A/N: Not entirely happy with this, but it's been sitting in my folder for a long while. So might as well let it out and see what becomes of it ;).
The address is the rundown part of Diagon Alley, up two flights of stairs above a pawn broker's shop. The door is opened by man in purple corduroy pants and a grey fedora who lets him in while a blue haired girl makes a pot of tea. The walls of the room are covered by writings and drawings—small lines of verse, phone numbers, doodles of dragons and random doors. Music plays in the background slow and insistent, worming its way into his head. He knows instantly that he wants this more than he has ever wanted anything.
The audition goes like a dream, even when he gets slightly overenthusiastic and knocks over his cup of tea.
When he gets home Andromeda takes one look at him and grins, "You're in love" she says.
That night, with the slow rhythms still bouncing in his head he reflects that she's right.
"I need a name" He tells Andromeda while they're out shopping for groceries.
"You need a job" She replies, "You can't crash with me forever, Cuz" for a second he's worried, but then he glances at her face and sees the twinkle in her eye.
"It needs to be a manly name" He says fervently, "Something real."
"What about Scorpio?" She asks teasingly.
"Merlin's sake, Andy" He says, "I've had enough with being named after stars. This name is going to be my own. I'm starting a whole new life"
"Well," Andromeda says, "If you're starting a brand new life you might have the decency to shave—you look like a baby forest sprouted on your chin."
"I think a little bit of stubble makes me look dashing" Reg says, rubbing his chin, self-consciously.
"Yeah, if you're getting compared to an ape" Andy bites back.
Three days later when his name papers are due and he still hasn't thought of a name he thinks back the conversation.
Stubby Boardman he writes in the wide scrawling hand so different from his neat cursive.
He likes it. It's…real.
They'll play anywhere that will take them. They're a ragged band of misfits reaching for the stars—they'll go anywhere and do anything as long as good frothy pint lies at the end of it.
Reg gradually relaxes into his role as Stubby. Stubby is Stubby. Stubby is loud, he cracks dirty jokes in public and gets away with it. Stubby can drink three pints straight up of Mme. Rosmerta's finest brew, and while Reg is throwing up, can treat the entire pub to another round.
He likes Stubby. Stubby is deep without being too dangerous to swim in. Stubby is funny without being bitter. Everyone likes Stubby.
But somehow he never feels more like Reg then when he's up on the stage, his fingers flickering over the strings lightening quick.
After the gigs Reg is surprised, but amused, to find that Stubby is a huge hit with the girls. While he fields off a barrage of personal questions from a crowd of party-hoppers the rest of the Band slips off to have a drink—Elaine winks at him as they leave.
They are the Band, they have never truly thought about any other name, until someone asks.
Geoffrey, the one who wears purple corduroys under his robes and sometimes has dreams in german, thinks about it for a second and then replies, The Hobgoblins.
Such is the nature of the Band that the name fits perfectly.
They write their own songs, Geoffrey and Elaine compose the melodies, Connor and Reg the lyrics.
Sometimes Reg wonders if this is a bad idea. Even when Geoffrey and Elaine compose the cheeriest tunes a moment's touch from him turns it into a melancholy dirge. When he voices this thought Connor just pokes him with a drum stick.
"It's the kind of fellow you are Stubby. Melancholic, 'tis just your nature, nothing you can do about it. Good thing too, I can't stand too many songs 'bout sunshine and bunnies, and that sort." Connor says, his irish lilt playing up deliberately.
Yet, despite the fact that Connor fled Ireland in the wake of the rebellions and shares more in common with Reg's past than the other two, it is always Connor who lends the touch of cheeriness.
Reg admires him for this and for his superhuman ability to drink two beers at the same time.
The rest of the Band enjoys dancing, especially Connor, and sometimes after a gig they'll drag Reg along just for kicks.
But no matter how much of himself he can release into his songs he still remains stoic and frozen on the dance floor. The others around him move gaily, their bodies twisting in time to the beat of the music, their hands clapping and feet stomping.
He can't unbend, until they drag him to an Oldies night and Connor discovers that Reg can waltz. After that they all make him teach them, first the waltz, then the minuette, and finally (oh gods) the tango. The four of them, friends that they are, will all waltz together—switching partners at a moment's notice; even when the music is a scathing mix of Euro pop.
Sometimes people stare, but its ok, because they also smile. There is something reassuring about the waltz, as Reg knows.
That Christmas, his second Christmas away from Hogwarts, and his very first with the Band, Elaine gives him a top hat. He wears it every time they go dancing.
During these first blessed months with the Band he lets himself relax, and in the momentary hush between Death Eater attacks lets himself believe that the Great War will never come to pass.
He is helping out Irene at The Blue Note, sorting through a carton of old records someone dropped off and chatting quietly with Evans when the door of the shops bursts open and a familiar figure tumbles in.
Reg's heart leaps for a second at the sight of the red scarf, but it is only Lupin.
Still, Lupin looks terrified for someone so usually calm and rushes over to Evans.
He whispers something in her ear and Evans flushes white in shock. She turns to Irene, her eyes watering, "The Prewetts are dead," She says numbly, the freckles standing out against her abnormally white face.
Reg freezes.
He knows the Prewetts in the same way Muggles know film stars. They were ever present demi-gogue figures. Even Slytherins admired them (albeit grudgingly) for their talent on the Quidditch Pitch and for their quick wandwork and wicked tongues (some more than others).
When he had joined the Order the Prewetts had been several of the few who had genuinely made an attempt to engage him. Of course any real attempts at friendship were thwarted by the nature of his work and the fact that he looked completely different every time they met.
Whatever the Prewetts were they were from good pureblood stock. Their death can only signal what Reg has feared all along.
War.