~Here ya go. It's incomplete, unpolished, and probably confusing, but here ya go. Based on a dream I had a while back. See the movie Rigoletto for something similar but better. :)~

In less than two seconds, Darcy had decided to go into the Witch House. Darcy was no angel, but she could never stand to see small creatures suffer. So when, while riding her bike, she found a robin with a broken wing, she knew what she had to do.
A large dog skulked under the front steps of the Witch House, feathers sticking to its paws. Carefully gathering the bird (it bit her anyway), Darcy pulled a face at the dog and dashed up the front steps. It snorted indifferently and let her pass.
The Witch House was a two- or three-story, grey-painted building. The top story had a long front window. For years that window had been boarded, but two weeks ago someone had taken the boards down. Within one night, lights shone in the windows, and the damaged east wing of the house seemed magically fixed. No one ever saw the workers or the new occupant.
Darcy felt as if she was walking into a dream, or out of one. With one arm, she heaved open the grey-paneled door to find herself in a world of color. She had entered a large receiving room. A cherry and gold rug lay on the rich, polished wooden floor; a suit of armor ludicrously distorted Darcy’s reflection; a crystal chandelier above her sprayed light across the ceiling.
Darcy gulped and squared her shoulders. She was certain the Witch House had never looked like this before… but the bird needed help.
She looked to her right and saw a door and curving staircase. She tried the door, but it was locked, so she mounted the stair.
The staircase wound like a rainbow. Without ever reaching a second floor, it descended right into what Darcy guessed was the locked room. She gingerly walked down the staircase, and almost screamed.
Out of silence, a piano started playing. Dropping the bird in surprise and fear, Darcy ducked behind the banister and scrambled back up the steps. The bird, shocked, struggled pitifully to move its wings. It chirped weakly.
The beautiful piano music stopped abruptly. Darcy heard a sound like a stool being pushed back, and staggered footsteps, as if the person limped. Darcy shrank back as the footsteps neared the staircase.
"I see I have a visitor," said a man’s deep voice, clearly enunciated yet with a throaty accent that elongated vowels. Not a witch, hopefully.
Darcy was about to dash out when she realized the man was talking to the bird. She heard a sound like someone kneeling and standing heavily, then the careening footsteps plodded off. The stool was pushed in again.
"Now do as I tell you and leave me in peace," said the man’s voice in a low half-laugh, half-growl, as if someone good-natured was trying to sound scary. Like the house. Though why a house or a man would try to be scary when not, Darcy didn’t know.
Whoever-he-was resumed playing his piece. Darcy unconsciously started creeping down the stair, and peered over the banister.
A man with long, wavy black hair sat at a grand piano. He seemed tall but slightly hunched over, and Darcy saw that one of his legs extended crookedly underneath the piano. The bird lay on the edge of the piano’s music stand, still cheeping pathetically.
The man never looked at the bird. His playing was masterful, elegant, and powerful. Its loveliness enchanted Darcy. Her head raised higher and higher, so heedlessly that it was fortunate that the man never looked up.
As Darcy watched in wonder, the bird suddenly slid off the piano and plummeted. She cried out and clapped her hands over her mouth. Still the man played. And the instant before the bird would have hit the ground, it spread its wings and soared, shooting around the room, over Darcy’s head, up the staircase, and, with a flourish of brown wings, to freedom.
Darcy’s face broke into a glorious smile. "You did it! You did it!" she cried, jumping down from the steps. Her ponytail holder fell out of her hair, and her sandy curls fell in her face. She hastily pushed them aside, and jumped back to see that, somehow, the man had come to stand right in front of her.
His right side leaned heavily on a cane. Darcy got a clear look at his face under its long black waves of hair and brooding eyebrows. The left half was clear, tanned, and unlined; it seemed young. The right side was so much older—pale and disfigured.
He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. His long fingernails didn’t dig into her, but her whole arm went numb.
"You," the man said with a scowl but amused eyebrows, "should not be here. And now I get all the bother… of deciding what do with you."