"MOLLY!" called Arthur Weasley happily, gripping the edge of the Daily Prophet between his thumb and forefinger. "RON! FRED! GEORGE! PERCY! GIN-NY!" he shouted, stretching out his daughter's name with joy in his voice.
The twins clambered down the stairs; each wearing a sweater marked with a large "F" or "G". "Maybe he found one of our special wands," one of them chortled to the other, his fiery red hair (as was the colour of all his siblings hair as well) tousled by the afternoon breeze. Mrs. Molly Weasley came in from the garden, her face flushed with effort with trying to get the gnomes out.
And, all together, came the last three, Percy gripping the shoulders of his siblings amiably, as if it were his responsibility to bring them in. Since his promotion at the Ministry of Magic, Percy was extraordinarily smug and adult-like. "Virginia and Ronald have been up to no good, Mum. They actually had the NERVE to write on my business cards, right under my name" his face flushed with anger "Persius Weasley, Assistant Numbskull for the Banks of the Wizarding World. Numbskull," he repeated angrily, as Fred and George laughed at the glorious prank. "I AM THE NUMBERS ASSORTED ASSISTANT FOR THE -"
"Do calm down, boy," interrupted Mr. Weasley jovially, for even he had failed to hide his chuckle at the joke. "Just look here." He pulled out his Daily Prophet issue, pointing cheerfully to the front-page article. Running across the page in curvy letters read the words "Much to the dismay of staff and readers alike, Special Correspondent Rita Skeeter has decided to retire early, after fifteen wonderful years with the Prophet." Percy and Mr. Weasley glared at the headline with pure joy, Rita had been badmouthing the Ministry for years, but Ron studied the article with peculiar interest.
"Ms. Skeeter" it continued "has been noted as a respected and truthful" Ron scoffed, remembering several articles of the past year "reporter that has been on the DP staff since most of us here can remember. Though sometimes accused of slander and falseness, most readers praise Rita. 'I could always rely on her' notes Pamela Brown of Edinburgh 'and I was just crushed when I'd learned she'd retired.
"But as Skeeter has said, 'It's time. I've lied, but been forgiven.'" Ron rolled his eyes. "'I've written, but my hand grows weary. My quill is ruffled along with my mind, and if I continue to write all there will be is rubbish.'" ("As if there was ever anything else!" Ron muttered). "With her signature marked on a note alongside a plea to retire, we felt we must let our genius go on, to explore the reporting depths that lie beyond." With this, the article ended above a picture of Rita herself. She had beetle black eyes and grotesque large glasses, her pale face running into blonde hair (colourless in the black-and white picture). Like all pictures in the wizarding world, it moved, and Rita blinked and tapped her foot impatiently, repeatedly pushing her glasses back upon her nose.
"Dad?" piped Ron, turning to Arthur inquisitively. "Do we still have that fellytone?"
"It's telephone, dear" corrected Mrs. Weasley, dabbing at Ron's freckles with her handkerchief as if she could wipe them off. "Your curious father has been taking it apart and putting it back together whispering 'How DO those Muggles do it?'" Mr. Weasley flushed and the rest of the family giggled at her good impression of Arthur. "Anyway, dear, it's in our room. Why? Going to try to call Harry again?" Ron's best friend, Harry Potter, lived with his aunt and uncle, who were Muggles (non-magical people). They were very normal and thought Harry's magic blood a burden he'd just have to take. The last time pureblooded wizard Ron had gotten near a "fellytone".... But that's a different story, and I must continue this one.
"Maybe" he muttered offhandedly, already walking speedily to the bedroom. He glanced the telephone, which his father had purchased a few years back in his curiousity for Muggles. ("What a strange man" a stout lady nearby had mused. "Wearing robes so very late in the day.")
"Hello?" shot a gruff voice out of the receiver. "Who is this?" it demanded before Ron could reply. In the background he heard the voice talking to someone, "Petunia, dear, are you expecting any calls?" Though nice enough words, the voice was gruff and solemn. A muffled reply. "Hmm..." the voice mused angrily, "The drill shipment man shouldn't call for an hour. Who is this?" it demanded again. Uncle Vernon, thought Ron, he sold drills.
"Ro-Robert Edmondson. Yes," Ron continued, glad he'd caught himself before revealing his name. "Mr. Robert Edmondson. I was wondering if a young boy named Harry Potter resides there." A growl.
"He attends St. Brutus' Centre for Incurably Criminal boys!" Vernon spoke through clenched teeth. "NO ONE speaks to him, hears from him, NOTHING!!!! You've got the wrong number, Mr. Edmondson!!!!" But just as he was about to slam down the receiver, a strike of brilliance came to Ron.
"Ah, but you don't understand, kind sir. Am I right in presuming young Harry is an orphan?" Growl. That meant yes, he supposed. "I run the Troubled Orphan's Society of Britain" Ron continued, amazed he could lie so calmly. "We, er, take care of orphans who are deeply disturbed by their parent's death and take them into our honorable care for the entire year unless by request you wish to bring Mr. Potter back to your home." Another growl, but calmer, considering. If Vernon could get Harry to go to this society, he'd NEVER have to see the boy again, and could wash the whole "magic" thing out of his system. "But for our extensive and serious program, first we have to obtain the confidence of the pupil. Can you and your wife please hand the receiver to Harry, please? It would be the very best for you to leave the room, to make Harry feel, er, comfortable talking to his new headmaster without aide." It only took a moment.
"What?" said Harry dully; Ron had fooled them all very well into believing he was the tedious headmaster. "I was just doing my homework when -"
"Oh, still on that big potions assignment?" said Ron, switching back to his normal voice. "I sent a letter to Hermione; I'm still working but she finished it ages ago."
"Ron!!!!!" said Harry, barely stopping his shout before Vernon and Petunia heard. "Is-is something wrong?" He lowered his voice, pretending by tone that he wasn't interested in the call.
"Oh no, nothing's wrong" Ron assured him, laughing a little. "Fred and George are still insanely weird, Percy's STILL thickheaded. Ginny's still obsessed with you..." Harry flushed, happy Ron couldn't see his reaction. "And" he held his breath, holding suspense along with it "Rita Skeeter is RETIRED."
"No way."
"Yep. Saw in the Daily Prophet this morning. She's so sorry..." Ron said with amusement.
"But Hermione -"
"Hasn't said a word to me."
Long ago, it seemed, though it was only last year, Hogwarts (the Wizarding school both friends attended) had held a very special event, called the Triwizard Tournament. It had stirred a lot of action, a lot of danger, and a lot of stories. Stories Rita Skeeter was itching to get her hands on. Stories she destroyed. After hurting a lot of people with her exaggerated tales, Rita ended up in a jar in Hermione (a girl from school, and Harry and Ron's other best friend)'s bag by the end of the year. You see, some witches can turn into cats. Some can even turn into gators. But Rita Skeeter, determined to get the story, determined to creep her way past the truth; well, Rita Skeeter could turn into a beetle. Clever Hermione, after figuring this out, didn't have trouble finding the reporter that liked to, er, BUG us so very much.
"Imagine" Harry mused, his voice wavering slightly. Then he laughed.
"What is it?" demanded Ron, smiling ear to ear.
"Nothing" he replied, chortling uncontrollably between each breath.
"Just, I can just see Hermione standing over R-Rita. 'I'm going to squish you if you don't apologize!' Ha! Oh, sorry Ron, Uncle Vernon just asked me why I was laughing about my doomed future" he laughed quietly into phone, "got to go. See you at Hogwarts."
Both boys were laughing as they put down the phones.
Just as it was set back, and Ron was walking back up the stairs, the telephone rang again.
"Becoming a Muggle, Ron?" suggested Ginny from her room, lost in the rest of the family's happiness over Rita's retirement. "My goodness, I think you're becoming Dad! Oh no!" she gripped her face in false horror. "Maybe you are!"
"Very funny," he muttered, picking it up. "Hello?"
"Sorry, Ron" piped a voice on the other side of the line, "you aren't used to this, but it was the quickest way to reach you." Hermione. "I was reading the Prophet, I get it delivered, you know..." He knew. Hermione, the know-it-all sweet but sometimes annoying girl, whose parents were both Muggles, was determined to be the perfect witch. And, in the opinions of most, she was. "Anyway" she continued, "I was reading and guess who's on the cover?"
"Well, other than the fact Dad's been talking about it all morning, I have no clue."
Hermione frowned. "Rita Skeeter!" she insisted, ignoring his comment. "You'll never believe what I did to make her."
Ron laughed. "After today, I have no trouble believing anything."
"Well," she murmured delicately, "I simply told her that if she didn't apologize, she'd be a grand pet!" She giggled. "She signed the note in a moment."
There was a long pause. Ron smiled.
"You should've squished her."
The End
The twins clambered down the stairs; each wearing a sweater marked with a large "F" or "G". "Maybe he found one of our special wands," one of them chortled to the other, his fiery red hair (as was the colour of all his siblings hair as well) tousled by the afternoon breeze. Mrs. Molly Weasley came in from the garden, her face flushed with effort with trying to get the gnomes out.
And, all together, came the last three, Percy gripping the shoulders of his siblings amiably, as if it were his responsibility to bring them in. Since his promotion at the Ministry of Magic, Percy was extraordinarily smug and adult-like. "Virginia and Ronald have been up to no good, Mum. They actually had the NERVE to write on my business cards, right under my name" his face flushed with anger "Persius Weasley, Assistant Numbskull for the Banks of the Wizarding World. Numbskull," he repeated angrily, as Fred and George laughed at the glorious prank. "I AM THE NUMBERS ASSORTED ASSISTANT FOR THE -"
"Do calm down, boy," interrupted Mr. Weasley jovially, for even he had failed to hide his chuckle at the joke. "Just look here." He pulled out his Daily Prophet issue, pointing cheerfully to the front-page article. Running across the page in curvy letters read the words "Much to the dismay of staff and readers alike, Special Correspondent Rita Skeeter has decided to retire early, after fifteen wonderful years with the Prophet." Percy and Mr. Weasley glared at the headline with pure joy, Rita had been badmouthing the Ministry for years, but Ron studied the article with peculiar interest.
"Ms. Skeeter" it continued "has been noted as a respected and truthful" Ron scoffed, remembering several articles of the past year "reporter that has been on the DP staff since most of us here can remember. Though sometimes accused of slander and falseness, most readers praise Rita. 'I could always rely on her' notes Pamela Brown of Edinburgh 'and I was just crushed when I'd learned she'd retired.
"But as Skeeter has said, 'It's time. I've lied, but been forgiven.'" Ron rolled his eyes. "'I've written, but my hand grows weary. My quill is ruffled along with my mind, and if I continue to write all there will be is rubbish.'" ("As if there was ever anything else!" Ron muttered). "With her signature marked on a note alongside a plea to retire, we felt we must let our genius go on, to explore the reporting depths that lie beyond." With this, the article ended above a picture of Rita herself. She had beetle black eyes and grotesque large glasses, her pale face running into blonde hair (colourless in the black-and white picture). Like all pictures in the wizarding world, it moved, and Rita blinked and tapped her foot impatiently, repeatedly pushing her glasses back upon her nose.
"Dad?" piped Ron, turning to Arthur inquisitively. "Do we still have that fellytone?"
"It's telephone, dear" corrected Mrs. Weasley, dabbing at Ron's freckles with her handkerchief as if she could wipe them off. "Your curious father has been taking it apart and putting it back together whispering 'How DO those Muggles do it?'" Mr. Weasley flushed and the rest of the family giggled at her good impression of Arthur. "Anyway, dear, it's in our room. Why? Going to try to call Harry again?" Ron's best friend, Harry Potter, lived with his aunt and uncle, who were Muggles (non-magical people). They were very normal and thought Harry's magic blood a burden he'd just have to take. The last time pureblooded wizard Ron had gotten near a "fellytone".... But that's a different story, and I must continue this one.
"Maybe" he muttered offhandedly, already walking speedily to the bedroom. He glanced the telephone, which his father had purchased a few years back in his curiousity for Muggles. ("What a strange man" a stout lady nearby had mused. "Wearing robes so very late in the day.")
"Hello?" shot a gruff voice out of the receiver. "Who is this?" it demanded before Ron could reply. In the background he heard the voice talking to someone, "Petunia, dear, are you expecting any calls?" Though nice enough words, the voice was gruff and solemn. A muffled reply. "Hmm..." the voice mused angrily, "The drill shipment man shouldn't call for an hour. Who is this?" it demanded again. Uncle Vernon, thought Ron, he sold drills.
"Ro-Robert Edmondson. Yes," Ron continued, glad he'd caught himself before revealing his name. "Mr. Robert Edmondson. I was wondering if a young boy named Harry Potter resides there." A growl.
"He attends St. Brutus' Centre for Incurably Criminal boys!" Vernon spoke through clenched teeth. "NO ONE speaks to him, hears from him, NOTHING!!!! You've got the wrong number, Mr. Edmondson!!!!" But just as he was about to slam down the receiver, a strike of brilliance came to Ron.
"Ah, but you don't understand, kind sir. Am I right in presuming young Harry is an orphan?" Growl. That meant yes, he supposed. "I run the Troubled Orphan's Society of Britain" Ron continued, amazed he could lie so calmly. "We, er, take care of orphans who are deeply disturbed by their parent's death and take them into our honorable care for the entire year unless by request you wish to bring Mr. Potter back to your home." Another growl, but calmer, considering. If Vernon could get Harry to go to this society, he'd NEVER have to see the boy again, and could wash the whole "magic" thing out of his system. "But for our extensive and serious program, first we have to obtain the confidence of the pupil. Can you and your wife please hand the receiver to Harry, please? It would be the very best for you to leave the room, to make Harry feel, er, comfortable talking to his new headmaster without aide." It only took a moment.
"What?" said Harry dully; Ron had fooled them all very well into believing he was the tedious headmaster. "I was just doing my homework when -"
"Oh, still on that big potions assignment?" said Ron, switching back to his normal voice. "I sent a letter to Hermione; I'm still working but she finished it ages ago."
"Ron!!!!!" said Harry, barely stopping his shout before Vernon and Petunia heard. "Is-is something wrong?" He lowered his voice, pretending by tone that he wasn't interested in the call.
"Oh no, nothing's wrong" Ron assured him, laughing a little. "Fred and George are still insanely weird, Percy's STILL thickheaded. Ginny's still obsessed with you..." Harry flushed, happy Ron couldn't see his reaction. "And" he held his breath, holding suspense along with it "Rita Skeeter is RETIRED."
"No way."
"Yep. Saw in the Daily Prophet this morning. She's so sorry..." Ron said with amusement.
"But Hermione -"
"Hasn't said a word to me."
Long ago, it seemed, though it was only last year, Hogwarts (the Wizarding school both friends attended) had held a very special event, called the Triwizard Tournament. It had stirred a lot of action, a lot of danger, and a lot of stories. Stories Rita Skeeter was itching to get her hands on. Stories she destroyed. After hurting a lot of people with her exaggerated tales, Rita ended up in a jar in Hermione (a girl from school, and Harry and Ron's other best friend)'s bag by the end of the year. You see, some witches can turn into cats. Some can even turn into gators. But Rita Skeeter, determined to get the story, determined to creep her way past the truth; well, Rita Skeeter could turn into a beetle. Clever Hermione, after figuring this out, didn't have trouble finding the reporter that liked to, er, BUG us so very much.
"Imagine" Harry mused, his voice wavering slightly. Then he laughed.
"What is it?" demanded Ron, smiling ear to ear.
"Nothing" he replied, chortling uncontrollably between each breath.
"Just, I can just see Hermione standing over R-Rita. 'I'm going to squish you if you don't apologize!' Ha! Oh, sorry Ron, Uncle Vernon just asked me why I was laughing about my doomed future" he laughed quietly into phone, "got to go. See you at Hogwarts."
Both boys were laughing as they put down the phones.
Just as it was set back, and Ron was walking back up the stairs, the telephone rang again.
"Becoming a Muggle, Ron?" suggested Ginny from her room, lost in the rest of the family's happiness over Rita's retirement. "My goodness, I think you're becoming Dad! Oh no!" she gripped her face in false horror. "Maybe you are!"
"Very funny," he muttered, picking it up. "Hello?"
"Sorry, Ron" piped a voice on the other side of the line, "you aren't used to this, but it was the quickest way to reach you." Hermione. "I was reading the Prophet, I get it delivered, you know..." He knew. Hermione, the know-it-all sweet but sometimes annoying girl, whose parents were both Muggles, was determined to be the perfect witch. And, in the opinions of most, she was. "Anyway" she continued, "I was reading and guess who's on the cover?"
"Well, other than the fact Dad's been talking about it all morning, I have no clue."
Hermione frowned. "Rita Skeeter!" she insisted, ignoring his comment. "You'll never believe what I did to make her."
Ron laughed. "After today, I have no trouble believing anything."
"Well," she murmured delicately, "I simply told her that if she didn't apologize, she'd be a grand pet!" She giggled. "She signed the note in a moment."
There was a long pause. Ron smiled.
"You should've squished her."
The End