#papa nott at least has the not really sufficient to redeem him virtue of actually loving his daughter

[tnott]

[31 July 1996]

Theo sits alone in the Selwyns’ parlor, straight-backed on the piano bench, her hands moving deftly over the keys as she practices. Today the piece is Ludwig van Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 3, a piece that Miss Helen, Theo’s half-blood former tutor, had introduced her to last summer. True, it’s Muggle music, but Beethoven wasn’t just any old Muggle, and Theo has been aware for years now that musical genius has no correlation with magical ability.

Besides, who will know? Her father has certainly never realized that his daughter’s repertoire includes Muggle composers – not just Beethoven, but also Chopin and Shostakovich, Schubert and Debussy, even some piano arrangements of Bach’s harpsichord works. Surely Gwendolen Rosier and Iago Selwyn will be equally unfamiliar with such music; Muggles are beneath their notice, after all.

She’s well into the second movement, a lovely rondo, when she hears Gwendolen enter the room. She knows that the woman won’t interrupt her. Gwendolen enjoys hearing Theo play; in fact, Theo suspects that her musical talent may be the only part of her that Gwendolen actually likes. Doubtless it reminds the woman of her dead sister, Theo’s mother, whereas everything else about Theo seems to make Gwendolen think of Theo’s father, the brother-in-law whom Gwendolen has yet to forgive.

As Theo continues to play, Gwendolen moves closer, but Theo fails to notice the menace in her movements, lost as she is in the beautiful melody. It’s only when Gwendolen reaches out and snatches that sheet music from in front of her that Theo is jerked out of her reverie.

”Beethoven?” Gwendolen says, her voice low and dangerous. Her eyes have narrowed to slits in her pale face, and she tears the papers in half, and then tears them again into quarters, then into eighths…

”That’s my music!” Theo shrieks, leaping upright so suddenly that the piano bench crashes to the floor. She lunges towards Gwendolen, but the woman is already feeding the scraps to the fire, her face a mask of fury.

”No!”

”You will not play that Muggle filth in this house,” Gwendolen snaps, tossing the last shred of paper into the flames.

A surge of anger floods Theo’s veins, burning inside her like acid. Desperately, unthinkingly, she pulls out her wand, and not even she knows whether she plans to merely douse the fire or send a hex at Gwendolen.

She never finds out. There’s a sudden bang, and her wand flies from her grip. But it isn’t Gwendolen who’s disarmed her. Apparently Iago was drawn by Theo’s screams. He seems to come out of nowhere, and as Theo’s wand rolls across the carpet, he grabs her by the shoulders and shoves her against the wall.

”How dare you try to attack your aunt!” he roars, shaking her so vigorously that her teeth rattle against each other. “Apologize!”

When she fails to speak, he pulls back his hand and strikes her across the face. “Apologize!” he shouts again, while behind him Gwendolen cries, “Iago, stop!”

Theo doesn’t apologize. Instead, her cheek stinging from below, she pulls free of his grip and runs. She crashes through the back door and out into the garden, darting through the shrubbery and the trees, moving so quickly in her panic that the landscape turns to nothing more than a green blur around her. She doesn’t stop when she reaches the garden wall, but scrambles over it and keeps going, running past the borders of the Selwyn property and up into the hills behind the house, not knowing where she’s going, not caring where she’s going, so long as it’s away.

[tnott]

@aninternalwildfire || angsty words meme || accepting 

Prompt: Panic

[July 31st, 1996]

Theo sits alone in the Selwyns’ parlor, straight-backed on the piano bench, her hands moving deftly over the keys as she practices. Today the piece is Ludwig van Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 3, a piece that Miss Helen, Theo’s half-blood former tutor, had introduced her to last summer. True, it’s Muggle music, but Beethoven wasn’t just any old Muggle, and Theo has been aware for years now that musical genius has no correlation with magical ability.

Besides, who will know? Her father has certainly never realized that his daughter’s repertoire includes Muggle composers – not just Beethoven, but also Chopin and Shostakovich, Schubert and Debussy, even some piano arrangements of Bach’s harpsichord works. Surely Gwendolen Rosier and Iago Selwyn will be equally unfamiliar with such music; Muggles are beneath their notice, after all.

She’s well into the second movement, a lovely rondo, when she hears Gwendolen enter the room. She knows that the woman won’t interrupt her. Gwendolen enjoys hearing Theo play; in fact, Theo suspects that her musical talent may be the only part of her that Gwendolen actually likes. Doubtless it reminds the woman of her dead sister, Theo’s mother, whereas everything else about Theo seems to make Gwendolen think of Theo’s father, the brother-in-law whom Gwendolen has yet to forgive.

As Theo continues to play, Gwendolen moves closer, but Theo fails to notice the menace in her movements, lost as she is in the beautiful melody. It’s only when Gwendolen reaches out and snatches that sheet music from in front of her that Theo is jerked out of her reverie.

”Beethoven?” Gwendolen says, her voice low and dangerous. Her eyes have narrowed to slits in her pale face, and she tears the papers in half, and then tears them again into quarters, then into eighths…

”That’s my music!” Theo shrieks, leaping upright so suddenly that the piano bench crashes to the floor. She lunges towards Gwendolen, but the woman is already feeding the scraps to the fire, her face a mask of fury.

”No!”

”You will not play that Muggle filth in this house,” Gwendolen snaps, tossing the last shred of paper into the flames.

A surge of anger floods Theo’s veins, burning inside her like acid. Desperately, unthinkingly, she pulls out her wand, and not even she knows whether she plans to merely douse the fire or send a hex at Gwendolen.

She never finds out. There’s a sudden bang, and her wand flies from her grip. But it isn’t Gwendolen who’s disarmed her. Apparently Iago was drawn by Theo’s screams. He seems to come out of nowhere, and as Theo’s wand rolls across the carpet, he grabs her by the shoulders and shoves her against the wall.

”How dare you try to attack your aunt!” he roars, shaking her so vigorously that her teeth rattle against each other. “Apologise!”

When she fails to speak, he pulls back his hand and strikes her across the face. “Apologise!” he shouts again, while behind him Gwendolen cries, “Iago, stop!”

Theo doesn’t apologise. Instead, her cheek stinging from below, she pulls free of his grip and runs. She crashes through the back door and out into the garden, darting through the shrubbery and the trees, moving so quickly in her panic that the landscape turns to nothing more than a green blur around her. She doesn’t stop when she reaches the garden wall, but scrambles over it and keeps going, running past the borders of the Selwyn property and up into the hills behind the house, not knowing where she’s going, not caring where she’s going, so long as it’s away.