Title: Rita Skeeter, Time Traveller
Chapter: 04 – Moving Pieces
Author: Killaurey
Rating: T
Word Count: 7,751
Summary: Really, if Mr. Potter wasn't such a good cook, she'd feed him to a Dementor.
Or:
Harry's Master of Death, Rita's a time traveller, and there's a six-year-old Boy Who Lived to take care of.
(Rita would like her life back. Thanks.)
Notes: Part 6 of 22 of my Speak Now (Taylor's Version) Project, a series of unconnected stories each based around one of the songs off of Taylor Swift's album Speak Now (Taylor's Version). This story was written for the song Mean. Chapter 4 of ?
Disclaimer: I don't own HP. It's probs better that way but wouldn't it be fun?
She's going to have to Slytherin her way out of this.
Between Harry being angry and Mr. Potter being absolutely no help, there's nothing to do but ignore any and all attempts to shame her for having gone out and enjoyed herself-even if those attempts come from a six year old boy who has trauma from being abandoned and abused.
There's a lot of things she wishes she could do, like shove both of them out the door and wash her hands of them, but she's already seen Walburga Black. She has to go back tomorrow and see her again.
She's committed.
For all the good that does anyone.
Rita swans into her own kitchen in her pretty robes that show off more than Auntie Pru would ever be caught dead showing and takes a seat at the table. There's a cup of hot chocolate waiting for her.
"Thank you," she says, to both of the idiot Potters who are out to ruin her life. She even manages to keep it sounding light, like she's bantering, rather than exposing the deep, dark sarcasm in her heart.
Which probably wouldn't be a surprise to Mr. Potter anyway.
"I was thinking," she says, because all the abundance and bundles and bushels of caution won't help one whit if a witch or wizard doesn't know when to leap in headfirst and get ahead of the conversation. "Isn't it about time that Harry gets his own room?"
She does have a guest room, after all, and while she's loathe to give it up because doing so is akin to conceding that these two are going to be around for a good while. Doing it will also give Harry the idea that a) she loves him and b) she's keeping him.
Neither of which are true.
But sacrifices must be made. I barely use that guest room, anyway, and if I give it up, that means I get my parlour back and I'll take being able to do my crossword on a chair or couch that hasn't spent the night being a bed for a six year old any time. My furniture is going to start getting confused as to what it is supposed to be at this rate.
She could buy new, but no thank you.
And, because she hates herself, but really because she does want her living room back, Rita adds, "And Mr. Black, of course, as he's staying with us. I'll have to apply for a permit to expand my home for his room, though."
Harry is staring at her, absolutely gobsmacked. "I-I get my own room?"
He's going to make this about me being the nicest lady ever, isn't he? When all I want is my own space back...
She just does not know how to make this child hate her, not without doing things she's unwilling to do.
"Yes," she says placidly, taking a sip of her hot chocolate. It helps to soothe the hangover, though her stomach is less than impressed. "Your own room. We'll have to go shopping to get things to properly decorate it, so you will have to start thinking about what you want in there, and what colours to use."
Harry looks at her like she is a living goddess.
Rita glances at Mr. Potter, who is equally as gobsmacked and, to her despair, she figures it's probably for about the same reasons.
Merlin save me from these dysfunctional Potters.
But Merlin is dead and gone and buried, having lived at least an eon ago, so she's going to have to figure out how to rescue herself.
I just wish that rescuing myself didn't look quite so much as digging myself deeper into this hole. Harry's already attached. What will I do if Mr. Potter gets attached too?
It doesn't bear thinking about. Not now. There's no need to be dwelling on toxic behaviours that kill her confidence (and peace of mind) when there's things to do and fights to win.
And if they don't even realize I'm winning the fight, then that's even better. When dealing with Gryffindors, it's always for the best if you can make them think you're doing it for their own good or it's they're own idea.
There's no way for this to be passed of as their own idea, so Rita focuses on the other one.
"You too," she tells Mr. Potter. "Colours and style, and we'll go shopping on my next day off. All of us, together."
It'll be terrible. She shivers.
Then she startles as Mr. Potter conjures a blanket and settles it on her shoulders.
Oh, no.
Still, all she does outwardly, is say nod her thanks and take another long swallow of her hot chocolate. After all, she has literally done this to herself. Rita had known the odds of this happening as soon as she started making changes that would make it seem like she was welcoming them more permanently into her life.
"A whole room for me," Harry says, with a quiet sort of gleeful awe. He looks like it can't really believe it. "Not just a closet."
And, well, that's one of the reasons she's sacrificing her guest room for him. A closet is no place for a child but, also, neither is her living room chair, in the long term. It's one thing to sleep there for a few days, like it's a vacation at someone's house, but for more than that...
"A whole room for you," Rita agrees.
He beams at her and then, blinking, beams down at his drink.
Mr. Potter clears his throat. "How about breakfast?" he says.
He, too, sounds a little overwhelmed, in a much more controlled way than Harry does.
"That'd be lovely," Rita says. "Thank you."
Her stomach definitely needs real food if she's going to be of any use to anyone today. It's a day off, luckily, but she also knows that now that she's said all of this, there's no way she's staying here to listen to them rattle on about it all and how they're going to make their rooms their places.
If I feel up to it, perhaps I'll go to the Ministry for a permit today. It shouldn't be a complicated matter; I haven't added rooms onto my home before and most houses have the option to add three or more.
She could just add it, without applying for the correct permits, but given how many laws they're breaking already...
Better to do everything legal, where we can, given the circumstances.
There's no easy way to roll back time, other than a Time Turner, which are deeply inefficient. And for Travellers-their travel takes them out of one timeline and into another, not a simple shuffle backwards or forwards in the current timeline.
Rita listens to Harry chatter-his backbone and the terrible temper he shares with Mr. Potter having faded away under the glee of getting a room of his own, all his own-and drinks her hot chocolate and watches the way Mr. Potter putters about her kitchen.
It's peaceful and homey.
And it's someone else's dream morning, she decides. Not mine. There's worse mornings to have, but I'd rather be eating stale bread toasted with cheese, if that, and scrounging for whatever while I'm on the job.
It's not the first time that it occurs to her that her priorities are skewed but, really, whose aren't?
It's not even about the food, really. I enjoy the better meals and even the company isn't entirely wretched. It's just the whole connectedness of everything here. It makes my skin crawl. It's way too easy for people to find out who you're connected to-and, like it or not, if they're living here, I am connected to both of these idiots-and then seek ways to use that against you. My job isn't a safe one. Sure, it's no Auror families hiding from dark magic or anything but, people don't tend to realize, that just because it's not dark magic, that doesn't mean it can't hurt you...
She broods over that internally, reminding herself to smile for Harry when he asks her a question.
Luckily, he's happy with a smile, so she's not forced to admit she's not listening to him.
"How does that work?" Mr. Potter asks. "Getting a permit? Why do you need a permit, anyway, when you own the house?"
"Because some of our fellow witches and wizards don't have the common sense that fleas are born with," Rita says. "It's a way to make sure we're not visible to Muggles."
Mr. Potter shakes his head, but in what looks like confusion rather than negation.
Rita accepts this. Muggles are incredibly confusing and many witches and wizards haven't the foggiest about blending in, other than they're meant to be doing so.
"Why can't Muggles see us, Godmum?" Harry asks.
Looking at him, big eyed and curious and only a little bit wary-Harry has already learned, she sees, that if he doesn't know something, she'll probably answer it-Rita sighs a little.
"Because we have magic," she says, "and they don't."
"It's more complicated than that," Mr. Potter says, an edge to his voice.
"Yes," Rita agrees, which seems to take the wind out of his sails before he leaves the dock. "But that's what it boils down to. We have magic and they don't, and there's a lot more of them than there are of us. It can be dangerous to be different."
Harry nods his agreement solemnly and Rita is reminded just how well Harry knows that particular lesson.
She wonders where Mr. Potter has put his own understanding of the same. After all, they would have had the same childhood, up until the point where they changed everything, and for Mr. Potter, that childhood...
Went on a whole lot longer.
"Anyway," Rita says briskly. "The permit is basically a formality and for them to confirm you're not adding parapets and towers and balconies and pools where the Muggles can see it. Since my house is in a Wizarding neighbourhood and fairly isolated, I probably could apply and get permission to create my very own hibernacle in any theme I felt like, if I really wanted to. Since we just want to add an extra room or two, which can easily be hidden from the outside, there shouldn't be any problems."
And perhaps I'll get an extra room for me, she muses. Something attached to my bedroom. Something completely just my own.
It's a permanent move for something she hopes is very much impermanent but Rita is a realist. This is not going to move fast. There's too many parts. Even if Walburga Black agrees to help them, doing this the legal way is going to take time.
I just have to keep my eyes on the prize-which is the eventual chance to oust them, permanently, from my life and then go back to my own routines.
"Why don't we go together to get the permit?" Mr. Potter suggests. "Make a day trip of it."
Rita would swear at him-or glare at him, at the very least-but he takes this moment to settle breakfast down in front of her and, looking at it, perfectly plated, she finds herself ravenous instead.
Mr. Potter sets Harry's breakfast down in front of the child and then takes a seat with his own.
"I'd rather avoid going to the Ministry with all three of us," she says, after a few bites of perfect eggs. Really, Mr. Potter makes for the best unpaid help when it comes to menial tasks like this. "We haven't told Walburga about your existence yet, so having you out and about as you are is a bit risky."
This is, she realizes, a bloody awkward conversation to have with a child about.
"As for Harry," she says, "I'm not known to have a child with me and there's been rumours of one having gone missing. It would look suspicious, especially in the Ministry. There's plenty of people who'd like to take me down there."
"Why, Godmum?" Harry asks, breaking a piece of bacon into bits. "You're my godmum, so you could just tell them that and they'd go away."
She raises an eyebrow at Mr. Potter but he just shrugs.
Rita wrestles with the question and the bigger set of circumstances for a moment. Eventually, though, she decides that Harry should probably know at least some of the situation and he's wary enough of most adults, she judges, that he'll keep his mouth shut.
"Because the child they're looking for is you," she says.
Mr. Potter sets his fork down hard.
Rita ignores this. He'd had a chance to tell Harry whatever he wanted. They're doing this her way.
"Me?" Harry asks. "But-I'm just... I'm just me."
"It's complicated," she says. "But there's a nasty, mean old man who looks like a grandpa who wants control of you."
Mr. Potter makes a noise half-way between a mouse being trod upon and an aborted laugh. He makes no move to stop her, though, or to speak at all, so she turns back to Harry, who is frowning a little.
"He's the one that put you with your Aunt and Uncle," she says. "Rather than with your Godfather."
Can she get away with leaving herself off that list?
"And you, Godmum," Harry reminds her.
Apparently not.
"Why did the mean old man want me to not be with you?" Harry asks.
Rita draws in a slow breath, careful to think about that before she goes off about everything to do with Albus Dumbledore. She's been writing a book about him, again, see, and after so many timelines, if there's a secret of Dumbledore's that she doesn't know, then she'd be very, very surprised.
But Harry doesn't need part of the rant that's turn into the basis of her 900 page bestseller that just hasn't been released yet in this timeline.
It's so sweetly vindicating, though, to know that as soon as he kicks the bucket, she'll be able to tarnish his name for forever.
Though...
"Oh," she says, "because he wanted you stupid and easy to control. Boys raised in cupboards aren't going to mistrust the people who take them out of them. Boys kept from learning about the world their parents died for won't ask questions."
Harry is too young to realize that her words implicate her and Mr. Potter too.
That's fine.
If there's one thing Rita welcomes, it's questions. She loves questions. Both the answering and the asking of them.
"If you were raised by your godfather and I, instead, you'd be much harder to fool or trick. Sirius and I agree on that, at least. Independent thought is important."
"You're going to make me smarter?" Harry asks hopefully. Trustingly. "So that people won't trick and lie to me?"
Rita sighs, takes a long sip of her pumpkin juice-she is not entirely certain when the juice wound up on the table-and says, "Sure, kiddo. I'll teach you to cross the bridge and join the dragons. They eat phoenixes, did you know?"
"No, Godmum," Harry says. "But I'll remember."
"That's a start," she says.
Rita can't decide if it's a good thing or a deeply unfair thing that because Harry wound up getting almost no sleep last night, that he gets to go nap after they eat and she? She doesn't.
She grumbles to herself, another pot of tea floating along with her, as she heads to her guest room to begin cleaning it out.
Mr. Potter follows her (and her tea pot) and she permits it, only because he's got that 'I've-got-something-to-say' look on his face and she's almost resigned to that. Almost.
Her guest room is, like she'd known, not particularly full or cluttered. A couple of bits and bobs of spare furniture, her trunk from Hogwarts. A lamp she bought with her very first paycheque-and is, sentimentally, the same lamp she buys every single time through the timeline with her very first paycheque; that's a secret she'll take to her many graves-a set of curtains that came with the house and she didn't hate enough to throw away...
Mr. Potter has the graciousness to not point out that either he or the child could have been sleeping in this room the entire time.
Rita hopes he reads into that exactly what she'd wanted him to get out of it: they were here on sufferance (hers) and not welcomed guests.
She hates a little that that's changing now but, it turns out, there's a limit to what she's wanting to suffer through and giving them real rooms is worth it to get her living room back. Funny how that works out.
"You shouldn't tell him things like that," Mr. Potter says.
Rita shrinks her Hogwarts trunk down and sticks it in one of her robe pockets. She'll go through it later, in her room.
"Tell him what? That Dumbledore wanted him stupid and malleable for nefarious schemes?"
Mr. Potter huffs something that's almost a laugh. He doesn't sound like he disagrees with her.
"About dragons eating phoenixes," he says. "That's dangerous talk."
"Welcome to the carnival, Mr. Potter," Rita says. "The phoenix isn't going to know what hit it once the dragon gets raised properly."
"Wait, Harry's the dragon?" Mr. Potter asks.
Rita doesn't bother to look at him as she studies the contents of the wardrobe, trying to remember what was in each box without opening them.
It seems like a more worthwhile task than making faces at Mr. Potter.
"Well, I'm certainly not," Rita says, like it's obvious. She's a beetle, for crying out loud. She's never going to want to take a dragon's position. "Who did you think I was talking about?"
"I thought you meant metaphorically!" Mr. Potter protests.
"I don't waste my time mincing words like that," Rita says, offended. "Especially not when it would be a useless endeavour to speak so to a six year old."
"He thinks you mean actual dragons and phoenixes anyway!"
"So what?" Rita asks. "If any phoenix was stupid enough to go near to a dragon, a dragon would probably eat a phoenix, no word of a lie."
To her delight, Mr. Potter seems to have no words to respond to that.
"We'll have to make sure the door shuts well," Rita says. "It sticks, sometimes, so it'll need to be fixed so Harry doesn't get trapped in here. It's bigger than a closet but that would still be a terrible thing to do to him. We want him to get used to the idea of people knocking politely to come into his space, not lock him up in a larger cupboard."
"How can you just say things like that?" Mr. Potter asks. "Doesn't it-"
"What?" Rita asks. "Bother me? Obviously, or else I'd have left you both to rot. But he's not in the cupboard-you're not in the cupboard-so I'd rather just focus on other things, if it's all the same to you. As for just talking about it, well, dirty secrets are something I spend my entire lifetimes seeking out and exposing to the world. Why wouldn't I talk matter-of-factly about any of it?"
She banishes a few things that she's not sure how they wound up in the bedroom anyway and surveys it. Another few waves of her wand and it's clean enough and dust free that she can get any idea of what they're working with.
"Furniture," she says thoughtfully.
"What about it?" Mr. Potter asks, after a moment of seeming to wrestle with himself, but if he wants to tackle the metaphorical dragon in the room that he's avoiding and she's rampaging past like an erumpet, he seems to decide that now is not the time to have everything blow up in his face.
He is, occasionally, not entirely stupid.
"Just trying to decide what we're going to need," Rita says, and sighs a bit. "Another expense."
But it'll be worth it, she reminds herself, to have her living room back.
"Can't we just transfigure a bunch of things?" Mr. Potter asks.
"How were you at transfiguration in school?" Rita asks curiously.
Mr. Potter shrugs, rubbing the back of his head. "Not entirely rubbish," he says. "I got an E on my OWL. Never took the NEWT though. Never took any NEWTs."
He hesitates and Rita bites her tongue.
"It didn't seem to matter, after I'd saved the world," he says softly. "No one cared. If I'd wanted to become Minister of Magic, I'd have been handed it."
"What did you become?" Rita asks. "When did you become Master of Death?"
"When I died," he says. "The first time. Second, perhaps, since no one was ever really sure if the first time counted."
Rita considers him and the way he is exuding 'blah' and verging on the edge of something suspiciously like depression and the fact that he's confiding in her.
She hates everything so much right now.
"If you and Harry can disguise yourselves adequately, then once we're done here and picked a place for your room to go, we can go to Hogsmeade," she says. "Apply for the permit there. There's a Ministry office there that handles such things, so long as they're routine. Anything complex goes to the main offices in London."
"Picked a place for my room to go?" he echoes.
"You will need a spot to have a door," she points out. "Unless you want to apparate in and out of your own room every day and also have to apparate all your furniture in to it."
He makes a face at her. "I'm not an idiot."
"Everyone's an idiot," she says dismissively. "It's the greatest secret humanity tells itself-that we're smart."
"Are you calling yourself an idiot?" he asks, and she hates that she likes it better, that he sounds amused.
"Not compared to you," she says loftily, and he laughs.
"I'll get Harry disguised."
Hogsmeade does not turn out to be entirely terrible but Rita would rather light herself on fire than admit that to anyone, even herself.
"Work again?" Harry asks, sounding vaguely affronted.
Rita glances down at him, taking in his crossed arms and the truly magnificent sulk he's building up to and thanks Merlin she's got a job and doesn't have to stick around for whatever tantrum is on his mind.
"Work again," she says cheerfully, going back to sorting through her purse. She's dressed up again today, in something she hopes Walburga Black will not entirely hate and trying to pretend that she isn't a bundle of nerves. "It's what happens when you're an adult who doesn't have fabulous riches and endless leisure time."
He looks unconvinced that this is any sort of excuse.
She'd pretend to care more but she's mostly concerned about the fact that her fate is going to be decided today and that if it all goes wrong she hasn't yet decided what to do.
Rita hates not having a contingency plan.
Her usual one would be to remove herself from this timeline and try again elsewhere but-
But there's that dratted Master of Death thing Mr. Potter's got going on. I need more details on that. Can he follow me? Would he follow me? That would be literally the worst if I was stalked from timeline to timeline by him...
"Go tidy your chair," Rita tells him. "I can see the mess of it from here and by the time you're done that, Gemini will have breakfast ready. Maybe there'll be pie."
"You don't eat pie for breakfast!" Mr. Potter calls from the kitchen, sounding incredulous.
"Nonsense," she calls back. "You can eat whatever you want for whichever meal of the day. Anything else is just lies told to the gullible general public to keep rich men in money."
She hears Mr. Potter's startled laughter from the kitchen and then-
"Godmum," Harry says, "what's gullible mean?"
Well, Rita supposes she won't turn down answering that question. Or any others of its ilk. She's really not any kind of guardian or would say she knows how to be but questions? Questions she's an expert at.
"It means someone that's easily fooled," Rita explains.
Harry nods, his little eyebrows knitting as he thinks. "So lots of people are gullible?"
"Lots of people are," she agrees. "It's kind of human nature. Individually, we can be both very smart and very stupid, but as a group, people are generally as smart as their stupidest, most out of touch, member."
Harry blinks at her and she wonders if she's going too fast for him.
"Think about it while you tidy your chair," she says. "I'll be right here."
He brightens. "You're eating breakfast with us?"
Despite herself, Rita offers him a smile. "Guess so," she says, and leans forward conspiratorially. "I can't resist pie."
Harry laughs and scurries to do the little chore he's been assigned. Rita keeps an eye on him while she considers the way that this sort of chore is about what he's supposed to be doing, so far as she can tell, at his age. Putting his things away, straightening his bed-chair.
She doesn't know the details, yet, from Mr. Potter, but she gets the impression that he's used to a lot more.
Well, the price of freedom isn't going to come at the cost of him being a slave, Rita decides. Age appropriate chores are one thing-I had to make my own bed at his age too, and we had House Elves to deal with things. But anything more than that and basic picking up after himself, no. If he wants to help Mr. Potter cook, that's alright too. He's of the right age to start learning under supervision.
She's pretty sure, anyway.
"I'm done, Godmum!"
She looks over at his chair and-yes, it's very neat and tidy now. Impressively so, really.
"Excellent work," she says, and he puffs up with pride. "Breakfast?"
Rita escapes to work as soon as she can—which is not soon enough to pretend, even to herself, that she isn't kind of almost enjoying having actual meals with people on a regular basis instead of just as informants and events—and, well, usually work soothes her nerves because it's so marvellous to go deep diving into other peoples' depravity and finding a story to air about it, but there's a few owls waiting for her and she can't escape from what's stubbornly attempting to become her new normal.
She deals with the work related ones first. They're easy. Give some treats, pay them, let them go. She'll read whatever information they brought her later.
Another of the owls has the books she'd ordered, the ones about animals for Harry and the household ones for Mr. Potter. The trashy books for her.
This one is also easily dealt with, as it goes away with payment and treats just as the rest do, but the books it brought are a glaring, incredible summation of how much her life has changed and she kind of hates it because she kind of... doesn't hate all of it.
Just most of it.
But I don't hate the idea of having meals with people, Rita admits, safe and alone in the privacy of her office. It's always been easier to face truths here. I want my own space back. I don't want to be in charge of a child. I don't want to always have to moderate my behaviour based on who is in my home. But I don't hate the meals. I don't even really hate doing crosswords with Harry. Or drinking tea after supper with Mr. Potter.
She shrinks the books and puts them into a drawer. One of the trashy romances, she keeps so she can read it later.
She'll decide what to do with the rest of them later.
Somehow, the idea of shoving the household charms books at Mr. Potter doesn't seem quite so funny right this moment. It feels too close to acceptance.
The last owl, who has patiently waited for her this whole time, is her mother's owl. There's nothing special about her, just lovely little tawny owl, but Rita spends some time doting on her anyway.
After all, Rita had gifted Cassandra—the owl—to her mother a few years back.
"What's Mum want?" she wonders, retrieving the letter. "What do you think, Cassandra?"
The owl clicks her beak a few times and Rita gives her a few more treats before bringing her over to one of the perches. With a tap of her wand, Rita makes sure there's fresh water.
"When you're done resting, you let yourself out," Rita tells her.
There's no response to this but there never is.
Rita sighs, takes a seat, and before she can think better of it, breaks the green wax seal on her mother's letter. It's a chatty thing, with the usual entreaties to come visit when she can find the time—and if she ever gets bored of the games she's playing, why, Mama's got friends with sons who would love to get to know her—and that she's proud of her, for making such a formidable new friend, and that even Papa was impressed.
Rita has not called her parents 'Mama' and 'Papa' since she was a small child, outside of circumstances where, like when speaking to Walburga, the use of those childish titles is something that carries how much she loves and respects them. Something that might appeal to a mother who has lost both her children, in different ways.
Mrs. Black made an impression, she thinks, and smiles a bit ruefully. Father's not one to give his opinion on this sort of nonsense very often.
"I'll write back later," she tells Cassandra, who ignores her, busily preening her feathers instead. "Today I've got a very important appointment with my... new and most formidable friend."
Actually, her mother's letter now, and her father's mentioned approval, soothe something inside of her that she would deny ever, ever needing to be soothed.
Her parents think she's doing the right thing. It's all there between the lines. They don't know the whole story but they don't need to. They're willing to trust her on this.
She looks at the clock and makes a face, as she still has an hour to go before she can head out. Mrs. Black had been quite clear on that—that this meeting would take place at the same time as the last—so Rita grumbles to herself, and actually does her job for awhile.
While she reads her reports from her informants, Rita absently dictates a few articles, having decided while getting dressed what she'd wanted her next few to be about while she chased the bigger story, so far as her boss is concerned, and by the time the hour is up she's feeling more herself again.
And ready to face the matriarch of the Blacks in her own home.
Rita casts the litany of spells she's known off by heart since she was a child to freshen up her robes and her hair and her everything and then heads out, exactly the same way as she'd done before. There's no point in prevaricating a new route when the Leaky Cauldron is such a central hub of motion anyway. Her robes are lovely things, picked just as carefully as her other set had been.
Soon enough, she's back in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, sitting across from Mrs. Black and drinking tea.
Kreacher hadn't grumbled disparagingly under his breath at her this time. Rita is cautiously taking that as a sign of approval.
"You made a compelling argument," Mrs. Black says, looking as remotely and as coolly gorgeous as she had before. Mrs. Black makes being in her sixties look like a dream. "And I've confirmed your story through... other avenues."
Mrs. Black's smile is sharp.
Rita's own smile has blades in it too. "I trust you have satisfied your curiosity?"
"For the moment," Mrs. Black says, and raises her tea cup to her. "I've decided that it will be of benefit to the Black family interests to have my reprobate son freed from Azkaban."
Rita's heart leaps.
She controls herself and reaches for her own tea cup, feeling the heady rush of victory and knowing that it is far, far too early to celebrate anything about this situation.
But it's the first step.
They clink glasses together, solemnly, the air feeling weighted like a vow is being sworn, and Rita smiles.
"I look forward to our collaborating," she says.
Mrs. Black's eyes are unreadable. "We shall see," she says. "Come, I'll show you the work I've done already. How soon can you go to press?"
"This evening," Rita says immediately. Timing would be tight, but she's not some fresh-faced reporter facing her first hurdles. She's done tighter turnarounds before and done them with aplomb. "Though the morning news is more widely read."
"Morning will be sufficient," Mrs. Black says and leads her up the stairs, past the House Elf heads and portraits that stare at her inquisitively and, in some cases, calculatingly, and into a room that she suspects may be Mrs. Black's own personal study.
Perhaps in other days, it is a parlour, but it's impossible to miss the enormous desk that's been set up and the way that, right now, there is a profusion of paper on every available surface, all of it pertaining—at a glance—to the laws around incarceration in Azkaban.
"From our private library," Mrs. Black says off-handedly. "Sirius is hardly the first to have gotten himself tossed in Azkaban for crimes no civilized witch or wizard would take offense to."
If pressed to admit it, Rita would concede that she's not terribly fussed about the death of a bunch of Muggles either, on a personal level. Reading their newspapers is one thing but, other than her adventure with Mr. Potter, she's really rarely in contact with any of them.
That being said...
"If we're to sway public opinion your way," Rita says, reading a paragraph from one of the books curiously. "Then I don't advise using that as a starting point for the press. Amongst your peers, yes, of course, but the general public tends to kowtow to Dumbledore's opinion. Which we both know is..."
She trails off delicately there.
"That's where you come in, Rita, darling," Mrs. Black says and the term of endearment sounds like a cutting curse.
Rita takes a moment to admire the way it comes across and decides that she is not going to quibble about the matter of Mrs. Black using her first name without permission.
"Yes," Rita says, and glances at Mrs. Black with a wry smile. "I understand very well the role I am to play. Still, the first steps are very delicate and will set the tone for the rest of this matter. Far better for your first interview with me to be focused on a mother's love and the crushing realization that her son has been stolen from her unlawfully, flying in the face of thousands of years of tradition and legalities, than 'it's not like he killed anyone important'."
Mrs. Black considers this thoughtfully. She stands so completely still, her back entirely straight, that for a moment she appears as if she is a statue.
"My views are widely known," Mrs. Black says. "As are those of my family."
Rita, with another glance at Mrs. Black, tugs over another book to read.
"I know," Rita says, "and it would go very poorly with the general public if we pretended really hard that your family doesn't hold those views. I would not dare to suggest we pretend otherwise, only that we do not make that the focus of our first sally onto the battlefield. Let Dumbledore proclaim you a Dark witch—you are. Instead, ask the public if a mother does not deserve the return of her wrongfully imprisoned son."
"Cajolery on a grand scale," Mrs. Black murmurs thoughtfully. "Rather than an immediate show of power. While you play the intrepid Gryffindor sweetheart to tug upon their heartstrings in a different light."
Rita makes a face and Mrs. Black laughs. It's a shockingly beautiful laugh.
"Yes, all right," Mrs. Black says. "Come and take a seat and we shall begin our first... interview."
"Will you be attending the Ministry today?" Rita asks, as she does as she's told and they take seats across from each other, with the expanse of the paper covered desk between them.
"Yes," Mrs. Black says. "I have an appointment with the Minister for afternoon tea. If you can contrive a way to overhear it, do so."
"Not a problem," Rita says.
Mrs. Black doesn't ask how she'll manage that and Rita doesn't offer that information. They may be allies and, potentially, family, but that doesn't mean secrets aren't going to be guarded jealousy.
"Will you need to review the final draft of the interview before it goes to press?" Rita asks.
"Once you've added what you've gleaned from a meeting you're not invited to, you mean?" Mrs. Black smiles faintly. "I think not. Should you attempt to cross me..."
Well.
Mrs. Black trails off delicately, there, and smiles angelically at her.
Rita smiles back just as sweetly.
They both know Rita isn't going to bite this particular hand. Not when it comes to this matter and, if it goes the way she's insinuated, probably not ever.
Rita would be more put-out about the fact that she can't lob barbs at the Black family but, well, she never really has. It's just bad for business, and her continued existence in whatever timeline she's in, to do so.
The Blacks have a tendency to be very, very abrupt when displeased and she has no wish to have her body be unceremoniously tossed out to feed the magical flora and fauna that, no doubt, Mrs. Black has access to.
"What role do you want me to take?" Rita asks. "I'm the plucky Gryffindor heroine, so I can't give all the credit to you. Should I spin it as I learned this myself and brought it to you? Or shall I play up my outrage about a good Gryffindor being imprisoned and how his mother's impassioned pleas fall on the deaf ears of the Minister?"
"I have not spoken to the Minister yet," Mrs. Black says.
"True," Rita concedes. "But Fudge is going to run right to Dumbledore as soon as you leave, no matter how much you intimidate him-possibly faster the more you intimidate him-and it's an easy thing to do. Hate the Ministry, I mean. Fudge isn't popular as it is."
Mrs. Black nods thoughtfully.
Rita is glad that, so far, she has not been incinerated for suggesting things-she's certain that Mrs. Black would be able to think her way through these issues, even if the solutions would likely be different, but Rita's been a journalist for a long, long, long time.
"How easily will you be able to drum up interest in this story?" Mrs. Black says.
"Oh, very easily," Rita assures her. "Unless half of Diagon Alley goes up in smoke or something between now and print time, I can get us the front page, no problem."
"You'll need pictures," Mrs. Black muses. "Of my son. Of-myself?"
"Yes," Rita says. "I don't have one of the Prophets actual photographers with me. It would have looked presumptuous, you understand, and my favourite one is currently having the strangest mid-life crisis I have ever heard of involving mermaids from Atlantis, a bar of candy from Spain, and the Japanese mafia coming for him."
Rita considers this as Mrs. Black blinks at her, being too well bred to show any other outward sign of shock.
(That happens a lot, when she brings up Bozo.)
"Bozo is well named, I'm afraid, but he does do fabulous photos," she says, almost apologetically. "I can have Miranda Opty lurk in the Ministry lobby, if you'd be alright with that. Something where you look distraught, perhaps?"
"Tears?" Mrs. Black asks dispassionately.
Miranda Opty is a pureblood Slytherin, and will be absolutely down to lurk in the lobby on Rita's say so.
Rita considers the matter thoughtfully. "Perhaps one or two," she says, "if you can manage that. It'll add verisimilitude to the whole scenario. No full out sobbing though. You're not known for outward displays of unseemingly emotions like that. No one would believe it and we can't have it look staged."
"Of course not," Mrs. Black says very, very dryly.
"Every last bit of this is," Rita admits. "But that's kind of the fun of this too. Have you pictures of your son where he looks... sweet, perhaps?"
"Sweet?" Mrs. Black echoes, her voice giving the word an amused lilt. "My son was many things but rarely that once he got old enough to think. I'll have Kreacher look for anything that might be suitable but for something more recent, you would be better off searching through different avenues."
Rita nods agreeably.
She'll have to sort through her own pictures, but she's certain she can find something from Hogwarts or after where he was there. The unwanted Black son and Potter taking a stand against the darkness-she'd have done her own snooping at least a time or two, after they'd graduated.
"I'll make it work," she says. "First article should be a stirring puff piece about your feelings more than who he is, in any case."
"So much as a Gryffindor heroine would care for the feelings of a Slytherin," Mrs. Black says dryly.
"Ah," Rita says, "but Gryffindors care about fairness-in their favour, of course-and about justice. A mother who's child is unjustifiably stolen from her will be like cat nip to them. Particularly when it gets out that he had no trial."
Mrs. Black nods. "Use your own judgment," she says. "Read whatever it is you want in here. I must go and get ready to attend the Ministry."
Rita does not look at the clock, though her own internal sense of time tells her that there is plenty of time before afternoon tea. Perhaps Mrs. Black simply wishes to bath her aching bones or something.
Rita doesn't really concern herself with that matter. She's too busy looking at the books.
"If I were to quote any relevant sections of these..." she says, trailing off.
"I'd avoid those on the low table before the fireplace," Mrs. Black says. "Should you require anything, call for Kreacher. If he is not attending to me, he'll come to you or I'll know why."
And should I try to leave this room and go anywhere but straight to the parlour's fireplace, I have no doubt I will pay sorely for that impertinence. Ah well, I can't blame her for that. Not in the least.
Rita curtsies. "Yes, Mrs. Black."
Mrs. Black nods regally at her and sweeps out of the room-which Rita has decided must not be Mrs. Black's actual personal space, though as she's the only one living here an argument could be made that it is all her space.
Once the door shuts behind her, with a heaviness that to a lesser woman would sound like a trap, Rita beelines over to the books that can't be quoted in the newspaper. Before she dives in, she sets herself a quick timer charm, to remind her that she cannot spend the rest of the day here.
Besides, Rita thinks happily, I get to spy on the Minister's meeting with Mrs. Black and then, if I'm careful, I might even be able tag along with the Minister to his meeting with Dumbledore.
Which is only a probability, she knows that, and the Minister might feel like an owl is enough, but Rita prefers to be prepared for all possibilities.
And I can have most of the article written before then, which will save me time. I know what's going to happen, so I don't need to start from scratch after the fact...
Miranda Opty peers at her.
"The Ministry lobby?" she repeats.
Rita grins like a shark. "It'll be totally worth it. Front page material."
Miranda considers this thoughtfully, blowing a bubble with her gum. Rita tries not to look at her reflection in it because that's just gross.
Gross.
But Miranda is the second best photographer that Rita is willing to work with. So, unfortunately, sacrifices must be made.
Now if only I didn't feel like I was making so many of them for so little payoff these days...
But that's a thought for another time.
Miranda's bubble pops.
"Front page is nice," Miranda says vaguely. "But it's so fleeting."
Which. Well. This is true. For most reporters, getting the front page is a story du jour and then forgotten about the next day.
Rita, however, is not most reporters and she knows how to spin a story to stay at the front of everyone's minds for as long as she wants it to be. She's young enough in this timeline that people still mutter about how she's a prodigy—always flattering—but it's really the accumulated skill of many timelines. Natural talent honed brutally sharp.
"Darling," Rita says. "I don't do fleeting."
Miranda grins at her. "You don't, at that. Alright, I'm in. Anything I need to look out for in particular?"
"I daresay it'll be hard to miss," Rita says, smiling back. "You don't want me to ruin the anticipation, do you?"
"No," Miranda says. "That'd make it boring. How long do I have to get situated?"
Rita tells her and Miranda wanders off with her camera, looking as dotty as ever, and-
I should probably tell my boss that we're going to have a major scoop in the news tomorrow, hm?
She meanders up into his office and shuts the door behind her. Both he and his wife are there, heads close together, undoubtedly plotting something marvellous.
They both look up when she locks the door.
"Is it time?" he asks.
"Come now, darling, Rita wouldn't interrupt for anything else," his wife says. "What's the story?"
Rita grins at them both.