For Camp Potter, Event: Fireworks Show. Pairing: RitaGilderoy.
Written for my darling Gamma Orionis, who I have been neglecting terribly lately (I know, this is not what you want from me right now). Sorry, lovely. I promised I would write you hipster!Rita/hipster!Gilderoy ages ago. I'm not terribly satisfied with how it turned out, but at least it's done. Hopefully it at least makes you giggle, love :)
Possibly OOC here. You've been warned.
She sighs impatiently, tapping her fluffy white quill absently against the parchment in front of her, the lack of ink making this a neater habit than it could otherwise be. She takes a sip of her boxed water and then tucks it back in her bag.
She sighs again, pulls off her glasses and cleans the thick frame on her fuchsia robes. She perches them back on her nose and goes back to tapping her quill.
He is late. Not just fashionably late, but late, late. And she is not happy.
The first thing she notices are the bright blue shoes. Her eye-line travels up orange, skinny-jean clad legs, past his blue button up shirt — only half buttoned over a black shirt with a logo she doesn't recognise — to his face, bearing a hundred watt smile and a pair of red Ray Ban sunglasses that he pushes up to rest in a golden mop of hair.
He is beautiful.
"Rita?" And his voice is as gorgeous as his smile.
"Are you Gilderoy Lockhart?" she asks, even though it's obvious that he is; who else could he be?
The smile is even more stunning when aimed right at her. "Please, call me Gilderoy."
He pulls the strap of his over-the-shoulder bag over his head and flops it gracelessly on the seat across from her and wanders up to the counter of the coffee shop without another word to her.
She can't decide if his behavior is terribly rude or terribly sexy. Perhaps a bit of both.
Eventually, he wanders back with a cup of something and sits down, popping off the top and blowing on the froth.
"Are you prepared to interview, Gilderoy?" She only asks because he doesn't look it — on the contrary, he looks prepared to lounge for hours, as though he has nowhere in the world he needs to be. She tried that attitude once, but found it didn't work out for her.
"I am prepared for anything, my dear." And he's an arrogant sod, but she finds she doesn't really care.
So she throws it right back. "You don't mind if I use a Quick Quotes Quill, do you darling?" Because when she phrases it like that it's hard to refuse.
He just waves a hand, and she pulls out the green quill, sucks on the end briefly, and then sets it to parchment and sets her gaze on that flawless face.
"So tell me, Gilderoy," she practically purrs. "How does it feel to win Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award for the fifth time?"
He beams, leaning back in his chair, an air of grace surrounding him. "It feels… right."
The answer is completely entitled and infuriating.
Rita manages to maintain just enough focus to continue the interview with her usual demeanor, but inside she is terribly distracted by the way he sips his drink, by the way he sits, by the way he gestures when he talks, by that smile, that face. She's lucky she's had a career in the public eye for years that has trained her to keep her expressions to herself when necessary.
She thought she was succeeding right up until the end of the interview, when he stood up, hugged her, and whispered in her ear, "A picture would last longer, darling. Owl me."
And then he was gone.
She sat at the table alone for longer than she'd like to admit, feeling oddly cold at the absence.