Who Killed Bea Merrythought?

Bea Merrythought, investigative journalist, was signing off for the day. It had not, she regretted to say, been a very productive one. All morning she’d followed a lead on a wizard suspected of fixing quidditch matches in the kids league, but it had turned out that the wizard in question was just a very enthusiastic supporter and father of one of the players in Puddlemere United’s Kiddie Pool Quidditch Team. The sack she’d though was full of gold ready to be used as a bribe in fact contained homemade cauldron cakes to be enjoyed when the little ones took a break from playing.

Not ready to recognize defeat, Bea had apparated back to London and spent the afternoon shadowing a wizard she’d spotted in Diagon Alley that she thought might be Stubby Boardman. There was a rumour going round that the Hobgoblins were recording again, and what was more that their new record would feature a track in gobbledegook. This, of course, was to give rest to the persistent, nasty rumours that Boardman belonged to the WDL.

The WDL, or the Wizard’s Defence League, was thought to predate He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his Death Eaters. It had started as a sort of neighbourhood watch, a small group of wizards and witches training hexes and jinxes together to be used against people and creatures who threatened them. This nebulous threat had, according to rumour, included anyone from werewolves to giants to muggles and muggleborns. Officially, all the WDL had done was practice magic and put powerful enchantments on their own dwellings to protect themselves from the dregs of society. Unofficially, the WDL had almost certainly assassinated the first Muggleborn Minister for Magic, Nobby Leach, and much of You-Know-Who’s early crimes had been originally attributed to the WDL. It had taken the Ministry a long time to admit that there was a new, unknown force taking over, that this wasn’t your familiar neighbourhood watch at work anymore, and by then it had almost been too late.

In the aftermath the Death Eaters had all (or most) been incarcerated in Azkaban, their group effectively disbanded, but the same fate had never befallen the WDL. How much overlap there had been between the organizations was still disputed.

Or maybe the WDL had been a perfectly innocent defence group all along.

Bea would have been happy to write the story from whichever angle her editor preferred, but alas the wizard she shadowed had turned out to not be Stubby Boardman at all, but simply a reasonably handsome man of middle age with a permissibly sized beer-belly going about his end-of-the-week shopping. Bea had been so disappointed she considered writing the story anyway. She was certain the public was thirsting for knowledge on this subject, and the wizard she had tailed had looked just like she imagined members of the WDL looked.

Back in the office she was told she had missed the best fistfight a bookshop had seen since Mr Blotts and Mr Flourish fought it out over how much overtime should pay (the answer eventually being settled on an extra sickle an hour). Tomorrow’s front page would not feature Stubby Boardman’s blandly handsome face, nor a candid photo of a sack of galleons changing hands to ensure the advancement of the junior Puddlemere’s into the national finals for under elevens. No, apparently Rita Skeeter and that creep Bozo had been right in the thick of it and snapped a pic of not just the fisticuffs but also of Harry Potter and Gilderoy Lockhart shaking hands. Skeeter had bagged an interview with Lockhart, too, although he was likely to regret giving it by tomorrow.

Bea had reasons for not wanting to go home, but staying here and feeling like a failure was even worse. Getting up from her desk, her stomach rumbled. Patting it absently, she began making her way past the desks of her colleagues. Around some of them, witches and wizards claiming to have the scoop of the year stood and waited, and Bea almost knocked over a little-old-man and a witch with lovely dark hair when she passed the biggest desk of them all.

“Merrythought! I heard you wasted an entire day tailing Stubby Boardman?” Rita shouted gleefully after her.

“It wasn’t even – I mean…” Bea regretted reacting to the taunt as soon as she had turned around.

“You wouldn’t recognize a story if it slapped you in the face,” Rita said, curling a lock of her harshly dyed hair around her finger.

Bea’s face heated up and she turned to leave. The crazy thing was that it was Skeeter who had written the first article on Boardman’s misdoings. Maybe she was regretting handing the story over to Bea.

“Say hi to your girlfriend from me.”

This time, Bea didn’t react. She was, however, in a right old mood when she clunked downstairs and out unto the uneven ankle-endangering cobblestones of Diagon Alley. Her day wasn’t improved in the slightest when the sky opened and began pelting her with water.

She used her wand to sprout an umbrella over her head, but immediately a strong gust of wind appeared and tried to wrench said umbrella and wand combo out of her hand.

“Sod this,” Bea muttered and turned on the spot. She’d promised to buy lettuce for their pet flobberworm, but not even Poppy could be so unreasonable as to expect it from her in these circumstances.

Bea landed heavily on the bone-dry country road outside of their cottage. Outside Poppy’s cottage. The sky in Lancashire was a bright blue and the sun warmed her until she was sweating profusely, her damp robes clinging to her in the most unflattering way possible. This didn’t stop Poppy from staring when Bea entered the cottage, shaking her dark head experimentally like a stray dog dragging itself out of an accidental dip in the sea. Whatever hope Poppy’s gaze had given her was, unfortunately, quickly squashed.

“Where’s the lettuce?” Poppy asked, her sea blue eyes clashing magnificently with her short hair that she had dyed to mimic a burning bonfire. Bea counted the sparks flying into the air, one two three, turning into ash before they hit the floor. The constant sizzling had kept Bea awake at night back when she was still allowed to sleep in Poppy’s bed, not to mention the charcoal facemask in the morning.

“You won’t believe it, but it was pissing cats and dogs as I left work.”

“You’re right, I won’t believe you.”

Bea’s heart sank and she sat down on a chair, pulling her shoes off. She turned one upside down, but instead of the effectful pool of water she’d been expecting to see gush out of her shoe, a mere two or three drops splattered the floorboards.

“I’m not sure I’ll believe anything you say ever again, not after what happened between you and that woman.”

“I’ve said I’m sorry.”

“Yeah…” Poppy looked from Bea to the vase of honking daffodils on the table. They were drooping and beginning to give off a strong smell not unlike overcooked broccoli. “I’m still surprised you could be so gullible. You’re supposed to be a journalist, I’d’ve thought you’d be aware of all the dirty tricks that can be used in your profession.”

“Sorry,” Bea said again. “And, as I’ve told you, I feel nothing for her now, unlike how I feel for you. I think she might’ve slipped me a love potion or something.”

Poppy stared searchingly into her eyes for a moment, then she mouthed “I don’t believe you.”

Bea looked again to the dying daffodils. Poppy plucked the flower from one of them and Bea watched her retreating, shapely backside. The tank with their pet flobberworm Ainsley stood on the kitchen counter in the corner.

“Such a hungry little sweetheart, aren’t you? How about a flower? Mummy will have to go out and buy lettuce today because Step-Mummy forgot.”

“Didn’t forget,” Bea muttered and got up.

“No, just chose not to,” Poppy retorted as Ainsley honked in agreement. The flower had slipped right into his toothless mouth and now he opened it even wider. There was a pause, then an absolutely horrendous burp echoed around the kitchen.

Shouting, both witches ran for cover, hands over their noses, while a foul green cloud stinking of broccoli expanded across the kitchen.

Poppy slammed the kitchen door shut behind them.

“Why couldn’t you just buy lettuce? You know how sensitive his stomach is!”

“I’m not the one who fed him a rotten old flower!” Bea protested, but this was decidedly the wrong thing to say.

“Well, at least I know what you think I’m worth,” Poppy hissed, heading for the front door. “A recycled ‘sorry’ and some rotten old flowers.”

“That’s not – I’m sorry! I’m so sorry Poppy!” Bea yelled at the door as it slammed shut.

“Next time, try and buy her chocolates,” the hallway mirror told Bea conversationally. “She’ll like them more than flowers. She’s got a secret stash underneath the kitchen sink that she’s always eating from when you’re at work.”

“But we’re both on a diet!” Bea said, outraged.

“You sure about that?” the mirror asked her. “Didn’t you have pasta for dinner last weekend?”

“That was a one-off,” Bea muttered. “We needed a break from all that’s happened, and, well… We were celebrating how well we’d been doing.”

“Personally, I blame your cheating on her,” the mirror said. “You can’t just do things like that and expect other people to be fine.”

“Right,” Bea said furiously. “So she’s getting back at me by cheating on our diet, is that what you’re telling me?”

“I wouldn’t equate the two in her presence if I were you.”

“Right,” Bea said again. “Right. You know, the diet wasn’t even my idea! Poppy was the one who suggested we get fit for the summer.”

“Yes, just like last year. And after you both failed getting fit the previous summer you felt you should really give it a go this time. Prove to yourselves and to each other that you can follow through and accomplish real, tangible things in life.”

Bea blinked. Her own face in the mirror, screwed up and pink, looked like it was seconds away from throwing a right tantrum.

“We talk so much shit when we think there’s no one listening, don’t we?” Bea said. “If you’re not careful I will relocate you to the attic.”

The mirror did not respond this time. All was quiet, except for the nagging voice at the back of Bea’s head telling her she was making a dragon out of a chicken egg. Should she really care whether or not her (ex?) girlfriend had a secret chocolate stash?

There was a loud knock on the door and Bea steeled herself before remembering Poppy wouldn’t need to knock to get back into her own house.

“Hello?” she said uncertainly, having opened the door.

A witch not much older than her was standing on the doorstep, wearing dark blue robes and a confident smile.

“Gladys Gudgeon at your service,” the witch said, grabbing hold of Bea’s limp arm by her side and shaking hands vigorously.

“Bea Merrythought, investigative journalist,” Bea began automatically, watching with rapidly rising eyebrows how Gladys released her hand with a final squeeze and nudged her to the side so that she could step over the threshold. “Excuse me, where do you think you’re going?”

“I simply love seeing other people’s houses, don’t you? Tells one so much about who they really are. This looks nothing like I imagined your house would look like.”

“I live with my – wait, do you know me? Have we met before?”

Staring intently into Gladys’s face, a kaleidoscope of bits of faces of women she’d once danced with in the Three Broomsticks or shared a pint with in the Leaky Cauldron flashed by, but nothing slotted into place. Gladys was very pretty, and Bea would have remembered her dark doe-eyes with the lashes.

“No, I don’t think so. Do you mean to say your boyfriend chose these?”

Reluctantly Bea looked away from Glady’s eyes and at the flowery curtains with a trim of lace she was holding up to the light.

“Girlfriend.”

“Oooh! Well that explains it, then,” Gladys said heartily and looked around the sitting room one last time before plonking down in the middle of the sofa.

“Do you want to tell me why you’re here? Er – this isn’t about the article Rita Skeeter wrote about my grandmother, is it?”

“No,” Gladys said brightly. “No, but I do know Rita. Darling old thing, isn’t she?”

Bea must have looked gobsmacked, because Gladys burst into a melodic, attractive laugh that went on slightly too long to feel genuine.

“Gotcha! But it is actually because of Rita I’m here. She told me you’re the one working on the Stubby Boardman story.”

“I’m starting to wonder if there’s a story there at all,” Bea said with a sigh and sank into an armchair. “Fine, what’ve you got?”

“I’ve unearthed evidence about his affiliations with the purists, with the Wizarding Defence League, and maybe even with You-Know-Who.”

“Blimey,” Bea said, reaching out for some papers Gladys was conjuring up. “This looks… Where did you get these from?” she asked, indicating some candidly snapped photos of a wizard that looked very much like Boardman, speaking to a man Bea knew from previous research was definitely a member of the WDL.

“I took them,” Gladys said, suddenly with a fiery look in her great doe eyes. “I used to… know him, back in the day. And I know he’s not who he pretends to be.”

“I see,” Bea said curiously, eyes scanning what appeared to be a court transcript. “And this?”

“I had an internship at the Wizengamot, straight after Hogwarts,” Gladys said with a shrug. “Courtroom transcripts should be public, anyway.”

“Most are,” Bea said. “But not all of the ones from after the downfall of You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters are. So they did question Boardman, even back then?”

“Clearly. He’ll tell you it’s because he looks like Sirius Black, that it’s a case of mistaken identity. But I know better.”

“I believe you,” Bea said. Despite her earlier misgivings there was something about Gladys that seemed honest. Perhaps it was just the bitterness of old love turned sour that was convincing her, but even if it was… Bea had written plenty of stories on much flimsier evidence. “I will need to fact check this and gather information for myself too, though,” she said importantly while she calculated how much she would have to check and how much of it she would be able to take at face value. Her editor would have final say, and she hoped he wouldn’t be difficult this time.

“Fine,” Gladys said with a shrug, getting up. “I just think someone should be writing about him. Seems to me the Prophet’s wasting an awful lot of space on irrelevant, factually incorrect drivel at the moment.”

“Hmm,” Bea mumbled, utterly engrossed in the treasure trove she’d been given. She could hear the front door close soon after, but she didn’t stir.

She remained sitting in the armchair, reading every document Gladys had left her from top to bottom. There was nothing conclusive here, but taken all together, it did seem utterly damning. Boardman was in league with Dark Wizards, he supported wizarding supremacy over all other creatures and at any cost, and on top of it all he might have been enhancing his singing voice magically for years.

It had gone dark outside and Bea had lit the floating candles that inhabited the room by the time Poppy returned. Poppy had a stormy look on her face and she sniffed the air pointedly while depositing a head of lettuce in the second armchair.

“You’ve been entertaining guests, eh? Guests with a penchant for cheap perfume.”

“Witch called Gladys,” Bea explained quickly. “She brought me dirt on Stubby Boardman, you know, with the Hobgoblins? Reckons there’s a story.”

“And how on earth did Gladys know to look for you here?”

Bea bit her lip. It wouldn’t do to bring up Rita Skeeter, even though that must have been who told Gladys where to find Bea.

“You better watch yourself, Bea Merrythought. One of these days I might just put rat poison in your tea!”

Poppy snatched the head of lettuce back up from the chair and stormed out. Moments later, Bea could hear her hacking the lettuce violently to pieces on a chopping board.



The next morning, Bea struck gold at once. Much of it was thanks to the photographs Gladys had left her. She had recognized the part of London one was taken in and on apparating there, she immediately spotted Stubby Boardman. It had to be the real one this time. He was sitting in the outside seating area of a quaint magical café called the Humming Hyacinth, sipping leisurely from a large, steaming cup of coffee. The morning’s Daily Prophet was spread out over most of his table.

“Mr Boardman, isn’t it?”

“Yes hello?”

Bea sat down opposite him. He had looked vibrant and charming from the other side of the street, the contrast of his black hair and fair skin most effectful. Close by, there was a purplish tint in the grooves of his face, and he looked like he had ran so fast through life that now he had come to a stop, he was unable to catch his breath again.

“Bea Merrythought, investigative journalist for the Prophet.”

“That’s funny, I was just reading this piece by one of your colleagues. Do you know I used to know Gilderoy Lockhart quite well before our respective careers took off?”

“I would be interested to talk to you about your past,” Bea said, bringing up an old notebook and a miniature quill from her pocket. “Did you go to school together?”

Boardman eyed her quill and notebook suspiciously for a moment, but then he sighed and leant back in his chair.

“What are you really here for? Not Gilderoy, and not my new album I’m guessing. Are you one of those idiots who want to dig into my political leanings? Or are you one of the fanatics who refuse to believe my father was magical repairman Screwy Boardman and instead insist I’m the bastard son of the late Orion Black?”

“The former,” Bea said, almost apologetically.

“Yeah, you look like one of that crowd,” he muttered and downed the last of his coffee.

“Hey, don’t leave, I just want to ask you a couple of questions. I’m sure you’d like to set the record straight, too, given all the rumours.”

“The rumours spread solely by your newspaper; you mean?”

“We didn’t start them,” Bea said quickly. She had no idea if this was true or false, knowing Rita, likely false. But something stirred in Boardman’s tired eyes, and he didn’t rise from his chair. “What I’d like to know,” Bea continued, “is what your part in the trials against You-Know-Who’s supporters was?”

“What? But that’s more than ten years ago?” Boardman looked confused and even more tired than before. “Who’ve you been talking to?”

“You know I’m a journalist, right? Can’t reveal my sources.”

“But you think it’s alright to publish some nonsense about me having some grand role in the most infamous trials of the century?”

“So talk to me then! Tell me what really happened? Did you get in with the wrong crowd? Have an old family friend who turned out to be a Death Eater?”

Boardman looked away at the last words and stared into his empty coffee cup. The menu was floating towards them, and he waved it impatiently away before it had time to begin rattle off what today’s special was.

“Tell your source they better watch their back,” Boardman said eventually. “Tell her – tell them that it’s not safe to run their mouth like this.” He rose so quickly his chair fell backwards and clattered on the pavement. The menu did a double take and soared towards them, showering them with outraged exclamations, urging them to pick up the chair.

“Wait!” Bea shouted at him.

“If you publish this, I can promise you that you will get a trial of your very own.”

“Stubby, tell me how you know this man?”

Bea threw one of the photos Gladys had given her on the table.

“No idea who that is.”

“But you’re talking to him in the photo!” Bea shouted after him. He was already crossing the road and didn’t look back. She glanced down at the photo one last time. Boardman’s face was blurry because his mouth was moving, but having met him in the flesh and spoken to him she was more convinced than ever that it was him. And the man he was talking to, Abraxas Malfoy, was known beyond certainty to be the founder of the WDL.

The menu, which was still shrieking shrilly and flapping about the table, made Bea get up and straighten up the chair Boardman had knocked over. While she was doing this she happened to glance at the paper he had been reading earlier. There was some coffee spilled over a photo of Gilderoy Lockhart, and he was desperately and completely futilely attempting to mop it up from his side of the picture. The odd thing was that even though Rita Skeeter was credited as the writer, the words used were mild in the extreme. Lockhart had seemingly had an easy time of it.

Frowning, Bea collected the photograph of Boardman and Malfoy and turned on the spot.



Bea’s grandmother lived in a large, beautiful house in Richmond. Poppy always came with Bea to the fortnightly luncheons at the house, but this time Bea found herself alone with her grandmother in the dining room.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Galatea Merrythought said, clicking her bony old fingers to make the decanter pour gooseberry wine into two fine crystal goblets, “surely you must have guessed that she wouldn’t be here today. Not after the stunt you pulled.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me,” Bea said uncomfortably, because although this had plagued her mind ever since it happened, she had somehow not considered the possibility that she might be alone when faced with her grandmother’s wrath.

“I’ve fought in several wars,” Galatea reminded her with a sniff. “Do you really think a petty affair like this would ruffle my feathers?”

“I’m sorry,” Bea said, the words not feeling like much of anything anymore. There was a pause when the dining room doors opened to let a well-oiled suit of armour through, carrying smoked salmon on a platter in one hand and a bowl with boiled potatoes in the other.

“I wonder if you’re even old enough to know what those words mean,” Galatea said. “I have my hopes Poppy’s absence will teach you. Don’t forget the peas, Lance, dear! Remember what we discussed about not having to skimp on the butter?”

The suit of armour bowed almost noiselessly and marched back into the kitchen.

“Tell me, Bea, how did you decide that hurting the two people who love you the most in this world was the right course of action?”

“I was tricked,” Bea said dully.

“The common excuse for those of mediocre intelligence. Well, I suppose if you were truly as much of an idiot as your actions made you out to be, then you wouldn’t even understand you’d done anything wrong. You’d be blaming that ghastly Skeeter woman for everything.”

Bea helped herself to potatoes to avoid looking at her grandmother. The suit of armour deposited a dish of boiled peas next to her. They appeared to be swimming in butter and Galatea smacked her lips appreciatively and pulled them towards her.

“The article Skeeter wrote about me and my time with the aurors contained so many factual errors that the board of aurors decided not to take away my pension, after all. They believed me, or at least humoured me, when I explained to them that it was a work of fiction. Bedtime stories I told you when you were a little girl that you had come to believe were true in adulthood. I explained that you compulsively dwell on gruesome fantasies about prison interrogations and fraternisation with the Azkaban guards. I also opted to tell the board about the months you spent in the closed section of St Mungo’s when you were fifteen.”

Bea blushed and dragged the peas determinately towards her. She began picking them out from their sea of melted butter, one by one.

“Fortunately for us both, I was not nearly as violent and horrid as Skeeter made me out to be in her article. I caught war criminals, lest we forget! The board believed me when I told them that the record amounts of confessions I got out of my suspects were all on account of my superb interrogation skills. I doubt a single one of the prisoners I once interrogated is still alive, but even if they were, Azkaban will have taken their capability to speak in coherent sentences from them. Besides, most people don’t remember me as an auror, either, but as a teacher. And I was a brilliant teacher.”

“I know,” Bea said heavily. She had read some of the letters that had arrived for Rita after the article was published. The lion’s share of them had been angry or confused, with readers unwilling to believe what the article had said. Every single one had mentioned what a great and highly respected professor Galatea had been.

“I’m surprised you neglected to tell your new flame that your grandmother used to teach You-Know-Who at Hogwarts and that he was her favourite student back in the day. Now that could have been the death knell to my very generous pension, possibly from both the Aurors and from Hogwarts.”

“I didn’t know you taught him,” Bea said.

“Well, of course I didn’t, silly.” Galatea smiled and pulled the bowl of mostly butter towards her again, then began ladling it over her potatoes. “But if your floozy had written that, I would have had to kill you both.”

Bea pushed her plate away and grabbed her goblet of gooseberry wine instead. An awful sense of foreboding attempted to settle around her, but after gulping down some wine she managed to throw it off.

“Grandma, what do you know about the WDL?”

“Speaking of trolls…” Galatea muttered and licked some butter off her knife. “Well, yes, they were a tough nut to crack. One or two became Death Eaters, but plenty of them didn’t. If I’d still been an auror then, I’m sure we could have imprisoned a lot more of the WDL.”

“Do you consider everyone who is a member to be a criminal? As bad as a Death Eater?”

“No, no,” Galatea said with a sigh. “And to think my superiors once accused me of only seeing the world in black and white… I’m sure, Bea, that plenty of the members of WDL have never actually committed a crime. Lots of them are just there because belonging to a group makes it easier for them to feel superior to the people they despise.”

“But some of them have done things they don’t wish to see the light.”

“They certainly have a bad reputation. A handful of known members and the rest secret, just like the Death Eaters. I would think that the secret ones in particular might go to some lengths to keep their membership from the public.”

“Particularly if they’re a public figure themselves.”

“Dear, everyone knows everyone in the wizarding world. Everyone is a public figure. Now, the leader of the WDL… You know who that is, of course?”

“Yeah.” The picture of Malfoy and Boardman swam in front of her eyes, and for a second, she had the urge to show it to her grandmother. Had those two done something awful together? Was the WDL still as active as ever, moving behind the scenes of wizarding society, pulling political strings? Did they still go so far as to assassinate people who stood in their way? Did they believe part of the beings they shared this world were worthless scum? Abraxas Malfoy, grey and frail by now, he’d need to recruit young people for his cause, if he still had one.

“I had him once, in my youth.” Galatea winked at her.

Bea shuddered and helped herself to more wine.



Though it was a Saturday, Bea decided to swing by work after lunch. She had an inkling there would be someone there with whom she had a bone to pick. Before she got there, though, she got caught up in a commotion in the middle of Diagon Alley. Gilderoy Lockhart was standing there with a gaggle of eager, mostly middle-aged witches all around him. They were holding out bits of parchment and, in two cases, exposed body parts for him to sign. He appeared absolutely delighted with the situation, particularly since it was causing a holdup and attracting more and more passers-by who wanted to know what was happening. He took ages signing everything that was put in front of him with an enormous, shimmering swan feather quill.

Outside the gathering, Bea spotted Gladys and, to her shock, Stubby Boardman. They seemed to be deep in conversation. It looked like Boardman was telling Gladys off.

“Hey Gladys!” she shouted. Boardman, who was carrying a large box of freshly bought exploding bonbons underneath his arm startled, his head swerving until their eyes met. There was a pause, then he turned on his heel and jogged up the street. Unfortunately, Bea’s voice had also attracted the attention of Bozo, one of the Prophet’s photographers. He leered as soon as he saw her, and Bea weaved her way back out of the crowd, shivering with disgust.

“Lockhart! Lockhart!” a short old warlock with heavy brows and a thick accent yelled. He was jumping up and down on the outside of the circle of fawning witches, his hand raised in the air although Bea doubted even the tips of his fingers would be visible to Lockhart in the centre. “Lockhart, you stole my story! I’ve just remembered, you stole my story!”

Nobody else seemed to be listening to him, and certainly not Lockhart, but Bea’s interest was piqued.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Adom Gaylian”, the little wizard said, tipping his old-fashioned hat.

“Bea Merrythought, investigative journalist. Where are you from, sir?”

“Armenia. Although, up until a week ago, I had lost my memory to the extent I thought I was from Azerbaijan. Bah!” The little old wizard spat on the ground. “I need to go back and see my wife! But first, you tell me you’re a journalist? I believe you can help me.”

“What you were shouting earlier did catch my attention,” Bea admitted. “Shall we go in here?”

They stepped into Flourish and Blotts, which appeared to be mostly deserted today. Bea led the wizard in between some shelves until they reached the magical composers and instruments section. She had always found it to be a good spot not to be overheard in.

A book next to them flapped open, revealing a paper tuba that attempted to wrangle itself out of the pages. It had blown some deafening, dour notes before Bea managed to wrestle it shut.

“Now,” she panted over the noise of a full orchestra beginning to play behind her head, “tell me what you believe Lockhart’s done? You were saying he stole your story? You don’t mean for one of his books, do you?”

The Armenian wizard nodded importantly just as an organ began to play over the orchestra, but when he opened his mouth an odd look came over his eyes, which had focused on something over Bea’s shoulder.

Bea turned only to be faced with the toothiest smile she had ever seen. It was terribly dazzling and followed by a charming voice: “And who might you be? I thought I saw you amongst my admirers outside? You must be here for my autograph.”

“Er…” Bea began, still blinded by the teeth. Some of the books around her had begun applauding and she could see the cashier from Flourish and Blotts beating back the crowd that had been around Lockhart, refusing them entry and telling them to come back later, but only if they were actually going to buy something. Bea thought she heard him mutter that the shop had barely recovered after the last visit from Lockhart.

“Bea!”

Bea turned back around, this time it was Gladys who was calling for her attention. Hesitatingly, Bea pulled out a card from her pocket.

“Here you are,” she told the Armenian wizard, who was looking rather dazed. “Go up Diagon Alley until you see the Prophet’s offices. Wait for me there.”

Then, she let Gladys pull her by the hand straight into the palmistry section next door. They could still hear the organ, now accompanied by a lone trumpet.

“Bea, I need to tell you something.”

“How did you even get in here?” Bea asked, nodding towards the crowd outside, some of whom were pressing their faces against the shop window to get a glimpse of Lockhart.

“Oh, I’m his secretary,” Gladys explained nonchalantly, pointing at Lockhart. “I need to ask you; did you tell Stubby it was me who gave you the dirt on him?”

“No, of course not!”

“I ask because he’s just threatened to kill me if I don’t talk you out of the article.”

“That’s insane!” Bea scanned Gladys’s face looking for clues, but there were no clear tells. Was this the truth, or some strange story she had come up with? Why would she have made this story up? Gladys just looked scared and upset. “I’ll drop the story, of course I will.”

“No, I don’t think you should,” Gladys said resolutely. “I’m safe as long as I work for him.” Again, she pointed towards Lockhart. “And, besides, I know I’m more talented magically than Stubby is.” Gladys’s doe eyes glittered.

“But if he’s got the WDL behind him…” Bea began slowly. “Some powerful people in that organization, I mean the founder alone…”

“They don’t scare me,” Gladys interrupted, just as the trumpet went into a shrill crescendo.

Then, the entire magical music section of Flourish and Blotts exploded.



When Bea came to, Gladys was shaking her. The music section was being repaired, with some books torn apart across the floor, refusing to be mended by the spells the shopkeeper used on them. Lockhart had seemingly hidden himself in the self-defence section, although Gladys insisted once Bea had sat up and begun asking questions that Lockhart’s heroic actions earlier had saved them both.

Bea didn’t quite believe her, although eventually the shopkeeper (who up until then had mostly been muttering under his breath about never again ordering books on terror trumpets) confirmed Gladys’s turn of events. At that point Lockhart made his way over, proud and buoyant once more.

“How about that autograph?” he asked them, and Bea laughed, still uncertain if it was a joke or not.

“I think you should write about this in tomorrow’s paper,” Gladys said, pulling her to the side again.

Bea was glad she had said so, because there was something she needed to ask.

“Do you think Boardman did this?” she asked.

Gladys nodded, then said: “He came from here. Before he spotted me in the street, he came out of this very shop.”

“Well, that settles it,” Bea said slowly. “I won’t back down. I will get to the bottom of this.”

“Girls? Girls! How about a picture? Surely you want one with the man who saved you? We’ll take one each and then I’ll sign them.”

Laughing to herself, Bea turned to ask Gladys if her employer was always like this, but before she could Lockhart had pulled her out into the music section, already posing with his wand out like he was saving them all over again.


“Working on the next great potboiler, I see,” Bea said loudly as she entered the office half an hour later. The floor was entirely deserted bar one person, although she could hear some of the goblins who managed the printing press chatter downstairs.

“If it isn’t little miss touch-starved,” Rita Skeeter said gleefully. She was by her desk, holding a brand new both ugly and expensive looking dragonhide handbag. “You know, when I told Bozo how easy it was to get you to spill everything you knew about your granny’s disgraceful career he couldn’t believe it at first!”

“Oh is that why he has been staring at me like I’m a golden snidget ever since?” Bea asked archly. “I’m glad you’ve provided him with a story to keep him warm at night, though, since I don’t imagine there’s any real person who’d do that for him.”

“I’ll tell him you like to imagine him in bed, shall I?”

“Eww!” Bea flung herself into her chair. Her desk was four away from Rita’s, but with all others deserted this still felt a bit intimate. “How did you afford that handbag? Not taking bribes, are you?”

Rita grinned her awful, predatory grin. Beside her on the desk, her acid green quill was writing on its own.

“Never you mind. It’s not like you’ll ever come into possession of a story sizzling enough to make the rich and powerful take notice. Did Granny disown you, by the way?”

“No,” Bea said, “although she might kill me if there’s more stories about her in the paper.”

“From what I’ve heard, and considering who she knows, that’s not an empty threat.”

“Yeah, right,” Bea muttered. “I suppose I should thank you, though. For sending Gladys my way. Thanks to her, I might be the one with the true scoop of the year.”

“Who’s Gladys?” Rita asked disinterestedly.

She was probably disappointed that there hadn’t been a big fallout between Bea and her Gran. Fortunately, Rita didn’t know just how big the fallout between Bea and Poppy was.

“Gladys Gudgeon,” Bea said. “You must know her. She knows you, she says. She’s the one who had stuff on Boardman.”

“Still chasing that story, are we? What if I told you I made the whole thing up?”

“I already know you’re a liar, so it wouldn’t change a thing. Wait, what do you mean, made the whole thing up?”

Rita was grinning broadly, but she wasn’t looking at Bea anymore but at whatever her quill was composing on the parchment on her desk.

“The Boardman story is real enough,” Bea continued annoyedly. “You know I didn’t agree with how you angled the story about my Gran, and you even admitted it wasn’t your best work. It’s why you gave me the Boardman story instead of writing about it yourself, isn’t it? Repentance.”

Bea chose not to bring up the quick trysts in the broom cupboard by the printing press. There was rather a lot to repent for, she thought.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, Merrythought,” Rita said, still focused on her quick-quotes quill.

“Gladys was a huge help. Tall girl, dark hair. Very nice – er – eyes.”

Rita looked up with a grin. “Oh yeah? Eyes, eh? Well, can’t expect me to remember every nitwit who rushes to my desk with a story.”

“You sent her to my house! Not that I mind, since she did have a good story, but as standard practice…”

“Maybe I could tell from the start that you’d like her eyes, Merrythought.”

Bea’s confusion was quickly replaced by embarrassment, and she pretended to read something on a spare bit of parchment on her desk.

“Bet your girlfriend loved seeing Gladys with the nice eyes.”

“Oh so that’s why you did it,” Bea said quietly to the parchment. No repentance here, just the twisting of a knife that had already severed the main artery and then some. Louder, she said: “Did a little Armenian bloke come in here earlier?”

“No.”

“Curious,” Bea said and got up. She did not want to go home, but surely it couldn’t be worse than staying here? “Maybe he’ll be back. Don’t tell him my home address, though.”

“I won’t. Just as well, isn’t it, in case your girlfriend kicks you out tonight. I would, but then she’d have little self-respect to begin with since she’s dating you.”

Bea stormed past Rita with her nose in the air, mainly to hide her hot cheeks and the hurt in her eyes.



On a whim, Bea apparated to Richmond instead of Lancashire. It was getting dark fast but there were lights on downstairs, and she walked up the garden path. Once or twice, she thought she heard soft, metallic thuds behind her, but when she looked over her shoulder, she saw nothing but the tall hollyhocks and the fragrant roses her grandma grew in her garden.

“Gran, are you home?” she cried when she had let herself inside. She waited in the hallway for several seconds, then shouted again. Still no reply.

Knowing her gran was usually working on something in the library, Bea made her way there through the sitting room and a long gallery full of paintings. There were lit candles everywhere she went, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was deserted.

The library was a tall, elegant room with bookshelves covering all walls and even the ceiling. When Bea was little, she had managed to undo the anti-gravitational spell keeping the books on the ceiling in place. Her gran had found her there, lying unconscious on the floor with a particularly nasty book on magical blood curses lying open next to her bloodied head.

Tonight, there were no books covering the floor, nor any blood. Dozens of flickering candles were circling by the enormous oak writing desk, but the old, cranky wooden swivelling chair was empty.

Bea walked over, her steps noiseless on the thick carpet. There was an old stain on the carpet, could that have been from when..? Bea stepped around it and leant over the desk, somehow so aware of how quiet it all was, of how she wouldn’t be able to hear if anybody else crossed the carpet behind her, that she found it difficult to take in the words written in her grandmother’s difficult, curved handwriting on a long scroll of parchment, left rolled open and trailing to the floor.

Galatea, she realized after several unfocused seconds, was writing her memoirs.

As an auror, I had several run-ins with the WDL. I knew them in their infancy, when they were just a defence against the dark arts club and before any of their number took a dark turn. I may even have given them an idea or two about what spells to learn.

It all started in my bed. Abraxas Malfoy was there, spread-eagled

“Good grief,” Bea said, looking away and beginning to roll up the incriminating parchment. She’d thought it was a joke at luncheon. What on earth could this mean? The memory of the photo of Abraxas Malfoy and Stubby Boardman, presumably taken after a WDL meeting, intruded unforgivably on her thoughts. But surely not? Surely her grandmother, Granny Galatea, surely the woman who raised Bea could not have anything to do with…?

Hesitatingly, Bea looked back down at the parchment. She’d rolled it up until only the last thing Galatea had written was visible.

But the most difficult day of my life was not when I duelled Grindelwald, nor when I faced off against the Lethifold Mafia. No, the most difficult day was the day my son and his wife died. That was the day I had to decide whether or not to accept guardianship of my granddaughter, Bea. In the end, I decided to give her a home with me. Of course, it put an end to my career as an auror. I picked the child, but I’m pleased to say I have not had to regret this decision. The girl has grown into a fine woman who has made me most proud.

Bea groaned and dropped the huge scroll of parchment. The last two sentences were crossed out. Tears were threatening to pour out of her eyes and she turned to leave the room. Before she could, two fiendishly strong hands gripped her.

Bea opened her mouth and screamed.

“Don’t be silly, Bea, what’s all this?”

It was her grandmother. Galatea was staring into her eyes like she was worried Bea had lost her mind (again).

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scream! I didn’t mean to look, either.”

“Pull yourself together. What’s happened to make you so upset? Surely a few scribbled words can’t have thrown you this far off balance?”

Bea gasped for breath like she was trying to suck words into her mouth. A suitable explanation. Of course a few words on a parchment couldn’t upset her like this. It wasn’t that, it was the empty house, it was the footsteps in the garden, it was the bomb that had gone off and nearly killed her a mere few hours ago.

She began telling her grandmother about the books exploding, but her grandmother didn’t seem particularly impressed, nor worried.

“You’ve rattled someone, alright. Threaten to tell the world the wrong story and they might just decide to finish yours instead. Used to happen to me all the time when I was an auror.”

“How about when you knew Abraxas Malfoy?”

Galatea squinted at her, then at the roll of parchment.

“Gran, did you use to belong to the WDL?”

Galatea laughed heartily at this. “My dear child, I was an auror. I was one of the good ones.”

“Do you know if Stubby Boardman belongs to the WDL?”

“Is this your story? Your grand scoop?”

Bea nodded. There was more to it, and she should probably read the source material again. With fresh eyes. She just hoped she would not find her own grandmother in there. “What should I do?”

Galatea smiled sadly. She still had a firm grip on Bea’s arm. So firm it would likely bruise by morning.

“Always good to sleep on it, if you can. You’re not one of those people who should be making big decisions without letting them settle and thinking them through, first. Actually, I have some tea that’ll send you to sleep like a baby. Lance! Lance, where are you?”

Bea breathed in and out slowly. The fingers were releasing her.

They could hear a soft metallic clanking coming up the gallery.

“I sent him out to do some gardening,” Galatea explained, “There’s a terrible lot of foxglove growing amongst the hollyhocks. Pretty, but absolutely deadly if you mix them up.”

A last sharp squeeze and her grandmother released her.

“Ah, there you are, Lance. Put some of my hollyhock tea in a nice box for Bea. Chop, chop, she’s leaving in a minute!”

Bea shivered and glanced back at the parchment on the desk. She would have given anything to never have read those words.

“Oh, chin up Bea! It’s not like I’ve finished writing my story quite yet. You never know where the it’ll take you, and frequently you go back and edit a second time.”

Bea knew this was when she should have said something poignant in return, but all she managed to say was “Sorry”.

Galatea sighed. “Off you go, now. It’s late. Poppy will be wondering where you are.”

“Night, Gran.”

“Good night, Bea!”



Bea tried the door to Poppy’s cottage, expecting it not to open. When it did, she felt no relief, just more nerves.

“You’re too late,” the hallway mirror told her under its breath, but Bea entered the kitchen anyway.

Poppy was sitting on her usual chair by the table. She had moved Ainsley’s tank; it was right in the middle of the table.

There was a long pause. Bea took her usual chair, and she raised her foot onto the edge of her seat to untie her shoelace. But she couldn’t bring herself to pull open the knot.

“I went to see Gran,” Bea said eventually, answering the question she thought must lie thick in the air between them.

Poppy didn’t respond, but her eyes said it all. I don’t believe you.

“She gave us some tea,” Bea blurted out, too loud but she had realized it was an alibi of sorts. Proof she hadn’t been with another girl. Giving up the untying of her shoelaces as a bad job, Bea instead placed the fancy little box Lance had given her on the table. “Hollyhock flavour, she makes it herself.”

Poppy liked tea a lot, and they both knew it.

Sighing, perhaps relenting, Poppy got up, snatching the box from the table and walking over to the counter. She took two mugs from the cupboard and shot streams of boiling water out of her wand and into the mugs. Then she added tealeaves to two small tea strainers before adding one to each mug. Bea could see her reaching for something deep inside the cupboard and spoon it into one of the mugs. Probably sugar. Bea took sugar.

“Ainsley is still under the weather after his ordeal with the lettuce and the daffodils.”

Bea looked into the tank. To her, Ainsley looked much as usual.

“I’m taking him to the beast healer tomorrow. I’ll forward the bill to you once I get it.”

“To me?”

“Yeah. Once you know where you’re staying.”

“Right.”

Poppy brought the two huge steaming mugs over and sat down. Bea found she couldn’t move at all, not even enough to lift the mug to her mouth. So this was it. Three years together and now…. Nothing. Nothing except an invoice from a beast healer.

“If you’ve got something to say to me, say it before you’ve finished your tea. Because that’s as long as I’ll put up with your company for. Once you’ve finished your tea, you can leave.”

Bea watched Poppy sip her drink. She wouldn’t look Bea in the eye.

“Sod this,” Bea said and got up. She left, leaving her mug quite untouched. She thought she heard the mirror quench a sob as she stalked past it, but that may have just been her imagination.



It went without saying that it started raining as soon as she had found her balance after disapparating.

She hadn’t planned to run into anyone she knew, much less someone she’d vague plans to write a reputation-ruining article on, but having roamed some quiet muggle streets near Regent’s Park the first person she saw was Stubby Boardman. He was walking briskly on the pavement opposite hers, going in the same direction as her.

There was no hesitation at all, Bea noted him calmly, then crossed the road keeping herself a few yards behind him. He seemed distracted, he’d clearly done his waterproofing charm badly and she could hear him swearing under his breath. He stopped on the steps to a residential house, a nice, posh building that had been slightly ruined by being painted lavender. It actually looked okay in the rain, though.

Bea stopped behind a pillar by the gate. Boardman emptied one of his shoes of water, then he opened the door and entered. Fast as a flash, Bea vaulted over the gate and flung herself up the stairs, just getting a foot in before the front door had quite closed.

It smashed into her foot and she had to push her palm over her mouth to muffle her grunt of pain. She waited and waited, foot in door, hand on mouth, not daring to move. Part of her wanted to run, another part of her would like nothing better than barge in and ask Boardman if it was true he had tried to kill her earlier. Did he know her grandmother?

Eventually, she pulled the handle and stepped inside.

The hallway had a large staircase and beautiful chequered marble floor. The walls were a lurid pink and the plush chairs baby blue. Grimacing, Bea did doubletake after doubletake. Her first impression had been that she’d walked into a large audience of people, her second impression that there must be a real one hiding amongst all the imposters. Because the walls were hung liberally with portraits of different sizes, all depicting the same, toothily grinning blond man. He waved at her from every corner of the room, eagerly and quite unconcernedly, none of him attempting to alert his real-life self to the Bea’s presence. Eventually, she concluded that they were all portraits.

She could hear voices coming from the next room.

She walked noiselessly over the floor and stopped by the door, which had been left open at a crack.

“She’s becoming too dangerous for both of us, we have to do something, Gil!”

“I prefer Gilderoy,” Lockhart said, sounding quite a bit grumpier than Bea had thought possible, considering the way he’d carried himself when she saw him in the flesh earlier, never mind his portraits. “I didn’t even know you knew her. When did you meet?”

“She just showed up like a raving lunatic. Wouldn’t really call it a meeting.”

Bea smiled grimly to herself. Raving lunatic, was she?

“I think she seems like a nice girl. Very appreciative of me.”

“She’s dangerous, didn’t you hear me? She’ll stick her claws in you too, like she did with me! She’ll ruin you bit by bit.”

“Psst!”

Bea had to slam her hand over her mouth again to keep quiet. It would appear she wasn’t the only one listening in on the conversation.

Gladys Gudgeon’s head was sticking out of a door by the stairs, her great doe eyes focused on Bea, raindrops glittering in her hair like diamonds.

Bea tiptoed away from the door and towards the stairs. Gladys stepped aside, letting her into a large office. The bookshelves bore hundreds of copies of nothing but Gilderoy Lockhart’s books. The shelf nearest Bea and Gladys was filled with volumes of Wanderings with Werewolves.

“Did you get in after me?”

“No, I’ve been in here, working. Gilderoy is working on a new book. It’s going to be called Unmasking Hobgoblins.”

“Oh. Do you mean he’ll be writing the story about Boardman? My story?”

“You’ll have different angles, don’t worry. I wasn’t sure if you’d even decide to write anything. It was such a frightening experience, earlier in the bookshop.”

“I still have some facts that I want to check with Boardman,” Bea said quietly. “But I won’t lie, I have been feeling like shit all day. We could both have died.”

“I know, but Gilderoy saved us,” Gladys said with a comforting smile. “We have notified Magical Law Enforcement and they will swing by later and hear the evidence. Tell you what, I’ll go check with them, see if Boardman will answer a few more questions for you. He’ll have realized it’s all over by now.”

“Oh,” Bea mumbled. She sank into a chair. The Lockhart on the cover of Wanderings with Werewolves winked at her.

Gladys left the room, but she had been gone just seconds when Boardman entered the room. He closed the door quietly behind him, staring piercingly with his attractive, tired eyes at her.

“You had better leave.”

“Where’s Lockhart and Gladys?”

“Lockhart’s gone to fix his hair. He ended up with a drink in it. Reckon he’s worried the gin will react with his hair-dye and create some sort of ginger abomination.”

“Right. Well, I’ve still got some questions for you,” Bea said, straightening up and trying to gather her thoughts. “Do you know who my grandmother is?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Galatea Merrythought.”

“Oh, right. She was a professor at Hogwarts, wasn’t she? Before my time, though.”

“Right,” Bea mumbled. Maybe that was a side track, after all. Maybe whatever had happened between Galatea and Abraxas Malfoy was all in the past, just like her grandma had said. Boardman looked genuinely confused. Actually, he didn’t look much like someone who had been told that law enforcement was coming for him. “Was it you who set off the bomb in Flourish and Blotts?”

“What? A bomb? Why would I have done that?”

“Because of my story. My scoop. I was going to out you for who you really are, and you thought you could silence me.”

“I wasn’t in there when the explosion happened. Only heard about it from Gil just now.”

“But you were in there before us,” Bea said triumphantly. “Gladys saw you come out of Flourish and Blotts before you joined the crowd around Lockhart. I remember you carrying something, too, bet it’s what you used to set off the bomb!”

Boardman stared at her. He didn’t look scared yet, but soon…

“Well?” Bea said.

“How could I have set up the bomb in advance?”

“Well, I’m not completely clear on the technical bits,” Bea admitted, but she was interrupted.

“Say for arguments sake I’m completely off my rocker and ready to kill any journalist with an uncomfortable story. How could I have known that you, a lady I’ve met once in my life and know little about, would go into Flourish and Blotts after I’d set up this bomb? I gather from Gil that you’d taken someone in there to interview. Someone whose guts he hates, by the way. How could I possibly have known you’d do this, that that’s where you’d be?”

Boardman wasn’t scared at all Bea saw now. His face was full of pity.

“Your big scoop doesn’t hold water, anyway. It would be embarrassing for me, sure, but I’ve not done anything wrong. I was mistaken for someone else a lot in the late seventies, early eighties, and that lead to a difficult time for me, but I was just interviewed, never charged with anything by the aurors or the Wizengamot. And I’ve never belonged to the WDL. Wouldn’t be illegal if I did, but I don’t.”

“There’s a photo of you,” Bea began, but yet again she was interrupted.

“I don’t know who originally was in that photo you showed me, but it wasn’t me. It’s been magically altered. Looked blurry to me, surprised you didn’t spot it yourself.”

“But Gladys had tons of documents,” Bea tried again. Somehow, she couldn’t remember what any of them had proven.

“Gladys is not your friend,” Boardman said quietly. “She’s been hellbent on ruining my life this past week. Dunno if it’s her own idea or if she’s been put up to it…” Boardman bit his lip and turned to the door. “I think we’re done. Are you coming?”

Bea, who up until the last second had strained to pull out a fresh fact that she could tie Boardman to a crime with, sank back into her armchair. Confusion reigned supreme, but from his final comment, she thought she may have finally seen the light.

“You go ahead,” she said, shaking her head. “I need to apologize to Mr Lockhart for breaking into his home.”

“Hear that, Gladys?” Boardman said, opening the door fully and revealing Gladys right behind it. “And just so you know, I never want to see either of you ever again.”



Bea and Gladys watched him leave.

“How well do you know your boss?” Bea asked quietly.

Gladys had looked shaken, but now she gave Bea a shrewd look.

“He confides in me,” she said.

Bea nodded slowly. “Has he ever asked you for information? Information about me, for instance? Or about Boardman?”

Gladys looked away and there was a pause.

“I’m sure it’s not your fault,” Bea said softly. “But you heard what Boardman said, didn’t you? It’s not him. Someone who knew him once wanted to discredit him. I guess there’s a proper motive somewhere. Lockhart must have wanted to hurt Boardman. Do you know why he went for me, though? Something in my story was true? In our story? Lockhart was there right when the explosion happened. He caused it.”

Gladys was quiet, but Bea could see how nervous she was. She was looking at the shelf of books. Wanderings with Werewolves.

“Does it have to do with what the little old Armenian bloke wanted to tell me? He knew something about Lockhart, didn’t he? Something that might end his career.”

All was quiet. Then Bea heard the taps turn off upstairs.

“Gladys, I need to interview your boss.”

“Okay,” Gladys said finally and with a great sigh. “Okay. But only because I really like you, Bea.”

Smiling for the first time in what had to be days, Bea got up from her chair and rubbed her hands in anticipation. She gave the books on the shelf one last, curious look, wondering if Lockhart would notice if she pinched one. She needed to find out what the story was, and she’d need to track down the Armenian again. There was a story in that book, a completely different one than the one Lockhart had made money on. If he was actually behind the explosion and got thrown into Azkaban after Bea’s article, he’d have more important things to worry about than a missing book, anyway.

Bea turned to the door, finding Gladys standing there with her wand out.

“Avada Kedavra!”



“It was hard for me, Bea,” Gladys whispered and bent down to check she was definitely dead. “But only because I really like you. We could’ve been friends. Best friends. If only you could have left Gilderoy alone. He’s a hero, you see.”

She could hear Gilderoy’s steps on the stairs and she pointed her wand again at Bea. A light rustle and the body had turned into a lovely peacock feather quill.

“Who are you?”

Gladys looked up and put her wand away. Gilderoy was simply stunning, his hair in curlers and his magnificent body covered, or perhaps more like revealed, by a lavender silk gown.

“Gladys Gudgeon,” she said, picking up the feather from the floor with her left hand and walking up to him. She stretched out her right one and, looking bewildered, he shook it. “I’m a private secretary. Used to work for all the greats. Celestina Warbeck and, er, Dumbledore.”

“You look familiar. Are you sure you aren’t one of my fans?” Gilderoy asked with a broad smile. “They break in from time to time. Do anything to see me, you know.”

“Yeah.” Gladys patted the back of her hair, which was still wet. She had climbed in through the bathroom window as usual. “I write to you loads, too. Letters.”

“Oh, fan mail?”

“Mhm. But I could be your private secretary, if you wanted one.”

“Ah, well…” Gilderoy said. “As it happens, I’m off to a new job in a couple of days. But why don’t you continue writing your letters to me, and then when I get back to London in a year from now we can see where we’re at. What say you?”

“I’d like that very much!” Gladys exclaimed. She found her hands were shaking with eagerness, smushing the feather in her hand. “Here!” she panted, “a gift for you. You can make it into a quill. I know you like signing things.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Gladys,” Gilderoy said happily, taking the feather. “And maybe you’d like for me to sign something? Although, if you’ve written to me like you said then I bet you have an autograph or two already?”

“Five thousand three hundred and twenty-six,” Gladys said breathlessly. “I’d like another one, please.”

“Of course you would,” Lockhart said fondly and pulled out a book from the shelf next to them. “Tell you what, for a super fan like you, I’ll give you a book free of charge. One of my favourites, Wanderings with Werewolves. How about that?”

“Oh, thank you!”

“It wasn’t you who…?” Gilderoy squinted at her, and Gladys smiled adoringly. He remembered her.

“Yes, it was. I helped you when that awful little man tried to accost you in Flourish and Blotts. To think he’d dare claim your wonderful story had anything to do with him!”

“Er, yes, yes… Quite upsetting at the time, but he and I agreed it was a misunderstanding. He seemed to, ah, forget all about it once I’d calmed him down. He’s off back to Azerbaijan by now, I bet.”

“Good,” Gladys said. “And you don’t have to worry about either of the journalists, either. One of them takes bribes and she didn’t know much anyway. The second one… Well, she told me she’s changing careers.”

Gladys glanced at the peacock feather. It was a really fine one, large and fluffy and vibrant in colour. It would make a great quill. She had always been good at transfiguration. Lucky too, as that other journalist had been so eager for a real dragonhide bag. But people who had never owned the truly expensive stuff could rarely tell the real from the fake.

“Ah. Splendid! Splendid. The journalist, yes. About that explosion…”

“Hiding an exploding bonbon somewhere will do it. This time, it was inside the terror trumpet book. Trumpet blows, and once the bonbon gets stuck inside the trumpet… But of course, you don’t want to be seen with the bonbon box yourself, so you hand it to someone else beforehand. That is, if you want to include it in the next book? You will write another book, won’t you? One about how you exposed that horrible Boardman to all the world and saved me in the explosion.”

“Not sure what the next book will be,” Gilderoy said slowly. He was looking at her in a completely different way than before. Gladys wondered if, perhaps, next time they met he might remember her. Maybe even remember her name.

“I only did it because the shopkeeper in Flourish and Blotts talked badly about you. He said he had to stay late and tidy up after the book signing, wouldn’t stop moaning. Even said you were stuck up. He had it coming, you know. Would you like me to take the story about Stubby to some other journalist?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Gladys bit her lip. Sometimes it was difficult to know if she was overstepping in the role she’d taken for herself. Private secretary and fixer for Gilderoy Lockhart.

“You said you hated that the papers wrote about Stubby instead of you last week, when you were just about to release Magical Me. Said you knew disgusting things about Stubby Boardman. So I thought I’d help them along a bit. You said you were baffled he had as good a reputation as he did.”

Gilderoy’s eyes widened and his smile disappeared.

“You talked to a journalist about… I thought that was a private conversation… Just me and the portraits… How did you hear...? I just meant that I used to share a dorm with him in school. He wouldn’t shower for an entire week when he was fifteen. An entire week! Can’t think of anything more disgusting than that.” Gilderoy hesitated, his beautiful blue eyes scanning her face. “I hardly hate the man, I just thought the whole Prophet should have been devoted to me on the day I published my autobiography. Someone’s thrown Stubby off balance, though. He was convinced someone was tricking him, a stalker or something. Made him a tad unsteady, I fear, tossed his drink all over the place when I told him he was overreacting. He talked about a girl, but I never quite understood…”

“I knew him too, once,” Gladys offered. “I used to be a big fan of the Hobgoblins. Well, of Stubby. I used to camp outside of his house and travel the country when he was on tour.”

“I see,” Gilderoy said, some coldness creeping into his voice.

“But then I saw the light,” Gladys explained quickly. “I saw how mistaken I was about him, and then I found you instead!”

“I think it’s time for you to go home,” Lockhart said politely, ushering her into the hallway where all the portraits of him waved and winked and smiled so beautifully at her, “it’s late and I’ve got my new job to consider… lessons to plan… Cornish pixies arriving tomorrow, special delivery…”

“I’ll write!” Gladys gasped, just as he closed the door on her. “I’ll write to you every week! Every week for as long as I live!”

 

The winner of DLP Quarter 1 competition!

To everyone else who didn't submit a story: please review this story thoroughly. It's the least we can do.

 

Hey at least I won

Any feedback is appreciated. I feel like the beginning is a bit slow and that I should have included more of Lockhart to tie it better to HP. I'm very curious how obvious the solution is, let me know if you end up reading it!

 

I’m at work but I’ll be reading through it and editing in my review!

 

Sorry for the delay, I got quite busy and I'm rather shit at reviews so it took me a bit. Spoilers ahead for anyone who hasn't read the story yet.

I have to say, overall, I quite like it.

I'll just jump right into a little (hopefully constructive) criticism and get it out of the way first. The pacing doesn't feel quite right to me. It's a bit exposition-heavy in some places such as the very beginning, and some characters are a little too direct when it comes to information that is important to the story. The Armenian wizard remembers, accuses Lockhart, is briefly introduced, and is gone again. I didn't quite buy Bea stumbling directly out of her breakup into Boardman and then into the rest of the cast. I think this may just be an unavoidable artifact of writing a story with a maximum word count, but I figured I'd mention it anyway.

Onto some of the good:

My favorite parts are the little touches of magic scattered through your world. Despite there being quite a lot of story that needs to be told in a short time, you still took the time to add little details like the magical menu, Lance the armor, and the hallway mirror. They're very charming, and I wish this was done as well in more HP stories.

My second favorite is Bea. She's exactly the kind of character you'd expect to be playing second fiddle to Rita Skeeter. She's not a bad person, just not very bright. Her job isn't going well, her relationships aren't going well either. Her grandmother is disappointed in her, she's in over her head and keeps investigating anyway.

She feels the most real out of the cast. You sold me on her character, and I felt rather bad for her by the end, which I wouldn't have expected from a story of this length.

Great job, a deserved win.

 

The hallway mirror is such a bitch and I love her and I would die for her

 

Yay thank you! Very good feedback and I completely agree