The Magical Hottiez

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sky was uncharacteristically clear for a September day in London, and aside from the muggle smog, it was proving to be a very lovely day indeed. Enid Greenbriar, however, did not notice this as she charged down the sidewalk, heading for Diagon Alley, walking as though the whole city was in her command. And it could have been, actually, for she was attractive enough to make most men grovel at her feet--very pretty, as the boys at Hogwarts used to say...for a Slytherin--and a very dark Slytherin at that. Oh, she wasn't a death eater, but she had aligned herself with a cause almost as terrible as Lord Voldemort--the fashion industry.

"Pedestrians have right of way, ass hole!" she shouted as she crossed the street, narrowly missing being hit by a taxicab.

"Honestly," she thought, examining her reflection in the windows of parked cars. "You'd think I'd get more respect around here. I mean, I invented the bust-enhancing dress robe! I improved the lives of flat-chested witches everywhere...shows what those muggles know."

"You're late," her timid secretary said almost inaudibly, handing Enid her coffee.

"Thanks, um, Lisa."

It's Lizzie," the secretary muttered under her breath, returning to her Jane Austen novel as Enid hurried into the meeting room.

"Ah, Enid, good to see you," Achala Patil said, grinning as Enid took her seat at the head of the long meeting table. "We have a new assignment for you."

"Oh really," she replied with mock interest, examining her perfectly-manucured fingernails.

"As you probably know, Witch Weekly's sales have been lagging for the past two fiscal years, and in order to spice things up, I've been doing some research on the muggles, whose teen market is booming. I've read their teen magazines--tripe, most of it, but it sells. And mostly what they write about are these musical groups called 'boy bands,' which all the muggle teenagers go crazy about. Now, most of them aren't exactly talented, but the important thing is that it sells, so I've come up with a plan--We'll create a wizard boy band of our own!"

This was the first good idea Achala Patil had had in years, and the most appealing aspect to Enid was that it involved exploiting people. Enid loved exploiting people.

"So," she said, "Where will we get the, um, talent for this band?"

"That's the beauty of it! We'll get them from Hogwarts! I informed my daughters, Parvati and Padma," she smiled fondly and giggled, "Of the project, and they drew up a list of the five boys who they think should be in the band."

"And what is my role in this project?"

"The key to any band's success is that each member has his own distinct personality. I'm assigning you the job of inventing their personalities. We've informed the possible band members of your arrival at Hogsmeade tomorrow for interviews."

She handed Enid a stack of papers, each with a name, a short biography, and a picture on it. Quickly scanning over the names, she noticed that all of them were familiar--Potter, Weasley, Wood, Malfoy, and Longbottom. Yes, she thought to herself, this was going to be a bit of fun.

***

It was noon, and Enid was already quite pleased with herself. She had arranged to meet with the four members who attended Hogwarts and the one who had graduated at the Three Broomsticks, so that if they refused to sign the contracts she would get them tipsy enough that they did. She entered the pub, feeling the familiar odor of alcohol and grease wash over her. She spotted the four Gryffindor members lounging in a booth, while the fifth, rather dashing Slytherin member was leaning up against a wall, a look of quiet disaffection painted across his face.

"You, love, must be Draco. I'm Enid Greenbriar from Witch Weekly," she said, extending a perfectly manicured hand to the quasi-albino boy. "Come, now, don't look so glum. It isn't becoming. Come and sit with the others."

After the boys were sufficiently tipsy (butterbeer count: 42) and considerably friendlier, Enid handed out the contracts and began to speak about their personalities.

"Now, all of these boy bands have members with distinct personalities, and I have selected your personalities. You," she said, looking at Oliver Wood, "Will be the gorgeous one. You know, the one all the girls toss their knickers at."

Everyone nodded because, of course, Oliver was a hottie.

"Harry, you'll be the one who can never quite figure out what's going on."

"You mean the dumb one!" Draco exclaimed, "The perfect role for potty-pants!"

"And, as for you, Mr. Malfoy, you'll be the cute one."

Draco looked horrified, "The cute one? But the cute one is always the one whose sexual orientation is...er...a bit nebulous."

"Sod it, Malfoy, we all know you're bloody, sock-knitting, off-the-chain, flaming gay! Otherwise, why would you spend all that time in Snape's dungeon?" Ron piped up. Guffaws and snickers from around the room ensued.

"B-but...can't I be the bad boy?"

"Sorry, Draco, but the role of bad boy goes to Neville," she said, smiling to herself.

"You know it!" Neville, whose figure had thinned up a bit since his first year, squeaked.

"What about me?" Ron asked, both curious and horrified.

"You are the random one who only speaks in muggle ebonics."

"Cool!" Ron replied, beaming.

"Ah-Ah, Mr. Weasley. From now on you say 'jiggy.' Here," she said, handing him a book, "This should help."

"'Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Ebonics'? How jiggy!"

"At-a-boy," she said, dumping galleons on the table to cover the bill. "Now that that is squared away, we have the matter of your wardrobe. It is pretty much clear that whatever you blokes wear, every other young wizard in Britain--maybe even the whole world--will quickly run out and buy. That's the beauty of teenage conformity. So for that reason, you are only to wear what I give you to wear. Understood?"

The boys nodded, and she pulled five wardrobe bags out of her magically expanded bag.

"Go and change in the loo so I can see that you all look okay."

Ten minutes later, five skinny, oddly dressed wizards reluctantly emerged. Oliver came out first, dressed in a tight 'wife-beater' that displayed both his biceps and his washboard stomach. Definitely knicker-tossing material. Next came Neville, in leather pants and a leather jacket, for which many cute animals had no doubt had been killed. Then came Draco in a t-shirt that said 'I'm sensitive and sexy,' followed by Harry, tousle-haired.

"Harry, I love your hair, but from now on, poof it up more. We're going for the afro-chic look with you."

Finally, out came Ron, the most ridiculous of all, in baggy pants, a muggle basketball jersey, several necklaces, and a sidewise visor.

"I can't wait till," he consulted his book, "all my homey g. funk dawgs can see my new threads."

And thus, the Magical Hottiez were born.

***

Hermione sat contentedly in the library, reading a book almost as large as she was and simply enjoying the smell of ancient books washing over her. She sighed; a thought popped into her oversized head--where was Ron? They had a tough Transfiguration test the next day, and he had promised that he would meet her in the library for a review session--his grades were slipping, as usual. But what they knew and the whole of Hogwarts knew was that they intended the meeting for arguing, which for some strange reason turned them on. They'd been going at it for months now--fighting and then snogging in dark corners. And since Hermione was now recognized to be quite a babe, a cult of personality formed after Ron, making countless young wizards (including both Fred and George Weasley) insult pretty girls and then try to snog them. But it never worked with other couples, only with Ron and Hermione, which made her seem even sexier and Ron seem like even more of a stud...Go figure.

Just then, she felt something tug at her hair and jumped to see a familiar freckled face beaming at her.

"Whas Crackulatin?" he asked.

"What?"

"You know, whas poppin? Wazzup?"

She finally got a good look at him, "Um, Ron, dear, what happened to your clothes?"

"My old school threads were so janky, ya know. I got hooked up with some new ones."

She shook her head, completely bewildered, "Ron, could you please translate? We're in England now. Speak British for Heaven's sake!"

"Remember what I told you? Me 'n Harry's in a band now! It's gonna be off the heezy fo sheezy!"

"Ron, just because you're in a band doesn't mean that the laws of grammar don't still apply to you!"

"You know what? I thought we was really gellin', but I guess I was wrong. Now that I'm in a band, biznitches will be lining up to freak with me! Catch ya later, g!"

And with that, Ron Weasley stormed out of the library, ready to get his mack on with anything with breasts. Hermione would have been upset, but Ron's behavior was just too funny. She let out uncontrollable guffaws, falling to the cold stone library floor. Besides, she was hot; she could get a new snog partner faster than you could say 'jiggy.'

***

Normally, Saturdays were Harry's favorite days. However, at 5 o'clock in the morning, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired, standing between Draco and Neville in the ballroom of the Hogsmeade Arms Hotel, Harry had discovered a fresh new hell--band practice. He thought that being in a band would be all promotions, photo shoots, and commercials. He didn't know it would include dancing! And he had just found out that he would actually have to sing on the album.

The choreographer, Nina Von Struddle, was proving to be quite a nazi. She made them do the same sequence repeatedly, since the only person who was actually getting the dance down was Draco, who had, as Nina said, the perfect ballerina body.

"And von and two and tree and..." she said, rapping her cane on the floor, "Vor Heavens sake, vy can't vu do ze routine?"

"Sounds a bit like Vicky, don't you," Ron hissed to Harry, eliciting caustic glares from the Madamme.

She made Ron do pirouettes across the room, making him look to Harry like a redheaded dying gazelle fleeing from a hunter. When Harry sniggered at the plight of his friend, Nina made him do twice as many pirouettes.

After a painful struggle, Nina gave up, deciding that their first single should be a heartfelt ballad, "Yeah Girl," in which they would be able to sit on tall stools and sing. Throwing her arms down in frustration and muttering German obscenities under her breath, she called the voice coach in, who distributed music to the members.

"Yeah Girl,

I want you bad girl

None of the other girls has what you got

Cause girl, you're just so hot..."

At best the song was poorly executed formula pop; at worst, the song was, well, as Ron would say, shiznit. The spoiled icing on the disgusting cake of "Yeah Girl" was the bridge, in which Ron was to rap.

"Girl I want you so bad
It makes me really mad
When the other homeys get their Mack on
With you, hun
I ain't down wit dat, girl
Cause you're just so phat, girl
You're all that, girl
Yeah girl..."

Music rehearsal was not going any better than the dancing had. The main problem was that Ron was completely unable to sing on key, making the sensitive ballad "Yeah Girl" sound like a requiem sung by squirrels bathing in gasoline.

"Merlin's beard, Weasel, why can't you get your harmony down?" Draco snapped, no longer able to bear the terrible noise that was coming out of Ron's mouth.

"Sod off, Drakiekins. Don't you have a gay pride parade to march in?"

"Shut up you great prat!"

"Great prat, eh?" a grin spread across Ron's face, making his freckles dance. "That's not what yo mama called me last night!"

"What did you say?" Draco yelled, his face turning an unusual shade of purple.

"Dats right, Malfoy, I beez dissin yo mama! Why, yo mama's so fat she jumped in the Nile, and it still beez flowin backwards!" Ron beamed triumphantly as the whole room, including the voice coach, burst out laughing. Draco looked murderous.

"W-Weasley, how dare you insult my Mommy!" he looked now as if he was about to cry. "If I hadn't just gotten a manicure, I'd bust your face in!"

"I'd like to see you try it, foo. You're da biggest pansy in all England!"

"Well at least my girl isn't sleeping around behind my back!"

That comment must have struck a chord with Ron because his face started to turn that familiar Weasley Red. The crowd encircling the two instinctively drew back; it looked as though a fight whose size was only matched by a bitch-slappin-spat on the 'Real World' was about to break out.

"Malfoy, don't you ever disrespect Hermione!"

"You made the mistake of dissin my mommy! Bring it on, punk."

Just as they were about to go at it, though, Enid came into the room and broke up the fight.

"I think we've had enough practicing for today, eh boys? Why don't you all go on back to school and take the rest of the day off?

***
Ron stormed back to the castle, comforted by the cool air.

"Stupid, insufferable git," he thought to himself, momentarily forgetting to think in ebonics.

"Hey, Ron, wait up!" Harry yelled as he chased after his friend. Ron halted on the path, waiting for Harry to catch up.

"Wat up, G?" Ron asked when Harry reached him.

"Wat up with you, G? You've never let Draco get to you before."

"That poodle was whoobangin 'Mione! I couldn't let him get away with dat!"

"I thought you, er, broke off your relationship with her."

"Oh, I did. She didn't feel my new get-up, ya know?"

"Then why did you get so upset about the, er, whoobangin? I mean, he's always picking on her, and you've never quite, um, opened up a can of woop-ass before."

"What are you getting at?"

"What I'm getting at is, well," a wry grin spread across Harry's face. "You've got the hots for Hermione!"

Ron blushed deeply, the same puerile involuntary action that had plagued him for years, crimson flooding his cheeks. He turned away.

"Ha! I knew it!," Harry's voice got lower. "Just apologize to her. She'll understand that you're just feeling, um, a little wacked out."

"You really think so?" Ron's face lit up.

"I know so."

Suddenly, though, the two heard laughter, turning to see Oliver come down path, holding hands with Hermione...

***
Now, Hermione wasn't usually one to giggle, normally considering giggling an activity for the likes of Parvati and Lavender. However, when she stood next to Oliver Wood, absorbing his hotness and smelling his wizard cologne, she couldn't help but giggle. Not laugh. Giggle. Insanely.

It was just that Oliver was so...darling. She wondered what it was that made him so very adorable--his smile? His hair? His voice? She wasn't sure, but one thing was for certain--he was definitely a hottie.

And perhaps the thing that she liked most about him was that he knew how to talk to girls; he wasn't awkward like Ron was. And when he held her hand, he held it lightly, as though it fell perfectly into his own--he didn't grasp it desperately like Ron had always done.

"But isn't that what you always fancied the most about Ron?" she thought, scolding herself for feeling so. After all, she was over him now.

Hermione had been so caught up in Oliver that she hadn't seen the two lanky figures ahead of them on the path. They turned now, trying to get her attention.

"Oy! Hermione!" one yelled.

Oh no. Ron had seen them, and judging by his previous conflict resolution skills, this could not be a good thing.

"God, Hermione, what is your deal with older guys?" Ron said; Hermione could hear jealousy in his voice. She turned to Oliver and smiled weakly.

"Ron, do the world a favor and please pull your wand out of your arse," Hermione said suddenly, surprising everyone. Ron opened up his mouth to speak, but no words came out, and he shut it.

"Let's just go Harry," Ron whispered as they headed off toward the castle.

Harry returned to an empty dormitory--Ron had gone to take out his frustrations by making fun of the first-years, and the other boys were all out for the day. Probably snogging their girlfriends in dark corners, he mused.

He sat on his bed, wrinkling an envelope that Hedwig dropped off for him while he was at band practice. He pulled it out from underneath his robes, skimming over it.



Harry:

We at Witch Weekly believe that because of your tumultuous childhood, you might be at risk for mental illness. As with any other investment, we wish to inspect before we pay, so in order to continue with the band, you must report to the office of Dr. Sigmund Freudhorny for a quick psychoanalysis...

***

"Yes," said the great doctor Freudhorny, stroking his mustache thoughtfully, "I think we're really getting at something here, Harry."

"What?" Harry replied, puzzled. He had just finished explaining his terrible childhood to Dr. Freudhorny.

"Yes, you see Harry, the root of your neuroses is--"

"Nueroses?"

"Yes, Harry, neuroses. The root of it is simple, really. Just plain, ordinary repressed homosexuality. You see, the reason why you fear he-who-must-not-be-named so much is that you are sexually--"

"Whoa! Back up there buddy! There is no way in hell that I'm in love with the Dark Lord. I mean, the dude's ugly. If I have bugger-lust, it's got to be for someone worthwhile, not someone with a face his mama couldn't even love. And I don't know why you think I'm--"

"Ah, yes, the classic reaction to discovery of repressed homosexual feelings. Don't worry, Harry, you'll soon come around. In the mean time, this should help," he said thoughtfully, handing Harry a pamphlet entitled 'So You Like Pink: Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Homosexuality.'

***

"Eat shit Ron. I really haven't the energy to talk to you right now."

"Hermione, I--"

"Ron, what part of 'eat shit' don't you understand? I really don't want to talk to you right--"

Hermione placed one hand on her hip, glaring expectantly at the boy who had so rudely interrupted her.

"Well, I was going to tell you I was sorry, but since you insist on being so...here," he handed her a clumsily cut red paper heart.

"Ron? A valentine? That's so--"

Once she got a good look at the card, though, she let out a huff and ran away; Ron swore he could see smoke come out of her ears. Left on the ground was the crumpled valentine, which read:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue
Yo mama is ugly,
And so are you.

***

Well, Ron had outdone himself in the field of being a git, and for the first time in the fifteen years he had lived annoyingly, he finally realized it...He had finally lost Hermione. In all those years with all those insults, he had never seen her so livid. As he grew cognizant of his mistake, a quiet, sudden sadness crept into his heart.

"Whoa," said Harry, just out of his session with Dr. Freudhorny, "What did you do this time?"

Ron remained taciturn, simply pointing one bony finger to the wrinkled red paper heart on the floor.

"Man, what in all hell possessed you to write that? You know 'Mione's always been sorta sensitive about her looks."

Silence. Ron shook his head, suddenly very interested in his beat-up trainers.

"Guess what?"

Ron looked at Harry now, an unspoken but visible melancholy still lingering in his eyes.

"I'm gay! Isn't that fantastic! Gay guys are sensitive, so I can help you with your problems."

Harry had read over Lockhart's pamphlet and was now quite comfortable with his new alternative lifestyle.

"Harry, I appreciate your jokes, but it's just not--"

"No, Ron, I'm really gay! I went to this psychologist and he--"

"Harry, listen to me--You are not gay! What about that whole two-year infatuation with Cho Chang and that brief fling with," Ron gagged, "My kid sister?"

"Dr. Freudhorny says that I was repressing my homosexual feelings by faking manliness, which is why I was so miserable."

Ron stared at Harry for a good while, obviously stifling disgust. Harry Potter---gay? Harry "Hos and Champagne" Potter fancying dudes? This was all too creepy for Ron to handle. But then again, Harry was his best friend, and Ron considered it his duty to support whatever Harry's new...endeavors might be.

"All right, g," Ron said, grinning. "Just let me approve all your boyfriends before you go out with them."

***

A few days later, very little had happened. Hermione refused to so much look at Ron, but he kept sneaking furtive glances at her just in case she did; it was rather pathetic, really. Harry sighed to himself. He resolved to attempt to patch things up between his friends (that's what sensitive gay guys do, apparently), but that would have to wait until later.

Harry, rather frazzled, set up a large sign at the end of the Gryffindor table, met by odd glances from the students filling the common room. Harry gazed proudly at his handiwork; it said, in clumsily-written bubble letters, "W.H.O.R.E.--G: Wizards of Hogwarts Or Round-world Ever Gay!"

In a magically-amplified voice, he yelled, "We're here! We're queer! Get used to it!"

Those around him either sniggered or pretended he was invisible, all that is, except for one tall semi-albino, sauntering proudly over to Harry.

"Sod off, Malfoy. I'm running a gay pride booth here."

Draco simply leaned in and whispered, "I know. Where do I sign up?"

***

"You're gay?" Enid questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"We're gay," Harry and Draco said in unison.

"Oh dear. This will not do," she said, pulling a cigarette out of her purse, "Do you mind if I have a fag?"

"You know, in the States that means something very different," Draco grinned.

"Do you think you could, er, cover up your sexuality?"

"No way. No how," Harry said, "We're here. We're queer. Get used to it!"

"The thing is, boys, your listeners won't. I'm sorry, but you're out of the band."

"That's all right. We don't want to be part of an organization that doesn't respect our sexuality," Draco winked at Harry. "We don't care what we do as long we're together."

***

Hermione sat curled up in the corner of the library, deeply involved in whatever she was reading, her hair falling in the way every now and then. Ron stood in the shadows on the other side of the room, watching her intently. Finally, he worked up the nerve to talk to her.

"I quit the band."

"What?"

"The band. I quit it. They kicked Harry and Draco out cause they're gay, and it wasn't much fun anyway. I mean, all that 'jiggy' crap...that wasn't me," he looked down at Hermione hopefully.

"Ron, I don't think you understand. I'm with Oliver now. Even if I did look past you being a grade-A git, I wouldn't get back together with you anyway. The fact of the matter is that, well, we're just too different. I mean, I'm scholarly, and you're maturity level just isn't--"

"Are you calling me an immature idiot, Hermione?"

"Well..."

"You know, maybe I am a little stupid. Maybe I am a bit immature," his eyes pleaded with her. "But I know you, 'Mione. I know you don't need perfect little Wood-y Two Shoes. You need somebody spontaneous, someone who blushes once in a while, somebody who loves you just the way you are, frizzy hair and everything, somebody like--like--"

"Ron, I really don't think it's you're place to tell me who I need." She crossed her arms over her chest, giving him a look he had seen so many times before.

He let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like "Biznitch."

***

Neville Longbottom sat on a toilet seat in the first floor loo of the Hogsmeade Arms Hotel, crying in a fashion unbecoming of a 'bad boy." But he wasn't a bad boy. Truth be told, his voice was so high that when people heard him speak, they thought he was a girl. The Magical Hottiez had been his one shot at really being something special, someone the girls would notice. But now he suspected that as three of the band members had quit, the band would likely dissolve, leaving him alone in a world of failed spells and cracking voices.

Suddenly, though, someone knocked on the stall door, startling him. He squeaked.

"Come, come now. Why are we blubbering?"

He looked up to see Enid smiling down at him.

"I--I"

"Come here, big boy," she said in a sultry voice. "You might just be exactly what I need."

She ran her tongue over he teeth suggestively; Neville looked around the toilet stall to see if there was anyone else that she might possibly be talking to.

He squeaked again. Could Enid, an older, beautiful woman be trying to "get her mack on" with small, awkward Neville, a pitiful teenager? She leaned in close, making him squirmy, tracing his cheekbones with one Popsicle finger.

"I love the smell of urinal cakes in the morning," she whispered, "But let's get out of here and go to some place more...comfortable."

***
Hermione and Oliver stood hand in hand, watching the sunlight play off the lake. Well, Hermione was focusing on the lake, in the distant way that she so often was, and Oliver was focusing on Hermione's body, staring at the particular spot that always draws the attention of teenage boys.

He broke the silence, still staring. "Hermione, we need to talk."

"What about sweetie?" she smiled.

"Well, it's just that I've been thinking a lot lately," he shifted his wait uneasily, "And I guess that things would be better if we were just friends."

Hermione dropped his hand, suddenly turning very red.

"What--did--you--say?" she stammered.

"Oh, come on Hermione, it's not like you didn't see it coming. I mean, I'm an international Quidditch superstar and hottie extraordinaire, and you're just some teenage witch."

"Were you born that big of an asshole, or did you have to work at it really hard? Go join the axis of evil or something."

With that, Hermione left, running back to the castle as fast as she could.

***

Hermione stumbled into the common room, feeling rather lost and dusty, almost empty inside, her mind swirling around... She actually saw spots. A fire was blazing in the hearth, and without thought, she sank to her knees in front of it, completely absorbed in the papaya light. Someone cleared his throat, and she turned to see Ron sitting straight up in a chair, reading a book. It was Ron, of course; the hair gave that away, but he possessed a manner so very un-Ron-like that it took her a minute to recognize him. First of all, he wasn't slouching, and his clothes weren't wrinkled, and well--was he reading what she thought he was reading?

"Is that--"

He nodded. "Hogwarts: A History. It's fascinating, really. You know, you were right. I should be more mature."

"No, Ron, I wouldn't want you to change."

"Good. Cause I wasn't going to, anyway. You know how stubborn I am."

She smiled a bit, but a visible mournfulness still lingered on her face. It was a lovely face, Ron mused.

"For once, though, you were right. Oliver turned out to be such a prat."

She sank down lower, and in an instant Ron was on the floor beside her, enveloping her in a strong, long-armed embrace. He didn't understand why she was so upset (must have been 'that time of the month'), but he was determined to make her feel better at any cost.

Quietly, at first, he began to sing the first song that came into his head:



"Jeremiah was a bull frog
Was a good friend of mine
I never understood a single word he said
But I helped him a-drink his wine
And he always had some mighty fine wine

Joy to the world
All the boys and girls, now
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me

If I were the King of the world
Tell you what I'd do
I'd throw away the cars and the bars and the wars
And make sweet love to you..."

Hermione grinned widely, "Oh, you would, would you?"

***

Outside the third floor window, everything was perfectly placid. A gentle rain was coming down, drops rolling down the window pane, and the sound was so soothing to Neville.

"Hello Lover," Enid said in a low voice, pulling herself out of bed to join Neville, who sat pleasantly by the window. "Have you thought over my proposition?"

He nodded.

Enid had been sent on a mission--to find a band to make money for Witch Weekly. Surmounting the obstacle of 2/5 of the band being gay, she had found her star: Neville. His boyish teddy-boy-next-door looks were both endearing and sexy, and his pre-pubescent voice was perfect for hitting high notes in the countless maudlin love ballads that he would undoubtedly sing.

***

So, the ends of this story were tied-up, and everybody ended up keener than a peach. Ron continued to sing random American muggle songs from the early 70's to Hermione whenever she was PMSing. Harry and Draco joined a gay men's choir. Neville went on to super-stardom, eventually breaking into the mainstream American music scene and regularly sharing frappuccinos with the likes of Carson Daly and Christina Aguilera (while seeing Enid on the side). Oliver Wood would have learned that mad Quidditch skillz and oodles of money don't bring you love, except that, as everyone knows, they really do bring you love. He married Britney Spears. The two purchased matching skin-tight, nude-colored jumpsuits and moved into a giant breast-shaped mansion, which paid homage to Britney's best feature.

***