Disclaimer: JKR owns Rita, some other stuff and all my admiration. Cynthia Vane is Romilda's. Older sister, I think. Bridget belongs to herself, although she doesn't know that. She also owns Artemesia and a hidden talent for making life look like a rainy Saturday afternoon. All the time.
With thanks to: Darker Rage, for being an 'incomprehensively' patient beta and straightening out my tenses and dramaprincess, for unintentionally inspiring this.
Changing the Future
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Artemesia shivered like a slender leaf on a beech tree.
"Just one night." She whispered hoarsely.
The old man smiled a cold, merciless smile that drove fear and loathing into her very bones. He stepped behind her, and put his graying, dry, almost-lifeless hands on her perfectly round, white-skinned shoulders. She closed her eyes.
For Jacques, for Jacques." Her mind chanted. She would do this for her brother. She would spend a night with Igor Fyodorovich, whom she hated with the all-consuming passion of her flaming soul. In return, he would give money for curing Jacques's illness.
He caressed her long, wavy, midnight-black hair. Then his hand slipped across her perfectly slender figure, as if he was a potter forming a vase.
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Bridget read through the last few paragraphs. She groaned and swore violently. She had used 'perfectly' twice. And 'slender', too.
"Where's that bloody thesaurus?" she muttered, rummaging through the dusty shelves. She shoved the big, leather-covered family album aside, breaking a long, marine-blue nail in process. Hell. She sat down to examine the damage, and she suddenly remembered; she'd had to sell the thesaurus to pay the rent last month.
What's another word for perfectly? Beautifully? She'd used that, too. Meticulously? Unmatchably? Incomprehensively? Why did she even care anymore?
She reached for the glass, and found she was out of cognac. Wonderful. And it's already the twenty-fourth. Next week, Mrs. Bulstrode (otherwise known as 'the landlady from Hell') would come in at six-thirty in the morning, demanding her twenty Galleons.
There is no way she could finish this story before then.
And even if she did, Witch Weekly's payment (a measly twenty-five, at best) would take about a week to arrive.
No question about it: she'll have to face the Geezer this month
Again.
Hell. Hell. Hell.
He would just sit there, stone-faced, and Mum would sit at his side like a bloody lapdog, and say things like "I told you that you should have become a Healer". And the Geezer (otherwise known as her father) would be quiet, and he'd watch through her pathetic attempt to justify herself, to explain about her writer's block… and after she had utterly humiliated herself, he'd walk over to the safe, open it and give her exactly twenty Galleons. No more, no less. And all the while, Golden Girl Rita will sit in the mouldy armchair, leering and sniggering. And in the end, she'd tell the Geezer:
"Sometimes I really don't know why you put up with her, Daddy."
Hell. Hell. She hated Rita "with the all-consuming passion of her flaming soul". And she hated the Geezer. And Mrs. Bulstrode. And Laetitia Poitieur, the main editor of Which Weekly. And Cynthia Vane, third-time winner of the 'Ruby Quill Award'. And herself.
Bridget Skeeter, the All-time Loser. Prodigal daughter and third-rate pulp fiction writer. Had never been the best in anything. She could never gain Rita's fame, or her cutting and unique writing style. From her former classmates, Cynthia (otherwise known as "Miss-six-times divorced", or CV) is the star romance writer.
Bridget sighed, trying to shake off her depression. They can (and should) all go to Hell. And stay there. Eternally. She would show them all one day. She opened her cheap Muggle notebook, and started reading her current story, in hope of inspiration.
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Brittany Swiss:
A Golden Dawn
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Well, the title's good, at least – she thought, cheering up slightly. It would be even better if she could write her real name instead of this pseudonym. But no, Rita was very clear on the subject: "My name is already well-known, and I don't one our surname appearing anywhere but in my reports." Thus, Swiss. And Brittany. Oh, well.
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17th October, 2093
It was exactly seventy years ago that a group of Unspeakables --- workers of the Department of Mysteries --- discovered the so-called Magical Gene, the main factor of modern life. It is said they used the Muggles' knowledge on genetics, and also some ancient scripts from London Underground to help them find and duplicate the chromosome which, back then, appeared only in Inherited or Muggle-born Witches and Wizards. If this chromosome was implanted in a non-magical individual, his or her genetic structure would immediately morph into a magical one. The group decided to keep their discovery a secret. But the youngest member of the crew, Igor Fyodorovich secretly started reproducing the Magical Gene. Three years later, Igor Fyodorovich officially broke the Statue of Secrecy, by putting his product on Muggle market. Only the wealthiest of Muggles could afford the Gene Implantation, thus, the remainder of Muggle population was left to watch as the millionaires gained more and more power. At the same time, magical illnesses began to spread, but now, for some reason, the also infected Muggles. Those who were too poor to afford the implantation, had nothing left but to beg for money for the cure.
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Bridget sighed again. Though it still needs some polishing, this part is unquestionably the best, most original part of her story. After all, she has been doing some research on Muggle medicine, and the idea of a sellable Magical Gene is certainly new to the Wizarding World.
Not that anyone would recognize it as more than a necessary plot device. Most of the readers would probably concentrate on Artemesia's character, her fight for her brother's health, and later on, her forbidden love with Kemal, who is the son of an ancient-Arabian Pureblood family, forbidden to see any woman outside the harem. It was a good story, not CV-caliber, but still good. Maybe Laetitia would decide to pay thirty Galleons for it. Or even thirty-five.
Regaining inspiration, Bridget reached for her quill. I can do this. I will do this. Hell if I won't.
Suddenly, the small apartment flooded with light. She closed her eyes as a strong wind whooshed in her face, filling her ears. Then everything stopped, and an eery silence filled the cramped room. Very carefully, Bridget opened her eyes. In front of her, on the middle of the battered writing desk, a woman was standing. She had dark blue eyes and an aristocratic face. She wore a silvery dress that fitted her slender figure perfectly. Her hair was long, wavy and midnight-black…
"Artemesia?" Bridget asked in awe.
"No." the woman answered in a deep, gentle voice. "My name is Gabrielle. I've come to give you a warning."
"A - about what?" Bridget stuttered. Mum had been right, after all. The cognac had disrupted her mind.
"You are currently writing a story for a magazine. A Golden Dawn, isn't it?"
"Yes. How did you…"
"This may or may not seem believable. I have come from the year 2066. I've used an ancient spell, the Alter Aetas. I am sent to tell you about the consequences of you publishing this story, and to stop you from publishing it by all means."
This is one of Rita's foul jokes. She had somehow found out about the story, and she convinced one of her bootlicky friends to Apparate on my desk and tell me some cock-and-bull story…
"I see that you don't want to believe me. I was forbidden to bring any proof from the future, so you will have to trust me, if you can. In my timeline, you have indeed written and published the story. It was relatively successful, read by many, remembered by few. But one of the readers, Annamarie Croaker, convinced her husband, Head of the Department of Mysteries, to read it as well. He was fascinated by the idea of Magical Genetics, and he shared it with some of his more open-minded co-workers. Together, they started researching the difference between Muggle and Magical plants. Later they move onto animals. And very soon, much sooner than in your story, they had indeed produced a Magical Gene. "
"So… it's real? The Wizarding Chromosome, and bottling and selling magic?" Bridget stuttered, in confusion.
"Very true, I'm afraid." Gabrielle answered with a melancholy smile. "And the consequences are even worse than you predicted. In my time, Wizard blood counts as a mark of aristocracy. Muggles are as good as slaves to Wizards. Poverty is great in the ranks of the Muggles, as the Wizards (although some of them were born Muggle) don't want to let them ever to gain enough money to buy the Gene."
"And all of this happened – will happen – because of my story?" Bridget inquired, still not sure if she should believe it.
"Yes."
"But… it doesn't make sense. You're telling me I'm the only person who'll ever get the idea of connecting genetics to magic?"
"No, you're not the only one. But you are the first one. If you don't publish the story now, maybe someone will do it in twenty years. But then, maybe the world will be ready for the discovery. Have you ever heard of Jules Verne?"
"I think… he's a Muggle politician or something?"
"A writer. He wrote in the nineteenth century, but he foretold many Muggle scientific achievements from the twentieth. A lot of people think these achievements were possible because Verne wrote them first. We could say he prepared the public's mind for new inventions. That's what your story would do, if you'd published it."
"But isn't that a good thing? Preparing people for the future?"
"Not in this case. By preparing them for the future, you bring that future considerably closer. And currently, neither replace the Muggles' nor the Wizards' principals are strong enough to handle the temptation of misusing magic."
Bridget bit her lip. Suddenly, her hidden Skeeter merchant instincts woke up.
"And why should I care?" She asked, in a voice almost like Rita's, and a Geezer-like smirk.
In answer, Artemesia-Gabrielle fell to her knees gracefully.
"I beg you to consider, the fates of seven billion people are in your hands. You can change the future for hundreds of millions of children."
Watching the desperate, beautiful woman kneeling on her desk, Bridget felt something she had never felt in her life.
Power.
The knowledge that by a simple shake of her head, she could change billions of lives. That so many people depended on her. Not the Geezer, and not You-Know-Who. Not Cynthia Vane or Golden Girl Rita, but her. Bridget Skeeter, the Loser.
Slowly, she noded, smiling slightly.
Gabrielle's face filled with joy. Almost ecstatically, she grabbed Bridget's hand and kissed it.
"I cannot possibly show my gratitude. I shall eternally cherish your name as that of a savior. If there is any way I can repay you… If you have any wish, anything you need, I shall try to fulfill it, if it is within my power."
Bridget bit her lip. Gabrielle must be very powerful, if she is able to travel through time. She would give her anything.
What do I need?
Gold?
Fame?
Seeing Cynthia choke on her own tongue?
Finally, Bridget's face spread in a wide grin. Possibly the first self-confident grin of her life.
"I want a glass of cognac." No stuttering, no blush. After all, she had just saved the world, hadn't she? By deciding not to ruin it?
Gabrielle bowed her head and took out her wand, a normal-looking wooden one. She muttered something and the abandoned crystal glass on the desk filled with rich brown-coloured liquid. Then she bowed and disappeared, without the flash of light, this time.
Bridget lifted the glass to her lips, feeling a unique sense of triumph. She was no loser. She had thought of something that would change the world, and nobly decided not to use it.
Instead of drinking the cognac, she held the glass above the first page of the notebook. Slowly, she tilted the glass, and then watched with stoic glee as the light-brown drops of brandy fell on the paper and dissolved the ink.
She would not drink cognac anymore.
Tomorrow, she would go to the Geezer. She would look him straight in the eye (something she had never done before) and tell him to give her thirty Galleons. He would stare at her for a while, them drop her gaze and give her the money. And tell her he loves her.
She would finally be fully his daughter.
And then she would go home and write a new story, in her own style, and she would have it published by her real name.
And when she goes down the street, everyone will stare and wonder why she is so proud of herself.
But she would never tell, anyone, not even her mother.
Only she will know the truth. But nothing else is really important.
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"Rita! Rita, darling! Are you there?" The rather shrill voice had come from the fireplace. Rita stopped adjusting her curly locks in the bathroom mirror and headed for the living room.
"Yes, here I am. Hello, Irvette. You're finished already?" She crouched beside the fireplace, face-to-face with Irvette's head.
"Oh, yes. It didn't take much to convince her."
"She bought it, then?"
"Absolutely. I thought she'd need more persuasion." The girl chuckled nastily, long, wavy, midnight-black hair blown around by the emerald-green flames.
"Thank you very much for all of this, Irvette. You really did me a big favor."
"Don't mention it. It's why it's good to have an actress as your best friend, isn't it?" she asks hopefully.
"Of course." Rita sighed. So now she had an actress for a best friend. Just like she had a Healer, a Ministry worker, a Quidditch manager and a Trainee Auror all for best friends.
"Did you ask her about her deepest desire?" she asked, trying very hard not to think about the people she had had for boyfriends over the years.
"Sure. It was very strange, though. You'll never guess what she wants more than anything in this world. Go on, guess."
"No idea." Probably seeing me burned at the stake.
"A glass of cognac."
"What?"
"I know, unbelievable. Maybe she's finally gone around the bend."
"Yeah, maybe." Rita frowned slightly, then yawned with obviously faked fatigue.
" Irvette, I'm sorry, but I had a very trying day, so if you could just…"
"Oh, yes, of course. I know how tiring all that writing must be. I'll see you tomorrow, then, Rita. Bye!"
With a whoosh! she disappears.
'Maybe she's finally gone around the bend.'
How very nicely put.
Or maybe, she had finally gained some bloody confidence in herself. Maybe she would stop acting like a drama queen and get a life.
Maybe she would stop drinking.
Maybe sneaking in to her apartment and reading her story was worthwhile. Maybe it was even worth suffering Irvette's mindless chatter. After all, it's not like I have anything better to do nowadays.
Maybe, Bridget wouldn't notice that Rita, too, comes to Daddy for lones. Maybe she wouldn't tease her even if she did notice.
Maybe that bushy-haired little… brat had been wrong.
Rita really did have a heart.
Somewhere.
Maybe.
THE END
A/N: I've just realized Bridget may have some resemblance to a namesake of hers, one with the surname Jones. She shouldn't. Her name comes from a JKR interview, wherein Jo mentioned that her original name for Rita was Bridget. But it was shunted aside to make way for Rita. Appropriate, isn't it?
And please tell me your opinions on this story. Was it believable? Confusing? Likable?
Thanks for reading.