March: No, I Will Not Be Your Sexcretary!
Day Forty-Four of Free Independence
Monday, March 1st
At Breakfast
6:33 AM
6:33 a.m. – Hmmm… feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Spent whole of weekend in bed reliving date… Did not even make the effort to move.
"I had a really good date with Michael on Friday," I say dreamily, as Jacques looks at me as if my hair has just turned green and is growing tentacles.
"Really?"
"Really," I reply, thinking of it… Michael is so much better than Fernando. I mean, Fernando was gorgeous and all, but he was a total sleaze. I really should have guessed the first time that I saw him and Claudette chatting it up at the Annual Beauxbatons Winter Formal that he was a total man-slut. But I kept going out with him because he was gorgeous and charming and because it pissed Renée off—Fernando was way more gorgeous than Franz.
6:40 a.m. – Jacques has just asked me the single oddest question. I was just thinking about the way Michael said "hey" on Friday when Jacques just says, out of the blue, "Did you make out with him?"
What the hell kind of question is that, is what I want to know. So that's exactly what I said. "What the hell kind of question is that?"
Jacques looked uncomfortable, you know, as I was boring little holes in him with my eyes, so it took him a while to respond before I shut off my lasers. "I don't know—did you guys, you know… I just wanted to be sure of his—"
"His intentions, I know," I finished for him. Jacques can be so predictable; sweet and wonderful and endlessly helpful, yes, but altogether too predictable.
"What? It can't hurt for at least one of us to be sure what you're getting into," sputtered Jacques. This is what sucks about having a best friend who is this clever and talented: he is always being practical. I mean, sure, practical counts for something when the evil super-villain has you tied up in his lair up against your chairs, which are bolted to the ground, and there is nothing within a 30 foot radius of the both of you, and all you have is some chewing gum and lighter fluid. But when all you want to do is think about your date without any hassle, then practical means diddly-squat and is just plain annoying.
"What does what I'm getting myself into with Michael have to do with what we did last night?" The answer, by the way, is yes—yes, yes, yes, yes, yes—I did get kissed by the fantastic Michael Turner, seriously high-level making out, and it was (as would be expected) fantastic and romantic and sweet.
"It has everything to do with it—how else am I supposed to know his intentions?" said Jacques tensely. I swear, Jacques needs some serious acupuncture—my friend Janine from 6th year was all tense and uptight right before exams, but then she went to Switzerland for, like, a week and got acupuncture from this freaky Chinese guy and then, for exams, she was so calm and collected that she passed every single one with honors.
"Well, the answer is yes," I said happily. You could just tell Jacques was going to have some kind of hoity-toity "practical" reason why what I had just told him was absolutely wrong. Jacques had that furious animal that's been kept up in his pen too long look and he was just looking at me like I'd told him I was going to give up my education, screw English, and become a stripper.
Jacques' eyes bulge. "ON THE FIRST DATE?" I really felt like asking Jacques if he needed a megaphone or if he thought he'd said it loud enough.
"Trust me," I said, buttering my toast (even though the toast wasn't whole wheat and butter is like a load of pure fat), "he was a perfect gentleman about it."
"And you let him?" asked Jacques irritably, as if, once again, he was trying to talk me out of throwing away my education and becoming a stripper. It's not as if he pounced on me, and I responded with All righty then, force your tongue on me. "You just let him kiss you—not just kiss, make out with you—on the first date?"
Okay—the truth is: not even my father acts like this. It's rather obvious that my mother never acted like this, because she never cared who I was dating and why. My father was always just like, "Have a nice time honey, don't get back too late," on my way out the door. Nobody ever gets this frigid over my love life except Jacques right now. Seriously: nobody gives a crap.
"It's not like we were doing under the table," I said, disregarding the look of utter disgust on Jacques's face. I am beginning to think that Jacques has a very low opinion of me. Maybe he wouldn't be surprised if I told him I was going to throw away my education and become a stripper. "I told you already," I said, wondering if I could perform an exorcism on Jacques and make him a believer, "Michael was a perfect gentleman the entire time."
"How could he have been a gentleman and still have the audacity to try to make out with you on the first date?" asked Jacques, completely befuddled, like Einstein's theory of relativity had just been disproved or something. Ridiculous. Was not even real "first" date, as we already mostly know each other, and have been talking forever, so obviously purpose of date was not further talking—ridiculous. Also, as if Jacques thinks we have not kissed before, though obviously didn't tell him about Mr. Turner's Office situation.
"Well, you'd know if I told you about my date, but I'm not going to tell you about my date, so I guess you'll never know," I said, picking up my things and getting ready to leave. Jacques is going to drive himself absolutely batty about this one—I can already tell.
9:30 a.m. – Even if I'm not disclosing the intimate details of my date with Michael to Jacques, I might as well write them down so I can relive them over and over and over again at will.
My Date with Michael Turner: Episode One
After I left Renée, sitting in my room, reading my copy of HP, Royally Flushed (still wearing the "Screw-Me Shoes" mind you), I slipped out into Hogsmeade. It was actually really nice outside—I mean, it was sort of cold, but not freezing cold, and everything was really still and quiet and dark and it was just the moon up in the sky, practically no stars, and it was kind of windy, but not too windy—it was just perfect, you know, because on the intersection of Vesta and Orion, where Michael had told me to wait for him, it was completely silent, which had me kind of wondering for a second whether or not some serial killer would come out and slit my throat, but whatever.
So, I was waiting on the intersection of Vesta and Orion, when suddenly this figure just appears, walking straight down the road, without any fear of brooms crashing into him and crushing his bones or whatever, and walks up to me, and was just like: "Are you ready?" Of course, this fantastic figure in black was Michael, looking sexy and dashing as ever in a really "Bond, James Bond" kind of way.
Really, what I will never understand is why Hogsmeade was so quiet and still—it was only eight o'clock, but it seemed like it was midnight the way all the street lights were on but nobody was around. But, anyway, when Michael asked me if I was ready, I was just breath-taken, so I just wordlessly followed him as he led me into this bar. And this was just too odd to be coincidence: the bar was completely empty too. So I looked over at Michael to get his reaction and he was just smiling sweetly at me in this adorable, romantic way. I know it may have killed the moment, but for, like, a split second, I seriously thought was what I was thinking before was right: maybe Michael was an evil serial killer and he was going to hold me hostage and lure Harry out here, saying that if he didn't come I'd die, and then he was going to kill Harry and help Lord V return to power or something.
But then the violins started up. And then the piano. And then Michael led me through this door and there was a string quartet and a concert pianist sitting on a stage in the front of this absolutely gorgeous room that was completely covered in rose petals and swathed in white. I wanted to throw my arms around this Michael Turner and snog him until he could no longer retain the capacity to speak, but I restrained myself.
"Do you like it?" he whispered, and seriously: at that very moment I really, really couldn't think of any words to say, at least any words that made a modicum of sense.
After I regained the power of speech, I just turned to him and said, "Such a stupid question—any idiot could tell that this is probably the best thing that's ever happened to me." And I suppose that was his cue to lean over and kiss me. YAY!
So, after the epic kiss of the century, he took out his wand and swished it around (this sounds really odd, but I meant the magical instrument—oh damn, that sounds odd too—but you know what I mean) and then flowers just started sprouting, and then this dinner table appeared with approx. fifty-billion courses on it. I stared blankly like a dumb animal, and he had to lead me over and pull out my chair and everything.
Why is Michael so damn thoughtful? I mean: most other boyfriends would drag me down to a pub and not even pay for my drink. I know, he did drag me down to a pub, but it wasn't really a pub, it was a romantic site that was posing as a pub. Why is he so wonderful? Digress.
Okay, not only were there really, freakishly expensive-looking napkins and glasses and centerpieces, there was caviar and escargot. I was just like: "YAY, I can get my French-ness on!" There was bouillabaisse galore and all sorts of other soups and filet mignon, and I took a deep breath and thought: "Fleur, prepare to fall off the Abs Diet." There was not a raspberry, instant oatmeal, or extra-strength whey powder in sight.
"Did you do all this, or did you fly someone in to cater this or something?" I asked, kind of gaping. I have never seen so much food in my entire life—I mean, when there are only two people who are prepared to eat it. I was beginning to think that we should invite the string quartet and the pianist to come eat with us, which was selfishness working, because I didn't want to fall that far off the Abs Diet.
"Yeah, actually, I kind of just checked out some recipes and conjured a bunch of stuff up and hired the musicians," he said, pointing to Mr. String Quartet and Mr. Piano-man.
I mean, that is just ridiculously hot. MY BOYFRIEND DID ALL OF IT. Sure, it's not as if he slaved away over a hot oven cooking all of this crap, but he did spend a bunch of time conjuring it up and decorating and with the flowers and the whole illusion of "Oh, honey, I just thought this sleazy pub would be nice for our first date" which he had running for a bit. Will not tell him about serial killer suspicions.
I looked at the musicians he was pointing to. "So, what exactly do they play?"
Michael smiled (fantastic, fantastic, fantastic) and made some incomprehensible signal at them, and then Mr. Older-Than-Flitwick Violinist started playing Usher's "Caught Up." I was just like: OH MY EFF, I am watching a mini-orchestra play Usher. Did I mention that Michael was looking sexy in a tuxedo? That has nothing to do with anything, but I just like saying that.
So then, we started talking, as the mini-orchestra switched up to Destiny's Child "Lose My Breath," which was drastically appropriate considering I had totally forgotten how to breathe and was thinking, "Damnation Fleur—we should have worn an effing dress."
And you know: the conversation was great. It was crazy because I was thinking that it would be all awkward, but it was easy to talk to him. And we talked about everything, (as we were eating our fantastic dinners and listening to the MO play "Disco Inferno") from Defense Against the Dark Arts theory to music to America to Alfie, the giant squid. (That last topic made me want to segue into Jude Law, but I resisted, since Michael is hotter than Jude Law ever was.) I think I might actually have a nice boyfriend—
For once!
10:12 a.m. – I am beginning to wonder what Jacques and Renée do all day while I'm sitting through my classes. I am not sure I want to know, since they probably get up to all sorts of mischief. As a matter of fact, Jacques and Renée could be having an illicit affair and I wouldn't know because I'm sitting through classes all day long.
I hope Jacques and Renée aren't having an affair, because that would scar me for life. Then again, it is very probable, because Renée is always alluding to me having a secret affair with Jacques, which might just be her way of letting out her passion for my best friend. It's just the kind of thing that is discussed in my newest book, "Am I Fat?": The Psychology of Today's Women.
11:30 a.m. – I am, as always, reading during Care of Magical Creatures. "Am I Fat?": The Psychology of Today's Women is a surprisingly insightful book which is enabling me to understand my motivations as well as the motivations of others to do what they do. With luck, I'll be able to understand Renée. And my mother, for that matter. When is Jacques going to tell me the solution to all of my problems?
12 NOON – All right, Jacques has just told me the solution to all of my problems. I think it was pretty stupid of me not to realize this solution, because it's pretty elementary: I must go visit my mother. Now, no duh, right? Jacques believes I should wait a bit for my mother to exhaust this "new phase-ness" in her life before I charge in there and say, "Mother, this isn't you—be YOU," which he supposes should take about a month. So in April, I am going to have to charge off and spend time with my family.
5:05 p.m. – You're effing kidding me! I've gained back a pound. I've got to stop eating so much. Wait, no—I should eat more.
WHY DOES THE ABS DIET CONFLICT SO MUCH WITH TRADITIONAL DIETING METHODS?
6:45 p.m. –
AAC
Name: Fleur Delacour
Height: five foot seven and a recently acquired ¾! I am gaining height at an alarming rate ever since I incorporated calcium and protein into my diet.
Weight: 126! Damnation—I bob up and down like some sort of freakish buoy.
Hair: Blonde
Eyes: Blue.
Lust Situation: I am too in love with Michael to lust after anyone else. Hm… I lurve him.
Cyber-boyfriend: Were you just not paying any attention at all when I discussed how freakishly wonderful Michael is? God, what is the point of my pouring out my heart when you don't pay any attention? MICHAEL IS THE BEST.
Favorite Class SF: Charms and that may never change.
Least SF: Potions, because Snape has been taking Sleaze lessons and has moved up to level 3 sleaziness. Soon he will be teaching the class himself.
Pilates Minutes: 17
Orlie-thinking Minutes: 40
Jude-thinking Minutes: 28
HP-thinking Minutes: 10
HG glares: 1
Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 302
Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 2 to 9.
Overall Day: I'm in a euphoric state because of my lovely date last night, so absolutely nothing can go wrong.
Day Forty-Five of Free Independence
Monday, March 2nd
In Potions
7:43 AM
7:43 a.m. – This is very odd. Dumbledore has requested my presence in his office. OH, GOD. This is like Lupin, isn't it? Didn't he say that teacher-teacher relationships, while not prohibited, were frowned upon? Oh damn, someone has told him about me and Michael.
I should just start crying and apologizing.
8:35 a.m. – I didn't even get to start crying and apologizing before Dumbledore got right down to the reason he had called me into his office. "Ms. Delacour, you have been at this school for, oh… a month and a half, is that correct?"
I just nodded, wondering when the appropriate time to start crying and apologizing would be now that he'd gotten his little intro-to-why-we're-here started.
"Well, then, I should say that I have given you more than ample time to decide which class it is that you wish to co-teach, don't you think?"
I nodded my head and swallowed hard. I suck at everything. My idea of being an assistant teacher was running around fetching cauldrons when the actual teacher was too lazy. Teaching? That's just asking way too much from a girl who doesn't pay attention during class and has no real academic skills. The only thing I was remotely good at in school was Charms. But you know, Flitwick is nice enough—I could choose his class.
"I would like for you to choose a class by the end of the day," said Dumbledore amiably. "Lemon drop?"
"No thank you," I said uncomfortably, after which I promptly dashed out of the room to go hover in my own room, skiving off all my classes of the day, thinking about what on earth I'm supposed to do. Which is what I'm doing now, of course.
9:05 a.m.
Different Classes and Their Pros and Cons
By F. Delacour
Arithmancy:
Pro – Saying, "Oh yes, Mother, I've gotten a job teaching Arithmancy," carries a bunch of weight. Nobody actually knows what Arithmancy is, but they're always pretending they do, so they're not going to go asking you questions about it for fear of being exposed as a fraud. However, they'll be very impressed when realize that you actually understand it.
Con – I have no idea what Arithmancy is, even though I've been sitting in on classes. I always use Arithmancy to read my self-help books, because I know that even if I listened, I wouldn't understand. Jacques did Arithmancy in school and tried to explain it to me once, and I had a headache for two days—that's how I know it's over my head.
Care of Magical Creatures:
Pro – I actually know something about COMC. I know what the uses of the animals are and what they do and how they act and such (well, most of the time).
Con – I am always either skipping out on Care of Magical Creatures or reading one of the trashy books from the Athena O'Hereagall Romantic Book Club during it. Also, the gamekeeper does not like me that much.
Charms:
Pro – Professor Flitwick is nice and I actually have some Charms aptitude. For the most part, I do pay attention in this class. I make extraordinary effort to pay attention in his class—and have even improved my fire-setting skills—hence poor Underwear Boy from my conversation with Renée.
Con – Well, Michael doesn't teach that class. Other than that, I cannot think of anything wrong with this class at all.
Defense Against the Dark Arts:
Pro – Michael teaches this class and I get to see him looking really sexy all the time, pacing around the class in his abnormally sexy pants, giving lectures. Also, this is Harry's best class, and he looks abnormally sexy in this class too, all knowledgeable and concentrating.
Con – Michael expects me to pay a ridiculous amount of attention in this class, I am sure. For example, he might feel slighted if I decided to read "Seduction in Soho" during his class or something. He will need constant validation for his sexiness. Besides, I will always feel as if he is noticing me checking out Harry while he's talking about Unforgivable Curses. And then sometimes I zone out and think about, I don't know, the two of them doing random battle, and I don't think he realizes that I am thinking about how hot he is and may think that I am just not paying attention because I don't care, and I DO.
Divination:
Pro – There are no pros at all to this class, the most pointless class ever. Wait: I am for the most part always able to ignore everything Professor Treloony says and do other things, like make lists.
Con – Professor Trelawney is an evil hag who is wicked to me and pebbled me. She makes me stop making lists to do mundane tasks, such as picking up teacups filled with tealeaves. She is constantly predicting my death and I know she is an evil fraud. Harry is not even in her class, so I would fully like to see the point.
History of Magic:
Pro – Professor Binns never asks me to do anything, probably doesn't notice that I am alive, so I can always sleep or read during his class. Actually, I read and sleep during a surprising amount of my classes.
Con – I always fall asleep in this class, even against my will, and then Draco comes over and whispers obscenities in my ear. So much worse than "Sexcretary." Also, there is always the chance of a repeat of the Neville incident, and I might unwittingly fall asleep on some other student. And, though he is sexy beyond belief, I don't believe I could bear falling asleep on Harry. (Is my lust for him back on? I do believe it turned off after Jacques and my mother got involved in my life again, but is it now back on?)
Potions:
Pro – None. None. None.
Con – Snape is a disgusting sleazebag who is only interested in getting out his years of pent-up sexual frustration by, unlike normal sleazebags who would just watch porno on the internet, hitting on me constantly. He is constantly unfair to Harry and treating him like crap and demeaning him, when, in actuality, he is a pretty okay Potions student. Because he favors the Slytherins so, Draco has a ridiculous amount of confidence in this particular class and finds it totally okay to hit on me just as much as Snape does.
Transfiguration:
Pro – At least McGonagall is a fair teacher and is kind to Harry.
Con – She notices when I'm reading smut during her class, so I can never get away with doing anything but paying rapt attention. However, if I'm her assistant and I mess up, she will yell at me and then I will probably cry.
12:15 p.m. – Have just recounted the entire list of Different Classes and Their Pros and Cons to Jacques, and he says that I should go with Flitwick since I have some expertise in that area and because the teacher is nice. "I would have thought you would have DADA as your first choice, since you're seeing the teacher and all," he said. He does not understand about my entire dilemma with Michael and Harry because I left out that part. It's not as if Jacques wouldn't laugh uproariously at my unrequited lust for Harry Potter. As he was saying this, Harry was coming in from Quidditch practice. Harry never looks better than when he's just come in from Quidditch practice.
Jacques was talking about the advantages of Charms and his confusion as to why I didn't make a greater effort to display the pros of Defense when he realized I wasn't listening. So he just turned around, saw Harry, and snapped his head back around. "Oh… I see. Is that the problem with DADA? God, Fleur, if you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen."
"But if I leave the kitchen, that doesn't change the fact that there's something cooking," I said absentmindedly, staring at Harry as he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. Shag me. You know, on Harry, sweat does not look like something gross your body does to keep you cool—it looks like something fantastic your body does to make you look even more fantastic. I'm sure this only applies to males, because when I sweat, it's sort of nasty.
"Fleur," Jacques said decidedly, "all you think about is sex."
Head swivel, instantly offended. "That is not true! How could you possibly insinuate that all I think about is sex? I think about tons of other things!"
"Oh, come on, Fleur—your mind is like one of those smutty books you're always reading—everything revolves around sex," Jacques said firmly.
Counterpoint! "How can my world revolve around sex if I haven't even had it yet?" I exclaimed triumphantly, absolutely infuriated and probably talking too loudly. Grrr, the nerve of Jacques, thinking that all I think about is sex. He'll see.
"Well, you spend hours on end obsessing about your boyfriend, which basically amounts to: sex. You spend hours upon hours obsessing over movie stars, and that basically amounts to: sex. The selection of your classes is being delayed because of one little issue: sex. Every single book you read is about one thing: sex. You've even said—the guys you date are assholes, but you keep seeing them for one reason: sex. Your entire life is sex."
I was ready to beat Jacques with a stick by this point in time. "Jacques, how can the reason that I date the guys I date be about sex, if I never have sex with them?"
"You're all about sexual attraction, Fleur," said Jacques loudly. I was beginning to feel as that if I tried to beat Jacques with a stick, he'd find a tree and shove me into it.
"Well, Jacques, it's not like you're this perfect little celibate angel—if you think all I think about is sex, then you're being a huge, huge hypocrite," I retorted.
Jacques shook his head at me. "Look, I think about substance too—which is more than I can say for you most of the time. You don't even know Harry Potter, and you barely know Michael."
"That is outside of enough, Jacques! If you think you can claim that you think about substance, I have one freaking word for you: GRETCHEN. You can take your hypocrisy and your lectures and your theory and shove them right up your—"
"Hey, Ms. Delacour, could you pass the salt," some pointless Third Year yelled at me.
"GET IT YOURSELF, SHRIMP," I yelled, and promptly stormed out of the Great Hall, leaving Jacques with his mouth wide open behind me.
3:07 p.m. – I have no fuh-reaking clue what is the matter with Jacques lately. It's like he's been possessed by this argumentative demon. He's not even right about the fact that I "only think about sex." Is he?
3:12 p.m. – Have spent last 5 minutes going through journal using excruciating analyzing skills worthy of Sherlock Homes and Doctor Watson.
Numbers:
Variations on the word "sex": 67
Variations on the word "lust": 41
Variations on the world "hot": 59
"Harry": 68
"Michael": 221
"Boyfriend": 53
Overall Number of Words Implying Sex Obsession: 509.
Oh my God. Jacques was right. I am obsessed with sex.
5:45 p.m. – Walked somberly into Great Hall for dinner, head hung with shame. "Jacques," I said solemnly, "you're right. I am sex-obsessed. I am a planet and sex is the sun—my entire life revolves around it. I am shallow and superficial and now, Jacques, I am repentant. Forgive me, for wasting your time talking incessantly about sex, even though I didn't realize I was doing it."
Jacques looked at me as if he had just seen me rise from the dead, which might as well be true, as I have transcended my sex-obsessed half-life. "What?"
"And I have decided, just to prove to you that I am leaving this sex obsession behind, I am not, as you may have previously suspected, going to choose Defense Against the Dark Arts as a means to selfishly fulfill my hedonistic desires, but instead have decided to do Potions, as a testament to how much I have changed," I said in a very business-like manner.
Jacques choked on his sandwich and then said what I believe to be a few Japanese curse words before talking to me. "What, and subject yourself to sexual harassment day in and day out? I can't let you do that!"
"No, Jacques, I have already made up my mind—I must do Potions, not only to prove that I am not sex-obsessed, but as a means to reach the top of the Jungian Tree of Self-Actualization! I must be all I can be, and in order to self-actualize, I must face adversity and better myself through that course."
"I don't give a damn—I believe you—you're not sex-obsessed, whatever. Do not choose Potions," said Jacques almost as firmly as he had said that all I thought about was sex. "Your betterment through the adversity of sexual oppression—that's masochism, that's Faust selling his soul to the devil for the chance to experience life with superhuman knowledge and power! Forget experiencing life with the superhuman knowledge and power that comes from not being obsessed with sex—do not go and work with THE DEVIL."
"Jacques, it doesn't matter—I've already told Dumbledore," I confess, to which Jacques says something that sounds like a mixture of "cuso," "benjo," and the F-word.
"Well, I'm sure Dumbledore will let you switch courses if you file a sexual harassment suit. But if you are forced to endure sexual subjugation by one of those disgusting Slytherins and you want me to contact the Ministry or dismember someone or something, you just tell me, okay?"
"Jacques," I said, smiling faintly, "I'm pretty sure the Slytherins won't force me to endure sexual subjugation, but if they do, I'll either set them on fire or call you, okay?" It's funny how Jacques switches between being a total jackass and a concerned sweetheart. "You're the best, you know that?" And I bent down and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
Damn, I'm hungry. I barely ate any dinner.
Day Forty-Six of Free Independence
Monday, March 3rd
In Potions
8:26 AM
8:26 a.m. – I don't think I ever really realized that being the Potions assistant meant that I would have to stay in the Potions Classroom for an inordinate amount of time and have Potions period after period after period. God, it's like these students have nothing better to do than sit in Potions and mix bad smelling things. You don't want to know how many students have dropped their green goop on my shoes and let it sit there long enough for me to tell that no, this isn't Draught of Peace, this is Draught of BURN A FRICKING HOLE IN FLEUR'S FRICKING SHOES.
Good God, I may die of having to go around checking to make sure that the potions are actually correct, knowing that none of them are because all of them are bright green when they should be light pink. Nobody in any of these frickafracking classes has any idea how to properly mix Draught of Peace, which any idiot knows how to do, especially me, because how the heck else do you think I got through les breakups avec Fernando, Aaron, Zachary, Ivan, Neal, and Lex? GOD! How hard is it not to put the frog's leg in the potion until the very last FRICKING step, YOU FRICKING IDIOTS?
Breathe, Fleur, Breathe. Think of something pleasant, like the ending of "Ever After," or something.
9:00 a.m. – I am still in Potions. I'm not leaving the dungeons until Lunch. GOD, Snape has time to have his dirty way with me during transition, if he wanted to! Jacques was right and I didn't listen—I am so not made for Potions. Charms was calling, which I instead ignored in favor of a class whose teacher Jacques compared to Mephistopheles from Faust.
OH, HELL. They're leaving. Once all the students leave, I will be alone in this dungeon with Snape. This is always the part in my smutty books where the heroine finds herself backed up against the wall by her wealthy but wicked employer/benefactor/sick stepfather, who then tells her that either she submits or he kills her family/yanks his money out of her family's farm/gets her disowned. God, I hope Snape doesn't kill my family. I hate Renée, but she's my sister and I love her, you know?
9:30 a.m. – Thank God, all he did was tell me that I ought to wear my hair up more often, presumably to avoid any hideous accidents which leave me bald, though he gave no actual spoken reason for this preference, merely a head-to-toe review of The Current State of Fleur. Before this class, at breakfast, Jacques asked me to tell him every off-topic thing Snape said to me, and I suppose I shall have to report that to him too. God, I hope Snape doesn't give Jacques cause to contact the Ministry or kill him or something. Because Jacques would totally kill him. When Fernando cheated on me, the next day at Pretty Sticks, Jacques broke his nose. It was sort of unfortunate, because Fernando had a very nice nose, but he was a wicked scumbag anyway.
11:30 a.m. – Harry's class is filing in now. Oh wicked, wicked Fate, why do you toy with me so, testing me to see if my heart is true? I've already pledged to give up my life of hedonism—please give me at least a mini-break.
12:05 p.m. – I swear to God, I want Draco Malfoy to die. I hope Jacques breaks his perfectly shaped nose and then snaps his fingers one by one and then strangles him to death. Slowly. As if this entire day hasn't been merde dans un seau, I was walking around in agony, looking at the potions and making sure they were at least all the right color, when Draco Malfoy goes, "Fl—Ms. Delacour?" (And he says my name like I'm a stripper and he's calling me over to put money in my underwear. By the way, what was my mother thinking naming me Fleur? I mean, flower? No, I totally don't strip in my spare time.) "I can't read this footnote," he said. He was pointing at the most miniscule writing I had ever seen at the very bottom of page 412, the page on Veritaserum. Textbook authors can be such jerks. So I peer at this footnote to no avail, as it's absolutely impossible to read. So I lean in closer. It's still absolutely tiny. So I lean in closer.
And then I can finally read what it says—it says: "Look up." So I look up, just to see what the hell Draco thinks this means. So I jerk my head up and then Draco fricking kisses me.
I completely spazzed out. "What the hell was that, you pervert?!" I shrieked, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. The little jackass was smiling. "What, do you think that was fun for me, you blonde-haired, pale-skinned freak? Va te faire enculer, connard ! Putain de merde, je ne te croix pas ! Quel con!"
I think by this time the entire class realized that I was cursing. After a bit more of cursing, I regained my composure, flipped my hair and hissed in Draco's general direction, "Draco, you psychopathic, narcissistic, self-absorbed half-wit, you're a fricking mannequin and that's why you disgust me. You're too fricking pale, you're too fricking skinny, and you've got a fricking pole right up your—"
"Ms. Delacour!" shouted Snape.
"And if you ever do that again, I will personally see to it that after Defense Against the Dark Arts today, every single bone in your body is broken, fractured, or removed. You got that, freak?"
"Ms. Delacour," said Snape sternly, because he seemed to think that saying my name will automatically shut me up.
"Oh, shut up, you self-important git," I said, whirling around on Snape, who looked about ready to spank me. "We both know that you just get a kick out of making me pick up crap. And you can go—[blah, blah, curses, blah]—just like Draco, over there okay? And NO, I will not be your Sexcretary, you fricking SEX OFFENDER."
And that was my first day of Potions.
2:07 p.m. – I am so not going back to Potions. You cannot fricking make me. I am taking the day off.
4:39 p.m. – I have now fully cooled down from this morning's total spaz. But it was totally justified, seeing as how DRACO MALFOY STUCK HIS TONGUE DOWN MY THROAT. Okay, maybe not so cooled down.
6:15 p.m. – I have just finished recounting the events of this morning's Potions class to Jacques and Michael, and they want to take turns breaking Draco's face. Michael, in his fury, is very happy that I yelled at Draco so thoroughly. "Hey, what does enculer mean anyway?"
Before I can answer, Jacques clears his throat and says, "Just think of a word that begins with F and ends with U-C-K."
"And I didn't tell Draco to go firetruck himself, if that's what you're thinking," I mumbled into my bouillabaisse.
"Please let me break his face," said Michael.
"If you do, you'll get fired once Lucius Malfoy finds out about it," I protested, looking at Jacques for backup support. If Michael gets fired, there will be absolutely no point in my meaningless existence, and I should just go to Dumbledore and announce my resignation. "So let Jacques break his face."
"Gladly," said Jacques giving Draco's table a very filthy look. I would completely not be surprised if Jacques actually went over there and hauled off and socked Draco Malfoy for violating my sanctity or whatever.
Michael looked fairly upset at the prospect of not being able to do something to protect my honor, which is understandable. I've read about how men are prone to feeling incompetent when a woman has to rely on another man to feel protected and safe—not that I have to rely on Jacques to feel protected and safe. I just do sometimes. "You know, we could all just take turns setting his feet on fire under the table," I suggested so that Michael would feel included.
Michael and Jacques both seemed to like this idea, even though Jacques really wanted to be violent (he's a pacifist, but every once in a while he has to release his inner rage somehow—that's why he likes things like boxing and Israeli hand-to-hand combat training, like krav maga). In the end, we all went around in a little circle aiming spells for Draco's feet. It was quite amusing watching him yelp and jump a little bit during the tales he was entertaining Crabbe and Goyle with. "Well, I know she wants me—OW!" every four minutes, and giving scathing glares over at our table where I just gave him a little wave.
What a thoroughly satisfying way to get a little revenge on that disgusting creature. Jacques still maintains that I should file a sexual harassment suit and sue the Malfoys for all they're worth, and Michael is still encouraging me to forget about his job and let him slam his head in a car door (see, everyone likes that option), but I continue to tell them to restrain themselves to doing little things like giving him second-degree burns.
I'll get better revenge on him later.
Day Forty-Eight of Free Independence
Monday, March 5th
In Potions (No Fricking Duh)
9:40 AM
9:40 a.m. – I have returned to Potions after my day-and-a-half off, and have told Professor Sleaze-Git that if he or any one of his students pulls any kind of crap today, I will go to Dumbledore or worse I will sue the pants off of him—but, you know, he can keep his pants on and all. And if he can't afford any after I've finished with him, I will graciously supply him with a pair.
He looks incredibly sour, but that's only because his student stuck his snakelike tongue in my mouth and he didn't get a chance. It's like it says in "The Glass Jockstrap: The Superiority of Women to Men," my new favorite book: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all women are created equal and that all men are whores." And it's the gospel truth.
10:20 a.m. – So far I have gone through my classes without incident. Okay, one Mr. Stupid Head in 4th year asked me to sample his Happy Potion (that's not what it's called, but I can't remember the actual name and that's what it does, anyway), and it made me cough up blood.
Oh, yeah, I bet Snape thought I was really hot then!
10:36 a.m. – Since when does Harry's class have Potions at this time? I am really tempted to run out of the door and hide in the bathroom, but that would be childish of me, wouldn't it?
Draco is coming in, looking smug. He flashes me a look and I swear: he looks just so Fernando right now. I am so tempted to forcibly remove him from this room so that I can make him eat his wand. WHOA, bad imagery there.
Snape is giving a nice long lecture about the Veritaserum potions they concocted the other day, and how they were all crap. I am forced to agree. So he's going to make them all drink each other's potions to see what could have happened if they were out in the real world and effed up their potions like they did before. Of course, Neville has come down with some sort of illness or perhaps bashed his head in, so I'll have to take someone's in order to "keep the balance." Snape just wants to interrogate me as to whether or not I want to let him into the candy shop and—well, you know the song.
10:47 a.m. – Frick; I've gotten Hermione's potion. And you know hers is like the only one in this entire batch that's actually going to work. Damn, DAMNITY, damn.
10:50 a.m. – Now that we've swallowed our potions, we're going to ask other people probing questions and write down their reactions to test the relative strengths of the students' Veritaserum. I get to ask Harry questions because Harry got Neville's potion. Does this make any sense? I never could work out these group project dynamics. Hermione gets to question me, and I have to question Harry?
Well there, Jacques, looks like Fate likes it when I'm sex-obsessed, because obviously I need to be constantly thrust into the prescence of a sex god.
10:52 a.m. –
Questions and Answers with Harry Potter
By Fleur Delacour
Question (Q): What is your name?
Answer (A): Harry Potter.
Q: Um, middle name?
A: James.
Q: Ookay. Tougher questions. What do you think of Professor Snappy over there?
A: I think he's a slimy git.
Q: True. Hm. What do you think of your DADA teacher?
A: He's okay.
Q: Okay?!
A: Yeah.
Q: Are you serious? He's brilliant!
A: He's better than most of our DADA teachers, who, you know, try to kill students.
Q (after thoughtful pause): Do you think I should allow said DADA teacher to break Draco Malfoy's face?
A: Yes.
Q: Hm… that's what I was thinking. If you could have rollicking good sex with anyone in this room, who would it be?
A: Why do you want to know?
Q: Aha! Answer a question with a question—tricky tactics. Just because I am a nosy, nosy girl with very bad intentions. Just answer the question.
A: I'm not sure.
Q: Liar.
A, with a smile: No, seriously. I can't decide.
Q: Liar, liar, Levi jeans on fire.
A: I can't lie under Veritaserum.
Q: No, you mean I can't lie under Veritaserum. I got Hermione's. You got Neville's. There is a difference. You're lying.
A: I advised you to let the DADA teacher break Draco's face—how could I be lying?
Q: If I knew that, would I be the potions assistant? No. Moving on. (Pause to contemplate life's most burning questions, arrive at…) Do you think I'm fat?
A (laughs): No.
Q: That is so diplomatic of you. More reasons for me to think you're lying. Hmmm… I'm going to have ask you a very intrusive, private, invasive question just to make sure that the Boy Who Lived isn't just the Boy Who Lied with a V.
A (laughing): Okay, shoot.
Q (conspiratorially): Do you ever have horrible, dirty, dirty thoughts during Potions?
A: Yes.
Q: That's all I wanted to know.
A: Why?
Q: Oh. No comment.
A (seeming more amused every minute): Why do you want to know?
Q: C'est parce que… moi, je pense que tu es trop beau—c'était la seule raison. Peut-être j'avais espéré que si tu aies des pensées crasseuses pendant cette classe, ce sont à cause de moi. C'est vachement bête. Mais, je soupçonne que tu l'aies su. Et donc, pourquoi as-tu me demandé? Euh, les hommes. Vous êtes tous stupides.
.
A: Did you just call me stupid?
Q: No, I called the entire male population stupid—there's a difference. I hope you caught my answer to your question—I know you were just dying to know.
A: That was dirty and underhanded.
Q: Mais, je l'ai déjà dit! I am a nosy, nosy girl with very bad intentions. These intentions extend to every part of my life. Surprise, I'm a bad girl.
A: Yes, I noticed.
Q: What do you mean, you noticed?
Xxx
Snape: Time's up—if you've just finished interrogating, it's your turn to answer questions and vice versa.
DAMN, I get to go be viciously cross-examined by Bushy Haired Smart Girl.
11:30 a.m. – Well, the interrogation didn't go as crappily as I thought it would. Obviously, it wasn't great, but it wasn't the Spanish Inquisition.
It was the English Inquisition.
Questions and Answers as Asked by Hermione Granger
Q: What is your name?
A: Fleur Delacour.
Q: What is your middle name?
A: Jean-Marie.
Q: Your favorite class in school?
A: Charms, of course.
Q: "Of course?"
A: I was good at Charms in school. Um, decent. Not fantastic or anything.
Q: Oh. Hm. Who is your dearest friend?
A: Jacques DeMontmorency, childhood ami, former English tutor… or present English tutor, one never really can tell.
Q: What do you like to do in your spare time?
A: This is nothing like Truth or Dare!
Q: Did you expect it to be like Truth or Dare?
A: Well, yes. There's no point in asking someone a question unless it's intrusive and invasive and crucial. I thought you might ask a question that would hit way too close to home and make me curse out loud.
Q: Well then. Did it suck when Draco kissed you or did you secretly enjoy it?
A: Oh God. It was absolutely disgusting. It was like swallowing a worm and then having the worm trying to find its way out, but this worm is a blind worm and keeps going the wrong way. There is no way I could ever even think about that kiss with even a modicum of enjoyment.
Q: Are you dating Professor Turner?
A: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
Q: How's that?
A: It's new, but so far it is beyond fantastic.
Q: But doesn't Professor Turner have a problem with that guy who follows you around all the time?
A: Oh, that's just Jacques. Mais non, non, non, non, non. Jacques is my very best friend—and he doesn't follow me around all the time—he's great! I mean, yes, in the beginning Michael was just like, "Yeah, he's got to stay away from you," but now he sees that Jacques and I are in a completely nonsexual relationship. I think.
Q: And what about Harry?
A: Um. What about Harry?
Q (beginnings of HG glare): How do you feel about Harry?
A: Harry?
Q: Yes. Harry. In English, please.
A: If I tell you, will you not kill me and not tell anybody?
Q: Yes.
A: If you do, you get what Draco gets, you know.
Q: Yes. Whatever. Tell me.
A (whispering): Okay, here's what I'm thinking about Harry. Harry is hot, hot, hot—extremely hot, Starbucks chai hot. There we go. That's what I'm thinking about Harry. But I think he's hot in a totally nonsexual way, seeing as how I have a boyfriend and everything. Like, you know, window-shopping, or something.
Q: Window-shopping?
A: Window-shopping. Just in case you decide to return the things you bought, you have to window-shop. So I'm window-shopping!
Q: Okay. Thanks.
A: You're welcome. That was very Truth-or-Dare-esque of you.
Well see, it wasn't total merde. But I think she combined the instructions for Veritaserum with the instructions for Babbling Potion. Why else would I say the word "hot" and "non" so many times? Despite suspicions, I am beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, Hermione Granger could be okay.
5:44 p.m. – ACK, Seamus Fidgety-Frick is over at his table talking about how he overheard me comparing kissing Draco to having a blind worm in my mouth. Grrr, what else did they overhear?
Day Fifty of Free Independence
Monday, March 7th
Freaking in the Dungeons
11:29 AM
11:29 a.m. – Ack! Ack! Ack! Professor Snape has just asked to see me after class and I've no frickafracking idea what on earth to do. I'm not quite sure if he wants to harass me or something and can't do it in public or something.
12 NOON – You'll never believe what Snape has asked me to do. I mean, it's not like he actually asked me to give him a guided tour of the muffin factory or anything, because if Snape ever even said the words "muffin factory" to me, Michael would remove his innards and Jacques would string a guitar with them. No, it was nothing like that, but he's asked me to do something so ridiculously ironic that I just know fate wants me to be sex-obsessed, just needs me to be sex-obsessed.
Snape and Dumbledore want me to give Harry private "Potions" lessons.
When he told me this, I was tempted to ask him if he just wanted me and Harry to have sex on tape or something. Because that is just what private "Potions" lessons sounds like. This is even crappier than: "I can't make it I have 'private tutoring sessions' with Jacques."
I know, you're thinking, "So what's with the quotation marks around Potions indicating that it's not really Potions you'll be giving Harry private lessons in." So I'm going to satisfy your curiosity by telling you exactly what I'll be giving Harry lessons in: "alternative self-protection." What I want to know, however, is why, exactly, Snape seems to think I am the person to instruct Harry in means of Alternative Self-Protection in the DEAD OF THE NIGHT.
"Yeah, Michael, we can't go out on a second date any time soon. I'm so sorry, but I have teach Harry Potter… alternative self-protection around eight-ish tonight and we may be up all night so, I don't know if that opera we were going to fits into my plans."
Oh yeah. Michael will love that.
1:05 p.m. – I asked Jacques what he thought "alternative self-protection" could be defined as. Jacques looked me right in the eye and said, "It means they want you to teach Harry to use… genetic gifts to get out of trouble."
"And why the hell would D-Door and Snappy want me to teach Harry about using his 'genetic gifts to get out of trouble?" I responded, stuffing a rather large cookie in my mouth.
"Fleur, you really are dull sometimes," sighed Jacques, taking a shamrock-shaped green cookie from the plate between us.
"I can't believe you think I'm dull!"
Renée, who had been sitting there watching me eat in utter disgust, finally spoke up: "Stop complaining, you big loser, he just told you you're hot."
I just shook my head at her in confusion. "I don't even—I can't even—you're just absolutely—"
"She's right, you know," Jacques said, getting up, taking the enormous plate of cookies with him. Men are so inconsiderate: maybe I wanted to eat the rest of those cookies, or maybe Renée—who am I kidding? Renée doesn't eat. Wishful thinking.
4:09 p.m. – If I have no clear idea of what "alternative self-protection" is, then how am I supposed to properly train Harry in it, you know, starting tonight. From what Jacques seems to think, all I'd have to do is sit Harry down, explain to him that his hotness is like a gun, walk out, and that's it. But you see, first, I'd have to tell Harry that he's hot.
I'm very glad Michael does not know about this "alternative self-protection" thing.
5:55 p.m. – Michael knows about the "alternative self-protection" thing. He says that D-Door had a good long talk with him right after breakfast and asked him whether or not he wants to teach it with me, you know, add some aspects of Defense theory in with my "lessons" or whatever I have to offer. As if there is a secret Book of Veela passed down through generations sitting up on a bejeweled stand in my room, with chapters called Seducing Dark Lords and Escaping Through Fishnets. It infuriates me that Michael knew about this before I did and didn't tell me anything about it, so I had to get my 411 from Snape. Good God, and if Harry's kidnapped by some assassin and taken off to the mountains to be killed quietly and have his body buried underneath a willow tree, then what good is sex appeal going to do him? "Hey, Mister Assassin Sir, I'm getting all sweaty, would you mind if I casually take my shirt off in a seductive way?" Right—because your abs shall set you free, Harry, your abs shall set you free.
6:00 p.m. – Damnation, I have two hours before I'm supposed to scamper down to the dungeons, where Snape is so graciously allowing us to hold our "Potions" classes, and teach Harry how to go around seducing people! Just another case of people thinking I'm just like my sister.
6:30 p.m. – Jacques is up in my room now, knowing I'd freak out 1 hour and 30 minutes before the beginning of this treacherous lesson. I have tried to convey to him my emotions regarding my feelings of incompetence when it comes to casual seduction, but he is not having it.
"Well, what about when you came to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Cup—and some five-million people asked you to be their date for the Yule Ball? I think we can safely call that mass charm," says Jacques. He is actually quite endearing when he is trying to convince me that I possess even an iota of animal magnetism.
"So? You've said it yourself: I was a haughty, snotty bitch who disrespected everyone and everything in sight, but still found time to run around toying with the affections of others! I was, like, Renée's über-clone, or something! I was bitter and awful."
Jacques gave me a meaningful look, as though he was the director of Picture Perfect, telling Jennifer Aniston about the subtleties of her character, and finally having come up with the perfect metaphor. "Well then, there you go—there's your inspiration."
"Renée, the super-slut? Oh, Jacques, now if they sold that in Bed, Bath, & Beyond, that would so be in the Beyond department!"
"Well, this entire 'alternative self-protection' thing belongs in the Beyond department, doesn't it?" he replies, giving me yet another meaningful look, though this one looks more like the director getting back good reviews and looking at his wife like: "You knew I was right, didn't ya, honey?"
Oh, and we both know he is, so what's the point in even putting up a fight?
10:45 p.m. – Okay, it may not be "the dead of the night," but it's pretty late, and I've just gotten back from my first Alternative Self-Protection Lesson. Michael was there, so it wasn't un tas de merde. He was already "educated" on the subject, having done some background study in the field (the hell?), so he spent some time at least attempting to train me and Harry at the same time, though he did think I had some "natural aptitude." Blah. I'm scattering about with this lesson: let me start at the beginning.
Okay, so first I walked in the door, at which point I saw Harry and Michael standing there, staring at the door. It was kind of odd seeing them standing side by side, because, though they were both kind of slouching, I could see very clearly that Harry is tall. I don't know why I haven't noticed this before. He's like the same height as Michael, which is like four full inches taller than me, and I don't know when I had time to figure this one out when I was supposed to be walking through the door. NTS – Work diligently on sex obsession.
So, Michael said: "Okay, Fleur, now that we're here, we can all get started." I really wanted to make fun of him for sounding so much like a teacher, but then I realized, "Hey! You are a teacher!" and decided not to at the risk of sounding inescapably stupid.
So, out of pure, unadulterated curiosity, I asked Michael, "Soooo, what is alternative self-protection, anyway?" Harry seemed slightly taken aback that I, his co-instructor, had no idea what I was supposed to instruct him in, but he didn't say a thing.
Michael grinned, "It's a means of protecting oneself without using magic or violence."
"Okay, well just to clarify things: Does sex have anything to do with this, because Jacques seems to think that this whole thing has something to do with sex, so I'd just like to formally know—does this little 'lesson' thing here have anything to do with sex?"
Michael glowered a bit. "Sex is probably all Jacques thinks about," he said, and isn't that ironical? I was horrified when he continued: "…and in a way, he's right." KUSO. "ASP has a lot to do with using personal presence and charm to, in a way, protect oneself."
"You mean like how the dumb henchmen in Halcius Pottotius, Royally Flushed fell for it when Flora was like, 'Hey boys, come open up my cell so we can make this jailhouse rock?'"
Michael looked at me like he had never heard me use a sexual euphemism before—which, I must admit, he hadn't. "Well, yes, sort of," he said.
"HM, and what do you want me to do?" I asked. Because at the time I was thinking: what could I do? Lend Harry a long string of very trashy books? Make him sit down and watch a couple of episodes of "Xena, Warrior Princess," and some tapes of my favorite shows that I never saw but like 4 times, like "2525" and "Jack of all Trades," with that ridiculous English lady and the uptight French general who looked like he'd accidentally scratched his watch and wound his butt or something?
"Well," Michael cleared his throat as if he were going to divulge something indelicate, "Dumbledore and various other members of staff assumed that you might be experienced in these… fields…"
"Oh-ho… I see…" I said, walking slowly towards Michael, "you and your little staff buddies think I'm just like my ho-bag sister, don't you?"
"Fleur, we don't think you're a… ho-bag," said Michael, "and we don't mean to objectify you in anyway, we just assumed that as a contemporary young lady of your… structure, you might be wise to some of the means such contemporary young ladies employ in order to further themselves in society and in other aspects of life."
"Thank you, Michael," I said smiling, "and I realize that what you just said is a dressed up version of 'sex sells, and we know who's selling it,' but I appreciate you trying to PG that."
"I appreciate you appreciating my efforts," said Michael in a very sexy way, which, and I don't know why, made me look at his tie. I really didn't realize until that very moment that Michael's tie was just kind of hanging lose around his neck and his top button was unbuttoned. At this point I had to mentally kick myself and go, "Stop that, stop that, stop that—no thinking about that!"
"And I appreciate you appreciating my appreciating—"
"So," Harry interjected, "what about this ASP?"
I could at least answer this question. "You need to learn it because everyone in the world is afraid you'll die. Ooh, was that too frank? I have a distinct feeling that that was too frank."
"Okay," said Michael, cutting in to my rant on Harry's mortality. "Fleur, what do you think we should start with today?" I could totally see Michael just worming his way out of having to actually start the teaching himself—it's a pity, because I think he'd have no problem exploring the fields of ASP.
"Well, Harry, I'm going to tell you something that my very, very intoxicated grandmother once told me: When you are physically attractive, it is the same thing as owning a gun—you must use your weapon wisely. We are going to teach you how exactly you abuse your weapon and break several gun laws. Are you ready for this?"
Harry nodded, clearly deciding to ride the wave of this absurdity. "Okay," I said, "I'm going to begin by telling you, Harry, something that will make you, Michael, go screaming all over the place with absolute infuriation: Harry, you're hot." Michael seemed to be struggling to keep his composure, which was just evidence that he actually likes me and isn't just pretend-liking me to further his plans to kill Harry and help Lord V-mort return to power. "You're not just hot, you're sexy as—"
"Okay, Fleur, that's enough," said Michael finally, seizing me roughly by the shoulders and walking me away from Harry. See, that is the kind of thrilling thing that F-nando never did. It was really nice, because Michael smells really ridiculously good.
And I must admit that I did get a little carried away with telling Harry he was attractive. And now Harry was blushing, which was my fault.
I regained my self-respect (you know, with the help of Michael and his arms) and continued: "My point is, that you are one of the blessed of this world, and if you're not going to use what God gave you, isn't that just… selfish?"
Michael was now grinning like some kind of crazy maniac, but I didn't give a flying plate of shitake mushrooms, because he had forgotten to take his hand off of my waist. "So, Fleur, care to regale us with some stories of how you've used ASP to your advantage, just to demonstrate how useful this skill really is?"
I really don't believe this is real. I think this is some sort of elaborate practical joke designed to make me out to be some sort of a fool. But despite my suspicions, I "regaled" them anyway.
"Erm… well, I once flirted with a guy on a train so I could get his window seat, and he ended up sitting next to this 300 pound man with a flatulence problem instead," I said, recalling how I met the boyfriend before Fernando, Ivan. "And I once flirted with a guy in a department store who ended up giving me an 80 percent discount on everything I was buying. As far as life-threatening goes… well… I made out with my old ex-boyfriend Lex to get the explosives out of his back pocket without him noticing."
"See," said Michael happily, "ASP does work."
"I can't believe I'm taking a class in this," Harry said, and personally I couldn't believe I was teaching that class. "Is there going to be homework?"
"Only if you can't find a way to ASP your cute ass out of it," I said, to which Michael gave me a sharp look, seeing as how he had never heard me say the word ass before and as how I'd just told Harry that his was cute.
And so we spent the entire rest of the time instructing Harry in the crucial business of just Standing There Looking Unexpectedly Hot (Even When You Expected You Would), which, surprisingly, Michael knows a lot about. Then again, not so surprisingly.
After all, he is ridiculously sexy.
DAMNATION! Just thought about sex again.
A/N: The line "I should just start crying and apologizing," you may have noticed, is from one of my favorite movies, as well as Fleur's: Mean Girls.
Keep a watch out for my next chappie! (I'm sorry, I just happen to love the word chappie ever since someone on FictionAlley said it!) Expect much intrigue, much Lustification, and much, much more Harry. Maniacal smiling ensues.
Much love,
Femme Teriyaki