Her eyes trailed her fingers while they danced on the ivory keys, producing the music that Muggles apparently called 'Fur Elise'. Both parts of her body were overused: her eyes with her endless reading, and her fingers with writing all those assignments and knitting clothes for the house elves. Contrary to what she thinks, she's not just all 'books and cleverness'. She was determination and kindness and bravery and loyalty. She was his saviour when exams came around and when the threat of death hangs heavy on them. She was frizzy hair and soft skin. She was his star, his angel, his light, and everything else those poets raved about for pages and pages. She was the pianist that knew exactly which keys to play to send him to bliss, to misery, to quiet desperation, to rage, or maybe all of them at once. She made everything about him better because he had surrendered himself to her and she was better than he could ever hope to be. She made music out of him.
A laugh escaped her pretty lips when he tried to replicate her playing. He could never copy her music, he knew. She had started playing again to show him how it was done, but an orchestra wouldn't be able to turn his eyes from her face at that moment. She was creating music more euphonious than ever, and no piano was helping her. All she needed to entrance him was her eyes and her smile, and violins sang, trumpets blared, cymbals crashed along, and in the middle of it all, there was the pianist, twirling around her fingers while he twirled around in his head, trying to catch up with her notes.
Another laugh. Those eyes were now directed at him, and her mouth was saying something about her never finishing her piano lessons and being quite rubbish at it. No, no. He wanted to say. You play the best out of everyone, because who else could send me into this kind of frenzy? You're my pianist, and no lessons are needed. You composed me into a musical piece, and you didn't even know.
But he was too brash and ineloquent while she was graceful and articulate, so he just smiled and suddenly recalled something he should be doing. A slight disappointment crossed her face, and the orchestra she led slowed down infinitesimally. He would've wanted nothing more than to sit down and create new sounds with her, but his fingers were slow and clumsy and his words indelicate. Maybe someday after the war. Maybe someday, Ron will tell Hermione he loves her with all the passion and fervor she deserves. Maybe someday, he'll learn to make music out of her.