RP: Remarkably Familiar
Date: 5th April 2005
Characters: Rita Skeeter
Location: At home
Status: Private
Summary: With the Prophet out, Rita finally has time to search Henrietta's ledger for the new name.
Completion: Complete
Rita poured herself a large glass of red wine and sat down at her writing desk.
After the attack, everything had been put on hold. Her negotiations, her research, everything. At least she'd managed to use her connections at L'avis to print the advertising pages on a wizarding press, this time. Hopefully, soon enough, she'd have some machines of her own. And some staff to take the bloody load off her shoulders.
But for now she'd settle for a search through Henrietta's ledger. She had a name now, thanks to Julian Avery - Ali Slater. The problem was that he was almost definitely the boy's father, and the name was almost definitely fake. Figuring out who he really was would probably be the challenge.
She flicked the ledger open to 'S'.
The first thing she noticed was that she'd never seen the entry before. How on earth was that possible? How many times had she gone over the damn book with her wand, searching for anything hidden? She ran her fingers over the page and felt a tiny prickle of magic. Some kind of charm to make both the spell and the entry unnoticeable unless you were specifically searching for them. Subtle as all hell. Well, one to you, Henrietta. You're better at charms than I am. And one to me. I'm better at research than you could ever have imagined.
She let her eyes wander down the page. First of all, his own measurements. A tall man, by the look of it, broad in the shoulders. The measurements around his middle changed a few times on subsequent visits, but from what she could discern from the numbers, he was probably average for a man who had more than enough money to feed himself.
There were three other sets of measurements on the page, under name headings: 'Patrice', 'Margaret', 'Esther'. Patrice was clearly his wife, the measurements those of an adult woman. Margaret and Esther seemed to be girls. One was bigger than the other, but Rita didn't know enough about children and what sizes they were supposed to be to hazard a guess at ages. His measurements looked like ones taken by Henrietta's hands. The pencil marks were scribbled. Rita could almost picture her stretching the tape measure over her lover's chest, pencil between her teeth, all business, noting down his measurements as she went. Professional, but hurried - wanting that particular part of the meeting over with quickly. The wife and children's figures were neat, precise - copied down off a piece of paper, Rita was sure. She highly doubted 'Mrs Slater' and her girls had ever set foot inside that shop.
All of the records stopped in May 1961 - right about the time Gilderoy would have been conceived. She wondered what that conversation would have been like. Had it happened in April, and Slater come to place orders for summer dresses in May, and had Henrietta tell him she was pregnant while she copied his daughters' latest measurements into her book? Or had she wrapped her tape around his arm for the last time without knowing it? Had he taken her against the wall of the changing booth, then received an owl in a few months time telling him the news? Perhaps Henrietta had wrapped it in a bonnet for the smaller girl, already knowing that this would mean the end of them.
Rita felt the need to know, powerfully. She didn't care who this man was, she'd find him. If he was alive, she'd talk to him. She'd get it all out of him if only for her own benefit.
The rest of the information was less than interesting, the same generic notes as in all the entries. The same statement at the bottom that authorised Henrietta to withdraw funds from her customers' Gringotts accounts for her work, signed by the client.
Rita stared at the signature for a few moments before she realised.
Realised that she knew it, that she'd seen it so many times in her life that it was unremarkable. It took her those few moments to consider that in this context it was completely out of place. And a few more for the implications to hit home.
Her eyes rushed back up the page to the four different measurements. Ali, Patrice, Margaret, Esther. Sweet Jesus on a broomstick. He'd hardly changed their names at all. Alistair, Patricia, Marguerite, Estelle. Rita knew how old the girls were. 'Margaret' was nine in 1960. 'Esther' was five.
'Ali Slater' was Alistair Skeeter. The 'cheating bastard' was her father. Gilderoy's father was... her father.
Oh. Oh, fucking hell.
She'd tried to sleep with him. She'd played little games with him. She'd had his cock down her throat, at one point.
Fuck. How incredibly pureblood.
Well, that certainly explained the bizarre 'big sister' protective instinct, didn't it?
Characters: Rita Skeeter
Location: At home
Status: Private
Summary: With the Prophet out, Rita finally has time to search Henrietta's ledger for the new name.
Completion: Complete
Rita poured herself a large glass of red wine and sat down at her writing desk.
After the attack, everything had been put on hold. Her negotiations, her research, everything. At least she'd managed to use her connections at L'avis to print the advertising pages on a wizarding press, this time. Hopefully, soon enough, she'd have some machines of her own. And some staff to take the bloody load off her shoulders.
But for now she'd settle for a search through Henrietta's ledger. She had a name now, thanks to Julian Avery - Ali Slater. The problem was that he was almost definitely the boy's father, and the name was almost definitely fake. Figuring out who he really was would probably be the challenge.
She flicked the ledger open to 'S'.
The first thing she noticed was that she'd never seen the entry before. How on earth was that possible? How many times had she gone over the damn book with her wand, searching for anything hidden? She ran her fingers over the page and felt a tiny prickle of magic. Some kind of charm to make both the spell and the entry unnoticeable unless you were specifically searching for them. Subtle as all hell. Well, one to you, Henrietta. You're better at charms than I am. And one to me. I'm better at research than you could ever have imagined.
She let her eyes wander down the page. First of all, his own measurements. A tall man, by the look of it, broad in the shoulders. The measurements around his middle changed a few times on subsequent visits, but from what she could discern from the numbers, he was probably average for a man who had more than enough money to feed himself.
There were three other sets of measurements on the page, under name headings: 'Patrice', 'Margaret', 'Esther'. Patrice was clearly his wife, the measurements those of an adult woman. Margaret and Esther seemed to be girls. One was bigger than the other, but Rita didn't know enough about children and what sizes they were supposed to be to hazard a guess at ages. His measurements looked like ones taken by Henrietta's hands. The pencil marks were scribbled. Rita could almost picture her stretching the tape measure over her lover's chest, pencil between her teeth, all business, noting down his measurements as she went. Professional, but hurried - wanting that particular part of the meeting over with quickly. The wife and children's figures were neat, precise - copied down off a piece of paper, Rita was sure. She highly doubted 'Mrs Slater' and her girls had ever set foot inside that shop.
All of the records stopped in May 1961 - right about the time Gilderoy would have been conceived. She wondered what that conversation would have been like. Had it happened in April, and Slater come to place orders for summer dresses in May, and had Henrietta tell him she was pregnant while she copied his daughters' latest measurements into her book? Or had she wrapped her tape around his arm for the last time without knowing it? Had he taken her against the wall of the changing booth, then received an owl in a few months time telling him the news? Perhaps Henrietta had wrapped it in a bonnet for the smaller girl, already knowing that this would mean the end of them.
Rita felt the need to know, powerfully. She didn't care who this man was, she'd find him. If he was alive, she'd talk to him. She'd get it all out of him if only for her own benefit.
The rest of the information was less than interesting, the same generic notes as in all the entries. The same statement at the bottom that authorised Henrietta to withdraw funds from her customers' Gringotts accounts for her work, signed by the client.
Rita stared at the signature for a few moments before she realised.
Realised that she knew it, that she'd seen it so many times in her life that it was unremarkable. It took her those few moments to consider that in this context it was completely out of place. And a few more for the implications to hit home.
Her eyes rushed back up the page to the four different measurements. Ali, Patrice, Margaret, Esther. Sweet Jesus on a broomstick. He'd hardly changed their names at all. Alistair, Patricia, Marguerite, Estelle. Rita knew how old the girls were. 'Margaret' was nine in 1960. 'Esther' was five.
'Ali Slater' was Alistair Skeeter. The 'cheating bastard' was her father. Gilderoy's father was... her father.
Oh. Oh, fucking hell.
She'd tried to sleep with him. She'd played little games with him. She'd had his cock down her throat, at one point.
Fuck. How incredibly pureblood.
Well, that certainly explained the bizarre 'big sister' protective instinct, didn't it?