She feels the reverberations…

For as long as she could remember she always felt as the odd one out. The girl with so many brothers that played with her, loved her and made her cry. In the beginning, they protected her and always watched out for her, until they all left for school or started on their own lives. Then she was all alone. She had no one to talk to except her parents. She didn’t have anyone to talk to about how lonely she was. No one to talk about how angry and frustrated she felt about how poor she was. No one to tell that she didn’t like having second hand robes and hand me down toys, that nothing she had was hers but only a few books and clothes. No on to talk to about how she hated being teased as the people she used to talk to were the ones tormenting her, even though they never meant any harm. There was no outlet.

The taut strings beneath her callused fingers.

She found her solace in the few books she had, getting lost in the worlds that were created. Romances that were fought for, intriguing mystery and adventure held in high esteem. She was captivated and breath taken, but the few books she had wasn’t enough.

So she steeled herself and spent her days creating illusions for herself in which she immersed herself in thoroughly. Forgetting all about The Burrow and her family. It was just herself and her Utopia.

Her body gets used to, and gains comfort from, the hard contours.

Then she to went off to Hogwarts. She felt nervous and excited at the same time and kept to herself. She was used to being in the background though, just known as another Weasley. She didn’t mind it a lot though, she came to realise she cherished her solitude at times but it still didn’t make the feelings of loneliness go away. In fact, it was even lonelier. Her brothers were all with their friends and enjoying themselves that they barely paid any attention to her. She could talk to Hermione but she was always with her brother and Harry. She craved for a friendship like that but it wasn’t easy for her to get it. No one understood her. One day, she looked amongst her books in her trunk and found a leather bound book, empty with cool, smooth pages. She looked at it and took her quill and dipped it in ink. She cleared her mind and began to write, never stopping for a moment until she got everything she wanted written down. She looked at it with a small smile and to her utter dismay, saw the carefully scrawled words, disappear.

Her hand grips the bow lightly and she splays her fingers.

She became astonished when the book complimented her and introduced himself as Tom. Tom Riddle. She had taken to him instantly and confided in him more often than she should have, bringing the book with her everywhere. She felt powerless and loved the way she was paid such attention and showered with compliments. She managed to lose herself in it and her storybooks were shoved in the back burner. Then terrible occurrences wrecked through her and she felt worse than ever before and tried to pull out of it. She did eventually, but at such a price. Writing was somewhat painful now and it shattered her, as she wanted nothing of that painful recollection.

She waits and takes a deep breath…

She started having nightmares and it hurt her every single time. She remembered the way she was used and how torn apart everything came to be. She could talk to no one about it, not her parents, her brothers or what so-called friends she had. She couldn’t write anymore and reading anything was fraught with painful reminders. She could only keep it all in and cry herself to sleep. She fought for her solitude fiercely and became more reclusive. Her father’s heart ached to see the jewel of his eye no longer shining with brilliance. She never smiled anymore and scarcely talked to any of them and he knew that she cried herself to sleep. He couldn’t help her and that more often than not broke his heart and he felt the dark deep weight that she carried burdened onto his own shoulders. He didn’t know what to do. Out of the blue one day, he got a call from the Ministry to get down to a certain Mr. Malone’s music shop to seize his instruments. He apparently had all his instruments enchanted so that they wouldn’t last very long even though they produced the best sounds. So the muggle customers kept going back to his shop to buy instruments from him. With heavy thoughts still on his mind he went and did his job effortlessly with a few others assigned in his department. Everything was rounded up and Mr. Malone was fined heavily. They were still packing up the vast number of instruments Mr. Malone had when he turned and something caught his eye. It was beautiful, the curves it had and the heavily scented wood shone. His hand brushed over it and he fell in love with it and he knew just what to do with it. Instead of handing it over to the department, he shrunk it and placed in his robe pocket and set off for home when everything was done and over with, leaving Mr. Malone’s shop empty and a sign swinging that said: Closed.

String meets string in joyful harmony and she exhales.

That night he spent all of it in the garage, taking off the enchantments that were placed on the beautiful instrument and checked it out for every single, hex and curse he could think off. He experimented with it and he could find nothing wrong with it at all. He smiled. He placed his own charms and enchantments on it, to keep it safe, durable and in good condition. It was early morning when he finished and he went up to her room to surprise her. He watched her sleep for a while, knowing that she had merely a few minutes of peace. He hoped that this would help. He was desperate to see his little girl back again the way she was. When she woke up, she stretched lazily with a huge yawn and smiled when she saw her father. Before presenting her with her gift though, he gave her a hug and fought to keep the tears that were threatening to spill. Swallowing, he told her that he had something special. Her eyes gleamed for a moment but went back to its dull state, not wanting to get her hopes up. He brought the instrument in and she gasped at it. Her eyes flickered over every inch of the polished wood and strings, taking small steps toward it, and bent down to examine in, touching it with hesitancy. She looked to her father who smiled broadly and handed her the bow. She didn’t realise she was holding her breath as her eyes trailed over the body of the instrument. It was beautiful and it was hers. Hers alone and nobody else’s. It wasn’t a hand me down nor was it second hand but new and it was hers. When her father left the room, happy with her response, she expelled the air from her lungs.

Her fingers fly over the long and graceful neck as she feels, she lets loose and feels…

During the rest of that summer, she lost herself to the cello. She learnt every single feel and movement that collaborated to form a single sound, by ear and painstaking practice. She didn’t give up but forged ahead as she learnt the language that formed an electric harmony that made her feel whole. She felt better than before, not minding the callused fingers but appreciating them as they told a story. The weight was lifted off her shoulders and her father smiled at the collective glow that radiated from her. His jewel began to shine once more, with an even brighter light than before. She played day and night; it was her call of joy, her lullaby and her feelings. She always played with her eyes closed, so her fingers feel just a bit more, so that she can hear a bit better and for her to remember each and every sound.

The bow moves back and forth in rapid fluidity.

She takes her cello to school with her every year since then, knowing that it will help her. She plays only for herself and no one else. Finding an empty room and placing a silencing charm around it or in her dorm when every one leaves, she locks the door and lets loose. The pleasure she gets from playing stays with her, boosting her confidence as she smiles a bit more at everybody, making conversation. She transcends beauty in her radiance and everybody looks at her differently. She is still quiet at times though and enjoys her solitude but she observes more of everyone around her, listening and watching, but she fails to see one that looks at her intently from across the room.

Her hands never get tired of playing. From her earlier slow start, it grows intense and speeds up considerably…almost frantic.

She had one of those terribly bad days. Snape insulted her as always, her bag had split, making her ink bottles crash and make a mess over her homework and she was late for Transfiguration, earning her a detention and a swipe at the Gryffindor house points as the ink had smashed onto her Transfiguration essay. Added on was the fact that she didn’t have a clue what was happening in Professor Binn’s class and she forgot that she had a test on charms as she was so worked up over her damned potions homework. Ah the doldrums. She needed to release her worries or she knew she was going to end up with a full blown migraine and she knew she wouldn’t be able to get herself to Madam Pomfrey’s.

Her breathing becomes ragged as the notes become sharper.

She turned to look at her beloved instrument and shrunk it down to size and placed it in her robe pocket, just like her father taught her. She walked hurriedly almost jogging to the other end of the castle where there was a huge window with box seats and turned to her right where there was a door that blended in with the wall. She knew nobody came to this room as she had been using it all these years. It was a wonderful room, it wasn’t very big, filled with only but a few chairs. For four years this was her hideaway, to which she spent time within her world. This time, she was excited to play and was careless as she didn’t place the silencing charm and the door is left slightly ajar. She brings her cello out of her pocket and returns it back to its normal size and adjusts herself and takes a deep breath. She only exhales when she starts playing and her eyes flutter to a close as she feels the familiar taut strings beneath her fingers, vibrating with its soulful language. She moves with her music and feels the emotions draining from her. She doesn’t notice the boy that has been watching her come in through the door and stare at her with surprise and appreciation. She hears nothing but her music as his feet shuffles across the floor her and sits down directly in front of her. He watches as her flaming hair moves with her and it seems to be dancing, her eyes closed in concentration and her fingers moving deftly with smooth precision. He watches her parted lips as they gasp for air and a pleasurable smile crosses it. Her playing grows faster and faster and he feels the music shake within him and stir something. He feels that if she plays any faster he might just burst. He is fascinated with the creature in front of him and his brow furrows at her intensity.

Her bow leaves the cello with a high soaring note and she slumps with a grin, eyes still closed.

She finishes and her chest heaves, she smiles with her eyes closed and leans back into the chair while he leans forward, waiting for her to open her eyes and when she does her mouth parts in shock as she looks into silver pools set on a pale face with smooth skin topped with blonde hair that sees almost white like an aureole. Her eyes widen as she studies him quickly, there is no sneer and there is no malice present in his eyes, just confusion and captivated interest. Her brandy coloured eyes flicker over him as he looks over her as well. They sit and stare at each other with much interest in silence and she smiles. She hugs her cello as he looks at her softly and he stands up to leave the room with a final glance back before he walks away. Usually she would be angry if anybody heard her play but it felt comfortable, for him to be just sitting there staring back at her with those eyes and so, it continued. He would come to listen to her everyday as she played with her eyes closed. He never said anything, never showered her with compliments other then that one time when he said that he loved the way she played. He merely paid attention to her and his eyes said everything for him. He never smiled but it was enough that she did.

Her eyes open, glazed with excitement and pure energy that shines.

She can feel his eyes on her and knows that he likes what he sees but also likes what he hears and what she thinks. He says her name like no other person and he listens quietly before bursting in with his own opinions, some of it sarcastic and cutting, some of it quite rude and some of it just soft and surprising. He is unpredictable at times and she likes it. He doesn’t overwhelm her with promises but she knows some things. She can read his eyes, even when he tries to mask them, like the way he can read hers. His touches are soft and lingering, his kisses passionate and his embraces chest tightening. Everything starts off slow and gentle but like her playing it ends up fast, frantic, deep and soaring. It goes on like this and she doesn’t mind this intrusion into her private solitude.

He understands.

She no longer plays for herself but for him as well. She still plays with her eyes closed but she is not alone as he is there in front of her, watching her. The harmony she creates, a song just for them in their Utopia as he whispers,

‘You are my instrument. I need you.’

He understands.

But he doesn’t know that while she needs the cello, she needs him even more.

He is her music.

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