AN: Sorry to have taken so long with this one! My boyfriend helped me write this chapter after I told him what I was doing. We both love the original so much; he couldn't resist, and we had a wonderful time – and a couple smooches – while writing it.

Again, nothing belongs to me except this re-write. All characters and situations belong to Tara Gilesbie and J.K. Rowling respectively.

Original AN by Tara Gilesbie: STOP FLAMMING DA STORY PREPZ OK! odderwise fangs 2 da goffik ppl 4 da good reviews! FANGS AGEN RAVEN! oh yeah, BTW I don't own dis or da lyrics 4 Good Chralotte.

My eyes snapped open as I heard the sound of my fellow classmates readying themselves for bed. My pre-date jitters had made it nearly impossible for me to fall asleep and it seemed as though I had only just closed my eyes when I was forced awake again. Not that it mattered – I felt the fruits of my effort strongly enough to wake without a fight; the fallen dusk had refreshed my senses. I waited, unblinking, for the deep breathing of those around me to signal that it was safe for me to rise without notice. Strictly speaking, students were not allowed out of the castle at the hour I intended to make my escape. As I lay in the darkness staring at the lid of my coffin, I felt my anxiety begin to take its toll. Of course…

I grimaced and closed my eyes with a sigh. Depression washed over me like a cold wave of acetone and I swallowed it down. It tasted sharp and metallic. Distraction was my only hope. I rose and dressed without alerting even Willow's sharp ears, her deep breaths mingling with those of the snoring students around us. Of course I could only guess at the picture I must have made in my ripped red fishnets and pleather minidress. My emotional frustration was taken out on my hair as I ironed it to a crisp, a halo of general disarray about my head. I saw a face in the mirror – the face of the clock; I was extremely early.

My only hope was proving to be my only undoing as I contemplated the futility of my beautifying. He isn't going to care. What difference will this make, anyway? How is tonight going to add to any quality of life I may or may not have in the future – or right now for that matter? A silly concert… A stupid thing to get excited about… Tomorrow will still just be tomorrow either way…

And then the razor was in my hand. It was without conscious thought, really. My disassociation with the present was too great to warrant intervention even in my own actions:

I saw a white hand pull up the red, netted sleeve covering a white arm. It pressed the cool blade against the wrist and lingered, coagulated blood – dead blood – oozing and bubbling to the surface. Distraction.

I forced my conscious self through the keyhole at the back of my mind and back into the present as I collected my Mp3 player. I shut the bathroom door and tick-ed through the artists, landing on Good Charlotte. Decompression.

I ached for passive stimulation and found it in the book shelf. Labyrinth? Works for me. I sat on the toilet to read paragraphs between applying eyeliner and lipstick.

And then I was late. I looked up just in time to see that the death of my emotional batteries had caused me to dawdle thirty minutes past the time I had agreed to meet Draco. I swore and grabbed my boots in my exodus from the bathroom, taking a swig from my coffinside decanter as I laced my shoes and tottered away as silently as I could.

Draco was leaned against a black mass that I soon decided was a car – a Mercedes Benz. A breach of concert etiquette, he wore a t-shirt bearing the logo of the opening band, Simple Plan. No matter; we had more than likely missed them, thanks to me. My eyes darted over his slim frame, evident, even accentuated, by a pair of black jeans large enough to make a JNCO purist salivate. He ran a hand through his hair, black nails through candy floss. Our eyes met, and I forced a grin. Guyliner (AN: A lot fo kewl boiz wer it ok!). Although my heart had been still for some time, I found myself chanting the age-old mantra to myself in a bid to steel my nerves. I took a breath.

"Hi, Draco." It was almost a whisper, barely more. Dull, depressed; I expected anger.

He smiled – beamed, even. It would have been devilish were it not for his charming awkwardness. I swallowed hard and resisted the urge to bite my lip when he spoke.

"Hi, Ebony."

He ushered me into the passenger seat without another word. I noted the 666 on the license plate as he led me around the car and smiled again – genuinely. He was, in all that he did, a testament to the good breeding that only prominent social standing can offer: from holding the door to offering me not only a fresh blunt, but lighting it as well. I was smitten. Good Charlotte and Marilyn Manson eked from the open windows as we lurched upward. Our less-than-graceful takeoff did nothing to hinder my growing excitement as anxiety gave way to anticipation. I came to realize my own luck. Felix Felicis itself could not have thrown a better night in my path, for tonight would be my first ever concert with Draco Malfoy. My head swum.

Touchdown was much more gentle than I had expected, bracing myself against the dash for the bump that never came. I pretended to have been leaning forward in an effort to tie my boot. Embarrassment avoided. I glanced to my right, and was met with silvery eyes and blushing cheeks; Draco was smiling at me. I grinned and diverted the attention by bolting out of the car. There was only one thing on my mind from the time my feet touched solid ground and that was to muscle my way to the front of the stage by whatever means necessary. We were greeted, however, by a club filled only just to capacity. I frowned, having been prepared to demonstrate my prowess as a steamroller. No matter; I could see, just beyond the crowd, Joel Madden hunched like a bird of prey over the microphone – perfection incarnate. I grabbed the crook of Draco's elbow, and we made our way to the mosh pit without so much as an "excuse us" and joined the few who, like us, found their experience heightened by having the proverbial shit kicked out of them.

Joel's voice cut through it all:

You come in cold, you're covered in blood

They're all so happy you've arrived

The doctor cuts your cord, hands you to your mom

She sets you free into this life (AN: I don't own da lyrics 2 dat song)

My moshing had become sub-par as I found myself entranced. Without thinking, I felt my mouth curve over the words I didn't hear myself speak: "Joel is so fucking hot."

In my periphery, I saw Draco's shoulders slump as he doled out a half-hearted shove to his neighbor. I hadn't realized I had spoken loud enough to be audible over the roar of the amplifiers. I snapped my head in his direction, concerned and mortified. His eyes raised carefully to meet mine, and suddenly it was him in need of comforting. Dammit, Ebony. Every time. I smiled as warmly as I could manage while we both were still jumping in a semblance of rhythm. "What's wrong? I don't like him better than you!" I called over the crunch of guitars. His smile could have replaced the spotlights as he put his arm around me.

"Really?"

"Really," I affirmed, "Besides, how could I? I don't even know him, and he's going out with Hillary-fucking-Duff." Bitch, I added to myself, a malicious snarl crossing my lips. How could a bubbly Mary-Sue like that command the affection of Joel Madden – a rock god. Were I not a student of the arcane myself, I would have sworn it was witchcraft. But she could never be that talented. I smirked. No, Miss Perfect isn't so special after all. I looked up at Draco, and he smiled at me as though he could read my thoughts. I swore we would have kissed if not for the imminent danger of knocking craniums, but stopping mid-mosh was out of the question, so I satisfied myself with imagining the fireworks I was sure to experience upon our eventual first kiss. My night was much better after that particular train of thought, especially after pilfering of a few mugs of pilsner and managing to get autographed photos with Benji and Joel himself.

Our night ended with Draco and I each supporting the other's wobbly footsteps, and laughing as we collapsed back into the Mercedes. Our ascent was much smoother this time, or perhaps we were both too sedate – either from the beer or simply each other's company - to notice otherwise. We were soon invisible against the night sky once again. I rested my elbow on the center console and watched the wide expanse of velvet in varying degrees of blackness stretch below us. I felt a warm hand on mine and smiled as we headed not toward the castle, but toward the Forbidden Forest.

AN: So, let me know something before I leave you to write the next installment – the next chapter is on the more mature side (technically speaking, anyway) as far as content goes. Should I keep the T-rating or change it to M for the subsequent chapters? I can be as fluffy as a lemon meringue or gloss over it all entirely if the idea of reading smutty Ebony/Draco stuff completely grosses you all out. Let me know, please! I'm doing this for the amusement of everyone who loves the original, so I have to know what you want in order to give it to you.

Thankies,

Cameron