Hogwarts, a Mystery: Chapter 2

Rita Skeeter

The girl looked bored…annoyed even, staring back into Harry's eyes. He knew that she couldn't see him, but he couldn't help himself from feeling a bit uncomfortable and moving himself from her gaze. She had pink, sharp-edged glasses that nearly slid off her nose, and she was wearing bright red lipstick that matched her bright red robes. Harry knew exactly who she was, although she looked very different now, bored and apathetic, compared to her usual bright disposition.

"Rita!" snapped a middle-aged, red-haired woman in the front of the room. "Pay attention!"

Harry suddenly realized the other kids in the room, all paying rapt attention. "Yes, ma'am," Rita nodded bringing Harry's attention back to her, her face still balancing on her palm. "Sorry, ma'am."

"Your apathy towards my lesson is insulting, Miss Skeeter!" the lady continued in the same, high-pitched, shrill tone. "Do you know who I am?"

Rita rolled her eyes. "Oh, no, it seems I've forgotten," she said, her voice dripping with acid. "Would you mind reminding me?"

The lady didn't seem to notice the sarcasm. "I am Isabella Jacobsen, the best writer on the Daily Prophet staff! Do you think I got where I am today – rich and beautiful, and patient enough to teach children – by lazing around in class?"

Rita suddenly jolted awake. "I am not lazy." She said indignantly. "Just because I don't want to hear you droning on and on about stuff you don't even know does not mean I am lazy."

Isabella narrowed her eyes. "'Stuff I don't even know', Miss Skeeter? May I remind you that I traveled around the world for an entire year so that I may come here and share with you my knowledge about charms and their origins? Or has that slipped your mind?"

Rita snorted. "Hardly. You point it out every twenty-four hours. And I know, and you know as well, that you would rather be writing more lies in the Daily Prophet than teaching us!" She slammed her hand down on the table.

"Lies?!" gasped Isabella.

"Yes, yes lies!" Rita went on. "And yet you won't print the story about the Conspiracy-"

"Conspiracy?!" laughed Isabella madly. "Who told you about any Conspiracy?"

"My father did, would you like to question him?" Rita snapped, and Isabella fell silent. Harry didn't know who Rita's father was, but whoever he was, he was obviously very important.

Isabella's face was pale and void of any color. "Class dismissed." She said quietly. "Except for you," she said, grabbing the back of Rita's robes. She waited until the class had emptied before grabbing Rita's shoulders.

"How did your father find out about the Conspiracy?" she asked, her voice hushed.

"I dunno, why don't you ask him? You sleep with him on the weekends, don't you?" Rita snapped.

"I'm going to ask you again," Isabella said. Harry could tell her patience was waning. "How did your father find out about the Conspiracy?"

Rita grinned. "He didn't."

"What do you mean, 'he didn't'?" Isabella growled.

"It was a lucky guess. A bluff. And you fell for it."

It was obvious the Professor couldn't stop herself from smiling. "Brilliant." She said.

"Erm…Professor? You're hurting my shoulders."

"Rita, that was brilliant." She said again.

Rita looked confused and slightly scared. "What do you-"

Isabella Jacobsen released her hold on Rita's shoulders, and hurried over to her desk. She pulled out an acid green quill. She held it up to the light.

"This is my quill. I'm giving it to you." Rita reluctantly took the quill. "Try it out," her Professor urged, a smile on her face.

Rita took a piece of parchment off Isabella's desk. "It doesn't write," she said, slightly disappointed after attempting to draw a straight line on the parchment. She had expected something exciting to happen.

"You have to suck on it," Isabella said. Rita snickered, but Isabella ignored her. "Go on, then." Hesitant, Rita sucked on the edge of the pen and set on the parchment. She tried to draw a line with it, but it wouldn't move this time, and it stood quivering on its tip. "Say something," her professor ordered.

"Erm… Rita Skeeter."

And the quill began to write.

'Rita Skeeter: a smart yet naïve fourteen year old girl stares wide-eyed at the parchment, her shocking blue eyes-'

"My eyes are green," said Rita. "And I'm thirteen years old."

'…following every line, and her mind exploding with the possibilities.'

The quill stopped, marking the end of the sentence with a whoosh of its overly-large feather.

"Well, there it is. And its yours." Said Professor Jacobsen.

"What makes you think I want it?" said Rita, although it was pretty obvious she did.

"Oh, you do. Did I ever tell you that you remind me of myself when I was little?"

"I am not little!" Rita said indignantly.

"Ah, there's the vivacious side. Go on, then. Take the quill."

"Don't you need this?" Rita asked, gaping up at her.

"No, no sweetie, I'm retiring. Your father promised me a villa in Scotland."

Harry found himself spinning uncontrollably again, and just when he thought he might get sick from all the spontaneous spinning, his feet touched solid ground and he breathed in fresh, cold air.

He opened his eyes and found himself outside an orphanage.