Slytherins, Kisses and Other Disasters
Copyright© 2026 by Caroline Stanton
Chapter 36: The Sound of Progress
The trouble began with a guitar. More precisely, it began with a black electric guitar, a small amplifier, a cable, three picks, and a book entitled Learn Rock Guitar in Thirty Days.
Adrian Selwyn had acquired all of them during a hurried second expedition to the Muggle shopping centre with Harry Potter. The visit had taken less than two hours, partly because they knew exactly what they wanted and partly because Harry had insisted that Adrian was absolutely, under no circumstances, to mention the trip to Georgina until they were safely back at Hogwarts.
“Why?” Adrian had asked.
“Because if Georgina hears we’re going shopping, she’ll tell Victoria, Victoria will tell Draconia, and we’ll be carrying shoe boxes until Christmas.”
Adrian had considered that.
“Fair point.”
Professor McGonagall had been less enthusiastic about authorising another excursion so soon after the first. However, when Harry explained that Adrian wanted to learn a musical instrument, she eventually agreed, provided they returned promptly and did not turn the trip into another shopping expedition.
Professor Flitwick, meanwhile, had been delighted by the technical challenge. After examining the amplifier and consulting with Hermione, he’d devised a means of powering it safely using a small enchanted crystal. A second charm helped shield its circuitry from the worst of Hogwarts’ magical interference.
“Fascinating!” the little professor had exclaimed when the amplifier produced its first clear note. “Quite fascinating! Do let me know how your lessons progress, Mr Selwyn!”
Adrian had promised that he would. Unfortunately, Professor Flitwick hadn’t specified that he wanted to hear those lessons personally. Adrian’s roommates were about to become intimately acquainted with them.
The Slytherin sixth-year boys’ dormitory was a comfortable underground chamber with four beds, green hangings, dark wooden wardrobes, and narrow windows looking out into the depths of the Black Lake. Occasionally, a fish drifted past the glass, and on rare occasions something considerably larger passed by, casting a shadow across the room.
It was generally a peaceful place. Until Adrian plugged in his guitar. Marcus Flintley was lying on his bed reading Quidditch Weekly. Theodore Nott sat at his desk working on an essay, while Blaise Zabini was polishing his shoes with the concentration of a man performing delicate surgery. Adrian placed the amplifier on the floor, opened his instruction book, and sat on the edge of his bed.
“Right,” he announced. “I’m going to learn the guitar.”
Marcus looked up.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
“Naturally.”
Theodore glanced over his shoulder. “Do you actually know how to play?”
“Not yet. That’s why I’ve bought the book.”
Blaise examined the instrument. “Looks rather impressive.” Adrian smiled proudly. “Doesn’t it?” He connected the cable, switched on the amplifier, and adjusted the volume. A faint hum filled the room. Marcus lowered his magazine.
“What’s that noise?”
“The amplifier.”
“Is it supposed to do that?”
“Apparently.”
Adrian studied the first page of his book, positioned his fingers carefully, and strummed. BRRRAAAAAAANNNNGGGG. Marcus sat bolt upright. Theodore dropped his quill. Blaise’s polishing cloth fell from his hand. Adrian stared at the guitar.
“Well. That wasn’t quite right.”
Marcus slowly lowered his magazine.
“What the bloody hell was that?”
“An E chord.”
“That was an E chord?”
“An attempt at one.”
Theodore looked at the instrument with deep suspicion.
“Are you certain it’s not broken?”
Adrian consulted the book.
“No. I think my fingers were in the wrong places.”
He adjusted them. Then strummed again. BWAAAAAAARRRRNNNGGG. Blaise closed his eyes.
“Merlin preserve us.”
Twenty minutes later, Adrian had mastered precisely one thing. How to make an enormous amount of noise. The book assured him that the first few days would be difficult. It explained finger placement, chord shapes, strumming patterns, and the importance of practice. Adrian was determined to follow its instructions. His roommates were beginning to question whether literacy had been a worthwhile invention.
“Adrian,” Theodore said patiently, “could you perhaps practice without that amplifier?”
Adrian looked up.
“But then I won’t get the proper sound.”
“The proper sound,” Marcus observed, “appears to be a hippogriff being strangled.”
Adrian frowned.
“It’s not that bad.”
He strummed again. BRRRAAANG—TWAAAAANG—BRRNNNG. Blaise flinched.
“It is exactly that bad.”
Adrian sighed.
“Look, I’m learning. I’m not supposed to be good yet.”
“Wonderful,” Marcus said. “How long until you’re good?”
Adrian glanced at the cover.
“Thirty days, apparently.”
Marcus stared.
“Thirty?”
“That’s what it says.”
Theodore put down his quill.
“We’re going to die.”
By the end of the first hour, Adrian could play three chords. Not particularly well. Not particularly quickly. And certainly not in any recognizable sequence. But he could play them. He was immensely pleased with himself. His roommates were not. Marcus had retreated beneath his pillow. Theodore had attempted a Muffliato Charm around his desk, only to discover that the enchantment did very little against a badly played electric guitar amplified by Professor Flitwick’s experimental magical power source. Blaise had left the room.
He returned ten minutes later carrying a cup of tea.
“Still at it?”
“Making progress!”
Blaise looked at Marcus, whose pillow was now firmly pressed over his head.
“Clearly.”
Adrian adjusted his fingers and attempted to move from one chord to another. BRANG—BRANG—BWAAAAANG. Marcus threw off his pillow.
“ADRIAN!”
Adrian stopped.
“What?”
“FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN, STOP TORTURING US!”
Adrian looked wounded.
“I’m practising.”
“You’re committing crimes against music!”
Theodore nodded gravely.
“Several of them.”
Adrian sighed.
“You lot have no appreciation for artistic endeavour.”
Blaise sipped his tea.
“Artistic endeavour is supposed to produce art.”
“Eventually!”
“Then come back when it does.”
The next afternoon, Adrian tried again. He had spent the morning reading the book and practising finger positions without the amplifier. He was convinced that the previous day’s difficulties had been largely overcome. They hadn’t. Marcus entered the dormitory just as Adrian attempted his first proper chord progression. BRANG—BRANG—BRANG—BWOOOOOONG. Marcus stopped in the doorway. He stared. Then slowly turned around.
“Where are you going?” Adrian asked.
“To find somewhere quieter.”
“Like where?”
Marcus considered.
“The Forbidden Forest.”
Adrian laughed. Marcus didn’t. By the third day, Adrian had become a minor legend in Slytherin House. Not a particularly flattering legend. Students had begun referring to the sixth-year boys’ dormitory as The Chamber of Screams. Someone had pinned a notice to the common-room board: WARNING: SELWYN Practising. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK. Pansy Parkinson had suggested that the guitar might be cursed. Daphne Greengrass had asked whether the noise was some kind of new punishment devised by Professor Snape.
Even the Bloody Baron had passed through the dormitory wall during one particularly unfortunate practice session, stopped, regarded Adrian with an expression of profound disapproval, and continued through the opposite wall without a word. That had hurt. Adrian had rather hoped the ghost might appreciate the music. Georgina, naturally, was delighted by the whole affair.
“You’ve actually bought one?”
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