Troll Omake: Penpals are So Last Season.

Penpals are So Last Season.

Fleur Delacour
Delacour Chateau, France

I awoke to a loud, high-pitched squealing that made the windows shiver. One could be forgiven for thinking someone was being murdered. Alas, I knew better. Two seconds later, I felt my little sister jump onto my bed.

“Merry Christmas! Wake up, Fleur! It’s Christmas!” Gabrielle chirped incessantly, as if she was afraid people would stop comparing us veela to birds.

“Go away, Gabi,” I groaned into my pillow.

“No! Wake up! We have to open presents!”

“Sleep now. Presents later.”

“No! I refuse!” she said. She straddled my butt and bounced, driving her little, eight year old weight into my back. I felt my spine pop. “Up! Up! Up!”

I coughed as the air was driven from my lungs. Growling, I reached for my wand. “I’ll give you a present, you little brat!”

“Eep! Mama, help!” she shot out of my room, tattling as she always did.

I loved her to bits, but she could be a pest like none other. She was adorable and she knew exactly how far she could push before things got too hot for her.

Sighing, I got out of bed. My finely honed big sister instincts told me I wouldn’t be getting any more sleep today.

Grumbling, I swore vengeance as I washed my face and brushed my teeth. My hair settled itself, as I knew it would. It was one of the minor perks of being a quarter veela, not that witches lacked cosmetic charms to begin with.

I joined my family for breakfast. Mama had wrangled Gabi into her seat. Truthfully, she was the only one who could. Papa was a sap, a total pushover when it came to us, and the little menace took advantage of that with ruthless abandon. As for me, it was only the threat of a good hexing that got her off my back sometimes.

“Good morning, Fleur,” papa said with a jovial smile. He had his paper in hand, and a coffee mug bigger than his head. I knew it wasn’t even half full; it was a joke mug that I got for him from muggle Paris.

“Morning, papa,” I said, kissing him on the cheek.

“You’ve got quite a few admirers,” he said, waving to the enormous pile of gifts next to the tree. It was one of four, but obviously the largest.

Each gift was wrapped with care. Every last one was designed to catch the light. Some had wrapping paper that glimmered like gems. Others had dancing elves or other animated pictures. One particularly bold gift had a shirtless man who slowly caressed his six pack.

I let out a frustrated sigh. My wand flickered out like a striking serpent. The shirtless man had the gall to look surprised before his gift was transfigured into so much confetti.

“Don’t start, papa. You did check them, right?”

“Of course. The wards filtered out most of the riffraff. The elves checked the pile after that. I went over it a third time, just to be safe.”

“Thanks, papa. Were things as bad for you, mama?” I asked tiredly.

“As bad? It was worse,” mama snorted daintily into her tea. “One of my ‘admirers’ bribed my roommate to drug me with amortentia.”

“That’s horrible!”

“Yes, well, Sebastian challenged him to a duel for my honor,” she said, draping an arm over papa’s shoulder. He was much too short, but height had little to do with the speed of his wand. “Find a man who will not only pamper you, but will draw blood for you, daughter-mine.”

“Plenty do already,” I groaned. “Madam Maxime had to suspend two boys this semester alone.”

“No, they bleed for their own pride. A man who will fight for you is very different.”

“As you say.”

“You’re lucky,” Gabrielle pouted. She took a huffy bite of her omelet. “You always have tons of presents.”

I eyed my parents. It was always a delicate balancing act. How did I explain to an eight year old girl that my “friends” just wanted me to spread my legs?

Once, back when I started attending Beauxbatons, I’d also been this naive. I used to think that being beautiful was great; it made making friends so easy. Boys especially loved me. Girls wanted to be next to me because I was instantly popular.

Then, I learned how most people really felt about veela. I wasn’t a girl to introduce to their parents. I was “for fun,” a prize to be won and shown off. Learning that killed any interest I had in boys.

We finished eating and gathered around the presents. As was tradition, Gabi got to pick first. She waffled between her gifts before settling on one that sat between our piles.

It was wrapped in plain, brown paper and so stood out in the sea of glitters and colors. It was also quite large, almost as large as my sister. 

She brought it over so it must have been quite light. “The boring one first.”

“Of course,” I smiled indulgently. Then, I saw the nametag. “Wait, is that to both of us?”

“Yeah, it’s weird.”

“I detected nothing untoward,” papa said. “It should be safe for Gabi to open.”

“Yes!” With that, my little sister turned into a blender. Shreds of brown paper flew through the air. Before long, she had a giant unicorn plushie. “Aww, she’s so pretty!”

“Do you like it?” mama asked, already knowing the answer.

“Uh-huh. Her name is Princess Moonshimmer,” she said, hugging the plushie tight. I had a feeling she’d be sleeping with it for months, at least until the next new thing caught her fancy.

“That’s good. It looks like there is another box inside.”

“Oh! There is! It’s for you, Fleur.”

I took the much smaller box with a frown. Some of my admirers thought being kind to Gabrielle was the way to win my heart. The manipulativeness of it disgusted me. My eight year old sister shouldn’t be treated like a pawn before she even got her wand.

I opened the box to find a book inside. Wonders Beneath: A taxonomic guide to the Black Lake, the title read. That was better. I wasn’t as dedicated a student of magizoology as I was of charms, but a book was far more preferable to yet another piece of jewelry that “matched my eyes.”

“Not terrible,” I admitted, setting the book aside. “I don’t even know where the Black Lake is, though.”

“Perhaps the attached letter would help you, darling,” mama said, gesturing to an envelope that I’d missed.

Opening it, I began to read:

Dear KFC Reject,

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Heed my words,
Or you’ll be too.

How’s that? My poetry’s pretty good, eh? I’m practicing in case I need to drop an impromptu prophecy one day. I’m no Slim Shady, but I think I can give it a go. Now if only I can get the white-eyed, coked up expression right…

Well, that's neither here nor there. I’ve been thinking about how to reach out to you. Then, I had an epiphany: Why bother being polite? It’s not like I’m trying to get in your panties.

At first, I thought about getting you a swimsuit in your size, but that sounded creepy even for me and I ain’t about that. Sends the wrong message, you know? I’m an all-knowing troll, not a pervert. Different flavors of degeneracy, you understand. So, I decided on a book.

Look, I’m trying to warn you. The Black Lake is the one right outside Hogwarts Castle. You should familiarize yourself with its biodiversity, especially the section about grindylow. I’ve earmarked it for you.

Oh, and learn to swim. Take Chicken Little while you’re at it. You’ve got three years or so to get good.

That’s it. That’s all I’ve got to say.

Sincerely,

Nostradamus Wishes He was as Cool as Me

PS: I hope Chicken Little likes her plushie. Tell her she’s adorable.

PPS: Until you commit to swimming lessons, I will send you an annoying howler to wake you each morning. Don’t think I won’t.

PPPS: Bwak Bwakbwakbwak~

I stared at the parchment in disbelief. This was… This was new. Most people didn’t have it in them to make bird jokes. They also tended to name themselves, if only so that I might spare them a shred of my attention.

A tinkling giggle filled the air. Mother coughed daintily behind her hand. “I’ll admit, I’ve never received a letter quite like that.”

“I suppose it has no malicious enchantments or lurid material,” papa mumbled. “Let me get rid of tha–”

“No!” Gabrielle squealed, clutching Princess Moonshimmer tight. “You can’t have her!”

“Just the letter, my dear.”

“Fine, but Princess Moonshimmer is mine.”

“Of course,” he said placatingly. He eyed me with a teasing grin. “I don’t suppose you have any interest in swimming lessons, daughter?”

“Of course not,” I scoffed. “I refuse to be bullied into… whatever this is.”

“Of course.”

X

One Week Later

“Bwak! Bwakbwakbwak!!!”

I shot a swift incendio towards the howler. The crimson letter, which had folded itself into a rooster’s head, dodged. It continued to cluck at me, mocking me.

I could say with certainty that I officially had a nemesis. This was a first for me. I had more than my share of admirers and jealous “rivals,” but they were flies to be ignored. Never had I nursed such antipathy towards another human being before.

No, a demon. Only a demon could be so cruel as to interrupt my sleep each morning. Only a demon could be so infuriatingly racist and petty simultaneously.

“How?” I wailed, pressing my pillow over my face. “How are you getting past the wards? Papa changed them yesterday!"

“Oh, that’s easy. I scried the ward scheme and gave it to a cursebreaker as a puzzle. He told me exactly what I should do to get the howler through,” the howler said, pausing in its clucking. “He’s quite good at his job, and can always use a bit of spare change.”

I hurled my pillow at it, full well knowing I’d miss. Howlers were not supposed to be this sophisticated. “How are you talking to me?”

“I'm not, really. I’m just divining your responses and pre-recording a message to answer your questions at precisely the right time. Again, Nostradamus ain’t got shit on me.”

“Who even are you?”

“I am the greatest seer in the world. I am Fate’s favorite errand boy. As it turns out, they’re the same thing.”

“I… I hate you. I’ve never hated anyone as much as I hate you.”

“That’s lovely, dear. If you weren’t a lily-livered, French cluck bucket, I might even be concerned. Now, are you going to take swimming lessons?”

“I will,” I lied through my teeth.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not!”

“So be it. You have chosen war.”

“I didn’t! You’re the one who chose war! I didn’t do anything!”

Then, the howler went right back to clucking like a chicken. I knew from experience. It would keep on clucking for the next half hour. Gabrielle, the little brat, thought it was hilarious.

I shrieked with primal fury. I liked the occasional day at the beach as much as anyone, but it wasn’t even about swimming anymore. I swore in my heart of hearts I would not submit.

I refused to give this demon the satisfaction!

X

Two Weeks Later

“B-b-b bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word,
A well a bird, bird, bird, the bird is the word~”

X

Three Weeks Later

“Up and at ‘em, you soggy chicken tender! Up! Up, I say! I’ve seen plumper thighs in my Five Dollar Fillup! Well, that won’t stand on my menu! Colonel Sanders will whip your tweety-ass into shape whether you like it or not! GET UP!!!”

I banged my head against the bedpost. Fire danced along my fingertips and I could feel my mouth begin to morph into a beak.

I took a deep breath to calm myself. Burning my bedsheets to ash wouldn’t solve anything.

“I am going to kill you,” I whispered silently as smoke curled from my lips. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where you are. But I will find you, and I will enact upon you righteous retribution. I will rain down fire and fury the likes of which would awe my ancestors–”

“You can try that. Or, you can just commit to swimming lessons. Is that so hard?” the howler said. 

“You… Why are you so insistent on this? What could you possibly get out of this?”

“Entertainment. But besides that? You’re a good person, you know, despite being French. And Chicken Little is great, too. Trust me, you both will appreciate this someday.”

I slumped in my bed. “Fine. I give up. You win, you monster. Are you happy?”

“No, you’ve made me waste so much time recording howlers. I hope you know that this wasn’t easy on me. I think I’m owed an apology.”

“I-You-You’re owed an apology?” I stammered, flabbergasted at the sheer gall of this demon. “I will roast you to ash! That will be my ‘apology!’”

“Very well, if that is your wish. Let us resume hostilities. Ahem–”

“No! Fine! Truce! I’ll go to your stupid swimming lessons!”

“Good, that’s all you had to do, Fleur. See you in three years~”

The howler blew up, filling my room with the smell of burning parchment.

Three years. In three years, I’d be going to Azkaban for murder.

X

Gilderoy Lockhart
Lockhart Manor, Great Britain

I got out of bed with a spine-popping stretch. My own face greeted me, reflected upon a floor-to-ceiling mirror. I smiled. A flash of dazzlingly white teeth greeted me. Perfect. Even with bed hair, I looked roguishly handsome rather than sloppy. As expected of the man with the most charming smile in the world.

Well, Magical Britain, but had Witch Weekly the readership, it would surely also be the world.

I took care of my morning business and put on a comfortable bathrobe, lilac, of course. It was a bit of a fashion faux pas to lounge in it so early in the morning, but I had nowhere to be. Today was Christmas, the second happiest day of the year. Naturally, my own birthday was the first.

I smiled at the pile of gifts. There was one set aside on the coffee table, as I’d instructed Dainty, my house elf, to do. It was from mother. No doubt it was a trinket or bauble of some sort, probably purchased for a few knuts at a no-name fishing village.

Still, I opened it. Sure enough, it was a necklace strung with twelve shark teeth. They were all of different sizes, probably didn’t even come from the same shark. At the center was a piece of green glass, rounded off by the waves. Cheap, brutish, and not at all like the image of Gilderoy Lockhart, defender of fair maidens and vanquisher of dark creatures. 

I rolled my eyes and set it aside. The letter, too. I already knew what it’d say. She’d say something about how beautiful the view was and what she ate in whichever backwater she found herself before going on about how I ought to find a nice witch and settle down. 

As if I could. My fame and fortune allowed me to give her the life she’d always wanted, traveling the world without a care. I had wealth. I was well-known. My adoring fans worshiped me. She thought I’d “made it.”

But she didn’t understand. Fame was a fickle mistress. It wasn’t enough to be on top once. I had to keep being on top. Staying relevant was a full-time job.

I had an Order of Merlin, Third Class. I needed the second. Then the first.

I was an honorary member of the Dark Forces Defense League. I had to be an official member. Or find an even more prestigious society.

I sold forty thousand copies of my latest book. I needed to sell fifty thousand next time. Or better yet, give the opening remarks at the International Dueling Conference.

Celebrity stardom was not free. It was not easy. It was a lot of pressure. It took charm, charisma, and more than my share of ruthless cunning.

Truthfully, in the deepest recesses of my mind, I could admit it to myself: I was tired. I’d “made it,” but found myself a prisoner of my own success. I wanted a reprieve, a brief respite from the burden of my own brilliance.

It was this trian of thought that made me apply to be a professor. I could use the year to unwind without looking like I was on the decline. Hogwarts was prestigious enough that the public would see a noble defender of humanity getting ready to teach the next generation.

Besides, how hard could it be? All the students were undoubtedly my fans already. They’d be on the edge of their seats, eager to absorb every piece of wisodm I could offer them.

I turned to the brighter part of my day. Family was nice, but I did not choose to be related to that woman. My adoring fans? Those, I chose, and I was always delighted to make time for them.

I began opening each gift. There was a dicta-quill floating over my shoulder. It was a truly wonderful piece of magical artifice. It would pen my words, in my handwriting, so that Dainty could send them off. After all, making each fan feel treasured was the most important part of being a star.

After several hours, I was down to just one present. I’d left it for last because it looked so drab in its plain, brown paper wrapping. Surely a less considerate gift deserved less of my attention.

I opened it to find a book bound in black leather and a letter above it. I smiled. Perhaps the giver was a bit more thoughtful than I’d thought. She likely fancied herself a “down to earth” girl who put on no pretenses. Such fans were rarer, and perhaps more precious because of it.

I began to read the letter. Blood drained from my face with each word.

Dear Gilderoy,

For starters, I am not one of your simpering fangirls, or a girl at all. My name is Blaise Zabini, the greatest seer since Nostradamus, and I know everything there is to know about you.

Yes, everything.

And, he did. He started with my Hogwarts years before describing my misadventures before I stumbled upon stardom.

He told me about the time I broke my ankle on the vanishing step. He described my one and only attempt at trying out for my house quidditch team. He even mentioned the first girlfriend and only serious girlfriend I’d ever had, a muggleborn by the name of Kara Lansdowne.

These were not casual mentions or snippets of rumors he may have uncovered with a bit of digging. He knew exactly what I’d said and how I’d felt. I even recognized some of the things he’d written as quoted directly from Magical Me, my new autobiography, an autobiography that was still being edited. I was supposed to go on a signing tour this summer.

Most damningly, he knew exactly how I’d earned my accolades. There it was, spelled out in mocking, formal script:

You, Gilderoy Lockhart, are a fraud. Your legacy is built on lies. You claimed the deeds of wizards and witches greater than you could ever hope to be.Your violated the sanctity of their minds to steal for yourself glories that were never yours.

You thought no one would notice, didn’t you? You thought that so long as you tampered with the memories of all involved, you could get away with it. That maybe, just maybe, you could have the spotlight you’ve always dreamed of yet lacked the talent to seize.

You should have known better. What can be hidden with magic can be uncovered with magic. Imagine my surprise when, in a bout of inspiration, I was led to examine the incoming Hogwarts faculty.

Hah, and they say Lady Fate doesn’t have a sense of humor.

Cold sweat dripped down my back. My heart pounded in my ears. This was the kind of information that could ruin me. I knew better than anyone: The only thing the public loved more than a hero was watching their downward spiral.

The worst part of this was that I’d been careful. I was caught, not because I’d messed up, but because a seer dreamt about me. Divination was supposed to be a joke. It was a joke. No one, not even the most studious of students, took it seriously.

What were the odds that a true seer would be born? One with full control over his powers? And in Magical Britain? And take a personal interest in me?

I let out a hysterical laugh. Lady Fate had a sense of humor. She was also a raging cunt.

“No, this isn’t over, no one will believe him,” I muttered to myself. I was Gilderoy Lockhart. Surely, my fans would defend me.

And that’s where you’re wrong, Gilderoy. I have no interest in turning your fans against you. Truthfully, I don’t even care whether your fans believe me over you.

Let’s face it. Your “adoring fans” are schoolgirls and delusional housewives. They have no power.

No, I’m more interested in the ones you’ve wronged. Quite a few of them have friends and relatives in high places. They were, after all, heroes in their own, small ways. You didn’t think about that, did you? No, of course not; that’d be asking too much of you.

Now, between a confirmed seer and an “author” of dubious skill, I know who I’d believe. At the very least, it shouldn’t be too hard to force a veritaserum-induced testimony.

My breath came in short gasps. The world blackened at the edges of my vision. It was over. I could already see the headlines.

I… If I could obliviate him, then…

No, that wouldn’t work. No one who went this far wouldn’t leave clues for himself. I doubted I’d get the chance to interrogate him at Hogwarts, either. And his mother… I shuddered. I knew her by reputation.

But surely, this was too much effort. He didn’t get anything out of ruining my life. Knowing his mother, I doubted there was an altruistic bone in his body.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down. There was something he wanted. So long as I could give him that, I could buy time.

Done calming yourself down? Good.

And no, you cannot buy time. Do you really think trying to out-maneuver a seer is a good idea? Face it: You’re my bitch now, and there is nothing you can do about it.

But, by all means, try. Run. Pack your bags and leave the country. Go on, Gilderoy. Make this fun for me.

No? Well, that’s too bad, but we both know your “courage” has always been a lie. As for what I want, I want a professor under my thumb. To this end, you will do the following:

First, you will teach, at least us second years.

Yes, shocker, I know. Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to devise a curriculum. I’ve included that in the book you totally forgot about, and are now desperately pretending you hadn’t.

Between now and September, you will familiarize yourself with the book. You will master its spells and magical creatures. You will devise interesting lesson plans to present the material to my classmates in a manner that is helpful and productive.

Second, you will take over the dueling club. As the new DADA professor, you will insist on the fundamentals, including physical fitness. Yes, this means I expect you to be in sterling physical shape by the start of term.

Third, you will sign a permission slip for me, granting me access to the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. What I do with that is up to me.

Fourth, you will purchase a suitcase bewitched with an undetectable space expansion charm. In it, you will prepare a chicken coop. You will keep at least one hundred roosters alive and healthy at all times throughout the year.

Don’t worry, I wouldn’t trust you to nurture a cactus, never mind care for living animals. The instructions and dimensions for this chicken coop are included in the book. Follow them to the letter. Or better yet, get your house elf to do it for you. 

And make no mistake, this is not a jest. Please understand,  these roosters’ lives mean more to me than yours. Should you fail in this task, I will devote all due effort to arrange events such that a werewolf will eat your entrails out of your anus in full view of your adoring fans.

Don’t fuck with me.

I’m sure I’ll have more demands for you throughout the year, but that’s it for starters.

I look forward to your tutelage professor.

With great expectations,

Blaise Zabini

PS: Stay away from Violet Potter or I will slowly flay you alive and feed pieces of you to the owlery while you watch.

I whimpered and sank into my sofa. I was Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award. I could now also add chicken farmer to that list of titles.

“Thank Merlin I’ve already written my autobiography…”

Author’s Note

Someone liked the gift sequence with Violet and the Patils so much that they commissioned me to write ones for different HP characters. As always, my omakes are as canon as you want them to be.

Normal people have penpals. Fleur has a pen-nemesis.  

I hope I got Lockhart right. I wanted to keep his canon narcissism but give him a bit more depth as a person.

Spinoff Idea: Gilderoy decides that the only way he can control Blaise’s actions is by becoming his new stepdad. Valencia believes everything about Gilderoy and thinks he’s the gallant hero everyone says he is.

Cue romcom in which Gilderoy desperately tries to be the exciting, heroic figure of Valencia’s dreams. He is 100% certain that keeping her entertained is the only way he gets to keep breathing.

I imagine Blaise would just sit in the background laughing his ass off. Blaise would never tell on “dad” because watching Gilderoy torture himself to meet Valencia’s impossibly high standards in some sort of self-imposed punishment is too funny.

Confusing Fact: I had to teach a coworker how to attach files to an email. He didn’t get it. I then logged on via Zoom, had him share his screen, took control of his mouse, and showed him on his own Outlook what the little paperclip does.

Frustrating Fact: He called back a few days later so I could explain it to him again.

Optimistic Fact: Your boy’s got job security.