Hello, I have decided, well more like forced into writing one of the many plot bunnies I have running around my mind, so here it is I hope you enjoy.

I don't own any of the characters or places.

Thank you to Miss Prongs for your peer pressure and red pen and Toni for always tieing my shoe laces.

Inspired By Your Shoe Laces.

Chapter one.

Professor Serverus Snape wrapped his thick black cloak tighter around his cold shoulders. His footsteps echoed around the bitter dungeon corridors; his wand's glow the only light in the silent gloom. He swept his long greasy hair out of his eyes and turned the corner. He mumbled, his breath coming out in thick white clouds. Potions essays lay on his desk waiting to be marked, he knew. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he would much prefer his comfortable four poster bed in his quarters. Serverus stopped abruptly, hearing a faint drumming sound coming from his Potions class room. He walked slowing towards the room, the glass in the windows of the door vibrating. Faintly, he could hear lyrics being screamed. Serverus raised his wand and pushed open the door.

Loud bass pounded. His ear drums throbbed as an electric guitar screamed of pain and a broken heart. A blond loomed over it, his fingers moving like magic over the chords. The dark-haired bass player leant back in the sexy demeanor all bass players have, supporting a cocky grin. The drummer was sweating, his drumsticks a blur.

The blond cried sad, heart-felt lyrics, his eyes tightly closed. One hand was grasping the potions bottle he appeared to be using as a microphone. It would have looked comical if not for the passion his face portrayed.

The music grew louder and louder. Serverus put his hands over his ears and shouted inaudibly. The electric guitar screeched to a stop, the bass left hanging, the drums stopping promptly.

"Sir, I can explain." said the blond, his hair drenched in sweat. He quickly placed the bottle down.

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow. "Punk rock, Malfoy, really?"

Blaise Zabini sat by himself at the Slytherin table, eating scrambled eggs. His eyes were dark from staying up half the night. Professor Snape had made Draco, Goyle and him clean cauldrons well into the morning. He watched Draco and Goyle walk towards him from behind of his dark curtain of a fringe, which he happened to be hiding his tired eyes behind.

"Coffee." grunted Goyle, pulling the pot of said liquid towards him. He slipped into the seat next to Blaise. Malfoy sat down on Blaise's other side, his eyes barely open.

"Don't bother saying hello or anything." Blaise said, sarcastically. "Your silence really makes me feel appreciated."

Goyle grunted again, pulling the coffee pot in his arms as Draco tried to reach for it. Blaise smirked as Draco bared his teeth at Goyle.

"My friends." said Blaise to himself. "They have the most amazing conversational skills. Draco, dear chap, don't you agree?" Blaise asked, sniggering to himself.

"Blaise. Stop. Talking. Retard." Draco drawled, jadedly. Blaise smiled, and continued eating his breakfast.

"I can't believe Snape made us clean cauldrons." Draco spat suddenly, a new enthusiasm in his voice. "I mean, what is he, some kind of screwy conformist?"

"I don't think he's a conformist, Draco. I mean, even sheep wash their hair."

Draco choked on his half-eaten toast. "Blaise! That's a horrid thing to say!" he said, smirking. "Aren't you bass players supposed to have tact?"

"Nah. You have us all wrong. We're meant to be sexy, not tactful."

Goyle scowled. "You're lucky, Blaise. I wish drummers could be stereotyped like that."

"They are." said Pansy Parkinson, who was sitting across the table from them. "Everyone knows drummers are the fat ones!" she said, laughing. Blaise and Draco covered their mouths with their hands. Goyle pouted and looked down at his giant bowl of cornflakes.

"So, how was band practice?" asked Pansy, tossing her black hair over her shoulder, completely ignoring the fact that she had just insulted Goyle.

"Completely unsuccessful!" Draco stated, waving his hands around like a lunatic. Pansy nodded and lit a cigarette in the middle of the school hall, completely ignoring the first years who started coughing. She took a puff and leant her elbows on the table. She looked seriously at the band.

"What do you need?" she asked. "More magical music equipment? Money? Drugs? Bondage gear?"

Draco spluttered. "What are you, our pimp or something?"

"I'm just looking out for my fellow Slytherins!" Pansy said, leering.

"Pansy, can you put out that cigarette? Second hand smoke kills, or so the muggles say." said a nervous looking second year.

"Sod off, cretin!" said Pansy, pushing the boy away. Draco raised an eyebrow.

Pansy inhaled. "So, what's wrong, then?"

"Well, for one thing, I HATE singing." Draco said. "With a passion.' he added. "And for another, we need a new talent. A new spark. We always said we'd get another singer and guitarist." Draco pointed out, then sighed. "We need someone who is talented like us, you know?"

Pansy chuckled.

"We didn't start our band to be talented, did we?" Goyle said, quietly. "I mean, we want to rebel and be anti-conformists, don't we?"

"That's right, Goyle!" Blaise said, raising his orange juice "To defying our parents and doing what the fuck we want!" he toasted, and the others cheered.

"But Draco, you're in it for the girls, aren't you?" Pansy said, batting her eyelashes.

"Me?" said Draco, plucking the fag from her lips. "I'm 'in it' because it's what no one expects from me." he said, taking a drag from the cigarette, and stubbing it out in Blaise's scrambled eggs.

"Hey!" Blaise protested. "I was eating that!"

"When I play music," Draco continued, ignoring Blaise's splutters, "its like someone has set my soul aflame. I feel it pounding through my veins, engulfing my mind like smoke. I feel free." Draco said, and rubbed his eyes. Blaise and Goyle nodded in agreement.

"Looks like you need to audition for a bloody bohemian." Pansy joked.

Draco sat in transfiguration, humming muggle tunes under his breath. He had hummed all the Pink Floyd songs he knew, and had now moved on to the Beatles. He was half way through 'Yesterday' when a note appeared on his desk.


I cannot believe someone of your "high breeding" is humming muggle songs.

That's got to be against Daddy's rules, hasn't it?


Draco stared at the paper in disbelief. Harry Potter was actually sending notes to him! Not only that, he seemed to be joking with him! Draco looked at Potter, who was sitting two seats in front of him, next to Weasel and the beaver. Potter turned around slowly. He looked at Draco in the eyes and winked. Lips formed the words: 'Yesterday. Love. Was. Such. An. Easy. Game. To. Play'. He turned back around. Draco pulled out a peace of parchment, and quickly replied to his enemy.


Do you really think I'm one to follow the rules? My "high breeding" doesn't prevent me from listening to music; it gives me more right than anyone to listen to it. I am, after all, a part of the "noble" kind.

His Royal Highness,

Draco Stunning-Wonderful-Beautiful-Amazing Malfoy.

Draco floated it over to Potter's desk, making sure not to let the Professor see it. He watched as Potter opened it and read it carefully in silence. He chucked upon reading how Draco signed his name, earning him a disdainful look from Granger the Beaver. Draco laughed, and as Potter look sulkily over his shoulder, he grinned at Malfoy. Suddenly, the bell rang. Draco was almost disappointed to leave his little conversation with Potty, but Blaise had organized the band auditions, and he was looking forward to acting like a snobby judge. Not that it would be that hard.

Draco and Goyle headed towards the dungeons. Only having been back at school for a month, the weather had been quite mild, but as they descended down the staircases towards the dungeons, the air became cold and bitter. Pushing open the door to an empty classroom, Draco strutted in, throwing his head back and announcing,

"Master Malfoy is here. Now, slave-boy Blaise, fetch me a chair!"

Goyle grinned sheepishly. Blaise narrowed his eyes.

"Draco, we all know you would so be the sub in this relationship!"

Draco spluttered. "Like hell I'd let your unholy body come anywhere near this temple!" he spat. The boys laughed, but were stopped by a knock on the door. Blaise rubbed his hands together.

"Auditioners are here!" he said, gleefully. "Let's hope they're not too terrible."

"That was the fourth talentless Hufflepuff first year we've seen today!" Draco declared. "Don't the midgets realize we're 6th year?" Draco sneered, rubbing his eyes with annoyance.

"Come on, Draco, the one who played the bassoon was...er...ok...ish." Goyle said, sounding a tad unsure.

"He sounded like a constipated elephant!" Blaise said, running a hand through his straight dark hair. "We only have one more musician to see. I'm sure they're the one. Come in!" he called.

Dennis Creevy walked in, carrying a very large bag, from which he produced a bag pipe. All the boys groaned.

Dennis Creevy had just left in tears. Draco had told him, none too politely, that he played like a crippled child who was blind, and who'd had their fingers bitten off by killer harpies. Dennis, apparently, hadn't appreciated it.

"Well, that was a waste of time." Draco said, strumming idly at his guitar.

Blaise sighed. "You're right. Maybe we should just play with three of-"

Blaise was interrupted with a knock at the door. The Slytherins looked at each other.

"Come in!" Blaise called. The thick wooden door opened, and in entered a sixth year boy. His black hair was messy, and he had an electric guitar slung over his back. He plugged it into an amp, while the three other teenagers stared in horror. Turning it up, the young man struck a chord and at once began to play.

His voice was raw but soothing. It floated like mist on the air, but pierced the heart like stinging metal. His fingers played the chords with ease. He sang lyrics that none of the three boys had ever heard before, and the three Slytherins watched in astonishment as he continued and finally concluded his performance. He unplugged the magically enhanced amplifier, and looked at the group.

"You need another band member?" he asked, his voice raspy from screaming the lyrics.

Draco let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

"You wanna be a rock star, aye, Potter?" he smirked.

Harry Potter sniggered. "I could ask you the same question, Malfoy. What does Daddy's boss say about his servant's son playing in a muggle band?"

Draco peered at the Boy Who Lived, and raised an eyebrow. "What would your father say, Potter? Oh wait, that's right you don't-"

"We would love for you to join us, Potter." Blaise said quickly, cutting Draco off.

"WHAT?" Draco burst out, staring at Blaise incredulously. "Don't I have a say in this? How are we meant to rebel with a goody-good Gryffindor like Potter in our group? What would our fathers say…wait. This could work." Draco's eyes twinkled mischievously. "What would our fathers say." He rubbed his hands together, looking at Goyle and Blaise. Draco started to mutter, his eyes strangely bright. He laughed loudly for no apparent reason. Goyle shuffled his chair over half a meter away from the boy.

"Riiight." Harry said, giving Draco an anxious glance. "Well, what kind of music do you play?" he asked Blaise, taking the seat farthest away from Draco.

"All sorts, mainly muggle. We don't agree with the Dark Lord's idea on what's proper and what's not. We have nothing against muggles; they've never done any thing to us." Blaise chirped. "Music wise, I prefer more Alternative rock. You know, Smashing Pumpkins, Nirvana, The Pixies...I love anything with a lot of bass. I play bass guitar, and the double bass, though I haven't played that in years."

Harry nodded. "What about you?" he asked Goyle, who almost fell off his chair in shock from being asked a question by a Gryffindor.

"Well, I play the drums, so ahh I like um, Blink 182, they have good drum solos." he said. "We play a lot of everything. Er, Draco is really into punk, and like punk rock, and he wants to be like anti-conformist all the way." Goyle cast Draco a furtive glance. "He always told me 'no point being half and half', choose something and stick with it."

"That's right Potter. Do you have something against anti-conformist? Gonna call us the Devil's spawn? Accuse us of self harming because we wear black? I'll shove my guitar right up your-"

"So you play guitar?" Harry asked, disturbing Draco's rant.

"And the harp." Blaise choked out, before silenced by Draco's glare.

"My father taught me to play the violin, the cello and the harp, Potter. I learnt the guitar on my own."

"I can also play the Maracas." said Goyle helpfully. Harry smiled, trying not to laugh about how much Goyle reminded him of Neville Longbottom.

"What about you?" Draco drawled, his grey eyes coldly watching Harry. "You didn't charm your guitar or anything, did you?"

"Of course not! Remus Lupin taught me to play on his old acoustic last summer. Then he gave me my godfather's electric guitar before the term started. I haven't found anyway to play, though. I didn't think you could have electronic devises at Hogwarts because of all the magic in the air or something."

"These are magic amps." said Blaise, tapping one with his foot. "Pansy Parkinson's taken a personal interest in our band and managed to get a hold of some. They're the same type the weird sisters had in fourth year at the Yule ball."

"Do you write any songs, Zabini?" Harry asked.

"Nah. Draco writes stuff but he doesn't like singing it, so we play around with the music but never the lyrics. Now that we have you, we can play some." Blaise said. "If you want to join." he added.

"I do." said Harry. "It's been ages since I last played. But only if Malfoy wants me, of course?" he said, looking at Draco.

"I don't want you, Potter, I want your voice." Draco said, stretching his legs onto a desk.

"Great." Blaise said, contentedly. "Harry...can I call you Harry? No point bothering with that entire last name public school boy trash, is there? I'm Blaise, or Blaisey if you buy me a drink." Blaise said with a smirk.

"Gregory," said Goyle, with a look of distaste on his face, "but I'm called Goyle."

"Nonsense!" Blaise declared. "I've never heard anyone call you Goyle in your entire life!"

"You've never called me Gregory before, either!"

"I do so all the time." Blaise stated.

"Never, I would have remembered!" Goyle protested.

"That's gibberish, Greggy! What are you talking about?"

"Would you two shut up!" Draco interrupted. "Potter and I don't care if you call each other Honey Buns and Sweetie Pie!"

Blaise snorted.

"I've got some music here, Potter. That is, if you don't have anything planed for tonight?"

Harry's mind drifted to Hermione and Ron waiting in the common room. He shrugged.

"Sure, why not."

Harry was amazed by the music Draco shaped. He was like an artist; his long pale hands twisting music and moulding it into emotions. Harry could fell the hatred he was weaving with his guitar under Malfoy's strict gaze.

"That was good, Potter. You looked slightly constipated, but it was good."

Of course, just because he was a musical genius didn't make him less of a smarmy bastard. He went away and started talking to Goyle in low tones, going over a drum solo they had worked together on. He looked like he was trying to explain something. He kept running his hands through his hair. Harry went over his rhythm piece again, learning the chords slowly off by heart. He vaguely wondered what the hatred Draco made him convey was from. The cool beats Harry heard come from Blaise bass in the corner felt vacant, like loneliness or some one waiting for something. His guitar piece was the feeling of hate growing and growing. He could tell by how the notes were written and how they sounded. And he felt he could also tell that Draco had written it from personal experience. Harry looked up and watched Draco bent over his guitar, going over and over a line as if he was tattooing it into his mind, leaving an imprint of the song there forever. Harry heard the faint chords that Draco repeated lightly, and he swore he could hear the tears.

"It's getting late. Do you think we should leave it for tonight?" Blaise said, looking up.

The other three boys nodded tiredly, putting their own instruments down. Draco started going around the room, putting out the candles by slowing blowing on their fiery wicks. Goyle shrunk his drum kit and put it into his bag easily, while Blaise removed a number of silent charms he had cast over the room.

"Hey," said Harry nervously, "Is it ok if we don't mention the whole band thing in front of Hermione and Ron, or any of the Gryffindors?"

"Not ashamed of us, are you Potter?" Draco sneered.

"No, no, not at all, it's just they don't really understand the whole muggle music thing. I'll have to kind of ease them into it."

"I thought Granger was a Muggle born?" Goyle asked.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean she likes their music." Harry said with sigh. "If she knew I was here, she'd have a heart attack."

"Harry, where have you been?" asked a sleepy Hermione, dressed in her night gown, accompanied by a very drowsy-looking Ron Weasley. Harry had hoped he'd be able to sneak into bed undetected.

"Just out for a walk, there was no need to wait up." Harry lied, and made his way to the dormitory stairs.

"Harry, it's one thirty! You were out walking for seven hours!" Hermione protested.

"I lost track of time, all right?"

"I bet you have a girlfriend! That's it, isn't it Harry?" Ron asked, looking a bit aggravated. "I thought you we're going to get back with Ginny!"

"I never said that." Harry said, through clenched teeth.

"But you and her seemed to have such a nice time during the holidays. Mum was basically planning the wedding and everything, and then you go and dump her for no reason at all!"

"Yes, well…"

"Harry, why do you have that old guitar with you? You always go missing with that thing! Where have you been?" Hermione's shrill voice asked.

Harry grinded his teeth in frustration "It's not old, it's a Fender and it's signed by Keith Richards."

"Who's he?" Ron asked, confused.

"He's a washed up old muggle coot, who's tripped up half the time on drugs!" Hermione said.

"I think he's great." Harry said, still speaking through his teeth.

"Harry, this obsession you have with muggle music is getting a bit out of hand. Think of all the time you could have spent on homework or the DA that you wasted playing around with that guitar."

"I like playing muggle music!"

"Harry, you're like me, we came from the muggle world. You should know we have no type of future there; we're needed here! Where our talents can be put to good use! Let the muggles play their muggle music, you're need to help fight this war!"

"Is that all I am, some sort of weapon? Why can't I have a muggle future?" Harry demanded.

"Harry, that's not part of your destiny! What sane person would ever choose a muggle life over a wizard one?" Hermione asked, staring at Harry.

"Lots of wizards like music, and want a musical future!" Harry retorted.

"I've never meet a wizard who was a musician before." Hermione stated.

"Well, maybe you need to go out and meet a few people, instead of wasting your nights reading!"

Hermione looked cross, her bushy hair puffing out around her stern face. She went to open her mouth, but Harry beat her to it.

"Look, Hermione, I don't want to hear it! I always thought you two would be the ones who would support me in anything I wanted to do, but you're just like Ginny! You expect me to be a hero and kill Voldemort and work for the ministry with a brief case, and have seven children, working nine to five for only two weeks holidays! That's not what I want to do with my life!" Harry roared.

Harry stormed off, and was half-way through stomping up the dormitory stairs when he heard Hermione shout,

"Then what do you want to do with your life, Harry? Be some washed up muggle musician who has no future?"

Harry shouted back from the top of the stairs. "I just want to feel alive!"

When Ron came up to bed later, he whispered quietly to Harry.

"I'm ok with you playing muggle music on your guitar, Harry. I hear Dennis plays the bagpipes; maybe you could jam with him some time."

Harry cringed at Ron, and how he said jam, and how could he make every thing sound so uncool.