Punk Rock Superstar
Harry Potter never considered himself a God, but when the guitar was held in his hands, he made that guitar, and the people who worshipped him, faithful believers. The pitch-black instrument was grasped in his fingers, its groves within it proved Harry was made for such an instrument. He would play; make that guitar sing, from baritone all the way to a high-pitched badass soprano, and the audience went wild. The drums, the bass guitar, the keyboards, even the crooning vocals did little to drown out Harry's moment of glory as he was swept into orgasmic bliss with his guitar, playing it so vigorously he was on his knees sweating bullets, his once delicate fingers blistering from their speedy tango with each individual chord. He was lost in his own world, where only him and the guitar remained. His body and mind remained separate; his hips jutting out to the screaming audience as his head tilted back to the spotlights above; his raven-black hair tickling the linoleum stage from his back arching so much.
He was a rockstar sex pistol.
He could care less about wizardry at the moment, fuck it; his guitar was the only magic he could use that will hurt and kill no one.
"Harry, Harry, Harry," he could hear the audience chant. They didn't care about the rest of the band anymore; it was his time to shine with one more solo. He played the guitar to his heart's content, then the show was over, his meek 'thank you' and being crushed by a hail of flowers, phone numbers, and strangely, panties.
Harry left the stage with the band following tow, giving him slaps on the back with congrats, proud that their shy new bandmate once again made the audience bend to his whim. Harry merely nodded and thanked them and went back to his dressing room, where he put his beloved guitar back on the hook. He once again sold out a concert, did his thing, but was ready to go back to his world; protecting wizards and witches from Voldemort. It is never over until Harry says it's over.
*Knock knock*
Harry's head didn't bother flinching. It could be Marty, his American bandmate, trying to drag him to a pub in hopes of getting free liquor with his ghastly obvious fake ID's.
"Come in," he drawled.
The door opened, and instead it was a girl wearing a leather metallic-blue tube top with a leopard-print blue mini-skirt, and light-blue go-go boots to match. A silver arm band coiled around her right arm. Her honey-blonde hair wild with corkscrew curls were held in two buns at the top of her head. Her chocolate lips contrasted with her copper skin glowing in the overhead lights. Harry got a good look at her and realized who she is and what she wanted.
"Hello, Mr. Potter. I'm a VERY big fan." she said seductively. The dressing room door closed with a soft click.
He loves his job.