Setting; Nassau County, New York, 1950s (Nassau is on Long Island, directly east of NYC) The city of Long Beach. Sleepy little town. The parents refuse to move forward with the rock n' roll that is rapidly taking the country by storm. Story starts during the summer of 1957. A blue to steely-gray Atlantic awaits young lovers to frolic. The icy water simply waits, begs to be warmed.

Characters:

Hermione Jean Granger- 'Goody-goody'. Quiet, bookworm, always knows the answer to every question. Harboring a secret passion to see the wonders of the world (Paris, NYC, London, Chicago, etc.) that would be frowned about by her religious and strict parents, who have no idea about her passion for Dickens, Darwin, Paine, Saroyan, Wright, and other 'radical' books/ideas. She dresses well, if conservatively. Having been mocked her entire childhood for her looks, Hermione has finally gotten the appearance she so wanted at eleven, only to 'waste it on school instead of looking for a husband'. As her out-of-date mother says. Her hair is still curly, but she manages it nicely. Boys have given her looks before, but she assumes that's just what boys do. Look. Almost seventeen.

Harry James Potter – 'Bad boy'. Smokes cigarettes, works on his car on the weekends, much to the anger of his aunt and uncle, as well as the neighbors. He has no idea what has happened to his parents or if they are even alive, but he is so wrapped up in his state of teenage immortality that he 'doesn't care'. He stays up late at night, watching the stars through his window and thinking about everything under the moon. He's constantly in fights, whether with the infamous drunk Vernon Dursley or someone from school. Usually has a bruise or two, with the odd black eye/split lip. He'd love to be able to pay attention in his classes, but doodles cover his notes. That's right, Harry Potter draws. And if you told any of his gang about it he'd kill you. He carries a switchblade, and has used it in fights before. His gang versus Malfoy's. Of course, neither of them really has a gang. They're just the two groups in the school that are very nearly the same, but with one big difference. Harry and his crew are actual grease-monkeys. Malfoy, Zabini, Crabbe, Nott, and Goyle are posers who get the help to do everything for their rich asses. Harry slicks his hair back, and he refuses to wear his glasses. Probably why he's failing geometry. His eyes are brilliant green, and that's what everyone notices first, before he opens his mouth and lets forth a torrent of swears. Almost seventeen.

Ronald Weasley – Harry Potter's best friend, and that's his claim to fame. He's one of seven kids, and he's not good at much. Tagging along is his game. Also teasing the shit out of Nelly. Seventeen.

Seamus Finnagan – Resident comedian of Long Beach High School. Irish through and through. Grandparents immigrated in the 20's. His mother married another Irish shipboarder, and here he is. Best friend of Dean Thomas, sometimes defender of Nelly. One of Potter's gang. Seventeen.

Dean Thomas - Wishes dearly to attend Long Beach High school, but can't because of his race. Neighbor and best friend of the dirt-poor Seamus Finnagan. Sometimes finds a place in Harry Potter's gaggle of friends, but prefers his peace and quiet. Almost seventeen.

Neville Longbottom – nervous, quiet boy, called Nelly and taunted for his last name. Seventeen.

Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Granger – conservative Baptists, parents of Hermione Granger.

Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Dursley – A slight, nosy, somewhat kind woman and a ridiculously fat drunk.

Dudley Dursley – son of Vernon and Petunia, cousin of Harry.

Draco Malfoy – A strange, rich young man with a stranger name. Enemies by law with the group of riff-raff, Potter and his friend. Hiding a dark secret about his family.

Zabini, Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott – Malfoy's 'friends'. Really just follow him around like dogs, much to Draco's annoyance.

Ginny Weasley- Ron's younger sister by a year, constantly trying to get close to Harry. Might sleep around, might not. No one really knows.

-oOoOo-

Music. Love. Death. Sort of linked, thought one Harry Potter, smoking a cigarette in Ron Weasley's backyard. It was dark overhead, but Harry didn't care what time he got home. Did anyone?

"Not that I know of." he muttered.

"What?" Ron turned to look at him, an expression of confusion on his face. 'Course, that was the look Ron always wore. He was alright, but not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.

Hound Dog was playing on Ron's little portable radio, both annoying and soothing.

Shit, I said that out loud.

Well, answer his question, genius!

"Nothing. Just thinking out loud."

Ron nodded, puffed on his cigarette again. He only ever smoked around Harry. Everybody in town, hell, in the fucking state, knew that. But Ron was alright.

Yeah, Ron was alright. He was always happy to go along with Harry's schemes. Most of said plots seemed swell until actually acted out. Like the time they'd tried to drag each other down a hill in a wagon, while the other was on a bicycle. They'd been nine. Harry thought he still had the scar on his leg, but he didn't know. He fought the compulsion to check and look like a sentimental fool. He kept on smoking his stolen cigarette. Vernon always had a pack or twenty extra, didn't he? What was the harm in swiping a couple every month of so? No harm at all, reasoned Harry.

The song on the radio switched to something slower he wasn't paying attention enough to hear.

Music. Love. Death.

All one with the other, ain't they? He mused, tracing Orion's belt with his eyes.

You hear the music, you fall in love with the music, you die missing the music. You meet a person that loves the music, and you go head over heels like a sod. You die holding out your heart, a played fool, by that damn music.

But then, he wondered, is that really so bad? Dying happy?

Metaphorical death, bonehead, he told himself.

You'll ruin yourself. That fucking dumbass that came up with love. That's what turns people old, ain't it? And suppose you do get with that music, that one person. Then what? You sit around, drink tea all day?

Such were the thoughts of the almost-seventeen year old Harry James Potter. He remembered something he thought he'd read somewhere, or maybe he'd just made it up then, didn't matter.

Can't know what being in love's like 'til it happens to you.

He snorted, and this time, knowing his excuse, Ron ignored the noise, thinking his own thoughts about the new Playboy hidden in his pillowcase.

Harry puffed on the cigarette again, both hating and loving the sensation of nicotine filling his lungs. Fucking guilty pleasures. He stopped for a moment, wondering where he'd got that phrase from. He wasn't stupid, he'd figured that out long ago. No, he failed in school on purpose. After all, where could a kid like him go? Orphan, knew some about cars, smoked like a factory, mouth like a sailor. Jail, if they would have him.

He was ignoring his own talent. The sketchbook hidden under his bed, that he had vowed never to tell a soul about. No way he would become a fucking artist. That was the lowest of the lows to him, the epitome of unmanliness. Going out and showing the word your damned feelings like dirty laundry on display? No siree bob. Fellas just plain didn't do that. At least not in Harry's book. He was a greaser through and through, a tough kid not to be messed with. That's how he showed himself. Letting people see his drawings would strip all of that away. He could have drawn worse things, he supposed, like kittens, for fuck's sake, but he drew what was in his head. Some of the stuff was pretty graphic. Fights he'd gotten into with a hammered Vernon, strange things he barely remembered from his brief childhood with his actual parents, and a lot of scenes of him and his friends. Smoking, nicking money from wallets on a bus. Normal, everyday things for him. Things that never mattered at the time but made him sick afterward. He supposed it had something to do with when he was a kid. At least, that's what he dreamed that a shrink would tell him, instead of just shipping him off when he walked in the door of the practice. Not that he'd ever do such a thing. He wasn't a fucking nut, and he didn't want or need anything electro-shocked out of him. No thank you!

His cigarette had burned away to nothing in his mouth, and now he shoved the butt in his pocket, not wanting to leave it where Ron's mother could find it and chew him out.

The boys sat in silence for the rest of that hour. Ron would try to start a discussion about this actress' yabbos, or whether Harry thought that that teacher spread herself at night. Harry had no interest in such things at the moment. He had, in fact, touched a girl beyond second base last Friday. Natalie Wall had let him get his hand inside of her pants for about five minutes behind the school. He was much less concerned about ink-and-paper breasts in a Playboy than the real thing, now. Unfortunately, he had yet to go all the way with a girl. He'd be lying if he said that sex wasn't at the forefront of his mind, but it was being pushed back and around frequently enough to make the thoughts dull.

Ron's mother shouted for him, Harry stood, and he walked home in the dark. It was past ten, he knew. Sneaking into the house wouldn't be hard. In fact, he didn't even need to sneak. He let himself in though the back of the little white house with the red shutters that he detested, and crept to his room, throwing his jeans and his shirt into the hamper. He collapsed onto his bed, and dreamed of girls made of music notes. It was a nice dream, compared to what awoke him the next morning.