Unstoppable // Monday, 10th July, 1978

[Rita Skeeter]

Handbag dangling from the crook of her arm, Rita pulled open the door of the Daily Prophet offices and entered as if she owned the place. She might as well have, what with how she managed to snag all of the biggest news stories along with whatever mouthwatering gossip she could play off as newsworthy. She was making the company money hand over fist, and while she didn’t currently hold a position on the board of directors, Rita was fairly certain her path would lead her there one day. So long as she also remained enough in the spotlight that she could smile at herself in her byline each day whilst having her morning coffee.

Her schedule was slammed this week, today being no exception. The attack and murder of several magical folk and muggles at a wedding over the weekend was big news. Her first report on the incident had been published just this morning, and she was just returning from a mid-day on-air segment for the Wizarding Wireless Network News. The host, as always, tried to pull more details from Rita about what had happened but everyone at WWN, the host included, could practically mimic along as she ended her guest appearance with her tried and true saying, “as always, for more in-depth reporting on this and many other newsworthy stories, subscribe to the Daily Prophet and look for Rita Skeeter; a trustworthy source for news.” She was not about to give out all of the most delicious details of the horrible event on some radio programme her name was not officially tied to, but for some of the bigger stories it helped for the public to associate her name with the reporting in any medium.

“Would you be so kind as to fetch me a cup of coffee, dearie? Two sugars. Ta.” Rita swept by the tiny desk where the new restaurant reviewer was sitting, on the way to her own more impressive desk. Settling into her chair, Rita carefully set her handbag on her desk and opened the clasp. Her quick quotes quill popped out excitedly, but Rita ignored the eager quill and instead pulled out several notepads that were evidently well-used. Without looking at the quill, she tapped her handbag with her sharp, claw-like painted nails and the quick quotes quill returned to its place in the bag, seemingly a smidge deflated by not having anything to take note of for the moment. She snapped her bag shut, pulled open the large drawer on her right and popped her handbag away before opening her notebooks and turning toward her typewriter, ready to begin on the latest updates on the Wedding Massacre.... was that the catchiest name for the event? She tapped her claws on the desk and chewed on her lower lip, searching her glorious mind for a better option. 

[Greta Catchlove]

"Oh!" Greta startled at her desk, pulling herself into the present as the witch she'd just heard on the WWN strode by. "Of course. Be right there, Miss Skeeter." She tucked Pandemonium's summer menu into the notepad she was filling with questions and set the lot aside. Her eyes flicked to the calendar on the wall out of a habit that was well in progress already - but she had time, she'd always have time, for Rita Skeeter. While she enjoyed seeing meetings and deadlines appear from her editor onto the charmed calendar, after this weekend - and the rush of striking headlines and constant talk in the office and on the radio today about James and Lily's wedding - Greta was more anxious than she thought she'd be just a few days in. She knew that the news moved fast, that was all part of the game, they were here to inform the public, tell important stories. Was it jarring because she kept hearing and seeing the names of classmates, callously casually thrown about by those above her who hadn't known their names before Death Eaters stormed their wedding? Or was the event itself something she was still shocked by? It was the story of the summer, no doubt about it - but she wished more than a little peace for the new Potters, and that their names would be out of circulation soon. Wasn't it just last week that she'd read James's mother's obituary and sent a card?

They don't make cards for this, hmm? Dear James and Lily, I was so sorry to hear I hope you are I can't imagine Best wishes Not the sorts of wedding crashers

They didn't deserve for their wedding, their anniversary, to be so forever shadowed by the darkness of that day. She'd find the words, soon, Greta was determined. If they were feeling up to it, she hoped the newlyweds would join in at the housewarming in Hogsmeade on Friday...

Even - or, especially - in a dire, high-paced situation like this, she admired those around her who could dive in and do what needed doing. Miya and the Healers, they could do the same, putting aside what they were feeling to act. She wasn't one to hold back, she'd put her foot in her mouth more times than she could count, but the stakes were so much higher here...

She didn't hesitate to fix up Rita's coffee. Two sugars. And a treat. Because they couldn't be quiet, the story had to be told. If the Death Eaters could get away with attacking a well-known family - and well-armed, that guest list was full of professionals, and look what had still happened - then who knew what they'd do next? It was a rude awakening to her profession, but this was the reality of it, wasn't it? Her own future writings on restaurants and chefs to look out to felt small already compared to the importance of other news - but she could give people other real stories, hopefully more lighthearted in nature, and inspire them to make new memories...

She navigated her way through to Rita's desk - in a space of honor, priority, that was well-deserved - and set the coffee, saucer, and wrapped biscotti down. And hovered. With a curious, inviting smile. She might not yet know how to help Lily and James, or the others who had been at the wedding, but these were words she'd had ready since applying for this post. "I know you're busy, must have a million new things on your list with all the hubbub around Lily and James - they couldn't hope for a better reporter, such a vital story," she hurried, "but I wanted to say a quick hello. I'm sure you get this all the time, but the Herald was everything to me and my mates during school. We've got you to thank for re-establishing it, and showing us where writing can take us. Thank you, sincerely." The girl felt a heat in her cheeks and hoped this wasn't about to become a story of how you should never meet your heroes, but gave a broad smile as she tilted back on her heels, nodding to her desk. "If I can ever be of help, coffee or otherwise, I'll be right over there. Greta Catchlove, by the by."

[Rita Skeeter]

The sounds of her nails clicking on her typewriter keys was muted in the busy news office. Owls flying in and out with tips and references for various stories, telephones ringing non-stop despite the secretary answering as often as she could manage, journalists and editors arguing about the headlines for their article, and one very irate wizard screaming about how the photographer mucked up the shot and needed to be sacked. The Prophet offices were not a space one came to relax or have a quiet moment. And yet Rita thrived here.

The fast-paced world of news journalism held an excitement that was reminiscent of her younger years, when she would create fantastical stories about whatever adventures her and the neighborhood children would get into. Those journeys, at ages five, seven, even nine years old seemed so monumental with consequences that felt life threatening at times. If they were caught during their games, if their parents were told what they’d been up to, that would have been the end of the world at least to a six year old. And despite the dangers, Rita not only participated but regaled them with the tale after the fact. It was even more thrilling to partake in the process as an adult where the consequences sometimes really were life threatening. The stakes made the story that much more exciting.

Imagine the insightfulness her journalism could have portrayed in this story had she not been so callously snubbed an invitation to the wedding of Fleamont Potter’s only son. Ever the constant professional, Rita of course took no pleasure in reporting on the events that transpired in her absence.

Desk covered in opened notebooks and hastily taken photographs of the resulting crime scene; Rita was well into her thoughts when she recognized a hovering presence standing near her. Pulling her attention away from her half-written article – sure to be the front-page story, above the fold thank you very much – she realized her coffee had been delivered. And yet the girl had not scurried off to tend to her own duties. There were so many things the witch needed to get done today, but she recognized that glint in the young girl’s eye even before she started speaking, and Rita’s lips curled into a perfectly poised smile.

The praise was perfectly placed, and a brilliant start to getting Rita’s attention around the office. “You worked on the Herald when you were at school, did you?” she asked, pleased to see her efforts were still being lauded even after her departure from the wizarding school. Rita drew her wand and summoned one of the neighboring chairs to dance its way over to the young girl – a distant “oi!” grumbled from the wizard who had been about to take a seat at his desk only to find his chair had run off – and then vanished the papers on her desk from sight. She was not about to allow this budding journalist to steal her hard work and play it off as her own. “Tell me, what sort of reporting did you fancy doing for the Herald?”

[Greta Catchlove]

Well, this could hardly be off to a better start.

As engrossed as she was in her work, when Rita looked up - she smiled. Instead of being brushed off, dismissed, or worse, the senior journalist summoned a chair for her. Greta suppressed a giggle at the ornery oi and sat when it had settled down, trying to not take too personally the sudden absence of all photos and papers on the desktop. Rita didn't know her yet, she didn't know she wouldn't be one to interfere or poach - there were rumors about those who did, though, trampling over everyone and anyone to get to the top, and Greta couldn't blame the witch for her caution. Even as she allowed her a seat and asked after her previous writing.

"I tried my hand at a few articles and columns, depending on what was available and what sparked for me," she replied excitedly, still in some disbelief that she was at Rita Skeeter's desk. The witch really was strikingly beautiful, even more so up close than the little author photos in the paper or her books could convey, her green eyes sharp and amused all at once. In her work, Rita was out with the public and individuals of note, taking the measures of people in instants to know how seriously to take their words, and what bent them. It was almost like Greta was back in Arithmancy with Vector leveling a question her way, only the glint in the young professor's eye letting onto the test. As ever, she was raring to go. 

"I started with Hogwarts Quidditch. Got into hot water now and then since I was on my House team at the same time, so critics were everywhere when I wasn't just reporting the scores...and it was an absolute blast. I worked with the clubs, after that - keeping the calendars, attending competitions and elections. The Frog Choir's were the most contentious of any," she chuckled, rattling off, "but not a poor way to spend an evening, earworms and all. Last year, I kept on with clubs and pushed for something that was mine too. It evolved into a precursor to my take on the Cooking Corner, really. I'd brought family recipes with me to school, snuck into the kitchens with my sister or friends, they then started to write their families for recipes in too. We'd cook and share stories from home, I'd research their histories, got quite preoccupied with how food, memories, a people, are linked...Some of the ghosts and elves were willing to speak with me, not as many as I'd hoped," she admitted, still stinging, "but whether they could tell me origins of recipes that are still used, or feasts in times gone by - it was fascinating, when they'd open up."

She hoped there would be a time to share with Rita about the more colorful characters she wrote with. Helena, the anonymous advice columnist who would have given incredible advice even if she didn't have access to the school's private thoughts. Xeno, who found the most obscure information and ran to the restricted section and his secret sources, turning a lack of evidence into a series of non sequitors that would have the reader questioning herself at the end of it all. "I didn't handle the hard hitting pieces, not like you did," Greta acknowledged with a knowing smile, "but I really loved it."

[Rita Skeeter]

Rita could practically see the excitement radiating off the young witch in waves as she took the seat that was offered to her. Meeting her hero. Such a wonderful event that so few ever have the opportunity to enjoy, the lucky thing. Rita’s smile remained firmly on her face, pleased to not only be an inspiration – was there ever any doubt? - but also to hear about the girl’s previous journalism experience. And by Morgana’s gown, did the girl have a lot to say! Sports. Politics. Community events. It was an interesting assortment to have led her to reporting on recipes and assorted cookbook material. Had it not been for the flourish of adventure the young witch detailed in her tale, Rita might have been disappointed, but sneaking about the castle in attempt to discover the truth, however fanciful, of one’s story. There was something admirable in Greta’s work, even if it was only food.

“It seems to me you were able to find your niche early. That makes you very lucky. Not everyone who wants to be a journalist comes across their unique voice as easily as you or me. Some of the staff have been here years and still flit from department to department aimlessly,” she remarked with the slightest hint of an eyeroll. “There’s no shame in the smaller columns if they’re done well, dearie.” Rita hadn’t read anything from the Cooking Corner, but she knew the Prophet wouldn’t publish just anyone. Certainly, there was no one else on staff equivalent to Rita’s prowess, but if Greta’s school portfolio was enough to get her this position straight out of Hogwarts then there surely had to be some talent there. Rita made a mental note to review some of the more recent Corner publishings to determine whether Greta was worthy of being taken under her wing, but the witch seemed eager for a mentor and Rita felt drawn to give back to the work that had thus far treated her so splendidly.

[Greta Catchlove]

Her tendency to go on when excited wasn't about to turn Rita off from her, would it? The joumnalist's smile was still warm, amused, and interested. Not yet regretting pulling the seat over for her or, at least, too well-mannered to show it. There were few young people at the Prophet offices, fewer still among the writing team, and Greta could only imagine what it had been like for Rita when she began. How long until she had a friend. or someone to trust? How long until she herself was trusted and taken seriously by the senior writers? How long until others were bringing her coffee, instead of the other way around? Or, a positively gut-wrenching thought - what if Rita had said no, what if she never had been the go-fer, and what if that confidence in belonging and resolve to do only the actual work was what solidified her place from the start? What if Greta was wrong, and these first months weren't about playing nice and paying dues, but planting a flag and holding firm? She was already the least experienced, she was already writing softer human-interest stories, she was already reviewing food and drink - and, damn it, she couldn't help but pay attention to how the others took their coffee and what sweets they preferred, she couldn't simply change what she was tuned in to like that - and it would be only too easy to slip and fall into only being the coffee girl. Especially when it brought her as much joy as it did them to deliver something they would appreciate.

She stopped, half for breath, and smiled back in some relief as Rita replied. The complimentary comparison had her heart full to bursting, even if the last left her cocking her head.

It was one thing to read someone's work, to become familiar with their preferred tums of phrase, to at times be left to infer whether or not the humor was true amusement of satirical, going off of what you knew of their humor in print. It was another to have only a desk between them, face-to-face with no quills at at play.

She could choose to be hopeful and believe that Rita was earnest. She would, and took a beat, shaking off the unintended sting of the witch's words. There was nothing untrue in them - she would run a small column, and run it well. Her ambition didn't have to become an ugly thing, and it wouldn't, if she didn't feed it when she felt small.

"No small roles, only small actors," Greta returned with a wry smile. "Thank you, Miss Skeeter." Never been told you've too little gumption, Grets. Go for it now, or regret it. "I would love to pick your mind about working in this world," she continued in a breath. "So few writers make it here more than a handful of years, or have anything of worth published outside of newsprint - you've beaten the odds at every turn," she admired, chuckling in her awe before sobering. "I understand you must be up to your eyes right now with everything for Lily and James, and that's got to take priority - but perhaps when things cool down, we could get a real coffee together outside of here?"