It drives passion and thrives off of it.
/
Harry fidgeted back stage, dressed in a neat, crisp, white shirt and black dress pants, covered by a black dress jacket. A slim black tie settled around his neck, and he tugged at it nervously.
In just a few minutes, he would be on stage, in front of a huge crowd, ready to perform the set piece for the first round, Bach's Minuet in G Major. He would sit down at the gorgeous piano on stage—a Steinway & Sons, it sounded absolutely incredible—and he would place his hands on the keys. He would press down and draw the light, airy sounds from the instrument. He would play the piece, and he would play it the best that he could, with as few mistakes as possible.
He would make Miss Lissa proud of him, and when he finished, he would stand and bow, and they would clap. They would applaud him, and if he was really lucky he might get a hair ruffle from Miss Lissa afterwards.
And maybe, just maybe, Aunt Petunia would give him a smile, and Uncle Vernon would let him have more than just scraps that night.
Because he would do well. He would be one of the best, and he would make it to the final round. He had to believe that—because Uncle Vernon had told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn't, he wouldn't be allowed to continue playing piano.
The music that sounded from the stage stopped, and the audience's applause resounded through the walls. Eventually, it slowly stopped, and Harry took a deep breath. The girl who had been playing just before him smiled as she walked past him, her face red and sweaty, flushed with excitement and nerves and relief.
Harry walked on stage, and faced the audience. He dipped into a short, respectful bow, and settled into the piano bench, gently scooting it forward to compensate for his short arms.
He placed his sheet music on the stand, and placed his hands on the keys, feeling sweat trickle down his face from the heat of the stage lights, bright and hot above him. He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes, thinking of his goal briefly before clearing his mind of anything but the piano in front of him, and the music that he would be playing. Harry opened his eyes, emeralds flashing.
And he began to play.