𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒

Chapter 12

There must be something. . . some way to help. Edward paced in front of the cabin, his eyes trained on the forest. For a moment he'd considered following Draco and Snape, but knew they'd already apparated to their destination. Without magic, Edward was helpless in a way he hadn't been in almost a hundred years. The feeling of abject powerlessness in the face of an unknown threat unsettled him, made him tense and peevish. If only there was someone else he could turn to, someone with more knowledge of the wizarding world who could give him a better idea of the threat this Dark Lord represented. But Edward was, for all intents and purposes, a Muggle. No wizard would provide him with that kind of information, except for Draco. And Draco wouldn't want Edward to get involved, not at the risk of his parents' lives.

He kicked at the snow until he reached solid ground, dislodging a rather large stone and sending it flying through the air. The loud crack that sounded somewhere off to the right did little to alleviate his frustration.

Later that day, after he'd hunted, Edward returned to the cabin. It still smelled of Draco, and he gripped the bedpost, resisting burying his head in still-tangled sheets. Draco was surprisingly messy for someone so fastidious about his person. Edward picked up a discarded shirt and folded it, and then gathered the rest of Draco's belongings together. He found the Magic Eight Ball on Draco's side of the bed and smiled, weighing it in his palm.

A question popped into his mind without really meaning to—will Draco be okay? At least this time the answer was an unequivocal yes. Feeling a little foolish, he set the thing aside. He'd better find something to do with his time, or he'd go mad.

The reality of the situation didn't get any easier to accept. After all, this wasn't the first time Draco had met with the Dark Lord, and it wouldn't be the last. Draco was losing himself and there was nothing Edward could do. He was bound.

The piano. He sat at the bench and raised the protective cover, letting his fingers glide over the smooth ivory. It really was a beautiful instrument, nicer than the one he'd owned in Washington. Of course Draco had dismissed its importance, as was his way, but he'd known what the gift meant to Edward. With a sigh, Edward stretched his fingers and began to play. The beginnings of a melody had been whispering in his mind for weeks now. It started in a soft minor key, but quickly became louder, more insistent. The notes ran together, light and dark, angry, then subdued. As always, his mind ran blank as the music washed over him, so loud as to probably alert the entire forest of his whereabouts. None of that seemed to matter anymore.

He found himself seated at the piano the next day as well, this time making notations on a blank sheet of paper as he played. Though his vampire recall was perfect, he didn't want to forget the song; it seemed too important to belong only in his head.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't know how much time had passed when he suddenly sensed a warm pressure on his shoulder that felt like a hand. He shook his head and focused on the keys—perhaps he really was going mad.

The hand squeezed. "What are you playing?"

Edward stopped and looked up in disbelief.

"What are you doing here? I thought—"

Draco placed his free hand on Edward's other shoulder and leaned forward, cutting his speech off with a kiss. His lips were chapped and rough from the cold.

"I can't stay long," Draco said. "But I needed to see you." His lips pressed again, the tips of his of tongue slipping into Edward's mouth.

Edward pushed off the bench and stood, heady with the rush of relief. Draco was here and he was okay. Still, Edward touched his shoulders, his chest, his arms, just to make certain. Perhaps they could leave together . . . he could protect Draco, keep him and his family safe. He let the fantasy run rampant as their mouths moved together.