The Pitch

It had been at least a month since Rita Skeeter left her post at the Daily Prophet . For maternity leave. I'm not sure who the poor sap was that actually managed to impregnate such a dreadfully irritating woman. Not my business, though. What is my business is that ratings have been down since then. Everywhere.

Being a rookie reporter/journalist isn't something I'm proud of. It's tough getting the big jobs, the big stories. Proving yourself is all you ever seem to do, day in and day out. But I was about to make my luck change. You see, the Muggles have a thing they like to call "Reality Television". I've tuned in here and there. It's awful. Absolute rubbish. And it doesn't even take a little bit of truth serum or a good dose of the Imperius curse to get these Muggles talking and doing things—crazy, assinine things—for my viewing pleasure. If you could call it, "pleasure".

That's when it hit me.

Why don't wizards do this kind of thing? I mean, of course it's cause we don't really spend time in front of the telly. And not too many of us are willing to broadcast our lives for the world to see. But I could only imagine…what would happen if those cameras were on us just once, on the wizarding world…

I decided then that I was going to become a producer. I was going to look for a new kind of inside scoop...

Well, it all began with this idea.

It was good-bye reporting and hello show business!

A pitch to the network execs. Consulting with writers.

Next thing I knew I was standing in a tiny, many-trinketed room - the Headmaster office - a far-off and forgotten place stowed among one of Hogwart's many towers.

I watched as the wrinkled old man scratched idly at his white-haired brow.

'Well, Mr—er—'

'Muddlesworth, sir. Kenneth Muddlesworth, Mr. Dumbledore, sir,' I reminded.

The man was strange, his ice-blue eyes on me with such concentration. For a time, I wondered if he could see into my soul.

He continued on, not caring to address me properly. 'Well, I'm not sure about this reality show idea. But you know, next to the Triwizard Tournament which near kills someone every once and a while, I suppose this would be nothing.'

'Er, sorry about that...tournament.'

'Oh well, water under the bridge.' It was a peculiar thing he did next after such a dismissive line. He smiled.

'Right, my thoughts exactly, sir!' I said, feigning deference.

Anyway, the Headmaster understood at least. Which is perfect for me. What better setting for Reality Television than a school filled with batty, unpredictable children? Why not choose ground-zero for all the outrageous antics of the Boy-Who-Lived?

'One condition, of course,' the Headmaster continued, peering at me from over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, looking quite gremlinish. 'Make me look good.'

I raised a single brow. Wow. What an obnoxious bastard this man is, I thought. I smiled anyway. 'Of course, sir. Of course.'

Note:

Yeah. I have no idea where this story is going. But I suspect weird and random. And go where no Potter fic has gone before. Or where every Potter fic has gone before. : /

LOL.

...

#awkwardturtle.