Emily Potter- Book 4 - Goblet Of Fire

The Insufferable

"Do we have to do this?" Emily whined like a spoiled rotten child, tying up her hair in a half pony as she walked, "I mean, what if I coincidentally fallen ill of Dragon pox or worse, my dear elder brother accidentally trips down a flight of moving staircases and breaks a bone, or two or three." She said with a dramatic air. 

Harry shook his head ruefully, sensing her sister's dislike of having a small chat with the acclaimed columnist, Rita Skeeter. He himself wanted nothing more than to fall down seven flights of stairs to avoid the interview, but that would seem very much suspicious. People might suspect Emily for the doing, Harry's not that clumsy. 

"I appreciate your concern of my well being and skeletal system, Emily, but there's no reason to hope for the worst case scenario to happen." Harry said, trying to reassure Emily. She, in return, grinned coyly and cocked her head side wards, "That's not my interpretation of the worst case scenario."

"Then what is?"

"Rita Skeeter asking me an awfully poor written question that'll make me to procreate a rude comment, followed by several sarcastic sentences, and then I fantasize of skinning her and make a pair of shoes from her flesh." Harry, in return, glanced sideways to her sister and held her close by her shoulders, "You should know that I don't doubt that you won't do that, skinning this Skeeter woman, all I ask of you now is to be on your most charming persona." 

Emily struggled to contain herself from laughing in the most hysterical manner, not that she was concerned on how the students lurking the halls saw her. She was already an outcast and in addition of that, a cheat; by now, Emily didn't have a shred of concern on how the public saw her. 

"My darling brother," She said with a trail of laughter, "Is that a challenge?" Emily carefully studied her reflection through the window and adjusted her glasses, then taming a few strands of hair, "If it's charming you want, Harry, then I'll be as well-mannered as the next Queen in line for England's throne." Emily mocked a curtsy to Harry before pushing open the chamber doors. 

The chamber was twice the size of a normal chamber used for classes; the only difference was the size, the occupants, and the reason it was going to be used for. Both Potters felt a part of their gut sink down, disintegrating in acid when the scent of strong lavender and dried figs, it was the scent of Rita Skeeter. The chamber occupied Rita, Ollivander, Cedric, Viktor, Fleur, a few Wizard photographers, and the Potter twins. Emily almost forgot the "challenge" Harry supposedly forced upon her, but she held herself from insulting Rita Skeeter's tight acid green ensemble. The material looked cheap and clung to her like a second skin. 

 Rita Skeeter stood closely to the old Wand maker, knowing nothing of personal space. Ollivander had always greeted fellow Wizards and Witches (and the occasional Muggles) with a look of both a loving and doting grandfather, but his expression changed when Emily strode in the chamber. He looked at her as if by the mere presence of her in the room made him very uncomfortable, like sitting on a bed of freshly harvested porcupine quills. 

"Alright then," Rita Skeeter exclaimed, taking a side glance at the floating notepad and the scribbling green quill to her right, "Time to weight the wands, if you may, Mister Ollivander." She said in a sickly sweet tone. The old Wand maker first approached Fleur Delacour,

"Ah, thank you Mademoiselle," Ollivander said, taking a low bow to Fleur. He twirled the wand between his fingers, causing pink and gold sparks to shoot out through the end. His old eyes examined the wand carefully, eyeing every detail with such determination, "Yes. Nine and a half inches...." Ollivander said in a low voice, 

"Inflexible, yes of course, Rosewood and... Veela hair. Dear me, Mademoiselle Delacour, is it really?" He asked his eyes pure of curiosity. Fleur nodded, her silver hair bouncing behind her as she did, "Yes. It is from my Grandmother's, from the head of a Veela."