Chapter Text
"Where words fail, music speaks."
-Hans Christian Andersen
“I can’t fucking retain another useless definition about triads,” Lily’s voice reverberates in the otherwise hushed library, punctuated by a thump of her head hitting the desk that she’s been sitting at for the better part of two hours. Papers are littered around her with scattered annotations and crossed out stanzas, and her infuriating textbook with the fine printed list of all that she needs to memorize for Professor Flitwick’s next music theory exam lays next to the curtain of auburn hair that hides her miserable expression from view.
“Maybe we should take a break,” Mary’s voice is soothing, much quieter than Lily’s own, as she lays a hand on her shoulder. Lily leans into the touch, feels the warmth of it even though her thick wool sweater, and nods with a long exhale. “It’ll do you some good to get away from all of this—” she gestures to the haphazard pile of papers, the pencils, the coffee cups littered around the halo of Lily’s hair that encompasses all of her — save for the collar of her blue sweater, deep and rich as the lake in view from the library’s second story window, that peeks from Mary’s hand remaining steadfast and comforting on her. “—and have something to eat. You need to get your mind off the laundry list you’ve made for yourself today.”
“This theory shit, the listening exam, three hours of practicing to have a prayer at getting anything memorized before my lesson on Tuesday,” Lily repeats the list that is scrawled beside her notes on triads, the ones that are left off in the middle of a sentence from her undue frustration.
She doesn’t need to be reminded of the ambition she once had when planning out the first Sunday of her semester. It feels simultaneously necessary and as if the life is being sucked away from her fingertips to be at the whims of her demanding schedule already, stuck in the confines of the library with Mary instead of lounging about in their shared dormitory or walking through the campus she’d missed so dearly in her month at home. The winter away (the one that makes her queasy just to think about, spurring a headache to rival the one that the monotony of her textbook is giving her) has made her rusty, out of practice and the mindset required of her to succeed in Hogwarts University’s rigorous piano studio.
“Let’s go,” Mary is coaxing her up with those same gentle hands, brushing her fringe from her eyes and patting her cheek affectionately when Lily meets her gaze with tired eyes. There is a flicker of something untraceable (worry? fear?) that lingers between them; it is promptly replaced with the anticipation of their late lunch, as Lily hastily packs up her belongings in no particular order and slings her bag over her shoulder. The other already-stressed, perpetually hunched over students who occupy the music library are glad to see the girl with the wild hair and loud voice go, to leave them in peace as she tries to find her own semblance of it away from the oppressiveness of her mind in the building’s stifling silence.
*
The trill of Gottschalk’s The Dying Poet is playing on vinyl, a precarious end to the sweet and melancholic beginning. She is humming along to it and tapping her foot in a rhythm that becomes more insistent, driving the heel of her Mary Jane’s more forcefully into the hardwood with each measure that passes. It’s getting softer, the rubato stretching out the tap, tap of her shoe, softer yet, the poet’s death captivating her even through her concentration—
“What?” Her voice rings sharply in the practice room, a response to the knock that steals her focus away. The song ends, the record scratches; she has enough mind to wrench the needle up, her other hand balling up in her lap from the sheer frustration of being interrupted.
“Sorry, wrong room,” the voice on the other side sounds sheepish, unfamiliar. She sighs, hears the dissonant clunk of her suspended hand fall onto the keys. Now the record is to play for the seventh time in the hour, leaving her to grasp at the emotion of the piece and follow along with her eyes tracing the slopes of the notes on the sheet music as diligently as the first time — as if she isn’t losing her focus for one reason or another every time, and bound to send herself into a spiral of unquellable distraction yet again.
The arpeggio, complemented by the grounding middle-range notes starting up the waltzing rhythm, draws her back into the haze of (largely fruitless) memorization and half-formed analysis about the complexities in Gottschalk’s composition style. She can’t help but feel herself fall vulnerable to the loneliness of the piece, its devolvement away from the melody and into the instantly recognizable, tedious trills of the ending. Her eyes blur from their near-constant focus on each line, trying to study the movements of both hands at once, and she lets out a sigh.
An eighth play through will do, she is sure of that.
*
Spring seems not to have arrived on campus yet, as the frost settles over the grass yellowed from the near-constant snow fall of winter and a chill runs down Lily’s spine. Her hellish Sunday is over, and the second week of term will begin with the dawn in just a few hours time. She feels the ache in her shoulders from the hours spent at the piano bench, cracks her knuckles to relieve some of the pressure built up within them, and wishes she had not spent so long in one of the cramped practice rooms. Her weekend is gone, save for a few hours where she hopes to get some sleep; she has never been one for healthily stretching out her responsibilities, and is all too familiar with the feeling of over-exerting herself after pushing them all to the last possible minute.
Sleep will take her, the litany of notes (always dissonant, never soothing) that ring in her mind will subside as the dreams take over. But she does not want to be away from the sliver of moonlight that casts a glow across the meek petals of early-blooming flowers. She wants to remain in their world, preserving in the frigid weather instead of caving on the anxieties that attack her each time she shuts her eyes.
Unfortunately the coffee in the dining hall is not that strong, so sleep she must – no matter that it feels like a chore, that she wakes up perhaps more tired than she began, that she can never escape the unyielding cycle of schoolwork and the memories of winter break that have plagued her ever since stepping onto the train platform that first day after term’s end and seeing her mother and Petunia there – her father’s absence an immediate and stark reminder, one that kept her in a turmoil of despair that she’s yet to climb out of.
*
Guilty, guilty, guilty.
The word beats with her heart, a constant companion that weighs on her more with every breath.
He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone.
The phrase echoes in the caves of her mind, never leaving her since they first read the note the day after her mother’s birthday. It was morning, the summer breeze was crisp, the tall grass in their backyard tickled her ankles; she remembers her long days out there with Petunia as a young girl, wishes for them again when the words written in her dad’s sloping handwriting (I’m sorry, I can’t take it any longer, take care of the girls) on the torn piece of lined notebook paper burn into her retinas and her sister’s shoulders are stiff and unwilling against her embrace.
It’s been six months since that July day, since her life got turned upside down, since she became morbidly obsessed with the tall bridge over Cokeworth’s only river – and yet the memories are still so clear, constantly in her mind’s eye. She tries to sleep and the word guilty consumes her – the emotion being her only way of making any sense of his death, placing all of the blame on herself and none on the depression he’d been losing himself in since before she was born. She tries to sit in the silence of the dead of night and the phrase he’s gone returns to her, unceremoniously returning her to the throes of grief.
Despite her best efforts to keep the monumental loss under wraps – a separate part of her life that can fester all it wants to in Cokeworth but far, far away from Hogwarts – she can feel herself slipping with every day longer that she tries to push through the turmoil. It turns out that trying to throw herself headfirst into her studies, including all of the pressure and rigor of the piano program, does not help her overcome the loss that became so oppressive over winter term. That had been the first time she’d returned to his absence, seeing the caverns of his existence gaping in the house that no longer had any love, laughter, togetherness. She could not recover from the days of silence, the tension between her and Petunia, the tinny sound of the piano that he was always responsible for tuning each fall and spring.
She’s guilty, and he’s gone, and no amount of exhaustion or stress can keep her from feeling the prescribed truth resting firm and debilitating on her already-aching shoulders.
The moonlight’s glow disappears behind a cloud, and she knows from glancing at the clock hanging on the wall between her and Mary’s beds that it’s midnight.
Monday, the week of ignoring all that plagues her, the long day that has already taken all she has to give, is upon her.
*
“Remedial Bach prison,” Remus announces to the group as he sets his bowl of pasta down, the noise of ceramic hitting plastic muffled by the loud hum of voices that fill the dining hall.
A collective groan communicates all that Lily, Mary, and Dorcas do not say — mouths filled with food, trying to eat quickly to bridge the gap between the day full of classes and piano studio in the evening (or, in Mary’s case, choral rehearsal).
“McGonagall thinks I need to work on my pressure. I play too lightly, I lack enough force to convey the true emotion of the piece,” he holds up his hands while he speaks, shaking them with gravitas. “Please talk me out of skipping studio. I don’t want to listen to all that I’ll be missing out on this semester.”
“Don’t skip,” Dorcas says with a hand covering his own. “You’ll miss participation points.”
He huffs.
“I had Bach all last semester,” Lily chimes in, smiling sympathetically. “I appreciated it more than I thought I would.”
“Which is to say…?”
“A lot, actually,” Mary answers for her. “Though I grew sick of hearing his inventions on vinyl every minute of every day.”
“Fine,” Remus concedes, though he hasn’t put up much of a fight at all. His melancholic exhaustion mirrors Lily’s own; her kind eyes are full of knowing, ringed with the exhaustion of the week that’s nearly over and the sleepless nights unbearably wearing on her.
The walk is brisk but a necessary tonic to offset the ache in her stomach spurred by the fact that she will have to play today, showing off all that she’s supposedly learned over break — which is to say none at all, save for the piled together Gottschalk that’s captivated her every moment her dad’s suicide hasn’t. Death as a general motif in this early spring has her distracted on this short walk across cobbled paths and under swaying trees to reach the music department’s main hall. She nearly bumps into Dorcas, and only offers a halfhearted wave in farewell to Mary who splits off to the performance hall for her rehearsal.
They’ve just about come up on the room with the grand piano and hardbacked chairs that they have their studio class in, made up of seven students and the one professor who hand picks them all, and are still chatting away about anything but the next hour of intense musical analysis and scrutiny from their peers (except for Lily, who is chewing on her nails and can feel a sore on her heel from wearing her Mary Jane’s one too many days in a row), when Remus stops abruptly. He points to the door of the classroom, closed with the sign in McGonagall’s cursive that reads Private Meeting - Piano Students Only!, and shushes Dorcas’ trailing off words to give way to the sound of music emitting softly from the room.
Someone’s playing in there, Lily realizes immediately, her eyes widening in shock. The rules of who is permitted in the room, and when they are allowed to start playing (not a moment before 6:30, or when everyone is quietly seated — whichever comes first), have evidently been broken.
“Is it McGonagall?” Dorcas asks in a whisper, looking between Lily and Remus with just as much disbelief.
“No way,” Lily mutters. She listens for a second more, hears the telltale crescendo and the octave-stretched melody going up to its peak, then stepping steadily down again. “It’s Papillons. She’s not known for playing Schumann.”
“No,” Remus agrees.
They wait with bated breath for a second more, huddling much too close to the door to try to elucidate any information about this mysterious rule-breaker and their captivating piece. There is a playfulness with which they coax the melody from the waltz, an emotion that shines through in every crescendo. Lily hums along to it unconsciously, Dorcas taps her foot, and Remus’ brow is furrowed in deep concentration. At the sound of approaching footsteps on the other side (while the piece continues on, into its second movement), they all jump back and try to appear as though they are just now happening upon the quizzical scene.
“Hello, students!” Professor McGonagall opens the door and ushers them in in a sweeping gesture, an uncharacteristic smile on her face.
They offer meek greetings in return, for the pianist has abruptly cut off at their arrival and turned to face them. He shuffles with the paper score for a moment before matching McGonagall’s smile, and raises a hand in greeting — none the wiser about Lily’s mounting confusion, or the tension from the oddity of it all. He’s tall, even while sitting on the bench, and decidedly does not look like a member of the piano studio. His muscles, obvious even beneath his deep red sweater that complement his tan skin and hazel eyes, suggest that he might play rugby. And his grin, friendly but with a touch of brazenness, does not at all match the ubiquitous feeling of dread that often accompanies meeting an entire group of people. Immediately, entirely, Lily realizes that she does not understand him.
“This is—” McGonagall begins.
“—James?!” Remus finishes. If the situation could possibly get any stranger, Remus is beaming and closing the gap to pull this stranger (James, apparently) into a hug. They part after a brief moment, breathless and giddy, while Lily looks to Professor McGonagall with widened eyes. She wants to laugh in shock, but finds herself failing to grasp onto any words.
“He’ll be joining us for piano studio as a new major in the program,” she explains. “Come sit, now, everyone, and we’ll have more of a formal introduction when the rest of the group arrives.”
Myriad questions flood Lily’s mind as she takes her usual seat, evidently next to James now, at the end of the semi-circle of chairs sat close to the piano. She wonders why he was not at last week’s rehearsal, why she’s never heard word about a new student joining, why Remus and him are going on like they’re old friends (they must be, she thinks), why Dorcas is still so quiet. All of these thoughts float in her mind, creating a cacophony that is hard to quiet — even when the four others have trickled in, and found similar fascination with James as they take their seats. He’s still wearing the smile that she’s, inexplicably, infuriated by — conventionally handsome as he is, he seems so confident, and it irks her.
While the chatter dies down she catches his eye from where he’s sitting casually in his chair, legs stretched and crossed in front of him. She’s sitting upright, nearly stiff, mentally practicing for this posture that she must hold the entire time she struggles through the Gottschalk. His smile softens as she gives him a sidelong, trying-to-be-kind-but-instead-looking-incredulous glance in return.
“I’m James Potter,” he stretches his hand out, sitting up more fully to do so. The chair creaks beneath him, hers shifts with a squeak on the floor as she turns to shake his hand briefly. “Your name…?”
“Lily,” she says. His palm is warm, his grip strong, then gone in an instant. She lets her hands twist together in her lap, as they’ve been doing since she sat down. “Uh, Lily Evans.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Lily. I’ve always liked them.”
“Always liked—?” She raises her eyebrows as her confusion mounts again.
“Oh!” James laughs at himself, taking her confusion and momentary embarrassment in stride. “Lillies, I mean. They’re beautiful.”
“Yeah,” she smiles in spite of herself. Then, muttering nearly out of his earshot, “I’ve never much cared for them. Dates always assume I want them as a gift, but I prefer zinnias.”
“Zinnias,” James repeats. “Noted.”
She doesn’t know exactly why he’s noting her words, or why the notion is making her blush, but their attentions are abruptly diverted with McGonagall taking her place in front of the students and clearing her throat. All conversation ceases in an instant, and they look at the professor expectantly — waiting for the formal introduction of James to the class, and (more importantly) waiting for her to announce who is up to play first.
“Joining us this semester is James Potter, a new piano performance major who is in his first year of the program—” Same age, same program as me, Lily thinks. “—He’ll be up first to play Robert Schumann’s Papillons, followed by Lily Evans with Louis Moreau Gottschalk’s The Dying Poet. If time allows, Caradoc Dearborn will play Claude Debussy’s Deux Arabesques. Please prepare your comments to deliver after each performance.”
Lily’s gaze remains fixed onto the piano even as Professor McGonagall takes her seat beside the bench, willing herself to not remain distracted by James’ presence (casual as ever, even as he bows before the class and sets his sheet music up), his transfixing piece, and instead mentally preparing herself for the moment she’ll have to deliver a performance of her own.
*
The Gottschalk is fine. Her comments are fine. Everything is fine, actually, and that might just be the problem in all of it.
She learns more about her life (or, rather, what will become of it) in studio class that early spring Thursday evening than she does about anything musical — her tone, the character of the piece, the way the melancholic ending is just waiting to shine through if only she puts more confidence into it. All of the comments, the nerves of her performance, fall to the wayside when she reads Dorcas’ note scratched in the margins of her analysis of each performance: James Potter is the son of Fleamont Potter, the pianist for the London Symphony Orchestra and the group’s favorite in all of the recordings they listen to.
It explains the girl’s stunned silence, it explains why Remus knows him (from a pre-university conservatory, where all of pianists with the best talent — and most money — go), it explains how James manages to be so at ease as he plays through Papillons and takes all of their criticism in infuriatingly casual stride. What it does not explain, though, is why she feels something tender rise in her chest when he wishes her a good night and heads the opposite way home from her and her friends. She cannot comprehend why any ounce of herself would be feeling anything short of disdain for him — a rich prick, effortlessly talented, waltzing in (both literally and metaphorically) to trample all over the precarious mess that is her life. Fortunately she can stamp this strange mix of feelings down and wave back, offering a farewell of her own and letting all thoughts of him subside for the rest of the walk home.
She has enough else to worry about, enough else to make her feel like the world has tilted one degree (or several) too far. She does not need another weight on her shoulders — especially not when, attached to the weight, is a boy with crooked glasses and an expensive sweater who plays Schumann’s piece better than she’s ever heard it.