Rita Skeeter entered the meeting room with a mixture of nerves and excitement. She glanced around and noticed several important figures from various newspapers and renowned writers — the portly supervisor, the stern old lady who favored her, Melissa, her competitor, and two or three other distinguished writers, one of whom she suspected had crafted an exceptional obituary.
They all wore solemn expressions, as if something significant was afoot.
"Rita, you're here," the stern woman said kindly, with several letters laid out in front of her, one of which had already been opened. "How's your rest? No lingering effects, I hope, from those peculiar magics?"
"Much better," Skeeter replied vaguely. "Slept it off and feeling much improved. Oh, and by the way," she pulled out two manuscripts from her crocodile-skin bag, "here are my pieces."
The woman accepted them with some surprise.
"These are my reflections on yesterday's events. Uncertain about the stance of the paper, I've presented two different perspectives," Skeeter explained nonchalantly.
"I'm satisfied," the stern woman nodded, flipping through them casually without reading closely before setting them aside. Leaning forward with her hands clasped on the table, she continued, "But there's been a development. We've received this." She tapped the envelope on the table with her ringed hand. "And it happens to concern you."
"Concerns me?" Skeeter repeated, puzzled.
The stern woman picked up the opened letter, pouring out a stack of folded papers and a small card. She pushed the card toward Rita Skeeter.
"Take a read."Rita Skeeter examined the handwriting on the card with her long thumbnail. She immediately noticed its messy, informal style, reminiscent of a student's handwriting. Given Felix Harp's words from last night, she guessed it might be from a student. Clearing her throat, she began to read aloud:
"Finished?" the portly supervisor said, somewhat disappointed. "Quite intriguing, though a bit disjointed." The other journalists nodded in agreement.
"Finished," Skeeter said dryly, unable to see what was so intriguing. Had she received this news earlier, she would have concocted a series of controversial articles, straddling the line between praise and criticism.
A journalist prepared to voice an opinion, but the stern woman stopped him.
"Finish reading all the letters, then we'll discuss," she said firmly.
Rita Skeeter glanced around and picked up the second letter, tearing it open. She began to read aloud, "I have a friend..." Well, she thought, just mentioned the savior in my mind and here comes a letter from him. If it wasn't arranged by Harp, she'd eat her parchment.
Then came the third — and final — letter. Rita Skeeter read through it, perplexed as to the identity of the author.
"...During hot, stifling weather, I enjoy lying in the small garden.
The mistletoe branches divide the sky into small squares, where the sky flows between them. Dust particles float beside the mistletoe's white berries, a sight to behold. Perhaps the garden gnomes think so too. Gnomes aren't good at speaking, aside from spitting and making faces; their greatest joy is carrying back the white berries. When I was young, I left a boot in the garden, hoping they'd move in one day. Later, my dad and I built them a house together.
The garden also grows knotted vines. They often resemble dead tree stumps, their fascinating surfaces dotted with knots, occasionally sprouting some colorful scars (some say it's due to insect infestation). Dad forbade me from touching them, as knotted vines are fragile yet benevolent plants. With them around, bad moods nearby dissipate, thanks to the grapefruit-sized pods they produce.
'Those bad moods hide inside the pods, growing larger until they burst.' Dad said.
We watched in awe as the pods split open.
Under the scorching sun, my dad and I held up lotus leaf umbrellas to prevent sweating. It usually takes a few hours before we hear a loud pop, the green skin splitting open to reveal pale green, worm-like creatures. At first, they wriggle, but gradually they calm down, making us wonder if they've died. Dad said it's just the bad moods shedding their shells, turning into irritating horseflies.
Horseflies are harmful creatures, flying into people's ears to scramble their brains. They can turn invisible; when you hear buzzing followed by irritation, that's evidence of their presence. Dad devised a horsefly syringe to deal with them, but the knotted vines produce too many horseflies, so we have to find another way.
The solution is to perform a special ceremony, resembling some sort of dance.
First, fill the mind with happiness to momentarily fend off horsefly attacks. Then, move your arms around your head while spinning in place — just like trying to ward off mosquitoes. The purpose is to tell the horseflies that my mind is already occupied by other emotions and doesn't need them, so they fly away.
The ceremony is tiring yet joyful, and to reward ourselves, Dad usually makes a pot of rainbow fish soup."
Dad is skilled in many recipes, while I help by catching fish in the stream. There are many types of Gillyfish, some of which are quite dangerous, like the Bigmouth Gillyfish. If someone over-fishes their kind, they'll come rushing out of the water with their big mouths to attack them. So, I always carry some Sneezewort with me while fishing to prevent such accidents from happening (I also bring along some Fluxweed and Gillyweed for Divination or other useful things like Spotted Parasols)...
Rita Skeeter stared at these utterly bizarre words, feeling so out of place. Had something gone wrong somewhere?
"Flitterbloom," the chubby supervisor mused.
"Plants that absorb negative emotions," Melissa murmured.
"Would dances practiced by ordinary people to repel flitterblooms work?" another reporter asked.
Rita Skeeter was dumbfounded. After a good while, the serious woman coughed twice, bringing everyone back to reality, then lit a cigarette, the smoke curling.
"Well, the situation has changed as I said," the serious woman sat upright, saying, "Currently, the entire country — no, I should say the entire world — is in chaos. Many newspapers have condemned yesterday's violence, and of course, we have published a somewhat bland critique... The reason we're not rushing to take a stance is that we're special. Rita has had the privilege of contact with wizards, and she herself has become excellent material. So, I'm waiting for her to return, preparing to create a series of news stories around her."
Skeeter rolled her eyes inwardly, knowing that this woman had tasted success in the last gun ban incident.
"... Divergence, the news industry cannot simply follow the crowd, it must have its own thinking. But this matter is unusual. If wizards are defined as terrorists, speaking up for them might cause trouble. Just as I was torn about it, I received these letters. What do you think the newspaper should do? Should we hand them over to the authorities or..."
"Absolutely not!" everyone shouted in unison.
The serious woman's tense face broke into a smile. "Very well, if anyone thinks otherwise, I'll have them pack their bags and leave immediately. Now the question is, what attitude should we take, and can we trust the contents of these letters?"
People bowed their heads, pondering. They all realized it was an interview. Whoever spoke in line with their thoughts would become the focus of the entire newspaper.
"How about taking a neutral stance, truthfully reporting these letters, and staying out of it ourselves?" the chubby supervisor tentatively suggested.
The serious woman looked at him.
"Or perhaps suggest criticism tactfully?" the chubby supervisor said uncertainly, "There's too little useful information right now, just a few disjointed letters. What if it's a conspiracy by those wizards..."
The serious woman was about to speak when Rita Skeeter interjected, "That's a possibility we can't ignore." But then she countered, "But is it important to us?"
The serious woman glanced at her. "Share your thoughts."
"Regardless of whether magical authorities are involved — oh, from these letters, everyone should see that wizards are an organized community, not just random individuals. They have schools, hospitals, law enforcement agencies, gathering places..." Skeeter pointed at the letters, "Setting aside the specific content, just the letters themselves represent something significant: while other newspapers are still floundering like headless flies, we have already made contact with the mysterious wizards. Um, although it's just a single contact, it's a fantastic start."
Others weren't unaware of this, but the responsibility was immense, and they hesitated. But Rita Skeeter, this woman, seemed very decisive in the eyes of others.
The chubby supervisor frowned, "What if these letters are just isolated incidents? What if they're just a few — um, a few wizarding students, my goodness! Wizards going to school sounds so strange — uh, what I mean is, what if it's just a momentary impulse by a few wizarding students?"
"I do have that concern," the serious woman said. She was afraid that speaking up for wizards, or not criticizing and analyzing them sharply enough, and not fully utilizing these materials, would be overtaken by other media.
"I don't think so," Skeeter said confidently, her confidence not coming from analysis, but from last night's conversation. It became exceptionally easy to reverse-engineer the process after knowing the conclusion.
"Think about it, after these articles are sent out, whether it's just a momentary impulse by a few students or not, as long as one thing in the letter is true — that wizards have their own law enforcement agencies — they will definitely find out about it. By then, there will only be two outcomes."
The more Rita Skeeter spoke, the more confident she became. She raised two thick fingers:
"The first outcome, law enforcers come knocking, ordering those students not to write to us again. But this approach..."
"Isn't very meaningful," the serious woman continued, "because wizards have already exposed themselves, so this is just playing deaf and dumb."
"Exactly," Skeeter said loudly, "the second outcome, law enforcers in the magical world tacitly allow these students' actions, at most secretly guiding them and avoiding leaks of confidential information; or just like what we were worried about just now, all of this was designed by the wizards... Whatever the case, it means a steady stream of exclusive reports!"
The breathing in the conference room became heavier.
Rita Skeeter glanced calmly at the others, just thinking of a perfect title for herself: The Uncrowned Queen.
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