Written for Lamia's Rockstar AU with the scenario: "Popular rock star Gilderoy Lockhart believes no publicity is bad publicity and he becomes upset when a certain gossip columnist never writes any fake stories about him in her tabloid."
For the Hogwarts Scavenger Hunt with the spell: "Alohamora".
For the Shippers Dictionary Competition with the pairing: "Up the Creek"
Gilderoy threw down the newspaper in disgust. It had been three weeks, yet every day when he sat down on his plush, purple armchair and shook open his copy of the Daily Prophet - his favourite columnist had written nothing about him.
Because, let's be honest - Gilderoy was a star. He was a fabulous singer, and front-lined every week down at the Leaky Cauldron. Of course, his band were always behind him - but that's all they were. The band. The backing singers. Everyone secretly came down to see Gilderoy, there was no doubt about that.
Every Friday night when Gilderoy flounced to the front of the stage to perform, he would spot a flick of blonde curls, and Rita Skeeter would trot into the pub in her snakeskin shoes, the heels clip-clopping across the concrete floor. She always took a seat at the same table; a small, one-person seating area right at the back, out of way of the main lights. She ordered a drink, which was always something blue and green and fizzy in a tall, slim glass, with a paper umbrella sticking out of the top.
Her routine was always the same. She'd take a sip of her drink, then unclasp her handbag, retrieving an acid green quill and a yellowing notebook. While Gilderoy put on the most extreme and gaudy performance he could, the outspoken columnist would sit in this seat, her eyes gazing at him carefully behind her spectacles. Her red lips would be moving silently as she murmured to her Quick-Quotes Quill, which would hover in the air beside her notebook, scribbling madly. When the concert ended, Rita would already be out of the door in a flash of peroxide hair before Gilderoy could catch her.
Oh, how Gilderoy longed to see what notes she made on him. He loved seeing the slander she scribed in her column every day, throwing shade at people such as the ever-popular Golden Trio, the route that the Malfoys were heading down since the end of the war. The terrible old gossip even threw in the odd snide remark about the late Albus Dumbledore, seeing as her biography on him had gone down so well. But there was never even a snippet of a comment about Gilderoy, yet she still turned up to his concert every week.
He was always filled with hope when his owl soared through the window clutching the newspaper, even though it was always bitterly disappointing. When Gilderoy explained his distress to one of his band members, he asked him why he cared so much - after all, nothing Rita ever wrote seemed to be true, and it was just bad publicity.
"Ah my friend, but it is still publicity. After all, no publicity is bad publicity, that's my motto."
After three weeks had passed, Gilderoy was so filled with anger about the lack of mention in Rita's column, and he saw no other way to deal with it than to deal with it head on. So he apparated to Rita's house in London.
oOo
He was glad to discover that there was no light streaming through the windows of Rita's townhouse, and it seemed empty. Gilderoy stuck his hand into his periwinkle blue robes and withdrew his wand, which he aimed at the lock with an necessary flourish. "Alohamora," he whispered, and he heard the lock click.
Carefully, he pushed the door open and edged inside. Luckily, the large windows let in enough natural light for him to not need to light a candle or cast a Lumos spell.
All he desperately wanted was to see that notebook. Gilderoy was quite certain that if Rita wasn't in the house, there was little chance of that mysterious little book being around too, but he was willing to give it a shot.
So he wandered through the house, tip-toeing through empty rooms and rummaging through various pieces of strewn around, wasted parchment, until he came to what he assumed was her bedroom. It was the only room decorated more lovingly than the rest, furnished top-to-toe in a deep, dark pink. Her bed was a large heart shape, with heart shaped red cushions scattered across the magenta spread. Much to his delight, on a desk in front of the bedroom window, laid Rita Skeeter's Quick Quotes Quill - and a small, yellowing notebook.
Gideroy dived across the bedroom to the desk instantly, and reached out for the notebook. He noticed that there was a bug - a small, black beetle - sitting on the blank page that was open. He swatted it away and snatched up the notebook gleefully, and began flipping through the pages, scanning the scribbles for his name.
Before he could get very far however, there was a crash and a sequence of blinding red sparks. The notebook soared out of his hand, and he found himself flying backwards, crashing onto the heart-shaped bed. In front of him, looking very angry and surprisingly somewhat naked, was Rita.
She was standing in her underwear and her red-rimmed spectacles, with her hands on her hips, glaring down at him ominously. "Just what do you think you're doing sneaking around my house?" she demanded to know.
Gilderoy felt a flush rising to his cheeks, but he swallowed it down, choosing instead to regain his composure quickly. He stretched out into a more attractive position, and offered her his dazzling, award-winning smile. "There really isn't much to say - I've seen you at my concerts, you've seen me - and I want to know what you've been writing about."
Rita's mouth twisted into a smirk. "That's none of your business," she replied. There was a mischievous glint in her eye.
"Well it should be!" Gilderoy exclaimed. "Whatever you write about me should be going straight to the front page! I demand to know-" He was cut off as Rita started crawling across the bed to him, in an alluring, cat-like style. Gilderoy furrowed his eyebrows, backing up slightly as she came face-to-face with him.
"Why don't I show you why I've been visiting your little...concert...every week, Mr Lockhart?"
oOo
Less than twenty minutes later, Gilderoy was sat up, naked, in Rita's bed - a place and position he'd never expected to find himself. Rita was leaning against him, still wearing her spectacles, but he didn't mind.
"So you really never wrote anything about me," Gilderoy asked. "You just made it look it?"
"Quite sharp, aren't you, Lockhart?" she sniggered.
"I must confess myself slightly disappointed," he replied, earning himself a jab in the ribs from Rita. "Well, I had hoped to find myself at the centre of your gloriously scandalous column one of those weeks."
The smirk returned to Rita's features as she raised her hand towards the desk, and made a beckoning motion. The quill and the notebook soared over into her hand, and she smoothed out the blank page, and licked the edge of the Quick Quotes Quill, before throwing it into the air, where it hovered. "Well, my dear Gilderoy…" she nodded at her quill, and it poised itself steadily in front of the notebook. "When you wandered uninvited into my house today, you weren't expecting to find yourself in such a scandalously vulnerable position now, did you? Yet here you are, in bed, with a famous reporter such as myself?"
The quill was scribbling madly. Gilderoy looked from it's acid-green feather, back to the glinting eyes of the woman he had just unexpectedly bedded. Finally, his moment had come.
He was going to make the front page.