#melodies

The grand halls of Hogwarts shimmered under the flickering torchlight, their ancient stones whispering hidden secrets and ghosts of centuries past. Among the throngs of students, a figure moved with quiet grace, their platinum blond hair cascading down their back like a river of moonlight, reminiscent of their father, Lucius Malfoy.

Yet, unlike the sharp arrogance that defined their younger brother, Draco, this Malfoy carried a different air. They were a study in contrasts—kinder, ambitious, yet cloaked in a solitude that seemed to cling to them like the velvet night sky. Their eyes, a pale grey that mirrored their mother Narcissa’s, held a quiet yearning, a longing for something they or anyone could scarcely name.

They envied the Weasleys—their raucous laughter, their unpolished warmth, the chaotic love that seemed to bind them like an unbreakable charm. Most of all, they admired the twins, Fred and George, whose infectious grins and relentless mischief painted the world in hues of joy they could only dream of touching. But their own lips rarely curved into a smile, and when they did, it was a fragile, fleeting thing, never reaching the depths of their guarded heart.

To the world outside Slytherin, they were just another Malfoy—mocked, mistrusted, and dismissed alongside Draco’s sneering cruelty. Yet, beneath their composed exterior, a pocket of unspoken desires churned in their chest, aching for release. In the solitude of a forgotten music room, tucked away in a quiet corridor of the castle, they found that solace.

The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and dust while the faint hum of magic lingered in the corners. Their fingers, delicate yet sure, danced across the keys of an old piano, coaxing forth a melody that was both haunting and exquisite. The notes wove a tapestry of sorrow, each chord a brush stroke of their hidden grief, their unspoken envy for a life filled with laughter and belonging.

Their long hair fell forward, framing their face as they played, eyes closed, brows furrowed as if the music was wringing pain from their very soul. The world outside ceased to exist; there was only the piano, the melody, and the weight of their isolation. They didn’t hear the soft creak of the door, slightly ajar, nor the hurried footsteps of someone fleeing a prank gone awry.

George Weasley, cheeks flushed from sprinting through the corridors, had been laughing to himself, the thrill of outwitting a group of Slytherins still buzzing in his veins. But the sound of the piano stopped him dead in his tracks, the melody curling around his heart like a spell. It was beautiful, yet so achingly sad that it stole the breath from his lungs. His grin faded, replaced by a curious furrow of his brow as he crept closer, peering through the narrow gap in the door.

There they were—Malfoy, the enigma of Slytherin, playing with such raw emotion that George felt like an intruder on something sacred. Their expression was a portrait of anguish, their closed eyes hiding their pain, their fingers trembling slightly as they poured their soul into the keys. George’s heart, usually so buoyant, sank like a stone in a still pond.

He wanted to burst in, to crack a joke, to see if he could coax a real smile from those lips that seemed so unused to it. He also wanted to leave. But the music held him captive, its sorrow seeping into his bones, making him feel the weight of their loneliness as if it were his own. He stood frozen, one hand resting against the doorframe, his usual mischief forgotten. In that moment, George saw them not as a Malfoy, not as the sibling or child of his annoying enemy, but as someone achingly human, someone who carried a burden they never spoke of.

The final note lingered in the air, a fragile thread of sound, and as it faded, they opened their eyes. George stepped back swiftly, his heart pounding, not wanting to be seen. He pressed himself against the cold stone wall outside, his mind reeling. A tear, glistening like a diamond, had slid down their cheek, and George felt his chest tighten. He lingered there, frowning, the echo of the melody still resonating within him. The prank, catching up with Fred, the common room—they all slipped away, overshadowed by the image of their tear-streaked face and the unbearable loneliness of their song.

George wandered the corridors aimlessly, his usual swagger replaced by a pensive slowness. The castle’s grandeur felt muted, the chatter of passing students a distant hum. He couldn’t shake the memory of their music, nor the way their expression had mirrored the melody’s despair. For someone who thrived on laughter, who built his world on making others smile, the sight of such quiet suffering was a puzzle he couldn’t ignore.

He thought of the Weasley home, the Burrow, with its creaking floors and overflowing warmth, and wondered what it must be like to long for that without ever knowing it. They were a Malfoy, yet so unlike the cold ambition of their family. Their kindness, their ambition tempered by a gentle reserve, made them an outlier, a single star burning alone in a twilight sky of sharp edges.

George’s mind churned with ideas—pranks, jokes, anything to pierce the veil of their sorrow. But as he climbed the spiral of moving staircases to the Gryffindor tower, he knew it wouldn’t be so simple. Their pain ran deep, and a fleeting laugh wouldn’t be enough. He wanted to know them, to understand the story behind the music, to see if he could bring light to a heart that seemed so steeped in darkness—But they were worlds apart as a Weasley and a Malfoy.

Days passed, and George found himself watching them more closely—discreetly—though always from a distance. In the Great Hall, they sat at the Slytherin table, their posture impeccable. The way they held themselves spoke elegance, even their expression was a mask of calm. But George noticed the way their gaze lingered on the Gryffindor table, where he and Fred were often the loudest, their laughter a light in the sea of chatter.

He saw the flicker of envy in their eyes, quickly hidden, and it stirred something in him—a resolve to bridge the gap between their worlds. One crisp autumn afternoon, as golden leaves swirled outside the castle windows, George found them again, this time in the library. They were tucked into a corner, a heavy tome open before them, their long hair catching the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows.

The air smelled of parchment, book smell, and ink, and the soft rustle of pages was a gentle counterpoint to the distant laughter echoing from the courtyard just outside. George hesitated, his usual confidence wavering. He wasn’t Fred, who could charm his way into any conversation. But the memory of their music pushed him forward, a quiet determination burning in his chest.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his voice softer than usual, lacking its typical teasing lilt.

They looked up, startled, their grey eyes wide with surprise. For a moment, they seemed to weigh his intentions, their gaze searching his face for mockery or other hidden meaning. Finding none, they nodded, gesturing to the chair across from them. George sat, feeling oddly out of place among the towering bookshelves, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his robe.

“I, er, heard you playing the other day—the piano I mean. . .” he admitted, watching their reaction closely. Their expression froze, a faint flush creeping up their neck. “It was. . .incredible. Sad, but incredible.”

They looked away, their fingers tightening around the quill in their hand.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” George hurried on, his voice earnest. “I just. . .I couldn’t walk away. It felt like you were saying something, you know? Something real.”

They met his gaze then, and for the first time, George saw a crack in their carefully crafted mask—a glimmer of vulnerability that made his heart ache.

“I don’t usually play for anyone,” they said quietly, their voice barely above a whisper, like a secret shared on the tip of the winds tongue. “It’s. . .private.”

George nodded, leaning forward slightly, his brown eyes warm with understanding. “I get that. But I’m glad I heard it. Made me think about you differently.”

They blinked, clearly taken aback, and George pressed on, his words tumbling out with a sincerity that surprised even him. “You’re not like the rest of your family, are you? I mean, you’re. . .you. And I think you’re someone worth knowing.”

The air between them seemed to hum, charged with the weight of his words. They didn’t smile, but their eyes softened, and for a moment, the library felt like the only place in the world. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows, but inside, a fragile connection was forming, delicate as a spider’s web with dew drops but strong enough to hold.

Weeks turned into months, and George made it his mission to draw them out of their shell. He’d find excuses to cross their path—dropping a charmed parchment that fluttered into their lap with a silly doodle, or slipping a candy from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes into their bag with a note that read, “For a rainy day.”

Each gesture was small, thoughtful, designed to chip away at the walls they’d built around themselves. And slowly, so slowly, they began to respond. A nod became a quiet word, a word became a sentence, and one day, in the courtyard under a sky bruised with twilight, they laughed—a soft, hesitant sound that stopped George in his tracks.

It wasn’t loud or boisterous like his own, but it was real, and it lit up their face like a sunrise after a long night. George felt his heart soar, but he also saw the tears glistening in their eyes, the joy mingling with a grief they couldn’t fully hide. He didn’t push, didn’t ask. He just stood beside them, the crisp air carrying the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves, and let the moment be.

One winter evening, as snow blanketed Hogwarts in a hush of white, George found them by the Black Lake, their cloak wrapped tightly around them, their hair dusted with bits of snowflakes. The lake was a mirror of ice, reflecting the now appearing stars above, and their breath curled in the frigid air. They were staring out at the water, their expression distant, and George knew without asking that the weight of their family, their name, was pressing down on them.

He approached quietly, his boots crunching in the snow, and sat beside them on a frost-covered log. “You ever think about running away?” he asked, his voice low, almost lost in the wind.

They turned to him, surprised, and he continued, staring out at the lake. “Just. . .leaving it all behind. The expectations, the names, the whole lot.”

They were silent for a long moment, their gaze fixed on the horizon. “Every day,” they admitted finally, their voice trembling. “But where would I go? Who would I be without. . .this?”

They gestured vaguely, encompassing their name, their legacy, their pain for their family. George reached out, his hand hovering before gently resting on theirs. It was a bold move, one that made his heart race, but he didn’t pull back.

“You’d be you,” he said simply, his voice steady despite the cold. “And that’s enough. More than enough.”

Their eyes met his, and in that moment, the world seemed to still. The snow fell softly, catching in their hair, and George saw the tears they were trying to hold back, the hope warring with fear.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” they whispered, their voice breaking. “To want something so badly but know it’s out of reach. To see people like you, your family, and know I’ll never have that.”

George squeezed their hand, his own eyes stinging. “You could,” he said fiercely. “You could have it. With us. With me. . .” The words hung between them, raw with tension, and for the first time, they didn’t look away but leaned in when he did. The months that followed were full of delicate dances of trust and vulnerability that they had both shown each other—something George hid away from even his twin brother.

George became their sun—and they became his moon—his warmth a counterpoint to their quiet chill. They began to smile more—a lot more—that even their little brother Draco began to notice—tentative at first, then with a radiance that made George’s heart ached with pride and something deeper, something he wasn’t ready to name—love—every time they stole a kiss away from prying-judging eyes.

They shared stolen kisses and secrets in the glow of the greenhouse, where George had snuck them in under the guise of “strategy planning” for a prank or so on between only them. They played the piano for him, not the sorrowful melodies of before, but lighter, hopeful ones that spoke of healing—and love. And when the war loomed closer, when the weight of their family’s choices threatened to crush them, George was there, his hand in theirs, promising they’d face it all together.