Pianissimo | Ominis Gaunt x F!MC

To Begin

Inizio

(Beginning)

The ancient musings of poets long past always went on and on about music. About how songs, with a special magic of their own, could weave themselves into memories and emotion, tugging at heartstrings like nothing else could.

Sentimental drivel, in Ominis Gaunt's opinion.

It was pure necessity that drove him up to the Music Room, situated high above the rest of Hogwarts. Ominis had unfortunately arrived on time. As soon as he stepped out of the family Thestral Carriage—sore, reeling, and dry-mouthed—Ominis heard the distant sounds of mingling and socialisation just behind the castle walls.

Ominis wasn't ready for it. He wasn't ready to mingle, to catch up, to compare schedules. He certainly wasn't prepared for the inevitable interrogation the Sallows would jump him with in the Undercroft after all the letters he'd missed. Ominis was glad to share the space—really he was—but tonight, he just needed to find somewhere quiet. Somewhere else.

Ominis lingered by the Music Room's entrance. This particular room had the tendency to ring, even if it was empty, probably borne from its carefully-constructed acoustics. He hadn't been here since first year when music lessons were mandatory. Still, it smelled the same: old parchment, varnish, and something sweet that might have been rosin.

Ominis inhaled slowly. The pain in his chest lessened by the smallest measure.

He hadn't meant to find the piano. It had, rather infuriatingly, found him. Ominis let his wand lead him further into the room. He was hoping to find a quiet corner in which to open his trunk, change into his uniform, and compose himself until the Welcome Feast began.

Instead, he rammed his sore, aching side against the side of the piano.

"Merlin's sagging—"

The piano only growled its reply: a low, grating sound.

Ominis grumbled under his breath. Trying to ignore the pain blooming along his ribs, he skimmed his fingers over seemingly endless rows of ivory keys. The piano, in his opinion, was an instrument that insisted on itself. Why did it have to be so large? Take up so much room? Why couldn't it be nice, small, and sensible, like a violin?

Ah, but she'd loved it.

The memory came unbidden. She'd had one of her own: an upright, tucked beside the fireplace in her secret cottage. Even at seven years old, Ominis had thought it ridiculous. She'd barely had room for her bed.

But then Aunt Noctua played him a lullaby, and he'd learnt to love it.

Aunt Noctua. Ominis hadn't thought of her in years, not since Father had first informed him of her death. She'd been the only good, gentle thing in his life–until she wasn't.

Slowly, Ominis sat down. He skimmed his fingers over the keys. Ominis could almost hear her voice in the back of his mind: warm, teasing, utterly incapable of cruelty.

Go on, duck. Just make a little noise.

The starting note stumbled out after a few false tries. Then another. Then another. Every wrong note seemed to ring louder than the last. His teeth ground together with each discordant chord. His heart thudded against his ribs, each sour note grating against his very bones.

When the final jarring clash of notes became unbearable, Ominis swore, rose to his feet, and slammed the piano lid shut with a bang loud enough to wake the whole castle.

Brilliant, he thought sourly.

And that was, of course, exactly the moment when someone clapped.