Diamonds

14. Do Your Worst

The study was cluttered and it looked like chaos incarnate. If it was used as a games room for children, it would seem more appropriate than it being a place for work. If one looked closely, however, they would see the wealth beneath the mess: a heavy oak antique desk, a collection of expensive pens– still in their boxes, as most were gifts, things given by the wealthy people known by the owners father.

The owner herself was hunched over the desk, still writing. She had ten minutes before Barnabas Cuffe himself would come through the door, ready to read the piece she'd been keeping a complete secret. She'd been in the room for a few days now, working on her big piece. It'd be a huge deal, really, but she had to get it right or it wouldn't work.

It had a scandalous air to it, the sort of thing Rita bloody Skeeter usually covered. But Skeeter didn't know about this, not for sure, not more than a rumour. And this touched politics, gossip and conspiracy, which meant it'd even appeal to those odd fans of the Quibbler. Maybe she could sell publication rights to Lovegood afterwards, too. If he was true to nature at all, he'd drag this out until summer, at least.

"Is it finished yet? Is it any good?"

"Shh, Charlotte, I'm almost done. Just one – more – word – there!" She looked up at the gilt framed portrait, grinning. "There's going to be a field day when this goes to press! I owe you so much for this."

The woman in the portrait, blonde and beautiful navy gown, beamed down at her descendant. She had selected Betty over all the Braithwaite cousins alive then. Of the five hovering around the wizarding world today, the young journalist was the one who inherited the family home– not chosen by Charlotte, but by her great-granddaughter– and the furniture, chosen by countless others. Passed down, mother to daughter, until Laurie Braithwaite had died in childbirth. She'd always been a sickly young woman, but Betty, despite being her spitting image, was vibrant and full of life. Charlotte couldn't imagine Betty sick or weak. She'd even had her name legally changed to her mother's, first chance she got - she didn't want to be known for being related to her boss. It was a clever move, actually, to avoid people accusing her of favouritism.

A knock sounded against the door, followed by a crack as the house elf left the hall. "Come in!" Betty was on her feet facing the door in an instant, pulling a stray strand of her brown hair out from behind her glasses. "Did Ella offer you anything to eat?"

The man rubbed his beard, then shook his head. "I told her to leave me be. Now come hereand give me a hug, Bets."

She shook her head, but did as told, her bare feet small and pale against the wooden floor. She looked a right mess, of course, and judging by her body odour she'd used a charm to clean herself, rather than actually bathe. In contrast, he smelt of lavender– the body soap his wife used. Showered together again, Betty decided, releasing the hug. "Thanks for coming, dad."

"Ah, you sounded excited for a story. That hasn't happened for a while. And you were so proud." Barnabas Cuffe glanced at the portrait. "Are you eavesdropping again, lady Shafiq?"

"You know 'tis more help than you wish to give me credit for. I swear I provided actual, factual 'evidence' this time. Though I continue to fail to understand what your problem with gossip is. 'Twas the lifeblood of England, while I lived."

"Don't pretend you actually talk like someone out of a fictional medieval book, lady Shafiq, we know better."

"I do spend a lot of time here. Much more than I should. What must the Malfoys think, that their lovely painted lady spends so little time in their fancy ballroom?"

"I'm sure you loved playing in that room when you were a child."

"As a Malfoy? Well. Perhaps when grandfather was around."