What You Never Knew
Rita Skeeter: The Lost One
1. "Rita Skeeter" wasn't her real name.
She was born as Rachel Smith, daughter of Reymond Smith and- well, she actually didn't know who her mother was. According to her father, her mother left when Rachel was just a baby; Rachel didn't have a single memory of the woman. Therefore, she really didn't understand what was so great about mothers- fathers were just as good at raising kids. Hers was, at least. Even though he couldn't talk and didn't have a job because of it.
We're not poor, we just don't have as much money as some other families, her father would write to her in the dirt, clad in his only outfit: a dirty, baggy T-shirt and an old pair of jeans. He said this to make his daughter feel better, but they both knew the truth: They were flat-out broke, plain and simple.
It was hard not to know when you lived on the streets.
But Rachel didn't mind. It didn't mean she was any worse than anyone else. That was what her Daddy told her (or, rather, wrote to her), so it had to be true.
2. From a small age, she proved to have a knack for certain skills.
Her talent was first discovered when she was five years old and, hungrier than any child should ever be, she walked into a candy shop. Looking around at all the sweets, she began drooling, running over to the displays of chocolate. Her stomach growled so loudly that everyone in the shop looked at her- including the woman behind the counter.
Frowning, conflicting emotions in her eyes, the woman walked over to the tiny Rachel, hands on her rather large hips, and bent down to the younger girl's eye level.
"How old are you?" She asked, her voice sharp but soft.
"Five," Rachel answered, holding up one hand, all fingers outstretched. "This many."
"What's your name?"
"Rachel."
"When was the last time you ate something?"
The little girl thought for a moment. "Two weeks," she said slowly, still thinking hard, not taking notice of the woman's expression. "It would've been three, but Daddy gave me his. He said that I'm a growing girl, so I need food more than him."
"Good lord, girl!" The woman exclaimed, looking absolutely appalled. "Those aren't any conditions for a child to live under! Come with me."
Rachel hesitated; on the one hand, her father had told her not to talk to strangers- which she had already disregarded- and never to follow them. On the other hand, there was so much food, and the woman seemed nice…
Tentatively, she trailed after the shop owner.
She was led to a little storeroom in the back of the shop. There were boxes from the floor to the ceiling, covering each wall and most of the space in the room. Somehow, the woman- who wasn't exactly small- squeezed through and heaved down a large box. Setting it down on the ground, she opened it.
Rachel's jaw dropped.
There was so much food, just in that once box… gummy worms and chocolates and caramel and fudge and tubes of colored sugar and candies shaped like fruits and so much more…
"Here," the woman said, shoving a plastic bag into Rachel's hands. She received a questioning glance in response. "Everything you can fit into that bag, you can take with you. Okay?"
"But I can't pay for it!"
"Free of charge for you, Rachel- you said your name was Rachel, didn't you? Yeah, you did. You don't got to pay for this, Rachel; I ain't gonna let a five-year-old starve on my watch."
Rachel gaped at the woman for a few moments and then began digging through the box, testing each candy and dumping whole containers of her favorites into her plastic bag. She made sure to have a little of each - she wasn't sure which ones her father liked, after all. After what seemed like hours of pure bliss, her bag was full to the brim, and the woman had had to fetch a miniature wagon- who knows what from- for Rachel to pull it in.
"Thank you very, very much, Ma'am," Rachel said politely, wrapping her tiny arms around the woman's waist. "It's real nice of you."
"Yes, well, I'd be right heartless to do anything else," the woman said, lightly hugging Rachel back for the briefest of moments. "Now get on with ya; I reckon your dad'll be right pleased with that haul there!"
Rachel nodded swiftly and walked away, painstakingly pulling the heavy wagon behind her all the way to her and her father's make-shift home in an alley at the end of the street.
"Daddy, Daddy!" she squealed when she saw their box. It was larger than other boxes she had seen, since there were two of them; it was much better than there old one. Her father, with his stubble-covered face and dark bags under his eyes, peered out.
"What is it, Rachel?" he asked wearily.
"Look what I've got!" she exclaimed happily, finally making it to the box with all her candy. Her father stared, wide-eyed, at the bag in the wagon.
The young girl explained what happened; when she finished, her father let out a silent roar of delight and lifted her into his arms. Words didn't need to be said; the relieved tears streaming down his face said enough.
That night, the two ate their fill of the candy, saving just less than half of the original amount. And the next day, Mr. Smith wrote to his daughter, Rachel, do you think you could do what you did yesterday again?
Rachel had nodded. And when she went into the grocery store later that day, she had been proven correct.
Again and again and again…
3. The Hogwarts owl was the biggest shock of her life.
Rachel had lived on the street all of her life. Her father had no special abilities whatsoever- he was an average, unremarkable man in all aspects, which was only worsened by the fact that he couldn't talk. Aside from being able to con food out of storeowners and having grown rather strong from carrying it all back, Rachel had about as many skills.
So when they received an owl, of all things, carrying a letter (addressed to "Miss Rachel Smith, The Large Box, the Alleyway on the edge of Harney Street, London, England") telling eleven-year-old Rachel that she was a witch and had a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, they were, naturally, stunned.
In fact, they thought it was a joke. So they didn't reply, using the back of the paper to have an in-depth conversation about who could have sent it.
When the same letter arrived the next day, they decided to send a response:
Dear Professor McGonagall (or whoever you really are),
We do not appreciate your joke, so if you would please stop sending these letters, it would be much appreciated.
Sincerely,
Reymond and Rachel Smith.
They expected that to be the end of it; however the next day, they woke up to a tall woman with dark hair and emerald robes tapping on the top of their box, asking in a curt voice, "Mr. Smith? Miss Smith?"
Rachel woke up quick as a whip; her father followed suit. They glared suspiciously at the woman. "Who are you?" Rachel asked hastily. "What do you want?" She would've added this customary, 'We aren't going to trade boxes with you,' but somehow this woman didn't look homeless.
"My name is Professor McGonagall, and I am from-"
"Hogwarts," Rachel breathed as she recognized the name, shock ringing through the word.
"Yes," McGonagall nodded. "We received your response to our letter and I have come to explain magic to you."
And explain it she did. She talked about how magic worked, the history of Hogwarts, the subjects that were taught at school- Rachel soaked it all in like a sponge.
"It sounds wonderful," she sighed when the Professor finished talking.
Mr. Smith suddenly banged his hand on the ground to get attention. Ignoring the odd look he received from Professor McGonagall, he wrote in the dirt, Money?
"Ah, yes," McGonagall said, clearing her throat awkwardly. "Well, Hogwarts itself is free for all its students- the supplies, however, are rather… above your budget, I believe." Rachel's face fell. The older witch hastily went on, "Hogwarts does, however, give financial aid to students who can prove that they need it… I believe that you qualify. I will talk to my fellow professors about it; I am sure they will agree."
"Oh, thank God," Rachel breathed. She had just been told about this wonderful, fantastic new world that she was being let into- she wasn't going to get that taken away from her.
"Perhaps we could arrange a day for me to return?" McGonagall suggested. "I could take you two to Diagon Alley; that is where wizards and witches buy their supplies."
Rachel nodded eagerly and turned to her father. "Wednesday?" She asked him. "Two o'clock?"
After a moment, he nodded. Rachel squealed and hugged him. "Thank you, Daddy!"
McGonagall cleared her throat. "Well, then. Wednesday at two o'clock? I will see you here. Until then, good day, Mr. and Miss Smith."
Then, she did the most extraordinary thing: with a snap of her fingers, she vanished.
Rachel grinned. She really couldn't wait to learn how to do that.
4. On the Hogwarts Express, she learned what regular people thought of poor people.
It had started out innocent enough: Rachel had sat down in a compartment on the train, taken out one of her textbooks, and begun reading furiously, becoming so immersed in the magic that she didn't even notice someone else entering her compartment until that person cleared her throat.
Rachel lifted her head up, blushing a deep red, and looked at the newcomer. She looked to be about Rachel's age; other than that, however, there was no resemblance. Rachel had short, thin, unkempt blond hair and blemished skin that seemed to be permanently dirty. This girl had long, dark, wild curls that shone even in the dim light; she had full lips and porcelain skin and if her clothes were anything to go by, then she had money. A lot of money.
That was the last thing Rachel had.
The newcomer stared down at Rachel, her dark eyes colder than ice, for a few moments. Then, she sneered, "Whoare you?"
"Rachel Smith," Rachel answered, forcing herself to have a congenial tone. "And who are you, might I ask?"
"Bellatrix Black," the girl responded imperiously. "You're a Mudblood, I assume?" Her eyes swept over Rachel's robes. "And poor, too. Dirt poor, from the looks of it."
"What's that matter?"
Bellatrix's laugh was high and sadistic. "What's that matter? What's that matter? Oh, that's rich!" She narrowed her eyes at Rachel. "Tell you what, Mudblood, I'll teach you a little thing about social classes." The dark-haired girl paused. "Actually, no, I won't. I don't need to waste my time with pathetic filth like you. I'll just sum up everything you need to know: You- and all the other Mudbloods- have about as much value as mud. Being poor-" She sneered the word "-makes you worth even less. I'm better than you and you're to treat me that way. Got it?"
"G-Got it," Rachel nodded fervently.
"Good," Bellatrix almost crooned, her voice a sickly sort of sweet now as she leaned over Rachel. "We're going to have a lot of fun in Hogwarts, Mudblood." Then, she swept out of the compartment, her satin black robes billowing behind her.
Rachel gulped. Somehow, she didn't think Bellatrix's idea of fun would be very fun at all.
5. Her first year at Hogwarts was hell.
After that train ride, Bellatrix Black seemed to have made it her personal mission not target Rachel specifically, even out of the rest of the Muggleborns in the school. Because of this, not only did Rachel find herself a regular visitor to the Hospital Wing, but no one would dare go near her, for fear of facing Bellatrix's wrath.
Not to mention she spent every waking minute worrying about her father and how he was. They exchanged a weekly correspondence, but her nerves couldn't be soothed; after all, words were just words. Her father would never tell her if something had gone badly, not unless it was really serious, and things like no having enough food or getting in a fight with another homeless man didn't fall into that category…
Rachel would always shake those thoughts out of her head.
6. In her Fourth Year, Hogwarts got a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.
This in itself wasn't especially odd. In fact, it was perfectly usual, seeing as no teacher for that subject ever lasted more than a year. The teacher herself wasn't an especially remarkable woman, either: Blond hair styled in a bob around a rather thin face that was covered with much too much makeup. She was of an average height, with rather large hands and perfectly manicured nails.
The first day of classes, Rachel had arrived early. She had found that if she could get a seat up front, near the teacher, Bellatrix was less likely to try and jinx her during the lesson. Besides, she was still as charming as she was when she was five, and it never hurt to get on a teacher's good side.
The teacher's reaction when Rachel had walked into the room was, however, quite different than all the past professors' had been. Usually, Rachel was greeted with an, "Oh, hello!" or "You're quite early, aren't you?" or "Nice to meet you, please take your seat"; something along those normal lines.
Professor Griffiths' reaction was entirely different.
The woman had turned around when she had heard footsteps with a bright, winning smile on her face; as soon as she had set her eyes on Rachel's matching one, however, it had slid right off. Professor Griffith had clutched the desk, blanching even through her makeup, breathing hard while gasping, "Oh my God… It's… You… So long since… Oh my God…"
Rachel frowned. "What do you mean?"
Her teacher took a deep breath, steadying herself rather unsuccessfully. "Oh, it's nothing, dear, nothing- may I ask what your name is?"
"Rachel Smith."
A sharp intake of breath. Then, a pause. "Nice to meet you, Miss Smith," Professor Griffiths finally said, her voice shaky and unnaturally high, not looking the girl in the eye. "Please, take a seat… class will start in a few minutes."
7. Professor Griffiths became Rachel's best confidant.
Despite what Rachel considered a rocky (not to mention just plain weird) first start, she and her Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher got on surprisingly well; it was almost as if they were the same person, in many ways. They had weekly teas together that soon turned daily; Rachel would tell the Professor everything about her life, from Bellatrix to schoolwork to her father (which, for some reason, Professor Griffiths was particularly interested in). The older woman would listen with an eager, almost desperate fervor and give advice like the fate of the world depended on it.
One day towards the end of the year, Rachel decided to go to teatime early. Just the other day, Professor Griffiths had taught her how to apply her own makeup; that morning, Rachel had done it herself, and couldn't wait to show her teacher. Arriving at the DADA classroom, she eagerly pushed open the door-
-And saw, to her surprise, that Professor Griffiths was utterly unprepared.
The woman who usually looked so composed, so professional, had her hair down in an unkempt, dirty-blond mess. She was using a tiny handheld mirror at her desk to apply her makeup when the door opened; she gave a little yelp, jumped in her seat, and stared at Rachel, startled.
"Oh, Rachel, hello!" she exclaimed, beaming like there was no tomorrow. "You're early, but that's no matter- I'm so sorry you have to see me in this state, though, it's a sight no one should see- Did you do your makeup yourself? It's beautiful, darling, that blush is perfect for your complexion…" She trailed off once she finally took note of Rachel's expression and silence. Her voice changed to a softer one, full of concern. "Rachel? Are you alright, dear? Do you need to sit down? I could get you a glass of water-"
"You look like me," Rachel cut her off, her eyes wide under thickly mascara-coated lashes. "Or I guess, I look like you…"
The smile, once so broad, vanished from Professor Griffiths' face. She paled whiter than a sheet; her hands began to shake, and she forced a breathy laugh. "Oh, what a funny coincidence! Good on you for noticing that, Rache-"
"It's not a coincidence. I look just like you."
"You don't; you very much resemble Reymond-" She stopped short and clapped her hand over her mouth, seeing her error at the same time Rachel did.
"I never told you my dad's name, and you've never seen him before," the girl pointed out hastily. "Or at least, that's what you told me… But you were lying, weren't you?" She lowered her voice; her eyes narrowed. "You know my dad. You know me. You've known us since before I was born- precisely nine months, in my case, haven't you?"
Professor Griffiths let out a choked sob. "I- I- Oh, I'm so sorry, Rachel… I'm so, so sorry…"
"It's fourteen years too late to apologize for leaving me and my dad," Rachel retorted. "Save it."
"I had to, Rachel- I loved both of you, I did, I still do, but I- I couldn't live like that-"
"So you picked material possessions over your family. Yeah, that's such a good excuse," the young Ravenclaw scoffed. "I can't believe I ever thought of you as a mother…"
With that, Rachel turned and marched out of the classroom, the older woman's shout of "But I am, Rachel, I am! That's never changed for me!" echoing after her, tears on both of their pale cheeks.
8. She never saw Professor Griffiths again.
The next day, Professor Dumbledore made the announcement during lunchtime that Professor Griffiths had a family emergency, and would, unfortunately, have to discontinue her teaching for the rest of the school year. Rachel waited until she would be able to go unnoticed, and then ran out of the Great Hall and up to her dormitory as fast as her legs could carry her. There, she was greeted by an unfamiliar owl, hooting on her bed. Curiously, she grabbed the note from off its leg and opened it.
Dear Rachel,
I'm so sorry that you had to find out the truth like that. I had planned to tell you eventually- when you were older, when I had the courage. But now… well, that doesn't help anything, does it? You've already heard my excuse, and as ashamed as I am to say it, it's the best I can give. I was selfish and stupid, and I've regretted leaving you and your father every day since I left.
I have only known you for a few months, Rachel, and I desperately wish I could get to know you better. You are a brilliant, beautiful, bright girl who can do anything you want, who can be anything you want. Never forget that, Rachel, no matter what happens.
This will most likely be the last time I ever hear from you and vice versa, as you undoubtedly hate me now (you have every right to) and I don't want to bother you. So I want to give you some last pieces of advice:
•Light blue eyeliner creates a very nice contrast with your eyes, dark as they are. I know from experience.
•It never hurts to get along with a teacher; it certainly helps when you forget to do your homework. Though you ought not to try it with McGonagall; it'll backfire. But with most adults in general, remember that charms aren't just made with a wand.
•The Confundus Charm. Don't underestimate it.
•I know full well that some things are easier said than done, and standing up to Bellatrix Black is one of them. So I'm not going to tell you to do that. What I will tell you is that getting back at people should be done much more often. To help you with this, I've been a naughty girl and enclosed some copies of papers from her permanent records. You're a talented writer, Rachel; I'm sure you can make something out of Miss Black's secrets.
Well, I hope I've helped, at least a bit. I love you, Rachel- I always have, and I always will.
Sincerely,
Your mother,
Sabrina Griffiths
Rachel blinked away tears and instead looked over the enclosed papers, her eyes conflicted. On the one hand, she would love to expose all these secrets about her eternal tormentor to the world; but on the other hand, then she would be just as bad as Bellatrix.
She compromised and stowed the papers in her suitcase.
9. She lost her father just after the end of Sixth Year.
After the ceremony, she went to their alleyway to visit him. Beaming with pride, she wanted to show him her letter from the Daily Prophet agreeing to hire her as a secretary. A paid secretary, starting the next week. If she was enough of a spendthrift, she might be able to buy them a home eventually.
But their box was gone, along with her father. Rachel looked all over the city for him, sparing no street or dump or hovel. He was nowhere. There were two options, in Rachel's mind: the first was that her father was dead. But he had written her just yesterday, and if he had died since then, it would have been too recent for the alleyway to not reek of his corpse.
The second option was that he had left without telling her. In other words, he left her. And as much as Rachel hated to admit it, this was the most likely one.
So she took the Night Bus back to the Leaky Cauldron, where she paid for her room with her money from her job at the Daily Prophet. For the entire summer, she cried and screamed with anger and sadness and heartbreak; and on one of those days, one of the particularly awful days, she remembered the papers. The papers all about Bellatrix Black.
With an old piece of parchment and a tattered quill, she wrote.
10. During the second day of Rachel's Seventh Year at Hogwarts, dozens of owls distributed copies of Rachel's articles to every single student at breakfast.
The expressions on Rachel's classmates' faces sent gleeful shivers up her spine; her heart filled with pride as immediately whispers swept the Great Hall. All thanks to her. Bellatrix's enraged shriek of, "WHEN I FIND THIS- THIS- RITA SKEETER, I WILL MAKE HER WISH SHE WAS NEVER BORN!" did nothing to lower her mood; in fact, it only increased it.
Rachel's charms and her ability to be so deceptively manipulative had never faded, and she discovered that if she used them and snooped hard enough, she could dig up information about almost anything and anyone, whether it was good or bad or important or worthless. Then she could twist it around to portray exactly what she wanted of the subject of her article.
She even got fans for it.
Of course, her scathing and revealing words were in general was more disliked than admired, but no matter how many hateful words about 'Rita Skeeter' floated throughout Hogwarts' corridors, there were some facts that couldn't be denied:
She was good. She was in control. Everyone knew her name, whether they liked it or not, and she had made a big enough impact that she knew that at least some people would never forget her.
That made her feel great.
XxxxX
So Rachel kept writing and, when she graduated from Hogwarts, found out that she could actually make money- real money, Galleons and Sickles and Knuts or, if she changed currencies, pounds and pence and moneymoneymoney- doing what she loved best. And the more she wrote, the more pay she got, so she published trashy article after trashy article, revealing book after revealing book, going to any length to get the scoop.
Eventually, Rachel Smith- the bullied yet charming little girl who lived in a box and just wanted a real family, a normal life- became The Lost One, getting buried completely under the makeup-slathered layers of that confident, successful, nosy Rita Skeeter.
(*)
I have gone two months- almost exactly- without updating. That is inexcusable, and therefore I'm just going to apologize a thousand times over and hope you don't hate me too much.
I worked really hard on this extra-long chapter (part of why I've taken so long to update); it just didn't come out right the first few times. But I hope you like it- Rita's character is rarely ever looked into, and I hope I offered a different perspective on her.
Please review, even if it's just to yell at me.
Thank you so much for reading and for your patience,
Joelle8
P.S. Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.