High Fidelity

High Fidelity

By Amen

Part I: Misery

What came first: the music or the misery? People worry about kids performing Unforgivables at eachother around ever turn, but do they ever stop in think that it's the music that makes kids violent? There are thousands, millions, billions of songs about heartbreak. Think about what that will do to a man.

"Do you have to go this instant?"

"The hard parts over, Draco. I'm out."

The door slammed behind Harry and Merlin, that sound just pissed me off.

The top five, desert island, worse break ups of all time are as follows:

1) Pansy Parkinson

2) Blaise Zabini

3) Seamus Finnigan

4) Neville Longbottom

5) Ron Weasley

DO YOU SEE YOUR NAME ON THAT LIST, HARRY?

Maybe you'd sneek into the top ten.

But top five? Not bloody likely.

Number one on the list is Pansy Parkinson. That bird was tough. I was 14 and my hormones ruled everything. Girls were everywhere. They were coming out of the bloody woodwork. They giggled. And they had breasts. Two of them. God. Breasts, I tell you.

Our relationship lasted almost exactly six hours. That's six days, one hour of necking each day and on day seven, there she was, snogging with Gregory fucking Goyle. Honestly.

And dear, dear number two? Blaise. He was great. Great taste in music, great hair, style, the works. Unfortunatly, the works including the most prudish man I may have ever meet. He wouldn't let me put my hand in his pants at all. Sometimes I couldn't even get near the fly on his trousers. So he wouldn't sleep with me. Then, like a week after we were through I found out that he'd slept with Terry fucking Boot. Arg!

But Harry Potter is no Blaise Zabini, let me tell you.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

So I own this record store in the East End called Championship Vinal. I know it's crazy. The world's second most powerful Death Eater turned spy, turned outcast, doing servent work. Well the Manor was lost in the war, along with my mother and father. So yes, Harry is an Auror (big surprise) and I own a run-down record store that I bought with the last of my money. Mostly we're botherd by music elitists looking for hard-to-come-by Smith singles and rare not re-released Frank Zappa albums.

So Dick is waiting out side the store when I get there, watching some skater-punks fall off their boards. He's probably forgotten his key again. Dick's pretty short. Scrawy too, with a bald head and deep circles under his eyes.

"Morning, Draco. Listen, I got this new tape, and it's like, um...the one I was telling you about? Only released in Japan with those two girls on the cover? You know...um...and they...uh...well...actually...you've never seen the cover. But uhm...I can make you a copy. You know?"

"Thanks, Dick."

"I've got the new Belle and Sebastian too, can I put it in?" he asked as we walked into the store, making our way to the counter.

"Sure, mate."

Two hours later Barry waltzed in my record store. He's completely off his rocker. He's fat and rude and he doesn't like anybody. No one likes him. He's insane. And he obviosly doesn't own a watch. I told him so.

"What the fuck is this?" He demanded.

"I-It's the new Belle and Sebastian." Dick studderd.

"It's shit."

I can't get rid of thse guys. I hired them years ago to work for 3 days a week here and they just kept showing up, every single day.

"It's a tape we've been listening to and enjoying, Barry." I said, warning him.

"It's shit." He declared again and practically threw the tape at Dick when it was removed from the player. Belle and Sebastian was quickly replaced with the glaring trumpets and drums of "Walking on Sunshine" cranked up as loud as it could go.

"Turn it down, asshole!" I shouted over the noise.

"What? I can't hear you!" He shouted back.

I finally jumped over the counter and turned it down myself.

"Fuck you, Barry."

^*^*^*^*^*^

Number three. Oh boy. Seamus Finnigan. Perfect. Perfect and way out of my league. He was smart, really smart. And cultured, which was suprising, being a half-breed and all. Insanely good looking, with this Irish brogue that just about killed me. And he talked, he talked about amazing things: music, books, movies and I listened. But the thing about being with Seamus was I never got comfortable. I knew that I was quite a catch myself, but I had issues, so I always had this feeling that Seamus knew how demented I was and was just going to leave me. For three years of dating him I had this feeling. And one day...he did just that. He left me for Dean Thomas. I didn't take that too well. Meaning I stood outside Seamus's flat in pouring rain screaming "SEAMUS, YOU BASTARD! LET'S WORK IT OUT!" every night for a week, until I gave up on that and slept for 3 days straight. When I woke up I found out that I'd lost my job. So I opened a record store.

^*^*^*^*^*^

Barry was ranting.

"Somebody's got a case of the Mondays. I guess we won't be listening to any good music today. It's not like we're in a fucking record store or anything. Oh and, I'm telling you this for your own good: that is the worst fucking sweater I have ever seen. It's a like a Cosby sweater! A Cos-by swea-ter! Did Harry let you out of the house wearing that?"

I slammed Barry into the closest shelf of records.

"Get the fuck off of me! This jacket is vintage and if you ripped it I'd sock you in your fucking nose!"

I threw my hands up in the air in surrender, stomping off to hide in my office for a while.

Where were we?

Ah, one of my favorites: Neville Longbottom. See, I had just been run over by Charlie and Neville had been destroyed by some asshole. We got to talking about it and then we got to excercising demons by fucking all the time. Until one day Neville says to me "I found someone else." And leaves. That put me off of relationship for a good 2 months.

What's that sound?

Oh, the phones ringing.

"'Lo?" I grunt into the mouth piece.

"Draco?"

It's Hermione. This should be interesting.

"Listen, I know how things went with Harry and I want you to know that I'm withholding judgement till I hear the whole story. I'm your friend too. Although, I can't say I'm completely nuetral. I probably perfer you over this Ian guy. Well, I just wanted you to know. I've got to get back to work. Love you, bye."

"Wait, what? Bye!"

But she'd already hung up the phone.

"Uh, Draco? Uhm, are you okay?"

"Harry left me."

"Uhm, do you want to uhh...talk about it?"

"No Dick. But could you tell Barry? I didn't mean to lash out. I'm just a bit unstable."

"Sure Draco, I'll tell him. It's not problem. I had some stuff I had to tell him anyway, so I'll tell him that along with, uhm...the thing about Harry. It's no problem."

"Okay Dick."

"I'll let myself out."

"Okay."

He leaves.

Can I back track for a second?

Pause.

WHAT FUCKING IAN GUY?!?

I'm practically sprinting to the underground, flying up the street to my flat, bursting into the front hallway and about to go upstairs when I remember.

Ian.

Ray.

Ian Raymond (commanly known as Ray) the asshole upstairs. He's got a ponytail and he listens to whatever world music is popular that week. Awful cooking smells would permeate from his apartment. We use to listen to him having sex.

I'd say "Jesus, it goes on and on doesn't it?" After hearing hours of creaking bedsprings and headboards banging against the wall. Harry'd quip "Wish I could be so lucky."

And we laugh. Because the sex was always great. At first sex was the basis of our entire relationship.

And now?

Harry is fucking Ian. Ray. Whatever.

Oh God.

Oh God.

No one in the history of carnal pleasure in the whole world is having better sex than the sex Harry is having with Ian at the moment.

In.

My.

Head.

Oh God. That's it.

Way to go Harry Potter, you've made the list.

Number five, with a bullet, Harry fucking Potter.

Ron Weasley? He ment nothing to me. Just a quick fuck.

But Harry may very well be the death of me.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

End of Part the First