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title: Substitution date: august 29, 2002 In the Burrow, there’s an old vibraphone, a Muggle one. It’s a heavy golden rusty brown; so the dust that covers it is gleaming as well, and the Paddington Bear blanket somehow seems to shine, hinting at something just a few inches deeper than Paddington Bear’s wellingtons and anorak. Bill touched it, a few years ago. It leapt to attention and spun little discordant tones into the air of the Weasley garage, and Bill left it. Charlie touched it two years later, and it hummed and buzzed and trickled to a slow, insidious stream like steam, and he left it. Percy touched it. It sounded like thumping brass and a marching band that had never really got its act together in time for the parade, so Percy left it. The twins touched it, together, fingers side by side and wrists rubbing against the other, and it almost broke with friction and the heat of their soft, quick laughter. Vibraphones are delicate, old things, better left alone to glaze in their unsaid hymns and turn ripe to bursting with sweet, sweet melody. Ron touched it, this December, and it sang. Oh? His mother says, while charming a dishrag to wipe down the kitchen counter-top. I think it belonged to your father. Oh? His father says, face screwing up in the agony of thought. I really can’t recall where I got it from. When I was around your age, I guess. At night, the walls of the Burrow somewhat shake with the snores and sleep patterns of around seven occupants. Ginny sleeps with her face turned into her pillow, lying on her stomach like a floating victim. Fred falls asleep with his side crooked into his twin’s left arm, and Percy sleeps with his arms clasped around somebody who isn’t there. Mr and Mrs Weasley sleep in separate beds, but they don’t tell anybody, because they think none of their children know, though every one of them does; although it has to be said that the Weasley family is big on the saying: “It’s the thought that counts”. Ron steps out, feet freezing on the woodwork and lighting the cramped spaces with his wand. The vibraphone squats like a king and begs to be played like a pauper. He strokes it down the side, and it purrs. He finds the wrapped mallets between a box of American Muggle comics and a crate of electric headphones, weighs them in his palms, and plays into the early morning. When Percy wakes up to the sound of something echoing through the floor, up his mattress and into his head, he cries out and turns to left, hands reaching out for the impossible and finding nothing possible but grainy sheets and old bedspread. When Ginny wakes up, she lifts her head out of the deep water of sleep and blinks twice. She had a dream, she thinks, of someone, a boy or a ghost or something. Black hair and thin, light bones. She thinks of Harry Potter and not of the other one, and is content for a little while. When the twins wake up, they lie curled around each other like corresponding commas and don’t move. They go back to sleep again, although sleep hardly matters to them. Mr and Mrs Weasley do not wake. Ron hits the final note and feels it shivering up his spine and doing somersaults between his ears, pirouetting to land in the roof of his mouth as exhaustion, thirst and the dry feeling of dust. He falls asleep, his nose tickling with early-morning allergies, his arms wrapped around the legs of the vibraphone. It’s the thought that counts. *** The Vibraphone. |
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