tentatively, almost as if Black did not expect a reply. 'Who's this? Who's this?'
The listener did indeed expect no reply and he was not disappointed. He had learned long ago that saying a general hello into a room which he knew was occupied never netted him a reply. After all, whom did the silly sighted think he was talking to if not to them? But he could not, at the moment, assemble anything more coherent. In desperation, he reached into his pocket and drew out one of the hateful cards they'd forced upon him for when he should meet strangers. Lately, these had consisted mainly of medical students for whom he had no interest, but it did help them to stop babbling at him until he could assemble his thoughts. Now he held it out to the stranger who, after staring numbly at it for only a second, accepted it.
"My name is Sirius Black. Please be patient; I have trouble speaking."
So, the man was now a genuine imbecile. How appropriately poetic. Perhaps he really should … for his own good …
He dropped the card to the floor in horror. What had he just been thinking?
It wouldn't be worth doing, in any case — there'd be no sport to it …
Stop that at once!
And you don't even have your wand on you …)
BE QUIET! This isn't you — at least it's not the you that you are now. This is the Death Eater talking. You're better than that — have always been better than that. Isn't that what the years of therapy have been trying to drum into that stubborn skull? And you were just going to let the likes of Black undo it all?
Meanwhile, the man in question had moved away, obviously deciding he was not going to get an answer. The pianist watched in fascination as Black found the piano and sat. He stood, mesmerised, as the man ran his fingers over the keys, essayed a few tentative scales which grew in confidence as he lost himself in his task. then his fascination became disbelief as the blind man began, very tentatively, to pick out a piece he knew. It was Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, first movement. He continued for some time, until the piece came to a sudden, jangling halt. The man turned from the piano bench and took a deep breath.
'Can't … remember … the … rest.'
Each word was articulated clearly but separately, as if they'd had to be extracted rather than merely spoken.
'Can't … play … like … you,' concluded Black sadly.
The fact that he could play at all had renewed the other's shock. Was this something they'd had in common all along? Clearly, Black had not touched a piano in some time, given the tentative way he had approached it, but the man also had obvious talent. The shock turned to pity and sadness as this fresh realisation slammed into him. How different things might have been had they but known. Now, there were two damaged souls: one a bitter mess of emotions with a borrowed larynx, the other a mess of what? Maybe just a mess by the look of him. What was he to do?
He could simply leave the room. Black would likely believe he'd already gone. He couldn't see him, after all. But no, he could not bring himself to do that; he was not a coward, despite the assertions of the 'Boy who Lived' (Where the hell had that come from?)
Said boy had been at the forefront of his public restoration — both their public restorations come to that. Potter had even written him a long, effusive letter which apologised for every harsh word and thought, though the man had never allowed him to visit. Clearly, Black was rattling him.
'Hello?' Black called from the piano bench.
That decided him. He would not run; whatever Black did once he identified himself. They were the only two left after all the warring, all the fighting, spying and compromising. There was only they two — both broken, both alone. That new thought almost caused him to bolt, but he steeled himself and slowly approached.
'Hello, Black. It is I, Severus Snape.'