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Harry’s not a religious guy. But if there is a God - lord help him – because if Draco threatens to incendio Joni one more time, he’s gonna lose it.
“Let me help you.”
“Fuck off!”
Harry only huffs a frustrated sigh in response and throws his hands up into the air.
“You wanted to do this.” He grits with a jaw so stiff he’s sure he’s transfigured himself into one of those Muggle nutcrackers. Harry watches as Draco – for the sixtieth time in the half hour – attempts to strum the C-chord. It buzzes pathetically, and the strings seem to bounce a little as Draco runs his slender thumb along the steel.
“For fuck’s sake.” He snaps and yanks the strap off his neck, before gripping Joni by her own. It kind of looks like those old poaching photos Harry saw back in Care of Magical Creatures.
“It’s not her fault you can’t play to save your life.” Harry teases and swipes the guitar off Draco’s hands before he witnesses a murder.
“This is stupid. I was in goddamn prison for three years, not Juilliard.” He retorts and brings his knees to his chest. How the hell does he even know what Juilliard is?
“You weren’t in prison, Draco.” Harry mutters before swinging the strap onto his shoulder and snugly fitting the curve of the guitar onto the crook of his crossed legs.
“House arrest. The manor is practically a prison.”
He strums a chord. It’s simple, but Draco shoots him a scowl, leans his head back and lets out an exasperated sigh.
“You make it look so easy.” He takes his hand and strums the strings. The sound rings clear. Harry smiles,
“See? It’s all in the left fingers. Just make sure you’re pressing the strings in the right position, and–”
Draco claps his hands over his ears. Like a child , Harry thinks and shuts his mouth before he causes some sort of twenty-six year old man tantrum.
“You done?” He asks with a raised eyebrow as Draco turns to him with a reddened face. He doesn’t say anything but the silence speaks volumes. Harry sighs and pries off the guitar; standing up to return Joni to her stand. She’s a sturdy guitar, bought at a proper music store in Muggle London. Nothing like the magicked instruments they sell in Diagon Alley. It’s authentic, and real: no wand-waving can create sounds like the pure acoustic. Joni’s a standard dreadnought - nothing special, with a mahogany top and a sapele body. The pickguard is made of sleek, amber tortoiseshell; and the fretboard is dotted with stars. But if he’s being honest, Harry has no idea about all the nuances of guitar tonewood, and the like.
He’d walked into the store and asked for an acoustic, the “country music ones” he’d said, whilst the worker stared at him with unfiltered judgement. Her brown eyes had glared daggers into his chest. With a black hoop through her nose, and eyeliner so sharp, Harry was sure it was tattooed on, she’d led him to the guitars with an unwavering conviction and began lecturing him on maple necks and rosewood. He’d zoned out a quarter way through and began skimming the array of guitars. Harry had chosen Joni cause she looked cool.
He delicately rests her back onto her stand, making sure to leave the capo beside her. He always manages to misplace the damn thing.
“Hey, hey. Don’t be mad.” Draco says, his voice teetering on guilt. But his face is straight and faultless; stone-cold as a Malfoy.
“I’m not mad,” he offers a sheepish smile. “Let’s go get lunch or something.” Harry continues and begins stripping off his pyjama shirt in favour of a more suitable top.
“I’m sorry. I just don’t think I’m cut out for all this music stuff.” Draco admits. He knew Harry had imagined something different when he’d proposed the idea weeks ago. Something a little more romantic, perhaps - with a smidge less arguing.
“No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have forced you.” Harry laughs, but it falls a bit flat like he hasn’t injected enough air into it.
Draco fiddles with the silver chain around his neck, still seated on the floor. Harry’s now changed into a navy blue shirt, and he finishes buttoning it up - leaving the top button undone.
“I…want to learn. It’s just hard.” Draco coughs out after a moment, pushing himself up off the ground. His feet begin to prickle with pins and needles, it feels like television static in his toes.
“Of course it’s hard. Skill requires practice.” Harry responds softly, taking Draco’s pale hands into his. And of course Draco knows that! Hard work is wired into his DNA, a Malfoy never refuses to rise to the challenge. But why did this one have to make his fingers bleed?
“I’ll try again.” He firmly says whilst Harry searches for a pair of decent socks. He decides on the Chudley Cannons prints he’d bought last spring.
Harry’s eyes lighten up at the comment.
“After lunch.” Draco adds, and stretches his arms up into the air, his vertebrae creaking. “I’m famished.”
After fifteen minutes of squabbling, they find themselves at a local cafe. The weather is warmer than usual, with a slight breeze wafting every so often. The sky is a clear blue, and Harry feels beads of sweat begin to form at the back of his neck. Draco had urged to sit outside. ‘Appreciate the sun a little’, he had insisted and sat himself down on the wooden chairs. A little terracotta pot is placed on the middle of the table, it holds a budding succulent with petal-like fronds. Harry bit back a grumble, at least Draco had slathered on some sunscreen beforehand.
“I don’t understand that strange Muggle practice.” Draco says, spooning a forkful of salad into his mouth. The rest of London has crawled out of their flats, it seems. Their lunch has been invaded by bustling crowds of hipsters and businessmen. Not unusual for this side of the city, but a little uncommon for one-pm on a Wednesday. Harry traces Draco’s gaze to a man across the road, a little younger than them, holding a cigarette between his teeth. He inhales and lazily blows out a plume of charcoal smoke.
“Disgusting.” Draco snorts, lifting his drooping sunglasses. They’re black and bold. It makes him look like a supermodel.
“They have a short enough lifespan as it is!” He shakes his head disapprovingly and Harry thinks of Dudley. His cousin had taken up smoking some time in their teenage years, and he wonders if he ever quit. He digs himself out of his thoughts and watches Draco mumble to himself, he’s avoiding the avocado… in an avocado-salmon salad. Harry snorts and that prompts a sharp look from Draco. He zips his mouth closed, stifling a laugh.
“Are you gonna eat that?” He asks, using his own fork to point to the growing pile of avocados being pushed to the side of Draco’s ceramic plate.
“...No.”
Harry leans forwards and stabs the pile, then using a little wandless magic, he transports the exiled avocados safely to his own clean plate. He’d finished his pasta a while ago. Draco rolls his eyes and doesn’t remark on the use of magic.
The rest of lunch is mellow, as Harry sips his earl grey, and Draco, a beloved mug of Americano. They exchange brief small talk about quidditch and dog breeds, insignificant things. Draco defends the Irish wolfhound, and compares Harry to a mountain dog. Their talks are seldom awkward and Harry wonders how their bitter high school rivalry morphed into an argument about German Shepherds.
“Are you really going to try to play again?” Harry asks, as he hands over a handful of Muggle bills to the cashier. Draco nods promptly and Harry follows him out of the cafe, pushing open the glass door. The bell strung onto the hinge rings as they leave.
“I was just being a prick.” Draco says, but the words are muffled, he’s holding an elastic tie between his teeth. He sweeps his hair up as they walk, icy-blonde strands falling into the front of his face. He pulls it into a small ponytail, like a paintbrush. The longer hair had grown on Harry. He bats at the ponytail, and Draco snaps at him, but mirth twinkles in his eyes.
They slip into a nearby alley and apparate home.
—
“Index finger on the…what? The D string?” Draco is hunched over, shoulders tensed as his fingers grip onto the neck of the guitar.
“B string.” Harry corrects him. He’s cross-legged and leaning against a white wall whilst Draco sits on their bed. He’d been cast off after he’d offered to reposition Draco’s fingers twenty minutes ago. Joni wails a flat chord, half the strings have been muted.
“Merlin, maybe you should take up the piano instead.” Harry jokes and braces himself for the lashing but Draco just raises an eyebrow.
“I can play the piano.”
“What!”
“Yeah, my mother forced me to learn when I was a child. Mentioned something about brain development.”
“You’ve never told me this!” Harry barks, and his ears start to go red.
“You never asked.” Draco shrugs.
“The fucking piano…” Harry mutters, crossing his arms. Draco’s amused, he can tell from the way his lips are curving up slightly. They go quiet for a moment, as Draco fumbles with the guitar, strumming a semi-coherent A-minor chord. He looks pleased with himself.
“Why don’t you play anymore?” Harry asks, fiddling with the buttons on his cuffs.
“No chance…we had a grand piano back at the manor. You know I haven’t been there for years.” Draco says it nonchalantly, with a bit too much ease. Like he’s swiftly attempting to pass the conversation onto the next subject.
“We should buy a piano!”
“How will we fit it through the door?” Draco mumbles.
“Don’t be daft, I’ll cast reducio.”
“We’d bother the neighbours.”
“God, it’s like you’ve forgotten we’re wizards. Just cast a quietus!”
Draco responds with a strum. The c-chord sounds significantly less buzzy than before.
“I think I’m starting to get this whole guitar thing.” He says confidently, and spins the pick around between his fingers.
“I’d love to hear you play–” Harry starts and Draco cuts him off with a sigh.
“I don’t really have great memories. Reminds me of…prison.”
Harry purses his lip and shuts up about the piano.
“Want me to teach you a song?” He asks instead, getting up from the hardwood floor.
—
Draco apparates into the living room and runs his knee into a stool. A stool that seems to have magically appeared.
“Fuck.” He hisses, cradling the knee. That’ll probably bruise. He looks up, and–
Oh. There’s a piano. Of course there’s a piano, he lives with Harry Potter for Christ’s sake. Draco swallows and slowly straightens himself up. Harry shouldn’t be home for another hour or two. Draco runs his hand cautiously along the top, it’s black and glossy, with streaks of light reflecting on its finish. It’s not very large, medium-sized at most and at a studio height.
Harry emerges from the bedroom, yawning. He locks eyes with Draco and clears his throat awkwardly.
“Oh, hi. You’re home early.”
Draco narrows his eyes, because why is there a piano in their living room when he’d explicitly explained that he no longer plays?
“Christmas came early.” He says a little coldly and Harry gives him a sheepish smile.
“I swear it wasn’t expensive, a witch from work was giving it away. Moving houses, and all that.”
“Looks practically new.” Draco comments and lifts the fallboard, revealing a row of shiny, ivory keys.
“I fixed it up a bit before you came.” Harry says quietly, and joins Draco by the piano.
“You don’t need to play it, I just…I just thought. I don’t know.” He looks a little guilty.
Draco grins, a sort of sly signature Malfoy grin.
“I reckon Joni will be jealous. We’ve been getting along quite well recently. Even managed to learn some of the Beatles.” Harry fiddles with the strings of his hoodie. He looks eleven, like he’d been called into Snape’s office after a Potions lesson gone wrong.
And to Harry’s surprise, Draco pulls out the chair and seats himself gracefully. His hands float to the keys, and he shuffles a little, placing his foot above the pedal. He pauses for a moment.
Draco had spent most of his long hours in the manor by the piano. It was much grander than this, a full-sized grand piano with subtle silver engravings snaking the inside of the lid. No use thinking about the past. He flexes his fingers.
“Any piece in particular?”
Harry shakes his head, too shocked to formulate any solid opinions. Draco chews his bottom lip in thought then stares down at his hands. He scours through the mental archive of pieces he’d memorised. Ah yes, that would be a good one. Short and sweet.
He begins to play.
It’s a melancholy tune. Draco’s hands glide along the keys, the sound is velvety and the notes are soft. Each touch is anticipatory. The music pushes, the tempo sliding forwards before suddenly, and very quietly, pulling back. It climbs, and Draco’s hands have a mind of their own, pacing up and down the keys.
It sounds a little like their night walks – it reminds Harry of sleep. The piece leaps into a crescendo then falls once more, trembling with a familiar motif. Draco’s eyes are closed, his face so still, it looks like a sculpture. The notes begin to slow, and the volume fades as Draco’s hands rise upwards, hovering above the keys. He straightens his posture and looks up at Harry.
Draco coughs awkwardly, letting his arms drop to his side. He feels a little dazed, even if the piece was only a bit over a minute long.
“What’s it called? The song?” Harry queries lightly.
“Pour l’œuvre du vêtement du blessé. A Piece for the Clothing of the Wounded. ” Draco answers swiftly, his tongue laps over the French like muscle memory.
“Mother told me Debussy was a wizard when I was growing up.” He says and pushes at the pedals aimlessly. “Of course she lied. This was the only thing vaguely Muggle related she allowed me to indulge in – even if she lied about it.”
“Well, I think it’s beautiful.” The music is still ringing in Harry’s ears. The notes cascading down his back like goosebumps.
“Thanks.” Draco says softly. “You really think so?”
Harry nods vigorously.
“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.” He kneels down beside Draco, and takes his hand. He presses it to his lips. It’s corny, but Draco relishes in the occasional feathery moment.
“God, is there anything you can’t do?” Harry laughs.
“Playing the guitar and Occlumency.” Draco immediately deadpans. Harry rolls his eyes.
‘“Just let me compliment you, Malfoy.”
Draco smiles and runs his fingers along the piano keys.