Absit Omen RPG

Aside from looking as though she couldn't give a crap what she looked like, the girl was turning out to be quite a feisty little thing. Rita raised an eyebrow at her as the girl laid into the Pratt cling-on, a small smirk gracing the painted red lips.

"He's an auror," Rita softly corrected the girl. "And no dear, not three - he's now moved on to offspring number four. He clearly saw his ex-wife as a baby-making machine. And the last one was conceived out of wedlock. Rather vulgar if you ask me."

"Still frolicking with that French girl, Mr Pratt? You're children must be seeing less and less of you, what with work and...other things keeping you busy."

Rita chuckled at the girl's astute observation. "He's not posh, darling. Far from it, in fact. Almost a pauper in comparison to his estranged ex-wife." Rita was interrupted by Eddie, gruffly confirming that there was nothing else to tell.

"Oh, sweetheart," she cooed, placing a well-manicured hand on his lower arm and squeezing it gently, "This isn't for the Prophet." she shook her head as though affirming that she spoke the truth. "It's for Witch Weekly. The readers of my column have become quite taken with you and your little..." her eyes wandered to Pratt's brat, "...plight." She gave him a sympathetic smile, before turning her head back to the girl as though speaking to her aside.

"His wife had an affair, you know. With his best friend. Most unfortunate." She gave a gentle tut as she shook her head. "Most unfortunate...but then, from looking at their past, one can hardly blame her; three young children and a husband who preferred to be in the company of criminals? No wonder she fell into the arms of the devilishly handsome Healer."

"Ahem," A sickly sweet introduction was followed by an equally sickly sweet smile. Rita Skeeter's gold teeth glinted as she bared her fangs to all that were in the vicinity. Her quick quotes quill was frantically scratching away at a roll of parchment that - every so often - rolled itself up carefully but quickly at the bottom, both to prevent any of its precious cargo from being damaged and from being read by eager eyes.

Rita focussed her attention on the young witch who had found the scarpering scamp. "Quincy St.James - that's the mother. You may have heard of her, or at least her family name. Well-to-do, upper-class. Most of the females in their family are socialites, but she's training to be a healer at St. Mungo's. An absolute beauty. She's popped out four sprogs in the mean time of course-" she flashed a sly glance at Edward Pratt, then smirked at the girl. "-they've been very busy since they left school." Holding her perfectly painted red talons up to her mouth, she mimicked suppressing a girly giggle.

She took a momentary step backwards and bent her head close to the quill. In a hushed tone she addressed it as a friend would when telling another of some juicy gossip, " 'Quincy St.James, once highly desired socialite, now wilting nursemaid to four equally adorable but demanding children, is distraught that ruggedly handsome but pitifully dim ex-husband lost their second-youngest child on what can only be described as the most basic of parenting tasks: a trip to the pet shop.' I trust you can finish the rest?" The quill whizzed up in the air performing spiralled acrobatics before continuing it's excited scribbles on the parchment.

"Interview?" Rita asked as though she had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Then her eyes drifted towards her Quick-Quotes-Quill which was perched above a notepad, eagerly awaiting the words that would give it life. Rita chuckled and waved her hand dismissively, "Oh no -" she batted the quill which seemed to give an offended quiver before diving back into her back, closely followed by the notepad.

Rita brandished her hands as though showing that she had nothing to hide, not yet noticing the young boy that was impersonating her. "See? No interview. I'd just like a little chat," she offered in a sing-song tone, placing one of her groomed hands upon his upper arm. "It has been such a long time since we had a decent chin-wag." She winked. "How's about I buy you a nice big knickerbockerglory over at Fortescue's? If I remember correctly, you always did like a nice big ice cream."

The woman looked shocked as Rita turned to walk out the door, and the Daily Prophet reporter smiled to herself as the offended mother started to object to Rita's harsh but true assessment of her son.

But something made Rita re-assess her eagerness to leave the shop. A kerfuffle took place near quite near the door, a young man making quick apologies to a lady he just about knocked off her feet. Rita would have recognised that voice anywhere, the gentle nature with it's ever-so-slight foreign lilt.

"Sasha, daaahling!" Rita held her hands out as she forced her way towards the boy. She placed her hands either side of his head and forced him towards her, allowing her to plant a juicy, lipstick-laden kiss on each of his cheeks. "My, how you have grown! You must be...what? Second year now? Third at a push!" She stared at him with glee, like a mother proud at how much her boy had matured.

Rita Skeeter had never liked children. She hadn’t enjoyed being a child herself, and had never even entertained the possibility of having children of her own. Regardless of the fact that she wasn’t sure she could handle snotty, screaming little urchins, she would never have been happy letting her body go in the same disgusting way that a lot of mothers she knew thought appropriate.

No, Rita was rather happy as she was. She was able to go out at a moment’s notice, not having to think about anyone else or worry about a child minder. Then there was the whole nonsensical concept of having to spend one’s well-deserved galleons on someone who clearly would not appreciate the hard graft that went into earning those large gold coins. Rita worked too hard for her money to justify ever spending it on someone else’s happiness. This (amongst many others) was a reason she would never be seen dropping a few knuts into a charity box.

Today was perhaps one of her most dreaded times of year – it was the time of year where every scruffy little munchkin was out buying his school supplies with a sappy-looking mother with tears in her eyes, commenting on how ‘grown up her little baby was’. It was sickening. However, the sudden realisation that she was running low on her parchment scrolls meant that Rita had to make a mad dash for Flourish and Blott’s for her regular stationary supplies.

Walking down the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, Rita had to be very careful that she didn’t accidently brush up against one of the little creatures that seemed so excited to be buying their schoolbooks. Once they got older, Rita didn’t mind them so much – it was when they were just starting out at school, and you couldn’t get them to shut their damn mouths that she found them most irritating.

“I want this book.”  A particularly vulgar child had picked up a heavy, leather, expensive-looking book from a shelf and was brandishing it in the face of the woman who was accompanying him. The woman shook her head and muttered something which was long the lines of ‘No’, holding out her hand to take the book from him. What ensued was possibly the most garish display of childishness Rita had seen in all her days. The child - who appeared to be around the Hogwarts-starting age - dropped to the floor. He rolled around, kicking and screaming much to the embarrassment of the woman accompanying him.

All because she wouldn’t buy him a book. 

Rita couldn’t help herself. She gave a small cough, plastered her friendliest smile on her face, and turned to face the woman who was now beetroot-red. “Excuse me, my dear,” she said as she placed a caring hand upon the woman’s arm. “It seems to me, that what this child needs is not seven years at Hogwarts, but a lifetime imprisonment in Azkaban. Either that, or a good stint at St.Mungo’s, because – quite clearly – there is something severely wrong with him.” She looked down at the boy who had now stopped to stare at Rita in complete surprise. Giving a tut and shaking her head in a way that said ‘there’s no hope’, she turned on her heel and made to leave the shop.

Rita fluffed up her blonde curls as she tottered along the uneaven cobbles, her ridiculously high heeled shoes causing her stature to be a little more bent than she would have normally preferred. She smiled to herself as she stopped a moment, pulling a small compact mirror from her mock-croc bag and opening it, smacking her lips together at her reflection.

"Merlin, woman - you are the picture of pure perfection." Her cooing attracted a few strange looks (as she was neither the most discrete woman, nor by any means the prettiest), but she ignored their glances, nudges and whispers as she snapped the mirror shut, dropped it in her bag and took a step forward.

Suddenly she let out a shriek that would have rivalled the caterwaul of a Banshee.

"Merlin," she gasped, her hand shaking as she cautiously pulled up the hem of her skirt slightly, "Help me," she exclaimed through exasperated gulps of air. The culprit was a large splodge of white on her red patent leather shoes. Her normally perfect right shoe (without so much as a scuff, she would proudly add), was now host to the most offending splatter of owl poo she had ever seen!

Rita flashed a daring smile as she noticed Jonas sizing her up. Though to him he was simply ascertaining whether she was from muggle or magical stock, she was assuming he liked what he saw, and as always she wanted to play up to it. The gold teeth flashed daringly in the beams of sunlight that danced through the grimy windows.

The gentleman introduced himself, and Rita nodded, scratching away at a piece of parchment with her quill. "Auror...Jonas...Trolleyman." Accentuating a full stop after his name, she smiled back at him. "Excellent, Auror Trolleyman. I thank you for agreeing to see me." Not that there had been much agreeing at all.

"You, ah, need something, Madam Skeeter?"

Rita chuckled and fluffed up her hair. "Sugarplum, you make me sound so old! Please, no 'Madam' - just call me Rita. And since you're offering," she looked over to a spotty young boy standing behind the counter, and - casting him a stern look - snapped her fingers at him. "Garçon!" Twitching her finger in her direction, the boy looked around confused before dragging his feet over to where Rita and Jonas sat. "He's paying," she started, jerking her head towards Jonas. "I'll have a large coffee-" she leaned towards Jonas as though sharing a secret "-we could be here a while, Auror Trolleyman,"

"Um...it's not waiter service in--"

The boy was cut off by Rita's loud voice, "And if you could put a dash of something a little stronger in it, I'd be ever-so-grateful." The boy was about to argue that they didn't serve alcohol, when Rita pressed two knuts into his hand. "There you go, sweet-pea. Don't spend it all at once." The boy walked off staring at the money with confusion, and muttered something about 'bloody monopoly money'.

"I'm on me lunch break.  If you've an official question, you ought to submit it to someone at the Ministry."

Rita looked down at Jonas' sandwich and nodded as though in understanding. "I'll take one of those, too!" she called to the boy who looked across in irritation before setting to making up another sandwich. Rita leaned back in her chair slightly, making herself comfortable for the long-haul, and clasped her hands in front of her. "If I had an official question, Auror Trolleyman, I would indeed submit it to the Ministry. This, however, is not an official visit. I thought maybe we could try a...you scratch my back, I do anything you want?" She looked down at her hands coyly before raising her eyes and looking at him seductively through her long, well-mascaraed lashes. Her foot crept towards his like a tentacle of the Giant Squid of Hogwarts, her assurance that she really did mean anything.

Keen to ensure she wasn't missing out on an gossip at work, Rita often spent her free time in the office. Not necessarily doing anything productive (unless flirting shamelessly with the various men that came and left during the working day was considered productive) but more often than not simply sitting at her cubicle with a steaming mug of coffee (sometimes infused with a diluent a little stronger) and watching the world of the Daily Prophet whizz around her. At the twenty-four hour paper there was never a dull moment.

On hearing the commotion coming from the cubicle next door, Rita cocked her head to one side to ensure easier listening, then when she couldn't take the suspense any longer, she pushed herself on her wheeled chair and came to an almost skidding halt in front of Niobe's desk. "Shall I get my quick-quotes quill?" she started excitedly, her eyes lit up at the prospect of a mouth-watering story with her name on it. "Oh, silly me -" she continued, a half chuckle and a roll of the eyes, "- corpses can't give statements! Hm...perhaps there will be an onlooker, a witness of some sort..."
 

A figure with a bright head of hair ascended the steps from the Ministry toilets up to the main street, his head bowed low over...something or other that he seemed to be completely engrossed in. Rita's eyes narrowed as she tried to decipher whether this person was worth her attention. Standing inconspicuously against the wall, (or as inconspicuously as one could, wearing lime green robes and holding a giant multi-coloured lollypop), Rita chanced a glance at the man as he walked past, and half-smirked to herself. Auror Trevelyan. Perfect.

Rita flexed the fingers of her left hand as Trevelyan carried on along the road. Ensuring she had everything she needed with her, she carried on after him, tottering on her heels at a safe distance behind him. After a couple of minutes he disappeared into a sandwich bar, still paying all of his attention to the device in his hand. Probably something to warn him of evil the witch thought to herself bemused at just how paranoid all the aurors seemed to be.

Heaving a sigh she carried on after him, crossing a busy road (and being oblivious to nearly getting hit by two cars as she inspected her nails) before pushing her way past a queue of people waiting for sandwiches at the counter. "Out of my way, important woman on important official Prophet business." The people in the queue looked at her in disgust as she shoved her way through, a few making note of her strange dress sense, and more making hushed queries as to what the Prophet was.

Then she landed in front of the auror sat at a table. He didn't look up as she stood in front of him, impatiently waiting for him to offer her a seat. "Fine," she stated abruptly, "I'll just help myself, shall I?" She yanked a chair out and sat down next to him, plonking her bag down on the floor and plastering her reporter smile on her heavily made-up face. "Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet."

The newest Weird Sisters record had been stuck in Rita's head all morning. Stood at the corner of a London street at midday singing horrifically out of tune in a far-from-quiet manner, the ageing witch stood out like a house elf with no clothes on. She was wearing her usual acid-green robes, clashing pillar-box red nail polish and lipstick, her hair was fantastically puffed up and platinum blonde, and she was nibbling on the end of a bright green quill.

A small boy stopped in his tracks, an enormous lolly-pop being engulfed by his large mouth, scruffy marks spattered across his face and tears in his trousers and tee-shirt. Rita stopped singing immediately as the boy stared at her, sucking on his lolly. Rita grimaced slightly and shuffled backwards. She held a loathing for small children that was - she was positive - not so different to the loathing Voldemort held for Harry Potter.

Rita looked up and down the street uneasily. She could see the public toilets where Ministry of Magic officials accessed the floo network, but there wasn't a lot of action going on in the street. The kid was seriously starting to infringe on her personal space, and he was making her feel a little queasy.

"Shoo!"

He didn't move. Instead, he used the flat of his tongue to lick the full length of the lolly-pop, as though inviting Rita to tell him off. Instead of using words, however, the reporter thought it might be more prudent to use her power to scare the urchin. Pulling her wand from her bag slowly, she made a show of keeping it hidden. The little boy snorted as if to say 'Wow, a stick'. Red sparks shot from the end of the wand and fizzled out onto the floor as Rita adopted a smug smile. The boy's eyes widened, and it didn't take long for him to run off, dropping his lolly-pop in the process.

"Wingardium Leviosa." The lolly was saved from a fate worse than floor, and as it hovered in the air patiently, Rita fumbled around in her bag and procured a tissue. With a slight twist of her expression as though she'd smelled something vile, she used her fingers wrapped in the tissue to pick the lolly up by its wooden stick. The lolly was almost whole, the colours perhaps a little worse-for-wear on one side, and a nibble out of the top here and there, but all-in-all it was a lolly-pop.

"Oh," Rita started with a superficial look of surprise on her face, holding the small pile of pamphlets up in the air and waving them slightly as though she'd only just noticed she had hold of them, "These little things?" She chuckled and shook her head, her tight ringlets swaying to-and-fro in the gentle breeze of the courtyard. "These are just in case any students don't have their pamphlets that explain about all of the booths."

Her eyes flickered down to the top pamphlet, that had a large photo of herself blowing a kiss out at whoever was lucky enough to have hold of it as Maggie's comment about Troll House Publishing came at her.

"Sweetheart, they wouldn't be able to handle me at Troll House Publishing." Rita passed a wink in Maggie's direction, the rhinestones around her glasses glinting as her head moved this way and that. "My pamphlets" she started, waving them in Maggie's face rather obnoxiously, "Only talk about the Daily Prophet." She smiled her dragonesque smile. "With particular focus on yours truly. Afterall, these students need to be introduced to the best, and what am I if not the best?" She shrugged as though there was no other thought process that was viable.

Most certainly! And Finn will be happy to host it at Signature. A few free drinks can be thrown in, he's sure 

With the giddiness of a schoolgirl who had just met Three Owl Standard, Rita made her way through the throngs of students and teachers heading for the Daily Prophet Booth. She caught the occasional glance and whispers from others who recognised her – let’s face it, how could anyone not recognise her? – and she played up to the acknowledgment with a marvellous air of superiority.

“Margaret, darling!” Rita air-kissed Maggie’s cheeks, which looked rather ridiculous considering the distance of a couple of feet between them. Rita had never really cared for the younger reporter, but today was all about putting on a good show, and a good show she was going to put on!  “Well, this is rather exciting isn’t it?”

She grabbed the welcome pamphlet off an unsuspecting teenager and held it out, allowing her quick-quotes quill to expertly glide across it, signing her name with a heart after it. Pushing it back into the young boy’s chest without even giving him a second glance, she flicked her hand in his direction as though advising him to move on – which he obligingly did, more than a little confused as to why this strange woman had decided to mark his pamphlet with her signature, in much the same manner as a dog would mark its territory with its urine. “People just can’t get enough of me.” She gave a girlish (despite being on the wrong side of sixty) chuckle as she fluffed up her blonde curls with her hand.

R. Skeeter
The Daily Prophet
Diagon Alley
London




Ms. Kingstreet,

You need no introduction.

I had no doubt that the words you wrote would not remain in existence once my keen and experienced eyes had read all they had to. I have to say, the manner in which you ensured secrecy was quite...disturbing. I am not a fan of moths - please bare this in mind next time you write. I like roses and rhinestones - green rhinestones, naturally. I have been told they set off my eyes rather spectacularly.

I'll admit, I was a little surprised to hear from you. Though - in essence - your good self and I aren't all that dissimilar, save your criminal record and my good looks. We both strive to be the best at what we do, and what better way to ensure that we are the best, than to have it publicly spattered across every paper stand in Britain?

It is true, we have been chasing MacDuff's trail for quite sometime, and frankly I'm bored. I want something with a little more substance, rather than a few creeping shadows. You are offering me something palpable, and I would be honoured to accept.

Name the time and the place, and you shall find me a good friend and ear.

I could kill you with my words,

Much respect,

R. Skeeter.