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a shorter chapter, 5740 words
vote, comment, and enjoy :)
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FEBRUARY 15TH, 1997
The keys don't feel the same.
I don't typically like touching them more than I have to. The ivory is old and one of a kind, and though magic can restore it, there is nothing like an original set, and there is nothing like greedy fingers that can tarnish it. I don't let my fingers drag, I don't press harder than necessary, and I never touch them if I'm not playing them.
But they don't feel the same, and so I stroke each key, play them over and over again, feel the demarcations between them, and I wonder what has changed.
Because not only do they feel different, they sound different. I can still feel the noise my piano emits wrapping it's tendrils around me—tangling with the crevices of my heart, interlocking with my magical core, tugging on every fiber of my being—but it isn't so full of life. I used to feel life pouring from my fingertips and translating into the melody, and the notes would fuel right back into me through my ears, but ever note played is flat and dead. And yet, I can't stop playing. I play softly, but I play without pause, eager for the moment it returns back to normal. I didn't have this beautiful, regal instrument transported to my dorm for this.
It's only a knock at my door that makes me stop.
Normally I'd ignore it. I couldn't care less about which first year forgot to skip the second step and has a broken leg at the bottom of the pit or whatever Prefectoral duties Im being summoned for. There's Pansy they can bother for that as well as the two fifth year and two seventh year Prefects.
But it's half past three in the morning. Who could need me at three in the morning?
And so my hand pause right where they are on the keys, trembling slightly with the thick, tense power that flows back and forth between the ivory and my fingertips. It wants to tie me there, bound forever and sentenced to a lifetime of playing melancholy music and wondering when the life to it will return, but I pull away and come to a stand.
I glance at the back of the armchair in front of my piano before turning on my heel and walking to the door. I open it to reveal Celeste standing there, though she's looking down the hall with a tentative frown.
My eyebrows furrow instantly. I give her a quick scan, taking in the baggy sweatpants she wears, the worn out Quidditch jersey, the state her hair is in, and the red veins on her eyes. And most importantly, the massive bottle of Firewhiskey in her hand.
