Chapter Text
Rock Horizon.
It is the biggest music event on Earth. It doesn’t need ads because everyone already knows when it’s happening.
It only happens once every ten years, and it lasts for a whole year.
From May until the next April.
It isn't just a concert. It is a battlefield.
Only the best bands get an invite. These are groups that have already sold out stadiums and have fans who would follow them anywhere.
At Rock Horizon, legends come back to play, and new stars are tested. Careers are made or destroyed under the bright lights.
The rules are simple.
The Judgment.
Every performance is judged in public.
The Rankings.
After a band plays, their rank flashes on giant screens for everyone to see.
The Risk.
One perfect song can make you a superstar. One tiny mistake can make you lose everything.
The competition gets harder every month. It goes from the Top 50, to the Top 30, then the Top 15, the Top 10, and Top 5.
Until only one remains.
Winning Rock Horizon means you become a legend. Your music will be remembered forever. Losing means knowing you were almost the best, but not quite enough.
Bands practice for months. Friends may become enemies. And everyone is looking for that one spark of inspiration.
For the band High Key, this wasn't just a show. It was the only thing that mattered.
And for their leader, Tom Riddle, it was a throne he was ready to take. He didn't just want to play music, he wanted to win. He wanted everyone to know his name.
He was ready. His band was ready.
Watch as they try to conquer the world.
✧\(>o<)ﾉ✧
The camera swooped across a roaring arena. Thousands of fans stood shoulder to shoulder, their bodies vibrating with excitement.
Heat rose from the crowd in waves. Glowsticks carved neon streaks through the darkness, flashing to the beat.
High above, posters waved with two words in sharp, bold lettering: HIGH KEY.
The name rippled through the stands like a prayer, growing louder every second.
Suddenly, all the lights went out.
For half a heartbeat, there was total silence.
SLAM.
A single synth chord blasted through the speakers. It was sharp, electric, and violent. It rattled ribs and stole the breath from the lungs of everyone in the room.
The lights snapped back on, and the crowd exploded
Smoke curled along the stage floor, thick and theatrical, lit from beneath as the first figure stepped forward through it.
First to emerge.
Keyboardist.
Lucius Malfoy.
Tall and impossibly composed, silver blond hair pulled back with elegant precision, every line of him sharp and deliberate.
He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a gothic romance novel and into the stage.
His fingers slid across the keys with effortless precision, movements fluid and controlled, posture flawless, expression bored in the way only the truly gifted could afford.
Rumor said Lucius Malfoy had started playing before he could walk.
That he could sight read Tchaikovsky backward and transcribe it into three different keys just to prove a point.
Rumor also said he had once thrown an actual grand piano off a balcony because the tuning had offended him.
Both were true.
Obviously.
He flicked his wrist, silver hair catching the light, and the audience responded like a tidal wave, screams crashing forward, hands reaching, phones lifted high.
Lucius smirked.
Next.
Bassist.
Regulus Black.
The lights dimmed slightly, softening around him, as if the stage itself knew to tread carefully.
Dark curls framed a face that could only be described as dangerously beautiful.
Sharp cheekbones, pale skin, eyes that looked like they’d memorized every heartbreak song ever written and kept the best ones close.
He wore layered chains and tailored black fabric, rings glinting on his fingers every time they moved along the strings.
A fashion icon without trying. Every outfit intentional yet effortless.
An oversized coat slipping off one shoulder. Boots polished just enough.
Aesthetic balanced perfectly between sad poet and will absolutely ruin your life.
He plucked a single low note.
It vibrated through the floor, through bone, straight into the chest.
And somewhere in the crowd, someone fainted.
Next.
Drummer.
Barty Crouch Jr.
Barty burst into the spotlight like a wildfire, grinning wide, eyes alight with manic joy, hair wild and untamed as if electricity itself lived in his veins.
His drum kit was a beast of black and red, massive, double bass drums painted with a serpent sigil that gleamed under the lights like it might move.
He twirled his drumsticks at a speed that looked genuinely dangerous, flipping one behind his back before catching it without looking.
The crowd roared louder.
Barty lived for volume.
He lived for destruction.
And Merlin help the equipment budget of every concert hall they visited.
He slammed the sticks down, unleashing a thunderous roll that shook the stage and laughed, sharp and delighted, as if daring the world to break first.
Barty didn’t play the drums.
He attacked them.
And then...
Everything stilled.
Finally.
Lead Guitarist and Singer.
Tom Riddle.
Black boots planted firmly against the stage. Leather pants catching every shard of light. A guitar slung low on his hips like it belonged there.
Long dark hair fell past his neck, framing a face so devastatingly handsome it bordered on unfair. Sharp jaw. Dark, commanding eyes. The kind of presence that made entire stadiums forget how to breathe and willingly thank him for it.
Tom Riddle lifted his guitar.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
Only certainty.
When he strummed the first chord, the arena detonated.
Lights burst to life. Flames roared along the edges of the stage. Screens blazed with color and motion as sound crashed over the crowd in a wave too powerful to escape.
Fans screamed their names until it blurred into noise, into devotion, into something almost holy.
The sound was deafening.
The stadium erupted, bodies jumping, voices hoarse, hearts pounding in time with the music.
High Key had taken the stage.
Tom leaned into the mic, lips curling into the faintest smirk as his gaze swept over the crowd as if he could see every single face staring back at him.
The lights caught in his dark eyes, and for a heartbeat it felt like he was looking for something rather than performing.
Unaware that somewhere, in a quiet house far away, a moon shaped mark glowed a little brighter.
Click.
The screen went black.
The TV was turned off.
The roar of the arena vanished, replaced by the faint hum of the television dying and the soft ticking of a clock on the wall.
Harry Potter stared at the blank screen long after the music had been cut off, his reflection staring back at him.
“Time for practice, sweetheart.” Lily Potter said gently.
Harry startled, blinking. She stood nearby, the remote still in her hand, her expression soft but firm in that way that meant she wouldn’t be arguing about this.
Harry had no choice and nodded.
“Yeah. Okay.”
✧\(>o<)ﾉ✧