Chapter 75: A Pen Silenced, A Story Stolen
Rita Skeeter's carefully cultivated smile stiffened on her face as Elian pointedly ignored her proffered hand. The faint, derisive snort he emitted wasn't loud, but in the quiet room, it was as jarring as a door slam. Her fingers curled back, the large green ring glinting under the lamplight. Cheeky little brat, she thought, the thought as venomous as it was swift. But she was a professional. She let her hand fall gracefully to her crocodile-skin handbag, her smile thawing into one of amused tolerance.
"My, my, a young man of strong character, I see," she tittered, the sound like ice cubes clinking in a glass. "Well then, let's dispense with the pleasantries and get to the heart of the matter, shall we? I do hope we can have a productive chat."
She cleared her throat with a delicate ahem, the performance beginning anew. From her bag, she produced not just her Quick-Quotes Quill, but a sleek, black magical camera that floated up to hover near the ceiling, its lens focusing with a soft whirr. The quill, a garish acid-green, positioned itself over a fresh roll of parchment.
"Now, it is my understanding," she began, lacing her fingers together, "that you are the first student in Hogwarts' storied history to be admitted at the… advanced age of sixteen. A curious anomaly. Tell me, what do you believe caused such an unprecedented delay in your magical education? Was it a lack of ability… or perhaps a lack of interest in our world before now?"
The quill leapt into action, scratching furiously. Elian watched it. His answer had been a simple confirmation. Yet the quill's nib flew across the parchment, writing line after florid line. He could almost hear it inventing a tragic childhood of suppressed magic and Muggle neglect.
"It was an administrative error," Elian stated, his voice flat. "Corrected by the Headmaster."
The quill scribbled even faster, undeterred by the brevity.
Rita's eyes gleamed behind her spectacles. "An error. How… mundane. But let's move to more thrilling topics, shall we? The Hogsmeade incident. Your account in that… alternative publication, The Quibbler, was quite the dramatic read. Battling Death Eaters, a daring escape… it read more like a cheap novel than responsible journalism. In your own words, for the respectable record," she stressed, patting her bag as if to emphasize the Daily Prophet's superiority, "what is your true recollection of that day? Were you truly a hero… or merely a bystander caught in the crossfire, your role… embellished after the fact?"
The accusation was as clear as the lens of her hovering camera. The quill poised, ready to transmute his denial into a confession of fraud.
Elian didn't blink. "I was present. I gave my account to the proper authorities. The Ministry has the record."
It was another stone wall. The quill danced, writing what he imagined was a paragraph about 'evasive answers' and 'shifting stories.'
Rita's smile tightened. She changed tack, adopting a tone of conspiratorial concern. "You must understand, the public is simply fascinated by you. A late bloomer, tied to a mysterious prophecy… and so close to the famous Harry Potter. Some wonder if this friendship has… influenced your perspective. Encouraged a taste for the dramatic. Does Harry often regale you with tales of his adventures? Do you feel pressure to live up to a certain… image?"
It was a masterful twist—impugning his integrity and Harry's in one fell swoop. The camera lens zoomed in slightly on his face.
Elian felt a cold flicker of anger, but he kept it banked. "My friendship with Harry is based on mutual respect. It has no bearing on facts."
"Facts!" Rita seized the word, leaning forward. "A slippery concept, wouldn't you agree? Especially when discussed in publications that also speculate about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and Nargles!" She gave a tinkling laugh, meant to diminish Xenophilius Lovegood and anyone associated with him. "Your interview with The Quibbler… surely you must have had… reservations? Knowing its reputation for printing the fanciful alongside the factual?"
This was the crux. She wanted him to repudiate The Quibbler, to call it a liar, thus undermining everything it had published about him and Hogsmeade.
Elian met her gaze squarely. "I found Mr. Lovegood to be a thorough and honest interviewer. I stand by my statements to his publication."
The words were simple, but their meaning was a declaration of war on her narrative. Rita Skeeter's nostrils flared. The quill was a frantic green blur, likely writing about 'stubborn allegiance to fringe ideologies.'
Just as she opened her mouth to launch another salvo, Elian, still seated, made the subtlest of gestures with his index finger under the cover of the table. A whisper of telekinetic force, precise and invisible, shot out.
The furious scratching stopped dead.
The sudden silence was louder than the noise had been. Rita Skeeter, mid-sentence, faltered. She glanced at the quill. It hung motionless in the air, its nib dry.
"Oh, bother," she said, her annoyance poorly masked by a light tone. "My little helper seems to have taken a break. Reparo!"
She flicked her wand at the quill. Nothing happened. The quill remained inert, as if frozen in amber.
"Reparo!" she tried again, more forcefully. Her smile was now a grimace. "Honestly, the enchantments on these things are so temperamental…"
Elian watched, a faint, unreadable expression on his face. Rita grew flustered. She grabbed the quill, shook it, tapped it against the table. It was like trying to revive a dead stick.
"Useless!" she finally hissed, her composure cracking. With a sharp motion, she pointed her wand. "Confringo!"
A small blast shattered the quill into a shower of green splinters and feathers, which fluttered to the floor. She took a deep, composing breath, turning back to Elian with a patently false smile.
"Technology, my dear! Never to be fully trusted. Now, where were we?" She pulled a plain, non-magical quill and a fresh sheet of parchment from her bag, her movements jerky. "Let's continue. Manually. It's more… authentic, don't you think?"
The rest of the interview was an exercise in sterile efficiency. Without her malicious scribe, Rita was reduced to jotting down brief, factual notes. She tried to probe about Dumbledore, about the prophecy, about his Christmas plans with the Lovegoods, but Elian's answers remained maddeningly concise and unyielding. He was a fortress, and she had lost her siege engine.
Finally, with a sigh of frustration she couldn't entirely hide, she decided to cut her losses. "Well, I believe that covers the essentials," she said, her voice brittle. The floating camera descended. "Let's have a photo for the piece, shall we? A smile, dear! Think of your public!"
Click. A flash of light illuminated the room, capturing Elian's impassive face beside Rita's strained smile.
"Lovely," she said, gathering her things with haste. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Thorne. I shall… craft a compelling narrative from our little chat. You may go."
Elian stood and left without a word. The moment the door clicked shut, Rita slumped in her chair, massaging her temples. The interview was a disaster. She had no sensational quotes, no damning admissions. Just a notebook of bland statements from an infuriatingly controlled boy. And her best quill was destroyed. The photo was her only salvageable asset—she could write a thousand words about the 'brooding, uncooperative mystery boy.'
Elian did not go to lunch. He went straight to the Gryffindor dormitory, his mind working. He waited until the tower was quiet, then lay on his bed, closed his eyes, and let his consciousness slip free.
His astral form, invisible and silent, drifted through the castle. It didn't take long to find the guest suite where Rita Skeeter was staying—a lavish room undoubtedly arranged by Umbridge. The journalist herself was not there, likely still enjoying a sycophantic lunch with the High Inquisitor.
Her luggage—the garish crocodile-skin case and a larger trunk—stood by the bed. With a thought, Elian's telekinetic grasp, even in spirit form, found the clasps. They sprang open. He sifted through the contents: rolls of used parchment from other 'interviews,' bottles of perfume, gaudy scarves. And there, nestled in a padded compartment, was her notebook from their interview and the developed photographic plate from the camera, still shimmering with developing magic.
A whisper of power, and the pages in the notebook containing her notes on 'Elian Thorne' crumbled into fine, grey ash. The photographic plate fogged over, then cleared, revealing an image of an empty chair beside a confused-looking Rita Skeeter. He had simply erased himself from the magical exposure.
He carefully rearranged everything to look undisturbed and withdrew.
Later that afternoon, a frantic owl arrived at the Daily Prophet. The message from Rita Skeeter was short and furious: Interview subject uncooperative. Notes corrupted by faulty charmwork. Photographic plate defective. No usable material. Require extension to pursue alternative angles.
In her lavish guest room, Rita stared at her blank notebook and the useless photo, a cold, inexplicable dread settling in her stomach. It was as if the interview had never happened. And the boy… that tall, quiet boy with the watchful eyes… she couldn't shake the feeling that he was somehow responsible.
Her story, her coveted headline, had vanished into thin air.
(End of Chapter)
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