Written for the Battlefield Wars, for Rita Skeeter and Gilderoy Lockhart.
Sequel of sorts to Rita's Secret
Rita looked up from her page and stretched her hand, wincing at the cramp in her muscles. She looked up at the clock where it read five minutes past ten. Where was he? He promised to be back by dinnertime, but it was long past that now. Rita had eaten alone, and she didn't like it.
However, she had to contest, this story would not write itself. When she'd started writing these erotic novels, it was a fantasy, an escape. She'd only sent one off to a publisher because she'd finished it. Now, Adelpha D'Amour, supposedly the author, was taking the Wizarding world by storm, and this novel was supposed to be finished for her author by the end of the month. She looked at the three chapters she had and sighed. This was not the plan.
What she hated to admit was how the pseudonym, and the stories, were getting in the way of what she really wanted to do. Journalism had been in her heart for as long as she could remember, but the article she was supposed to write for The Daily Prophet that week, exposing the long-kept secrets of vampire society, lay unbegun.
She couldn't help but wonder what her life had become.
As if on cue, there was a shuffling and a banging outside the door. Her darling boyfriend staggered in and fixed her with a wicked grin.
"Darling, I'm home!" he shouted, much louder than he meant to, as Rita eyed him with derision. His shirt was untucked and half undone, his trousers soiled by goodness knows what: he was not the man she knew he could be. "Did you miss me?"
Ignoring his question, Rita said, "Your dinner's cold," her voice high and harsh.
"I ate at the pub. You won't believe it!" he exclaimed.
"I'm sure I won't, dear," she replied, knowing full well her boyfriend's penchant for deceit.
Her boyfriend swayed and tripped as he made his way across the room, heading for the velvet chaise longue they loved so dearly. He grabbed a decanter of whiskey on his way past and picked up a dirty tumbler.
"Don't you think you've had enough?" Rita asked, disgusted by the man stood in front of her, the great explorer that was Gilderoy Lockhart.
"Nope!" he replied, the grin still spreading his cheeks. "I met a man today, pissed off his face, he was!"
"That sounds familiar," Rita droned.
"He's met some Ghouls. Told me the whole story, he did. I wrote it down," he replied, flicking through his pockets to pull out some soggy pieces of parchment, scribbled all over in a messy hand.
"Lovely," Rita replied, turning back to her page on the mahogany desk and picking up her quill to write, 'Chapter Four'.
"He doesn't remember a thing now, of course, not even his own name!" Gilderoy began to laugh at his own words, ecstatic at his own actions.
"Lucky for him," Rita commented. If Gilderoy heard the sarcasm in her voice, he didn't comment. Instead, he was lost in his own thoughts, his dreams in his grasp.
"This is the one, Rita! I can feel it! This is the one for us, my dear! We can trade this shoddy apartment for the mansion of our dreams next month! No more rent for us!" he began, and soon was lost in an explanation of how different their lives would be because of this story.
Rita tuned him out, as she was used to doing, and began to think.
She wondered how, and why, their lives had turned out this way. She wondered if she would ever see the life she once dreamed of. Gilderoy had no doubt that he would, but as Rita looked at him now, all she saw was confidence that stood on a bed of quicksand. There was no hope for a man like that, not when all he had amounted to nothing.
When they'd began, it was exciting. They were both ambitious, both cunning; they both wanted to make something of themselves and had the wherewithal to go about it. But while she had the skill and talent, Gilderoy was lacking. She was going to be someone, she could taste it on the tip of her tongue. He was going to pretend.
"Rita, are you listening?" he asked.
"No," she told him, as she made a decision. Damn those stupid novels, and damn Gilderoy Lockhart. She was a woman, and she could do this on her own. In fact, she'd be damn well better off without him. "Actually, Lockhart, dear, I'm leaving," she announced, and stood to head to her bedroom.
He didn't argue. In his state, he probably didn't understand. She headed to their bedroom while he sat grinning like a fool and pulled a suitcase out from under the bed.