Synesthesia: A condition in which one type of stimulation evokes the sensation of another, such as when the hearing of a sound produces the visualization of a colour or shape. Confusion of the senses.
Tom Riddle ripped the ridiculous red tie from his neck and swung his fist into his dressing room wall. The pain of splitting knuckles did nothing to quell his fury. This was the third assessment in a row. Once again, there was Professor Dippit and his gaggle of judges, cooing about his flawless technique, the precision of his arpeggios, the commanding presence of his performance. Once again there was that comment. From that wretched, wretched man.
"You truly possess outstanding talent," Dumbledore's soft, cheery voice had said. "But I believe your performance today could have been improved by a better understanding of the emotion of the piece."
That insufferable Dumbledore. Always going on in some form or the other about the emotion, or the soul, or the unique interpretation that Tom's music lacked. Was his purpose to be a broken record, forever haunting Tom which his incomprehensible disapproval? How he loathed him. How he sought desperately for his approval, if only to quiet the voices in his own head.
What exactly did he not understand about the emotion of the piece? La Fille aux Cheveaux du Lin was a laughably straightforward piece dynamics-wise; it only went from soft to softer to less soft. He'd read the interpretations, even though he really hadn't needed to. It was supposed to be romantic, subtle, melancholic, and Tom had been so careful to replicate that in his playing. Why then? What was he missing?
He flung himself into a chair, his fingers pulling at his perfectly mussed hair. It would be so easy to dismiss Dumbledore as crazy, or tell himself that the man had it out of Tom, especially since other professors never seemed to have a problem with his playing.
He knew, however, that Dumbledore was a fair judge, and one who was indisputably brilliant. The old man was widely considered the most talented musician of the century, and if Tom was going to surpass him, which he was fully planning on doing, he would have to find the factor he was missing.
Resigned, he got up and fetched his tie from where it lay in a heap on the dark mahogany floor. The miserable thing cost more than all his school books put together.
"Mione?"
The vibrant orange of Ginny's voice echoed as she stepped into the posh bathroom of Steinway Theatre. "Hermione honestly! You're not even the one performing."
"I know, I know. It's just, I've never heard my pieces played out loud before. And in front of so many people."
The red-head made an impatient noise. "I understand Mione, I do, but if you don't stop pacing in here, we'll miss the whole thing altogether."
Hermione acquiesced, allowing herself to be dragged into the auditorium. She was being a little silly, she'd admit.
Ginny had been the one who mailed Hermione's compositions to the director of the Steinway Performing Arts Centre where they both took lessons, and convinced her piano teacher to let her perform one of Hermione's pieces in their annual recital. All, Hermione might add, before consulting her. Even now, Hermione couldn't decide if she wanted to yell at Ginny or hug her.
After plopping Hermione down into a chair near the front of the stage, Ginny raced backstage to take her spot with the other performers. Ginny played the violin only recreationally, but Hermione could not help but marvel at how confident and talented of a player she'd become, considering how bad her bouts of stage fright had been when they were younger.
A small group of middle-aged people took their seats a row in front of her. They were impeccably dressed, and stood out even amidst the dark ebony wood and golden chandeliers that were Steinway's auditorium. The Steinway Performing Arts School itself wasn't well known outside of London, however Ginny's violin teacher, Mrs. Barnet, was a graduate of the Hogwarts Academy of Music, and she had a feeling the group were friends of hers.
The curtains opened, and one by one, the performances began. Though most of the students at were strict lessons-once-a-week, hobby musicians, Steinway teachers had a way of beating high standards into you, and the recital reflected it. Hermione closed her eyes as she listened to everything from Chopin to interpretive jazz.
Ginny was one of the last ones. Hermione held her breath as her friend touched her bow to her strings, sounding the opening notes to Hermione's Aria, notes that she'd only hear in her head before now. Ginny had always been an expressive player, a fact for which she was thankful as her piece came to life, both familiar and foreign at the same time.
She closed her eyes and let the music paint the story she'd imagined while writing it. The melody lulled over her like a wave, sorrowful blues blending into rich purples and then to bright reds as the key slipped from minor to major. It resonated in her bones, and it almost pained her when it was over.
As people flooded out the doors of the auditorium at the recital's end, Hermione found her friend and threw her arms around her. "Oh Gin! Thank you."
"No problem Mione." A smug grin stretched across Ginny's freckled face. "Although I thought you should know, there's a lady I don't know talking to Mrs. Barnet about your piece."
"What do you mean?"
"When the recital was over, she got up and asked Mrs. Barnet the name of the piece I'd played, and she told her you'd composed it yourself. They started talking and I don't think they've stopped yet."
"Oh-"
"Hermione? There's someone here I want you to speak with." Mrs. Barnet's soft-spoken voice came from around the corner.
Hermione barely had enough time to shoot a bewildered look to Ginny before her teacher appeared, followed by an impeccably dressed woman with a serious face.
"Minerva, this is Hermione Granger, a theory student under Mr. Wright. She's the one who wrote the piece." Hermione pulled on her shabby red dress as the woman's gaze swept over to her. "Hermione, this is Minerva Mcgonagall, an old colleague and friend."
Minerva McGonagall? Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. Minerva McGonagall was a world renown contemporary composer, and the author of one of Hermione's favourite books on composition, Elements of Musical Theory.
"Oh. Oh! It's such a pleasure to meet you Professor McGonagall. I adore your book on musical theory!"
Professor McGonagall gave her a thin-lipped smile. "Thank you my dear. Amelia told me you composed the piece that your friend performed."
"Yes, composing's a bit of a hobby of mine. I've never, well, asked anyone to play my pieces before now though." Hermione hated how cold and clammy her hands felt. She wasn't one to get star-struck, but this was her idol standing in front of her.
"I don't think I've heard anything quite like it, Ms. Granger. I especially liked the way you wrote the harmonies in the second part. It was a bold move, using such unconventional combinations, but it really helped create a suspenseful atmosphere, didn't it?"
"Oh…thank you." Hermione was quite sure her face was turning the exact shade of Ginny's hair. It didn't help that the professor's voice was such a jarring, deep purple.
"However, I think the left hand could be improved. There were parts when it felt like both voices were fighting for dominance. I understand the effect you were trying to produce, but it seems to be a little lacking."
Hermione nodded severely. It had been a large concern for her while writing. "Yes, now that I have heard it performed, I think changing some parts of the left hand to form a polyrhythm might help, perhaps?"
McGonagall made a small sound of approval. "A creative fix indeed. How long have you been in music Miss Granger? What instruments do you play?"
Hermione felt her overwhelming joy plummet somewhat as she bit her lip. "Er…I don't play any instruments I'm afraid. I haven't got much talent for it. I've been studying music theory since I was ten though."
McGonagall nodded. "Do you enjoy composing?"
"Yes! More than anything."
Professor McGonagall's expression softened. "Miss Granger, I believe you have a lot of talent, and I would love to see it cultivated. I am a Professor at Hogwarts Academy of Music, and if you'd like, I could to talk to our Board of Directors. If I could get a copy of some of your recent works to showcase, we might be able to offer you admission, and maybe even a scholarship."
Time seemed to stop. Surely she was dreaming. Hermione had never allowed herself to believe the possibility of a career as a composer. It was not something ordinary daughters of dentists with no musical talent would dare dream of. She'd always planned to become something more practical and suited towards her bookish personality, like a lawyer or doctor.
Hermione struggled to close her open mouth. She was sure she must have looked like a goldfish. She was being given the option of pursuing a career in the one thing that made her happiest. Even more than that, she was being offered possible acceptance into one of the most prestigious musical schools in the world, and one that was almost purely for legacies and children of famous musicians.
She really should think this over. She should ask the Professor for the chance to discuss this with her parents. It would be the Hermione thing to do to think before giving a definite respond.
"Yes! Please t-that would be amazing!" She blurted out. "I'll send them to you as soon as I can."
Forget what she ought to do. They were talking about Hogwarts for heavens sake.
"Thank you so much. I hate to ask this of you, but we really have no choice."
Riddle's smile was laced with a precise amount of sorrow. "I completely understand. I've always looked up to Gideon as a upperclassman, and what happened to him was a tragedy. It'd be the least I could do to take over his duties until he recovers."
"I certainly hope he does. So much talent, that boy…but with an injury like that," Professor Merrythought sighed, pursing her lips. "It would only be for the remainder of the summer. Consider it practice for next year. I'm sure your name will come up for it."
He nodded seriously, repressing the urge to smirk. "Alright. I should ask Dorea Black about the Choir then?"
"Yes, Thank you Mr. Riddle."
Tom left a Professor Merrythought was a somber farewell and headed back to his dorm, straightening himself out of that dreadfully stiff, melancholy posture he'd been forced to undertake for the pass half an hour. A slow smile crept across his face. Though he now had to concern himself with preparations for the Alumni performance, his goal was accomplished. Tragic as it was, Gideon Tonk's injury was no accident.
Hermione slipped back into the empty train compartment and slide the door closed. She'd changed into her Hogwarts uniform in a hurry, thinking it would give her confidence, but the sight of all the students she passed on the way from the change room seemed to reverse the effect. Cellos clutched between steady knees and the smell of polish and wax and old music scores; all of it made her want to shrink into a corner. There was baby grand in her train compartment, for heaven's sake.
She combated this feeling, of course, by pulling out the textbook for History of Twentieth Century Music, a class she had the second semester, and setting to work, devouring the words with astounding fervour, even by Hermione Granger standards.
Her extended cram session had begun the moment she receive the call that Hogwarts was, by some miracle, offering her a full scholarship, and did not seem to be stoping any time soon. Not only did she pour over any and all music books she could get her hands on, but also enforced her knowledge on science, math and linguistics.
While Hermione knew most students chose only to take music courses, Hogwarts was also renowned for having one of the best economics and science programs in Britain. There was no way she would ignore an opportunity like that.
Even if she was surrounded by child prodigies and future concert musicians, Hermione was not going to settle for second best. She'd been top of class by a mile for the past six years at her old private school, and she intended do the same here. Even if this school was composed of over 90 percent legacies. Hell would freeze over before she would let a little talent intimidate her into submission.
The door of her compartment slide open, and Hermione looked up to see two boys walking in, dressed in the black, tailored suits that were the boy's uniform, paired with striped green ties. One was a lanky, and dark-haired, while the other had blond hair and grey eyes. Both stopped short when they saw Hermione and her generous spread of books.
The dark-haired boy sneered. He might have been handsome, had it not been for his expression. "Get out." Dark blue spewed from his mouth as he spoke.
"Pardon?" Hermione managed indignantly, taken aback by the boy's rudeness.
"I said, get out." The boy spoke with mock calm, as if she were particularly slow. "This is our compartment."
"It's fine, Dorian. She can stay." The blond boy regarded her with utter disinterest. His voice was an icy grey, like harsh mountains and dry terrain. He dropped his luggage in a corner and slid his violin case off his shoulder with ease, taking a seat on the other side of the compartment.
Hermione's cheeks burned. Were there actually assigned compartments, and someone had forgotten to tell her?
"Abraxas Malfoy," the blond boy said offhandedly, not even glancing up as he opened the case and rosined his bow.
"Dorian Prince." The other boy grudgingly followed suit before setting down beside Malfoy.
Hermione didn't offer up her name, because she got the distinct impression that neither of them cared. Malfoy and Prince. Those names brought a plethora of famous musicians to mind, including Septimus Malfoy, world-class Cellist and Lilian Prince, famous opera singer and vocal instructor. It probably wouldn't be a stretch for her to guess they had famous relatives. This was Hogwarts, after all. It was unnerving, really, to imagine the children of people she read about in textbooks sitting right in front of her.
Malfoy brought his violin up to his chin, and Hermione couldn't help but feel like it looked out of place. The violin was beautifully crafted and elegant, obviously an antique model. Malfoy was all broad shoulders and harsh angles and cold grey eyes, an image you'd conjure up when you heard the words war general, and not violinist.
However, when he drew his bow across the strings and began playing, Hermione almost felt ashamed for the thought. It was lovely, furious song that reminded Hermione of a racing horse, and the music exploded out in flashes of red and blue and black.
Malfoy was strangely still as his bow danced back and forth, the fingers of his left hand trembling as he reached a vibrato section. It was not a rigid stillness, but one of someone who had mastered every slight movement with disciplined efficiency. A far cry from Ginny, who played dramatically, and with her whole body.
Hermione corrected herself. Perhaps someone could look like both a war general and a violinist at the same time. Looking at his slight frown -which looked rather menacing- and half closed eyes, she'd never heard anyone play more beautifully.
"Wrist still not healed yet, Abraxas?" Prince remarked as Malfoy finished his song.
"Is it noticeable?" Malfoy set his bow down on the table and rubbed his right wrist.
"Just in the second half. You were a little sloppy."
Malfoy nodded, and Hermione gaped. If that had been sloppy…
"That was beautiful." She was reluctant to met Malfoy's stony gaze.
"Thank you." He gave her a weighing look. "You are?"
"Hermione Granger. I'm transferring into seventh year."
He simply nodded, but Prince looked slightly scandalized. "Granger? What your mother's maiden name?"
Hermione blinked. Then blinked again. What sort of question was that? "Wilkins. Why?"
"No musical blood at all in your family? I wonder why they even let you in." Prince snorted. "Studying to be a teacher then? Or one of those new age musicians?"
Hermione squared her jaw and scowled. "No. I'm studying composition. And I don't see why it's such a big deal that my parents aren't some famous musicians. Heritage has got nothing to do with it."
She'd heard rumours that there would be people with elitist attitudes, but she hadn't realized they would be quite so upfront about it.
"Oh you'll eat your words soon enough. Common folk like you just don't have the talent, or the connections to keep up with the rest of us," said Prince smugly. "Hogwarts is wasted on your kind."
"That is the most- you don't anything about me!" Hermione bristled, feeling her blood roar in her ears. "How do you know I'm not just as talent as you are? And, and someone in your long musical ancestry must have been born to non-muscians!"
"I think," Malfoy's cool, calm voice was barely above a murmur, but it was enough to stop Hermione mid-rant. "you should keep those opinions to yourself, if you know what's good for you."
There was no malice in his voice, but Hermione felt a shiver go up her spine, and her mouth turned dry. There was something about the boy's incisive eyes that set her ill at ease.
She felt the train lurch to a stop, and she busied herself with packing up all her books, secretly grateful for the excuse not to respond.
The boys slipped out of the compartment without another word, luggage in tow. Hermione closed her suitcase and hurried after them, straining at the weight. Perhaps she should have packed all those books in the checked luggage after all.
"First years! First years, please follow me!" A tall, formidable looking girl with curling, dark hair paced back and forth down the corridor, hands cupped around her mouth to project her voice.
Students passed her in every direction, chattering and exiting in groups, instrument cases hanging from their shoulders. They all seemed to know where they were going. She'd been given no direction from the letters she'd received other than to buy certain materials and get unto the train, and when she sought out a prefect, they had simply told her to get changed and find a compartment.
"Excuse me, miss?" Hermione rushed towards the dark-haired girl. She seemed to know what was going on.
"I'm a seventh year, but I've just transferred in. I've got no idea where I'm going."
The girl paused and turned towards her, giving her an apraising look. "Yes, I think there are one or two of you this year. I'm Augusta Longbottom, Head Girl. You can follow me."
"First years!" She continued down the corridor, the youngest-looking students only beginning to timidly poking their heads out of their compartments.
Before she knew it, Hermione was ushered down through ancient gates and down a maze of semi-light corridors until she stood in a large hall. The ceiling seemed to reach the clouds, and tall candles dripping wax off a bronze chandelier lit the stone walls with a warm glow. Nervous whispers filled the hall as the hundred or so first years surrounding her milled about, waiting for Augusta to return.
Over their heads, she was relieved to see one of the other transfer students Augusta had mentioned. A head of tight golden curls stood a few paces to her left, much too tall to be a first year, and she weaved her way towards it.
"Hello," she said as the boy turned to face her. "I'm Hermione. I was worried I was the only transfer."
He had honey brown eyes and his halo of curls flopped about with every slight tilt of his head. The movement sounded like bells, yellow bells. He gave her a dimpled grin. "I'm Alfred Macmillan, but people call me Alfie. I'm a seventh year, by the way. Oh, and this is Helena Fletchley. We met on the train."
She followed his gaze to a dark haired girl that she'd mistaken for a first year. Hermione was on the shorter side herself, but this girl couldn't have been five-foot.
"Nice to meet you. I'm a sixth year." Despite her stature, Fletchley's voice was low and sonorous. Brown, Hermione thought. She sounded brown, like coffee and aged wood.
"I'm a seventh year." She'd assumed that her situation was a rather strange one, moving to such a prestigious school in her last year, but perhaps not. "Why did you guys transfer in?"
"I was supposed to come here from the start, but m' mum decided to send me to a normal school for a couple years, get involved in some stuff other than music for a bit, you know." Alfie rubbed the back in his head. "We meant to switch earlier, but we just didn't get around to it until now."
Hermione had heard of the name MacMillan before, mainly in the author section in classical repertoire books. She nodded. It was easy to imagine a son of some respectable musical family transferring in whenever he liked.
"Got in on scholarship," Fletchley shrugged. "Turns out I've got a knack for singing."
"I'm on scholarship as well," Hermione replied.
"Oh! What do you play?" Alfie grinned. "Hogwarts doesn't give out scholarships to just anyone."
"Actually…I can't play an instrument." Hermione willed her face not to burn in embarrassment. "I compose."
She expected them to be skeptical or at least taken aback, but Alfie just grinned broader. "Ah! You'll fit right along with the Ravenclaws, you will."
"Ravenclaws?" Hermione frowned. "The dorm?" She'd read Hogwarts, A History countless times in preparation, and Ravenclaw was simply the name of one of the dorms.
"The people who stay in the Ravenclaw dorm." Alfie looked as if she'd just asked why the sky was blue. "You will be staying there, yes?"
"My letter never told me where I was staying."
"Mine didn't either." Fletchley frowned. "Should we know?"
Alfie chuckled. "I forgot you guys don't know how this school works. Don't worry, you get to choose where you stay. Most legacies grow up hearing stories about dorm competitions and such, which is mostly just listening to your parents badmouth or stereotype all the other dorms, so most people know where they want to go.
"Is it such a big deal?" Fletchley raised and eyebrow.
"Well yeah, sort of. You take classes with the people in your dorm, and each dorm has their own sports teams, and there's a lot of mutual dislike between the dorms, that kind of thing."
"Is there a difference, which dorm you choose?" Hermione asked.
"Well, Hufflepuff is full of kids who are studying to be teachers. Nice, friendly blokes, the lot of them. That's probably where I'm headed."
"Hufflepuff. Helga Hufflepuff." Hermione remembered reading about the founders of Hogwarts. Hufflepuff had been the famous tutor of dozens of musical prodigies.
Alfie nodded. "Then there's Ravenclaw. All of them are really smart. I mean really smart. They usually end up writing books about music theory or going into some wacky field like auditory engineering, or composing, like you Hermione."
Rowena Ravenclaw, the scholar who'd laid the foundation for countless musical theories.
"Gryffindors are usually looking to get into contemporary music. Risky business if you ask me. Still, they're a rambunctious lot, and quite nice. a lot of non-legacies end up there."
Godric Gryffindor, who spearheaded the impressionist musical revolution in the late 19th century.
"And finally, there are the Slytherins. I doubt there's a single Slytherin who wasn't a legacy. Most of them are from extremely famous families, and they're all looking to be the next big thing in classical music. There's lots of pressure on them and it's pretty cutthroat."
Salazar Slytherin, one of the world's most renowned composers, and a musical purist in every sense of the word.
"There's really no good or bad dorm, but you do have to make a decision." Alfie's eyes darted to the door, which had begun to swung open. "Pretty soon, looks like."
"Good morning, first years." The crowded room of chittering, wide-eyed eleven-year-olds went uncommonly quiet as Professor Mcgonagall entered the room, the heavy oak doors shutting behind her with a resounding boom.
"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Music. I am Professor Mcgonagall. I teach Music Theory, among other subjects here. There is a great feast prepared for all of you, and I'm sure you are hungry, however first you must choose which dorm you wish to stay in."
She gestured to the four banners, each embroidered with a depiction of their respective house mascot. "Most legacies will know where they are headed, however some of you have no idea."
"I would advise you to choose the dorm that most closely aligns with your ambitions and passions. Gryffindor are the movers and shakers, if you will-"
She was interrupted with a cheer from dispersed members of the crowd.
"Yes, I see some dorm pride forming already. Like their namesake, Gryffindors are most commonly interested in contemporary music, and forging their own path. Hufflepuff has produced the some of the world's most esteemed teachers, Ravenclaw is home to lovers of musical knowledge and theory, and Slytherin is the breeding-ground for some of the best performers in the classical music scene."
While there were no more cheers, it was becoming obvious who would end up in which dorm.
"If you are still unable to make a decision, there are quizzes available to guide you. Please see a prefect for one. They can only recommend a dorm, however, the choice is yours to make. Please follow a prefect to your respective dorms after you have chosen."
Hermione watched as the crowd dispersed into four. Alfie bid them goodbye, dragging his luggage behind him as he headed to the Hufflepuff dorm. Without much deliberation, Fletchley left for the Ravenclaw dorm, and Hermione considered following her.
Ravenclaw was the most obvious choice, she supposed, but no one had mentioned anything about composition. Theory and knowledge were crucial to composition, but, that was only scratching the surface. Composition could change, move, express, discover.
She decided to take a quiz from a nearby Prefect, a tall, freckly boy with hair that could match Ginny's. River or Forest...choose a pet...how would you like to be remembered in history... How did this have anything to do with music or the dorms?
Hermione tallied up the scores. Gryffindor, with Ravenclaw only one point behind.
"Ah, Hermione." Professor Mcgonagall gave her a thin-lipped smile as she walked towards her. "Have you decided where you would like to stay? I realize the concept might be quite foreign to you. We really should look into making this process more friendly for non-legacies."
"I haven't quite made up my mind. May I ask, Professor, what dorm were you in?"
"Me? I was in Gryffindor." Hermione must have looked shocked, because she added, "I know I don't seem like it, but I loved every moment of it. There's such a diverse range of people in Gryffindor every year, and you're bound to grow as a musician."
The Professor was called away to take care of business, and Hermione was left to make her decision. At first she started towards the group of Ravenclaws, but she found herself staring long and hard at the lion embroidered on the Gryffindor banner; red-gold, like a jazz composition. With a sigh she joined the loudest, most rambunctious group of first years she had ever seen.
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you caught on to my allusion of the Pottermore sorting quiz :) Please leave a review, if you liked it. Please leave a review if you hated it. I'd love you to death if you could tell me everything you didn't like about my writing, because that's how us wannabe writers get better and become real, full-fledged writers. Also, actively looking for a beta, so if anyone would be interested (God bless your kind soul) please let me know!
Until next time,
LetterBlue