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Le Scorp! by Toujours Padfoot
Format: Short story
Chapter 2: This is the second chapter!
I am a god.
I walk through the halls with my swagger turned on full blast, waggling my eyebrows at any and all unsuspecting ladies. And even a few gentlemen. I see Professor Longbottom and I give him a wink. He raises his eyebrows very high and keeps walking, and I smirk to myself. I have won him over with my charm and he isn’t even aware of it.
Today is Quidditch.
Usually Quidditch games are spent in the kitchens, teaching the elves how to dance. They enjoy clapping the most, but we are beginning to learn twirls. I like to wear my green fedora when we do this, as I look good in pinstripes (and it makes me ultra classy).
However, the Quidditch pitch shall be my stage today. I have been rejected by the Headmistress! This affects me deeply. It aggrieves me so deeply that it is now underneath my skin, like psoriasis on my liver. I run my tongue over my teeth and give Amy Finnegan the thumbs-up. She knows what I like. Neither of our fantasies will allow to be tamed.
If I am not allowed to produce and star in my own play, then I shall perform for the thousands! I shall sweep onto the pitch in the middle of a game, saving the masses from enduring another match when everyone knows that all they want to do is watch me. I am my own sport. I deserve trophies for existing.
I snap my fingers a little as I dance from side to side, closing my eyes. It seems that I have run into a wall. Inferior beings are snickering behind me. I wink at them, too. They have changed their allegiance. They love me.
I bust out my wand. It makes me look good. I have taped a six-inch extension to one end, so that now it is twenty-seven inches long and a delight to the ladies. One of them is walking by – I believe she is called Emily – and I shuffle my shiny shoes over to her. I drape one arm around her shoulder. She makes a loud sound I cannot interpret and leaps away from me.
I am down for this. I flap my elbows cheerfully, pouting my lips and moving my shoulders up and down. She is incredibly impressed. This is why she is running away from me. I have never seen anyone run so fast in my life. I have shamed her with my uncomfathomable skills and she is heading to a toilet to cry her eyes out. I make a mental note to send her flowers later. I will just re-direct a few bouquets of daffolions sent to me by my fans.
I run a hand through my flaxen hair. I am a delirious lion, feasting on steak (well-cooked). I am also a goddess, so nimble and lithe. I continue to dance, because I am so amazing that I do not require a partner, and I skip through the corridors to the music in my head. In fact, the music is so loud that I am growing positive that it is real. It is not being imagined at all! I am suddenly astonished that no one else is dancing. I kick up my heels with so much flair that it would blind elderly people.
My feet are click-clacking. I snap and leap, twirl and spin. I attempt to engage Fred Weasley in dancing and he rejects me. It is woe.
I channel my rejection into the best pirouette Hogwarts has ever witnessed. Everyone has stopped breathing. Their breaths are hitched like a wagon, eyes popping out with incredulism. I have the urge to wear feathers. I must suppress this urge! I will don my feather boa for classes tomorrow. They look excellent with my sunglasses. I will stun Defense Against the Dark Arts.
“Talk is cheap,” I say to Dominique. She flicks her hair at me. I flick mine back at her. She steps on my shoe.
Dancing ensues. I squint my eyes tightly shut, tongue between my teeth, and roll my shoulders as I bounce up and down. The populace is jealous. They are all taking notes, and will gossip and whisper about it later. I am a trend-setter.
I look very delicious in plaid. I must remember to wear plaid tomorrow as well.
I am dexterous. With one swift movement, the green fedora is in my hands. Pow! I replace it to my head. Wham! It is framing my luxurious golden curls. I make a mental note to ask my father how to obtain a mustache. There is stubble on Flitwick’s face and I am unsure how it got there. It was surely not there yesterday. Thief! Thief of facial hair!
I twirl onto the Quidditch pitch. There are brooms overhead with people on them because they are idiots without true talent. I am in the middle of it all, and I throw my arms open wide and begin to thrust my hips in a circular motion. I stick my arms behind my head, jostling one knee in time to the music that I am utterly convinced everyone else hears. It is very loud and quick and there are accordions involved.
I rip off my shirt. It was burning my skin, poisoning me with its envious wonderlust. It suffocated my talent, stifled my movement. Besides, I know that everyone was waiting for me to do it. The crowd is going wild. I jump up in the air and do the splits. When my feet land on the ground again, my shoes are off. This is a wow moment. Everyone is gasping, especially Rita Skeeter. She must be up there somewhere. It is impossible that she would not be, since I am currently attending Hogwarts. I know this because I received a Hogwarts letter when I was eleven. My father was very surprised. He keeps it framed for proof when his friends come over.
I strut across the pitch, doing an Egyptian sort of dance I remember seeing Muggles do once. I can do it and do it better, since I have seen a picture with a pyramid on it before. I said, “That is a pyramid,” and used it as a bookmark, and there is your proof.
My stage name is Scorindo Hyperius and I am here to entertain the hearts and souls of billions. I will inspire a generation. First-years are falling out of their bleachers, tumbling across the grass like flaming meatballs that were once inhabiting mounds of spaghetti and they got really excited so they just decided to fall out.
My stockings are argyle. My tie is polka-dotted. People are copying my style, scribbling polka-dots onto their uniforms. I shake my head with depressionism. They do not understand. You cannot mimic this taste. It will not work on you. You do not have the build that I possess, the mane of sexy-time hair, the lips so vixenish that I want to bite on them all the time. But I do not because that would make them chapped. I could make chapped sexy, but I do not want to become a vampire so I avoid this. Garlic is my favorite topping and it would be most shameful to lose garlic on my plates of food and condemn-mints. Future Self shall thank me.
A whistle blows. They are awestruck. I am wearing plum trousers with four pockets (two in front, two in the back on my fancy parts). The grass smells like sun-tan lotion. I spread out my hands and wave them at the crowd, enticing them with my powers. They are dazzled.
I am vibrating. Brooms circle overhead like ZOOM ZOOM, but I do not stop until the music stops. I am suddenly one with the music, and I lean to the side and float away. I whip out my wand with a flourish (several teachers began to shout at this) and twist it through the air like a conductor’s baton. The only thing I am missing is one of those red-and-white striped hats that train conductors wear. No matter! I am wearing my own and it suits me just fine.
I am abruptly aware of my loveliness. It consumes me.
I curl up into a ball on the ground, overwhelmed by my loveliness. I expect elves to race out on the pitch and lift me up, carrying me along on their backs. I wonder if it will hurt, all of the jolting around on an elf’s back. Albus Potter is flying around over me and laughing his ass off. I wonder what the joke is. I lick my lips at him and he shuts up. He is now looking quite bewildered, and he flies away.
I applaud myself. I have always wanted to use that word in internal dialogue.
I scoot around so that I am spinning on the ground, kicking my legs out. If I am on the grass, I might as well continue to impress my hoard of obsessed fans. There will undoubtedly be grass stains. It is a sacrifice I must be willing to impart. It is like holding the hand of my lovers with my spirit, my essence, my winds of pretty colors.
I jut my chin out. I have fine architecture in my bones. Women swoon. Men are jealous (but they also swoon). Tonight they will practice their Scorindo faces in the mirror, and will fall very short. It is a complex. This is not my fault. I refuse to apologize for being beautiful. I am also rebellious. I will cast a spell on you and you will be my minion! Also my back-up dancer! You will glide behind me in a pyramid formation while I gyrate with pelvic thrusts, seducing black-clad sexy females in black tights and red-clad sexy males in top hats. We will all come together on a velvet carpet and be one with the night.
I am now in the Headmistress’s office! This is an unforeseen sequins of events. She is telling me about calling my parents. I flash my teeth at her. This is most fortunate. I have been desiring a visit with my mother. She forgot to sew a pastel-blue orchid onto my uniform collar, and I am despairable without it. This shall be a delight! Why is that wretched woman frowning at me? It must be my odor. I prefer to not apply deodorant on mornings I know I will be performing. Sweat stains add to the realisticability of any situation, she should know this. It is Acting 101. I scoff at her.
“I am scoffing at you,” I say with scorn. Scorn rhymes with corn and I am suddenly a poet.
“And why is that, Mr. Malfoy?” she asks.
I nod my head knowingly. Everyone addresses me by this title. I am super respected. This is no surprise. I cross my ankles and examine my nails. They are in need of polishing.
“Do you possess any breathmints?” I inquire seriously. She stares at me. This is nothing new. “If you are admiring my glamorous eyes, I will let you in on a secret.” I lean forward. She is mostly likely wondering how many girlfriends I own. I do not want to make her feel unattractive. “I use eyeliner in my brows.” I waggle them at her. “Would you like to borrow some?”
Her head falls into her hands. “You may borrow my moisturizer, as well,” I offer generously. I wonder if this is why she has brought me into her office. Sparks are zapping around excitedly in my brain. They are like bolts of light in the sky when it’s storming and the clouds make BOOM BOOM sounds. Firecrackers of revelations! “You want me to give you a makeover!” I cry. “This will be most arduous. I am dire. I am in a dire mood at this moment. There is much work to be done on you, so matronly…so many wrinkles. Those wrinkles wouldn’t look good on anyone, except perhaps on me. They would look distinguished if painted on my face.I will never have wrinkles, however. I am a genetic genius. My face is too sculpted.”
I patted my trousers. They were purple like prose, and I debated whether or not to slap a knee. Sometimes it was a very effective communication tool. It made everything more dramatic.
Headmistress is baring her teeth at me. I bare mine back. This is a competition! I want to win this very badly. I hiss and growl and claw my fingers at the air like a very angry kitten.
“What is the matter with you, Mr. Malfoy?” she says, sounding exasperated.
“This is ‘ferocious cat with string’,” I explain. I thought it was obvious. This woman is a hopeless dunce. She has never taken improv classes in her life.
Headmistress shakes her head. Behind her, Albus Dumblingdore is shaking his head in his picture frame. In a spur of the moment madness inside my spleen, I know with all of my being that I want to be painted.
“Paint me!” I demand. I slam my hands onto her desk. “Paint me with your wand of color sensations galore!”
I am now in my Common Room! Moments later, I am in my dormitory! I am now in bed!
The lights are off!
I sing until things are thrown at me. I fall asleep because one of them whacked me in the temple. I may or may not be in a coma.