Piano Squib

 

 

 

DISCLAIMER: This fic is based on the song 'Piano Man' by Billy Joel. (Note that I am NOT SAYING I created this song. MUAHAHA Now you can't SUE ME EVIL LAWYERS!!!!!!!!) Anyhow, it follows the main plot of that song, except for the ending, and a few of the phrases are taken directly from the song so that you can follow where you are. Most of the characters are taken directly from the song, too. So, basically, this is pretty much a prose version of the song, just Harry-Potter-ized. Well, I hope you enjoy it. BTW Sylvia Snape/Polly Harmonic is my own OFC, so, yeah...please respect that. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot, I did not create Hogwarts or any of that good junk J.K. Rowling made up. Sadly, that includes my beloved Snapey. Ah well. I can still play with him, can't I? Anyhow, here is the story....

 

 

 

................

 

 

 

'Twas nine o'clock on a Saturday evening. I approached the back door of The Dying Swan, my sheaf of music in my hand. I almost didn't have time to knock before the door was flung open beneath my upraised hand.

 

 

Before me stood the bartender, John Maybel. He was a thin, placid-looking man of perhaps thirty-five or forty with thick brown hair and a set of deep blue eyes. He gave me a smile.

 

 

"Hello, Polly," he said to me as I nodded in greeting.

 

 

"Hullo, John," I replied conversationally. I breathed in, without relish, the scent of the spilled alcohol that wafted out the door. The pungent, sharp odour made me think of my inebriate father. His study always had reeked like this. "Things just as usual here?"

 

 

"Pretty much so," he said, stepping back to let me come inside. He closed the door behind us with a sigh.

 

 

"Things just as usual with yourself?"

 

 

"Pretty much so," I replied in an amiable fashion. John grinned in an unsaid reply. Every week, when I came there on my round of all the lower-class bars and taverns near my home, we shared this exchange, word for word. There was no rhyme or reason to it, but it was something regular and habitual. Perhaps it was a useful thing, in a world where everything was accelerating and changing, to have something that never varied at all.

 

 

In any case, we walked together through the dank storage room into the dimly lit bar. Well, really, the bar itself was actually very bright indeed, with large lanterns ablaze with flame set on either side of it, and a smaller one at every other stool. However, those were the only sources of illumination in the entire rest of the large room, thus it seemed very dark. John grasped a spare, cold lantern from under the counter and accompanied me to the polished black baby grand piano right by the door. I took the lantern from him and placed it on the brazen hook on the wall, lighting it with a match. John watched me as I did this, then he leaned against the piano while I shuffled through my music.

 

 

"Do you have anything especial you'd like me to play before opening?" I asked. Again, this was only a customary question. I knew what he wanted me to play, an old sea chantey called Shallow Brown. I had no idea why he liked this song so much, but it seemed to be his favorite.

 

 

"Have you ever heard the song Shallow Brown?" He asked me this as though I were a strange new pianist he had never met. I paused a moment in mock reflection.

 

 

"Perhaps," I mused. With that, I sat down and placed my hands on the keyboard. "Does it go like this?" I asked, sounding for all the world genuinely sincere. I then began to play.

 

 

 

 

John didn't say anything until the end. At this, he merely nodded. "Yes, that's the one." Then, without another word, he stepped over to the door and flipped the sign on it from 'Closed' to 'Open'. I played a few random chord progressions as he undid the bolts and locks and then went to his place behind the bar. From there, our first round of choreographed interaction was over, and it was the beginning of yet another dreary night.

 

 

 

 

.......................

 

 

 

 

My mother Eileen always said, before I left the Snape household, that "dear little Sylvia ought to have been born at a piano"; that was how much I loved music. The many weeks, months, and years before my eleventh birthday, when I supposed I could go to Hogwarts (but later I found myself to be an exile of the family, and a squib, too, so those dreams were dashed to the ground) were filled with nothing but my tedious practicing. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, that's all I ever did--scratch at my violin, spit and gurgle into a flute, and, of course, pound aggressively on the piano. After quite a while, however, I got to be quite a bit more graceful on the violin. I was able to sing with the flute as easily as though it were merely extension of my voice. My fingers could dance over the fingerboard of the piano like little leprechauns in spring. Needless to say, I became more and more advanced on my many instruments, and the sounds I made became more and more melodic, until they were (almost) music.

 

 

 

 

I suppose the reason I strived so hard to achieve greatness in my music was to atone for the disappointment I knew I was to my family. My older brother Severus was a wizard, and he managed to make it through Hogwarts with finer grades than most. Perhaps it was this that caused our mother to fawn over him more than she did me. Maybe, though, it was the fact that he was the first born, or because he was a rather weak and fragile child, or even just because he was a boy; I wouldn't know. At any rate, even before they or I knew I was a squib, I was, in every way, inferior to him.

 

 

 

 

My father Tobias was barely aware of my very existence, actually. Even at the time of my birth, he was a drunkard and a horrid beast. All day, he would squander the family income on drink in bars, or else purchase liquor and bring it home to consume by the liter in his study. The time he did not spend doing this, was spent in yelling at my mother and brother, whom he seemed to hate equally. Often, he would take off his own belt and lick Mother with it until tears streamed down her face, simply because she would not spend time with him.

 

 

On a few occasions, I even recall him whipping Severus for crying when he was in the process of hurting Mother. I do remember that I was, at these times, completely overlooked by him. For some reason or another; he never noticed me, or the fact that I was crying too. It was almost as though he pretended I never had been born. One day, however, about the time when I was supposed to receive my Hogwarts letter, was the only time he ever really cared a cent about me; he began a great commotion, denied that I was his daughter, and hit my mother for supposedly going around with another man. The reason for his anger...he noticed at dinner one day that my nose did not look in the least like his.

 

 

Of course, it was obvious that I was his daughter--I carried both his cold black eyes and his shaggy black hair. However, because I did not have his large, eagle nose (rather, I bore my mother's small petite nose...far more flattering for a girl, I think) that I was not his. Thus, he disowned me, and kicked me out of the house--literally, he used a 'boot to the butt' technique--at age eleven, as I said.

 

 

 

 

Probably if I had any relatives besides the three that lived in that house, they would have taken me in, for although I was a squib, I was not a bad girl for a Snape. My music aside, I was quite quiet, and had accomplished a way of treading silently that would have made my presence almost unnoticed. (Actually, the reason I had developed this trait was so that I could sneak around the house, while my father was sleeping in a drunken stupor, without awaking him and attracting his wrath. My mother and brother soon learned to follow my example.)

 

 

There was absolutely no reason no one should want me, but I lived as a homeless vagrant for the next year and a half. I earned my bread, in those years, by going door to door and playing my violin or flute for those people who cared to listen. Finally, one very kind wizard woman decided that it was wrong of me to live in such a way, and took me into her keeping. Apparently, she had always wanted a child, but never been married, so I became the light of her meager little life. Once she discovered my talent at the piano, especially, she was so thrilled that she actually bought me my own piano, and paid for lessons, so that I might get even better. I continued to live with her until her death of old age, when I was eighteen.

 

 

 

 

By then, however, I realized that I may as well start earning a living for myself. Thus, I started playing at any bar or restaurant I came across that had a piano. I played only for tips, and that was my only source of income. Somehow, every month, I managed to scrape up enough money to eat and pay my rent on the small flat in which I lived.

 

 

I was going on about age thirty now, thus I had lived like this about twelve years. It was a satisfactory life, and I can truthfully say that I rather enjoyed the freedom of the life I had. Nevertheless, I constantly looked forward to the day when I imagined I could go back to my family, at least, whatever remained of it. I decided that my father must have drunk himself to death by then, and probably my mother and Severus still lived. Even if my mother had died, I wanted to desperately remain in touch with my brother. It was the largest hope I ever had, and it was what I would dream about at night.

 

 

 

 

...............

 

 

 

 

I rearranged my favorite evening play-list. It contained a variety of songs, all ones I enjoyed performing immensely, and all ones that pleased the regular crowds that thronged the bar. I started playing, just to make myself busy, even though no customers had shuffled in yet.

 

 

 

 

Not long after I had began the opening minor arpeggio of My Mother's Finally Gone by Armand Sylvester, the front bell jangled raucously, and a first miserable-looking wizard was inside. He looked around in a clueless fashion for a moment, as though unaware of his surroundings, then stumbled over to the counter. I could tell that he'd already had more than one drink too many that night, but he seemed to be holding them pretty well.

 

 

 

 

John smiled at him, asking what he desired. He was well aware of the man's state, but it wasn't his job to tell his customers what they should or shouldn't do with themselves. What was his job was to serve drinks, and make sure the bar got paid for them. The old man demanded, in slurred words, a tonic and gin, and John poured one together. The old man flipped a coin at him in payment, then took the glass and meandered over to a table right beside my piano stool.

 

 

 

 

He didn't say anything; he merely nursed his drink. I went on playing my pieces in perfect contentment; I was used to people looking over my shoulder. Usually, it was an unspoken compliment, anyhow.  Meanwhile, there was a loud banging of the back door. Sal, the waitress, had arrived, fashionably late as usual.

 

 

"Evenin' Johnny," she barked in her usual loud Cockney as she approached from the back room, tying her apron on lazily. She was a buxom, not unattractive middle-aged woman, with styled short peroxide-blonde hair and wide, vacant green eyes. Her legs were shapely and well-rounded, and I envied them a great deal; I'm a great deal too skinny for my own good.

 

 

She didn't even look my way, and announced to the wall, "Evenin', Polly." She never looked at me, as far as I could tell. I didn't know why, and I don't think I wanted to know, either.

 

 

 

 

John didn't reply. I don't believe he really liked Sal all that much. Come to think of it, I didn't have a particular reason to disdain her myself, but I really didn't like her either. Perhaps it is just because she was so loud and brash that it just irked me a bit too much. I didn't reply either, to the excuse of my playing.

 

 

 

 

Sal went about with a polishing cloth, dusting the flat surfaces of the tables to make them a bit more presentable. John got out a book and surreptitiously began to read. I went on playing to the two of them and the old man, who still remained, silent, at my elbow. Finally, he spoke up.

 

 

"Have you ever played the song Young Blossoms in December?" His voice was raspy and dry.

 

 

"No, I never have," I said truthfully, pausing in my performance and turning to him.

 

 

He looked rather put out. "I don't know exactly how it goes anymore, but it used to be a favorite of mine." Of course, his speech wasn't quite as perfect as intimated here, due to the alcohol, but, translated, it ran along those lines.

 

 

Not wanting to disappoint him, I piped up, "I've heard it before, though. If you like, I could play it by ear."

 

His brown eyes behind his owl-like glasses softened. "Could you?" Without waiting for an answer, he replied to himself, "Of course you can. You're Polly Harmonic. You can do anything." (In explanation, Polly Harmonic is my stage name.)

 

 

I nodded. "Yes, indeed," I said, somewhat amused that I had discovered a fan. He must have heard me before, or at least heard of me from someone else. With a warm glow in my heart, I turned back to the instrument and began to play and sing the slow old love song. I know I didn't quite get the melody right, but the words were passably correct.

 

 

 

Young blossoms in December

 

Trees blooming in winter

 

A beautiful miracle

 

Only matched by you

 

New tulips at Christmas

 

Fresh roses at New Year's

 

A beautiful miracle

 

Only matched by you

 

 

 

I would be happy

 

Forever and ever

 

If you would only

 

Accept my hand

 

 

 

I would be happy

 

Forever and ever

 

If you would only

 

Accept my hand

 

 

 

Orange blossoms in January

 

Primrose budding too

 

A beautiful miracle

 

Only matched by you

 

All the flowers flowering

 

In the coldest time of year

 

The most beautiful miracle

 

Only matched by you

 

 

 

I would be happy

 

Forever and ever

 

If you would only

 

Accept my hand

 

 

 

I would be happy

 

Forever and ever

 

If you would only

 

Accept my hand

 

 

 

I concluded and let the final note die out. I noticed that several more customers had come in by then and also that the old man seemed to be gone. Puzzled, since his half-full glass was still on the table, I swung myself around on the stool, only to knock my feet right in his face. He was on his knees, hugging the leg of the piano stool and crying silently. He didn't even notice how I had accidentally knocked him. I decided then that it was time for a drink.

 

 

 

Gingerly, I stepped over the man's body and made my way back to the counter.  I slipped onto the stool at the far end and waited for John to finish pouring for the three businessmen at the bar. I watched him as he joked and laughed with them, at the same time lighting their cigarettes without prompting and pouring just a splash extra into their glasses for the same price. He raised his eyebrows at me as a signal that he was aware of my presence while he was engaged, but as soon as he had satisfied the other customers, he came over my way. Now it was time for round two of our conversation in which neither of us said anything new.

 

 

 

 

 

"What'll it be?" he said cheerfully, getting a clean glass.

 

 

I pretended to ponder. "I'll have...I'll have Firewhiskey on rye, thanks."

 

 

 

He nodded. "Rather an odd selection...but then, you're an odd lady."

 

 

I said nothing, just smiled.

 

 

He went about mixing my drink. He presented it to me with a flourish.

 

 

"That'll be two sickles, madam..." he said, loudly, but his voice dropped and he whispered, "...to go into my swear jar."

 

 

I grinned, dug through my purse, and presented him dramatically with a paperclip.

 

 

He stared at the paperclip in what any ignorant observer could have sworn was genuine amazement.

 

 

"Keep the change," I added loudly, mirth in my eyes.

 

 

He stepped to the cash box, opened it, and dropped the paperclip inside. Then, however, as he looked thoughtfully into the box, he said something that startled me.

 

 

"Rich asked me yesterday what was with all the paperclips." (Rich, by the way, was the manager of the establishment.)

 

 

 

I looked at him strangely. This last comment was not part of our usual intercourse. "You just said something different!" I said, aghast. He shrugged.

 

 

"I suppose," he said, and shut the cash box quietly. He looked towards the door then scanned the rest of the room. He then leaned against the counter, propping himself on his elbows so that his head was close to mine in a confidential manner. "Polly," he said slowly, quietly, "Do you enjoy what you do?"

 

 

I paused a moment. "Yes," I finally said, "I believe I do. As compared to what else I could be doing, I mean--"

 

 

"--No," he interrupted me. "I mean, would you do what you're doing even if you had the choice to do something else?"

 

 

"Well," I said, "I suppose...well, actually, I do think that whatever else I would choose to do in life would relate to music in some way...so indeed, I should say yes."

 

 

John nodded sagely. "Now do you think I enjoy being a bartender?"

 

 

I squinted at him. His attitude was a complete contrast to that of earlier; he had seemed like a dog promised a walk, but now he was like a dog whose owner had left without him. I shook my head decidedly.

 

 

"No. You do quite well as a bartender, but you'd rather be doing something else."

 

 

He smiled sadly. "Exactly. You're finally someone who understands." He turned down his head to study the counter. "Now I'm going to tell you something that I've never told anyone before for fear that I'd be laughed at. I don't think you'll laugh at me, though."

 

 

I shook my head. "Even if I find it remotely funny, I promise I shan't."

 

 

He smiled again, still not looking up. "You know, Polly, the thing I've always wanted to do in life is live as...as a Muggle movie star." He jerked his head up hurriedly to see my reaction.

 

 

 

 

I didn't think this was silly at all. John, unlike me, was actually a wizard, but he wasn't a very powerful one. I didn't suppose that losing his ability to do magic all the time would hurt him a great deal. He never used his wand, as far as I could see, while he was in the bar. Also, I knew, at least from my experience with him, that he was a marvellous actor. My gaze was sincerely of calm understanding.

 

 

"I can see you doing that," I told him.

 

 

His eyebrows went up. "Really?"

 

 

"Yes," I said, smiling. "I actually think you'd do very well at it."

 

 

He tilted his head like a bird and grinned. "You really think so," he said, more as a declaration of fact than a question. I merely nodded yes in reply.

 

 

Suddenly, John leaned impulsively forward and brushed my cheek with his lips. "Thank you so much," he whispered in my ear. "That was the kindest thing anyone's said to me in a long time."

 

 

"I mean it," I said, somewhat startled by the kiss. No one had ever bestowed a kiss to me, even if it was just one of gratitude. John looked like he was going to say something else, and he opened his mouth to begin, but at that point the door jingled loudly, and he turned his attention to the new customer. 

 

 

"Paul!" he exclaimed in greeting, and he bounced over to the heavyset, aging wizard in a soiled business suit. I figured that he wasn't probably coming back for a long time, seeing that he was going to settle in for a long chat with the regular.

 

 

 

"On another binge, are we?" John's voice drifted over the quiet clamor of the bar.

 

 

"Yes," the low growling voice of the aforementioned 'Paul' answered. "Give me your strongest."

 

 

There was a tinkling of glass. "If you say so, old man."

 

 

"I do say so."

 

 

There was the pouring of liquor. "Here you go, old chap."

 

 

"Thanks John." There was a pause as Paul downed the glass in one gulp.

 

 

"Keep those coming," Paul announced. "I want to get real drunk tonight."

 

There was more pouring of liquor.

 

 

"If you stay long enough, after we lock up I can take you home so you don't get almost run over like that one time last month."

 

 

"I'd much appreciate it." There was another pause as Paul drained the intoxicating beverage. "You know," Paul told John, "I'll bet ya if I were ever married, my lady would cure me of these sudden cravings once and for all."

 

 

"Indeed?"

 

 

"You betcha. Now how about another?"

 

 

John poured more out, and Paul swallowed all again in such a manner that I wonder how he didn't get hiccups afterwards. "But then," Paul continued his little tirade, "I've never really had time for a missus, even if I managed to get one. You know my work, how demanding it is."

 

 

I knew. Paul Romanoff was a Ministry official who worked for the Department of Mysteries. Of course, he wasn't supposed to talk about that at all, but then, the only people who knew were me and John, and that was just because of the incident last month.

 

 

Quickly summarized, the incident occurred when Paul had walked, fully inebriated, at closing time, into the street, and was nearly hit by a Muggle minivan. Even though he wasn't hit, he was knocked over, however, and he thought he was dying. Thus, when John and I rushed out there to his agonized screaming, he began ranting deliriously about how we needed to tell someone named 'Ambrose' in the Department of Mysteries that 'the box with the pancreas of Dionomis was under the floor of the men's lavatory.' Well, we took him back into the bar, and we stayed with him there that night until he was sober enough to go home. The next day, he came back and asked John what he had told us, and then he asked that we would not talk about it. We weren't about to violate his word when he had divulged such a deep secret as that, so we never talked about it, even between ourselves.

 

 

 

"Actually, I don't know, Paul ol' buddy, ol' pal. What do you do?" An already half-drunk man by the name of Davy (he never had told us his last name) piped up. He was also a regular, but most of the time he just lurked angrily in a corner, not saying, and not hearing. He continued his blather. "I used to work as Top Auror before they gave that to Nymphadora Tonks." He spoke the last word with a particular vehemence. "So now I just run as a gopher, and there's no hope that I'll ever be doing anything more with myself."

 

 

Paul was, at the second, in the middle of swallowing the contents of already his seventh glass of liquor. Dear Merlin, that man could drink!

 

 

"The less you know, dear sir, the better," Paul said. I was amazed at his ease even while that steeped. With a wink and a wave towards John, who didn't see, I don't think, I got up from my post on the stool and went back to the piano bench.

 

 

 

I went on playing with new vigour. Many people came over to me and requested songs. I came to ignore the old man still clamped to the bench, and so did everyone else. He had, by now, fallen asleep, and was snoring peacefully.

 

 

 

For a long time, I was completely lost in my playing, and I completely forgot about everything around me... John, the old man, and even the antics of Paul and Davy, which were escalating in heat as each was getting drunker and drunker. I was only roused from my reverie of Chopin's preludes, Opus 28, by Sal's already loud voice screaming to a short, stubborn-looking man in horn-rimmed glasses, "And that, sir, is that! Cornelius Fudge won't last another MONTH in office!" and such other nonsense involving politics. I grinned at that and glanced around the room.

 

 

 

The three aforementioned businessmen were slowly becoming stoned, I noticed. They were proposing toasts to increasingly odd things.

 

 

"To loneliness!" the first said.

 

 

"Amen," "Amen," the other two agreed. They all drank.

 

 

"To not being stupid Muggles who build horseless carriages and crash them!" the second exclaimed.

 

 

"Amen," "Amen," the others said as they buried their noses in their glasses.

 

 

"To not being fat old women with shopping baskets having to buy beef for their sons who haven't moved out yet even though they're over twenty!" the third announced.

 

 

"Amen," the first two nodded, probably not hearing what they were toasting to while finishing the last of their bottles of Firewhiskey.

 

 

 

 

The night progressed uneventfully. Many customers came in, few left. Most of them aimed to get thoroughly drunk, then stumble on home however they could, as was Paul's habit. It occurred to me, for not the first time, how sad a place a bar really was. It was always filled with people who had nothing better to do than forget about how horrible their lives were via alcohol. They seemed to have few or no ambitions, besides lost ones, and were probably better dead. Come to think of it, drinking could be branded as a kind of suicide. If one wasn't killed in an accident while inebriated, then probably one would drink oneself to death.

 

 

I looked around at all the people in the bar. I wondered how many of them would be here now if they had ever thought of that. This, in its turn, also made me wonder how many of them wanted to die, but were too lazy to just kill themselves straight out. But most people, if they wanted to die, would usually find a way to do so. I suppose that many of these people, then, must have some amount of hope in them that things would get better. Not all of them just simply wanted to die immediately.

 

 

 

 

The door of the office on the far right of the bar quietly opened as I was playing Secondhand Emotion by Ramonloc. Rich, the manager, came out. He was a short, kindly-looking middle-aged man with glasses perched on his brow, and a bald spot nestled in his white hair. He surveyed the bar and tables, and seemed sad and pensive, as though he were thinking my exact same thoughts. Calmly, he moseyed over to my piano and leaned against the side nonchalantly. When the piece concluded, he murmured, stroking his frizzy beard, "I've always loved that piece. I've never heard it played for a long time, though."

 

 

"I'm glad you liked it. It's not a very common song at all."

 

 

"Indeed." He smiled at me. Then he pointed his nose at my tip basket. "You've gotten a lot of appreciation so far."

 

 

I nodded. "Yes, so it would seem."

 

 

He glanced around the room again. "You know, one thing about running a successful bar is having a good selection and stock. But another thing is having a wonderful pianist every Saturday." He looked at me pointedly.

 

I knew what he was thinking. He knew, as I did, that they all came mainly to see me, and listen to my music, so that they might forget about life for a while. I do not think myself as being arrogant at all when I say that, but rather stating a true fact. It is foolish to not admit something perfectly true. It is only arrogance when one overstates one's self and claims something that is more than the truth.

 

 

 

Rich sat by me for a time, but then reported that he had more work to do, and he left me. With a sigh of some emotion I could not discern, I switched my music and set to playing a Sonatina by some Muggle composer named James Hook.

 

 

 

As I played, a strange woman approached me. I didn't pay particular attention to her; as I've mentioned before, I was used to people looking over my shoulder and walking away again. She stayed there, silently, just watching me as I played many scales and arpeggios. Finally, I concluded the Classical period piece with a grand cadence, and turned the page to see my next piece. Then the woman startled me by announcing in a very deep bass voice, "Hell, girl, why aren't you in Carnegie Hall?"

 

 

 

I jerked my head around, very startled at the voice of the woman. I realized that my ears weren't tricking me, rather, the woman was actually a man. He wore a scowl beneath his abnormally large nose, and his hair was long, black, and greasy.  His eyes were cold and disdainful, even while he was under the influence of evidentially a large amount of liquor. I blinked as I looked at him. He looked so familiar...almost like...myself? I studied him closely as he dug in his pockets. He was saying, "I don't normally tip performing artists, but you obviously deserve it." His words were slightly slurred, but in them I recognized the accents of my father. But this man was too young to be my father, and, of course, he wasn't me...in a sudden rush, I realized who this man was.

 

 

 

"Severus!" I exclaimed, amazed.

 

 

He looked at me, his brow furrowed. "Yes, that is my name, now what is it?" He swayed a bit, and he leant against the keyboard. The dramatic effect of the moment was increased by the discordant sound of many keys being pressed down in the same instant.

 

 

"Don't you recognize me?" I asked.

 

 

He shook his head. "I've...I've never seen you before in my life," he said, shaking his black-haired head.

 

 

I could not contain my excitement much longer. "I'm your sister!"

 

 

 

 

Severus Snape looked at me quizzically. "I don't have a sister."

 

 

I felt as though I were ready to cry. I knew he was intoxicated, so that was why he didn't remember me, but this was such a big emotional moment for me. I was about to recover some of my lost past, perhaps, if he didn't get freaked out and go away.

 

 

"Sav! Listen! You remember me!"

 

 

He studied me again. "You look like my mother," was all he said. I couldn't tell if that comment meant that he recognized me, or if it merely meant exactly what he said.

 

 

At this, I fell upon him in a close embrace. I don't know what made me think he would tolerate that, even if he were sober, because at this, he flung me off of him, shocked. "Woman! I never said I was going to marry you!"

 

 

Two tears streamed down my face. "Severus," I said. I looked into his eyes deeply, hoping he would see the truth. Instead, however, he stared at me coldly. "Have your four sickles, but I did not ask you for anything more but your music," he said with a sneer, and he threw the coins on the ground. With that, he swept himself regally in a beeline out the door.

 

 

 

 

I looked after him in awe. At least, I did until I realized that everyone around me was staring. They came here for the music, and now the pianist was acting weird. I quickly dried my few tears on my sleeve.

 

 

"Sorry," I murmured to myself, for no reason. I felt as though I had let my last chance of communication with my family slip beyond my reach.

 

 

 

 

I came to an important realization, then. I was an exile of my family. They had no need of me anymore at all. My greatest hopes had been dashed to the ground. I felt as though I had no more purpose in life at all. I fell to the piano and began to play a great number of fierce random notes, just to keep myself from bursting into tears.

 

 

 

 

I didn't realize I was crying until I felt John's hand on my shoulder.

 

 

"Polly...are you all right?" he asked. Feeling the sting of tears on my face, I kept looking down instead of showing John my weakness. "You're playing Shallow Brown." I stared at my hand in disbelief, and stopped it. Indeed, I had, unconsciously, been playing Shallow Brown. John continued.

 

 

"You never normally do that except when you first come in," he continued. I remained looking down. I couldn't trust my voice just then. "Polly..." His finger was under my chin, and, gently, he lifted my head so that my eyes met his. He opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something, but then he seemed to forget. I looked at him, fiercely, almost defying him to ask what was wrong. John responded with a sad look in his eyes. Finally, he said something. "What is your real name, Polly?"

 

 

 

I swallowed to regain my composure. The voice that came from my throat when I spoke did not sound like my own. "Sylvia Ashley...Snape."

 

 

John nodded. "That fits you better than Polly Harmonic."

 

 

I smiled at him a bit through my tears. John was so understanding...he could tell I didn't want to talk about what was troubling me...and we had so much in common, really...

 

 

 

I came to a sudden idea. "John," I said abruptly, a new ray of hope entering my heart, "Let's leave this dump of a country."

 

 

He was completely taken aback. "What?" He looked at me oddly.

 

 

"I mean just what I said. Let's get out of here. Never come back. We'll go to Hollywood; you'll be a wonderful Muggle movie star, and I'll write music for your movies."

 

 

He looked at me. For a moment, I thought that he was going to refuse. Then, however, a great smile spread across his face, and a light in his eyes that I had never seen before sprang up. Never before had I realized how dull his eyes really were until this new illumination came into them. He only said one thing as he swept me up in a joyous embrace.

 

 

"When can we leave?" he asked before kissing me firmly on the lips.

 

 

 

..................

 

 

 

Original Lyrics to Piano Man

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's nine o'clock on a Saturday

 

The Regular crowd shuffles in

 

There's an old man sitting next to me

 

Makin' love to his tonic and gin

 

 

 

He says, "Son, can you play me a memory

 

I'm not really sure how it goes

 

But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete

 

When I wore a younger man's clothes"

 

 

 

La la la, de de da

 

La la, de de da da dum

 

 

 

Chorus:

 

Sing us a song, you're the piano man

 

Sing us a song tonight

 

Well, we're all in the mood for a melody

 

And you've got us feelin' alright

 

 

 

Now John at the bar is a friend of mine

 

He gets me my drinks for free

 

And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke

 

But there's someplace that he'd rather be

 

He says, "Bill, I believe this is killing me."

 

As the smile ran away from his face

 

"Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star

 

If I could get out of this place"

 

 

 

Oh, la la la, de de da

 

La la, de de da da dum

 

 

 

Now Paul is a realestate novelist

 

Who never had time for a wife

 

And he's talkin' with Davy, who's still in the navy

 

And probably will be for life

 

 

 

And the waitress is practicing politics

 

As the businessmen slowly get stoned

 

Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness

 

But it's better than drinkin' alone

 

 

 

Chorus

 

Sing us a song you're the piano man

 

Sing us a song tonight well we're all in the mood

 

For a melody and you got us feeling alright

 

 

 

It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday

 

And the manager gives me a smile

 

'Cause he knows that it's me they've been comin' to see

 

To forget about life for a while

 

And the piano, it sounds like a carnival

 

And the microphone smells like a beer

 

And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar

 

And say, "Man, what are you doin' here."

 

 

 

Oh, la la la, de de da

 

La la, de de da da dum

 

 

 

Chorus:

 

Sing us a song you're the piano man

 

Sing us a song tonight

 

Well we're all in the mood for a melody and you got us

 

Feeling alright

 

............

 

Thanks for reading all that...I know twas a lot for a one-shot...