Gossip can either make or break a woman's career. Unfortunately there is a fine line between good gossip and bad gossip. The trick is being able to manipulate both in your favour. I had become a master gossip manipulator by the time I was 23 but by the time I was 37 things had gone haywire. It all started when I picked up the story of the one and only boy who lived. Who knew that a few stories printed about one boy would be enough to break my career.
Well it wasn't actually the boy, but his stupid frizzy haired friend. How I loathe her and her ability to put two and two together. She is the first person to ever discover my secret without me telling them, how she figured out that I'm an animagus, I'll never know. If I didn't hate her so much, I would go as far as to say she would make an excellent journalist. Although she wouldn't sell much stuff, she doesn't have the creativity to put an article together to sell, unlike myself.
But she is the one who holds all the cards now, she has the power to have me arrested let alone sacked. For not only am I an animagus, I'm an illegal animagus. Thanks to her I've had to give up my column in the Daily Prophet, turn down several offers from Witch Weekly, and am severely limited as to what I can actually print. How it rankles to be outwitted by a pre adolescent who hasn't even tried to survive in the real world yet. Telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth doesn't sell, doesn't pay the rent and certainly doesn't fund the type of lifestyle that I'm accustomed to. Although now I have no work, I suppose I'll have to get used to a below average lifestyle.
It's funny it has been nearly half a year since I was forced into my promise not to write any stories for a while, and all I have done in the last few months is imagine several ways to take my revenge on that book worm. A tapping at the window breaks into my musings, I turn around to see a large brown tawny owl with a letter in its beak, I don't recognise the owl but get up to let it in. It flies to the table drops the letter and then turns to look at me, as if to say well what are you waiting for.
I pick up the letter and read it through, well, well, well; little miss perfect wants to meet with me at the three broomsticks. This should be fun, I wonder what she actually wants, I mean it's not as though this would be a catch up between friends, she must want something. I must admit I am intrigued, a loud hoot from beside me interrupts my musings, the owl must be waiting for me to write a reply.
Well what harm can come from at least meeting with her, she's already ruined most of my life, there's not a lot else she can do. I quickly write a reply, saying that I'll meet her, and try to imagine what she will actually want. I might just pack a quick quotes quill; you never know when you might need one.
