Here life has death for neighbour
But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze they young blood,
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand an end,
Like quills upon the fretful porpentine.
—William Shakespeare
-§-
02 November 1981
10:00 a.m.
"Skeeter, there's been an incident in a Muggle area called Stamford. Take Wilfort with you." The brusque voice of Dennis Ashley cut across the din of the newsroom.
Rita Skeeter looked up from her typewriter, bleary eyed and somewhat puzzled at the request.
"Now? Can't it wait? I'm still working on the story about damages to Diagon after the celebration. Is there anyone else?"
It was mid-morning on Monday, November 2nd, a little over a day since the Dark Lord's disappearance on Halloween night, and no one on staff at the Daily Prophet had gotten any sleep since. There was simply too much to cover: Ministry response, Death Eater flight and retaliation, public outcry, and of course, the mystery of the Dark Lord's disappearance—his defeat?—itself.
"No. I'm sending you. Get ready. And be snappy about it. The Ministry's dispatched a squad of their top aurors." Ashley's tone brokered no argument.
"An entire squad?" Rita was already grabbing for her bag. Twenty aurors was serious—she paused—the situation could be incredibly dangerous.
Ashley saw the panic in her eyes and shook his head. "The scene is already locked down. You've nothing to worry about."
Rita nodded and let out a slow breath. It's going to take a long time to get to a post-war mentality.
Rita found Wilfort at the door, complacently stuffing the remains of a donut into his mouth. Then again, maybe some of us are already there, she thought wryly.
-§-
02 November 1981
10:13 a.m.
Roger Wilfort was a Hufflepuff who had never forgotten it. A sweater with his gold and black house colors stretched across his considerable bulk. Wilfort's outdated camera rested on a healthy paunch and bounced slightly as he walked. Rita was grateful for his girth as she peered out from behind him. Apparating blind to the scene of a crime was never fun and it always made her nervous. Neither of them wore robes, so that they could blend in with the inevitable Muggle police who would be present.
As they left the secluded copse of trees they had apparated into to avoid suspicion, Rita gasped. Smoke rose easily two hundred feet into the air. What kind of spell could've done that? Magical battles were often destructive, but this was in a residential Muggle area, which even Death Eaters tried to avoid during skirmishes.
Questions raced through her mind like sparkling firecrackers. The voraciousness that had served Rita well as an up-and-coming reporter kicked in and she pushed feelings of anxiety to the back of her mind. "Wilfort! Come on—we need to get shots of this before the Ministry clears it up." Nerves forgotten, Rita jogged ahead as quickly as clunky heels and a weighty handbag would allow her. Wilfort shuffled along more slowly, on account of laziness and his age. He had been at the Prophet for decades; now, he was probably approaching 90 with a lifetime of experience taking photographs.
Most of us caught up on experience fast during the War, Rita thought bitterly as they rounded the corner to witness ground zero of the explosion. Now that they were closer, Rita could see that most of the smoke was actually steam. Several bushes and the side of one house were ablaze, but pale steam dominated the scene, billowing from a hole in the street.
Wilfort began snapping away, sending Rita into action. As she hurried forward to the cordon that law enforcement had set up, muggle police and aurors milled around the scene, official black robes mixing with pressed blue uniforms. Of course, that was what Rita saw. To any Muggle, the auror robes appeared simply as whatever uniform law enforcement Muggles would have expected to see at the scene of a crime. It was a charm that played upon the viewer's expectations. Rita recalled being told this on a date by a charming auror. Of course, he'd added a saucy wink and also mentioned that the robes' illusion could be modified to show a variety of other clothes, or no clothes at all. That was a fun night.
Spotting an auror she knew, Rita pulled out a notepad and hurried over, angling sideways to push through the crowd that had gathered. Because she was in front of Muggles, Rita couldn't rely on her usual self-scribing quill. A shame—she always felt like writing detracted from the interview. "Underhill! Hey, Underhill." Stanley Underhill turned. He was only a hair taller than Rita when she wasn't wearing heels, and with them, she towered at least two inches above his stocky frame. Despite his serious mug, Underhill had a good sense of humor, and he was often willing to give Rita and other reporters the information they needed without too much trouble.
"Thirteen dead." Underhill paused with his back to the destruction, steam still rising from what Rita could now see was a crater. "Sirius Black killed thirteen. Muggle witnesses have confirmed it. He came in like a madman—told Peter Pettigrew he'd kill him. Pettigrew accused him of betraying the Potters. Black drew his wand and blew up the entire damn street. Spell hit a muggle pipe and it burst, which might account for the level of destruction. Apparently muggles transport explosive gas?" Wilfort shook his head incredulously, sighing at the absurdity of the idea. "Pipe's the official muggle story though. Of course, the only witnesses we have are muggles, so it's not hard to sell. All they saw were two angry men yelling at each other until a gas pipe burst and wrecked the street."
Rita frantically scribbled it all down, peering closer at the destruction around her. The dead body of an old man rested on an otherwise well-tended lawn. As Muggle police covered his body with a tarp, Rita caught a glimpse of a foot-long iron spike through his head that was the obvious cause of death. It was nothing Rita hadn't seen before. In fact, she knew exactly what spell caused it—Spiculum.
No, what drew her attention was the epicenter of the violence, a crater that spanned the entire street. Rita walked closer, hoping to get a better look.
Instantly, she regretted it. Rita Skeeter had seen horrific things in the past few years covering the war. Mutilated bodies, young and old. It didn't matter to Death Eaters, and aurors were hardly any pickier when they chose to kill. Just a little cleaner. This, however, was a different beast. In a way, this was as clean as it got, she supposed. A russet patina lined the crater, coating the broken and jagged concrete surface liberally. Farther away, intact bodies looked like they had been studded by concrete shrapnel. She stared in disgust and awe and almost doubled over when the smell hit her nose. "Awful, isn't it." She turned to Underhill, who was looking away. "All we found of Pettigrew was his finger. Not much left of anyone else. The steam's burnt most of the remains onto the concrete. That's what you're smelling. Burnt human."
"Sirius Black?" she asked, half-choking, checking to see if the name was correct. Underhill nodded. She had never met either Black or Pettigrew, but she knew that Black was an outcast from this dark family, and very close to the Potters. "Then the rumors about Black betraying the Potters…" Rita stepped back from the crater and turned to Underhill again, happy that she hadn't thrown up yet.
"That's what it looks like. Fudge was one of the first on the scene—God knows why. He's wearing red robes. You should ask him if you want more details. He'll be glad to have the attention. I'm going to clean up this mess and then I'm getting a fucking drink." With that, he turned away in an unusually dismissive move and left. Rita chose that moment to throw up.
While she emptied her stomach onto the singed asphalt, she felt a comforting hand on her back. It was Wilfort, there with his outdated camera and stupid sweater. From seemingly nowhere, he'd produced a flask. "Drink—it's just water." Gratefully, she downed it. Still on her knees, Rita started thinking about the way Underhill had acted.
Something had been off about him. Rita could tell, even through the normal horror that came with something as heinous as this. Something personal had happened. As she finished jotting down the last of what he'd said, she wrote one more note: Underhill: acting odd? Ask Ogleby. Warren Ogleby was Underhill's partner, but he wasn't at the scene because it had been an emergency call, not a routine mission, Rita surmised. Ogleby would know what was wrong. Partners always did. Hopefully he'd be more forthcoming than Underhill.
But that would have to wait. Thanking Wilfort, who was now solemnly taking pictures of the crater, she rushed off to find Fudge. After a few moments, she spotted him. Fudge stuck out in his garish, red robes. Rita wondered if they'd been appropriated charmed, as the aurors were. He was the Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, so she supposed it was his area of expertise. Still, that he was the first to the scene was unusual—aurors were nearly always first to incidents.
As a younger reporter, she might've dived into the fray and immediately peppered Fudge with questions. But after a few years of tutelage under Ashley, Rita knew how to observe.
Fudge's maroon robes were of excellent quality. Even now, in the steam and all the business of a crime scene, their EverClean charm was at work and the rich fabric was unblemished. His arms were behind his back, hands clasped together. Rita could just see the tip of a wand poking out of his underarm holster. As she circled, Rita saw him in profile. Fudge was middle aged, stout, and he had a very stiff back. Moving closer, she saw that he was sweating excessively and making small rocking motions on his heels. He was nervous—no, excited? A half smile. Excited and nervous, maybe.
Rita didn't blame him. Fudge had gotten the catch, and now he was being debriefed by an auror who Rita recognized instantly. Matthew Robards was the head of Internal Affairs. Robards was almost a head taller than Fudge, and he was built like a small ox. As she watched, Robards gave a snort of satisfaction, and turned away, apparently done with Fudge.
Seeing her chance Rita pounced. "Hello, Mr. Fudge. My name is Rita Skeeter, and I'm a reporter for the Daily Prophet."
"Y-yes, yes, hello," he greeted her excitedly.
She extended a slender hand only to be met by sweaty, chubby sausages that wrapped around her own in a mildly nauseating manner. Discreetly wiping the sweat from his hand on her robes, Rita continued undeterred, "I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about what happened here. I heard you were the first on the scene?" Fudge's chest puffed out. Evidently he was the easily flattered sort.
"Wuh-wuh-well yes, I was," he stammered. Nervous, or excited? "I had just gotten into the office—I woke up late, you see—when someone ran past me in the Ministry Atrium, shouting about some explosion out in Stamford. I apparated to the scene, ready for a fight. Of course, I, uh, wasn't expecting this." Here, Fudge gestured to the gently smoldering bushes and the destruction behind him. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought.
"When you arrived? What happened with Black?" Rita spoke gently in an attempt to nudge him out of his reverie.
"Oh, yes, yes. Him." Fudge shuddered. "Laughing manically. He was—is—absolutely mad. Utterly raving. Street on fire, muggles screaming, and in the middle of it all, Black laughing wildly. He was laughing even as backup arrived and took him straight to Azkaban. I suppose I should count myself as lucky that he was too wrapped up in those crazy thoughts to blow up any more streets. I told him he was under arrest and he didn't even notice me." Rita scribbled his words down as quickly as she could. If Fudge's account was accurate, that was bizarre. But if Black had decided to let loose on Fudge and not come willingly, Rita was quite sure she would not be speaking to the man.
"Black was taken straight to Azkaban, you said?" An odd little detail in an odd story.
"Yes, yes. Far too dangerous to go anywhere else. Witnesses saw everything." Damn. If she wanted to get a comment from Black, she'd have to go to that awful place. Rita hated dementors.
"Is there anything else you can tell me? Any reason you can think of that might have been behind his behavior?"
"Oh, well, I wouldn't presume to know what crazy nonsense the Dark Lord had been filling his head with."
How unimaginative. She'd have to lead him. "Do you think it could be because of the Dark Lord's disappearance? Perhaps he and Black were close?"
"Yes, yes, that's quite likely. Black, torn up over the Dark Lord." Dots seemed to connect for Fudge, and his eyes lit up. "Thank you Miss Skeeter—you've just helped tremendously. I must be going now, but here's my card. Send me an owl if you have any more questions. I look forward to seeing your story." With that, Fudge was off, moving through the crowd, shouting for Robards.
Rita looked down at the card. What were you doing here, Cornelius Fudge? Why was Black sent straight to Azkaban?
Wilfort interrupted her thoughts. "Ready to go?" He was munching on another donut, produced from some mysterious location on his body. Rita grimaced.
"Not yet. I need to interview some of the muggles first." Wilfort nodded. Other photographers and reporters might have frowned or protested. Muggle witnesses were often discounted because they couldn't understand what was happening. Rita might have discounted them too, but Dennis Ashley had taught her otherwise.
The witnesses were gathered behind a muggle vehicle. An ambulance, if she remembered correctly. Ashley, a muggleborn himself, had emphasized the importance of understanding muggle culture. For a pureblooded witch like Rita, expeditions into the heart of muggle London had seemed like a journey into a different world. Rita shook her head. There was no use in getting caught up with thoughts about Ashley; there was a task at hand.
It irked her that his guidance still came through. He'd talk to the children too. Children are good at watching. Rita made her way into the circle of muggles and crouched down next to a boy and his mother. The boy had a small slice along his cheek, but otherwise looked fine.
She looked the boy's mother in the eye to check. A hesitant nod of assent. "Hello, my name is Rita. What's yours?" In cases like this, Rita knew simply listening wasn't enough to draw out the story.
"Nath'n." A name. That was good—it was a start. Rita smiled.
"That's a good name, Nathan. Can you tell me what you were doing before the explosion?"
"Th' bobbies already asked me. What'choo want?" Nathan looked suspiciously up at her. Damn. Maybe this wasn't going as well as it could have. She'd never really been good with kids, anyways.
"Well sweetie," she said, lacing her voice with enough sugar to kill a diabetic, "I work for a newspaper, and we need to tell everyone what happened here. Because you saw what happened, it's very important—you're very important—to letting the readers know the facts."
Nathan squinted at her again and then looked to his mother, who again, nodded. "OK. I guess I can tell you." Rita smiled a Cheshire grin.
-§-
02 November 1981
12:05 p.m.
When she left the scene, Rita had over forty pages in a cheap, muggle pad of paper filled with notes and quotes from aurors, police officers, and five muggle witnesses. Halfway through her questioning, Wilfort had sat down on a patio and taken a nap. He had still been rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when they apparated back to the Prophet.
Meanwhile, Rita's mind was buzzing with questions. She needed to talk to Ashley about this. This was a story. This was far better than writing about stupid apothecaries needing to restock their newt eyes after spell damage had denatured the inherent magic. So chaotic were her thoughts that she didn't noticed Wilfort holding the door open for her and instead ran into his broad backside.
"You alright, Miss Skeeter?" A bemused smile played on his face, but Rita knew his question was serious. It wasn't every day that anyone witnessed a dozen people smeared across a street like jam on bread.
"Yes, yes." She snapped quickly. Then, more gently, "Thank you, though." Wilfort nodded, but still patted a gentle paw across her back as they parted ways; he, to develop the gruesome photos in the darkroom; she, to write the grisly details in the newsroom.
Ashley was waiting for her when she arrived at her desk. "I took the liberty of assigning your apothecary draft to Stebbins. I heard snippets of what happened. Brief me." Ashley was like that—he moved quickly. She wasn't sure how else to put it. With three-day-old grey stubble on a gaunt face, Ashley looked as much a wolf as a man. Red suspenders pulled black pants over a clean white shirt that Rita knew was only "clean" in the loosest sense of the word. During busy times, Ashley had a bad habit of scourgifying his clothing instead of washing them. As Rita followed Ashley into his office, she couldn't help but assess his backside.
"Stop looking at my ass, Skeeter." Rita blushed. It wasn't her fault, really. He was in very good shape for a fifty-year-old man. Five years ago, when she had just entered Ashley's tutelage, she had tried to seduce him. So what if he could've been her father? He was smart, good-looking, and the confidence with which he carried himself meant that most witches at the Prophet had set their eyes on Dennis Ashley at least once. Or at least his backside. Unfortunately, as the watercooler gossip went, no one had managed to bag and tag him. Rita was determined to be the first.
But even after plying him with alcohol (and a fair amount for herself, too), Ashley resisted her advances. Curious, Rita had followed him home one night and found out why. Looking through his window, Rita had seen Ashley and another man having hot, sweaty sex. The fact that Ashley was gay put a certain damper on things, but Rita was still determined to flirt with him.
"Tell me what happened." Ashley sank down into his massive reclining chair, leaned back, propped his feet onto the desk and put his hands behind his head, closing his eyes. He was ready to listen and absorb everything she said. Rita had marveled at the technique before. If you told him a story when he was like that, he would tell it back to you even better.
She began by explaining the extent of the damage—thirteen dead, street wrecked. Then she went through the interviews in chronological order, adding none of her own commentary. Ashley preferred it like that. If he sensed you were editorializing, he'd tell you to describe the scene from the beginning to figure out where you went wrong, where you stopped being objective and why. Rita thought he also did it for pure, malicious fun.
After she finished relating the news, Rita stood there. Sometimes it would be a minute or more before Ashley responded and asked for clarification, or what her view was. Once, Rita had heard, he kept a reporter standing for half an hour while he mulled over the details and quotes. This time, he took only ten seconds. "Skeeter, something's fucked. Death Eaters are either killed in battle or taken to Ministry holding cells for processing. No one is sent directly to Azkaban."
Ashley sighed. "But to be blunt, I don't have time for this. Voldemort might be dead. One bad pureblood, a dead wizard and a dozen dead muggles can't occupy all of my time." Rita slumped.
"But they're going to occupy yours. This is your only assignment for the time being. Put everything else on hold. I want you to go to Azkaban as soon as you can. See if Black says anything besides maniacal laughter."
Rita gulped, nervous, but elated. This was a huge favor—Ashley needed all the reporters he could get right now. To effectively sideline her for this was to have incredible faith in her and her instincts. "Yes sir. Thank you sir." Ashley nodded.
"Type up your notes before you leave so that Jensen can write the brief. Your handwriting is atrocious. Send Wilfort in, while you're at it. I want to see those photos." Rita sighed and left. Ashley didn't keep a secretary, even though he probably should have.
-§-
02 November 1981
2:05 p.m.
As it turned out, getting to Azkaban was a lot harder for Rita Skeeter than it was for Sirius Black.
Azkaban was guarded by more than just magical wards and dementors. It was also heavily fortified by administrative red tape and bureaucratic malaise. Visiting Azkaban meant first getting approved to visit Azkaban, and that meant going to the Ministry.
"Sixth Floor. Department of Magical Transportation." The cheery voice was grating on her nerves. She had been rerouted from the second floor (Department of Magical Law Enforcement) to the third floor (Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes) because the incident happened in a muggle area, and now to the sixth floor. Theoretically, she should be able to show her press pass, ask nicely, and hitch the next ride to Azkaban. But the way things have been going, I might have more luck by just pulling a Sirius Black.
When the doors opened, Rita stalked out into a surprisingly pleasant office with soft, unobtrusive wooden surfaces and tasteful grey wallpaper.
"Do you have an appointment?" asked the secretary, a woman Rita did not recognize.
"No, but I need to visit Azkaban. I've got a press pass." Rita rustled in her robes and pulled the badge forward. A miniature image of Rita smiled and blew the secretary a kiss. The secretary examined the badge and ran her wand over the image as a precaution. It lit up a friendly green, a signal that it was valid.
"You're good to go. Take this form and head down the hallway. Azkaban is the third office on the left."
The third office on the left looked like a small Bombarda had gone off inside of it. Papers were strewn about haphazardly and Rita was sure that the shelves stuffed with files were only still standing through the judicious use of binding charms and what looked like half a roll of spellotape. The occupant in question was a bedraggled witch with dark hair and a healthy smattering of freckles. A thin silver chain hung from her neck.
"Elspeth Grinnell. You are?" She ended the question with a yawn that was almost, but not quite suppressed. "Sorry, it's been a lot of shifts and transports to Azkaban in the past few." Elspeth gestured at the mess, as though it was an explain-all for the state of her life right now.
Perhaps it was, Rita mused. Being in charge of transportation to Azkaban couldn't have been a particularly scintillating job. In fact, Rita was almost positive that she'd be escorted by a wizard past his prime from Wilfort's generation. She'd been so prepared that she'd already unbuttoned the top button of her blouse and unlaced the front of her robes partway. These sorts of cushy desk jobs went to old timers, not young, attractive witches.
As Elspeth filled out Rita's form and began looking for a place to file the poor piece of paper, Rita continued to assess the room. "You're new to this job." Her forms had been filled out in spidery, but smooth handwriting. Thick strokes of smudged ink—likely from a left-handed writer—covered the rest of the files.
"Yep." Now Elspeth looked down. "This is my third week on the job." She paused, as though fumbling over something in her mind. "My, er, predecessor was kissed when several dementors went rogue and joined He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
Rita blanched. "I'm sorry." She'd seen victims of the kiss before after the Wizengamot had sentenced heinous felons. The emptiness that had exuded from the corpse she had seen stuck with her. Not for the first time, she wondered what she was getting into, chasing after this story.
"'s alright. I drew straws to get this job out of the auror academy. It was this or the front lines. I felt bad about bein' a coward for a week, until 'bout a third of my class was killed in a skirmish with Death Eaters."
Rita said nothing; a rarity.
"Well, here we are. 's all done. Now, take this and follow me." Elspeth handed Rita a thin silver chain identical to the one around her neck.
Moving to the back of the office, Elspeth pulled aside a curtain to a fireplace. "Special floo." She knocked approvingly on the chimney's misshapen rocks and its old, cracking mortar. Pulling a pinch of Floo powder out of a bag on her side, the dark haired woman set a green fire flaring. "The chain is for the fireplace. Anyone not wearing the chain would… well, let's just say it wouldn't be a pretty ending." Elspeth smirked. Rita nervously adjusted the fine links, as if looking for a proper orientation.
"Don't fuck with it. C'mon." With that, Elspeth stepped into the flames and she was out of view. Gritting her teeth and holding tightly onto the chain, Rita stepped into the inferno.
-§-
