A/N: I've started this story because my orchestra is going to play Harry Potter songs at our next concert. I am a fan of Severitus, and I have a few in my favorites. I do not have a beta, so if you find problems, feel free to contact me in a review or a private message. Constructive criticism is welcomed with open arms and reviews are greatly appreciated (even one liners, I love all reviews). Review as you see fit, and enjoy the story!

Disclaimer: This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

Musical Magic

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu


Little Harry let a sad smile part his lips as he closed the violin case for the last time. He knew this was the last time he would see the deep red wood of the violin. He would no longer put his fingers onto the string; he could never hold the bow again. His uncle had made sure of that.

Harry knew why he could never play the instrument again. It was because he loved it too much. The music made him happy, and the 'freak' didn't deserve happiness. Happiness was rewarded to normal people like Dudley. Harry scoffed at the thought. Dudley's pudgy fingers and fiery temper would surely break the violin in half before he could get through a single scale.

Dudley had dutifully reported to his father that the 'freak' was doing freakish things with that small cello-thingy at school during music class. Vernon told Harry to bring the violin home one day, even though the school owned it. Once he did, his uncle told him to play the best song he knew. Harry was a naïve child. He thought he could gain his family's acceptance if he enchanted them with his music. So, with a lightened heart, Harry played Concerto in A Minor, 3rd Movement by A. Vivaldi. Harry knew he had played well. He knew he had gotten the rhythm and intonation correct; so why was Uncle Vernon looking so angry?

"You-You're using those freakish powers of yours! A talentless brat like you could never play cultured music!" his uncle shouted, backhanding the ten-year-old. Harry fell backwards, the violin flying out of his hands. With a sickening crunch, he knew that the violin was broken. His uncle stormed upstairs angrily, muttering about freaks who didn't know how to control their freakish powers. Harry picked up the pieces of the violin carefully, not missing anything. He took them into his cupboard to inspect the damage.

The top was splintered, and the sound post could be heard rolling around inside. Ironic, that it had been Harry who had finally broken the beautiful instrument. He concentrated on the violin, his eyes watering. He had fixed things before, but it was never a violin. Harry laid his hand flat on the splintered wood, and took a deep breath. The sound post clattered to where the middle of his palm was, underneath the wood. Taking his other hand, he wove the planks together with an unseen force. Within the next ten minutes, Harry put the finishing touches on the once broken violin. He had fixed his things before, but he knew that he didn't use the powers he had to create the music; that came from hard work at school during recess and extracurricular classes.

Satisfied, Harry tried to open the cupboard door. That was when he realized it was locked. So, he spent the night with the violin, plucking at the strings until he was too tired. At that point, he carefully laid the violin down the bare floor and fell asleep.

The next day, he returned the instrument regretfully, and threw out a random reason to the music teacher. His uncle wouldn't let him play it anymore, but Harry told her that he didn't like it as much anymore. It didn't matter that the teacher saw through the lie. Harry wouldn't see her again. After all, he was going to attend Stonewall next year.

That night, Harry closed the cupboard door behind him. Unfortunately, he hadn't finished his chores that day, so he wouldn't get dinner. Sighing, he sat down on his cot and started imagining his violin. He could hear the notes swirling in his head. He wanted to write the music down, to see it immortalized on paper. For now, he'd just have to settle with hearing the songs in his head.

He hummed a simple tune, but for the life of him couldn't remember the name. It was a recurring s melody that popped into his head every time life threw something hard at him. Harry knew he had never played the song on the violin, but he knew that someone else did. He had once tried to transfer the song from his head onto paper or into the violin, but it was impossible for him.

That night, Harry dreamed of a woman with soft red hair, as beautiful as the varnished wood on his violin. She had fair skin and light freckles. She was playing the violin while a tall man with black hair bowed a cello. The man's hair was a messy curtain in front of his face, so his features were hidden. They were playing the song. It was the song Harry had imagined earlier while imprisoned in the cupboard. They continued playing, and finally at the end, the man stood up, with his hair still blocking his face. He smiled, and then kissed the redhead softly. The woman parted as she looked sadly up at the man. They locked eyes, and the man spoke. There was no longer any sound. Harry couldn't hear the words the man said; he couldn't hear the woman's response. The woman started crying, but Harry still couldn't hear her. She ran into the man's arms, and Harry could see the man's visage. He had a hooked nose and sad black eyes.

They parted unwillingly. The man carefully lifted a bundle of blankets, and lovingly handed them to the woman. The woman's tears quickly increased. She hugged the blankets closer to herself, as the man put the cello in his case. Once he was finished, the man's eyes were also watering. He stood up with his cello safely in its case. Harry knew the man was going to leave. But before he did, the man walked up to the woman, and moved a bit of the blanket aside. Harry saw a baby with tamed dark red hair, almost brown, and hazel eyes.

The man softly kissed the baby's forehead, and swiftly took flight. The woman bent down over the baby and whispered, "You really look like him. Even though he doesn't know you're his child, Severus loves you. We all do." With that, she waved a stick, and the red hair and hazel eyes disappeared. Instead, there were green eyes and messy black hair. That was the only thing he heard from her mouth.

Soon after, chaos ensued. Another man with black hair and hazel eyes was shouting, but Harry couldn't hear once again. He gave the baby to the woman, and shouted something. The woman fearfully ran upstairs with the baby. Once upstairs, the woman hummed the song she and the tall man had been playing. The door burst open. Harry could see the woman weeping even more, shielding her child from the hooded figure in the doorway. She backed away, talking crazily, pleading with the figure, but he would hear none of it. The figure approached, and as he did, Harry could see his fiery red eyes. Harry couldn't hear her, but he could see her anguish, her despair. The figure raised a stick, not unlike the woman's, and uttered two words. The woman fell down lifelessly in the green light, still clutching the baby to her chest. Once again, the figure lowered the stick at a living creature. The same words that had killed the woman burst angrily from the figure's mouth, but instead of killing the child, the green light seemed to explode as Harry woke up from his nightmare.

Ten-year-old Harry gulped and gained composure. He leaned back against the wall of the cupboard, but still couldn't attain the dreamless sleep he longed for. Harry settled for humming the song, and finally fell asleep and dreamed of nothing.

There were the two musicians again. The violinist and the cellist. Whenever the cellist revealed his face, it was impossible for Harry to see any of his features, but he was pretty sure the cellist was his dad. Who else had messy hair like that? Harry had that dream every year since he was ten, and was tired of trying to remember what the woman had said. The first time he had the dream, he could hear her say something. She had said something, and then changed a baby to look the way he did now. These days, he could only hear her screaming, pleading for her only child's life.

Sixteen-year-old Harry gulped and gained composure. He leaned back against the wall of his room, but still couldn't attain the dreamless sleep he longed for. Harry settled for humming the song, and finally fell asleep and dreamed of nothing.