A/N: The credit of the Harry Potter plot and characters belongs solely to J.K. Rowling. I own nothing of it but my own words.

This is a series of very short stories in no particular order about characters with nothing in common except that they have stories that need to be told. Maybe I'm not the one who should be telling them, but I can sure as hell start.

Liar: In Defense of Rita Skeeter

Rita Skeeter was an attention seeking liar. It's the harsh truth of who she was, and there was really no denying it. She was ruthless and self-important and willing to say anything for a few seconds of fame.

But has anyone stopped to ask why? What would drive a person so far to the edge that glory was the only thing that mattered to them? What would lead a reporter to stop pursuing the truth?

People have hated her and idolized her. They have scoffed at her and hung onto her every word. They have ignored her and confronted her. They have reacted exactly the way her work was meant to make them.

But has anyone ever stopped to wonder why? Has anyone ever taken a second — just a second — to try to understand her?

Hermione Granger came close. "You don't care, do you," she once said, "anything for a story, and anyone will do, won't they?"

Hermione may have tried. She may have judged her. She may have villainized her, but she'd wondered. Maybe she'd always wonder.

But Hermione was wrong. Rita Skeeter did care. Rita Skeeter cared passionately, whole-heartedly. She just cared about different things.

She cared about fame and fortune and having everyone in the Wizarding world know her name. She cared about herself and her influence, and that's all that really matters, isn't it? She cared about the words her quill scribbled on the page as it glided across that parchment, every word. She cared about the roof over her head and the clothes on her back. She cared about the cigarette in her right hand and the wand in her left. She cared about her beautiful jeweled spectacles and her perfectly curled blonde hair. So maybe her cares weren't perfect, but whose are?

Certainly not Dumbledore's. His cares led to Grindelwald; his cares hurt him, and they hurt Harry too. Not Snape. Definitely not Snape. Snape's cares led him to be a Death Eater; his cares tormented children for years. Not Harry, either. His cares made him too impulsive; his cares led people to die, including himself.

Rita Skeeter was not a good person. There's no denying that. But let's try to see what so many others refused to look for. Maybe if we look hard enough, we'll see a human. An imperfect being. Someone who made mistakes.

Let's do something radical. Something crazy, something odd, something no one has dared to do.

Let's give Rita a chance.

Let's look at Rita Skeeter, with her fake nails and curled hair and Quick Quotes Quill and see beyond that. Let's see a girl who dreamed her whole life of being a journalist, of seeing her name on a byline. Let's see a girl with green and silver on her chest — and let's be truthful here, she had green and silver in every fiber of her being — who fantasized of being important, of meaning something to the world. Of being someone people relied on. Of being great.

Let's see a girl who spent her every waking moment writing, who whiled away countless nights with a Lumos'd wand and a prose book before her. Let's see a girl who graduated Hogwarts among the top of her class, who kissed up to Slughorn so he could introduce her to the best of the best, the most famous and renowned writers in the Wizarding world. Let's see a girl who bought herself a Quick Quotes Quill her first day on the job and never looked back.

Let's see a girl who walked into The Daily Prophet headquarters with bright eyes and an open mouth. Let's see a girl who labored day and night on her first story, who checked and double-checked every source, every detail, every letter. Let's see a girl who once wrote the truth.

When her first article was published, no one read it. It was on page twelve, and no one looked past page eleven.

When her first article was published, she went to Fortescue's ice cream parlor and watched as everyone flipped past her page, ignored the story she'd worked tirelessly on.

She went home that night and cried until her face was red and puffy and she couldn't muster up any more tears. She looked long and hard in the mirror, and she punched it.

After she'd repaired the mirror and healed her hand, she cut her mousy brown hair, and she dyed it blonde. She curled it into ringlets and plucked her eyebrows thin. She painted her lips red and bought a pair of shocking scarlet heels to match.

And then she looked again. And she smiled.

And it wasn't the shy smile she'd given during her interview. It wasn't the genuine smile she had when she laughed. It was confident and it was fake and she liked it.

She turned in her next article, and it wasn't some fluff piece like her first one. It didn't spout on about the goodness of the world. It was an exposé. And maybe it wasn't entirely true, and maybe she'd had to eavesdrop to get some of the information in it, but it got attention. It was on page six, and people read it, moved on, and then reread it. And Rita smiled that fake smile, went home, and researched better ways to eavesdrop.

She spent the next year of her life becoming an Animagus. She didn't register (how could she let people know her secret to success?).

She never looked back.

(Years later, she'd be stuffed into a jar and blackmailed by a fifteen-year old girl. She wouldn't like it. You see, this girl was too much like Rita. Not Rita now, but Rita then. The Rita that had been obsessed with changing the world and making a difference. That Rita was long gone, but here was the girl.)

Every story was a little less truthful than the last, but it was a little more popular than the last too, and that's what matters. To Rita, anyway.

She was living her dream. She was famous and she was listened to, and she mattered.

Rita never looked back. She never was a good journalist, never managed to tell the whole truth, but she could tell a good story.

Rita Skeeter was a girl who found herself and lost herself all in the same day. She wore her heels and her head high, and she was not ashamed. She was a liar, and she was proud.

She got what she wanted, and she never compromised, and that's what matters, isn't it? She got everything she had ever dreamed of, and that's enough, right?

Except sometimes at night, when she was in bed trying to go to sleep, the smirk slipped off her face, and a frown replaced it. Sometimes at night, she'd get a little niggling feeling in the pit of the stomach, and she'd brush it away. She'd bury it deep, so deep that she wouldn't think about it the next day, almost wouldn't remember it, but she'd feel it all the same.

She'd tell herself it was the price of fame. She'd tell herself it was the coming down from a high after a good story, but since when has Rita Skeeter told the truth?

(She'd told it twice, once in her first article, and once to Harry Potter. She really did know things about Ludo Bagman that would make your skin crawl, and it would have made a great story.)

So yes, Rita Skeeter wasn't a good person, but she could have been. She was shallow and selfish, but she found it was safer that way. She wasn't nice, but she was only trying to protect herself. She wasn't Ravenclaw material, but she could aim as high as the best of them and shoot even higher. She wasn't brave, but she'd do anything for a story. She didn't tell the truth, but there was truth in what she said. No, she wasn't honest, but she'd tried to be, once upon a time. And doesn't that count for something?

So yes, I'd say Rita Skeeter deserves a chance. And maybe you couldn't trust what she said, but she'd appreciate it all the same. Because maybe, just maybe, under all the curls and lipstick and venom, there is a human being.

Rita Skeeter was a liar through and through, and she wasn't ashamed. But surely, there are worse things to be.