"Regular" Guys

"Regular" Guys

Harry and Ron had decided that for their last year at Hogwarts, they would do things a little...differently.

Not that they hadn't done everything else in their lives differently; in fact, if everyone did something a certain way, Harry and Ron usually found some way to "different" things up.

So technically, it would be a serious change if they decided to do things the way normal people did them, or just act like normal people in general.

Or at least attempt to act like normal people. When you've been jumping off the bandwagon your whole life, you never learn how to jump on, so that can, as you might expect, make things difficult.

Harry knew, from his muggle connections, that having a teenage garage band was all the rage at the moment. He also knew that garage bands attracted girls like paperclips to an earth magnet. He also knew that no matter whether a magical or muggle band, if you had the right stuff, you would make millions - galleons or pounds, that was a lot of money.

After all, he couldn't get by on his parents' estate for the rest of his life, could he? And becoming an auror would be a minor inconvenience without an advanced potions class.

And so he and Ron found themselves meandering around the school's hallways, corridors and secret passages one Friday night after dinner, sending advertisements flying to the walls where they adhered magically to the rough stone surfaces. The adverts proclaimed Harry and Ron's need for a drummer in their band; they had the lead vocalist (Ron) and a guitarist (Harry) but they still needed a drummer - without one, their band would sound horrible and they would have no beat.

(Who knows what they're doing looking for a drummer in a magical education institution? The vast majority of those attending would not know how to play the drums...)

"Who d'you think will reply to our adverts?" Ron asked as he accidentally sent one sheaf of parchment flying into Harry's face. "Sorry 'bout that, mate," he continued as he tugged on the advertisement until it ripped off of his friend's visage.

"OW!" Harry yelled when the parchment detached itself from him. He clasped his hands around his face, moaning in agony until the pain subsided; then he looked at Ron and said, "I don't know, hopefully someone who can drum?"

"Alright, you don't have to get all nettled about it...it was an accident, Harry, obviously I didn't mean to make you a walking advert..." Ron shook his head, fighting back giggles at the mental image of a giant piece of parchment reading "Drummer wanted for a modern rock band" with a giant pair of round black glasses and a lightning bolt scar on the parchment's forehead. Then he actually did start laughing at the thought of a piece of parchment having a forehead.

"What're you laughing at? It's not funny, Ron, I look like Winky's nose!"

This only prompted Ron to laugh even harder. He was in all-out hysterics within a matter of seconds, and Harry was trying desperately to calm him down.

"Oh, no, Madame Pomfrey warned us not to get him too worked up...she said his head was liable to explode if he had to think about too many funny things at once! HELP! HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP! MY BEST FRIEND'S LAUGHING TO DEATH, FOR MERLIN'S SAKES, SOMEBODY HELP MEEEEEEEEEEE!"

But all this did was cause a few passing ghosts to look at Harry strangely; it was hard to tell whether this was because of what he'd said, the fact that his face did indeed resemble Winky's nose to a frightening degree, or that he was calling for help as if someone had just been Avada Kedavra'd when the person next to him was clearly not dead, nor, it would seem, in any pain at all.

Harry began to panic. He tried to pick Ron up, but his friend just kicked and screeched at him through his breathless laughter. Then he tried to drag him, but he was too heavy and, let's face it, Harry wasn't exactly the muscular type.

(He obviously wasn't the intelligent type, either, because any magical being with any common sense would conjure a stretcher and a strait jacket in this situation.)

Eventually, Hermione happened upon the pair of idiots. She took one glance at Ron, then ran around screaming like a chicken with its head cut off. Theoretically, in this situation she would have to be both headless and, therefore, mute, but when you're the author of a story you can do whatever you want.

Over the next ten seconds, a large swarm of people passed by, glancing at the trio, figuring that what they were doing wasn't out of the ordinary, and then walked on.

But then Draco Malfoy caught sight of the chaos and, being the sadistic being he is, decided to taunt the three do-gooders.

"What's going on here, Potty? Granger? Wheezley?" he asked coyly.

"None of your business unless you're going to help...uh...Malfoy!" Harry retorted, unable to think of a suitable insult out of Malfoy's last name.

"And why should I help you...oh? What's this?" Malfoy asked, ripping one of the advertisements off the wall with admirable ease. "A garage band? Honestly, Potter, I thought you and Weasel couldn't sink any lower...need a drummer, do you?"

"Yes, Malfoy, now either shut up and leave, or shut up and help me get Ron to the hospital wing!"

"You still haven't answered why I should help you. Although..."

"What?" Harry snapped.

"Well...I am quite good at the drums...and no one knows it, and I must admit it would be very gratifying to be able to show off my talent in front of a lot of swooning ladies..."

"Just get to the bloody point, Malfoy!"

"No need to get nasty, Potter. If you let me be your drummer, I'll help you get your little...friend...to the hospital wing. Deal?"

Harry was too panicked to argue. "Deal! Now hurry the fuck up and help -"

Malfoy conjured a stretcher out of mid-air with the cool air of one who never lost their head in an emergency. He blew across the tip of his wand much like a muggle cowboy might blow the end of his gun after hitting a target - not that he'd ever seen a muggle cowboy do that - and then strolled away down the hall, calling back to Harry, "Remember our deal, Potter! I'd take down those posters if I were you - pretty pointless now that you've got the best drummer around in your band, aren't they?" Harry stared incredulously at Malfoy's retreating back, wondering what in the name of Merlin he'd just done. Then he glanced down to where Ron had been only moments before, practically gagging on laughter, to find a stone floor devoid of any human life forms.

"No...no! He's gone! He's disintegrated! DAMN YOU, SPONTANEOUS HUMAN COMBUSTION! YOU STOLE MY BEST FRIEND FROM ME! DAAAAMN YOOOOOOUUUUU!" Harry shook his fist at the ceiling, having dropped to his knees melodramatically and raised his hands above his head imploringly.

"What's all the fuss for, mate?" said a strangely familiar voice from behind him. Harry turned his head sharply, cricking his neck.

"Ouch...Ron! What -? How -? I thought you - I mean... what the hell, Ron?"

"I dunno, mate. I was laughing, and then I just thought, what are you laughing at? And I guess that kinda got me thinking and it destroyed my melancholy mood, I suppose. I just got back from the loos - laughing really makes you have to go for a -"

"Ok, Ron, thanks, glad you're alive. Now, see, the thing is, when you were either laughing or in the loos, Malfoy came along. Hermione was just running around like a maniac, I'm not sure why, and I was desperate to get you to Madame Pomfrey because I thought you were dying. So I was pretty desperate for help, and Malfoy sort of tricked me into a deal where -"

"I know, Harry, I was sitting there wondering why I was laughing so hard when he tricked you. I'm surprised you fell for it, really. I mean, you're usually so on top of your game with him."

"Like I told you," Harry ground out through gritted teeth, "I thought you were dying. Let's see how straight you can think when you think me or Hermione's dying."

"Alright, I see your point mate. Sorry for being an arse. Now, let's say we take these down, shall we? Like Malfoy said, not like we need them anymore."

"It's a date!" Harry said gaily, hopping to his feet and skipping down the hall, magically stripping the walls of the posters as he went.