RP: Sister's Comin' Home
Date: 29 September 1998
Characters: Rita Skeeter, [Stella Hawthorne].
Location: Southport, Merseyside.
Status: Private
Summary: Rita goes to visit her sister.
Completion: Complete
It was late by the time Rita left work - after five - but that was okay. Stella worked anyway, and Rita didn't know what time she finished, or even what days she worked.
Talking with Fleur Weasley had worried Rita. Not in a monumental way; rationally, she knew the likelihood of Stella and her family becoming targets for Deatheaters was highly unlikely, but how would she know? She hadn't seen them, hadn't sent a letter or an owl in more than a year. Anything could have happened.
She apparated to Southport from London, to a little spot she'd used on visits before. Her footsteps felt heavy as she followed familiar streets to her sister's house - the weight of the year, of everything she'd done and hadn't done. A sort of fear - what if everything was irrevocably changed?
The garden gate squeaked when she pushed it open, rough and rusty under her hand from the sea air. Heels clicked on the cement path, announcing her arrival with every step. Still, the house's drapes didn't stir. Rita knocked on the door and was terrified, for just a few moments, that an unfamiliar face would answer.
When Stella opened it, it turned out to be just as frightening, only in a different way.
Rita didn't know what to say. A woman who made her living out of words, and she couldn't think of a single thing to say at the sight of that face - so like her own, really. Like looking in a mirror at a four-years-younger self.
"Stella," she managed, eventually.
"Rita." Stella's hand gripped the door; it swayed in her grip. "It's been..."
"A year, I know. The war..."
But Stella had left the door to swing on its hinges and was flying forward to grip Rita instead. Tight, hard, furious. When she pulled back, there were tears in her eyes.
"The war's been over for months, Rita. Why didn't you come sooner? God, if I hadn't been able to get a copy of the paper every now and then, I wouldn't have even known you were alive."
She didn't have an answer. Not a real one. She didn't know why she hadn't come. "I'm sorry. It was just... big. Strange. Took me about a month to really believe it was over. That he wasn't coming back. I don't know. Do you want to go for a walk, or something?"
Stella regarded her silently for a moment, as if weighing up her honesty. Then she nodded. "A walk would be good. Just give me a moment."
She disappeared inside, and Rita heard her call: "Eamon? I'm going for a walk. Rita. Mira's in the garden. Make sure she comes in before it gets dark."
When she re-emerged, pulling a cardigan about her shoulders, Rita asked: "Where's Allan?"
Stella stopped, glancing down to fuss with her buttons. "He's at Hogwarts, Rita."
It hit her, hard. What else had she missed? She started to say something - another apology, maybe, or even questioning how that had happened when she'd told them to stay out of the wizarding world, but Stella moved forward, caught her about the waist and steered her toward the gate.
"I knew the war had ended. It would have been impossible not to. It wasn't quite the same as last time, with all the strange meteor showers on the telly, but there were a few, and the news did report a strangely large number of owls flying around in the middle of the day. There's a squib in town; I saw him reading the paper in a cafe one day. I guess they must be spelled so they just look like the Sun or something if you're not a witch. He let me have it when he was done, and I saw him about a few times and took his old papers. So I found out the war had ended. And then Allan got his letter, and I wrote to McGonagall, who told me the situation at the school. I didn't see any reason not to send him."
Rita smiled, tucking her thumbs into the pockets of her suit jacket. She was glad to know Allan hadn't been held back by her her failure to contact them, and at the same time a little sad to realise how well her little sister had done without her input.
"Was he excited?" she asked. "Where was he sorted?"
"He was, yes, and I was happy for him. It's a bit of a challenge, being appropriately happy for him but not obsessively so. I don't want Mirabella to think he matters more to me just because he's magical. I don't think she is, or will be, and I don't want to build up the wizarding world into some mythical bloody place where everything is perfect, because it's not. They put Allan in Gryffindor."
Rita arched a brow, surprised, but said nothing.
Stella took a heavy breath, glancing sideways at Rita. "Those things you wrote... What... What happened, last year?"
"Voldemort took over the Ministry. There was a registry for Muggleborns; they said that we 'steal' magic and don't have any right to it. Anyone who admitted to stealing magic had their wand taken. Anyone who didn't was thrown in Azkaban. I found a pureblood to speak for me - Lucius Malfoy, I don't know if you remember him. He attested to me having wizarding relatives, kept me safe, though sometimes... Sometimes I almost wished I'd been thrown in Azkaban with them, just so I didn't have to look at the wandless begging on the streets, or see the people who's husbands and wives were in Azkaban or on the run. I didn't have much choice but to write what I was told, if I wanted to keep my job and not draw attention to myself."
They walked in silence for a few moments, the air full of the scuff of Stella's shoes and the click of Rita's heels.
"Dad's got cancer," Stella said. Rita didn't know how to respond. She didn't think she could; her chest was suddenly too tight to breath. Stella continued. "Prostate, the doctor's say. They're giving him treatment, but I don't know... Well, he is seventy-six." It seemed like a situation in which Rita should cry, but she didn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't.
"I'm sure they'd love to see you," Stella said.
"Yes," Rita replied. "I'll have to. I want to. I just hope they..."
"Understand?" Stella touched Rita's elbow. "World War Two was only a few years before you were born. They both went through that. They mightn't understand the Wizarding World's ideologies, but I know they'll understand the danger of war."
Rita smiled, albiet sadly. "I suppose they will."
The meandered through the streets, letting the conversation move to less depressing topics than war and the mortality of one's parents. Eventually, they found themselves in the general vicinity of the Pier. The sun was hanging low on the horizon by then, and there were very few people about. The scuffle and click of shoes moved along the boards until Rita called a halt and stopped to lean on the rail. She wasn't walking the whole kilometre and in these shoes.
The dying sun was brilliant on the water, all orange and gold. Stella pulled a battered cigarette pack from her pocket.
Rita arched a brow. "I thought you gave that up."
Stella slipped one of the smokes from the pack, tapped the end against the pier railing. "Yes, well, my sister disappeared, you see. My father was diagnosed with cancer, and I had no idea whether my magical child was going to be forced to go to school under a madman's regime. I kind of needed the vice."
Suitably chastened, Rita didn't respond. Stella offered her the open pack.
They breathed curls of smoke into the breeze. The sun caught in Stella's hair and turned it from brown to red. Rita said 'do you remember when', and started a chain of conversation that kept them there until well after the sun had dipped below the horizon.
Characters: Rita Skeeter, [Stella Hawthorne].
Location: Southport, Merseyside.
Status: Private
Summary: Rita goes to visit her sister.
Completion: Complete
It was late by the time Rita left work - after five - but that was okay. Stella worked anyway, and Rita didn't know what time she finished, or even what days she worked.
Talking with Fleur Weasley had worried Rita. Not in a monumental way; rationally, she knew the likelihood of Stella and her family becoming targets for Deatheaters was highly unlikely, but how would she know? She hadn't seen them, hadn't sent a letter or an owl in more than a year. Anything could have happened.
She apparated to Southport from London, to a little spot she'd used on visits before. Her footsteps felt heavy as she followed familiar streets to her sister's house - the weight of the year, of everything she'd done and hadn't done. A sort of fear - what if everything was irrevocably changed?
The garden gate squeaked when she pushed it open, rough and rusty under her hand from the sea air. Heels clicked on the cement path, announcing her arrival with every step. Still, the house's drapes didn't stir. Rita knocked on the door and was terrified, for just a few moments, that an unfamiliar face would answer.
When Stella opened it, it turned out to be just as frightening, only in a different way.
Rita didn't know what to say. A woman who made her living out of words, and she couldn't think of a single thing to say at the sight of that face - so like her own, really. Like looking in a mirror at a four-years-younger self.
"Stella," she managed, eventually.
"Rita." Stella's hand gripped the door; it swayed in her grip. "It's been..."
"A year, I know. The war..."
But Stella had left the door to swing on its hinges and was flying forward to grip Rita instead. Tight, hard, furious. When she pulled back, there were tears in her eyes.
"The war's been over for months, Rita. Why didn't you come sooner? God, if I hadn't been able to get a copy of the paper every now and then, I wouldn't have even known you were alive."
She didn't have an answer. Not a real one. She didn't know why she hadn't come. "I'm sorry. It was just... big. Strange. Took me about a month to really believe it was over. That he wasn't coming back. I don't know. Do you want to go for a walk, or something?"
Stella regarded her silently for a moment, as if weighing up her honesty. Then she nodded. "A walk would be good. Just give me a moment."
She disappeared inside, and Rita heard her call: "Eamon? I'm going for a walk. Rita. Mira's in the garden. Make sure she comes in before it gets dark."
When she re-emerged, pulling a cardigan about her shoulders, Rita asked: "Where's Allan?"
Stella stopped, glancing down to fuss with her buttons. "He's at Hogwarts, Rita."
It hit her, hard. What else had she missed? She started to say something - another apology, maybe, or even questioning how that had happened when she'd told them to stay out of the wizarding world, but Stella moved forward, caught her about the waist and steered her toward the gate.
"I knew the war had ended. It would have been impossible not to. It wasn't quite the same as last time, with all the strange meteor showers on the telly, but there were a few, and the news did report a strangely large number of owls flying around in the middle of the day. There's a squib in town; I saw him reading the paper in a cafe one day. I guess they must be spelled so they just look like the Sun or something if you're not a witch. He let me have it when he was done, and I saw him about a few times and took his old papers. So I found out the war had ended. And then Allan got his letter, and I wrote to McGonagall, who told me the situation at the school. I didn't see any reason not to send him."
Rita smiled, tucking her thumbs into the pockets of her suit jacket. She was glad to know Allan hadn't been held back by her her failure to contact them, and at the same time a little sad to realise how well her little sister had done without her input.
"Was he excited?" she asked. "Where was he sorted?"
"He was, yes, and I was happy for him. It's a bit of a challenge, being appropriately happy for him but not obsessively so. I don't want Mirabella to think he matters more to me just because he's magical. I don't think she is, or will be, and I don't want to build up the wizarding world into some mythical bloody place where everything is perfect, because it's not. They put Allan in Gryffindor."
Rita arched a brow, surprised, but said nothing.
Stella took a heavy breath, glancing sideways at Rita. "Those things you wrote... What... What happened, last year?"
"Voldemort took over the Ministry. There was a registry for Muggleborns; they said that we 'steal' magic and don't have any right to it. Anyone who admitted to stealing magic had their wand taken. Anyone who didn't was thrown in Azkaban. I found a pureblood to speak for me - Lucius Malfoy, I don't know if you remember him. He attested to me having wizarding relatives, kept me safe, though sometimes... Sometimes I almost wished I'd been thrown in Azkaban with them, just so I didn't have to look at the wandless begging on the streets, or see the people who's husbands and wives were in Azkaban or on the run. I didn't have much choice but to write what I was told, if I wanted to keep my job and not draw attention to myself."
They walked in silence for a few moments, the air full of the scuff of Stella's shoes and the click of Rita's heels.
"Dad's got cancer," Stella said. Rita didn't know how to respond. She didn't think she could; her chest was suddenly too tight to breath. Stella continued. "Prostate, the doctor's say. They're giving him treatment, but I don't know... Well, he is seventy-six." It seemed like a situation in which Rita should cry, but she didn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't.
"I'm sure they'd love to see you," Stella said.
"Yes," Rita replied. "I'll have to. I want to. I just hope they..."
"Understand?" Stella touched Rita's elbow. "World War Two was only a few years before you were born. They both went through that. They mightn't understand the Wizarding World's ideologies, but I know they'll understand the danger of war."
Rita smiled, albiet sadly. "I suppose they will."
The meandered through the streets, letting the conversation move to less depressing topics than war and the mortality of one's parents. Eventually, they found themselves in the general vicinity of the Pier. The sun was hanging low on the horizon by then, and there were very few people about. The scuffle and click of shoes moved along the boards until Rita called a halt and stopped to lean on the rail. She wasn't walking the whole kilometre and in these shoes.
The dying sun was brilliant on the water, all orange and gold. Stella pulled a battered cigarette pack from her pocket.
Rita arched a brow. "I thought you gave that up."
Stella slipped one of the smokes from the pack, tapped the end against the pier railing. "Yes, well, my sister disappeared, you see. My father was diagnosed with cancer, and I had no idea whether my magical child was going to be forced to go to school under a madman's regime. I kind of needed the vice."
Suitably chastened, Rita didn't respond. Stella offered her the open pack.
They breathed curls of smoke into the breeze. The sun caught in Stella's hair and turned it from brown to red. Rita said 'do you remember when', and started a chain of conversation that kept them there until well after the sun had dipped below the horizon.