WHATS IN YOUR FILE.
NAME: Rita Skeeter. GENDER & PRONOUNS: Cisfemale, she/her. HOUSE & YEAR: Ravenclaw, 6th. BLOOD STATUS: Halfblood. AFFILIATION: Neutral.
WHAT DO THE RUMORS SAY.
POSITIVES: Ambitious, Resourceful, & Sociable. NEGATIVES: Destructive, Guarded, & Honest. LOOKS LIKE: Sofia Carson.
WHAT IS THE TRUE STORY.
Sheâs always been good at telling tales, writing stories.
Desperately wishes she was a pureblood, and welcomed in their circles.
Aspires to one day be the person that opens doors for others.
Cashes in secrets for favours like money.
Couldnât care less about the impending war, only what itâll mean for her social status.
Chapter i.
              âDaddy? Why do you look so sad, daddy?⊠Whereâs mommy?â
THE CHILD. There once was a brown-haired, mousy girl who was confined behind a pretty white picket fence. In a pretty house. With her pretty parents and her pretty cat and her pretty room. But things werenât so pretty⊠were they? Those pretty, pretty smiles, all pearly white and achingly big, blinded all from what happened when sleek baby blue curtains were drawn down to hide the Skeeterâs life from sight.
But thatâs not where this story starts. Letâs pause that curtain call and rewind to the start â
â there once was a sweet baby girl who was oh so fragile. The kind of fragility her father marveled at, that made him stand back and wonder how they could create something so beautiful, so delicate, and his. With brown eyes that melted into golden rays in the sun and a soft tickle on the skin of a voice that followed shortly thereafter, she was the apple of her fatherâs eyes. There wasnât anything he wouldnât do, or be, for his little girl. He couldnât take his eyes off of her. Heâd watch her run circles around the yard, giggling and marveling at the world the way he did at his little girl. Heâd watch her poke at the white baby kitten, momentarily cautious, before eventually pressing her cheeks into its soft fur and spending hours curled up in each other as days melted away into years. Years that brought a drift. Years that brought the truth and the truth has no fragility. Like a weathered corpse.
Now, hereâs the truth: her mother hated their life. Everything wasnât so pretty to her. In fact, it was dreadful. Just god awful. She couldnât wait to escape the ugly blue house. Slamming that off white door was a sigh of relief for her. Kicking the chipped, white picket fence was like breaking the nonexistent chains holding her to this place. And never looking back was how she made such a pretty, pretty place become so ugly for the two people she left behind. The world the girl once marveled shattered at age eight beneath the weight of her motherâs hatred and, in consequence, the girl who her father once marveled at for her innocence was lost, too. Everything became not so pretty in the Skeeter world, and there wasnât a damn thing her father could say to glue the shattered pieces back together again, though he certainly tried with his pretty words: âSweet girl, it wasnât you that wasnât enough.â But, she didnât want pretty things anymore. She wanted, no, needed, the cold hard facts.
Chapter ii.
              âDedicated to everyone who wonders if Iâm writing about them. I am.â
THE STORYTELLAR. Pale flesh, made paler by the lights, began to sit behind a desk for hours at a time. The meat on her bones had slowly slunk off. Sunkissed hair faded away. Laugh lines were replaced with creases in her brow as she slumped over quill and parchment, writing of worlds far grander than her dusty room in desperate need to be aired out. But, she kept her window firmly shut and her door, usually, locked. She didnât want to live in her world anymore. So, she escaped it through the stories she wrote or the books she read. In only her stories could she find rest. In only stories could she find the truth.
And find the truth, she did. Miss Rita Skeeter became well known for digging her claws into any scope she could get when she got to Hogwarts; whether that was from the everyday gossip of her classmates or from the horrors that lurk in the deepest, darkest, ugliest, corners of Hogwarts. She would uncover it and lay it bare for all the world to see. Or, at least, the world of Hogwarts. If her stories happened to wound prides or stir problems, she hardly cared. Nobody could do, or say, anything to her that would ever hurt more than the image of her motherâs back walking towards the train station, leaving her in the past. That image never stayed for long, however. Rita begun to learn to push it towards the back of her mind as her writing of grander things gave way to grander dreams. Dreams of one day writing for the Daily Prophet and airing out the dirty laundry of not only Hogwarts, but the world. It was that dream that brought a lightness back to her world. It became colored with possibilities: grander tales, deeper truths, and access to circles she wasnât welcomed in now.
All it will take is a few more good stories. She could do that.
Chapter iii.
              âNobody knows me. I donât even know me. I canât seem to separate the story I whipped up from reality anymore.â
THE WOMAN BEHIND THE DESK. Others have become mystified, or enraged, by her stories. With every word, they hang upon them. Wanting, longing, desperate for more. She canât fill up their teacups enough for as soon as she has turned her back, they have guzzled down the whole thing to the very last drop. And thatâs not all they are mystified by. They are bewitched by her â the woman behind the desk. The weaver of tales. The woman who cranes out her long neck, nose lifted to the sky, and stares down lions, snakes, and all others who step in her direct path. She bites the heads off of snakes and steps on the tails of lions. She pokes at the badgers with sticks and squeezes the necks of ravens⊠all for a mere story. The risks are plenty. Yet, theyâve never seen her quiver. Not even a slight shake. They donât even know who she is. Not really. All they have is pages and pages of a story. The real Skeeter hasnât made an appearance since she was eight. The one that everyone sees is, well, the greatest story she has even writtenâŠ
Itâs the story of a girl who wasnât abandoned. A story of a girl who grew up loved, but was also taught how to stare down the barrel of a gun (or wand). This girl doesnât have to beg anyone to want her. This girl was fierce, beautiful, indescribable, terrifying. This girl wouldnât be stopped until she shaped the world around her into a story she wants to read.
WHAT ARE YOUR RELATIONSHIPS.
BERTHA JORKINS: Her gossip lackey, distant cousin and âfriendâ. BARTY CROUCH JR: Intrigues her, acquaintance. GILDEROY LOCKHART: Thereâs always been some sexual tension between the pair. BELLATRIX BLACK: She admires, wishes she could emulate. LUCINDA TALKALOT: Suspicious about.












