I have never met Rita Skeeter before. The classroom seems to shrink in size when she struts in, larger-than-life in her purple-hued robes and eight-inch heels. Her hair is a pile of bright yellow curls, the cylinders neatly stacked on top of each other. Jewelled spectacles perch precariously on her nose, and pulling together the whole outfit is a crocodile-skin handbag, which I know holds her damning acid-green quill.

     We draw a collective breath at the sight of her, and Hermione grows particularly quiet. McGonagall totters closely behind, a look of exhaustion painted on her features.

     Rita pinches the side of her spectacles and peers at us. "What a quaint little... team you've got here, McGonagall." Her voice rings clear and sharp in the silence of the classroom. McGonagall shoots her a withering glare before turning back to us. "Students, this is Rita Skeeter, journalist for the Daily Prophet - although I'm sure she doesn't need any introductions."

     "What's she doing here?" Hermione demands accusatorily, and I briefly recall the condemnatory article Rita penned about her years ago. But unlike Hermione, I'm in complete awe of the gaudy woman before us. Not because I particularly like her - I think her articles were complete tosh - but rather that she works for Britain's biggest wizarding newspaper, something I have always wanted to do since I first learnt to read and write.

     "Ms Skeeter here as a job for one of you-"

     "A job, McGonagall?" Rita interrupts with a scandalised expression. "I'm here today to present to your students the opportunity of a lifetime!" She makes her way to us slowly, flourishing her hands as she speaks.

     "As you already know, The Daily Prophet is the largest wizarding newspaper in our part of the world. Almost every respectable British witch and wizard has a copy on-hand at all times. You may as well call it man's best friend at this point. Now, I'm sure all of you dream of becoming journalists one day, but I can guarantee precisely one of you will end up working for papers like the Prophet, if at all. The rest will simply trickle down the ladder and end up in... lesser rags, like The Quibbler, for instance." She pauses, allowing us to soak that in.

     "And of course, as the Prophet thrives, we're always on the lookout for the crème de la crème of talent, and what better place to find it than at the school with the brightest witches and wizards of our age? So, we have so generously decided to leverage our repertoire and extend this exciting offer to one- lucky- student."

     She presses her palms together and beams at us. We stare at her as the words tumble about in our heads.

     "I'm sorry, Ms Skeeter, but I don't think you mentioned what this 'exciting offer' actually is," Ernie pipes up.

     Her smile widens like he's the stupidest thing in the world. "Why, we're offering you a job at the Daily Prophet, silly! A real job, as a real journalist! After you graduate, of course. You'll scour Britain for the finest stories and spend the rest of your days writing for the best publication in the country. All you have to do is complete a simple assignment for me, and you can have it all."

     I feel like the air had been sucked out of the room. I can hardly believe my luck! Finally, here's my chance to show that I'm the one who has what it takes, and I hadn't even gone looking for it either! It seems to have fallen from the sky right onto my lap.

     My hand has never shot up so fast. "I want to do it."

     Rita strides up, her cloying floral perfume reaching down my throat and threatening to choke me. "And what might your name be, my dear?"

     "Gabriella," I say. "Gabriella Ainsley."

     Rita pushes her lips to the side as she thinks. "Hmm... Ainsley. Ainsley. Doesn't roll off the tongue, but it'll do."

     "I'd like a go as well!" To my horror, Ernie had also raised his hand. I curse him inwardly as Rita switches her attention to the shaggy-haired boy.

     "Name?"

     "Ernie Macmillan."

     Rita takes his chin in her hand, turning this way and that. "Hm. Fine. Anyone else?"

     I hope and hope to Helga no one else would volunteer. Thankfully, apart from an uncomfortable shuffling of robes, the room remains silent. It's clear everyone else wants as little to do with Rita Skeeter as possible.

     If Rita is surprised at this lack of enthusiasm, she doesn't show it. "If it's between the girl and the boy, I'll take the girl. You boys already have the dragon's share of preferences and privilege in the world as it is."

     I don't hear Hermione ask Rita what the assignment is, and I don't hear Rita telling her it's a secret and only to be divulged to the person selected. I'm in a bubble of ecstasy, floating off the ground and up towards the arched ceiling.

     No more writing and tossing useless little fictional stories in secret. No more spending my own Galleons on dozens of quills or new parchment; the Prophet would pay for them all. Not only that, but I'd get to go out in the field, unearth stories of both the sensationalised and obscure, and have people actually read them this time!

     The next thing I know, I'm being swept off to a spare professor's office. Rita presses my shoulders down into the chair and takes a seat behind the desk. "What did you say your name was, again?"

     "Gabriella Ainsley?" I don't know why I sound unsure, but Rita has that effect on me, with the way she looked me up and down; stripping me bare with her keen, green-flecked gaze. I want to be who she wants me to be.

     She adjusts her spectacles again and leans forward, her long nails clacking. "Ella- can I call you Ella?"

     "Most of my friends call me Ains-"

     "Ella, I want you to know that you're very, very lucky to be sitting in that chair across me right now," she points a finger at my stomach.

     "I do, Ms Skeeter," I say eagerly. "I've wanted to be a journalist since I was a little girl, it's all I've ever dreamed of!"

     "Wonderful," she smiles in a vaguely condescending manner. "So I trust you treat this assignment as if you're already working for us and your job and livelihood depends on it?"

     "I'll try my best, Ms Skeeter."

     "Oh, no, Ella!" she gasps. "There's no such thing as 'try' at the Daily Prophet. There's only 'do', or 'don't'."

     "Yes. Right. Sorry. Yes, I'll do it. You can count on me," I sputter.

     Mildly satisfied, she begins rambling about the assignment. I sit there in a daze, entranced by the way her red-painted lips move. I think about sitting in the office of the Prophet, surrounded by like-minded witches and wizards. Truth-seekers with a mission: to better the world by delivering the truth in a concise, timely manner. Then, she says something that shatters my daydream.

     "I'm sorry, Ms Skeeter," I interrupt. "I might've heard you wrong, but did you say 'interview the Malfoy family'?"

     "Oh, you heard me correctly, Ella. The Prophet plans to publish a biography on them, so we obviously need a full account of their harrowing experience as Death Eaters. What was it like working for Voldemort? What made Narcissa Malfoy turn against him? Why did their belligerent son Draco let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts? I want to know everything - where they eat, bathe, shit, and sleep. How you're going to do it, that's entirely up to you. I don't really care, as long as you squeeze out every single detail you can about them. Do you understand me, Ella?"

     "Yes, but I'm not sure if the Malfoys are entirely open to talking-"

     "Oh, they've already agreed to this. Practically foaming at the mouth to redeem their reputation, you see. And the Daily Prophet is only more than delighted to help them do it."

     I try not to let my surprise show. Much has changed since the war, but the one thing I had expected to remain constant is the Malfoys' stoic aloofness and suppressed but continued disdain for those of impure blood. The lesser beings. But then again, I'm hardly in a position to question Rita.

     "Oh, okay," is all I can manage. Her smile sparkles as she claps her palms together slowly. "Wonderful," she says again. At an unspoken command, a parchment slips from her bag and presents itself to me on the table.

     'Contract', it reads in big, bold letters at the top.

     "Just a formality," she clicks her tongue and flicks her fingers. "I'll just need you to sign at the bottom." Her Quick-Quotes quill slips itself into my hand, twitching with impatience as I skim through the words.

     Upon satisfactory completion of their duties, the signatory will be hired at the Daily Prophet as a Journalist for a starting salary of 5000 Galleons per annum.

     All intellectual property acquired, collected, or created in the course of carrying out their duties will belong to The Daily Prophet.

     Upon completion of their duties, the signatory will return to the Daily Prophet all intellectual property acquired, collected, or created in the process.

     I barely finish reading when I feel the quill already tugging at my hand to sign.

     "Excellent!" Rita exclaims, snatching the inked contract from me. "Now, the Prophet has given you until the end of the school year to complete this task. However, I'd like to remind you, Ella, that we'd still like for it to be as timely as possible. We are, after all, in the business of real news, not tabloid fluff."

     I nod, understanding. "That's perfect, Ms Skeeter. Thank you so much for this opportunity. I won't let you down."

     She stands up, and so do I. "I'll be in touch tomorrow with the next steps, and then on a bi-weekly basis to check on your progress," she informs as we shake hands. "Also," she yanks me in a little closer and mutters next to my ear, "you might want to keep this assignment under wraps for now. Don't want any spoilers getting out."

     She shoots me a sly wink, and with that, bustles out of the room in a flurry of colours, leaving me still standing at the desk wondering if it had all been a dream.