For the Write Something Random (GilderoyRita, quill, green) and the Ultimate Patronus Quest (beetle: Write about Rita Skeeter)

The Healer hesitates when she sees Rita. "I'm not sure that Mr. Lockhart is in any condition for an interview," she says dryly.

Rita rolls her eyes. She fishes out her trusty quill and hands it over. "I'm here on personal business," she says, a chill in her voice. "Gilderoy is my… He's very special to me."

The Healer doesn't seem satisfied. Rita suspects that she'll keep an annoyingly close eye on the visit. But Rita doesn't care. It isn't an interview she's interested in.

"Has his condition improved? Off the record, of course."

The Healer shakes her head. "The damage was too great. I'm not sure that he'll ever really be completely here again."

Rita nods and takes a deep breath. She's put this off as long as she could. The thought of seeing Gilderoy so broken, so vulnerable has given her nightmares. But after two weeks, she's decided that it's time.

She enters his little room, and her heart breaks instantly. The man that she loves sits, his quill scribbling nonsensical lines over the parchment. He looks up when she enters, and he smiles. It isn't the smile that she's always loved, that bold, arrogant smile that can capture even the most stubborn of hearts. It's a childlike smile, so innocent and carefree.

"Are you a fan?" he asks. "I'm told I have lots of those. People write me letters all the time. Look! I can do the loopy letters again."

Rita tries not to cry. "You don't remember me?"

He stares at her, and she holds her breath. She's worn the green dress that he's always loved, hoping that it would spark something in his shattered brain. "Should I?"

Rita exhales, and it hurts. She's nothing but a stranger in his eyes now, a face that will blur in with the crowds. She sits beside him on the bed. "I guess you can say that I'm your biggest fan," she says gently.

There's that smile again, so sweet yet so wrong. Rita feels her hands tremble. She has to be strong. Breaking down is not an option.

"Twelve women said they were my biggest fans," he says, counting on his fingers, the numbers jumbled into a strange pattern. "One. Two. Seven. Four. Twelve!"

"I assure you, Gilderoy, I was your biggest fan," she says. "Aside from yourself, of course."

She wishes he would laugh the way he used to. But her remark is only met with a confused frown.

"Never mind," she whispers. "I loved- I love you. And you loved me. We used to have lunch in Hogsmeade every Thursday. Do you remember?"

He shakes his head. "You're very pretty," he says with a giggle before his expression grows sad. "I wish I could remember you."

Now, the tears do fall. Rita wipes them away quickly. She hates crying, hates any sign of weakness. "You used request an interview from me whenever you grew bored with other reporters. You told me you'd never get tired of me."

He reaches out, placing his hand gently on hers. "My brain is broken. It's all funny. Was I your biggest fan?"

"Yes, my love. We were each other's biggest fans," she says, her voice cracking. She climbs quickly to her feet. "I must go."

"Can you come back for me? No one ever does," he says.

Rita closes her eyes. Seeing him like this hurts. But knowing that he's here alone hurts even more. "If you want me to."

"And you can tell me stories," he continues. "Stories about us?"

'Anything you want, my love."

"Maybe I'll remember."

But Rita doesn't have much faith in it. Even if she visits tomorrow, he'll have probably already forgotten her. She turns quickly, hurrying from the room.

"Miss Skeeter! Miss Skeeter! Your quill!" the Healer calls, catching up to her.

Rita takes it with a polite smile. "He gave me that quill, you know," she says. "It was a birthday present. Said a pretty reporter needs a pretty quill."

The Healer nods. "I didn't realize you two were…"

"If there's one thing I've learned as a reporter, darling, it's that some things shouldn't be terribly public. Imagine the circus if anyone knew."

Before the other woman can respond, Rita walks away, clinging to the quill, to the only thing she has left of the the man she loves.