Ah, yes. The popular, Witch Weekly-affiliated Scaramouche novellas. Featuring beautiful young witches who have no idea how beautiful they are. Secret inheritances. Tragic upbringings. Dead parents by the cauldronful. And chiseled young men who swear, “No, no, my darling! You must never love me, for I’ve a terrible secret. No, it’s not my piles of money. No, it’s not my Quidditch prowess and my vast reserves of magical power. No, it’s not the fact that I clearly have some kind personality disorder, given my tendency to become enflamed with masculine ardor and rage whenever I think of your other suitors. It’s darker than that, my darling! Much darker.”
What? No, don’t be silly. Of course they aren’t werewolves or vampires. Sweet Helga, what a notion. Imagine being in love with a werewolf or a vampire. Let’s save that for the racy trash they peddle on Knockturn corners.
No, silly, Scaramouche heroes are often half-bloods (or, more commonly, pure-bloods who mistakenly believe themselves to be half-bloods until the truth of their ancestry is revealed). Perfectly marriageable fellows, really. Who happen to enjoy handsome grimacing, hidden inner pain, shirtlessness, and sex in the bath.