A lot of people seem to think I'm gay, even in spite of recently and relutcantly publicized escapades with a certain Daily Prophet reporter.

I'm not.

I know this because I tried. I think his name was Aidain or Angus or something very Irish like that. We met in a pub in London while I was doing my publicity tour for Travels with Trolls, so it was in the spring of 1985. April.

Anyway, we just were talking because it was one of those pubs where no one gives a damn who you are, everyone just wants to get drunk and be alone (usually), but he started talking to me and I didn't want to be rude. I'm sure he didn't know who I was. I wasn't even dressed normally because I was so desperate to get away from my agent at the time that I went to extreme camouflaging measures. (Her name was Tilly Ashdown and she was absolutely out of her head. But, I digress.)

So next thing I know, we're up in some shitty dodgy old room above the bar. Dark, cold, probably crawling with Merlin knows what—I'm sure you know the type of room I'm talking about. You see them in films, right? When someone's about to either die horribly or make a really poor decision? That was exactly where I was.

He was drunk, I was drunk. I distinctly remember wanting nothing more than to fall over and go to sleep, but he wanted other things. And I remember saying to him, "Sure, why the hell not?"

I will tell you why the hell not.

I probably would have felt more kissing a tree. Absolutely nothing happened. Nothing "stirred," as they say, which actually did surprise me, as he was one of the more handsome men I've met. By that point I was certain I was in trouble. He was considerably more enthusiastic than I, but a few minutes later he passed out (this may be one of the luckier moments of my life) and I ran. I didn't even wipe his memory, I was in such a rush. But I'm pretty sure the alcohol took care of that.