#ritabio

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.

She’s 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.

Couldn’t care less about the impending war, only what it’ll mean for her social status.

Chapter i.

                           “Daddy? Why do you look so sad, daddy?… Where’s mommy?”

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 weren’t 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 Skeeter’s life from sight.

But that’s not where this story starts. Let’s pause that curtain call and rewind to the start —

— 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 father’s eyes. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do, or be, for his little girl. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He’d watch her run circles around the yard, giggling and marveling at the world the way he did at his little girl. He’d 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, here’s the truth: her mother hated their life. Everything wasn’t so pretty to her. In fact, it was dreadful. Just god awful. She couldn’t 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 mother’s 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 wasn’t a damn thing her father could say to glue the shattered pieces back together again, though he certainly tried with his pretty words: “Sweet girl, it wasn’t you that wasn’t enough.” But, she didn’t want pretty things anymore. She wanted, no, needed, the cold hard facts.

Chapter ii.

                           “Dedicated to everyone who wonders if I’m writing about them. I am.”

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 didn’t 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 mother’s 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 wasn’t welcomed in now.

All it will take is a few more good stories. She could do that.

Chapter iii.

                           “Nobody knows me. I don’t even know me. I can’t seem to separate the story I whipped up from reality anymore.”

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 can’t 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 that’s not all they are mystified by. They are bewitched by her — 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, they’ve never seen her quiver. Not even a slight shake. They don’t even know who she is. Not really. All they have is pages and pages of a story. The real Skeeter hasn’t made an appearance since she was eight. The one that everyone sees is, well, the greatest story she has even written…

It’s the story of a girl who wasn’t 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 doesn’t have to beg anyone to want her. This girl was fierce, beautiful, indescribable, terrifying. This girl wouldn’t be stopped until she shaped the world around her into a story she wants to read.

WHAT ARE YOUR RELATIONSHIPS.

RITA JAKOV

TWENTY TWO ❈ TAILOR ORDER OF THE LIVING & THE DEAD (CORPORALKI)

She was a field of daisies reaching for the sun, bright and soft and pure; she was a laugh in the wake of a tragedy, the first storm after a drought, the last rays of sunlight spilling over a horizon in dire need of the stars. She was everything beautiful and good in the world—an angel, or perhaps a lamb bred for the slaughter, and it would be her undoing; it would. Born to a mother who collected pretty things like trophies, Rita Jakov was never meant to be anything less than a doll on a wooden shelf, something to be admired and safely tucked away. She grew like the wildflowers did, half-savage and half-wonder, and though her world was small, she carved her own heaven out of it—crowned herself the queen of the little village she called home. The countryside became a kingdom, a canvas, a dreamland of her own making, and the little Jakov girl became the daughter her mother had always hoped she’d be: humble, kind, and perhaps a bit mysterious, too—the type of woman who was loved by all who knew her but understood by none. She was an enigma, this girl with stars in her eyes and petals in her hair, and for much of her childhood, she remained that way: adored, but held at arm’s-length; indulged, but with the sort of wariness reserved for witches and phantoms. She was beautiful in the way of all things tragically misunderstood, and for all that she loved the world despite this transgression, she ached for it, too.

The understanding she’d longed for came in the form of a mistake, a coincidence; later, they’d tell her it was fate—like calls to like, as sure and true as the sun is to rise and set—but she’d been raised to believe there was no such thing, no invisible hand to guide her where it felt she ought to go. The stars and their foolish whims had no sway in the life of a girl who could paint a grey world a hundred different shades with a mere curve of her lips—about that, her mother had been adamant. Thus, she was born anew of her own volition entirely, though her transformation, as is the case with butterflies and swans and the creatures for which beauty waits, was hardly easy and far from simple. She was a late bloomer, the very last of her peers to be plucked from their own brands of obscurity, and it showed—in the way she carried herself, in the way they looked at her, and even in what, exactly, she was. A mystery doesn’t lose its allure simply because it’s given a name, and in much the same way, Rita Jakov remained something yet to be understood even as she was welcomed into the fold of the Small Science, a Grisha girl instead of a mere commoner, but only just. She was an anomaly among anomalies, a practitioner with abilities as tangled as her roots, and though she could’ve been one or the other—a Corporalnik or a Materialnik, an engineer of the earth or the body—she instead became both: tailor, they called her, and it felt like coming home.

In a world where beauty is paramount and honesty is dangerous, her services were highly sought after and hard-earned; monsters so love to be made to look as though they’re anything but. And love her they did—like Midas loved his gold, like air; it went to her head, this superficial adoration—made her a hollow shell of a girl where she’d once been whole, a porcelain doll with no ambition but this: to make everything beautiful. It was something of an obsession, this need to see a war-torn kingdom glitter, its people’s scars wiped clean and the crevices that remained filled with gold—damn near madness, those who’d known her as a girl might say. She became so beautiful it hurt, and when she could do no more, she went further, indulging every whim and desire of those affluent enough to seek her help. She was greedy in her longing for love, for praise; it kept her up at night, drove her to become someone the happy girl she’d once been would cower before, but the only thing left untouched by her avarice, it seemed, was her heart. Beneath it all—beneath her marbled skin and behind eyes of striking blue, there lived a hopeful girl who still believed there was beauty to be found in war, in destruction, in devastation. Naive though she might’ve been, she wasn’t wrong, and perhaps that was the worst of it: that beauty wasn’t what she’d thought at all, that it was a bloody, ruthless thing with claws and teeth—and that she wanted it desperately still.

She has stopped looking for it in war’s cruel wake—has stopped searching the eyes of those she serves for anything more than despair, has accepted that there are some marks even she can’t erase—and it terrifies her, knowing that the enemy draws closer with each passing day and that the only flag she has to wave is a blinding, blood-speckled white. To look death in the face and have no choice but to smile back a surrender is cruelty unrivaled, a curse all too often afforded to the undeserving, and she, too, is a victim, with her heart of fool’s gold and her pretty little head a tad too close to the clouds. She has never been a soldier—has never felt the weight of a gun in her hands or the snap of bone beneath her knuckles, but she once believed she could fight the war another way, that if she could just make everything beautiful, the world might stop trying to tear itself apart. But years of trying have shown her the truth, snarling and savage and ugly: beautiful things may still be cruel, may still feel sorrow, may still collapse. Beauty is a ruse, is a trap, is a lie those left behind console themselves with when they’ve nothing left to hold. Beauty is poison, and vanity is disease; beauty is poison, and so is she.

CONNECTIONS

MARGARETE STARIKOV: She underestimated her at first, the little Starikov girl; she took one look at the Corporalnik’s delicate likeness and saw a younger Grisha to take under her wing, a sister she’d always longed for but never had as a girl, and this, she now knows, was a dangerous mistake to make. But the damage, it seems, has already been done; she snuck in like an illness of the worst sort, showed the tailor glimpses of the darkest parts of her like memories, like dreams, and try as she might, Rita can’t bring herself to forget them. You’d look better in red, darling; all deadly things do.

ARSEN TASAROV: Cruel—it’s written all over him, burned into his smile like a brand, and she’s borne the worst of it, his taunting and sharp teeth. She’d never known a man of fire could have the capacity to be so cold-hearted, but he is—in everything he does, in everything he says. You’re not one of us; you never were, and you never will be. She could patch herself up if she wanted—grow flowers in the places he’s cut her deep—but some pain, she knows, isn’t so easily sated. This singed boy, this destroyer of hearts; this courageous girl, this creator of wonder. If he wants a war, he’ll have one, but it’ll be on her terms.

TATIANA LANTSOV: They’d called her hungry, and she hadn’t known what such hunger entailed until she met her in all her glory, never-bouncy-enough curls askew and cherry-red lips always parted. She was the first person Rita Jakov hadn’t quite known what to do with, and telling her so had only fueled the fire in the young girl’s eyes. Make me perfect, she’d demanded, fickle fingers wrapped around one of many chocolates she’d greedily kept for herself. And she’d tried—she really had, but the beauty she brings is only skin-deep, and the flaws the Lantsov woman had wouldn’t prove so easily corrected. But for all that she’s faced the younger girl’s wrath a number of times for her perceived failures, the tailor continues to see her, not out of necessity, but humility. Here is a woman she hopes to never become; may she learn by example.

blood status: pureblood clubs: editor of the hogwarts student newspaper pronouns: up to player sexuality: up to player

BIOGRAPHY

to be written by player

CONNECTIONS

dorcas meadowes; the annoyance. when rita was chosen as the editor in chief of the school’s newspaper, it felt as if her dreams had come true. she’d worked long and hard to get there - she’d been devoted since her first year, drudging through the awful articles no one else wanted to write. but now that she was the editor, she had the ability to do whatever she wanted to. with the already small-staffed paper, she knew it was going to be just like she hoped it would be - her working singlehandedly on everything. her thoughts, her ideas, her writing - hers and hers alone. but her overly idealistic dreams were ruined in the form of bright eyed fifth year dorcas meadowes. dorcas, who spoke nonstop and who was always smiling and wanting to spend time with her and who had a million ideas for articles that rita had no interest in writing and who seemed to follow her everywhere. she wanted to turn dorcas away, but with only a couple students on the staff as it was, she knew she couldn’t. working with dorcas definitely hasn’t been an easy task, as their personalities are as different as night and day. they’re constantly spending time together working on articles, holed up writing and reading and then rewriting. sometimes rita will realize she’s spending more time with dorcas than the few friends she keeps. they’ve even asked her if there’s something more serious going on, mistaking the relationship from one of work to one of something more romantic - to which rita laughed at the thought of. however, deep down rita knows if she ever saw anyone taking a single step out of line when it came to dorcas, she wouldn’t waste a second in putting them back into their place, making them regret even coming close. dorcas might be annoying sometimes, sure - but they’re rita’s annoyance. no one else is allowed to think that.

james potter; the one night stand. she’ll go to her grave blaming it on the firewhiskey, something that she makes known every time that she passes him in the hallway. or every time she sees him in a class. or every time she sits near him at breakfast. her announcements definitely draw the attention of the passerbys and the rest of james’ friends, but it’s something that needs to be said - getting pleasure out of watching him get flustered and sputter out reasonings and excuses. it was nearing the end of the school year last year, the anticipation of going into the final year of school sinking in for real as the heat reminded them just how close summer break was. there had been a party in the gryffindor common room to celebrate the end of the school year, which she’d attended with a few friends - claiming that it was just to make an appearance, as she had no desire to interact with anyone there. some of the seventh years had smuggled in copious amounts of alcohol, which was flowing by the time she’d arrived, and after a few shots, she was pleasantly buzzed. james was already past just a buzz, but he’d taken the seat beside her, a gryffindor tie wrapped awkwardly around his head and his glasses askew as he tried to sing along to whatever was playing on the tinny record player. not that she’d ever admit it, but he was charming and cute and left her smiling, and perhaps that’s why after only another drink and a few brief moments of talking she was pulling him down on top of her, pulling his mouth to meet hers. it only became messier from there, the alcohol not helping as they went from the common room to his room in a tangle of limbs - the next morning just a shade under unbearable. rita’s made an effort to overcompensate around james, ignoring him or blasting him, and hoping it’ll quiet the obnoxious jests from people who saw them at the party. but in reality, she holds a soft spot for him, the same messy and charming and cute boy she’d seen at the party.

emma vanity; the accomplice. rita is not a person that makes friends easily, and even more so - she doesn’t keep them. she prefers her own company. which some might consider this strange, considering that she thrives off of drama and gossip, and both of these are essentially at the center of all friendships. rita would prefer to watch from a distance and see the misery of other people going through these struggles. it’s cold and unfeeling and clinical - with friends, emotions get in the way, sympathies take over and it’s impossible to sort out opinions from facts. emma may be the one exception in terms of friendship when it comes to rita, though. upon meeting the other girl, it was like an instant click - a meeting of the minds and the personalities like never before. maybe it was because they so similar in many ways it was like being friends with themselves, or perhaps it was because rita had never before met someone that was unafraid to call her out on her bullshit, and that excited her. it was tentative at first, the conversations - something akin to one challenging the other and seeing how far it could be pushed before one of them would break. but with rita’s impressive wit and emma’s competitiveness, neither would back off, and somewhere in the middle, an alliance was formed. most of their friendship - if it can even be called such - revolves around shit talking and complaining, but rita’s not complaining. she likes having someone other than dorcas to talk to - and merlin knows that she can’t shit talk people around dorcas or she’ll get a lecture from them. but it’s a dangerous game for a person like rita, to get involved with someone and perhaps even care about them. she gets her power off of her manipulative and her dominant personality, which has served her well to this point - her and her alone. adding another person into the mix was never part of the plan, and rita’s still not sure if she’s cut out for this friendship thing. only time will tell, right?

severus snape; the keeping of secrets. it’s no secret that rita loves to gossip more than most people - anyone who’s ever had the pleasure of speaking to her has learned this fact quickly. she’s adept at digging for information without even trying, her words and her charm working like a knife to dig deep down and find everyone’s most personal secrets, which she’ll hold onto for forever and a day. she’s good at it, making someone she’s just met feel like her closest friend, to the point where they’ll spill something private without a second thought. some people have caught on, steering clear of her if there’s something weighing on their mind that they want to keep a secret. however, when it comes to secret that she’s been keeping regarding severus, she didn’t even need to speak to him. emma spilled the truth to her in confidence of what had happened between her and snape, rita wasn’t sure what to think, only that it was just as cold as something she’d expect from emma, which is perhaps why they were such close friends. rita promised to keep her lips sealed about the truth, watching from afar as emma pretended to be interested in him or what he was doing. it was amusing - and honestly a little bit pathetic - to know the truth and see the lies written across her face and know that it was all fake. rita has no plans to ever talk to severus or to divulge the secret that emma’s been holding - that’s something that she can do on her own. but having that information just makes everything all the more sweeter for her - something to hold over both of their heads for when the time is right.

STATS;

Rita Skeeter is a TWENTY-SEVEN year old HALFBLOOD, they graduated from HOGWARTS from RAVENCLAW house and are portrayed by SARAH GADON on the dash.

AESTHETIC;

N*19 chanel, quick quill, witch weekly, cat eye glasses, sharp red nails, pin curls, the color pink, beetles, typewriter, drama, big diamonds.

BIOGRAPHY;

to be wrote by player.

INFO;