RP: No.
Date: September 22nd 1999
Characters: Rita Skeeter, [Lysander Madley]
Location: Merlin's Garden
Status: Private
Summary: Rita's editor takes her to dinner to discuss her work and make a suggestion about what she should do next.
Completion: Complete
Rita's cutlery chinked against her plate, and she could hear Lysander's doing the same. It seemed quieter in here than it should be, even for a Sunday night, though perhaps the silence was just in the air between them as Rita ate and acted like having dinner with one's boss was a perfectly normal occurrence.
She knew she couldn't put it off forever, though. What 'it' was, Rita wasn't sure of, but she knew Lysander had some sort of agenda. Thankfully, she knew it wasn't wanting to sleep with her, but that didn't leave very many pleasant reasons for her boss inviting her out to dinner. A year ago, she might have thought he was going to promote her, but they hadn't exactly been seeing eye to eye since the war ended.
Rita's fork tapped against her plate once more and Lysander said: "So."
So. Here it was. Rita looked up at him, took a sip of the wine he'd chosen. Not bad, but not brilliant either. Definitely not a promotion. "What did you want to speak to me about?" she asked.
Lysander took a sip of his own wine. "You know how much I value you, Rita; how much the paper values you..."
"Oh God," Rita said, setting her wine glass down a bit more heavily than she intended. "You're not trying to fire me, are you?"
Lysander chuckled. "Good lord, no. Of course not, Rita."
"Well, thank Merlin for that."
Lysander scratched his cheek with one finger. "No, it's more along the lines of wanting to know where you're going, and how that fits in with the Prophet's tone and style."
Hm. So he wasn't firing her, but whatever he had to say wouldn't be good, either. Rita speared a piece of chicken with her fork and smiled winningly. "The Prophet is Britain's only major Wizarding newspaper. I would say its tone and style is quite varied."
Lysander inclined his head. "Well, quite. But we're a tight-knit team; you know that. Everyone has a specific role that keeps the paper interesting and helps sell copies, and it's difficult to upset that balance."
Rita took another sip of the wine. "I would have thought that after last year, shaking up the routine might be beneficial, and there might be room for senior reporters to move around a little."
Lysander made another non-committal gesture with his chin. Rita sighed. She couldn't be bothered with all these fake compliments and the bullshit that went with them. "What is it you're trying to say, Lysander?"
He twirled his bread knife in his fingers, then met her eyes. "How long is this Serious Journalist kick going to last, Rita?"
Rita stared at him, feeling irritation lift her hackles, but holding it in check. "You think it's a kick?" she asked; quiet, polite and dangerous.
If Lysander heard the annoyance in her tone, he didn't respond to it. "Well, it's not you, is it?"
"It is, actually. Changing my image is something I'm quite serious about."
Lysander sighed. "Why?"
Rita felt the hint of a scowl cross her face. "Because I'm tired of being 'that bitch from the Prophet who rips people apart'. I'm tired of saying hello to someone and being treated like I'm going to crucify them on page three the next day. The war showed me that there are far more important things than gossip, and I want to move away from that angle."
"Merlin," Lysander murmured, toying with his salad. "I'd never have thought to hear you say you want to write the important things. What are the Important Things, Rita?"
Rita watched him. "The attitudes of people are important. The way our society is changing is important. And it is changing. You sit up in your office and you don't see it the way we do on the street. People don't want to laugh at other people since the war, or rather, they don't care which which pureblood had a party this weekend, and who is dating who. They don't want to see articles about romance scandals between the son of a conservative old blood family and a Mugglebon girl - they don't want to see the world divided along those lines any more. Gossip is inherently divisive - Us laughing at Them, and yet using Them to measure our own lives - and I don't think people want to see it so much any more."
Lysander considered. He didn't speak for some time, plucking a cherry tomato off his plate and munching it thoughtfully. Rita took another sip of her wine, watching as he did the same.
"You could be right," he said eventually, "but if there is one thing I know about people, it's that they always want to talk about other people. No society wants to give up on gossip completely. No one wants to read about positive change all the time. It's nauseating."
Rita arched a brow. "But who are these 'other people', now? It's hard to find a clean line these days. It was easy after the first war - tearing apart the Deatheaters who were going to Azkaban, gossiping about the ones who'd been let off leading decadent lives. Now, though, there's more of our generation dead than alive, and the young ones are trying so hard to be good. They don't want to talk about themselves, and they're not doing any of the crazy things we did after the first war."
Lysander chuckled. "Merlin, Rita, you're making me feel old. Living my life through the lens of youth."
Rita smiled. "And a relentlessly good, well-meaning youth at that. Completely boring, as far as gossip is concerned. Even one of my most promising young playthings decided he'd rather be like everybody else, changed his ways and then disappeared completely. So there's no one left to write about, really."
Lysander shook his head, then turned serious again. "So where does that leave you?" he asked.
Rita rolled a shoulder. "Right where I am, really. Trying to find new angles that suit the changing public."
Lysander peered at her again. "So it's not so much that you want to be serious, but more that what you see is forcing you to be so?"
"I..." Rita stopped. That was an interesting question. She'd begun this conversation full of indignation that he wouldn't take her seriously, and just now said that all of these young people who tried to be high-minded and good were boring. And it had felt good to say that. It had felt true. It had amused her. Was she trying to be something that she wasn't, changing her image? Was she becoming like them? Or was she out of touch? Was she hiding from the prospect of finding new angles for gossip because she didn't know what the young people wanted to talk about?
"I don't know," she said, eventually. "Perhaps."
Lysander tapped his plate with his fork. "There's something I want you to do," he said.
"Yes?" Rita asked.
"This George Weasley fellow. The one whose shop burnt down. I want you to talk to him. Get a real story out of him. About his business, about his life, about everything that's happened to him since the war. About this boyfriend of his, and how they help each other. About what the shop burning down means for laughter in the wizarding world. They used to be epitomise laughter, those twins. I think a story about them might sum up the feelings of the entire wizarding world."
Rita's fingers tightened around her knife and fork. She looked down at her plate. "No," she said.
Form the corner of her eye, she saw Lysander go completely still. "What?"
"No, I won't do that. That boy lost his twin the war. I can't even begin to imagine what that would be like, and I'm not going to go and ask him to talk about it for the paper, for Merlin's sake. Wouldn't that be like exploiting the death of your brother for a bit of sympathy? How on earth could that possibly be constructive?"
"I want this story, Rita," he said, and he had that quiet, dangerous tone in his own voice this time.
"Well, you'll just have to find someone else who's willing to do it."
He watched her for a time, completely unreadable, then shook his head. "I don't know, Rita. You're definitely getting old. You used to be fearless."
Rita knew what he was trying to do, calling her old. Playing to her vainty, to her pride. Trying to make her want to prove him wrong. The sad thing was, she didn't want to. She didn't care what he called her.
"It's easier to be hated when you're young," she said. "It doesn't matter so much when your whole life is ahead of you. But when you're nearly fifty, and single, and very few of your contemporaries left alive want to know you, it's not so easy."
Rita went back to eating, then. She didn't know if she was manipulating him, or if that was honest. She didn't quite know why she cared about digging up people's pain - she hadn't before. But she knew she'd have a lot of thinking to do tonight, and a lot of new angles to find, if she wanted to keep her job after this.
Characters: Rita Skeeter, [Lysander Madley]
Location: Merlin's Garden
Status: Private
Summary: Rita's editor takes her to dinner to discuss her work and make a suggestion about what she should do next.
Completion: Complete
Rita's cutlery chinked against her plate, and she could hear Lysander's doing the same. It seemed quieter in here than it should be, even for a Sunday night, though perhaps the silence was just in the air between them as Rita ate and acted like having dinner with one's boss was a perfectly normal occurrence.
She knew she couldn't put it off forever, though. What 'it' was, Rita wasn't sure of, but she knew Lysander had some sort of agenda. Thankfully, she knew it wasn't wanting to sleep with her, but that didn't leave very many pleasant reasons for her boss inviting her out to dinner. A year ago, she might have thought he was going to promote her, but they hadn't exactly been seeing eye to eye since the war ended.
Rita's fork tapped against her plate once more and Lysander said: "So."
So. Here it was. Rita looked up at him, took a sip of the wine he'd chosen. Not bad, but not brilliant either. Definitely not a promotion. "What did you want to speak to me about?" she asked.
Lysander took a sip of his own wine. "You know how much I value you, Rita; how much the paper values you..."
"Oh God," Rita said, setting her wine glass down a bit more heavily than she intended. "You're not trying to fire me, are you?"
Lysander chuckled. "Good lord, no. Of course not, Rita."
"Well, thank Merlin for that."
Lysander scratched his cheek with one finger. "No, it's more along the lines of wanting to know where you're going, and how that fits in with the Prophet's tone and style."
Hm. So he wasn't firing her, but whatever he had to say wouldn't be good, either. Rita speared a piece of chicken with her fork and smiled winningly. "The Prophet is Britain's only major Wizarding newspaper. I would say its tone and style is quite varied."
Lysander inclined his head. "Well, quite. But we're a tight-knit team; you know that. Everyone has a specific role that keeps the paper interesting and helps sell copies, and it's difficult to upset that balance."
Rita took another sip of the wine. "I would have thought that after last year, shaking up the routine might be beneficial, and there might be room for senior reporters to move around a little."
Lysander made another non-committal gesture with his chin. Rita sighed. She couldn't be bothered with all these fake compliments and the bullshit that went with them. "What is it you're trying to say, Lysander?"
He twirled his bread knife in his fingers, then met her eyes. "How long is this Serious Journalist kick going to last, Rita?"
Rita stared at him, feeling irritation lift her hackles, but holding it in check. "You think it's a kick?" she asked; quiet, polite and dangerous.
If Lysander heard the annoyance in her tone, he didn't respond to it. "Well, it's not you, is it?"
"It is, actually. Changing my image is something I'm quite serious about."
Lysander sighed. "Why?"
Rita felt the hint of a scowl cross her face. "Because I'm tired of being 'that bitch from the Prophet who rips people apart'. I'm tired of saying hello to someone and being treated like I'm going to crucify them on page three the next day. The war showed me that there are far more important things than gossip, and I want to move away from that angle."
"Merlin," Lysander murmured, toying with his salad. "I'd never have thought to hear you say you want to write the important things. What are the Important Things, Rita?"
Rita watched him. "The attitudes of people are important. The way our society is changing is important. And it is changing. You sit up in your office and you don't see it the way we do on the street. People don't want to laugh at other people since the war, or rather, they don't care which which pureblood had a party this weekend, and who is dating who. They don't want to see articles about romance scandals between the son of a conservative old blood family and a Mugglebon girl - they don't want to see the world divided along those lines any more. Gossip is inherently divisive - Us laughing at Them, and yet using Them to measure our own lives - and I don't think people want to see it so much any more."
Lysander considered. He didn't speak for some time, plucking a cherry tomato off his plate and munching it thoughtfully. Rita took another sip of her wine, watching as he did the same.
"You could be right," he said eventually, "but if there is one thing I know about people, it's that they always want to talk about other people. No society wants to give up on gossip completely. No one wants to read about positive change all the time. It's nauseating."
Rita arched a brow. "But who are these 'other people', now? It's hard to find a clean line these days. It was easy after the first war - tearing apart the Deatheaters who were going to Azkaban, gossiping about the ones who'd been let off leading decadent lives. Now, though, there's more of our generation dead than alive, and the young ones are trying so hard to be good. They don't want to talk about themselves, and they're not doing any of the crazy things we did after the first war."
Lysander chuckled. "Merlin, Rita, you're making me feel old. Living my life through the lens of youth."
Rita smiled. "And a relentlessly good, well-meaning youth at that. Completely boring, as far as gossip is concerned. Even one of my most promising young playthings decided he'd rather be like everybody else, changed his ways and then disappeared completely. So there's no one left to write about, really."
Lysander shook his head, then turned serious again. "So where does that leave you?" he asked.
Rita rolled a shoulder. "Right where I am, really. Trying to find new angles that suit the changing public."
Lysander peered at her again. "So it's not so much that you want to be serious, but more that what you see is forcing you to be so?"
"I..." Rita stopped. That was an interesting question. She'd begun this conversation full of indignation that he wouldn't take her seriously, and just now said that all of these young people who tried to be high-minded and good were boring. And it had felt good to say that. It had felt true. It had amused her. Was she trying to be something that she wasn't, changing her image? Was she becoming like them? Or was she out of touch? Was she hiding from the prospect of finding new angles for gossip because she didn't know what the young people wanted to talk about?
"I don't know," she said, eventually. "Perhaps."
Lysander tapped his plate with his fork. "There's something I want you to do," he said.
"Yes?" Rita asked.
"This George Weasley fellow. The one whose shop burnt down. I want you to talk to him. Get a real story out of him. About his business, about his life, about everything that's happened to him since the war. About this boyfriend of his, and how they help each other. About what the shop burning down means for laughter in the wizarding world. They used to be epitomise laughter, those twins. I think a story about them might sum up the feelings of the entire wizarding world."
Rita's fingers tightened around her knife and fork. She looked down at her plate. "No," she said.
Form the corner of her eye, she saw Lysander go completely still. "What?"
"No, I won't do that. That boy lost his twin the war. I can't even begin to imagine what that would be like, and I'm not going to go and ask him to talk about it for the paper, for Merlin's sake. Wouldn't that be like exploiting the death of your brother for a bit of sympathy? How on earth could that possibly be constructive?"
"I want this story, Rita," he said, and he had that quiet, dangerous tone in his own voice this time.
"Well, you'll just have to find someone else who's willing to do it."
He watched her for a time, completely unreadable, then shook his head. "I don't know, Rita. You're definitely getting old. You used to be fearless."
Rita knew what he was trying to do, calling her old. Playing to her vainty, to her pride. Trying to make her want to prove him wrong. The sad thing was, she didn't want to. She didn't care what he called her.
"It's easier to be hated when you're young," she said. "It doesn't matter so much when your whole life is ahead of you. But when you're nearly fifty, and single, and very few of your contemporaries left alive want to know you, it's not so easy."
Rita went back to eating, then. She didn't know if she was manipulating him, or if that was honest. She didn't quite know why she cared about digging up people's pain - she hadn't before. But she knew she'd have a lot of thinking to do tonight, and a lot of new angles to find, if she wanted to keep her job after this.