All I ever wanted was to be a journalist, not so much because of who my father was, but really because I believed in the truth, something which was lacking in many of the stories written. These days, it seems the news is not so much about the facts as it is about what sort of spin a reporter can put on it and how many lives they can destroy in the process.
People used to laugh when I told them my passion for such things and I guess it was because of the things my father wrote about, which I believed wholeheartedly until he died and the truth was revealed about the creatures Xenophilius Lovegood professed to be true. My whole life and everything I believed in were a farce.
Out of sheer anger I dismantled the Quibbler. I knew it was a dying magazine, anyway, but once the truth was out My father's name and everything associated with it, would be the subject of much ridicule. One day I would start my own with the fortune derived from the Quibbler, but not until people forgot about that magazine.
For the moment, though, I was an intern at the Daily Prophet, who was yet to see her first story in the pages of the longest serving newspaper in the wizarding world, although dreamed that I would spy my name in the by-line of the front page story. That page was usually taken up by Rita Skeeter, who was one of the editors and renowned for bending the truth. In fact, she bent the truth so far, that it usually snapped and lies spilled out from her quill onto the page. Just like my father and his Quibbler, the people loved her works, well until they became the subject of her lies.
Every day I would find a story, interview the relevant witches and wizards involved, do the write up and I would hand it to the editors, hoping that this would be the one which would propel me to front page news. I'd settle for the second page, the third page, the middle or anywhere for that matter, at the rate I was going, but each day I would browse the pages, each time the dread of what I knew I would find, seared my heart. Nothing nowhere, what so ever.
It was during lunch with Harry, Hermione, Neville, Ginny and Ron that I got the idea for the story that would change all of that. I just didn't realize the effect it would have on me, either. You see, each week, the six of us get together in the Three Broomsticks, and just like old times, just before the war, we would chatter about other people from Hogwarts, you know, teachers, who's dating who, who's married and who's in Azkaban or St Mungos, that sort of thing. These days, though, it's usually with a hint of nostalgia, especially when someone mentions, Fred or Dumbledore, Sirius, Dobby, the Lupins or somebody else who was taken by the war.
"You know what, though, I would do it all again if I could," Harry said clearly, "Minus Voldemort and the war, of course. Oh to whip Malfoy's ass just one more time in a quidditch match." He was smiling and we all knew what he meant. Draco Malfoy was..... well what can I say about him? He was obnoxious, mean, an elitist and the son of a Deatheater who followed in his father's footsteps and was always out to get Harry and the rest of us, but he soon woke up towards the end of the war and realized that basing his life on hatred would only lead to misery and loneliness. Now he is Harry's partner and just as dedicated to fighting evil as an Auror as Harry is.
"Is that git giving you grief again?" Ron asked, shaking his fist and gritting his teeth.
"Actually, Ron, Draco's really proving his worth. He's not the same bigot we remember." The look on Ron's face was almost like disappointment. He never did get to pummel the guy for the names he called the Weazley's and Hermione, who he was still trying to win over. Honestly I didn't think Ron and Hermione would ever make it.
"What would you go, Luna, if you could go back and do it again?" Hermione asked trying to steer the conversation away from Malfoy, who she too had not forgiven for his taunts.
"I'm not sure. Hogwarts was great the first time, especially the thestrals." Thestrals are these zombie horse- like creatures that tow the wagons of children to the Hogwarts Castle at the beginning of the year. The funny thing about them, though, is that only people who have seen death will ever see them. Everyone except Harry thought I was loony, because they couldn't see them. That's actually what people used to call me. However, since the war, everyone who fought has seen them and Hermione especially was really apologetic for not believing me. "I guess I wouldn't talk about the quibbler so much and so-called creatures my father wrote about, that he supposedly saw."
"I knew those crumple-horned thingies weren't real!" Ron exclaimed, but was soon double over with agony from being whacked by Ginny and Hermione at the same time.
"Sadly, it's true. The Crumple-horned Snorkack does not exist. It was one of the many stories my father made up to sell copies of the Quibbler." Old tears burned my eyelids, but I refused to let them out. So much of my life was built on fairytale and it did nothing to help me make friends.
"That's it!" I cried, mid thought. My five friends jumped back from me as far as they could in the booth where we sat.
"What are you talking about?" Ginny dared ask and I could tell they were all expecting me to say something really weird like old times.
"That's going to be my next story : Growing up a Young Witch at Hogwarts! It's brilliant!" I was leaping out of the booth (luckily I was on the end so I didn't knock everyone over in the process). Then suddenly feeling embarrassed with everyone looking at me like I'd lost the plot, I added, sheepishly, "Um, I have to go now," and bolted out of the Three Broomsticks before any of them could ask me anymore. When I was back out on the street, I apparated to the office of the Daily Prophet to make my proposal to Rita Skeeter.