WARNING: please do not place yourself inside the mind of a normal human being for the duration of this chapter. Just imagine that you are a rainbow. I think it will make more sense that way. (Do not read if allergic to rambunctious precociousness. You have been warned.)
It’s a hard life for your average blonde-haired, ballet-dancing, shoe-loving superstar, you know.
I mean, I’m not trying to insult the conventions of society or anything, but we blonde-haired people get abused. People just don’t seem to understand that it is not our fault that we were born blonde – nor that it is not a fault in the first place.
It’s bad enough for girls.
But a blonde boy? It is hell!
GJOISUEOUADOUAE. That was the sound of me expressing my emotions upon the matter in the most original and new-age way possible.
My friends Lorcan, Lysander and I are sadly the only three blonde males in Hogwarts. I suspect that there are more, but the rest of them have dyed their hair black or brown to hide the fact. I’ll have you know that I am extremely proud of my beautiful locks, and keep my hair well-conditioned and brush it thrice an hour.
It sparkles when the light catches it.
“Scorpius would you stop running your hands through your hair and pouting at me vacantly?”
I turn to see my absolutely beautiful friend Gladys, who also has blonde hair. I have chosen to only honour blonde (or very, very, very light brown) haired people with the gift of my friendship. The rest of the school are mere other-hair-coloured peasants.
And you know what the worst hair colour of all is? The colour that just makes my toes curl, my stomach writhe with revulsion, my eyes roll back into my head?
Red-headed people disgust me. I loathe them. I loathe them more than I loathe it when my digestive biscuit gets too soggy and breaks off into my cup of tea.
And I loathe Rose Weasley even more than that.
Be scared of this loathing. I will glare at you and toss my golden locks around until you are blinded by my god-like good looks.
“Gladys,” I roll my eyes. “I was not pouting. Real men do not pout.” I’ve never quite understand what exactly the definition of a ‘real man’ is, but I once heard James Potter say something along these lines, and it sounded very cool. Even for a black-haired peasant.
“Real men aren’t blonde,” Rose Weasley hisses from my left. I turn to glare at her.
“Wow, that hurt Weasley! But I shall remain aloof and superior to your unfair comment.” I wrinkle my nose.
The nickname makes me clench my fists with anger, but I restrain from kicking Rose Weasley in the shin because I am a gentleman. And gentlemen do not hit girls, even girls as infuriating and mean as Rose Weasley.
A few minutes later.
I go back on my previous observation about red-heads being the worst kind of people. For I, with my impeccable societal skills and many talents, have spotted an even more offensive type of person.
They are the people who dye their hair blonde, and then act exactly as the stereotype describes! These are the people who actually created this – oh, I can’t even bear to think it – ‘dumb blonde’ stereotype, and they are not even natural blondes!
Natural blondeness is a gift from angels! It is the colour of the sun, of peace, of joy!
Dyed blonde hair is the colour of yellow vomit. I declare it to be so.
And so these vulgar, wanton students of Hogwarts prance about with their ruined hair flicking into honest, self-respecting citizens’ faces and shouting about how the capital city of France is ‘New Zealand’. They bring shame down upon the blonde community! I feel personally violated by their actions!
“Stop staring at Amy,” Gladys elbows me.
“B-b-but… she just told the Professor that the square root of 654239665 is 25578.11, not 25578.09! She is that stupid!”
“That’s great, but still. You’re being creepy. And what- what are you doing with your eyes?” Gladys blinks.
“She is bringing shame upon our species! How can you not back me up with this?” I demand, outraged at Gladys’s disinterested attitude.
“Not humanity; blondes of course,” I roll my eyes. Gladys is a wonderful girl, but she can be fairly narrow-minded at times. Still a damn sight smarter than any red-head though.
“Oh Scorpius,” Gladys smiles at me fondly. She is in awe of me, I can tell. “You are special.” Hear that, world? I’m special! Clear the way brown-haired peasants! Scorp is arriving in his red-and-gold-striped jetpack called Barney!
I smile smugly at the thought of Barney, a future invention of mine.
The bell rings and I expertly tip my books into my green dragon-skin bag and march out the door with Gladys at my side.
“How are those dancing lessons of yours going?” Gladys amiably enquires as we stroll down to the Great Hall for lunch.
“Rather well, thank you,” I grin. “I can now perform a pirouette! And mother says she will buy me some new ballet shoes very soon.”
“How fantastic,” Gladys smirks as we sit down next to Lorcan and Lysander. “Hear that Lorcan? Scorpy’s getting new ballet shoes!”
“Good for you,” Lorcan yawns. Gladys kisses him.
I do not approve of public displays of affection. They are uncouth and vulgar, and they bring a bad name upon us. But every now and then I allow it. Such as now, when my mind is too taken up with thoughts of Barney and ballet to bother pulling the two lovers apart. I like to think of myself as the handsome guy in love stories who makes everything more difficult and thus provides a far more interesting story to tell to any future children of theirs. They’ll thank me someday.
“Are you coming to the meeting this evening, Scorpius?” Lysander asks me while he carefully butters a piece of bread. “We have a new recruit, you know.”
I sniff. “I realised. And of course I’ll be coming; I am the deputy-deputy-deputy-deputy chairman. I take a position of such responsibility very seriously.”
“Of course,” Lysander nods. “I forget. Well, it starts at 8 in the Hufflepuff common room.”
“Very well,” I nod graciously.
8pm. At the WJALISYCUU meeting.
I am the proud deputy-deputy-deputy-deputy chairman of a club entitled ‘We Just Act Like It So You Can Understand Us’ or ‘WJALISYCUU’ for short. It is quite hard to pronounce the acronym, I admit, but if you purse your lips just so whilst speaking, it makes quite a pleasant vibration in your throat. We are proud defenders of blonde rights, and are strong anti-stereotype protesters. Every now and then, we get a new first year eager to join our ranks, and we hold an initiation ceremony such as the one I am currently sitting in.
I watch young Jackie Masters munch on her flapjack, critically assessing her potential as a WJALISYCUU member. As I ponder this, Lysander- who is our chairman- suddenly says my name.
“I now hand over to our deputy-deputy-deputy-deputy chairman, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, to brief you on the rules of this club.”
I get to my feet proudly. This is one of my many responsibilities as deputy-deputy-deputy-deputy chairman; seeing as I have memorised the rulebook off by heart, it falls to me to entrust the sacred text of its contents to the young ears of Jackie Masters.
“Greetings,” I bow. “I am Scorpius Malfoy, deputy-deputy-deputy-deputy chairman of WJALISYCUU. I invented the name of this organisation too, as a matter of fact.” The girl is staring at me, her mouth open. She is obviously impressed by my impeccable taste in clothing then; I knew it was a good choice to wear the green velvet cape and leopard-print jeans. “If you wish to be a member of this prestigious club, you must obey the rules. If you break a rule…” I pause for dramatic effect and loom over Jackie menacingly. “You will be fed to the giant squid!” My neon pink sunglasses choose that exact moment to fall off the top of my head and plop to the floor. It doesn’t matter though; everyone just assumes it was by design.
“Rule one,” I cough. “Do not speak of WJALISYCUU to any peasants. That is to say, non-blondes, or-“ I grimace. “People who have dyed their hair blonde. It is classed as blasphemy!” Jackie nods quickly and I feel proud.
“Rule two,” I continue. “You must respect all senior members of the club as they are far more wise and knowledgeable than you are.”
“And rule three: you must uphold the honour of being blonde at all times. This means never look stupid, foolish, ridiculous, or fake!” I let my cloak flutter elegantly to the ground for the final rule. “Finally, you must never, ever, ever stand for the nickname of ‘Blondie!’”
“Hear, hear,” Gladys mutters and I beam at her before sitting back down.
“So,” Lysander puts his fingertips together and looks Jackie in the eye. “Are you willing to abide by these rules and join us?”
Jackie suddenly changes her previously demure facial expression and smirks insolently. “You’re all crazy, my big brother was right!” she laughs and stands up, shovelling biscuits into her pockets. “Thanks for the free snacks, blondie weirdos!” she cackles and skips off.
Silence falls amongst us.
“Well.” Gladys says.
“Hmmm.” Lorcan frowns.
“Could have gone better,” Lysander nods in agreement.
“Can I have a promotion?” I ask hopefully. I’m planning on making badges for everyone out of locks of my own silky hair.
I bestow a brief pat of the head to my devoted pink pygmy puff pet, Einstein, as soon as I enter my dormitory. I called Einstein ‘Einstein’, because Einstein is a clever-sounding name which means that the person to give such a clever name must know about clever things and be clever. This was a very anti-blonde-stereotype-inspired motif. Lysander was proud of me for it.
Speaking of Lysander, he did indeed give me a promotion. I am now deputy-deputy-deputy Chairman of WJALISYCUU. This is because the previous deputy-deputy-deputy chairman, Gladys, said that the responsibility was too much for her and that she would rather give her rank to a worthier contestant.
Me! I am the worthier contestant!
I decide to spend my evening creating those badges for everyone. But I cannot quite bring myself to cut off any of my own beautiful tresses, so I steal some of Einstein’s pink fur. It is not quite blonde, but it will do. I feel a little mean as I snip off a few strands of pink Pygmy Puff hair, but I know that hair is dead so Einstein is in no pain. I feel rather proud of myself for knowing this fact.
Note to self: I am not sure whether Einstein is a boy or a girl to be honest. I must figure out a way to check this.
A roommate of mine walks in, and I dismiss him haughtily when I see that he is one of the redheads. He is also extremely untidy: I do hate untidiness. It is a mark of disrespect for your belongings, and I remain convinced that one day the world will discover that socks do have feelings, and one day they will rise up against us in the great Sock Rebellion of 2389 AD. I told Professor Trelawney this, and she looked at me in amazement and awe.
I hate to brag, but I think I’m her favourite student.
If only she had blonde hair… I suspect that she would be an excellent recruitment to WJALIYSCUU.
Author’s note: As you may have realised, I have strong feelings about all these blonde stereotypes out there. I hope you enjoyed Scorpius’s opinion on it all! This one-shot is a Christmas present for the lovely Lottie (TheGoldenKneazle). It is also a mark of the one-year anniversary of when we met on HPPC (which seems like a lifetime ago)! So happy annottiversary my dear! Thank you for being so amazing, a constant supporter and the nicest friend I could have ever been so lucky to have. I hope you enjoyed my little WJALISYCUU-supporting rant. Love you like a duck loves water