Two: Hallway Running
"Please stop that," Percy Weasley remarked crisply, as crisp as his white shirt. Any money that Percy saved up was spent carefully downtown Hogsmede buying either new books or nice shirts. He adored anything clean. Anything new.
He was never bored, but today his concentration was dwindling.
Gray clean socks, little perfect skirt—these were all things breaking his concentration. It was bad because she was a third year. It was bad because she was a rule-breaker.
It was bad because she was a Slytherin.
But green and silver was so much more even than gold and crimson. Gold and crimson together was garish, almost nasty. Percy hated the Gryffindor colours, although they were not half as bad as Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw was okay. But Slytherin was beautiful.
She popped her gum. "What?"
"Your-"
She cocked her head, smirking. Her black flapper-do swung. "Come out with it, Weasley."
"It's Prefect to you," was all he could get out.
"You're a sod," she told him.
He couldn't take his eyes off her pretty patent leather Mary Janes.
Percy had a secret. He desired mean girls. Bitches. Slags.
All the little snobs had such style and grace, and lovely makeup. Girls like Hermione were nice, but they didn't get him off quite like Slytherin's host of shrews with their heels and purses and bubblegum lip gloss.
"You going to write me up for that, Peter?" she asked.
His face fell. "My name is Percy!"
"You're going red."
"I'll have to talk to Professor Snape, Parkinson! I'll tell him!" the Prefect shouted furiously. She still didn't know his name? He wanted her to be punished for it, not by Severus, but by him.
Humiliated out of his mind, Prefect Percy went running down the hallway in the opposite direction.
Pansy stared.
