The Author: It Just Wouldn't be Neville Without Evil
Neville Longbottom was a really nice guy. Just ask anyone, and they would've been able to tell you that Neville was the world's nicest guy, if anyone had remembered him. However, as it usually happens with very nice people, Neville was often left out or forgotten, through sheer uninteresting-ness.
So no one was more surprise then he when a person sat down in the chair opposite his and looked as if they were going to talk to him.
A female person, no less.
Tucking Trevor away and running a nervous hand through his hair (which made it stick up in a manner which horribly resembled Harry's), Neville looked at this creature from another world. She had choppy black hair, black eyes, and a heavily made-up face. She wore a too-short Slytherin school uniform skirt, and chunky (if Neville hadn't been so...well, nice, he would have called them hooker boots) black knee high boots. She looked like one of the handful of Mar—er, exchange students who had been randomly sorted into Slytherin a few days ago.
"Er—hi," he said lamely, since her black stare was making him nervous.
"You're lonely, aren't you?" It was more a forceful statement then an actual question.
"Well, not really," Neville mumbled, embarrassed, "I mean, I've got rhythm, I've got Trevor, who could—"
"Toads don't count," the girl snapped impatiently.
Neville gaped dumbly. No one had ever told him this before, although he suspected that plenty of people had wanted to.
"Look," she continued more gently, "You really don't have any friends. You're seen as a slow-witted bumbler. Doesn't any of that make you mad?"
Neville looked around. It was true; in the packed Gryffindor Commonroom, not a single person noticed that he had been trapped and insulted by a freaky-looking Slytherin.
"You're the Gryffindor equivalent of a Hufflepuff," she added matter-of-factly.
That was the last straw. "I am not!" he cried quietly. He was attempting an angry tone, but lack of practice made it more of a whiny sound.
"See what I mean?" the girl said triumphantly, "But I have a way to fix all of it. All you need to do is fill in this," she handed him a form penned in shimmering green.
He took it hesitatingly. "What—what is it?" he asked, trying not to sound too curious.
"Oh, it just basically states your intentions to become a main character." The girl's black-painted lips curved just a little as she replied.
Neville scanned the document with a little more interest. He wasn't sure what this creature meant by main character, but it did sound awfully—popular.
His eye landed on a section wherein he was asked to check off all of the statements that applied to him. It went something like this:
7) REASONS FOR BECOMING A VILLAIN (Check all that apply):
Revenge Deep-seated rage
Power Bad childhood
Popularity Love of acronyms
Other
"Um..." Neville began, a little confused, "Um... It says villain, here... why does it say villain?"
The girl gave a slightly amused huff. "Actually, the term there is pretty misleading. You won't be a 'villain' so much as... well, popularly wicked. Here, why don't I fill that out for you?"
"Oh," he said uncomfortably, "Er, alright. Sure."
The Slytherin made short work of his form and handed it to him to sign. "Here. Prick your finger and bleed a little onto the page, then write your name here. It'll give you your new name to go by, so you can safely commit wicked deeds without being expelled."
Now, that really gave Neville's conscious a twinge. He wasn't sure that he was up to be wicked. I mean, doesn't that usually involve being mean to people? However, the Slytherin girl's quill looked awfully sharp, and it was doubtful that anyone would intercede for him if she decided to stab him to death. He quaveringly pricked his finger and dripped onto the page, the scribbled Neville onto the line. It rearranged itself quickly into...
"'Evil Len'?" Neville asked doubtfully, "What kind of name is 'Evil Len'?"
The girl ignored him, and with a wild wave of her hand into his face (he flinched back), she was off through the Commonroom door. No one saw her leave.
Neville pulled Trevor out and sat patting him nervously.
A week later, Neville received a package in the mail. It contained a voluminous black cloak, a tall top hat, and a large black handlebar moustache, which could be magically affixed to the face and taken off at will. As he stood looking at himself in the loo mirror with the cloak trailing on the ground and the mustache dominating his face, he thought, Well, perhaps I am a bit boring. And no one will even recognize me in this outfit. And... and...
Well, hell, he looked good.
A/N: sigh I'm not going to give any excuses for the lateness of this, except to point out that this is the only fic I've updated in over half a year, and you're damn lucky to be getting it. And it's all Andaisha's fault. Kill her!
Andaisha: Actually, several people at least at able to come up with off-the-wall fics like this one, except theirs are far better. Go read them! Not only have I not written anything on the Pedostache, but I've forgotten the inspiration for the story at all. So there.
Little Tigger: Really? I prefer to think that Dumbledore's genitalia withered up and fell off years ago. Or that he's a Kama Sutra Master. So sue me, I like extremes!
Iron Rabbit: Yes, yes, I little the little nonsense things as well.