Title: Poppy Skeeter's Very Secret Diary
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Genre: Humour
Rating: PG13
Inspiration: "Natalia Adani and the boys of Hogwarts" by Rachel Perez. (A fantastic fic – if you haven't already, I highly recommend that you read it. And if you're out there, Hayley - *waves* hi!!!)
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Summary: Rita Skeeter's only child – a Hogwarts student at her mother's wishes. Armed with only a quill, parchment and an acerbic wit, will Hogwarts be changed hereafter, or will the school change her instead?
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Disclaimer: Hogwarts, other Wizarding institutions and any characters you recognise are the intellectual property of J. K. Rowling. The characters you don't, especially Poppy, are mine. I'm writing this for a laugh, not to make a profit.
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Poppy Skeeter's Very Secret Diary
By: shewhodares
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Date: 1st September, 1991.
Place: Platform 9 ¾, King's Cross Station, London.
Brilliant. Just brilliant.
After all this time, after all the arguments we've had about where I'm going to school, how does my mother wish me goodbye? She kisses me on the cheek, puts a look of hard-done-by sadness on her face, and says "Have a nice time at Hogwarts, darling!"
I hate her.
But perhaps I should explain myself. If you're reading this years from now (in which case I want to know what the hell you're doing reading my diary), I don't want you to think that I'm some horrible little cow with no manners. In fact, I'm quite the opposite, it's just that my mum could tire the patience of a saint.
Actually, that's a little unfair. Let's make it a saint with an extra shiny halo who's just won 'The Daily Heaven Press' award for Holy Personality of the Year – the hundredth year running. That'd be slightly more accurate. But I digress.
My mother is Rita Skeeter – the woman who personifies the saying "the pen is mightier than the sword". Some old bloke said that – I don't know who, but bloody hell, he was spot on. The Skeeter name is mud in the Wizarding world because of articles that my mum's written. Pretty much everyone's scared of her and her ability to wield words like weapons. If she takes a dislike to you – you've had it, my nosy little friend. Nothing stops her when she's on a roll, and when she wants to get a story, there's no such thing as stooping too low. Stop me if you're getting scared already.
What puzzles me is what on earth made my dad marry her. They met at school – yes, the infamous Hogwarts – but whereas he's a shy and retiring little mouse, a reasonably decent person, she's a ruthless dragon of a woman who makes and drops friends like dirty tissues (guess what house she was in). I'm starting to think that he was scared of her, too – scared into marrying her, that is.
My point – and I do have one, believe it or not – is that Hogwarts is at the centre of all this mess. I figured that if I was brought up like Mum was, I'd turn out like her – Merlin forbid – so my idea was to avoid her old school like the plague. I convinced Dad that Beauxbatons was a better choice, and things were all going to plan –
Until she found out.
Several yelling-matches later, we'd established the following.
One, I was going to Hogwarts, and that was final.
End of list.
Isn't democracy wonderful?
Ms Skeeter Snr has this incredible idea that as I'm her only daughter, I'm going to follow in her footsteps. To put it in her words – "It's your duty to do your name proud". Silly bint hasn't figured out that the best way to do that is to be as unlike her as possible, but that doesn't help me one bit.
So here I am, on Platform 9 ¾ at King's Cross Station. On one side of me, there's 'Worst Mum In The World' TM, who's now crying hysterically about losing her darling baby daughter (and attracting several funny looks while she's at it, attention seeker that she is), on the other's a manky looking steam engine that's due to leave any minute now, and here I am in the middle, clutching what's left of my luggage and desperately wishing I wasn't here.
Now I come to think of it, that manky old train is looking more and more attractive by the second.
Hey, it's either that or stay here and risk further embarrassment. I'd call it an exercise in damage limitation.
So what do I do? Quickly mutter "bye mum" (Dad didn't come to the station – he's got more brains than I thought, that bloke), and before she can squeeze the last breath out of me, make a run for it.
Thank Merlin these doors lock.
The last sight I'll see of Mum before the Christmas hols – an ever decreasing speck of peroxide fluff on the horizon. Sheer bliss. You know, I bitch about her a lot, but the best thing she ever did for me was buy me this book of parchment and a long lasting quill from Diagon Alley. Yeah, she did it hoping that it would bring out the roving reporter in me (and bring me closer to a Skeeter-ful end), but it does mean that should anything interesting happen over the next few months, I can write it down in case it's useful. Oooh, the possibilities.
Wait – I sound like her already! Crap! Still, I can be better than her. I could easily get gossip like she does, but use it against people who actually deserve it (like my dear darling mummy, for instance). I can't wait.
My name is Poppy Skeeter, and this is my diary.
~ * THE END * ~
A/N: Yay, a new fic! I didn't originally plan to begin writing this so soon, but the plot bunny's been hopping around for a while now, and as I've put off writing more "In the name of Helga" and "The Magic of the Night", my more difficult works, until my finals finish on June 20th, I've decided to get this (more light-hearted) fic underway as a relaxation method more than anything else.
As I said, this was inspired by the lovely Hayley (Rachel Perez), so if you've read this, go read her Natalia Adani fic, and you'll see why I wanted to write a diary in the first place.
Also currently in the works as a bit of light hearted fun is "The Rivendell Rouge", a suitably mad spoof of "Moulin Rouge" and "The Lord of the Rings", so if you're a fan of either, take a look.
And if you've got this far already – READ AND REVIEW!!! Cheers, m'dears ;)
* ~ shewhodares ~*