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Infamous by R o s m e r t a

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Format: Novella
Chapters: 11
Word Count: 36,992
Status: WIP

Rating: Mature
Warnings: Contains profanity, Scenes of a mild sexual nature, Substance abuse, Spoilers

Genres: Humor, Romance
Characters: Harry, Oliver, Albus, James (II), Lily (II), OC, OtherCanon
Pairings: James/OC, Other Pairing

First Published: 12/07/2012
Last Chapter: 08/26/2014
Last Updated: 08/26/2014

Summary:



{flawless banner by asphodel @ TDA}
The wizarding world thinks Hazel Wood is the girl who stole James Potter’s heart. The tabloids say she’s the girl who stole James Potter from his ex-girlfriend—Britain’s sweetheart. Now, Hazel is thrust into the limelight as the new “It Girl” everyone loves to hate.

But no one knows Hazel’s biggest secret: she's really in love with Al Potter.
6,800+ reads! <3


Chapter 1: A Few Of My Problems (And A Snitch Ain't One)
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{amazing CI by Lady Asphodel @ TDA}

Author's Note: The idea for this story just kind of came to me randomly the other day, and it has no overlap with my other one, "Irresistible"--I would love to know what you think! <3

 

                                                        *      *      *      *      *

 

My first problem, which has plagued my entire existence, is the fact that my name is Hazel Wood.

 

I’ll explain.  Let’s assume that you and I have just met (which I suppose we have—pleasure, by the way).  For obvious reasons, I introduce myself as Hazel Wood.

 

“That’s a nice name,” you might say.

 

“Thank you, I suppose it is,” I would respond (I’m quite polite).

 

Then, perhaps, you become so captivated by the charming, magnificent (and, let's face it, extremely modest) creature standing before you that you simply must know more about her.  “So, Hazel,” you’d go on, “where do you hail from?”

 

“Derbyshire,” I would respond, in an attempt to cling to any apparent dignity I might have for a few more precious moments.

 

“Oh, how lovely!  I have a cousin in Derby!” you might say.  “Where about in Derbyshire?”

 

This is where we get to the tricky part.  In all likelihood, I would try to distract you from the question.  I might point at something behind you and exclaim, “Oh look, a Blast-Ended Skrewt!” then dash away the moment you turned round (childish, yes, but surprisingly effective).

 

For our purposes, we’ll assume that you’re smarter than the average Hippogriff and aren’t fooled by my clever antics.  In that case, I would do a lot of coughing and grumbling and you’d have to say “Sorry, didn’t catch that?” at least seventeen times.

 

But, eventually…

 

“Hazelwood,” I would respond, refusing to meet your eyes.

 

At this point, a multitude of things could occur.  Understandably, you could be quite confused.  “No, I got your name,” you’d explain, speaking very slowly since, clearly, I have the mental aptitude of a mountain troll.  “I was asking where you’re from.”

 

To which I would, naturally, reply, “Hazelwood,” and we’d go round in circles for Merlin knows how long like one of those bloody Muggle vaudeville shows.

 

Maybe you comprehend the absurdity of the situation immediately, but you’re the sort who’s too nice to comment.  “Oh,” you’d say, “How…lovely.”

 

However, it’s rather likelier that you would commence laughing like you’ve just heard the most brilliant punchline of all time (yes, a real riot—it’s only my life).  Of course, you might subject me to some wisecrack to the effect of “Which came first?” (in which case—bravo, you, for being equally clever as the 234,348,103,457 people I met before you).

 

Maybe I was someone like Voldemort in a past life, or maybe my parents just think themselves hilarious (which seems rather likely).  In any event, suffice it to say that I loathe meeting new people (not to say that you’re not perfectly lovely).

 

My second problem is none other than Lily Luna Potter.

 

“Oh, but Lily is such a doll!” you might say (in which case you really don’t know Lily at all).

 

“Is she now?” I would reply.  “Then how might you explain the 253 detentions, seven broken bones, twelve near-expulsions, 34 minor explosions, one major explosion, and infinite noogies that I’ve suffered at her hands?”

 

“Oh my!” you might exclaim (or perhaps you’re more of the “Bloody hell!” sort—I really don’t know, we’ve only just met).  “Why on earth would you have to endure all that?”

 

“Because,” I’d respond, “Lily Potter is my best friend.”

 

Then you’d most likely think me a bit touched in the head.  Actually, that bit probably isn’t just hypothetical.

 

Perhaps I am a bit touched in the head.  That really isn’t hypothetical, either.

 

Right, let’s just say the hypothetical scenarios are done for now (so you can stop asking yourself, “But do I really sound like that?”).

 

I have known Lily Potter literally my entire life—our parents used to play Quidditch together back in school, and now my mum and her dad work as Aurors, so our families are quite close.  I know her better than anyone else, and I can safely say that Lily is the world’s greatest criminal mastermind.  Seriously, she could probably rob Gringotts or blow up the Ministry of Magic and never get caught.  Fortunately, she hasn’t used this (frankly, quite terrifying) power for evil—yet.  Which is probably why she managed to trick the Sorting Hat into sticking her in Gryffindor rather than Slytherin.  When it comes to Lily’s schemes, I’ve played both the faithful sidekick/partner-in-crime and innocent victim equally over the past fifteen years.

 

The other problem with Lily (yes, folks, it’s a two-parter!) is the fact that she comes in a package deal that includes her entire. sodding. family.

 

You’d have to have been living under a rock for the past twenty-odd years to not know about the Wotter clan (Weasley/Potters, for those of you who have done).  Not one of them can visit the bloody loo without someone snapping a photo of the momentous occasion and slapping it on the cover of the latest issue of Witch Weekly with some asinine headline like “[Insert Wotter clan member]’s Fifth Whiz of the Day: Tiny Bladder or Raging Firewhiskey Addiction to Blame?”  Various publications have even featured photos including me, immortalized for all eternity as “Lily Potter’s Unidentified Friend” (no autographs, please).  Mercifully, the wards surrounding Hogwarts keep out the pesky paparazzi, though the occasional story does get out.

 

The point is, while I adore (almost) every member of the Wotter clan, I’ve hardly had a moment’s peace in all my fifteen years (though I suppose when it comes down to it, I wouldn’t want it any other way).

 

My third problem arose the very moment James Potter bestowed my first kiss upon me—in the middle of the Great Hall for the entire school to see.

 

“How romantic!” you might be saying (perhaps we aren’t quite finished with our make-believe conversation after all).  I can assure you that it was anything but, partially on account of the fact that I was not a willing participant in said kiss.  “But who wouldn’t want to kiss James Potter?” you might ask.  “He’s so dreamy!” (though I sincerely hope you don’t go about using words like “dreamy” in everyday conversation—unless you were born before 1952, in which case, carry on).

 

Sure, to the untrained eye, James Potter may seem like the ultimate get—after all, he’s a 6’2”, handsome, muscled Quidditch phenomenon who also happens to be rather intelligent and filthy rich (I know, I know, he sounds like the sodding prize on one of those cheesy Muggle game shows where the announcer keeps adding “But wait, there’s moreeee!”).  That’s all well and good, but James Potter likely isn’t also the annoying, mocking, fat-headed older brother you neither had nor wanted.  Our relationship is thusly: he is a complete and utter prat at all times, and I merely deign to tolerate him on a daily basis.  It’s managed to work out quite nicely—until now.  That one, tiny, meaningless, insignificant kiss changed the entire trajectory of my existence (okay, perhaps that’s a bit much, but I can’t help that I have a flair for the dramatic).

 

“Just why would a silly little snog be so detrimental to one’s life?” you might ask.

 

Which brings me to my fourth problem: I am madly and hopelessly in love with one Albus Potter.  Always have been, always will be.

 

Somehow Lily has yet to pick up on this fact, and I have no idea how that’s possible.  I mean, it’s not like I (visibly) swoon every time Al enters the room or anything, but there are little things I do semi-consciously, like laugh maniacally at his lame jokes or stick out my chest a bit more when he’s around (yes, maybe that makes me a total slag—what’s your point?).  In any event, I’m grateful for her cluelessness because I get the feeling that her reaction to me dating her brother would be rather unpleasant.  You see, the pair of us have been waging a lifelong prank war against Albus (and James, and Freddie…and essentially every other Wotter clan member), and, knowing Lily, she would view such a thing as the ultimate betrayal—her best friend sleeping with the enemy, metaphorically speaking (*cough* or not *cough cough*…what?).  And trust me, you do not want to be on Lily Potter’s bad side.

 

Anyway, by this point of our hypothetical conversation, you’d probably be rather confused.  “Albus Potter?” you’d ask, “The brother of James Potter?”

 

“The very same,” I would have to respond.

 

“But that makes no sense!” you might exclaim in frustration (I don’t blame you).  “If you’re in love with Albus Potter, then how does a cheeky, arrogant little git like James Potter come to snog a darling girl like you, Hazel?”

 

Well, my new friend, I’m so very glad you asked…

 

                                                                   *      *      *      *      *



I suppose, in the interest of our newfound friendship (and for you to better understand my story, of course), that I should tell you a bit more about myself.

 

My full name is Hazel Ophelia Wood (so clearly going by my middle name was never an option).  I’m fifteen years old and have just begun my fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where I am a Gryffindor like my parents, Oliver and Alicia.  Surprisingly, I was also made prefect this year, which I can only assume is yet another blatant (and sure-to-be fruitless) attempt by the Headmaster, Professor Longbottom, to keep Lily in line.

 

I’m an only child, and (though my name suggests otherwise) my parents and I are quite close.  Mum and I are more like sisters than mother and daughter, and I am a total daddy’s girl—the two of us share the same (hysterical, of course) sense of humor and love of Muggle classic rock music, which Mum now regrets introducing to the pair of .  Mum works in the Department of Magical Games and Sports and the Ministry, and Dad is a former Keeper and current coach of Puddlemere United Quidditch.  Apparently Dad was a real "heartthrob" (Mum's term, not mine, obviously) back in the day, and all sorts of tawdry articles were written about him in Witch Weekly.  Since he and Mum were married and he was deemed officially off the market, however, the only press Dad really got was about his infamous temper on the Quidditch pitch, both as player and coach.  When my parents found out Mum was pregnant with me, they decided to move to little old Hazelwood in the hopes of sheltering me from that harsh limelight.

 

To my parents’ utter delight, I took to a broom from a young age like a Niffler takes to a shiny new Galleon, and have been a Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team since second year.  Lily, of course, is also a Chaser.  Due to our lifelong BFFLitude (it's a thing), the two of us read and feed off each other so well that we’re virtually unstoppable on the pitch.  I love nothing more than flying; soaring through the clouds with my robes billowing in the wind and my hair streaming out behind me is the world’s greatest cure-all.

 

Speaking of my hair, it’s a deep chestnut-brown, super thick and wavy, and almost reaches my waist…and I have this “thing” about it, as Lily likes to say (when she’s not referring to it as psychopathically obsessive fixation).  Actually, it’s irrelevant what Lily chooses to call it because the sheer existence of my “thing” is entirely Lily’s fault.

 

When we were six years old, James had pissed off Lily in one way or another—as usual—and, as usual, Lily came up with a “brilliant” reprisal.  See, their mum, Ginny, during her professional Quidditch days, got hooked on a magical body hair removal lotion called “Hair-B-Gone” (clever, I know).  It’s some heavy-duty stuff that, once applied, instantly causes the hair fall out, and prevents it from growing back for three full months.  Apparently professional Quidditch players use the stuff all the time because the lack of hair on their arms and legs supposedly allowed them to fly more quickly or some crap like that.  All I know is Lily and I watched Mrs. Potter use it once before an impromptu trip to the beach and thought it was one of the coolest things we’d ever seen. 

 

Anyhow, noting that all three of her children showed a marked propensity for mischievousness, Mrs. Potterkept the bottle of Hair-B-Gone in the highest cabinet in her bathroom.  Lily’s scheme involved us somehow swiping the Hair-B-Gone and coating it on James’s pet cat, Sniffles.  To a couple of six-year-olds, I suppose it would seem like a brilliant, foolproof plan.

 

It wasn’t.

 

Obviously, we were too young to use Accio, so after much debate, we decided that one of us would stand on the other’s shoulders to reach the cabinet.  After much more debate, we (meaning Lily) determined that I would serve as the base while Lily climbed on my shoulders.  Figuring out the actual logistics of attaining this position was somewhat more difficult, but we eventually succeeded.  Lily was able to reach the cabinet, but only just.  Standing on my shoulders, her ankles firmly in my grasp, Lily stretched her arm out to grab the bottle—

 

—and somehow knocked it out of the cabinet instead.  As it plunged downward, the bottle tilted, the stopper came loose, and my head was doused in sticky, thick, goopy, green Hair-B-Gone.  I shrieked like someone had just set Fiendfyre on me, flung Lily off my shoulders—sending her tumbling to the floor— and rushed to the bathtub to wash it out.  Unfortunately, the Hair-B-Gone worked too quickly for that; I looked (quite ironically) like a hairless cat for three entire months--apparently I'm not one of those witches with the innate talent of regrowing hair overnight.  Also unfortunately, Mum and Dad found this hilarious and took far too many photos of me during that time.  They still like to take the mickey by bringing the album out every once in a while.

 

My hair has never been cut since, and I steer clear of all methods of magical hair removal.  I’m too grateful for the existence of my luscious mane to let it squander.  So my “thing” is that I’m super…protective of my hair.  Yeah, let’s go with “protective.”  Essentially, if you come within a ten-foot radius of me and there are scissors in your hand (or anything even remotely resembling Hair-B-Gone, for that matter), I will Bat-Bogey Hex the crap out of you and run away screaming like a banshee.  Consider this your warning.

 

As for the rest of my appearance, I haven’t had any experiences quite so scarring, thank Merlin.  I have dark, stormy blue eyes (perfect for my patented Death Glare, though Lily just insists that I suffer from Chronic Bitchface) and skin that always appears at least slightly tanned, thanks to Mum being so dark-complected.  My nose is a bit too straight for my liking, and I've a fair few freckles thanks to Dad, but I suppose I’m not completely unfortunate-looking.  Though I made out with a perfectly respectable bra size and a bit of a bum, I’m fairly lanky for 5’7”.  Don’t let this fool you though—I can pack it away like nobody’s business.  I once beat James in an eating competition by consuming an entire treacle tart in one sitting (just do yourself a favor and don’t ever ask me what happened approximately twenty minutes later).  This is probably why the Weasley family matriarch and I get on so well; Nana Molly loves to cook, and I love to stuff myself silly.  Suffice it to say that I absolutely love spending holidays at the Burrow.

 

Besides flying, my hair, and eating (and having random make-believe conversations with perfect strangers, of course), my other true love is reading.  Books are the perfect escape from reality, and I am constantly losing myself in them.

 

Which is how I came to be sprawled on a scratchy old blanket next to the Black Lake in early September, reading and minding my own business... 


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