Rita Skeeter adjusts herself on the overstuffed couch. She sits primly on the edge of the seat, crossing her legs and tugging her skirt down over her knees; if she sits back too far she knows she'll have difficulty standing again without either help or sudden indecency in her short skirt. She's in Muggle clothing today, coming out to Gilderoy's home from the busy streets of London.
"You don't mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill, do you?" she says, and her voice is very, very pleasant. Years of interviewing have made it that way – pleasant and calm, though she hasn't quite achieved soothing yet.
"Oh, no, not at all!" The man sitting at her side smiles, lounging in an armchair that's the most hideous shade of violet that Rita has ever seen. It's a prize-winning grin that she's being treated to, she's well aware.
The man crosses his legs as well, resting his ankle on his knee, and she allows her lips to quirk up into a smile.
"So, tell me, now. Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin – "
"Third class."
"Third class," she says, gesturing to the quill with a toss of her head. Her blond curls shift from where they're set tight against her head, accenting a slightly masculine jawline and narrowed eyes despite her glasses, as though she's been reading miniscule handwriting for hours. "So many accomplishments, I'm sure."
"Yes, you could say that," says Gilderoy; he doesn't blush, and if anything his smile broadens. Rita glances at the quill, and Gilderoy's eyes follow her gaze.
"'His eyes shine with a sort of radia – '"
"Ignore the quill, darling," says Rita, laughing slightly. "It's my job to know what's being put down, don't worry about it."
Gilderoy looks back at her. "Well, it's a very flattering piece of work."
"Thank you...hm, let's see. Gilderoy Lockhart – Order of Merlin, third class – an esteemed young wizard no older than twenty-five..."
"The flattery continues!" laughs Gilderoy. Rita glances at the quill again and ignores him, continuing to dictate the opening lines. When she deems herself finished she snaps around, turning to Gilderoy with a smile.
"Tell me, Mr. Lockhart," she says, "about you."
"Oh, well, that's a bit of a broad subject, given my...achievements and all. What do you want to know?" Gilderoy says, sitting up a bit straighter and resting his hand on his knee.
"Everything."
Rita leaves an hour later, tucking the quill inside her jacket pocket, notebook brimming with information and the promise of another interview in two weeks. There's a car waiting for her on the main street.
Gilderoy walks with her through the garden path to the road, and watches her as she gets into the passenger seat of the idling car. She's well aware of him, and doesn't look back as the car pulls away.
Rita sits at her desk; she's been compiling notes on the Lockhart interview for the last three hours. She rests her chin on her hand and takes her glasses off, dropping them and letting them dangle at chest-level from the gold chain around her neck, before picking up her schedule. She's grateful that her handwriting is large; sprawling, loopy letters spell out her time management plan for the next two weeks. Her main project is arranging another interview, on a day in which she has hours to spare. Saturday looks promising; it's one of her rare days off, but it will be worth it.
Gilderoy Lockhart is perfectly willing to talk, and if the man wants to talk, she has every intention of letting him. He's an interesting piece of work, and she wants to know what lies underneath.
She smiles when she sees him next. He jumps up when she knocks and is at the door too quickly to look natural; she can see him through the parlor window.
"Ready?" she asks, tipping her head to the side.
"Very much so!" says Gilderoy.
"Good." Rita sets up her quill, and they talk. Gilderoy is a natural when it comes to giving interviews; he absolutely exudes energy, and Rita is grateful that at the very least their sessions won't fall flat.
She presses him about his achievements, and he's too willing to give information. She tips her head to the side as he talks, thinking. It hits her suddenly; it sounds almost as though he memorized this information from a –
"Ms. Skeeter?"
"Yes?" she says, jerked out of her thoughts.
"What's this about a textbook?"
"What?" she says, looking slightly confused before glancing at the quill. Ugh, damn.
"Yes, it wrote something about textbooks just now, may I please see...?"
"Oh!" she says, laughing and waving a hand dismissively. "I told you to just ignore it. It's been giving me trouble all day...temperamental thing, you know how they are. I'll have to look into a new one...perhaps you can repeat what you said so I can fix the error?"
Gilderoy looks at her strangely, but continues anyway. Before long, the slip is forgotten.
Rita keeps her notebook tucked close to her for the rest of the interview.
She sits at her desk the next day, staring at her notes. The word "textbook" followed by several question marks is, in fact, written in large block letters at the head of one of the pages. She thinks, then tears that page and the two preceding out of the notebook and sticks them in her purse to go home with her.
Rita knows a good thing, a good story, when she sees it. She tries to focus on the rest of her note compilation, and not on the way he was smiling at her as he walked her to the car yesterday.
Rita receives an owl at work three days later. She stares at the bird and at the envelope with its unfamiliar handwriting, then pulls out the neatly folded-and-creased piece of parchment within. She soon finds herself blinking as she notices that the entire thing appears to be scented with some sort of floral spray.
She reads the two words written on the parchment – Dinner tomorrow? – then checks the signature and smiles in spite of herself. Gilderoy Lockhart may like to talk, but he certainly is a man of few words when it comes to letters.
She jots off a reply, a sort of half-answer even more brief than his question; she feeds the owl with some treats she keeps tucked in her desk and sends it back.
She closes her eyes, wondering what that one-word reply – Where? – is going to bring her.
Rita sits at her dressing-table in her apartment in the wizarding district downtown, hair freshly washed and set. She considers her bottles of perfume, picking up three and setting them in front of her. Before long she smirks and puts two back, opting for the floral scent.
She walks into the restaurant an hour later, exactly on time; working at the newspaper has taught her punctuality if nothing else, and people often say that if Rita Skeeter doesn't appear at the exact time she tells you she will, your timepiece needs to be reset.
She tosses her head and looks about, trying to spot Gilderoy. He's dressed in some garish color, she's sure, and will probably clash with her own robes.
Gilderoy walks in fashionably late, just as thoughts of being stood up start to cross her mind. His outfit is just as disturbing as she had thought it would be, a violent shade of lilac.
"You told me seven-thirty," she says, sounding a bit more peeved than she really is.
"Ah, sorry!" he says, smiling at her anyway. "The table is reserved, no worries. I made sure to do it myself."
He's right, and before long they're seated. She stares at him, finding that stripped of her Quick-Quotes Quill she feels rather bare and really has nothing to say.
"Is there a reason for this?" she says.
"I wanted to talk to you."
"This isn't exactly routine interview procedure!" she says with a laugh.
Gilderoy laughs as well. "Is all of this off the records, then?"
"Absolutely. It almost has to be, doesn't it?"
"True..."
Dinner is, for the most part, very awkward. Their plates fill almost immediately as soon as both of them decide what they want, and Rita sits and picks at hers as Gilderoy talks. She's not sure what he's talking about half the time; probably a rather strained attempt at making small talk that's almost entirely about fame and adventures and things that Rita knows almost nothing about.
This is why she is surprised when the conversation is turned suddenly to her.
"What do you think?" says Gilderoy.
"About...what?"
"About this."
"It's nice," she lies, looking him in the eyes and wondering where this is going.
"About me, then."
A-ha. She realizes she's smirking half a second too late, and she replaces the expression with a smile.
"You're very...sweet, Gilderoy, but I really do think it's time I left."
"Do you live near here?"
She blinks.
"Did you walk? Because I can walk you home. It's late, and you shouldn't be walking back by yourself. You never know what might be jumping out of the dark at you, as the townspeople of Bandon once found out – "
"It's a good thing you were there to save them, in that case," she says, and the smile doesn't feel as forced this time. "All right. Shall we go, then?"
Gilderoy insists on walking up the back steps to Rita's apartment with her. He stands behind her as she finds the key in her purse, and she stiffens slightly as he puts a hand on her shoulder.
"Do you need help?"
"No, no, I'm fine," she says, digging the key out of the bottom of her purse and unlocking the door.
Gilderoy comes in behind her, still not removing his hand from her shoulder until she pulls away and starts lighting long, tapered candles. "Should still check the place," he says before he whispers "Lumos" as he pulls his wand out.
He starts walking around her apartment. "It's nice here," he says as he flings open the door to her coat closet as though he expects something to leap out at him, ready to attack. He gives her bedroom the same treatment, followed by her bedroom closet, and he pulls back immediately once he realizes where he is.
"I'll let you give that place the once-over!" he says, cheerful but obviously embarrassed, even though he doesn't blush.
Rita stares at him, amused.
"Well, now that we've verified that absolutely nothing is going to leap out of my closets – "
Rita is quite abruptly cut off by Gilderoy crossing the room and kissing her.
It's not a slow kiss, nor is it gentle; it's hard and fast and for a moment she thinks that she should step away; she should back away from him and slap him as hard as she can for presuming.
But the fact is that she doesn't.
She presses against him, reaching up and curling her fingers around his neck, into his wavy blond hair. He mutters something to her around the kiss just before he slips his tongue into her mouth, but she's not particularly interested in hearing what he has to say right now.
This is, after all, strictly off the record.
She crosses the bridge quickly, stopping halfway and leaning against the railing. After a few minutes of looking over the water, she reaches down and snaps her purse open.
The torn-out pages from her notebook are still inside, slightly crumpled. She smoothes them out, looking over her notes for a moment. The word "textbook" followed by multiple question marks glares at her, as do the rest of her doubts recorded by that quill.
She shrugs, then crushes the paper between her hands before throwing them down to soak and sink into the water below.