Finding the Muse
by Rain Fletcher
Part 6
The weekend was, all things considered, rather uneventful. Harry, Hermione and Ron fell into their regular patterns of study, practice and leisure, and on the surface it was almost as though the evening at Hufflepuff and Harry's subsequent breakdown had never happened. There were occasional signs, though, such as Ron asking Harry how he was feeling maybe two or three times more often than usual, or Hermione occasionally catching his eye over the top of one of her many books and smiling knowingly, or the frequent realization that he was tapping out a beat on the spine of his own book as he read.
At no point did the three of them discuss Friday's events, and Harry was quickly coming to the realization that it was going to be difficult to keep his promise to Hufflepuff and not let details of their ritual slip out in everyday conversation.
Almost certainly it was their shared discomfort at having to keep their silence which landed the three of them, plus Luna, in the Room of Requirement Sunday afternoon after the scheduled Ravenclaw-Slytherin quidditch match. Back again was the recital hall with the beautiful grand piano (which Hermione played idly while Ron and Harry tested different hand-drums and Luna improvised on an oboe), and for quite a while no words were spoken between them.
It was Hermione who eventually spoke, prefacing her words with a heavy sigh. "It's… frustrating, really."
"What do you mean?" Ron asked.
She played a progression of chords, then stopped, folding her hands in her lap. "Now that I've had a taste of it again, I don't want to stop playing."
Luna sat back from her oboe and smiled across the room at the other girl. "Then don't."
"There won't be enough hours in the day," Hermione frowned. "There's already so much to do as it is, and there will only be more as we get closer to exams."
With all the reassuring Hermione had been giving him of late, Harry was glad for the chance to return at least a little of the favor. "We'll find time," he told her. "If it's important to us, we'll find the time."
"It is important," Hermione said quietly, though her tone indicated that she was still uncertain of how they would manage it.
"Never thought I'd live to see the day that you said something other than books was important," Ron snickered.
Harry was almost expecting this to be the first shot fired in another row, but Hermione refused to take the bait, instead looking at Harry and saying "Books? Cleverness? There are more important things…" He returned her slight smile, remembering quite well the circumstances under which he'd first heard her say those words.
Ron just snorted, apparently not noticing their exchange. "I don't know when, exactly, but I know the time's going to come when I get to remind you that you said that."
At this, Hermione frowned and turned toward Ron, and sensing that the recently avoided row might have a chance of starting after all, Harry said the first thing he could think of to change the subject. "Luna, what does having perfect pitch mean?"
This actually got both Luna and Hermione to look at him, the latter with some surprise and the former with a single cocked eyebrow. "Why do you ask?" Luna replied.
"At the end of things on Friday, Professor Sprout said she thought I might have it, because I was able to sing that Beatles song in the exact key it was written in. What does it mean, though?"
Luna regarded him with a studious quality he was not used to seeing from her. "It's a bit difficult to explain. Think of the way your eyes see changes of colour. If you saw blue change to green and then to yellow, you'd be able to say `That was blue, then green, then yellow.'"
"Okay," Harry nodded, not entirely certain what she might be driving at.
"A person with colour-blindness, though, would only be conscious that a change had happened, and wouldn't be able to give you the names of the colours. Most people's ears are like that. They can hear changes of pitch, and they can tell you if a pitch goes higher or lower. But a person with perfect pitch can tell you exactly how much higher and lower, and can even tell you the name of the pitch just as easily as you can look at a blade of grass and say `This is green.' Hermione, could you play me a note?"
"Er, of course. Which one?"
"Any one will do."
Hermione shrugged and played a single tone on the piano. Luna cocked her head to one side and listened for a moment, then turned back to Harry. "You see, if you had perfect pitch, and a bit of training with Western music theory, you'd be able to hear this note and know that it's the G-flat above Middle C." Hermione looked momentarily startled as Luna gave the name of the note, and Harry realized that someone in the room definitely had this perfect pitch thing, whether he did or not.
"Well, what do you use it for?" Ron asked.
"Do you remember the trio that performed near the end? Right before they started, one of them hummed their first pitch without having to get it from an instrument. More than that, though, you'd be able to tell if a note were being played or sung out of tune, just like your eyes can see subtle differences between shades of green."
Harry nodded slowly. "Professor Sprout said there are tests she can do to see if it's really perfect pitch, or just pitch memory."
"There are. When are you going to meet with her?" Luna asked.
"Tomorrow evening, I think," Harry decided, feeling strangely excited at the prospect of it. "I'll drop by her office sometime before dinner."
* * *
When Monday evening came, Harry wasted little time getting thoroughly lost as he searched for Professor Sprout's office. He was vaguely aware that it was close to the greenhouses, but only after a fairly extensive tour of the area did he find a door tucked away behind Greenhouse Two bearing the name "Pomona Sprout, HeD." Beneath the placard was tacked a faded handwritten note that said "Come in! (Mind the creepers.)"
Harry opened the door cautiously and peeked inside. The room beyond appeared to be more a workshop than an office, and as could be expected there were plants everywhere: potted plants with enormous green leaves, hanging ferns that appeared to be actually breathing, a dozen flowerpots on the sill jockeying for position to catch the last rays of the setting sun, a row of tiny fruit-bearing trees under strange purplish-green lamps, several tendrils of the aforementioned creeping vines (which scampered out of his way as he came into the room) and something which Harry could only guess was a bonsai version of the Forbidden Forest in a small wooden box.
Of Professor Sprout, however, there was no sign, except that there were faint voices coming from a second door which presumably led to an inner office. Harry looked around for an unoccupied chair, which turned out to be somewhat difficult, and finally had to shoo a couple of creepers out of the way to avoid sitting on them as he took the chair closest to the miniature forest.
He sat there for a few minutes watching the trees under the lamps exchange individual fruits as though they were trying on one another's jewellery, and then to his surprise the muffled voices behind the door began to grow louder and somewhat higher in pitch. It sounded a lot like an argument, and it occurred to Harry that he might have arrived at a bad time.
Just as he was considering leaving, however, the door to the inner office was flung open from inside, and out stomped none other than Luna, who was positively seething. The expression of unbridled fury was so alien on her normally placid face that for a moment Harry had to wonder if it was really her. Any doubt he might have had regarding her identity was dispelled, however, as Professor Sprout appeared in the doorway and shouted after her. "Miss Lovegood!"
Luna whirled around and scowled at the Herbology mistress. "You claim to consort with the Muses, and yet you hide behind a siren!" she said through gritted teeth. "You hoard something that should belong to us all!"
"Miss Lovegood, you will not take that tone with me!"
"You shame the Muses," Luna said in a quiet voice still edged with fury. "And you shame Helga Hufflepuff."
For a moment, it was as though all the air had suddenly left the room. Every plant stilled, and both Harry and the hanging ferns held their breath, awaiting the explosion.
Professor Sprout, however, gaped at Luna as though too shocked to be angry. "How dare you," she said at last. "How dare you say that to me? A fine artist you may be, Miss Lovegood, but what do you know of Hufflepuff?"
Luna stood up straight and raised her chin haughtily. "Only that Helga Hufflepuff opened her house to all that came. Can you say the same?"
That said, she glanced over at Harry, gave him a brief, intent look, then swept from the room in a flourish of blue and black robes.
"Um," Harry said into the ensuing awkward silence, "if this is a bad time, I could always come back later."
Professor Sprout visibly deflated, and for a moment looked very old and tired. She then rubbed one hand over her face and gave Harry a weary smile. "Not at all, dear boy, come in. I'm sorry you had to witness that."
Waving for him to follow, she stepped back into the inner office. Harry came in after and took the seat on the near side of the professor's desk. Like the workshop, this tiny room was crammed with plants of all varieties, but there were a few touches to indicate that the occupant was a musician as well (not the least of which being the upright piano set against the back wall).
Sprout sat rather heavily on her own stool, letting out a sigh as she did. She was composing herself well, Harry thought, but it was still apparent that she was a bit flustered by her encounter with Luna.
Fearing suddenly for his friend's welfare after pointedly telling off a professor, Harry cleared his throat and said "Er, about Luna, Professor? Um… she's been… under a lot of stress lately. Probably doesn't even know what she said."
"No, my dear, she knows very well what she said. That girl is one of the few truly honest people left in this world, bless her." She then smiled thinly. "Fear not, Mister Potter. Our conversation was, at her request, strictly off the record. I know full well that musicians can be incredibly emotional people, and she's not in any trouble. Now, as for you: have you come to test my suspicions about your own potential talents?"
"Yes, yes I have."
"Excellent," the professor said with a wider smile. "We'll be testing your voice and your ears mostly. It's a pity you've never learned any theory, but better late than never. Now. Sit up straight, breathe deeply from the diaphragm… yes, like that, good lad… and repeat these phrases back to me."
She swiveled on her stool, placed her gnarled hands over the keys of the piano, and began playing five-note ascending and descending scales, which he did his best to sing back to her in reply. They gradually worked their way higher until his voice began to crack with effort, then descended in pitch until he felt as though the low notes were scraping the inside of his throat. They then started upward again, each five-note passage higher than the last, and after the fourth one, Sprout turned to look at him.
"Very good. Your range is small, but promising. With a bit of work, we could probably make a serviceable low tenor or baritone out of you."
Harry had little idea what to make of this. "Is that good?"
"It means that your voice is, pitch-wise, almost precisely average for adult male voices."
"Oh," Harry frowned, deflating slightly.
"None of that, Potter!" Sprout grinningly scolded him. "Your voice also isn't finished developing yet. I doubt you'll ever be an operatic tenor or a basso profundo, but there's something there to work with, certainly. The fact that you can match pitch at all puts you head and shoulders above many. Now, let us see how you fare with something other than scales."
The professor turned back to the piano and began playing five-note passages, the first several of which he recognized as snippets of melody from some of Friday night's folk songs. After this, though, things got a bit strange, and there was nothing at all melodic about it: some of the notes seemed to be played almost at random. Each one was more complicated and more bizarre than the last, with the gaps between the notes never remaining constant. He did his best to repeat them back, but it was getting harder to keep up, and he realized with some discomfort that he was beginning to sweat.
After one last particularly un-melodic progression of seven notes rather than five, Sprout nodded thoughtfully at him. "Rest your voice, Mister Potter. This next exercise is for your ears. I'm going to play the same passage twice, but the second time, one note will be different. I want you to listen for which one."
She played a five note ascending scale, as she had at the beginning, but upon the repeat, the third note was distinctly different. "Third note," he said.
"Was it higher or lower the second time?"
"Lower."
"How much lower?"
Harry blinked a couple of times. "Er, I don't know, exactly. Not very much at all, though."
She once again nodded thoughtfully at him, then went back to playing. After each set of two, she asked him the same three questions. Hearing which note was different was easy enough, as was saying whether it was higher or lower the second time. Each time she asked how much higher or lower, though, he was stumped for an answer. After a few, he was able to compare them to one another by saying "About as much lower as the very first one we did," and such.
After about a dozen of these, she swiveled back around on her stool, folded her hands on her desk, and looked him straight in the eye. "Lastly, Mister Potter… would you be so kind as to sing back to me the very last passage we did in the previous section?"
Harry was momentarily stunned by the request, and for a moment, could not even think of where to begin. He then closed his eyes, thought hard, and did his best to repeat the seven seemingly random notes, only daring to open his eyes at the very end.
"Well done, Mister Potter," Sprout nodded.
"You mean I got it right?"
"Oh, not entirely, no, but I scarcely expected you to."
"Oh."
The Herbology mistress steepled her fingers and gave him a searching look. "You're a very interesting case, dear boy. Very interesting indeed."
"So… do I have perfect pitch?" he asked.
She studied him for a moment before she replied. "Were I to give you my best guess, I would say that you likely do not."
"I see," Harry nodded, feeling a very real disappointment at this news but trying to keep it from reaching his face.
"The difficulty lies in the fact that you've never had formal ear training or any theory to speak of. I can't very well to ask you tell me that you hear a half-step here or a minor third there when you've never been shown what those are. What I can say is that you have an incredible ear for even the most difficult of intervals, and your memory for pitches is excellent. Even if it turns out that you do not have the textbook definition of perfect pitch, you appear to have some impressive gifts, Mister Potter. Now, as you know, there is no formal instruction given in the musical arts here at Hogwarts, but I have some texts you can study from if you choose to pursue these talents further. And I do hope that you will."
His mounting disappointment was lightened by these revelations, even though he wasn't entirely sure what they meant. "I think I'd like to, Professor."
"Splendid, splendid," she smiled at him. She then reached across the tiny room to take a thin volume from one of the crowded shelves, gently nudging a flowerpot aside in order to reach it. "Since you've no instrumental training, we shall need to find an accompanist for you to study with, and to tutor you in some of the basics: reading notes from the staff and so forth. Preferably someone who knows their way around a piano." She pulled a scroll from the clutter on her desk and scanned through it. "Hmm, Miss Wells hasn't many students at the moment... or perhaps Miss Abbott, since you're already familiar with her… and Mister Finch-Fletchley might also be a good choice, though his emphasis is percussion…"
As much as he liked the idea of working with Hannah or Justin, another idea came to mind that he found infinitely more appealing. "Actually, Professor… would it be alright with you if I asked Hermione? I've… er… been studying with her for years now, you see, and…"
"Of course, of course," the professor smiled, passing the book to him. "You'll both find everything you need here. And I'll put your names on the list for the second-floor rehearsal rooms: you'll notice a few more doors the next time you pass through the near hall."
"Thank you, Professor." A thought then struck him. "Er, would it be alright if Ron and I asked Justin to work with us a little on drums sometime?"
"Ah, yes, I'll add Mister Weasley to the list as well. And you needn't ask my permission to speak with Mister Finch-Fletchley, but I appreciate your courtesy." Sprout then glanced at a cuckoo clock on the wall. "Meanwhile, young man, it's nearly time for the evening meal. You'd best be off to the Great Hall."
"Right, of course," Harry nodded, standing quickly. "Thank you again."
He turned to go, and his hand had just touched the door handle when he had a sudden, vivid image of the look Luna had given him just before leaving. It occurred to him that she had been trying to tell him something, but he couldn't for the life of him place it. It also occurred to him to wonder why she had chosen today of all days to visit Professor Sprout, since she had known he would be there for his testing.
"Er, Professor?" he asked, turning around slowly to see Sprout again looking over her roster scroll. "If you don't mind my asking… what did Luna ask you about?"
Professor Sprout's features fell into a guarded frown. "I don't believe it would be proper to tell you in detail, Mister Potter. However, I will say that Miss Lovegood is… of the opinion… that Hufflepuff House should open its Friday Festival to all of Hogwarts."
"Oh," Harry nodded, having suspected as much. "She asked Ernie about that the other night. He said something about it being a tradition of the house?"
"Indeed," Sprout nodded. "One of the only traditions we have left, to be painfully honest."
Harry went on nodding, but he scarcely heard the professor's words. His mind was elsewhere: the Gryffindor common room Friday afternoon. Hermione had said something - something about the reason for going in the first place.
Something clicked in his head, and he slowly returned to the seat in front of her desk. "Er… can I say something off the record as well, Professor?"
"Of course," Sprout replied, looking at him with a mix of humor and skepticism.
"The way Ernie talked about it made it sound like you'd be… losing something if you shared your music with everyone else."
The professor sighed. "As long as we are speaking off the record, Mister Potter… I do not truly disagree with Miss Lovegood. She is not the first to make this… suggestion over the years. However, I am loath to risk tampering with my students' greatest source of pride and solidarity. These days, being sorted into Hufflepuff is hardly considered a great honor. Some parents have even tried to have their children re-placed upon hearing of their sorting. I cannot take away the traditions they value most."
"I understand," Harry nodded, surprised at how calm and reasonable his voice remained. "At the same time, though… regarding the whole pride and solidarity thing? Well… I think that's something all of Hogwarts could use more of, nowadays and all. I'm not saying you should give up your traditions, but maybe… you and Hufflepuff could find another way to bring music to the rest of the school? If it can do for the rest of us anything like it's done for your own house… well, it seems to me it could only help. And… maybe it's just me, but I think it'd feel great to belong to the house that helped bring everyone together like that."
It suddenly occurred to him that he was sounding an awful lot like an adult having a conversation with another adult, and was both startling and strangely embarrassing. He stood again, feeling his face flush. "That's all, really. Thanks again, Professor Sprout."
Just as he was opening the door, however, she called after him. "Mister Potter?"
He looked back around at her, half-expecting to get the tongue-lashing of his life, but her expression was tired and thoughtful rather than angry. "Yes, Professor?"
"If at any point you feel… stuck," she said, indicating the book he was carrying, "feel free to drop by anytime. My door is always open."
"I will. Thank you."
He closed the door behind him, took a deep breath, then carefully maneuvered past the creepers in the outer office and back into the early evening air. To his surprise, he found Luna waiting for him outside.
"How did it go?" she asked, conversationally.
"Well, apparently I have an average voice with a small range. Er- have you been listening in on us?"
She gave him a cryptic smile. "I've been waiting for you," she explained. "Anything I might have overheard in the process is simply extra."
"Right."
Her smile slowly broadened, and she reached out to take his hand and give it a squeeze. "I was right, you know. You did feel it."
"I did?"
"Mm hmm," she nodded. "You should go find Hermione right away and ask her. She's going to love being your partner in this."
"You think so?"
"I believe it, yes."
Harry knew quite well that Luna believed in some pretty strange things. At the same time, though, she was perhaps the only person Harry knew who could use the words "I believe" with such innocence and conviction. With her believing in it, there was really no reason to think otherwise.
That and the fact that it was a pleasant thing to believe in. Heartened immensely by thoughts of the music yet to be shared, Harry started back toward the castle proper, Luna smiling knowingly at him as they went.
To Be Concluded
Author's Note: Looks like I might get this done before the release of Book Six after all. Thanks to all for reading, and special thanks to those who've taken the time to say a few words afterward. It's a cliché to say that your comments make it all seem worthwhile, but ya know, these things become clichés for a reason. Best wishes to you all.