She Took a Seat Beside a Piano
The hall had just fallen quiet. Emma took a deep breath. She was quite pleased with herself. The girl had only played the last note of a piece she had mastered - a somber melody which reminded her of a rainy day - when the paintings started clapping. She had not yet realized that the paintings clapped whenever anyone finished any performance, and so felt a sense of pride and pleasure in her abilities that was just a bit too much for what had been achieved. Granted, though she was no meistro yet (far, far from it - she had only been playing just under 2 years), she had done an excellent job playing something that, just a few weeks ago, felt rather daunting. Maybe the pride was deserved.
It was only recently that she arrived at Hogwarts, and, like any 11-year-old might be expected to feel in such a situation, she was rather homesick. It mattered little how sure you were in your independence, how happy you were at the possibilities afforded to you; once you are, for the first time, away from everything you know and everything you love, you get lonely. And lonely she was. It was not so terrible that she could not bear it, nor was it bad enough to prevent her from enjoying herself. She wasn't even alone, much of the time. It was easy enough for her to integrate herself with others, and people here tended to be nice. If she wanted a person to hang out with, or somebody to go over classwork with, she only had to find the Slytherin common room. It wasn't, either, that she did not find Hogwarts rewarding. Everything about it was enchanting, like a storybook. She wandered from class to class, hall to hall, with constant excitement, mind racing with the possibilities of what the day might bring. Later in the year, she would grow quite bored with some of the classes, but for now, it was all just an opportunity.
What troubled her were the in-between moments, the down times. Those days when there was little to do and those nights when she lay in silence on her bed, hearing the slow and steady breathing of her housemates. She had not yet grown accustomed to her new environment. She had not yet memorized the halls (or, at least, those that could be memorized). And most importantly, she had not yet made any proper friends. Enemies. Anyone towards whom she felt actual, proper emotion, who would come to mind when she was bored, and inspire her to search for them. In short, she was not yet at home.
It was to her delight that, during one such uneventful day, she had discovered the rehearsal room. It was another thrilling discovery, perhaps the fifth of the week (Hogwarts had so much hidden in its winding corridors!), and this one was especially important, for in the rehearsal hall was a grand piano. A gorgeous thing, much like what she had back at home, yet clearly far older. She sat by the piano, not intimidated in the slightest by the intrigue of the paintings surrounding her, and found for the first time a little bit of home. From that day on, she tried stopping by every day for at least half an hour. It was good practice, yes, but more importantly, it was right. She still didn't have the halls memorized, and she had yet to really get to know somebody, but... this was a good start.
Emma searched through the sheet music folder in front of her until she found what she was looking for. Now that she was warmed up, she could get to work on her current project: A short, cheerful piece, bouncy, twirly, like something that would play in one of those old black and white cartoons when the hero is rowing a boat down a river on a nice spring day. She put her hands on the keys in front of her, took another deep breath, and began playing.
It wasn't very good. It wasn't horrendous- the melody was clearly discernible and the rhythm was consistent, but occasionally she would make a mistake, press a wrong key, let go of a key too early, play a note for too long. She noticed each and every time, and, though she tried to appear unbothered by the imperfections in front of her painted audience, she could not help but occasionally stop for a just a moment and correct herself.
@Clayton Lamont
It was only recently that she arrived at Hogwarts, and, like any 11-year-old might be expected to feel in such a situation, she was rather homesick. It mattered little how sure you were in your independence, how happy you were at the possibilities afforded to you; once you are, for the first time, away from everything you know and everything you love, you get lonely. And lonely she was. It was not so terrible that she could not bear it, nor was it bad enough to prevent her from enjoying herself. She wasn't even alone, much of the time. It was easy enough for her to integrate herself with others, and people here tended to be nice. If she wanted a person to hang out with, or somebody to go over classwork with, she only had to find the Slytherin common room. It wasn't, either, that she did not find Hogwarts rewarding. Everything about it was enchanting, like a storybook. She wandered from class to class, hall to hall, with constant excitement, mind racing with the possibilities of what the day might bring. Later in the year, she would grow quite bored with some of the classes, but for now, it was all just an opportunity.
What troubled her were the in-between moments, the down times. Those days when there was little to do and those nights when she lay in silence on her bed, hearing the slow and steady breathing of her housemates. She had not yet grown accustomed to her new environment. She had not yet memorized the halls (or, at least, those that could be memorized). And most importantly, she had not yet made any proper friends. Enemies. Anyone towards whom she felt actual, proper emotion, who would come to mind when she was bored, and inspire her to search for them. In short, she was not yet at home.
It was to her delight that, during one such uneventful day, she had discovered the rehearsal room. It was another thrilling discovery, perhaps the fifth of the week (Hogwarts had so much hidden in its winding corridors!), and this one was especially important, for in the rehearsal hall was a grand piano. A gorgeous thing, much like what she had back at home, yet clearly far older. She sat by the piano, not intimidated in the slightest by the intrigue of the paintings surrounding her, and found for the first time a little bit of home. From that day on, she tried stopping by every day for at least half an hour. It was good practice, yes, but more importantly, it was right. She still didn't have the halls memorized, and she had yet to really get to know somebody, but... this was a good start.
Emma searched through the sheet music folder in front of her until she found what she was looking for. Now that she was warmed up, she could get to work on her current project: A short, cheerful piece, bouncy, twirly, like something that would play in one of those old black and white cartoons when the hero is rowing a boat down a river on a nice spring day. She put her hands on the keys in front of her, took another deep breath, and began playing.
It wasn't very good. It wasn't horrendous- the melody was clearly discernible and the rhythm was consistent, but occasionally she would make a mistake, press a wrong key, let go of a key too early, play a note for too long. She noticed each and every time, and, though she tried to appear unbothered by the imperfections in front of her painted audience, she could not help but occasionally stop for a just a moment and correct herself.
@Clayton Lamont
She Took a Seat Beside a Piano
@Emma Quailey
Clayton held his position at the door. The irresistible urge to eavesdrop with one ear to the wood was no strange occurrence to someone like Clay, who was used to listening on any amount of parlay between his mother and her guests. It was how he managed to stay on top with the latest gossip in the world of theatre. That and the maids had loose lips when things stayed within the household staff chambers.
He was not used to music, though. Clay was certain a woman of his mother's calibre knew a thing or two about a piano, but he had never heard her play. It was a rather pleasant change. Though he winced a few times when certain keys popped up where they shouldn't. Clearly the name of the room was no lie. There was still much need for rehearsal.
Finally, Clay decided it was time to reveal himself. Enter the stage as they say. But what part was he to play? A caring mentor? An uptight gentleman in need of this practice room that was now his by right of his presence? He decided he had no idea on who to be til he met the actual person in the room. After all, one does need to know which audience to cater to.
And so the door swung open, slightly faster than expected. He had assumed all doors in this old castle would be heavy oak framed in cast iron, and they were, he just assumed a bit more… rust. Clearly these hinges were well maintained over the years. Without a creak, the door leaned back against the wall, as if patiently waiting for the boy to pass by it. Clay almost felt guilty not bowing to it in appreciation. Almost. Theatrics like that would give him away far too soon.
His robes billowed behind him as his shiny leather shoes click-clacked across the wooden floorboards. "The door was unlocked." He said with a sober voice and deadpan look. "Can I assume this means you are done for the day?" The boy would march forward, leaving his bag to rest on a chair in passing. He leaned forward with one elbow on the piano, his head resting in his palm.
"Not that you could use a bit more… time." His eyes flickered towards her hands for a split-second. His dark brown eyes would slowly examine her reaction to his comments, his actions, and even his presence.