Artificial Glow

It started with a small, silverish strand of hair; a small strand that was very inconspicuous to another's eyes, but shone much too brightly for hers. It was rather annoying, almost blinding when the light shone upon it, and Rita Skeeter took to wearing hats, feeling much more confident in her ability to dictate the latest fashion, than to explain that she was . . . well, that the number of years she had been living was suddenly getting . . . .

She could barely face the thought of thinking such words and found that a few peach schnapps quickly took the thought of thinking away. A few laughs, a little sway of her hips as she walked, and a large hat with a large feather made the thought of "getting old" much more bearable to her. She felt like she could have been a mistress of some young big-shot. The only fact to disprove this idea was that she hadn't been laid in ten years.

She was sitting in a bar, covered in dust so thick no sun, natural or unnatural, would have penetrated the curtain. Her hand held a champagne glass, stained with the pink lips of other wanton women. She was observing a man, or more to the truth, a young boy with a man's smile, and she held her glass up in invitation when he turned to her. The bubbly liquid inside sloshed over her hand when she realized who they boy was.

"Why, if it isn't little Harry Potter . . ." she said quietly, loud enough for only the two of them to hear.

"Rita Skeeter?" he asked incredulously, thinking back to the headlines that had graced the Daily Prophet's front page a few years ago, detailing Ms. Skeeter's career destroying affair with Rufus Scrimgeour. It had been a terribly dirty tale, yet Harry could distinctly remember that Rita might have gotten what she deserved, after writing false tales of prominent woman caught in a similar situation.

"Yes, it's the famous Rita Skeeter!" She gulped down the rest of her champagne. "It must be so hard to recognize me, I'm sure. What with the hat and glasses and everything. You know, I went to the Carribean a few weeks ago and got quite a wonderful tan."

Harry viewed her tan; even in the low light, it seemed fake and orange. She laughed flippantly and threw her head back. "Why, I'm just living wonderfully these days."

He nodded. "I'm sure you are, Rita. Well, I have to go." He waved politely and began to leave, but she stopped him with her vulture-like fingernails.

"Harry Potter," she said. "I think I envy you sometimes."

He looked down at her, noticing the dark bags under her lifeless eyes. The artificial glow of her face outlined her wrinkles heavily. "Er . . . ." he began, unsure of what to reply.

"Oh no, no," she said, waving his uneasiness off. "Don't say anything. Hate me, please? Hate me for everything I've done to anyone. Just promise me that, will you Harry Potter?"

"Er . . . sure."

She smiled and let go of him. "Harry Potter hates me," she whispered to herself as he walked away, thinking that it felt good to be hated again.

Pity was the only emotion she ever received from others. Even during the few trips into London she took to replenish her supply of whiskey, the muggles had eyed her disheveled appearance with pity, assuming she was nothing but a drunk, caught in an endless cycle of addiction.

She laughed again, feeling the eyes of the people around her turn to see what was so funny. "I am hated!" she yelled out in a delirium only a very potent liquor can cause. "And I hate you all!"

She drowned her glass, and ordered another one.

FIN.


A/N: For the Hideaway.

word count: 625