"'You were born during a solar eclipse.' is what my Mum says. I checked the astronomical charts. I think I'll choose to ignore them."

It was on her 9th birthday that she accompanied her mother to a performance of her father's, a conductor for a regional orchestra. There, in that dim, ornate hall, her life changed. The opening piece, taking up the entire first half of the performance, was The Four Seasons. Only later would she discover that this was one of the most well-known works of art in the world - at that moment, she thought she was witnessing a miracle.

There was something about the sound, the way it reverberated, the way it made her feel things with an intensity that she had never felt before, and more then that, the right things, those that she just knew were appropriate, and that she just knew were shared by those surrounding her because they simply must be because listen! Something about it changed her, and though she would not realize it for a year or so longer, it was determined then that she would need to follow in her father's footsteps.

Forty minutes passed, and the piece came to an end. Applause. She applauded too, though the sound was obnoxious, because it was proper. Her father turned to face the crowd and bowed. The lighting, he would later complain, was abysmal, and Emma would have had to agree, because there on the stage she could barely make out that it was him. Her father, who should be able to see her too, and how proud she was of him, who bowed and smiled, waving that wand ("No," her mother would correct her "it was a Baton. We don't use wands around muggles, remember?"), who was shrouded in darkness, likely just as blind to her as she was to him, and that simply was not fair. It was so not fair, in fact, that in the mind of the 9-year-old it was completely unacceptable, and, in a fit of anger, she stood up on her chair and yelled: "DAD!"

Every light in the hall simultaneously turned on with such intensity that the lightbulbs burst. Glass shards rained down from the ceiling, and splotches of color filled her vision in the darkness that followed. Nobody was hurt, thankfully, and the Ministry did its job as well as it always did. No trace of the incident made it more than a couple of days among the muggles before being expunged, covered up, or obliviated away. But her parents knew the truth - Emma had cast her first bit of accidental magic.

That same year, the girl began studying piano. Her mother, a former pianist of quite some talent who had retired early after a severe magic-induced injury from which her hands never fully recovered, served as her teacher. Though she was by no means a generational talent, she nonetheless had a knack for the instrument, improving faster than might be expected. Her parents were delighted, and, as her father was born to muggle parents, had no qualms about allowing her, at the age of 10, to start performing what little she knew at local recitals. There, usually wearing a black suit (which she insisted on calling her conductor's suit), her black hair cut short, dark brown eyes laser-focused on the sheet music that she had all but memorized, she confirmed her love not only for music but for performance.

The letter from Hogwarts arrived, presenting the opportunity for a new chapter in life, away from home, away from family. Emma loved her parents, and yes, she would miss them dearly, but never once did it occur to her that going to Hogwarts would be anything but excellent. She had, at 11, a determination to be independent that, when coupled with a general ignorance regarding the actual requirements of being independent, bordered on obnoxious. But she was, in other ways, good-natured - happy to learn, happy to get to know others, happy to help, and, but for a small streak of elitism and a habit of taking failure with less grace than might be desired, she was pleasant company and a good friend to have.