A/N: Welcome to our Bachelor AU. It's long and silly, like cgner (who is very tall). This story has eight proper chapters, plus a prologue and an epilogue. Chapters go up every Monday.

Cheers to Karaline, our wonderful beta, who read through this monster fic in one weekend.

Merry early Christmas, everyone!

Prologue

"But I don't want to be on The Bachelor," Lily said.

"Why not?" said Rufus, leaning back in his pretentious leather chair to better observe her. Its legs squeaked ominously against the floor. "You've already said that you're done with internet dating. Aren't you due for a change of tack?"

He was right, technically. Lily had used that exact term in conversation with a colleague the other day, though why her boss felt it prudent to listen in on her conversations and present them to her as supporting evidence for his mad scheme was beyond her comprehension.

"Changing tack would mean speed dating," she pointed out, "or… letting a friend set me up with someone, not making a spectacle out of myself on national television."

"Well, luckily for you, you won't be there to snag a mate—"

"Snag a mate?"

"—you'll be there for an exposé, and who doesn't love a good exposé?"

Lily could have sworn that she'd been hired on a promise of better assignments than this, but all she'd seemed to pick up since she'd joined the writing staff of The Daily Prophet were fluff pieces and entertainment editorials, hardly the hard-hitting political takedowns she'd once dreamed of. Rufus Scrimgeour, whether he'd admit it or not, was a fan of old-school misogyny, and tended to set his female writers to less stimulating tasks than their male colleagues.

It had been pissing Lily off for a long time, but while she secretly searched for a new job at a better publication, her bills still had to be paid. Thus, there she was, with the prospect of an undercover investigation finally before her, but he'd gone and assigned her this.

"If it's an exposé on something that matters," she said, running a hand through her loose, wavy red hair, "like human trafficking, or child abuse scandals in the church, then sure, but you're talking about an asinine reality show. Who would even care about that?"

"Plenty, I'd imagine. Our readers don't get their kicks from human trafficking—"

"Nobody should."

"Look, Lily," Rufus said flatly. "It's not a request, but a necessity at this point. I've already had word from a friend that Rita Skeeter liked your application and wants to meet with you."

"What application?"

"The application I wrote and sent in on your behalf."

"What—"

"It presents you in a most excellent light, I assure you."

"Does it present me in a consenting light?"

"Aren't I seeking your consent at this very moment?"

"It doesn't count if it's after the fact," she weakly protested. "Why have I been put forward for this? Why not Heather? Or Amy? She'd be well up for this kind of thing."

"Maybe so, but I felt that you have a particular set of skills that make you better suited to the task."

That was so patently ridiculous that Lily almost laughed outright. Particular set of skills. Who did he think she was, Liam Neeson? "If that's some poorly-disguised reference to my looks—"

"I never said that, nor will you ever hear it fall from my lips."

"But that's what you're implying?"

Rufus tossed his head, pointing his snubbed nose toward the ceiling. "I'm not getting hauled up before any sexual harassment tribunals."

"No, you're sending me to parade around on camera in bikinis and cocktail dresses, pretending to flirt with some self-obsessed, croquet-playing ponce while I humiliate myself in front of all of Britain, all for the sake of writing an article—"

"Exposé."

"Whatever, it doesn't matter. I don't want to do this."

"I know you don't," said Scrimgeour, "but you will, because it's your job, and because you've never yet failed to do it well."

"No, I haven't," she agreed with a weary sigh. "What do you need me to do?"

"But I don't want to be The Bachelor," James told his mum.

Euphemia waved a hand at him from where she lay on her favorite lounge, gracefully lit by the sun rays streaming in through the tall living room windows. "You're already a bachelor. What difference does it make if you're The Bachelor?"

He pushed himself off the sofa to give himself the illusion that he had more power over his mum if he reminded her he was taller. "Yeah, minor differences, like the entire country watching me go on dates."

"I'm sorry, James, for getting you into a situation in which you date hot girls. Have I got it wrong? Do you not want to date hot girls?"

"Not in front of four countries!"

"It's just the UK. That's a much smaller audience than the American version."

"That's still millions of people! And those shows are so cheesy and fake—"

She leveled a look at him. "They're fascinating. I love them. Don't ever insult them in front of me again."

"Mum!" He strode toward the windows, where he crossed his arms and stared out at the garden. Sirius was back there doing the crossword on a bench, blissfully enjoying his wonderful, privileged life where his acting-mum hadn't forced him onto a reality television show. Arse. "This is too far, even for you."

"Too bad I already forged all the paperwork for you and submitted it."

He spun around, arms dropping to his side. "And that was it? They don't, like, interview me or anything? Make sure I'm not a serial rapist-slash-murderer?"

"Those sorts of discoveries are what make shows like this so exciting."

"I refuse to believe they'd let me star on this show without talking to me."

"Funny enough, they did, since it's Rita's show and Rita adores me."

James's face paled. "Not Rita."

"She's brilliant at finding the story. And she knows how handsome and wealthy you are."

"And those were the two criteria? Fit and rich?"

"What else would they include?"

"Maybe someone's sense of humor, and charm, and, I don't know, the fact that they're willing?"

"You consented. I saw myself write your signature."

"That's not legally binding!"

She beckoned him over, and, fearing further bad news, he complied. She reached up and placed both her hands around one of his. "James," she said, looking up into his eyes. "Watching you be on this show is my dying wish."

"But you're not dying!" he said, trying to get his hand free. It did not work. He was taller, but years of baking naan had given her a mean grip.

"We're all dying, James. And when I go for real, seventy years from now—"

"What—"

"—watching you do The Bachelor will still be my dying wish."

"You mean watching me get married?"

"Yes. That's definitely what I said."

He tugged at his hand one more time. "Mum. For the last time: I am not doing this show."

She patted his hand and finally released him. "You've put up an excellent show of protesting, love. You can consider your dignity maintained. Now, let's go get you a nice outfit for the first episode."