Author's note: Don't own anything beside the plot and the prose. Characters belong to JKR and this entire thing was inspired by the beautiful and talented Abigail-Nicole's Piano, which can be found here (remove the spaces after the '.' and '/' marks): http:/ www. fanfiction. net/ s/ 2014074/ 1/ Piano

Reviews are nice.

Forte/Piano

He played the piano like a quick fuck with a girl he loved so much that he hated her.

He actually didn't like having to sit down at the bench and memorize songs, notes, chords, but he loved the satisfaction he felt when music was played well and there was rarely anyone around who could play piano better than he could. There had always been a smooth black piano in his house. His father had purchased it years before he was born, even though no one in his family played it at all before Draco.

At the tender age of four, Lucius had signed him up for piano lessons with a hook-nosed old man that had scared him. He had cried, hid, and kicked to escape the weekly lessons, but his father was a stubborn man with a heavy hand and very little remorse, and so for seven years, he never missed a lesson.

From the very beginning, even when he was only hitting at notes brokenly, his father would sit in a high-backed chair with his eyes closed and simply listen to Draco practice. He did not smile or give any other sign of approval, but every so often, he would stand behind Draco and watch his small son's fingers trace the keys. Once, Lucius had put a large hand on his shoulder. He winced, but his father had only said, "Even if you are sad, you'll always have the piano," But he didn't say it like he was talking to Draco. It was like he was talking to someone who only lived inside his head anymore.

At first, he hated the piano simply because his father loved it. After seven years, though, he hated the piano because he wasn't sure what he would do without it.

When he had arrived at Hogwarts, he found a great black monster in a dark room in the dungeons after weeks of searching. Its keys were yellow and brown with dust and it needed tuning, but Draco didn't care. He cleaned it out and straightened it up and then he sat down and began to play. He didn't play for his father or some demented sense of homesickness, he played because it was habit and because he didn't know what else to do.

In the winter of his fourth year, Pansy Parkinson was his first everything. In that empty room, they fumbled curious and awkward around their bodies with only the piano watching. Pansy had done things before, with Adrian Pucey, but it was the first time either of them had had actual sex. Afterward, when they were lying sweaty and mostly naked together on the floor, he was sure that he loved her and that they would be together forever. So he pulled back the bench and played the piano for her while she pulled her knickers and skirt back on over her socks. He played all the hope he had for their future, and even a little bit about the children he wanted to have with her some day. He played her everything about how he was scared of his father and how he always secretly worried his mother didn't want him. Mostly, though, he played how happy he was that they had each other.

"That was beautiful," She had said when he finished, "But have you seen my tie?" He knew then that she did not love him and so he could never love her, either. This truth made him so sad that he forgot how to breath.

He stayed with Pansy for the better part of a year after that, but never played the piano for her ever again, and she never asked him to. In the fall of his fifth year, he exchanged her for the gorgeous and odd Daphne Greengrass. "You have lovely hands," She had told him on the train ride to school, "They're thin but capable." He had laughed about this with his friends – Daphne was always saying weird things like that – but secretly, he loved that someone had noticed his hands. It made him want to show her more things that she could love about him.

Pansy had screamed and thrown things at him when she learned that he was dating Daphne. "Have fun," She spat bitterly, her eyes filled with tears and fury, "Hear she's a good shag, but she'll never love you like I did." But Draco did not care about these antics because he did not love Pansy and he knew that Pansy only loved how rich he was.

Pansy was right about Daphne: She had been a great shag, with unending legs and mouth that could do things he had never even fantasized. Their relationship, though, was almost exclusively physical, and that was for the best. Daphne said strange things and drew beautiful and sad pictures, mostly of birds and trees, but she never really loved anyone, not even herself.

"Sometimes I just want to disappear, you know, just get smaller and smaller and then disappear entirely," She had said one night while they were laying together in Draco's bed. The words had come seemingly from nowhere during a moment of sweaty satisfaction, at least on Draco's end.

"I don't want you to disappear," He had replied as kindly as he could, but she only laughed hollowly, and rolled as far across the bed as she could. He felt cold where her body had pressed against his.

"You'd forget about me before I was even completely gone, but what you want doesn't matter to me, anyway." She had said.

Draco knew that this should hurt to hear, but it didn't. It fascinated him, actually, how someone could say something so angry without yelling. That year, when he played the piano, he played mostly about her, but he never played for her. As far as she knew, his lovely, thin, capable hands were for many things, but not for the piano.

In the summer before his sixth year, he could not seem to play anything right. Maybe it was because his father was in prison and that absence left a hole in life at the Manor. Maybe it was because the walls now crawled with Death Eaters and as much as he feared and respected the Dark Lord and the others, the air was suffocating wherever they went. Maybe it was because his left arm now hurt constantly and so his fingers couldn't move fast enough over the keys. Whatever the reason, the piano always sounded forced. It was still beautiful, but in a halting, choked way.

When he went back to Hogwarts, he returned to his piano (because it had to be his; who else used it?). Suddenly he could not play it enough, and he drummed his fingers against his legs in imaginary melodies under his desk in class. He dreamed about playing the piano. While he was fixing that damned cabinet, he hummed imaginary tunes to himself.

He was together with Pansy again, but there was no tenderness in their romance. Mostly, it was rough sex in deserted hallways, with snarls on their faces and their clothes still on. It felt like she only wanted to hurt him, and he only wanted to make someone else pay, for a change.

When he played the piano this year, it was all crashing chords and the angry notes reverberating loudly around the walls. He liked to think that it sounded like destruction.

In the winter, though, when he had heard that his plan for the enchanted necklace had failed and the girl had been hurt, he wanted to apologize, but he did not know how to apologize except for on the piano. So, he played her a sad sonata that he made up as he went along. He told her that he was sorry for hexing her and he was sorry that she had gotten hurt. He even apologized to Dumbledore for what he would eventually do, although he was less sorry about that than he was about everything else. He was so focused on making a perfect apology that he didn't notice he was being watched until he slumped back on the stool with a sigh, his hands dead in his lap.

Someone behind him sniffed loudly in the doorway, and he whirled to see Hermione Granger wiping her sleeve across her eyes. Noting that she was unarmed and not even looking at him, he tucked his wand back into his robes and eyed her imperiously, daring her to say something, the filthy girl.

But she did not say anything. She simply sat there and cried with little hiccuping sobs. Draco did not know how to react to this and so he simply sat on the bench, watching her cautiously. When she had finally calmed down, she looked at him with eyes that were wide with honesty. "I didn't know you could play the piano like that." She said simply. "Oh," She brought a hand to her mouth, as if only just realizing who she was talking to, "I'm sorry for eavesdropping, only I was doing patrols you know and," She stopped awkwardly, "I'll just go."

Before he could respond, she had turned and sprinted from the door. By the time he had stumbled from the bench to look after her, the last echoes of her running footsteps were fading and the girl herself was gone.

For a week after this, he remembered to lock the door before he sat down to play the piano, but he had too much on his mind to remember this triviality forever. By late November, Hermione Granger had wandered down to his piano room again, and she was impossible to keep out.

She said, "You played the piano like you were angry at it." She was wearing a frown on her dark features.

"And what would you know about it, mudblood?" He sneered, hiding behind the knowledge that he was better than her and that was all that mattered.

He could have sworn that she physically got bigger at this, her puffy head expanding in indignation. She stalked toward him and for a moment, he worried that she would hit him again. Her hands shot toward him and he instinctively covered his face, but she reached farther than him and hit the piano instead.

She played a minuet he didn't recognize and she played it so softly and quickly that he had to stop moving to catch it. The message was unmistakable. I'm sorry you're unhappy, but don't take it out on me, because I have not hurt you, she played. She used three chords in the highest octave because it was the only one she could reach and he noticed how the tips of her fingers were stained indigo with ink. He glanced up at her face, and she stared lovingly at the piano.

"There." She humphed when she had finished, "I've been playing the piano since I was little and I know what I'm doing, so don't you dare bring your blood-purity rubbish into this." With that, she turned primly and marched out of the room with her nose in the air. He hadn't known that muggles had pianos.

Once her footsteps had faded, he stared down at the keys and murmured a cleaning spell before he touched it.

He went back to his room thinking about Granger's piece and was still thinking about it the next day, and so when he sat at the piano bench that evening, he played a response to it, utilizing the same three chords but much lower. He kept stopping in the middle, waiting for her to appear. But she did not come, and a little after midnight, he left the room feeling oddly disappointed.

She did not reappear for several days, but when she did, he was ready for her. As soon as he heard her soft footsteps across the floor (he hadn't realized he had been listening for them), he turned and looked pointedly at her before launching into the response- a fugue he began composing after her last visit. When he finished, he turned to see her reaction, and she was smiling grimly. She brought her hands together in quiet applause and he felt a wave of pride wash over him. No one had ever applauded his music before. For a moment, he did not care that she was a mudblood, or that she was Potter's best friend, or even that he was a Death Eater; he was simply proud that he had made something that someone else had liked and he loved that she had liked it.

She walked toward him. "Move over." She grinned, and he silently complied, gathering his robes so that they would not touch her (because no matter how much she might love the piano, she was still dirty and he did not want to touch her). A small frown registered the gap he placed between them, but then she launched into a new tune, something sadder than the last one she had played for him, but still optimistic. After a few lines, he joined her on the keys, his hands racing over the lower notes, darkening the melody. The song they played was something that was at once hopeful and bitter. The harmonies they played were frustratingly discordant, but there was still something brilliant about the way they disagreed.

After a dozen or so measures, she stopped and looked at him, disapproval on her features. "You still play like you're angry at everything."

"And you play like everything is perfect," He shot back. "Honestly, Granger, I can hardly hear you."

"That's because you play so loud!" She snapped, and ran her fingers over the keys. They fell into an unhappy silence and then Granger stood abruptly, "I should go." She said flatly.

"See you tomorrow," He drawled, trying not to sound hopeful but watching her face closely. She glared back at him, but nodded curtly. He was glad she didn't say anything. If she had, he would have been forced to say something scathing and he didn't really want to do that. He was too happy to have found someone else who knew how to play the piano to want to chase her away.

The next day, he could hear someone playing the piano before he even entered it, and to his surprise, he found Hermione playing something Christmas-y. She looked up at his as he entered, and he noticed her eyes warily searching his figure. He made a show of stowing his wand inside his robes and sat down on the bench beside her.

"Something's different about you." Pansy complained over dinner one night, glaring. He shrugged and talked to Blaise about Potions, but didn't really care about either of them. His mind was filled with music he wanted to play. Granger still insisted he played too loudly, and he still believed she didn't put enough conviction into her notes.

"Reckless," she had called him.

"Cowardly," he had replied.

"You're rushing along like you don't care what happens to anyone," She accused.

"And you're afraid to do something unexpected."

There were some nights when he had too much work to get down to the piano room, and there other nights when Hermione didn't show up, but more nights than not, they played together for hours, chasing each other up and down the keyboard, challenging tempos and throwing sharps and flats like insults.

Late December brought vacation and he returned to his parents' house. He hated being back there. He did not play the piano once the entire break, even though he thought about it all the time; the piano did not sound like it was built for one voice anymore.

When he returned to school in January, his first thought was of the piano room. Hermione did not return to it, though, until three nights after term had resumed. He had fretted terribly. Worried at first that something had happened to her over the vacation, he had looked desperately for her across the great hall at breakfast. When he saw her smiling and laughing with her friends, he was both relieved and insulted. Did this mean that Little Miss Muddy would no longer deign to play the piano with him? Well, fine. To hell with her, then. And he resolved not to think about her any more.

But he did think about her, and so for two more nights he slammed angrily against the keys, louder and more feckless than ever. On the third night, though, as he was pounding out a particularly biting crescendo, he felt a cool hand pulling his away from the notes. He looked up to see Hermione's face distorted in a grimace above him.

"I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner, but you don't need to get so worked up about it," She chided gently. He closed his hand around her fingers, his eyes glued to the keyboard.

"I missed you," He said quietly and he felt the delicate pressure of her fingers squeezing his.

"I missed you, too."

In late January, Pansy thumped her cup of tea into its saucer, sloshing liquid over the sides. "What on earth in wrong with you, Draco?" She demanded, her eyes flashing dangerously, "Is it some other girl? Tell me, what's the bint's name?"

He sipped his coffee calmly and didn't bother to respond.

The next day, he broke up with Pansy Parkinson for the second and last time while they were doing homework together in the common room. "Well, this time the joke's on you, Malfoy," She had sneered, "I've been screwing Nott for weeks."

He turned back to his potions essay and didn't bother to respond.

February came and he and Hermione vyed for control of tempo and for the first time in his life, he let someone else win. Hermione liked quick melodies and she enjoyed setting the pace, and so after putting up a small struggle (so it looked like he was trying), he would give her control, just to see the smile it would put on her face.

"I passed my apparition test!" She announced proudly one Monday evening, beaming at him as they settled on the bench.

"I'm proud of you," He said, and meant it. She leaned against him briefly and his heart sped up. Without thinking, he kissed her on the top of the bushy head.

On the first day March, Hermione didn't show up. On the second day March, she arrived looked pale and worn out.

"Ron's been poisoned," She said, and her eyes filled with tears. He knew who had poisoned Ron, but couldn't say that he was sorry that Weasel had gotten the potion meant for Dumbledore. He was only sorry that it hadn't killed him. He said nothing, only held Hermione against his chest while she shook with quiet sobs and secretly hated Ronald Weasely and Harry Potter.

When she had hiccuped herself back under control, she looked at the keys of the piano glumly and said, "I can't come here anymore."

He had expected this, but was not prepared for the way it made something empty out inside of him. "I know,"But he was still holding her to him. Just a moment longer, he thought, just one more moment and maybe it would be enough.

Finally, Hermione straightened up. "Well, goodbye," She said quietly, and his arm fell to her fingers, which he grasped briefly. Standing behind the bench, looking sadly into his face and still holding his hand, "I love you," She added, almost as a quick and quiet afterthought.

"I know," He said again, and dropped his hand to his side. After she had gone, he stared at the piano, but did not play.

For the rest of March, he was sure he was going mad. His mind was always filled with music – beautiful duets, contemplative sonatas, brooding fugues – but he could not bring himself to return to the piano room. While this gave him ample time to work on the cabinet, he hardly slept and ate even less.

April passed in a similar blur and by the time spring had come to the castle, he was on his last nerve. One evening he glanced across the dining hall and happened to spot Hermione staring at the Weasel with adoring eyes and Draco broke. He excused himself from the table and staggered away to find somewhere private, but certainly not the piano room. Potter followed him, though, and made some very accurate accusations that he was not paying attention to. The only thought that chased itself around his head was that this is the reason why I cannot play the piano anymore. So he threw a curse at Potter, who parried with one he had never heard before. While bleeding out on the bathroom floor, staring at the ceiling, he realized that for the first time in months, his mind was quiet.

He wished Snape had just let him die on the floor, but life is never that kind.

When he thought about the months that followed, he did not want to imagine what Hermione's reactions would have been. They were always truthful, and so he could only see her mouth a gash of sadness when she learned of his betrayal. She would doubtlessly be furious when she learned what he had done to mudbloods like her (but not like her at all, he thought). His cowardice would have appalled her.

Summer didn't matter, fall didn't matter, and winter didn't matter. He could not play the piano, even though waltzes and minuets ran endlessly through his mind. He hated Hermione for not coming back to school and he hated her for being muggle born in the first place and he hated how he never missed her any less. Mostly, though, he hated that he could not play the piano anymore, because even when he tried to, it only sounded half-finished.

In the spring, Hermione's screams rang like a requiem through his house. After she escaped with her friends, he sat down at the piano and for the first time in almost a year, he played. He played softly, apologetic, as if playing the way she had always liked would make everything alright again, but when that didn't help, he played louder and angrier and until he was hurling his hands flat against the keys, playing nothing but noise, and still was not satisfied.

He married Astoria Greengrass, who was nothing like her older sister but who he liked even less. Astoria was cold and did not even have enough depth to muster hatred for her apathetic spouse. She was obviously puzzled by his secret love of the piano, but did not question him, just as he did not question her on the nights she stumbled home, smelling like cheap sex.

He is old now – he knows it – and although his own son plays the piano as well as he does, they do not understand each other. Scorpius plays wild, hitting wrong keys as often as right ones and he does not care because he thinks just the sound is beautiful. He alternately beats and caresses the keys based on his mood and he is too capricious for his father's taste. Astoria is gone, but he doesn't notice the absence. He is too busy crashing against the piano; playing the howl of a broken heart and a loneliness that words cannot reach.

He plays the piano like a quick fuck too long imagined with a girl he has loved for so long that loving her and hating her are indistinguishable habit, and as much a part of him as sleeping or forgetting to breath.