Hermione settled herself at the bench, aligning herself with the instrument in front of her. She started with a short improvisational piece, trying to let her mind speak for itself. Her fingers wanted to dance as quickly across the piano as her thoughts danced through her mind. The piece quickly turned into something like a waltz - her fingers arpeggiating a sad sort of tune. There was comfort in the couplets of threes - a clear beginning, middle, and end. It was the way stories ought to be; there was a natural flow in life. This was just the middle of the story, surely the end would draw near, with a brighter future on the other end. 