#pccters

His hands were clammy, which was normal because it was about an hour before his recital, possibly the biggest recital of his life. But he was fidgeting, and swearing, and sweating. His already impossibly short nails were nibbled thoroughly, his tuxedo slightly rumpled as he ran his hand through his tousled hair. He was anxious. Why? Because of him. His sheets were fingered, marked and wrinkled as he observed the perfect blonde who sat there in the front row, who laughed and joked carelessly as he subtly ruined the ebony haired man’s night.

“Come on Harry, we have about fifty minutes till the recital starts. Do you want to go to the practice rooms?” He nodded his head furiously, tossing a weak smile in the direction of his two best friends and managers, Ron and Hermione. “Come on.” The bushy haired woman led him towards the sound proof rooms a little ways backstage, smiling at him as she pointed at the silver clock, the one that never failed to remind him of his perfect eyes. “I’ll be back in forty minutes to get you.” She smiled worriedly at the ebony haired man, who nodded and turned towards the piano and started to play.

Harry still remembered the day they first met. He was constantly laughed at for his disabilities, the scar on his forehead, his chunky glasses, it was like his entire life was just a bucket of insults available for anyone to hurl at him. He was laughed at about his voice, which he could never hear, so he stopped talking. He was laughed at for wanting to study the music he would never hear, so he stopped trying. He cried, hated himself for things he could never change. Until he met him. 

Draco was like an angel descended from the heavens, guiding him slowly as he tried to learn the piano. “So what if you can’t hear?” He’d always say. “You can do many things. You just hear a different way.” He guided his hands on the keys, teaching him to listen to the vibrations, teaching him to love, to love him, to love himself, to love the way he speaks, to love the way he plays. They were laughed at all the time. For what could someone who couldn’t hear the music do with music? They practice and work. He practised day and night, the blonde by his side constantly. But this wasn’t to say their love was perfect. It was messy like all love should be. There were quarrels, screams, tears were shed, but they weren’t for nought. The blonde would revel in joy as he watched the ebony hair sweep those ivory keys and they’d make love. Passionate love, and they’d immerse themselves in it until they were drowning. 

Until that one day, he left. That one fateful day, he told him he didn’t love him anymore. He ripped his heart to pieces and threw it across the floor like the glasses they threw, the photo frames and everything until his heart was shattered on the floor like the glass was. He left him with wounds that would never heal and scars that would never fade.

With each chord, he was forced to remember. With each note, he shed a silent tear as the music he’d never hear played on in the soundproof room. 

But, if no one could hear the music, was it ever really played?

Lifting his fingers off of the keys, each onyx lock left the ivory keys unwillingly, the vibrations still fresh in his fingertips as he bowed to the crowd, watching as the blond formed words with his mouth, a pattern he’d seen every day for three years until he disappeared, I love you.