Rita Skeeter was not a woman who believed in luck. Nor did she believe in love, or altruism, or any other such tripe. As far as she was concerned the world was a cold, hard place full of greedy arseholes who would tear you down if you gave them the chance. And anyone who claimed otherwise was a pathetic loser who deserved to burn.

And that was why Rita Skeeter had spent most of her life, and all of her career, tearing down lives and loves hopes and dreams, because she could either climb on the bodies of others, or be made into a ladder herself.

She knew the names some people called her, of course, and she reveled in them. Because every time that some pathetic loser’s life was ruined—oh, boohoo, you lost your job and your family won’t talk to you. Well, maybe you should have thought of that before engaging in carnal activities with a goat, Walden.

...

Where was she?

Yes, right. Because anytime any loser’s life was ruined by one of her factual articles (really, it wasn’t her fault that people were so boring that her pieces usually needed a little spicing), it essentially vindicated what she already knew to be the truth.

After all, if everyone didn’t want to see everyone else get torn down, then why did her articles sell so much?

So whenever Rita received hate/cursed mail, or whenever a particularly aggrieved subject of one of her many, many articles tried to get those fossils and imbeciles at the Wizengamot to censor her, she smiled, gave herself a little pat on the back, and went back out there to continue doing what she did best.

Tell sensational stories.

And The Boy-Who-Lived? Oh! What story could be more sensational than that?

Everyone knew the boy was coming to Hogwarts this year. Rita had even written a piece on it, promising her audience that she would meet The Boy-Who-Lived herself, to get the answers to all those juicy questions everyone had had over the last decade.

She had no intention of actually seeing it through of course; the boy’s disappearance obviously had Dumbledore’s wrinkly mitts all over it, and while she disliked the old dingbat (ooh! That was a good one. She should try to remember it), and attacking him pleased Malfoy, she was very aware of just how much power he still held. And sniffing around his golden boy might get the old wizard to act.

Therefore, Rita had decided to do like she sometimes did, and use a secondhand account instead.

Rita would need someone who was smart enough to not eff things up, but dumb, or obedient, enough to not ask questions. It also had to be someone who wouldn’t stand out, but most importantly, it had to be a muggleborn (or half-blood, at the very least), and they had to very blackmail-able.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Her informant ended up being a seventh-year Ravenclaw girl.

The girl however, was just the icing on the cake, it was her father who sold the deal for Skeeter; Mark Zachary, a muggleborn wizard who was “tied” for a promotion at The Ministry with a pureblood.

And Mark Zachary really wanted that promotion.

A simple transaction later, and Mark talked his daughter into carrying a special bag with a muggle camera to The Great Hall, where the girl proceeded to get quite impressive footage of Harry Potter being sorted.

Meanwhile, one Abigail Cornish would be finding some of her little secrets in a special exposé by Rita Skeeter in the next Sunday Prophet, heavily lowering her chances of getting Mark’s job.

And people called Skeeter a rhymes with witch.

Knowing that the article will be hottest the morning after Potter’s sorting, before all those brats had the opportunity to send letters home and dull the public’s interest, Skeeter made time that evening to watch the video.

And what she saw on her tiny, black-and-white TV, was gold.

She had expected a boring goody-goody, shoved so deep into The Headmaster’s pockets that the boy probably choked every time the old man farted. Instead, she got... this.

By morning, Rita Skeeter had decided that she would “meet” the boy. It wouldn’t be hard, getting into Hogwarts was child’s play for her (ha! Safest place in Magical Britain her behind), plus, thanks to the fact that Hogwarts had not changed its timetable for some fifty years, she knew exactly where he would be.

By 3:00pm, she was waiting near the Defense classroom in her bug form, and ignoring the very familiar broom cupboard nearby, when Potter walked out of the classroom with the Granger girl in tow. And Skeeter was very glad she came, when Lucius’ son gave her a new, juicy bit of gossip to focus on.

The Boy-Who-Lived finding love on his first day at Hogwarts?

A flash of inspiration struck; The Boy Who Loved.

This thing was practically writing itself.

Then Potter had mentioned going to visit the half-giant on the school grounds, and Skeeter had hit her first snag. She knew the hairy half-breed had a dog, and that was bad for her. Dogs and cats oftentimes had the uncanny ability to sniff out animagi in their transformed state. Which could put her in severe danger, considering she was only a bug.

She tailed the two children as they headed to Gryffindor Tower, but she got no more juicy bits from them, so she decided to call it quits (she had enough anyway) and see what else she could “overhear” while here.

After some two hours of picking up random, but useful, tidbits about some of the students’ parents and a few teachers, Skeeter decided she’d done enough snooping for the day.

It was time to go home and write her article.

And on her way out, lo and behold, Potter and his lady friend completely alone, for as far as the eye could see.

Pull the other one.

Knowing better than to change out of her animagus form in the open like an idiot, Rita quickly reentered the castle, changed in a private corner, and donned her invisibility cloak.

Then she approached the two first-years from behind, her Quick-Quotes Quill already set up at her back, took off her cloak, and announced herself, “well, well, if it isn’t Hogwarts’ hottest couple?”

Potter’s immediate reaction let her know that the rumours were true; the boy was being trained by Dumbledore. But Skeeter didn’t let any of that show, and when The Boy-Who-Lived’s reaction to her presence turned into a pleasant surprise, instead of the wariness she’d honestly expected, Rita Skeeter had to admit that, while she still didn’t believe in luck, sometimes things had a way of just working out in your favour.