Let me tell you, Black, that little stint of yours potentially traumatised a remarkably agile, surprisingly flexible and potential filled-sixthyear for life, thank you. By Merlin, I finally scored myself a Quidditch player and you and your scary face and crazy eyes go and frighten him off! And do you remember Henry? Henry couldn't so much as look at me for the rest of our school terms, and finding a date after that became a nightmare, thankyou. I still hope you're bloody proud of yourself. If I die an old hag, it's your bloody fault.
And not my fault I'm not half as good at hiding men as you are. I bring up one Remus J. Lupin as people's exhibit A, thank you.
Hah! Dashing? Brooding? Handsome? Is that what they're saying? Are they sure they're your students? Maybe they've got you confused with someone else. You're more the 'Scruffy, firewhiskey-reeking, dog face' club, I think they meet down the hall.
Please. I refuse to believe anyone other than you says it, mate.