Work Text:
Carkitt Market, just off of Diagon Alley, was bustling this last Saturday in November, the first holiday season since Harry had defeated Voldemort. Hermione pulled her balaclava down over her ears again, cursing the hair that kept the hat from sitting down like everyone else’s. The crowd was huge and pulsing, with wizards, witches and children running all about the place, desperate to enjoy this first holiday season without fear in years.
The market reminded her a bit of the Leadenhall in muggle London. Carkitt was a breezy hall, open to the elements on both sides with charms to keep out the weather and a domed ceiling overhead that let the sun shine in in good weather. The shops had tall windows and ceilings, with stairs and walkways perched precariously on the facings to get to the first floor. If they hadn’t been held up by magic Hermione would never have dared to set foot on one.
Her destination today was up on the first floor. Concordia and Plunkett Musical Instruments. Gladrags filled the ground floor, with the photography studio on the left side above it and the music shop on the right. The music shop was slightly dilapidated with peeling paint and grey windows. The steps creaked dangerously under her feet and shuddered as she climbed.
As she entered the shop a small bell tinkled above her head and the rows and racks of instruments extended into a huge wizard-expanded space inside. The floor had a springy and threadbare feel to it universal of music stores worldwide. Brass instruments crowded the left side of the shop next to the windows, then woodwinds and the strangest assortment of magic-enhanced instruments she’d seen. The right side of the shop began with the smallest and most delicate stringed instruments to guitars, cellos and the upright bass. The centre of the shop was littered with drum kits, pianos and, for some strange reason, self-inflating bagpipes.
A small boy was having a raucous argument with his mother, insisting on the elven-made viola rather than a violin and an amused elderly gentleman was watching with interest from behind the register. He was, perhaps, in his eighties, but it was so hard to tell with older wizards. His eyes lit up as his gaze fell on her, leaving behind the argument between child musician and parent that he must have seen thousands of times in his career.
“Miss Granger! I’m Cecil Plunkett, welcome!” He reached out to grasp her hand and she felt the callouses that covered his palm and fingers. His grip was firm and cool, expertly pressed, as one could expect from a musician. “I didn’t know you played an instrument, or are we here to arrange lessons?”
She felt her cheeks colour. “Here to arrange lessons, but not for me.”
“As a gift?” His eyes danced. “For whom, and what kinds of lessons? I have musicians who could work with a wide range of students.”
“That’s the issue, Mr. Plunkett. I’m looking for a teacher for my parents. They both played piano, but, with their memory issues, they’re having difficulty playing.” She toyed with the fringe of her scarf, trying to decide how honest to be. “I obliviated them just before seventh year. They haven’t played since and their mindhealer thinks it would be a good idea.”
“Ah.” Cecil sat back on his stool, lost in thought. “So you need a musician that would be comfortable teaching muggles. How proficient were they?”
“Quite.” Hermione said quietly. “They were good with their hands.”
He tapped his fingers against the counter. “How often are you looking for lessons?”
“Every day for a half hour or so each, so an hour a day. The mindhealers think the routine would be good for them.”
“I have someone who could fit them in.” Cecil said slowly. “He insists on working under a glamour, and in general only with non magical people, squibs and the like. But he is the best. I taught him myself. His cost is five galleons an hour, donated to the war orphans fund.”
“You mean he doesn’t get paid himself?”
“No. No he doesn’t.”
Hermione thought it over. “Does he know muggle music? Because they don’t know any magical work.”
At that Cecil winked at her. “I’ll let him know, but so many of the old masters were magical. Mozart, for example, taking that deaging potion and confounding a muggle to act the part of his father.” He chortled with good humour, and Hermione felt herself warming up to him. “Don’t worry. I don’t think he’s met a musical he didn’t love. Spent half his early adolescence in the muggle theatre. When would you like to meet him?”
“Would tomorrow be too soon?”
“Monday?” Cecil consulted a giant agenda on the back counter, flipping the pages back and forth for a long moment. “Would ten in the morning suit? Same availability each day if you start then.”
Hermione gave him a grateful smile. “Be sure to tell him my parents love show tunes from musicals. We can meet at the Costa Coffee around the corner from their flat.”
They made the arrangements with Hermione paying for a week’s worth of lessons up front. Apparently she’d pay for the next week every Friday after lessons, so long as they both suited each other. When she’d asked who she should look for, Cecil had given her a secretive little smirk that reminded her of someone else, though she hadn’t been able to put her finger on who.
“Don’t worry, Miss Granger, he knows who you are.” His lips quirked. “And he loves show tunes.”
******
He was early. Hermione liked that. She’d seen him as he entered and nearly glided over to the counter to order. Tall, with light brown hair and perfectly ordinary features, dressed in tailored slacks with a dark peacoat and a satchel over one shoulder, he’d ordered a small black coffee then walked quickly towards her table. He was lean and carried himself well.
“Granger.” He extended a hand. “I’m Paul Harrison.” His fingers, just like Cecil’s, were long and coated in calluses. “Shall we get going?”
She started. “You don’t want to talk or…”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’ve been engaged for music lessons, nothing else.”
How frustrating. But Cecil was, apparently, the very best according to her research, and any personal student of his was usually snatched up by an orchestra. That this Paul was not and had such availability was quite unusual. His accent was very high class, though, so perhaps his parents had been able to pay Cecil enough to overlook their offspring’s lack of musicality.
“Fine.” She slid out of her seat and gestured to the street. They walked quickly, Hermione leading the way. Her parents’ flat was only a few blocks away. “Cecil said you liked musicals?”
Paul snorted, but nodded curtly.
“You might need to play one for my mother. She’s not exactly keen on this plan.”
At that, finally, the ghost of a smile played over Paul’s features. “Is that so, Granger?”
Hermione shrugged. “The mindhealer was insistent that this was a good idea. I wiped their memories before I went on the run, and it unfortunately took their memories of music too. They’re hoping that learning again will unlock some of their other memories.”
Paul nodded. “I need a list of the musicals you know they’ve seen, and anything you know they’ve played before.”
“Alright.” Hermione replied quietly. “This is their block.”
It was a handsome block of flats. Her parents had half the ground floor, with a nice bit of garden and patio that was partially covered and shaded by the first floor above it. Their door had a handsome holly wreath on it and Hermione knocked twice.
Her mother had answered the door. Her mouth pressed down in a thin line as she spun away from the doorway. “Hugh! They’re here!”
Paul looked at her curiously, his knuckles white on his paper coffee cup and Hermione shrugged, trying to be casual. “They haven’t forgiven me for obliviating them.”
“Ah,” his features rearranged themselves into vague interest again and they entered the flat. Paul’s eyes lit up as they took in the battered upright that Hermione remembered being forced to sit at every day for practice until her parents finally accepted that she had no musical talent whatsoever. Appreciation, yes. Talent, no.
Paul moved over to the bench seat quickly, lifting the lid and setting his coffee atop it. He played a quick scale before pulling a tuning fork out of his coat pocket and quickly checking the pitch of the notes. He started playing a few warmup scales and descents, practice pieces that Hermione remembered from her own childhood.
“Are you muggleborn too?” she asked, leaning up against the side of the piano.
His smile faded and he frowned up at her. “No. Much of the music is the same for beginners, though.” He made a quick gesture with his nose towards the doorway to the kitchen, where Hermione’s mother had moved to, listening as his fingers rang up and down the keys.
Paul took a deep breath and began to play. “One song, glory, one song, before I go, glory, one song to leave behind.” His voice was in the tenor range, and she found herself following along as he smiled, ghosting over the piano with his nimble fingers and filling the house with music. She was distracted as her father moved up behind her mother with a chair from the dining room, arranging it next to the piano bench and shooing her into the seat. Her father leaned onto the back of the seat, a smile moving across his face.
They’d missed the music.
“Find, one song, a song about love, glory, from the soul of a young man, a young man.” Paul’s eyes crinkled up at her. “Find, the one song, before the virus takes hold, glory, like a sunset, one song, to redeem this empty life.”
Hermione felt her heart flutter. He was good. Very good. He finished the song, then looked over his other shoulder at her parents with a winsome smile. “Who’s first?”
******
It was nearly eleven and Hermione hastened her steps. It was only a week until Christmas and Paul had sent a note to her office at the ministry saying that he would no longer be teaching her parents after that day’s lesson.
What could possibly have gone wrong?
First to her parent’s flat, then to wherever she could find Paul to wring his neck. When she came to lunch on Saturdays they couldn’t stop talking about him.
He was so sweet. Kind. Funny. A wry sense of humour.
And single!
They’d tried to keep him in their flat until Hermione had arrived for lunch the previous Saturday. He’d met her at the door, his eyes slightly wild, sliding past her quickly with a quick “Granger”. This had resulted in a lecture from Hermione to her parents about sexual harassment in the workplace and how they had to leave Paul alone.
She sighed. They hadn’t taken her breakup with Ron very well but trying to force her together with the piano teacher was beyond the pale.
This one, they’d promised her, was as well-read as she and he knew music so they’d at least have something to talk with him about.
When she arrived at the flat the music was pouring out the door as her father answered, with a finger across his lips, a grin on his face as though he’d found someone who hung the moon. She could hear Paul singing.
“I’d meet a man and I’d follow him blindly, he’d snap his fingers and me, I’d say sure.”
Her mother came in, her voice strong and sure. “Suddenly, Seymour is standing beside me. He don’t give me orders he don’t condescend. Suddenly, Seymour is here to provide me with sweet understanding. Seymour’s my friend!”
They descended into giggles as Paul looked over. His eyes widened, but he gestured gracefully with his hand. “Granger.” It hadn’t been him playing. It had been her mother. Her mother’s fingers stilled on the keys. Paul cleared his throat. “It was quite easy to bring them back up to speed on the piano. Just reteaching, really. Your parents are ready to do their practising on their own without an expensive teacher. I’ve left some workbooks for them.” He shifted his weight one way and another. “I’ll be going then.”
He smiled pleasantly at her parents, then bowed slightly to her. “It’s been a pleasure, but my skills aren’t needed here any more. Have a good evening.” He hastily picked up his satchel. Then he turned to her parents. “You truly are remarkable muggles.” He nodded at Hermione and disapparated.
Lunch had been tense.
Apparently they’d been talking Hermione up to Paul and had been heavily hinting that he should ask her out. They’d been quite put out that neither had done so. The loud conversation they’d had about ‘what a nice time those two young people would have had’ was annoying at best and teeth-grindingly upsetting at worst.
******
It was January before she ran into Paul again. Luna had persuaded Hermione to go shopping along Diagon and they’d made their way into Carkitt Market again. Hermione always liked to go past the House-Elf placement agency and Luna wanted to pop by the Owl Post Office to mail some twigs. She insisted they were divining rods that her father needed to find the crumple-nosed snortflat and Hermione just smiled and went along for moral support. Sometimes postal employees took Luna a little bit too seriously.
Today Luna was not only wearing her radish earrings and cork necklace but also her swirly glasses.
The sign next to the battered upright outside of Gladrags was advertising piano lessons and Paul was seated on the bench, long fingers running up and down the keys as he played some complicated piece that Hermione would have had no idea of how to even begin.
“Cousin!” She dodged through the crowd, barrelling up to Paul from behind and clamping around his waist. Paul’s face broke out into a grin as he turned to hug her back. He was certainly more handsome than his blandness would suggest when he looked at Luna. She tucked her head into his shoulder. “I’ve missed you.”
Paul grinned back indulgently at Luna. “It’s nice to see you again.” His eyes flickered up to Hermione and he went pale, his smile pressing down until his lips were a thin line across his face. “Granger.”
“I didn’t know you were related to Luna.”
He looked supremely uncomfortable. “Almost all magical families are related somehow.”
She tried to smile at him but he had stood up and was closing the piano. He stood awkwardly for a moment before he turned on his heel, his long legs taking him up the steps towards Concordia and Plunkett.
Hermione tipped her head to the side, watching as the shop door swung closed behind him before looking back to Luna. “He’s strange, isn’t he?”
“Not so strange. He didn’t like the war, you see.” Her voice was as floaty as Hermione had ever heard it. “He had to do a lot of things he disagreed with. But he did them.” She smiled. “Do you think I’ll have to pay extra for the magic in these rods, or do you think that they’ll be stable enough that the post office won’t be worried?”
“Luna, what do you mean ‘had to do a lot of things he disagreed with’? Was he a Death Eater?” Hermione’s voice, though quiet and only meant for Luna, was getting shrill.
Luna nodded unhappily. “He had to live with Voldemort for nearly two years. I’m surprised he came out as sane as I am. I was in that dungeon for almost four months and it was not a comfortable experience.”
Hermione stared up at the music shop, trying to reconcile the young man her parents had described. The one who loved the piano and musical theatre. “Did he go to Hogwarts?”
“Draco?” Luna’s forehead scrunched up. “You know he did.”
“Draco?” Hermione felt as though the ground had been pulled out from under her. “That’s Paul Harrison. He’s a piano teacher.”
“I know. He taught me just before I started Hogwarts. He’d pop by during the breaks for lessons.”
Hermione sat down on the piano bench. Draco Malfoy the Death Eater. He hated muggles. Yet he’d spent a few weeks giving her parents back their music. Her parents LOVED him. He’d only ever been polite and kind to them. Their mindhealer was thrilled with their progress.
Luna pulled her up and pushed her towards the staircase. Hermione’s foot hit the first stair and Luna called out from behind her. “I’ll just post this and meet you up there.”
The stairs creaked just as much the second time. Were just as wobbly and they matched her feet. Cecil was just where she’d found him that first day and his smile was sly as she glared at him. “I take it from his quick appearance and you following that you’ve discovered who I sent?” His eyebrows raised. “You can’t truly be upset for a Slytherin for following his nature, can you?” He crinkled into a smile and flipped a small switch on the register and the music from the practice room filled the shop.
“The past is holding me, Keeping life at bay, I wander lost in yesterday, Wanting to fly, But scared to try.”
“I remember,” said Cecil thoughtfully, “taking him to see Jekyll and Hyde in June. 1990. It was expensive to portkey to Texas but his parents just paid my bill without a lot of consternation or quibbling. Music was the only activity he ever chose. He’s excellent.”
Hermione’s voice was tight and controlled, brimming with anger. “Do you know what he did?”
“I do,” said Cecil firmly. “I also know that he was bent and broken by his father and, though he spent time within the Death Eaters, he came out the other side having never taken a life. All great artists suffer, you know.”
The notes faltered, there was a soft curse and the song started again from the beginning.
“I think he’s living with enough regret, don’t you?” asked Cecil, his lips pursing. “It’s hard to hide away when you see people you admire being brave. I hear he fought against Voldemort in the second half of the battle. Left Goyle stunned and body bound on the seventh floor and took out Yaxley in the Great Hall.”
“I’d heard that.”
Cecil pointed to a short hallway behind himself and raised an expectant eyebrow. “He’s in practice room three.”
The music followed her and surrounded her as she walked down the threadbare hallway.
“Oh, if someone like you, Found someone like me, Then suddenly, Nothing would ever be the same. My heart would take wing and I'd feel so alive, If someone like you loved me.”
His voice faltered as she opened the door. Draco Malfoy stood up from the piano so quickly that the stool he was sitting on fell to the floor with a clatter and he scowled at her. “Granger.”
“My parents loved your lessons.”
His face softened slightly. “They are quite good. I hear that one of the few things that you refused to practise as a child was the piano. Not enough reading reading in reading music.”
“I hear you are very good.”
His breath caught. “Perhaps.” He stretched his fingers at his sides, shifting slightly, twitching his sleeves down. “Was there something you wanted?”
“I’d like to ask you out for coffee.” She leaned against the door. “I’m wondering who the teacher I hired for my parents is.”
Draco stared at her, his mouth working without a sound for a moment before he collected himself. “Are you having me on?”
“No.”
“Just coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“According to my parents you may be the only person in the world, aside from myself, who has read James Joyce’s Ulysses for fun.”
He wrinkled his nose, the light catching his grey eyes and glinting off his hair, and the corner of his mouth twitched up. “Alright Granger,” he said softly. “You’re on.”