C H A P T E R 1

1948

He glanced up at the repetitive blinking of the bar's sign: 'The Old Stallion'. The night shone its brightest, the stars starting to tinkle above him. His 23 Year old self had not completely taken in what he was about to do. He was starting to doubt himself and his own talents, which seemed to be fading with each breath of nervousness he took. His body trembled slightly, and he knew that its origin was not from the cold. The fear of disappointment started to haunt him again, and the image of his godfather stayed intact. He didn't come for dinner the next night.

"I can do this."

His Norfolk jacket hung loosely against his shoulders, and his bowler hat was tightly impact. Insecurity started to seep through him just as the perspiration formed by his forehead. With his hands nervously placed in his pockets, he marched through the oak doors in one breath.

He was instantly greeted by the loud cacophony of people talking from each side of the room. The bar was half full, all lined with gentlemen who seemed to sag down the table from their drunken state. Waitresses, all in uniforms completely alike, snaked through the crowd with their trays of alcoholic beverages and appetizers. The odor that emanated from each side mocked those of vinegar and strong perfume, making Harry wince in distaste. He continued to walk through the crowd, all the while staring at the stage by the far end. It was then that he saw his very piano: Jane, who was standing idly in the middle of everything. He felt his fingers turn eager, and felt restiveness rising in him once again. He suddenly felt light-headed.

"Harry Potter?" He gave a small jump before turned to see Gregory Lockhart approaching him, dressed in his infamous top hat and waist coat. He held back a snigger.

"Mr. Lockhart! It's wonderful to finally meet you." He held out a polite hand, which was shaken in turn with an unsuspected glee. Mr. Gregory Lockhart held a smile, one so cheeky and wide that it haunted Harry inwardly. His cheeks were nearly red, his previous plump face pounds thinner. His blond hair, which he usual covered with the said top hat, started to recede.

"Oh, bullocks. It's wonderful to finally meet you. So, are those fingers ready to play?" said Lockhart in delight, yet Harry merely smiled in all his nervousness.

"Not quite. Would it be shameful of me to ask for a little preparatory time?" For a moment, Lockhart looked scandalized, which made fear rise inside of the young lad. It was then that he understood that it wasn't directed towards him, but to his statement.

"Shameful? My dear boy, I would never think of you as shameful! Take your time! When everyone's relaxed and settled, you go on. Now skiddadle before I change my mind, quickly! Quickly!" With a slight push to his back, and a deceiving smile, Harry made his way through the velvet curtains and into the backstage.

It was silent.

A man was stationed by the crevice, sitting on a stool with his head resting against the body of his cello. His hair was the lightest shade of brown Harry had ever seen, and he noticed a scar just by his wrinkled cheeks. He seemed middle aged, his hair receding in an almost similar way as Lockhart's. He was wearing a morning coat with a waist coat underneath, adorned with the chain of an oval locket that hung from his breast pocket.

To his disbelief, he felt an unknown force tempt him to wake the old man up: mocking some sort of magnetic, non-romantic attraction.

With a thought so unsure that it befuddled him; Harry approached the man, the sound of leather against the wooden floors completely audible. His hat now in his hands, he tapped the man slightly on the shoulders. He was then replied upon with an irritated grunt, his eyes fluttering open from his unintended slumber. He eyed Harry carefully for a moment, standing slowly with his cello gripped within his rough palms.

"You're the pianist, am I right?" His voice was low, his brown eyes dark and piercing. Harry nodded.

"Yes I am, sir." He replied, quite unsure if the man was feeling defiance or admiration. The man held out a hand, visibly shaking from his old age. Harry shook it with his own clammy ones, apprehensive at first.

"Im Harry Potter, sir."

"Sir? Rubbish. Call me Richard--Richard Granger." He finally smiled, showing his braced teeth. At the mention of his last name, Harry felt a mysterious excitement arise in him. It was as though an indivisible admiration inhabited him. It was beyond unexplainable.

Soon, he found Richard sitting back down, his pants lifting a few inches to reveal his faded black socks. A bow was now present within his palms, and soon enough Harry found himself listening to a Cello Sonata. It was soft and nothing less than the most melodic thing he had ever heard. He saw Richard's hands change from note to note, moving up and down the cello's neck.

With a few more resounding notes, he reached the finale. The last note lay suspended in the air, and Harry couldn't help but beam and show all traces of his bottled interest. Richard, who noticed the young man's ecstatic expression, smiled and gave one bow.

"That was amazing." Exclaimed Harry, who was now clapping his hands in enthusiasm. Richard shook his head in modesty.

"Well it wasn't that amazing, but thank you anyway." The man said in pure modesty. There was a comfortable silence between them, yet it was then that they heard a resounding applause from the audience beyond the velvet curtains, marking the end of the previous performance. In an instant, a man peaked through the tapestry and called upon Harry.

"Hey Potter! You're up in 5." He said before disappearing once again. Richard looked at him, who seemed to be wiping the perspiration off his forehead.

"My dear boy, there's nothing to be worried about." He touched Harry's shoulders in assurance, yet he continued to tremble. Harry tried to give a smile, but it was masked with an expression of repetitive restiveness.

"It's just my first time to perform in front of a crowd, that's all." He replied quite shakily. Richard squeezed Harry's shoulders tighter.

"Now listen here, boy. The crowd doesn't matter. It's the music. It's the rhythm, the melody, the harmony. It's just you and that piano out there, no one else." Harry shut his eyes tight, his hands shaking in his pockets. He took deep, long breaths and struggled to find any trace of inspiration. It was him and his piano…music was all there is… "If you're scared on doing something you love, then you shouldn't love it at all if it makes you feel like such, sonny."

"I'm not scared." His voice stung with determination, yet Richard saw the evident fear in it. It was then that he saw Harry's emerald eyes that he was reminded of himself when he was young: someone so clueless and afraid.

"I know how it feels like Harry, but sometimes you've just got to face the music." Mocking some sort of epiphany, at that very moment Harry knew what he was supposed to do. Face the music. It rang in his head repetitively, and it was the only thing he would live upon. His whole mission in life was summed up in that single phrase, a phrase that supplied him the greatest amount of inspiration he has ever received. He looked up at the man and smiled, and knew that he had seen the amount of gratefulness in his eyes.

And now put your hands together for the new pianist in town, the jive-arsed son of a gun himself: Harry Potter!

"Thank you." A series of applauses were heard outside, and Harry knew that it was time. With one encouraging look from Richard, he stepped through the velvet curtains to be greeted by blinding flashes of light, and a multitude of curious eyes staring at him. The applause faded, and in a surprising instance, the whole setting was silent. Harry took a gulp, sitting down on the cushioned chair afterwards.

"Come on Jane. We can do this." His whisper was barely even heard by himself. With both his hands on the keys, he closed his eyes; He heard a few murmurs from the room as he did so, some of them completely skeptical. With one satisfied smirk, he started to play.

What he did next was a shock to him.

His hands transitioned swiftly from key to key, and he found himself playing a fast-temped tune. His left hand was playing with extremity, while his right started to wander from octave to octave, just as his perspiration flowed through the nape of his neck. He felt his fingers pound on each key, and he couldn't help but smile in satisfaction. He opened his eyes, only to be surprised to see his fingers move in such a quick motion that he merely saw outlines of blurred skin. "Bloody hell" he whispered to himself.

"Oh my goodness, he's playing the Blue Note Boogie!"

"Well, I'll be damned!" From a far distance, he saw Lockhart jumping with extraordinary glee that his plump cheeks bounced with him. Soon enough, he heard saxophones and other aerophones accompany him in his musical performance. He looked over his shoulder, only to see Richard Granger plucking his cello to the beat. Overwhelmed with happiness, he continued to play violently, his fingers aching with a pleasure so surreal to him. Just as quick, the crowd started to stand and make their way towards the dance floor. Petticoats swinging, hair swaying, and heels tapping against the floor. Everyone was dancing to his music, and it delighted him to no end. His feet started to tap as well, and he looked back once again to see Richard smiling delightfully back at him.

"More! More!" The audience shouted at him, and he smiled wildly in reply. He transitioned to a different tune, the bar now echoing with his own music. He looked once again to the audience, suddenly feeling an urge to do so.

It was then that he saw her.

Suddenly, everything went slow. It was her, with her auburn dread locks and her stunning cinnamon eyes. He continued to stare at her slow laughing figure, her facial expression showing enjoyment towards his music. She seemed so temptingly radiant in his eyes, and music ceased to nothingness. It was only her and her image that would stay implanted in his mind forever.

He blinked back into reality and found himself continuously playing, people never ceasing to dance around him. He glanced back and saw her retreat through the velvet curtains he once entered. He felt a surge of excitement, something that he couldn't control. With a few more measures of quick playing, he ended it with the repetitive playing of two notes, making everybody stop and clap deafeningly at him. He stood up shakily, still at awe at what he had just done, and bowed with his hat by his chest. A more deafening applause, now including the men with the formal overcoats just by the back of the bar. He smiled gratefully back, his chest pounding with incredible force and his fingers aching in excruciating pain. The spotlight shone its brightest at that moment, and all attention was directed at him. He took one more bow, greeted once again with a deafening applause, before retreating through the velvet curtains, all the while with an overwhelming excitement.

And there she was, sitting neatly on the stool Richard once sat on.

He felt his throat constrict, and he suddenly felt the restiveness he used to feel minutes ago. His collar seemed to tighten around his neck, and the temperature seemed to rise by 5 degrees. Noticing his presence, she glanced up and smiled instantly. That particular smile, for some odd reason, made his heart palpitate.

"Mr. Blue Note Boogie. You played up quite a storm out there." She stood up slowly, straightening her pink poodle skirt. He approached her slowly, unsure of how to react. "You do know that The Blue Note Boogie is one of the hardest piano pieces to play?" The way her eyes fluttered unintentionally made him feel extremely light-headed. She took one more step towards him and stretched a hand in front of her.

"I'm Hermione." The way her hand was gracefully suspended in air awed him. He took her soft hands into his and shook it lightly. The way her piercing eyes looked into his was tempting, and she was shocked as well to see such bright emerald ones staring back at hers. It was then that they noticed that their hand holding lingered.

"I'm Harry." He mustered to say. Their hands released, to his surprise, quite reluctantly. She took a step closer, and it was only now that he noticed the strong smell of sweet vanilla that emanated from her skin.

"I'm assuming that your middle name isn't Jane?" She said in amusement. Harry chuckled slightly, his head shaking in decline. "Oh, good. I wouldn't want to share a middle name with a man." Hermione added, who was now giggling. This statement piqued Harry's curiosity,

"Hermione Jane?"

"Why, yes. Is there a problem?" she inquired with a single eyebrow raised.

"Oh, nothing of course. It's just…interesting. That's pretty much all." It was an awkward silence that came next. The thought of her middle name being Jane bothered him, for some odd reason. It seemed like such a coincidence to him, even if it sounded silly to compare such an entrancing woman with a musky old piano. Yet, there was the same attraction he felt with Richard Granger—but this time, it was (even to his own shock) romantic, and something completely inevitable. He glanced back at her, suddenly feeling an odd need to, only to see that she was twirling her hair repetitively, and seeing her idiosyncratic habit of nibbling her bottom lip.

"So Harry, are your parents here? I mean, they must be thrilled to see you like this!" Her enthusiasm was cut short upon seeing Harry's face drop to a blank expression. She furrowed her eyebrows for a second, diffident on what she has done. "Did I say anything wrong?"

"They aren't here. They were killed during the war." Hermione's hand flew to her mouth in shock.

"Oh dear. Im so sorry, I didn't intend to—"

"I don't need pity, Hermione. I have my music. It's all I really need." said Harry. Hermione's delicate smile was his to keep as a reply. It was soon that he noticed her hand gripping his arm softly.

"I admire you, Harry Potter. Not so many of us are as brave as you are." She said in a subdued tone, almost mocking a whisper. It was so gentle and calm that it nearly lulled Harry to close his eyes. She gave his arm one lingering squeeze before letting go, and in an instant he once again felt incomplete. He walked towards the velvet ropes and peaked through the small crease. The bar was about to close, and absolutely no people were left, the staff as an exception. All that was left was his piano.

"Hermione?" It was an indivisible force that led him into what he was going to do.

"Yes?" She asked. There was a long pause in between as he struggled to find the right words to say to her. It was then that he knew just what to say.

"May I play you a song?" he felt the anxiousness rise in him once again. She quirked an eyebrow, which was then accompanied by a skeptical smirk.

"Yes, you may. But don't even try and make me sing. I'm practically tone deaf." She said humorously. Harry emitted a deep chuckle.

"Don't worry. I won't." He led her through the curtains and into the dim lit stage, where Jane lay idle and unmoving. He felt her arm grip his gingerly as they walked through the creaking stage, and he suddenly felt-basking in all its bothersome elements-nervousness. She leaned slowly against the side of the baby grand, her back slightly arched that it distracted Harry severely. Sitting down once again with one deep breath, he placed his foot against the una corda and started to play. His left hand played softly against the lower octaves, while his right hand drifted against the higher ones. After a few measures, he cast a quick glance at Hermione, who had an undecipherable expression on her face.

"There were angels dining at the Ritz…and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square…" His head quickly turned, and he soon found her singing, her compelling eyes completely closed as a smile formed on her face. She was evidently lying about her being tone deaf, for she had the most angelic voice he had ever heard. It seemed to tranquilize him, just as his hands started to drift from one key to another. She was swaying her head back and forth, her arms swinging against the glassy exterior. It was then that he felt the need to play some more.

"I still remembered how you smiled and said…was that a dream…or was it true?"

He gave another drift from key to key. She neared the end of the song, and he gave his final keys before entering the finale. He stepped onto the sostenuto and the damper for one final time—

"And like an echo far away…"

His hands moves gracefully against the keys, not noticing her intent stare at him and his fingers.

"A nightingale sang in Berkeley square." Oh, how delightful it was to him to have finished, for his chest pounded quite loudly that he felt indivisible lacerations forming. She gave him one dazed smile before standing straight, tucking a loose curl to the back of her ear. He stood slowly, a certain eagerness for what her reaction may be. She was standing with her hands clasped by her waist, her smile still plastered on tightly.

"You're quite a charmer, Harry." He tried to restrain the blush that threatened to creep up his cheeks. She was now walking down the stairs, and Harry hesitated upon calling her and letting her stay.

"Well, you're quite the liar. Tone deaf? That was far beyond tone deaf. That was simply…simply—"

"No room for flattery here, Harry. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to start practicing my violin. I wouldnt let you take all the musical glory now, would I?" And before Harry could give his statement on his utter shock regarding her secret talent, she spoke again.

"Someday, somehow, we'll be making beautiful music together."

Her smile was the last he saw before her image drifted into nothingness. If fate was kind to him, he would see her again.

Someday. Somehow.

--thepianist—

A/N: Okay. I might have mentioned a day or two. But hey! I'm merely a day late.

Now, I'm completely insecure on what you all think. xD

I dearly hope it was okay.

NEXT UPDATE IN---I'm not quite sure. It's a surprise. xD

SONGS USED:

Blue Note Boogie from The Majestic Soundtrack

A Nightingale sang in Berkeley Square- Rod Stewart remake

-T.F.D