Sas: You may kill us. Well, what happened, you ask? Aha…school and all its trimmings, I guess. It's harder to work with three people than with one or two, and so there was a great freakin deal of hawkin on someone before we finally got the chapter. Erk. Notes about what you're about to read. It's not actually part of the story. Before you ask if it's too early to write side stories, let me tell you that this is a chapter to tie up loose ends, I guess. Give you why everyone is doing what they are doing. Why? Cause we're too lazy to incorporate information into the fic itself, so here's the whole thing in one big block.

Diclaimer: we don't own Harry Potter characters and street names and such and such. We don't own much, so don't try to sue us or anything ridiculous like that. Mwee.

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At here, we shall take a little break, for lack of any inspiration of what to write, and simply explain some of the more twisted, improbable aspects of this story. In other words, we shall answer the question of "What the hell is going on here?!"
                First off. The mystery of Virginia Weasley, the career choice for Draco Malfoy, and why in the world does Remus get his own room at Malfoy's townhouse, since-isn't-Malfoy's-pop-trying-to-bloody-kill-him? Yes, all these need explanations, and so they shall be explained in this chapter (aka Part One of Rationalizations).
                Virginia Weasley: Currently 23 years old, single, used to live in the Shack-behind-the-Pratchett's-garden, fully trained witch and is currently training to be a musician. For some reason, she majored in wizard mechanics, but chose the career of being the street bum, living off only on a magically enhanced harmonica. Why? No one really knows, as she was a perfectly sane woman with enough wits around her to earn her a decent job in at least an auto shop.
                This may be entirely due to her infamous eccentricity, however. The particular branch of Weasleys she was born into was quite strange. She was most undoubtedly the strangest of the brood. For one, she was the youngest of seven children, been possessed by a heinously evil, (but totally hot) diary figure, not forgetting, she was one of the three girls who'd ever turned down the legendary Harry Potter (said that she resented him playing Quidditch without a helmet, even though no one did), and last and most important of all: she was a girl. Plain and simple. Most girls are quite strange. One just doesn't realize it, because most people reading this fic are girls too, therefore, we do not think we are in any way irregular, but I suppose as compared to guys, we still are. Even though the same could be said the other way around.
                Yes, Virginia Weasley was a female, (usually) lacking the secondary brain, but always with a tight hold on her primary one. When she struck out on her own to face that perilous new world with only her head, a then-new harmonica, and her laundry bag, she had promised that unlike her brother Ron (who'd refused to come home for two years, even though he'd been out of a job, with the lame excuse of 'I didn't want to trouble you, Mum' when in reality, it had been 'my bloody pride! My poor, downtrodden, painfully lost dignity!'. In the end, Hermione had bashed him over the head with one of her giganto encyclopedias and dragged him to the Burrow, where he stayed for two months in a semi-coma because of the impact of the book against his head. It seemed as if Hermione, whom everyone agreed was too weak to actually lift the book herself, probably pushed the book off a ledge from a balcony and hit him purely by chance.) she'd go home if ever in any trouble. So she'd ended up living at the Burrow a good deal longer than any of her siblings put together.
                Until a few months ago, when her parents had finally decided to lock up the house and take the remainder of the year in Honolulu, as a little reward for themselves. While they hadn't exactly pushed Ginny out of the house, they did imply that if she wanted to hold night long parties, she'd better hold it somewhere neither ten, nor twenty, but fifty acres away from the Weasley's abode. In a matter of seconds, she'd packed and left the house, determined to find another domain. And found an abandoned shack behind so-and-so's yard. Which was quite conveniently located near a main cross street where many Muggles passed. And so started the Harmonica Affair. Much to her surprise, she found she rather liked the old shack, and missed it quite a lot when she got back to sleeping in an actual bed without the company of crickets, beetles, or stray cats. Call her strange, call her eccentric, whatever you may, but there was no doubt that Ginny Weasley was sometimes just plain weird.

                Draco Malfoy was another story altogether. He was 24, almost 25, one of the top most eligible wizard bachelors of all time, and had the most unholy obsession with Bach. Once upon a time, when he was around four or five, his father introduced him to Mr. Yamaha Piano and Ms. Stradivarius Cello, and as they say, the rest is history. After he graduated from Hogwarts, where his musical talent was well-hidden (for fear of looking like a pansy-ass), he decided magic music schools were just not good enough, and conceded to attending Muggle schools, despite his obviously superior caliber. Unfortunately, our dear little musical genius hit a bump right around there. He got into a top music school, and was training with top professors from all around the world, but he had not considered the fact that he might not be the best. He might have been the greatest, most talented back in his home, but he certainly had a long way to go if he wanted international recognition. At his school, he ranked only seventeenth, and that appalled him. In fact, his father had threatened to cut off his allowance if Draco'd proclaimed suicide one more time there.
                Good thing was, he met one of those amazing, inspirational teachers you watch about in cheesy television movies and read about, and he realized he'd have to work very, very hard. Long story squat, although he didn't quite beat the top two, he did graduate a very respectable third. In fact, one thing that was what earned him the teaching position at Julliard's was his wide range of skill in instrument playing. The somewhat cheesy title of "Great" actually referred to his amazing talent at picking up instruments and being able to play them quite well in less than a month. That doesn't seem a very short time to some people, but believe me, learning instruments in one month time is nothing short of amazing.
Anyhoo… Draco is: the danged bastard we all hate 'cause he's always nothing short of freakin' perfect.

                Remus Lupin: quite old, age shall not be revealed, and literature professor at Oxford. A wizard-in-disguise, as werewolf wizards are wont to be. Ever since a few years ago, he'd started lecturing about Bram Stoker and Shakespeare after a Muggle friend of his introduced him to one of the higher ranked professors at the college. They happened to be on a perilously short supply of professors and had hired him simply because he looked the job. Lucky for them, he'd also been a literature/history person back in his days. It helped that he had a whole bunch of teaching credentials from a school (Birdbrain College for those magical intellectuals) that sounded strange and rare enough to make it sound like a privileged school.
Following his being hired, he returned to the Wizarding world to share his joy, and upon returning, found the world in chaos as Voldemort had left it, with a quite insane Lucius Malfoy as right hand. Poor Petey was the left, and didn't seem very happy about it. But no matter. Anyways, an old school chum of his, Narcissa Malfoy, in fact, tracked him down within his first week back and fairly begged him to slap some sense into her husband. All his superfluous evil cacklings were mussing up her awfully fragile nerves. So. One day. Courageously leading a band of famous Aurors, among which Harry and Snuffles were present, they raided the Malfoy manor 'kamikaze' style (amazingly, it worked; the odds which were about as likely as a porcupine turning around and going 'My, these spines are getting rather prickly. Honey, mind pulling them out? We can have shish kebobs tonight!'). It was, quite frankly, an astonishing success, when they caught Voldemort and Lucius laughing and smoking those fat Cuban cigars in the Jacuzzi. Anyhoo, those two would have put up a large fuss had not Seamus' wand malfunctioned and turned Voldemort into a flobber worm that Snuffles, quite by accident, trod on. Lucius was simply handed over to St. Mungos, where he now resides, asking passersby for Cuban cigars and Playwizard bunnies. They ignore him.
Needless to say, Mr. Lupin was now a very respected man, and although he now had enough money to buy him a small castle on the coasts of France, he nevertheless returned to the Muggle world to teach, of all things, Muggle literature. And he does keep close contact with many of his wizarding friends; he's just bound by contract to teach a couple of years before they let him go. However, it can be said that Mr. Lupin seemed to greatly enjoy his classes and his students, all which highly respected him not for saving their world from the most terrifying, Nat King Cole-singing, evil wizard ever known to the knowing mankind, but just for treating them with as much humility and respect as they gave him.
                As of current, he is on a well-deserved vacation, and is (like any work-aholic teacher) trying to devise more ways to make learning interesting. And as it is, his friend Narcissa drops word about her wonderfully musically talented son whom-she-is-just-so-absolutely-positively-proud-of, and boom, Lupin was inspired. "There is always a story to music," he'd heard somewhere. 'Whether it be a melody that blatantly screams out 'fairy-tale, epic, classic plotline here' or 'this is just one of those times when you're drunk off your bum and the popping fire is completely captivating'', he'd once heard, 'There will always be some sort of plot to it. Pointless as they may seem.'
                He'd been captivated by this thought and had tried to explain this to his class, who although were quite enthusiastic about the idea, was only so because their teacher was. Otherwise, they had no earthly idea how in the world an orchestra could tie in with 'Bridget Jones' Sodding Diary'. So after a few pointless, halfhearted attempts at explanations, he decided to ask for Narcissa's son's help. An appointment had been made on a rainy day, and he'd been walking quickly down the street to catch his appointment, when around one corner, he tripped over what must have been the most musically challenged person he'd ever known in his life. And from there, so spawns the tale we now tell. Muahahaha.

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