Disclaimer: As with all fanfiction, none of characters are owned by me.
Author's Note: This was submitted for the SAYS October Compeition. Want to thank SiriuslyCrack, Lyn, and Juls for helping me correct my mistakes throughout this entire piece.

A thin woman sat at a large oak desk, her normally heel clad feet piled atop the furniture. In her hands was a collection of interviews, each no doubt more tedious to read than the previous.

If only she could have another story like that one. Merlin himself would've rose from the grave if he had gotten that story. The glory of its details, of the tragedy that had taken place. It had made her more excited that she had ever been.

But until then she had been the lowest of the journalistic pyramid, which was the case at present as well. After that insufferable girl pulled her from the work force, she had been trying to claw her way back up. But no one listened; no one cared about Rita Skeeter.

All that climbing and falling lead to the day she finally surfaced. Sitting in the café wire chair, the smell of coffee drowning out the cries of children along Diagon Alley. Part of Rita had wished at that moment that the streets were as barren as they had been when the Dark Lord was still feared. Maybe then she could've enjoyed a decent cup of coffee.

But as she had sat there, horrifying shouts and laughter came from the far end of the lane. Parents rushed their children inside in hopes of shielding them from whatever had made such sounds. Rita could remember herself twisting in the chair only to see smoke, among it flashes of brightly colored lights. Spells, to be more specific.

In a near flash, she had sprinted from the chair, coffee forgotten. It was not the human in her, worrying for the children nor the urge to help that made her run so fast. It was the horror of missing any of the fight. Why, if she had missed a single spell, how could it be on the front page of the Prophet?

With spells flashing and Aurors pushing her from every direction, Rita had barely seen the particular spell that had hit him. The man had fallen, the sound of his head smashing into the road nearly sickened her. But his hair had caught her eye, the well known fiery red. The woman who had sent the spell had captivated her as well. Rita had watched as she had dropped her wand, sinking onto the floor with more tears than imaginable.

Rita sighed, looking back down at the papers she still held. How could she have gone from such a story to seated, late at night, sorting papers job? Had there not been a death that night, one that nearly plagued an entire family and more? Yet she still sat, interviews now her work, not the stories she had loved.

Still loved.

The newspapers and articles she had read as a child seemed to have never taught her about the true meaning of a journalist. What the horrid paperwork involved was never told through those pages of epic adventures. If they had, Rita was certain she would've picked something more exciting in all aspects. Perhaps being a flubberworm expert.

Now, now—let's be a little less critical. Sure, the papers had become the most horrifying part of Rita's career. But quite honestly, she did have many other duties as a journalist. You see, she had to file the interviews as well.

She sighed, dropping her feet to the floor. Rita pushed her glasses up her nose, roughly shoving the stack of oh so dreadful papers onto the table top. It seemed that she finally gave up...

She stood, staggering as the blood rushed towards the tips of her toes. A tickling sensation shot up her legs as she stepped forward, each fast asleep. Rita hesitantly stepped forward once more, a rare giggle escaping her as the humorous feeling shot up once more.

Rita slowly walked to the far wall of her office, or in better terms, her closet. Really, an office the size of a postage stamp couldn't possibly be called an office. None the less, Rita stood in front of the far wall. Framed and mounted was an article. The particular one mentioned countless times above.

"Rumble" In Diagon Alley

Along the safe cobbled streets we all know so well, there has been a brutal accident. One that most would not wish to mention. But this reporter, Rita Skeeter, is ready to give witches and wizards a true account of what happened on that fateful night.

The sounds of children's laughter had been deadened by booming shouts. With each spell spoken, each incantation whispered and each charm sent, the Dark Lord's remaining supporters seemed to swarm in. It may be true that the creature himself no longer exists but it is evident that those who followed him are still among us.

It has been told that known witches and wizards beneath the robed supporters were Antonin Dolohov, Walden Macnair and Bellatrix Lestrange. Known as the many who still stand for You-Know-Who's beliefs, those three along with others have done more than imaginable. We've seen them destroy other fellow wizards, fearing that they couldn't be stopped.

But while those who wore the masks entered, our own soldiers came in. Clad in robes of grand cotton and ready to defend those who needed it. Each blink seemed to sum Auror after Auror, and every one fighting with every last bone in their bodies.

One auror in particular, Nymphadora Tonks, fought harder and better than the rest. But the effort she gave seemed to come at a grave price. Although the spells sent by the woman saved many, it hit one man in particular. The death of the belove--

Rita stopped staring at the frame, hearing the voices of people coming closer to her office. Sharing the office of sorts with another hadn't been her favorite part of returning to the journalism career. As the door to her tiny office opened, Rita Skeeter slumped back into her seat, wishing she could find another story like that one.