Who: Harold Dingle. What: Harold finds a sweet spot and serenades nearly the whole school by accident. Where: Bit of crawlway space found on the 3rd floor. When: Lunch time (and about an hour after); October 24th (and after). Status/Rating: Complete/Low.
OOC: Thanks to the natural acoustics of the pipes and rock and where it led, much of the Great Hall could faintly hear it during lunch- and it got louder for people on the 2nd-4th floors. It was never obtrusive though very much in the background.
The smell of fresh, buttered noodles filled Harold's nose. His eyes closed in delight, mouth salivating. They had only a suggestion of garlic to them as he stirred, eyes alight at the carton under his face. Harold loved noodles. Maybe not as much as he loved music, but he did. Both fed his soul. And with them in hand, he unpocketed a pair of wooden chopsticks. Smooth and shiny, their finish half a red cherry and half an ebony color. And they were simple, hexagonally cut in shape at the top. Harold dove in and slurped a few hungrily...
... At least until he remembered he wanted them to remain special and he slowed with a purpose. Noodle by noodle. Drawn up between his happy lips, chewed and swallowed almost like it was a religious experience. His head tilted back against the rock face and the slight curve of the pipe that made the ceiling. It was tight, but it might as well have been a king's palace with pillows the way Harold heaved a deep, content breath and closed his eyes.
No arguments. No politics. No war, no raised voices. No voices at all. Nothing that needed winding, or reading, or the flick of a wrist. Just silence. And buttered noodles. Harold drew a pleasant, shy smile across his face and set his food aside for a moment, chewing the last of his mouthful. His hands folded on his chest and he breathed regularly, as if seeking a trance.
The trip to the seventh floor hadn't yielded much. There wasn't much up there- just an ugly tapestry with Troll ballerinas that made him double-take in curious awe. He'd walked around the halls, wishing to find an acoustic sweet spot. There were a few doors, all locked. And one time near that strange tapestry he swore there was a door there that he hadn't noticed before. But that was impossible. So he moved on and finally gave up, finding his way into the inner wall system. He wormed his way through and tested a few notes on the fifth floor, which lacked his satisfaction. Too tinny.
But this spot... Harold took up his guitar and with his eyes closed again tensed his lips ready. He loved silence. But he loved that moment when silence was broken by rich music even more. And so he twanged out a few notes before giddily snorting his approval as the sound bounced back along the space and through him. It was a sweet spot alright. Not the best he'd found, but still good.
So Harold slurped his noodles and sat in silence until songs came into his head. When they did he played them two of three times, sometimes singing and sometimes letting the notes tell all. Classical Gas, an acoustic version of Layla and and the opening riff to Hotel California got the most air time, and he experimented with a by-ear version of a song he heard played by someone on a hammered Dulcimer during Hogsmeade weekend. It was the perfect way to ditch afternoon classes.