The Harlot Tales.
Sirius Black was known for his womanizing ways yet isn't it always the case that one that isn't interested in him that ends up with him in the end? What about the rest? The 'sluts', the 'whores', the 'groupies'. This is their story and maybe their not as bad as everyone makes out.
A/N: This is a collection of one-shots of all (or a few of) the different girls Sirius had been with throughout his Hogwarts years. I may expand on one of the people yet and make it a full blown story but I really like this idea. Thank you for reading, it is VERY much appreciated. -Hev.
Rosie Parks
Today had been the worst. Amos Diggory's cauldron had exploded during in 3rd period Potions and resulted in not only the shrapnel to fall into Rosie's potion and completely ruin it (meaning she'd have to use her free time to go back redo it for the marks) but also scorch off her left eyebrow and the majority of her eyelashes, then Peeves had dropped 'Zonko's Finest Dungbombs: The Stench worse than a Wench' on the Charms corridor which she was on, it was so bad someone legitimately vomited on her shoe, and finally she had missed lunch. There was only one word she could think of to describe today; bollocks.
You see Rosie wasn't the type to spend 4 hours on her appearance but the lack of eyebrow was rather devastating to her, so much so that she had to drag Edgar Bones into the girls bathroom ('You better flash me for this or my masculinity is straight down the drain, Parks' 'Oh Eddie, you'll never pull a lass like that') and fix it for her, along with her eyelashes too. Edgar then scurried out of the bathroom proclaiming that 'Quidditch magazines and a good old-fashioned wank' was needed to rid the shame and femininity of the situation. Rosie figured that although she was 5 minutes late to Care Of Magical Creatures and she was already failing that class, it was more than likely that she was failing the rest too, she might as well fix her makeup by adding some mascara to her newly reacquired lashes.
"Well, I never took Bones as a quickie in a cubicle type."
Rosie turned sharply as the smooth but arrogant voice echoed around the room, the sound of her mascara brush clattering in the sink lost to her ears. Colour flooded the girl's cheeks as she indignantly huffed and blew her black hair out of her face.
"Absolutely not!" she cried, appalled at the thought. Not only was it bad enough that Edgar was her friend and quite frankly, not her type in the slightest but the fact that this was Sirius Black that was making the accusations and the false word would probably be around school by dinner - if not by him, then by Greta Catchlove and her gang of bobble-head loonies that make up "Sirius' Slaves" (that Black was adamant they had dubbed themselves), his gang of groupies. This day was getting worse.
"Well if Bones isn't, then what about you?" he'd gotten close. She could feel his breath, hot against her ear, and Rosie doubted whether a cleansweep would fit between their bodies. And there was no denying it, Black was hot, like, I'd bake pumpkin pasties on you kind of hot.
There it was and oh, the irony, Black was the light of her day. So as his lips ghosted her neck and her hand found his hair - Slughorn didn't matter, Diggory didn't matter, Peeves didn't matter, nothing really did.
And I can tell you, on that Tuesday, Rosie Parks did not go to Care Of Magical Creatures.