| The Fate of Mankind | Pre-Durmstrang, Perfectionist Application. |
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"There is a word that follows each of us like a shadow -- not cast by light but by the hopes, fears, and judgments of others. That word is expectation."
The resonant baritone voice trailed out of the gramophone, words pinging off the walls of Reinhard Kraus' study. Rafael stared up at the lacunar expanse above, eyes tracing the Gothic-Viennese arches that ran along the end of the room, windows stripped of the colour stains that may have once tainted the vaulted arches. | |
Rafael picked up the jewel case on the desk, fiddling with the clasp idly. Then he hoisted himself off the swiveling chair towards the gramophone. "The only expectations you must meet--" the man was saying before the audio sizzled out, tonearm having been raised inches away from the record. Rafael returned his arm to rest. "--are those of your conscience," he muttered, the last words of the politician, face stoic as he secured the record back into its case before sliding it into the designated cabinet. The young Kraus then turned towards the piano across the study and made his way towards it.
It was almost a ritual, how Rafael would always listen to that one specific recording before playing the piano. At the ripe age of eleven, he felt ambivalent towards the routine and had just never once broken it. Now the words were seared into the back of his head, lips parted in silent recital of every syllable, every word, every pause.
Before Rafael stood an ancient but fair piano, its ebony tiles patinated with decades of fingers brushing across the keys to produce ethereal harmony. With quiet resignation, Rafael sat and brushed his fingers tentatively against the black and white before launching into trills, simply decadence rather than necessity, before he began to gaze at the sheet music long propped up on the fallboard. As his fingers deftly grazed the starting notes, Rafael felt a strange cognitive dissonance in mastering a Muggle craft to prove his magical worth. Was it truly necessary to expose one to the non-magical ways? The door to the study creaked open, and he instinctively stiffened, fingers poised momentarily. As the footsteps drew closer, the young Kraus drew a quick breath and launched into the first bar with careful articulation. Reinhard Kraus stood a little way in the distance, a presence that caused Rafael's hands to fly across the instrument maniacally. His silent pacing took a sudden stop as his son wavered, throwing the rubato off balance. The sharp intake of breath told Rafael a multitude of words.
Rafael bit back a flinch as his father placed a delicate hand onto his shoulder. "Precision, sohn son," He gave the shoulder a minuscule squeeze, "Passion without precision is merely indulgence." As the warmth of his father left him, the heir nodded meekly. "Yes, Vater Father." He straightened his posture, then began to play again, accelerando against his racing heart. Without another word, Reinhard left his son to his dwellings.
Expectations.
His finger twitched, and he faltered slightly. The pause was minuscule, but enough. Rafael exhaled and began to replay the piece. Wrong note. Replay. Forced diminuendo. Again. Again. "Again." Rafael was aiming for one thing and one thing only-- Perfection. Gritting his teeth, it had begun to hurt. His fingers were raw. Aching posture. Again, again, again.
Till he got it perfect.
Till he got it perfect.
12 years and a quarter old. Rafael allowed his mother to adjust his tie, slick his romulus strands backwards. Beyond the velvet heath curtains, he could hear the bustle and murmurs of the audience. He tore his gaze away from the unnerving sight and trailed his blue bayoux eyes along the slit of light climbing up the bergère onto the gramophone, where it had been temporarily placed. "As we grow, we carry them," the man was saying, voice muffled against the mumbles of the crowd. "Sometimes like a torch, other times like a weight." Rafael's commissure twitched before it stilled again, his attention now drawn to his mother. Gelvira caressed her son's cheek tenderly, searching for a sign of discomfort, distress. Dark, expressionless pools of blue gazed back at her. "Vater Father is out there." The statement lacked inquisition, yet she nodded, then gestured for him to take the stage. Rafael Kraus refused to budge.
His mother let out a soft sigh, then leaned in to offer him a fond kiss on his temple. "Ich glaube an dich, I believe in you" she murmured. Her subtle way of wishing him luck. He did not need luck. A subconscious hand drifted up to smooth out the wrinkles on his lapel, before slipping out of Gelvira's grasp into the spotlight. The gramophone's drone drowned in the collective applause, then vanished into silence, audio sizzling to a stop. A cue, Rafael thought to himself, to begin the performance. A flawless three minutes and twenty-nine. As Rafael slid onto the chair and lifted the hinged cover, he could almost taste a tinge of repugnance on his tongue from the hours, weeks, and months of practice. So many things to remember. One chance to get it right.
A perfect performance.
He displayed himself to be a captivating virtuoso, grasping at the keys, eyes fluttering shut, sealed lips melting into a feigned smile as his fingers danced across the keyboard.
A perfect performance. Rafael lingered on the pedal for a moment before tearing his poised wrists away from the keys. For the first time since exposing himself to the audience, he looked out. His ears were ringing. He was met with lofty silence, yet he could see hands clasping in repetition. Coincidentally, Rafael locked eyes with Reinhard. His father nodded slightly. A glint of surprise.
Perfect. For it is not in meeting expectations that we find greatness… but in surpassing them.
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There's always someone out there who's better than you.
