Chronicles of The Boy Who Lived

The chord was soft and low and plaintive. She whipped her head around, nearly losing her cigarette. There in the back was a boy sitting on a haphazardly on a pile of ancient vinyl records, a guitar in his hands. His head was bowed, his unkempt hair sweeping over his round glasses. He sat posed with his fingers not quite touching, but just teasing the air above the strings. And the wildest shiver ripped through the room.

There was silence as Harry’s hand dropped from his face, and Tori was surprised to see that he didn’t look tired anymore. It was replaced by a curious look. “How did you hear about that?” he asked, sitting back down.

He poured a shot and looked at Tori. “Klug, what are you doing n England?”

“It just won’t do to get a straight answer from you,” he mused quietly, watching her stiffen.

*******

Chanel turned to stare at Tori, who spoke. “Harry knows we’ll be at the airport. We’d rather travel with him if possible.” She didn’t even want to imagine his reaction to them flying out with Draco.

Tori inhaled sharply, suddenly very unsure of what she had just done. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, as if a scene frozen in time suddenly sprang back to life, his mouth crashed into hers so forcefully that they hit the adjoining wall with a loud thud.

Chanel stared disbelievingly at the huge image projected onto the stage screen as the crew set up for the concert. Without realizing it, she had bitten through her lip and a thick drop of crimson spilled onto her collar. She cursed under her breath, and swiped a finger irritably at the small cut.

The gleaming whiteness of his shirt dazzled like snow, a silk white knot tied smartly at his throat. He was dressed impeccably in an elegant black waistcoat and pants, his leather shoes like polished oil. His corn-silk hair was pressed from his face, not a strand out of place. And his eyes, taking her in with a look she could not describe.