Rumors
Rumors. . . . You either love them or you hate them. Rumors. . . . They can destroy a reputation or build it up, giving you – yes, you, with the red T-shirt – your fifteen minutes of fame. Nevertheless, you should never – I repeat . . . wait, let me come closer – never start rumors.
However, if your name is Michelle Black and/or Sevenne Lovegood, you need not adhere to the rules. For you, it's a whole other story. . . .
You see, these two young, bright – Gryffindor – students, absolutely love to prank people; you could even say they were the female versions of the Weasley twins. Just don't let them hear you say that or they will hurt you so badly to convince both you, and the whole of Hogwarts, that your name is Princess Ed – no, not Prince – from Merlin knows where and you're Voldemort's lover.
No, this is not an exaggeration. Anyway, back to the topic at hand . . . rumors were so important to these two lovely witches because they were such an integral piece in their pranks. And here, my friends, is a perfect example:
"Elle! Elle, guess what!" Looking up from her book, the aforementioned Elle smiled up at her best friend.
Without waiting for a response, the blond witch rushed into an explanation. "Ellie, I did it!" she exclaimed ecstatically, plopping down in between her friend and Harry, the latter who had decided to spend some quality time with his "favorite" sister.
Okay, so she was his only sister. And he considered this "quality time" to include lying on the grass and playing let's-find-shapes-in-the-clouds. At Sevenne's exclamation, however, he tore himself away from this riveting past-time, studying the two girls warily.
"Do I even want to know?" he asked. Elle, or Michelle – you know, the word "Elle" is part of MichELLE and . . . oh, forget it – merely shrugged.
"I don't know . . . do you?" she countered. A furrow appeared between Harry's eyebrows as he frowned thoughtfully before realization dawned.
"Hold on, is this about the Potions incident? What are you going to do?" he demanded fearfully. Harry had never been on the receiving end of his sister's wrath before; however, he had witnessed the demise of several others before him – his best friend, Ron, among them – to know that it was better to let Voldemort himself kill you than to let Michelle Black get to you.
Michelle didn't reply, only smirked like a madwoman, her eyes twinkling as much as Dumbledore's. Finally, when she could see Harry was only a few moments away from a full-blown panic attack, did she speak.
"Don't worry, Harry. It's nothing to do with you or your friends. My target is a certain Slytherin." She rubbed her hands together in a menacing way as her and Sevenne's eyes met over her brother's head.
Harry, however, was far from being reassured. Sure, he wasn't on the receiving end of a prank this time, but still . . . whenever Michelle got like this, it scared him. Even a slimy Slytherin didn't deserve this because, whatever it was, it was sure to be painful.
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Draco Malfoy was in a foul mood. Today just wasn't turning out to be his day. Granted, the night before had been great; he and Blaise had played Exploding Snap with some stupid little first years and he'd won a good amount of Galleons. But things had only gone downhill from there. . . .
First, when he had finally stumbled off to bed at one in the morning, he had only managed to get three hours of sleep due to Goyle's tremendous snores. There had to be a potion for something like that and, that morning, Draco had made a mental note to ask Professor Snape about it. However, that thought had been driven out of his mind when he got down to the table for breakfast and realized the house-elves had run out of his favorite biscuits! And, of course, it had been Goyle who'd polished the last one off while he had had to make do with a few, cold pieces of toast and some eggs.
By the time he had begun heading toward his first class of the day, Transfiguration, he was in quite a foul mood and barely paid attention as, upon pushing through a crowd of second-year Hufflepuffs, his bag split open, spilling quills, books, and parchment every which way and spilling a whole bottle over his freshly-written Potions essay on Amorentia. When he had finally managed to clean everything up, he had arrived to class ten minutes late and received a detention from McGonagall.
Damn Gryffindors, he cursed to himself and, by the time he began heading down the dungeons stairs for Potions, there was a permanent scowl etched on his pale face.
Not even his favorite class lightened his mood for, in his usual sneering tone, Snape assigned a Disappearing Draught, a complex potion for which he divided them up into groups. Draco was paired with Michelle while his best friend, Blaise, was partnered with Pansy Parkinson, to Draco's displeasure.
"So . . . do you want to get the ingredients, or shall I?" Michelle queried after a few moments of sullen silence from the Slytherin student. Draco answered with a shrug and a noncommittal grunt. As if his day hadn't been bad enough, now he had to be paired up with Potter's sister.
"Alright . . . I'll get it then," Michelle said haltingly, looking confusedly at the blond. "Could you start the fire, please?" Still unresponsive, Draco flicked his wand in the direction of the now-empty cauldron and waited for the Gryffindor witch's return.
Placing the bottles and decanters carefully on the table, Michelle began to read the instructions printed on the board in Snape's miniscule, slanted handwriting.
"Draco, can you read that third line for me?" she asked, squinting at the unfamiliar-looking letters. "I can't see what it says. Let simmer for seven minutes, then add three drops of. . . ."
The Slytherin merely grunted, refusing to answer.
"OK, I guess we'll deal with that part when we get to it, then. .. ." She trailed off uncertainly, reaching for the bottle of armadillo bile on her right.
"So, Draco?" she attempted once more, still concentrating on pouring the correct amount. "How was your day?" Her cheery question, however, seemed to have had the opposite effect. In response, Draco's face darkened.
"It was bloody fantastic, alright?" he snapped, looking murderous. Michelle couldn't help but flinch and, for the rest of the class period, they worked silently, Draco handling the ingredients only when absolutely necessary. They bottled their own sample just as Harry and Ron were finishing up on the table next-door.
Michelle turned to Draco, grinning. Maybe, now that they were done dealing with the choking fumes and ghastly ingredients, he would be more open. . . .
"So," she asked, "what do you want to test it out on?" She smiled brightly. Draco just stared at her. How could one little person be so . . . so happy? He bet she hadn't gotten three hours of sleep, or had her favorite food stolen from right under her nose, or . . . or gotten detention. Of course not, she was a bloody golden Gryffindor! He was infuriated.
Draco wasn't sure why he did what he did next. All he knew was, one moment the stoppered potion was in Michelle's hands, glinting brightly, the next, it was all over her clothes. Or rather, where her clothes had been. They had disappeared.
Shrieking, Michelle immediately tried to cover herself as the whole class – both Slytherins and Gryffindors – turned to look. Blushing fiercely, she was only able to stand there, dressed only in her undergarments as Snape swooped down on her.
"Michelle!" Sevenne gasped, running from her station to join her friend and throwing her own robes over the girl. "Are you okay?"
"F-fine," Michelle stuttered, wrapping the warm robes around herself. She hadn't realized how cold it was down here. . . .
"Miss Lovegood, take Miss Black to the hospital wing," Snape ordered. "Mister Malfoy, please stay after class."
Both girls nodded as Sevenne escorted her traumatized friend from the classroom. Draco, however, was barely paying attention as his classmates began lining up in front of the Potions Master's desk for their grades . . . as they rinsed their hands . . . as Snape – Snape, of all people – lectured him about "inappropriate conduct." All he was thinking about was Michelle in her green bra and underwear.
Yes, he thought, green is definitely my favorite color now.
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Finally, lunch time arrived. However, most of the students were not interested in their food. Of course, the "incident" between Draco and Michelle had spread like wildfire and a few first-years were still giggling over it. But, over all, the student body could care less. They had heard something much more . . . juicy.
Draco entered the Great Hall several minutes late flanked by his two bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle. He had made sure not to let them out of his sight; he didn't want anyone scarfing down his food anymore. He was a Malfoy and deserved certain respect. . . .
Oddly enough, it was a respect the student body seemed to have learned for, as soon as his first footsteps were heard, all the ruckus ceased. Hundreds of pairs of eyes followed him as he strode down the walkway between the Slytherin and Hufflepuff tables. It was, Draco had to admit, slightly creepy. Finally, he slid into his spot next to Pansy and, almost immediately, conversation began again.
"Hey," Draco leaned toward Pansy, intent on finding out what had just happened. To his surprise, the pug-faced girl who worshiped the very ground he walked on sent him a scornful look before sliding further down the table, toward her friend, Daphne Greengrass.
Raising a quizzical eyebrow, Draco made to lean across the table toward Blaise when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Impatiently, he turned to see a fifth-year Ravenclaw boy.
"And what do you want?" he sneered. The younger boy seemed unperturbed by his rudeness and merely handed him a piece of parchment. Barely glancing down at it, Draco saw that it contained several digits and a hastily-scribbled name.
"What's this?" he demanded.
"My phone number. I'm Muggleborn, you know," he hastened to explain, looking slightly nervous now, "I . . . I can give you my address, too, if you want to owl me."
"Why in Merlin's name would I need your address? Or your phone number?"
The boy blushed, giggling. Yes, he actually giggled. "So you can call me, if you get a little lonely over the summer. You know, if you catch my drift." Flashing the blond a wink, he sashayed off to his own table once more.
Draco had barely had a chance to register this odd encounter before Justin Finch-Fletchley sauntered up to him, planting himself firmly on the bench next to him.
"Look, Finch-Fletchley, I'm going to say this one time and one time only. Go a-"
"Don't speak," Justin cautioned, placing a long, manicured digit to Draco's lips and, before the stunned Slytherin could retort, had placed his lips there instead. His fingers reached to comb through Draco's hair and his tongue was . . . oh, Merlin!
In one fluid motion, Draco shot out of his seat, spitting like mad. What had Justin just eaten . . . tripe . . . steak-and-kidney pie? Ugh! He'd never get the taste out.
"What the bloody hell is your problem?!" he shouted, continuing to spit – directly on the boy if he could manage it. "Who do you think gave you the bloody right to stick your bloody tongue in my bloody mouth?" As one, the whole Hall turned to look at him. Draco froze.
Justin was white as a sheet, shaking as he dusted the dirt from his robes, standing up to face Draco.
"I – I thought."
"No, you know what? I don't care what you think! And I suggest you get out of my sight before I hex you into oblivion," Draco hissed in a low, dangerous voice. With a frightened squeak, Justin rushed back to his table as fast as his legs would carry him.
His face the very picture of incandescent rage, he turned back to his table, inwardly searching for someone to practice the Cruciatus Curse on . . . maybe even Avada Kedavra. . . . It would definitely take the edge off this horrible day. Goyle, maybe. . . ? He could do with a new bodyguard. . . .
Slap!
Out of nowhere, a hand reached out to smack his face. Clutching his injured cheek, Draco turned to see a hysterical-looking Pansy Parkinson.
"Ow! Pansy, what the hell?"
"How could you?" she shrieked, tears running down her face. "How could you, Draco? Wasn't I satisfying enough for you?" She lunged for him but Draco merely sidestepped. Sobbing, she buried her face in her hands, barely registering Daphne's embrace, her whispered words of comfort. . . .
"Satisfying. . . ? What . . . Pansy, you do know we've been over for two years now. . . ." Draco began uncertainly. Sniffling, Pansy extracted herself from Daphne's embrace, her face tear-stained.
"Yes, of course I do," she spat, "I'm just upset you couldn't t-tell me the t-truth. Why didn't you tell me you were g-gay?" She buried herself into her friend's robes once more.
Draco froze for a moment, staring first at Pansy and Daphne . . . then at Blaise, grinning uncertainly . . . then to Crabbe and Goyle, obviously not having understood a word that had gone on.
"YOU THINK I'M WHAT?!" he bellowed. It all made sense now – the Ravenclaw, Justin, all the whispering when he came in. Merlin, I'm stupid.
"Don't try to deny it!" Pansy continued. "We all should have known. It was so obvious . . . why didn't I see it sooner?" She appealed to Daphne but the other witch simply shook her head.
"But . . . I'm not gay!" he shouted. "Please, Pansy, you have to believe me. I'm not, I'm really not."
"Really?" Blaise retorted. "Then what's that whole hair obsession about?"
"What . . . what hair obsession? I do not have a hair obsession!"
"Yes, you do," Blaise countered. "You wake up an hour earlier than the rest of us to make sure your hair's 'just right.'"
"So I like to look good!"
"For who?"
"Ladies, you thickhead! Women! What, is it a crime to want to look attractive to the opposite sex now? I am not gay!"
"What about your wardrobe, then?" Theodore Nott asked. "You have all these expensive, fashionable robes."
"So I like to look good! So what? My parents can afford it so I have them. Besides, you have expensive clothes, too!" Draco pointed an accusatory finger at his friend, running a hand through his perfectly-primped hair in exasperation.
"Not all of them. And definitely not as many as you do," replied Theodore.
"He's right," a Gryffindor shouted, "and besides, that doesn't explain why you haven't been with a girl in over two years." Immediately, the murmurs increased tenfold. A few more guys were eying the Slytherin speculatively. Almost involuntarily, Draco reached for his wand.
"So? Just because I'm not dating right now doesn't mean that I'm gay! Blaise doesn't have a girlfriend, either!"
"And. . . ." A Ravenclaw had started to speak up; Draco groaned, burying his face in his hands. Would he be forced to explain his toothpaste choice now?
"Wait!" Hermione's voice stilled the entire room; it was funny, he'd never before realized how loud she could be. She was such a know-it-all . . . but right now, she was his savior.
"What is it, Granger?" he questioned wearily.
"It just occurred to me." Hermione glanced at her two best friends who were watching her curiously. "I mean, I never really thought about it before, but . . . is this why you bully Harry?" Harry's mouth dropped open, a silent scream while Ron nearly toppled off his chair. Draco, meanwhile, felt like he was about to puke; bile rose in his throat.
"Excuse me?" he repeated.
"Is this why you bully Harry? You know, opposites attract and all that. . . ."
"NO!"
"Well, that does explain the great amount of Humdingers around them whenever they fight," Luna stated.
"What's a Humdinger?" Ginny asked.
"Oh, they're little flying creatures that can detect attraction. And they absolutely flock around those two." Luna gestured first to Harry, then his rival, his arch nemesis, the man he wouldn't be attracted to in a million years – Draco Malfoy.
"Shut up, all of you!" Draco interjected. "And listen very, very closely. One, I do not like Potter. I will never like Potter. Ever. Are we clear on this? And two, I AM NOT GAY! And three, well . . . there isn't really a three, it's more of a question. Who the bloody hell told you I am?"
There were noncommittal mumblings throughout the room.
"I will curse each and every one of you until I find out who," Draco proclaimed. "You have three seconds. Three . . . two. . . ."
"It was Michelle and Sevenne," Susan Bones spoke up, looking nervous.
Glaring fiercely, Draco turned to look further down the Gryffindor table . . . to see both mischief-makers grinning madly, barely stifling their giggles. His eyes first met Michelle's hazel orbs and then Sevenne's blue ones . . . before they burst out laughing, echoing off the walls and enchanted ceiling of the Hall. Michelle had fallen on the floor between the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tables, rolling around, clutching a stitch in her side while Sevenne leaned on Ron's shoulders, tears of mirth spilling down her cheeks.
Growling, Draco stalked toward the couple, pointing his wand directly at them as he drew nearer. Who to curse first?
"Black, Lovegood, I had better get an explanation before I curse you, too," he gritted out.
There was no answer, except for the girls' continued hysterics.
"Black! Lovegood! Answer me!"
"It's . . . it's. . . ." Sevenne banged her fist on the table, still caught up in paroxysms of laughter. Cutting herself off, she took a moment to point at a smirking Michelle before putting her head on the table, succumbing to her giggles once more.
"Black," Draco hissed.
"Malfoy," she mocked, still hiccuping as she stood from her spot on the floor, eyes dancing merrily.
"Explain."
"Explain what, exactly, Draco? I just told them the truth. After all, they deserved it; I didn't want your poor fan girls to keep thinking you were straight and they just weren't good enough for you. Besides, cheer up, now you can get a whole other fan base of guys."
"You are such a saint!" cried Hannah Abbott, her eyes shining with tears of joy. Turning, she wrapped her friend, Susan Bones, in a hug.
"There's only one problem, though," Draco continued in that same low, dangerous tone he had used on Justin.
"And what's that, Draco, dearest?"
"Hmm. . . ." Draco replied, mock-thoughtfully. "Maybe that. . . I'M NOT GAY?!" Shaking her head sympathetically, Michelle came closer, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"Stop denying it. It's unbecoming." And then, in a voice only he could hear, "This is payback for Potions class." With a mischievous smirk, she stepped away from him, her sympathetic smile firmly back in place.
"Really, Malfoy, it's not that surprising. We all had guessed at it; we're just so glad you finally came out. It makes things so much easier," Sevenne interjected, having finally gotten control over herself.
"Dear Merlin, you people are stupid!" Draco cried. "I. Am. Not. Gay! Here, I'll even prove it to you." And, before anyone could utter one more syllable, he had thrown Michelle down onto the table, snogging the living daylights out of her.
"Mister Malfoy, Miss Black, you stop that infernal display this instant!" Professor McGonagall cried, rushing to break up the two students. Several of the other professors looked slightly amused while Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles.
The students themselves just watched for a moment, perfectly silent.
"I still think he's gay," Cho Chang stated. There were several murmurs of agreement.
Do you see now? Rumors are very important to these two girls; if someone messes with them, they always get to have their revenge.
Always. Oh . . . what's that? What happened to Michelle and Draco? Well, Michelle got her wish for revenge and, the next day, she and Sevenne received a bouquet of flowers from the Weasley twins for their brilliant prank.
Draco . . . well, he wasn't as happy. Not for awhile, anyway. A few guys still continued to ask him out, though none of them tried to stick their tongues down his throat – and he still hadn't gotten the taste out – and he would have hexed them if Michelle and/or Blaise hadn't intervened.
What's that? Where does Michelle come in? You see, after the prank, she and Draco started to go out. There were a few who thought it was to cover up his "real" relationship with Harry, which could make Michelle laugh hysterically for hours. Draco wasn't as amused and would immediately go out to hex whoever had started this new and ghastly rumor . . . after he had finished snogging Michelle, of course.
Yes, rumors can be troublesome things, so in the words of Dales Evans Roger:
"Happy trails to you, until we meet again."
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