(the good reporter)
Delia Jones, younger sister of the famous Gwenog Jones is no Rita Skeeter with her brown hair and soft green eyes. A savvy reporter nonetheless, her presence is not heralded by a shrieking "Hallo!" but by a soft "Hello?" This is the nicer face of the Daily Prophet, the one that flood victims, and those who were taken for a ride by thin-bottomed cauldron sellers welcome into their homes. They offer her teas, and cookies, fresh baked, of course, for the good reporter.
Her big green eyes would watch them as they settled down in the chair across from her, and began to talk.
"Excuse me," she would ask gently, just before their story came, "do you mind if I use a Quick Quotes Quill?"
"No, not at all," they would smile, happy to be asked instead of told.
And they would begin.
Each story was different, but quite the same. It was never the story-teller's fault that the disaster happened. Of course, the Thames was flooding, and they were warned to evacuate, or empty their basement, but oh, it was too fast, or she was an old woman, couldn't they see she couldn't do it on her own? Yes, well, they'd read the story about the thin-bottomed cauldron seller in Diagon Alley, but it couldn't have been this man, he was too charming to be a rogue.
The grey, nondescript quill would silently whiz across the creamy page, until the story had been told, and the tea all drunk.
"Thank you," Delia would say graciously as she rose. "You're too kind."
"When will the story be in the paper?" the storyteller would ask, eager for their fifteen minutes of fame.
"Tomorrow, definitely," Delia smiled the customary answer, and would leave, exchanging pleasantries.
And the good reporter would go home, write the story, and begin the cycle again tomorrow, for less money than it was worth, only because she loved to write.