Title Memento Mori et Medicinae
Durmstrang - Fear
Main Prompt: [Word] Appease
Optional Prompt: [Dialogue] "You're not the shallow horrible excuse for a human being I first thought you were."
WC: 27355
Nymphie LeSkettier, the great-granddaughter of the infamous journalist Skeeter, was continuing the family businesses: journalism and making trouble. She strove to uncover the untold stories of what actually happened during the wars against Voldemort, dispelling myths her forebears had borne. Her research into Voldemort aka Tom Riddle had been interesting, but his character was already well known. Despite the many sordid details into the formation of his tormented psyche, she found the utter lack of depth made him a dull profile with whom most were already familiar.. No, Nymphie needed a new target on which to focus her energy.
Thankfully, the rumor mill at St. Mungo's Retirement Village (an assisted living complex for those with degenerative ailments like Magical Memory Loss before the conditions get serious) was willing to appease her ambitions. According to the rumors, a certain headmaster at the time of the wars had exploited members of the resistance and even put the students of the school in danger unnecessarily. Naturally, Nymphie LeSkettier had to verify this herself.
The source of the rumors couldn't be better: former Madame Minister Weasley, famed for abolishing house-elf abuse and last survivor of the famous golden trio, was any journalist's dream interviewee. Even if this was a bust for her original topic, any manner of juicy information could come from the meeting. Nymphie understood the opportunity before her, but knew she'd need tread delicately. The former Minister was a patient of St. Mungo's in the early stages of Magical Memory Loss, and abuse of the woman's lowered inhibitions would not be tolerated by her remaining family.
Thankfully, Nymphie was comfortable enough with people suffering the terminal malady. Her grandfather had languished with it, after all, and she'd been the one to sit with him most of his last ten years when she discovered how poorly patients were treated at the small care center he'd originally been placed in. Just thinking about it made her shudder at being so helpless, but hours of entertaining her grandfather would prove useful now. She knew the condition well enough to know how to talk to those in its throes; how to gently ask questions without leading the MML sufferer, and was even active in charity to raise money for a cure. All that aside, she was still nervous about meeting the former Madame Minister.
Click. The magi-corder charm, invented by the late Arthur Weasley, made a silly noise like the Muggle recorders of his day.
"Hello, former Madame Minister Weasley," she said a bit too brightly.
The woman before her laughed shaking her head. "No, no, no. I am not a Madame anything, much less a Madame Weasley Minister or such nonsense. No. Call me 'Mione Granger, like everyone else does."
"Yes, of course, Ms. Granger," she smiled, offering appeasement to the woman who was in every sense her elder. "I'm Nymphie LeSkettier, reporter and co-owner of the New Daily Prophet, and I was hoping I could ask you some questions about your youth and your experiences as a war hero, like we talked about by Floo last week."
"Oh yes, that's right. I knew someone who worked for that rag once," 'Mione said, "But she wasn't nearly so kind as you. Very well, ask away."
"Let's start at the beginning of your interaction with the Wizarding World. In your experiences at Hogwarts, how would you characterize the school's atmosphere?"
"Well, it was enormous and imposing, but ever so exciting. The work was easy, really, too easy, why one year I took four overlapping courses, and had to get a license for a time turner to make it to all of them! Minerva, sorry, I mean, Headmistress McGonagall, once told me I was the most precocious student she'd ever seen."
"Yes, of course. We are as ever awed by your wisdom, Ms. Granger." Nymphie smiled softly, feeling the need to appease while also redirecting the conversation before the former Minister derailed into further braggadocio. While 'Mione wasn't aware of it, the MML had a way of making people boast more easily, among other odd personality quirks at the beginning stages of the condition. She wouldn't base her report on Dumbledore on this encounter, but it was a start. Regardless, the visit ought to allow her to write on the former Minister's unfortunate decline..
'Mione nodded and smiled, pleased with the compliment.
"Speaking of Headmasters, would you have any recollections on the previous Headmaster?"
"Oh, yes. We all loved him, at the time." She laughed and rolled her eyes. "But things aren't always as they seem. Why, it wasn't until hindsight kicked in during the plague of 2020 that I had the slightest inkling something was amiss. That was during my first year as Minister, when I stumbled upon some classified documents that posed troubling questions about the role of Albus Dumbledore during the wars."
"Before you go on, are these documents still classified, or might I be able to request clearance to see them?" Nymphie asked.
"Oh, you needn't do that, I can call in a favour with Portentia Mcarthur and get them for you today," 'Mione assured her, name-dropping the current deputy Minister like she was just another friend.
"That would be wonderful, Mad-Min-ahem-Ms. Granger. Now, if you could kindly tell us some more about your time at Hogwarts, and the beginnings of your political career..."
Nymphie published the biopiece on 'Mione the next month, disclosing, with permission from the former Minister as well as her guardians, the sad news of her affliction with MML. 'Mione seemed unaware of her illness, which would surely have horrified her to no end, had she had the presence of mind to do so. As it was, she was already descending into the labyrinth of childhood memories, being embarrassed for calling the late Headmistress by her first name, and spilling secrets she'd likely sworn to keep. Maybe it was low of her, but despite the thoughtful piece reflecting on the life of the ailing Ms. Granger, she still felt that telltale urge to dive further into the treasure trove of juicy memories she represented before they were lost for good.
She sat back with a piping hot cuppa, some biscotti, and began to read up further on the illustrious former Madame Minister and the controversies she'd been a witness to. The more she saw, the more she needed to know. She had to go back to St. Mungo's. The one living source was right there, in The Retirement Village.
When she floo'd St. Mungo's to arrange the next visit, she was informed, to her dismay, that Ms. Granger was no longer at The Village. No, she was now in the Memory Ward, her MML having begun to progress much faster since her last visit. As a result, permission from the New Daily Prophet's Ethics Advisor, Mitchell Harris, would be needed before she could visit. His response was not what she'd hoped for.
"MML? Are you insane? Nobody's done that since Jimmy Witchel was beheaded on live FlooVision by a falling piano due to his interviewee's errant magic. Don't let the name fool you, it's not just memory loss, although that's one of the first signs. Their magic grows progressively more out of control. And they say things that humiliate their families. They can't help it, bless, but bad things can happen, really bad things. Do you want that to be you?"
"Mitchell, I don't think it's that bad. She's a war hero, for Merlin's sake. And perfectly peaceable, if discombobulated. I can handle myself just fine. Remember, my Grandfather had it. Nobody was hurt by him, and I cared for him to the last. I couldn't bear to see him in that dank old hospital. I hate that the former Minister is stuck there too now. It ought to be exposed."
"Fine. Fine. But if something happens, don't you come to me and say 'Mitch why didn't you tell me?' Your great-grandmother tried to pull that stunt on my great-uncle more than once back in the day, and I'll not stand for it. Something happens, the fault lies with you. Understood? And I have final authority to greenlight the final piece before it goes up on the FlooSite."
"Yes, Mr. Harris. You have my word I will be cautious and give all due consideration to your process and Ms. Granger's-as she calls herself-privacy." Nymphie tried to appease him, though inside she was screaming. Being judged on the failings of her great-grandmother never put her in a good mood, after all.
"Very good. Be careful."
"Yes."
Mitch was nearly insufferable at times like this. The last thing she wanted to do was cause him to be proven right about something. Merlin, it was her worst fear, being shown to be anything less than exemplary before him!
After this, Nymphie was able to get in for another interview that was… considerably less productive than the last time with Ms Granger being absolutely certain that she was her great-grandmother in disguise and requiring every method of appeasement in Nymphie's arsenal. She'd just about given up when she found a bar of chocolate. It seemed that chocolate could heal all wounds, even those caused by being "that evil Skeeter lady". By the end of it, Nymphie, sorry, Rita Skeeter had even been given an upgrade of sorts.
"You're not the shallow horrible excuse for a human being I first thought you were," Ms Granger had said with a grin. "Instead, you're like the Easter Bunny tricking millions of children into rotting their teeth out with candy. Oh well, you keep my parents in business well enough." Nymphie walked away with a very tasteful column on the former Minister and her malady. The advisor greenlit it, as did Granger-Weasley's guardians, and it was published in the first May edition of the New Daily Prophet. Nymphie was just starting to gloat, when she got a fire call one evening.
"Ms. Granger is demanding to see you," the harried mediwitch said. "Please floo over at once." And she hung up.
Startled, Nymphie quickly dressed and floo'd over.
What she saw at the ward was a mess of disastrous proportions. 'Mione was in a furor, having summoned magical ocean waves that kept the healers and mediwitches on their desks, attempting to reach her with their calming spells to no avail.
"Ms. Granger!" Nymphie cried as she exited the floo, ducking to keep the seawater out of her eyes that swirled about the ward.
"I'm 'Mione!" the former Minister declared, her voice tiny and scared for one who commanded such a maelstrom of magic.
"How old are you, 'Mione?"
"I's three yeaws old."
Nymphie's stomach bottomed out, and she turned almost as green as the patients who were struggling to stay afloat atop their chairs. She was three? Her MML was reaching a critical point now. The point that her grandfather had escaped by virtue of a case of dragon pox finishing him off and that she'd been warned of by the ethics advisor.
"'Mione, I'm Nymphie LeSkettier, I wrote the article about you. The mediwitch called and said you wanted to see me?"
"Yes, I do." She got calmer, and the waters started to recede.
"Why you write mean tings bout me? I wanna be Pwime Ministew s'meday, but you said I's got magi-magi-mem-wy-woss, I's losing my mind, I's gonna die," she snifflled.
Nymphie couldn't help but run to hug the frail old woman as she broke down to sobs.
"Do you know what magic is?" she asked gently, recalling that her once-interviewee was Muggle-born.
"'S in movies and stowies, make-bewieve," 'Mione supplied through her tears.
"'Mione, what if I told you it was real? That you have magic? You know how there was an ocean here just moments ago?" She pointed towards the sopping wet mediwitches and patients who peered cautiously towards them.
"Y-yes."
"Well, that was you. You have magic, but when you get upset, it-it could hurt somebody. You don't want that, do you?"
"No. No, no, no! I never want hurt anybody!"
"Okay. Okay. Can you think of something nice, something fun then for me?"
"Buttewfwes."
"Very good. Butterflies are nice."
"I not mean to hurt nobody," Mione fretted again, seas rising from the floor tiles as she began to cry.
"Hey! Mione! R-remember butterflies?"
She rocked the old woman in her arms gently. "Butterflies," she whispered. "Butterflies."
Mione quieted, and the seas fell to a rise of butterflies of all colors, shapes, and sizes in their place. Nymphie gazed around in astonishment.
Just then, a tap on the shoulder startled her.
"Miss, be very still. We're setting up aurors and security wizards to tranquilize the patient. Remain very still."
"What? No! She's fine, I have her under control," Nymphie snapped, struggling to keep her voice to a whisper too quiet for the elderly witch's ears.
"She needs total custodial care in the restricted wing, Miss. She's a threat to herself and everyone around her."
"And what do you do there?" She asked accusingly.
"We keep patients comfortable with potions for their well-being and security available in case of these instances."
"Would those potions be to render the patients unconscious until death?"
"Potions to sedate and tranquilize patients are paramount for the safety and comfort of all on our wards," intoned the mediwizard whose name tag said Ichabod Lane.
"Really, Ichabod, I'd think you'd understand I have Ms. Granger under perfect control. I've done this before with my grandfather, and frankly, I think a war hero and former Minister deserves better than being put into a coma for your convenience until she dies."
"This is highly irregular. I do not believe her guardians would approve of such dangerous and experimental treatment. Your beliefs could indicate a shift in your thought processes as well. I'm afraid we have no choice but to detain you both."
Nymphie screamed as stunning spells immobilized her and Hermione, sending them flying to a set of full-body restraints against the wall. She couldn't so much as move her head as the restraint board was lowered by many hands onto a floating gurney, and a mask was pressed over her nose and mouth. She tried to resist breathing in the heady fumes of a sleeping potion, but resistance was futile, and the world faded from her vision as an agonizing rush overcame her.
She awoke, struggling to sit up on a hard bed, straps digging into her wrists and ankles as she thrashed and fought them.
She tried to open her eyes, but it was either completely dark, or she was blindfolded, and she could not tell which. Only after some time did a blinding light appear, as if a black curtain had been thrown back, and a figure she couldn't make out in the brightness came towards her.
"You know," said the figure, with a voice she struggled to place in the haze of the moment.
"You are a disgrace to your family name, LeSkettier, or should I say Skeeter? You're even worse than she was. A disgrace to journalism; why I dare say, a no-good yellow journalist. I told you not to come, and yet here you are. If you think I will help you, you're sorely mistaken. As far as I'm concerned you've earned it all as you found what you were looking for."
"M-mitch? I can't see. M-mitch?"
"In the flesh, on free feet. You'd best get comfortable, Nymphie. You're going to be here a long time if I have my way with you."
"No! Mitch!"
"Yes."
Nymphie's heart pounded. It was as if her worst fear was coming true, only, instead of it only being told 'I told you so' by her colleague, she was trapped like her grandfather had been trapped before she saved him. The only difference? Nymphie knew no one would come to save her. Suddenly, her fear turned to rage. She wouldn't let Mitchell see her fear.
"Y-you're disgusting. A-a disgrace. Y-you're-exactly the shallow, horrible excuse for a human being I first thought you were, and worse. Go rot in hell, Mitchell Harris. Go rot in Hell!"
"Oh no, love, I'll see you there."
The door slammed and she heard footsteps receding into the permeating darkness. She didn't fight the skull-splitting rush this time as more sleeping potion filled her senses. As she fell into the ether all she could hear was her own harsh laugh.