A/N: I apologize for the absence. Grad School was NOT fun. Please don't hate me too much! Enjoy to any readers still out there following this thing.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
"Ugh," groaned Pansy, as she watched the damned clock on the wall slowly count down to her impending deadline. She glanced at the parchment paper laid out on her desk. Writer's block had hit her oh, about two hours ago. Scribbles of ideas, thoughts, and potential headlines were all scrawled down and scratched out. Nothing seemed to fit with the upcoming anniversary issue of Witchly Weekly!
"Come on, Parkinson! Think!"
She had been here a little over a year and had already established a good reputation for being a solid reporter, most notably covering, of all things, quidditch. Yes, that's right - quidditch It seemed that the sporting audience was gaining more and more female members. And lucky for Pansy, she had attended EVERY single game Slytherin had played during her time at Hogwarts. Thank her ex-boyfriend for that. Which reminded her.
She picked up the letter she had just received from her mother and quickly scanned it. Her mother was clearly upset, informing her that at last, the oh so very short list of suitors had been decimated - the last eligible bachelor declining to wait for a response from her any longer, opting instead for his second choice. Pansy chuckled. "Oh say it isn't so! Not cousin Thomas!" she cried out loud, making a disgusted face. That's the trouble with wanting to marry pureblood. She set the letter aside, with no intention of responding any time soon. She had a deadline to worry about.
"Merlin, I hope I don't get fired." She scanned around for an ashtray. Too many empty cups of tea cluttered her current workspace, however, making the search slightly more obnoxious. But she was interrupted before she could even begin upending everything in sight. Someone was knocking on her door. "It's open!" she cried.
"Pans, Chief wants you in her office." It was the secretary, Agatha. An agreeable enough woman, but too cheery for Pansy's taste. Too smothering. Too nosy. She was what Pansy assumed Gryffindor grandmothers were like. They need house elves in this place, thought Pansy.
"Any idea why?"
Agatha shrugged her shoulders. "Uh, an assignment?"
Pansy rolled her eyes. Obviously, you nitwit. "Details, Agatha!"
"She says she's come up with the perfect feature for the anniversary issue," replied Agatha, cringing slightly at Pansy's elevated vocals.
"Well, talk about being saved," mumbled Pansy as she straightened out her skirt. What luck Pansy thought, as she marched to Morigan Vanhussen's office, lightly tapping her knuckles on the door before sticking her head in. "Chief, you called?"
Morigan looked up from the newspaper she had buried herself in. "Parkinson!" she barked. "Sit down," she commanded, indicating the seat across from her. The editor in chief of the successful women's magazine was a no-nonsense kind of witch. Her black hair was streaked with gray but always done up in a tight and tidy bun. Her robes always seemed to be wrinkle free and her nails manicured to perfection. Rectangular spectacles were fixed upon her hawkish nose and her eyes had a way of narrowing, as if to peer into your soul. Which is what Pansy felt she was doing now.
"So," she began "do you know who every witch out there is talking about?"
"Every witch, or just our audience?" asked Pansy as she seated herself on the other side of the mahogany desk.
"Don't get smart, Parkinson." She tossed the paper she had been reading on to the desk, revealing the cover.
"Oh, bloody hell," Pansy cried, pushing her chair back away from the discarded periodical as if her boss had just tossed a plague-ridden body part her way. "No, no, no," she wailed as the front page showed one smirking Draco Malfoy, winking at her, while crowds of women were fawning over him in the background.
Morigan arched an eyebrow, intrigued by Pansy's reaction. "Yes, Parkinson, this is Draco Malfoy. Dynamic, up-and-coming star of the Falmouth Falcons! His dirty, rough and tumble style is revitalizing that team, which, if you recall, was well known for such tactics in the past. Women are fawning over his looks, his bad boy attitude, that devil-may care demeanor! He is exactly who we need in our anniversary issue."
"His pretentious attitude and sour demeanor, you mean. Brilliant, just brilliant." Pansy closed her eyes and buried her head in her hands. This cannot be happening, she inwardly cried. Why could she not escape the insufferable Malfoy. "Chief, please. Please. Trust me when I say, I know who he is. But we do not need to cover him!"
Morigan's face remained stoic. She smacked her lips. "Parkinson, do you recall that article you wrote in last month's issue? You know, the one where you accused Gwendolyn Hofsdottir of throwing the game?" She folded her hands in front of her, eyes narrowing once again in her direction. Pansy bit her tongue. Ok so she HAD a good reputation, until recently. Don't tell her mother.
"She did throw that game! Any one who's watched enough quidditch can tell she did not put any effort in -"
"Yes, well, Parkinson. You had no proof. You ran the article without doing your due diligence AND attacked the personal heroine of many of our readers."
"If they were such fans, they would recall previous Holyhead Harpies' games and Gwendolyn's particular plays where she -" started Pansy.
Morigan held her right hand up, silencing her tirade. Pansy crossed her hands and huffed. "Now, had I done my own due diligence, I obviously would have pulled the article from going to print. As it is, I placed too much trust in your judgment too soon. The fault is partly mine. But we will rectify your predicament now."
"By making me write an article about Malfoy?" she cried incredulously. She threw her hands up in the air. This was not happening. "Ok no, you know what, that's alright! I can do that without even having to interview him. She stood up, grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill nearby and started jotting away. "What do the readers want to know? He's an only child, went to Hogwarts, Slytherin prefect, favorite color is emerald green" ranted Pansy as she furiously scribbled away all the facts that she knew about him.
"Parkinson! Those are not juicy enough, not personal enough!"
"Ok, fine, fine! I can do juicy!" Pansy continued, nearing hysterics as she started pacing back and forth. "Engaged to one Astoria Greengrass, tends to snore when he lays down on his right side, wakes up with immaculate hair, has a birthmark on his -"
Morigan sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, her patience wearing thin. "Parkinson, how do you even know all this?"
Pansy put a halt to her tirade and dramatically collapsed against the wall, despair on display. Alright so she picked up a habit or two from her mother. "Morigan, please, please, please do not make me do this article," she pleaded, flashing her editor with the most pitiable face ever.
Silence.
"You hate me," deadpanned Pansy. She pushed herself off the wall and sat back down across from Morigan, letting out a heavy sigh.
"I am having a little bit of a problem here trying to understand why you are acting as if torture is more preferable than covering the most desirable quidditch player for what willl be our biggest issue of the year."
"He's my ex-boyfriend," replied Pansy in a defeated tone. "We broke up over a year ago. It did not end well."
"That's perfect. I'm sure he will be pleased to see a familiar face. He'll be more comfortable, more susceptible to answering hard questions. Look, Parkinson. It's simple. You are one of my better reporters and you are in hot water with our readers. The only way to get back in their good graces is to write a great article about someone they adore. Forget about your history! A good reporter should be able to do this without bias or feelings interfering." Morigan leaned back in her plush leather chair.
"I don't think you understand what I meant when I said 'did not end well.' Think apocalyptic break up of the century. Morigan, I will literally do any other article but this one," pleaded Pansy.
"Oh, is that so? Well now that you mention it, we are in need of someone to cover the 'Dress Robe Disasters: Hot or Not?' piece." Morigan gave her a smug grin.
Pansy gasped, placing a delicate hand on her chest. "That's for rookies! It isn't even worth my time! My skills!"
"He's agreed to meet one of our writers tomorrow but he's visiting his parents. Do you want the address to Malfoy Manor?"
Pansy scowled. His parent's house? Of course the universe was against her. "I remember where it is," she muttered.
"Good. Here take this. We polled a small test group about information they want to know about Malfoy - these are questions our readers will most likely want asked. Feel free to steer the conversation into other areas," Morigan said with a wink.
"I cannot believe you are making me go through with this." Pansy grabbed the folder and plodded her way out of the office.
"You'll do great, kid," she said encouragingly as Pansy shut the door to her office.