Diagon Alley was more than just a cobblestone thoroughfare lined with eccentric storefronts; it was the beating, magical heart of Britain. Within its narrow confines, one could find everything from the mundane to the miraculous. There were bustling restaurants where the air smelled of firewhisky and shepherd's pie, and essential institutions like Gringotts Wizarding Bank, whose white marble facade loomed over the street like a sentinel of ancient greed.
As Professor McGonagall led Arthur Silas toward the peeling gold letters of Ollivanders—a shop that had been crafting exquisite wands since 382 BC—the shadow of a different sort of power loomed nearby. A mere hundred meters away, the three-story white brick headquarters of the Daily Prophet stood tall, its windows reflecting the chaotic movement of the street below.
Inside the Editor-in-Chief's office, the atmosphere was far from celebratory. Barnabas Guffey, a man whose receding hairline seemed to retreat further with every crisis, sat hunched over his mahogany desk. He was reading a letter from the newspaper's owner, his thin eyebrows tightly furrowed in a display of mounting anxiety.
Thump! Thump!
The sharp, rhythmic knock on the door broke his concentration.
"Come in!" Guffey called out, his voice cracking slightly.
The door swung open to reveal a tall woman with perfectly coiffed golden curls and a pair of signature, red-rimmed glasses that glinted like predatory eyes. Rita Skeeter leaned back against the door frame, a slender pipe held elegantly in her right hand and a brown tobacco pouch in her left. She surveyed the room with a look of practiced, lighthearted boredom.
"Editor-in-Chief Guffey," she drawled, her voice like honey mixed with gravel. "My assistant mentioned you were looking for me? I hope it's important."
"Skeeter! Our star reporter. Please, come in and have a seat!"
Guffey stood up with a start, a brilliant—if somewhat forced—smile plastered across his face. He gestured toward the plush leather sofa in front of his desk, acting with the frantic hospitality of a man who knew he was about to ask for the impossible. He looked at the woman who had recently penned the sensational article: "The Muggle Boy's Magic Novel: Coincidence or Conspiracy?"
As a veteran reporter, Rita Skeeter knew the rhythms of the Prophet better than anyone. She saw the sweat beading on Guffey's upper lip and understood that her superior was navigating a very tight rope. Without ceremony, she settled onto the sofa, crossing her legs with a deliberate lack of modesty, her short skirt riding up just enough to be distracting.
With a flick of her wrist, she magically loaded tobacco from her pouch into her pipe. She lit it with a silent spell, took a deep, lingering puff, and exhaled a plume of thick white smoke. The smoke didn't merely dissipate; it swirled in the air, transforming into the ornate script: Daily Prophet – Star Reporter, Ms. Rita Skeeter. It hung there for a heartbeat, a reminder of her status, before fading into the rafters.
"What exactly is the emergency, Barnabas?" Rita asked, holding her golden pipe in mid-air. "My target—the little author himself—has already arrived in the Alley. I don't want to miss the opportunity to catch him in the wild."
"This," Guffey said, reaching into a side drawer, "is the bonus for your latest article. I personally went to the owner's mansion this morning to secure it for you."
He placed a brown, round leather pouch on the desk. The dull, heavy thud of metal against wood told Rita everything she needed to know. There were a lot of Galleons in that bag.
"Thank you, my dear Editor-in-Chief," Rita smiled, her red-lipped mouth curving into something that resembled a shark's grin. She picked up the bag, weighed it in her palm, and after confirming it met her lofty expectations, slid it into her satchel. "I must say, I thought I'd be forced to wait until the quarterly bonus cycle, as I usually am."
She took another puff of her pipe, looking at Guffey through a veil of smoke. "But you didn't call me back to this stuffy office just to play the role of a generous benefactor, did you?"
Guffey sighed, the smile dropping from his face like a lead weight. He leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the desk. "Indeed, Rita. Nothing escapes those keen eyes of yours."
"Let me guess," Rita said, flicking her pipe over a crystal ashtray. "It's a task of monumental difficulty, one that requires a certain... delicate touch. And naturally, I am the only one capable of executing it."
"You know," Guffey began, choosing his words with exaggerated care, "that the Daily Prophet is the most famous and highest-selling newspaper in the British wizarding world."
"Mhm," Rita nodded, though her expression said get to the point.
"But," Guffey continued, his voice dropping an octave, "beneath our newspaper's umbrella, there is also a publishing house. And that publishing house is, quite frankly, the laughingstock of the industry."
As he spoke, Guffey's face darkened with a mixture of gloom and professional annoyance. The Daily Prophet's book division was a relic, staffed by a single old man nearing retirement and a confused intern. It hadn't produced a bestseller in a generation.
"Wait!" Rita interrupted, her posture stiffening. "Barnabas, if you are suggesting that I take charge of that graveyard of a department, the answer is a resounding 'no.' I am a hunter of stories, not a babysitter for failing imprints."
"No, no! Rita, you misunderstand me," Guffey said, waving his hands frantically to soothe her. "I'm not asking you to manage the office. I want you to act as our envoy. I want you to contact the boy—Arthur Silas."
Rita's expression became instantly sharp. "You want to publish the sequel? Or buy the rights to the first book?"
The room grew quiet. Rita had been the one to "discover" the Muggle boy's connection to the magical world. Her article had set the Ministry on fire, sparking debates about the Statute of Secrecy that were still raging in the halls of power.
"That book... it involves the Potter boy, the Philosopher's Stone, and... Him," Rita whispered, leaning in. "The high-ranking officials at the Ministry are still debating whether to burn every copy in existence. Are you sure the Prophet wants to put its name on that? It's dangerous territory, even for us."
Rita Skeeter was many things, but she wasn't a fool. The Daily Prophet survived because it was the Ministry's mouthpiece. To publish something that the Ministry hadn't officially sanctioned was a move that could end careers.
"I feel the same way you do," Guffey admitted, pulling a silk handkerchief from his drawer to wipe the sweat from his cheeks. "It's a gamble. But... the owner has already decided. The orders came from the top."
He pushed the letter he had been reading across the desk toward her. Rita said nothing as she picked it up. Her brows furrowed deeper as she absorbed the contents. The owner wasn't just suggesting a deal; he was demanding one. He saw the gold at the end of the rainbow—a Muggle phenomenon that could be transitioned into a wizarding goldmine.
"Too dangerous," Rita murmured, refolding the letter and sliding it back. She let out a light, sharp chuckle. "But then again... is real opportunity ever found in the safety of the herd?"
She stood up, her red-rimmed glasses catching the light. While she shared Guffey's trepidation, an order from the owner was a holy command. More than that, the challenge of it appealed to her vanity.
"Then I'll leave it in your capable hands," Guffey said, his relief palpable as he saw she wouldn't refuse. "The owner has been very clear: if you secure the Silas boy's signature for our publishing house, the bonuses and vacations will be unlike anything you've seen."
"Then I'd best head down," Rita said, putting away her pipe and tobacco. "I can't let the other houses get their claws into him first. I know how they operate."
She picked up her satchel and stroid toward the door. In Diagon Alley, competition was fierce. Aside from the Prophet, there was Obscurus Books, which had the prestige of Newt Scamander's Fantastic Beasts, and Whizzhard Books, which held the lucrative sports market with Quidditch Through the Ages.
But they didn't have Rita Skeeter. And Rita Skeeter had a plan.