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The Three Broomsticks is stuffed to maximum capacity that Friday evening, every level of the tavern filled with rambunctious students celebrating the most recent Quidditch match. Leander occupies a table on the second floor, surrounded by his fellow Gryffindor champions, the red-clad players drunk off spiked butterbeer.
He’s enjoying himself, especially when a pretty little sixth-year plops into his lap. She giggles at all his usual flirtations, her fingers toying with the ties of his beater’s armor as he lowers his head to whisper in her ear.
“Why don’t I take you to the Quidditch locker room and give you a little Leander Prewett?”
Miss Sixth-Year gasps, pushing away from him so she can stand. Before he can comprehend what’s happening, she slaps him right across the face. Leander rubs at the stinging spot on his cheek, watching in confusion as she flees down the stairs and out of sight.
“Wow!” Everett exclaims, landing in the nearby chair with enough force that the table shakes. He shoves a fresh tankard of butterbeer into Leander’s hands. “I’ve never seen you be rejected that harshly before…what was her problem?”
Before Leander can offer a guess, Sebastian appears, too amused for somebody whose team just lost.
“Did you seriously just ask her for a Leander Prewett?” he asks, patting him on the shoulder. “That is bold, my friend. Bold.”
“Eavesdropping again, Sallow?”
“I have excellent hearing.”
Leander rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why she got her knickers in a twist over what I said.”
“You do realize that a Leander Prewett is when you take your finger and run it around a bloke’s arsehole while you’re wanking him off into his own mouth,” Everett explains with perhaps too much enthusiasm.
“What the fuck?” Leander yelps, absolutely horrified. “Why is my name a sex act? A gay sex act!”
“You got something against the gays, Prewett?” Everett questions, snickering into his cup. “That’s not very ally of you.”
“What does it have to do with me?”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Sebastian chimes in. “A Leander Prewett is when two mates sixty-nine and fill each other’s mouths with baby batter, turn over and then blow it into one another’s bums.”
“Sweet Merlin, I’m going to be sick.” Leander hunches over, covering his face with his hands. “Why does it include bum stuff?”
“You got something against bum—”
“What are you lot talking about?” Imelda interrupts, slamming a bottle of firewhiskey on the table. To say she’s taking her team’s loss badly is an understatement.
“Bum stuff,” Everett answers. “Leander here didn’t know what a Leander Prewett was.”
“It’s my name!” he shouts in defense. “It’s nothing else!”
“Wait,” Imelda shakes her hands to silence their chittering. “Isn’t an LP when you give a bloke a handy while you both eat your way out of a pudding-filled bathtub?”
Leander isn’t as horrified by her description. “At least that sounds…reasonable.”
“There’s something about a turkey baster, too.”
“Never mind.”
“I’ve heard something different.” Eric, who was previously slumped over in his seat, rises from an inebriated nap. “You take a snorkel—you know, one of those face mask things Muggles use to breathe underwater—and put your willy in one end, and shove the other end up your own arse.”
Leander considers hexing himself unconscious.
Eric continues. “Then you just grab the middle of the snorkel and you’re fucking your own arse and pulling off your knob at the same time!”
“Speaking from experience, Northcott?” Sebastian snarks.
“Piss off, Sallow.”
“Oh, so you’re into that too, ehh?”
Before the two can get into a proper brawl, two more Gryffindors make their appearance at the table. Garreth happily plops down into the chair next to Leander while Lucan idles by the head of the table.
“What’s this about knobs and snorkels?”
“Nothing—”
“Leander doesn’t know what a Leander Prewett means,” Everett explains again.
“It doesn’t sound like any of you know, either,” Leander contends.
Lucan tilts his head in thought. “Isn’t that when you wank off so much your dangly bits get all red and sore?”
“My sweet, summer child!” Sebastian gasps, pretending to be scandalized. “Just whom did you learn that from?”
“Erm…you?”
“Have you no shame?” Imelda scolds, shaking her head in dismay.
Sebastian shrugs. “We both know the answer to that.”
“You’re all wrong,” Garreth announces, but doesn’t elaborate right away.
“Well?” Everett prompts. “Enlighten us, oh Wise Weasley.”
“Not when there are ladies present.”
“Imelda doesn’t count,” Sebastian responds, yelping when she punches him in the arm.
“He’s right. Spill it, Weasley.”
Garreth still hesitates, pointing across the table. “Somebody cover Brattleby’s ears.”
“Awe…”
After Imelda has covered Lucan’s ears with her hands, Garreth proceeds.
“Okay, so, from what I hear, a Leander Prewett is when you take a girl out for a huge meal, but don’t let her use the facilities, if you catch my drift.”
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Leander mumbles.
This time, Imelda smacks him. “Shh!”
“Then you have a bit of buggery with her until she relieves herself all over your pecker.”
Leander wishes he’d covered his ears.
“Right when you pull out, you rub the stuff on her back,” Garreth says, hand gestures and all. “That’s the Leander part of the act. The Prewett part is when you eat that junk off her back without using your hands.”
The table erupts in a combination of disgust and laughter, but Leander has heard enough. He stands, staring the group of so-called friends down.
“I’m disgusted that my good name is being used for such…bollocks!”
He snatches Imelda’s bottle of firewhiskey before stomping off in a huff. Garreth waits for him to be out of earshot.
“If you think that’s bad, you should hear what a Duncan Hobhouse is.”