A/N: Because I can never write something serious without also writing a semi-crack piece at the same time. Schisms was making me broody and slightly obsessive, and this is an idea that's been bouncing around in my skull a bit. You can thank the phrase "Draco in leather pants". Not Canon-compliant, might be semi-AU if I start picking and choosing who I want to still be alive (or dead, without the work of killing them off myself), and no, I haven't read the new Draco material on Pottermore yet. Not sure that I will either. And I did way too much research for a crackfic *shakes head* Anyway, if I haven't scared you off yet, let me know what you think, will ya? Happy New Year!
Daily Prophet
May 9th, 2004
Persephone's Downfall Pulls out of Concert Schedule
Persephone's Downfall, an up-and-coming rock band, has cancelled all future engagements indefinitely due to health complications of the front man, Draco Malfoy. Nodules and a hemorrhage were found on the singer's vocal cords this week, following last week's shoddy performance in Belfast, Ireland, where Malfoy had to excuse himself from the stage during a performance of the bands top hit, "Pomegranate". The nodules will require treatment and an enforced rest period, so fans had best be prepared to wait to hear from the band again. The Prophet's contact at Saint Mungo's, who wished to remain anonymous, gave the following opinion: "It isn't really a surprise, is it, since he's screaming more than singing half the time, is it? And that two-concerts-a-day schedule he's been running… It's absolutely mad to go on like that, I know we didn't find anything in his system the last time he was here, but he has to be taking drugs to keep up with that pace! I don't know what today's kids are thinking anyway, listening to that wretched music. But nodules will go away with rest and treatment, and we might see him back on tour within the next few months. Unfortunately." Some anonymous sources say that it might be in the singer's best interests to retire completely—and others suggest that many might be glad to see the band disappear permanently, citing his negative influence as a role model for young witches and wizards. Malfoy has been a recent tabloid fixture, due to several failed relationships with supermodels and socialites alike as well as rumors of drug use and allegations of Improper Use of Magic (See reprint of Rita Skeeter's interview with on page 6 for more details). Malfoy's manager, Blaise Zabini, has no comment at this time, other than to say that a press release can be expected later this week.
May 7th, 2004
"No alcohol, no smoking, no acidic foods, no talking, and most importantly, no singing for at least the next three weeks. After that, we'll re-assess and move along from there. You've managed to cause a hemorrhage in your vocal cords, as well as having developed a nodule on each side of the vocal fold," the stern, balding man explained. Draco rolled his eyes and slouched further into the cheap armchair in his doctor's office.
"So what, exactly, am I supposed to do for the next six weeks?" he growled—his voice was low and gravelly with the strain.
Much to his dismay, the doctor answered with a smirk, "Get used to writing. And be grateful that I'm not recommending surgery."
Five minutes later, Draco stormed out of his doctor's office in a fit of pique, slamming the door behind him. The mahogany door rattled in its casing as he stormed away, medical diagnosis and prescription scripts crumpled in his hand. His face was perfectly smooth and impassive as he stalked away, his heavy footfalls echoing up and down the tiled hallway. He was not going to be carrying around parchment and quills all damn day, jotting everything down like some little first year Hogwarts student! He huffed gustily as he assaulted the last set of doors, slipping his sunglasses down over his eyes so hard that they practically bounced off of the bridge of his nose and stalked over to the vehicle waiting at the curb.
Blaise lounged in the backseat of the idling car, the perfect image of affluence at ease behind the tinted glass. He rolled the window halfway down and flipped his sunglasses up—after all, there was no point in this manufactured image of preening, overweening wealth if they weren't able to be identified—as Draco stormed towards the street and ripped the passenger's side door open haphazardly. Blaise frowned as Draco flung himself down on the leather upholstery: He was going to have to have everything around them magically reinforced, if Draco's current mood was any indication. "Diagnosis?" Blaise murmured quietly, signaling their diver to pull away from the curb. "Recording studio, and some privacy, if you please." The driver met his eyes in the rearview mirror, nodded briefly, then rolled up the privacy screen that separated the cabin of the vehicle from the front. Simultaneously, Draco slapped the documents in his hand into Blaise's with a low growl. Cocking one eyebrow, Blaise unrolled the furled paper, a furrow appearing on his forehead as he attempted to decipher the doctor's scrawl. He flipped to the next page—conveniently titled "Understanding Your Diagnosis" in large block letters—hoping it would favor him with a more legible account of what, exactly, was wrong with his star client.
"So, not laryngitis, then?" he mused, "This certainly changes things," he drawled, a small smile tweaking the corner of his mouth. Draco flinched, as though burned.
That smile never, ever meant anything good.
May 11th, 2004
She was used to the shadows, she realized, as she stood next to the heavy folds of the red velvet drapes, waiting for her cue to join the orchestra ensemble on stage. She was always standing in someone's shadow—first, as the baby Weasley, then as the sister of Harry Potter's best friend, and now as the paramour of The-Boy-Who-Lived. Shadows could be friendly things, she mused, turning her face towards the brightest lights she had ever seen, but lately they had grown hungry. And so had she—a fire that had always burned down deep had been stoked, and the flames were rising. She stepped out into the light slowly as she heard her name called and the shadows fell away like an old cloak—No more hiding. Here, I will stand on my own.
Her heels tapped loudly against the hardwood of the stage, but the sound was drowned out by the man in the dark suit at the front of the stage as he broadcast his voice past the lights, into the waiting audience, sharing the well-worn story of their first meeting—"A red-haired vision", as he put it, "her face screwed up in concentration as she sat at the pond's edge with her violin, trying to put the way a duck walks or the rain falls down into music." She smiled at the memory, taking her seat to the right of the orchestra as the man continued on, telling of how he offered to mentor Ginny, the leaps and bounds in skill she had made, all the while gesturing about madly. Ginny plucked her instrument and bow from their stand and fidgeted with her sheet music. And then, the moment of truth, as the man finished introducing the piece—Neptune's Playground—to be played and turned back to the orchestra. He caught Ginny's eye and winked as he raised his baton.
She had a moment of trepidation as her bow met the string in a way that felt, well, just not quite right, and the first note stuttered out. Her resolved steeled in that moment, and her next stroke was sure as the voice of her instrument joined the orchestra for the first movement of the piece. The sounds of timpani drums, flutes, clarinets, cellos, and other instruments poured forth, gaining momentum as the notes fell over each other, tumbling and cresting and falling, only to rise again. The push and pull of the music had Ginny closing her eyes halfway, her range of vision limited to the frenetic movements of the conductor as the music reached a crescendo, the crest of a wave at its peak, before coming crashing down into harmonic disorder. And then, slowly, the voices of the other instruments died away as the second movement of the piece began-Tidepools, Ginny recalled, as the timpani drums gave a last rumble and she was the last one playing, her bow dancing as the music ran in rivulets, all swirling smooth legato interspersed with quick sautille strokes for the running eddying of the water. And then, all too quickly, her solo was over and the other voices were joining in again, carrying her away in the music. Some minutes later, she was relieved when the final crash came, nearly dazed when the auditorium fell silent for a split second—and then came the thundering crash of applause. A blush rose to her cheeks as the conductor gestured for her to take a bow, her hands and knees shaking for the first time now as she ducked her head, a trifle embarrassed at her own success. This is it, she thought, the beginning of standing on my own!
In the back of the auditorium, a pair of slanted dark eyes glittered with unabashed amusement as Ginny blushed, bowed, and fluttered her hand in an innocent wave. Yes, she will do very nicely indeed, he mused.