Her boss knew it, and her lover knew it. They should do, for they were one and the same.
She got up and moodily kicked the chair so it toppled over. As she walked out of her office, she heard the hubbub of the other reporters as they made last minute corrections to their copy, and saw Lavender Brown with her head in her hands as she tried to massage away yet another headache.
“Not well, Lav?” she called, knowing the senior reporter hated that nickname.
“Just a minor annoyance, Mildew,” Lavender retorted.
Romilda tightened her lips, but something about Lavender’s response made her pause. It was automatic. The nickname of ‘Mildew’ instead of Milda had fallen readily from her lips, but there was no feeling behind it. Lavender was not her usual strident self. Plastering a smile on her face, Romilda walked over to her.
“Another headache?” she asked in what she hoped was a sympathetic manner.
“A metaphorical one, not a literal one,” Lavender replied wearily and then she sighed. “Bloody He-Who-Pays-Our-Wages wants me to cover the wedding. He reckons with my connections to the pair, I should be able to write something explosive that’ll send our readership soaring sky-high.” She paused and then looked Romilda straight in the eye. “He wants me to dish the dirt on Harry and Ginny.”
Romilda looked puzzled. Lavender was a reporter for Merlin’s sake; she knew it wasn’t always about heroes living happily ever after. Rub a golden boy-- or girl -- and invariably you’d find they were plaster underneath.
“They’re my friends, Romilda!” exclaimed Lavender when the younger reporter kept quiet. “I’m not going to grub around in the dirt looking for scandal. And Merlin knows why he wants me to even try. It will only backfire horribly on the paper. Harry and Ginny are loved and admired by the whole world. Sometimes I think our editor is several pumpkin pasties short of a picnic basket.”
“You could refuse,” Romilda said thoughtfully. Her mind whirred. If Lavender said she wouldn’t comply, then the editor would have to find someone else. They couldn’t not feature the wedding of the year.
“Yes,” she replied, “and then he’ll assign me to boring reports on the cauldron industry, or,” she pulled a face, “the cookery page.” She rose from her desk. “It’s no use; I’m going to tell him now that I won’t do it. They are my friends after all “ it can’t be too much to ask, can it?”
“Lavender,” Romilda called. She waited until Lavender had stopped before continuing, “if you went in there now and said you can’t write it because of a conflict of loyalties, but that you’d found someone else who was eager to file the report, then ...” she took a deep breath and gulped, “It might get him off your back.”
Lavender narrowed her eyes. “Someone else meaning you, I suppose?”
Romilda nodded. “Look, I know we don’t get on, but I’d welcome this chance, and I’ll back you up. I’ll say I came to you and begged for the opportunity.”
“Which is almost true,” Lavender said slowly. “You do realise that even though he wants a bitchfest done on this wedding, Harry doesn’t have any secrets. His life has been an open book since his parents were killed.”
Romilda smiled. “I know that, but I’m a gossip columnist, Lavender, and I’m sure to pick up another angle probably about someone else entirely that will make the article as explosive as he wants.” She sat on the edge of Lavender’s desk and picked up a lilac-feathered quill, examining the nib. “Admit it; you hate that side of journalism.”
Lavender pulled a rueful face. “I don’t like crawling in the gutter, unless the end result is worthwhile. Whereas you, Milda, seem to glory in the muck-raking.”
“Pfft, no need to sound so snooty. We both have the same end in mind “ the truth, don’t we?”
Lavender shrugged. “Come on, let’s go and see McLaggen.”
Preston McLaggen, the forty-something editor of The Daily Prophet, pondered the two reporters as they sat on the other side of his desk. He’d known that getting Brown to cover the wedding wasn’t a viable proposition. She’d make an excellent job of it, and her connections were pure gold, but she did have this softer side to her, and the cutting edge he wanted to see wouldn’t make it past her first draft. He knew he’d asked for too much, but occasionally he liked to watch her squirm. It served her right for knocking him back when she’d first joined the staff. Romilda on the other hand ... He smiled slyly at her. Ambitious, ruthless and with a nose for scandal that equalled his own. She wasn’t afraid to put herself in danger too, and being on the receiving end of several nasty hexes from Narcissa Malfoy when Romilda had caught Draco in a compromising position with a ferret, had not stopped her returning to the fray. (Draco was now receiving very expensive therapy in Switzerland. The ferret’s whereabouts were unknown.)
“If I agree to this,” he said at last, “what’s in it for me?”
Romilda caught Lavender’s eye; she opened her mouth to speak, to plead her case again, but Lavender laid a hand on her arm.
“How about we both write something? Two articles, Preston, and you can choose. Can’t say fairer than that.” Removing her hand from Romilda, she leant across the desk. “Just don’t assign me to the bloody cookery column, or I’ll end up poisoning the readership.”
He narrowed his eyes and stared at her. Then his eyes flickered to Romilda. She, he knew, would be very grateful for the chance.
“You have a deal, ladies, ” he replied smoothly, the ironic emphasis on ladies hung in the air. Lavender grimaced, but Romilda merely smiled as she left the office.
Romilda dressed with great care on the morning of the wedding. Although the forecast was for a hot day, she didn’t wear a flimsy dress, which after all would be no good for concealing the small magiphone, which could instantly recall any ‘off the record’ comments it happened to overhear. She also needed a bigger than usual handbag, so she could legitimately carry a wad of parchment and extra quills to take notes throughout the day. Glancing in the mirror, she smiled. Her black shiny hair she’d coiled high upon her head, a tendril or two escaping to frame her face, thus softening her prominent chin. A chin to take life’s blows, her mother had told her, and she’d been right, for Romilda had survived quite a few knockbacks in her life “ not least her attempt to snare Harry Potter.
Was that why she was doing this? Was it revenge? She dismissed the thought. It was all so long ago; she’d been a silly teenager with a crush. This had nothing to do with that time. This was about her career. After repeating the mantra several times, Romilda checked the magiphone was still in place and reached for her wand.
Destination, Determination, Deliberation “ three rules that not only governed Apparition but Romilda’s life plan. Turning sharply on the spot she vanished.
Landing perfectly at the front of the house, Romilda looked around her. There were several guests milling around, holding champagne flutes. Some were chatting; others were walking to the back of the house, following a winding path. Recognising Minister Shacklebolt talking to a handsome looking witch with dark brown hair, Romilda approached, hoping for a quote. But as she got close, an arm tugged at her. It was Lavender.
“Quick tip, Mildew,” she whispered. “Don’t harangue Kingsley, especially when he’s here as a guest and not in his capacity as the Minister. That’ll get you thrown out of here quicker than you can say ‘Kneazle’.”
“I thought he might have something to say about the happy couple,” Romilda hissed.
“He does,” Lavender continued, then smiled slyly, “but he’s already said it to me.”
Romilda scowled. “How in the name of Merlin am I supposed to write an article if you go round scooping me?”
“Oh, relax!” Lavender replied, laughing. “I’m writing the ‘fluff’, you’re writing the ‘rough’. Kingsley is not going to say anything to you off the record. He’s far too clever to be caught.” She handed her a glass of champagne. “Get that down you, and then mingle. You never know what you might overhear.”
As Lavender walked off to talk to some friends, Romilda sipped her drink. Lavender was right, she couldn’t just bombard the guests with questions, she needed to be clever. Ducking inside on the pretext of needing to find a bathroom, she found an empty room and carefully closed the door after her. Pulling down the front of her dress, she checked that the magiphone was still tucked in place, and then smoothed the fabric down. She stopped in front of a mirror, checking that nothing was visible then gave a start. Behind her, she could see a slight movement. She turned around. There was a man asleep in one of the armchairs. He looked vaguely familiar, but she was sure he wasn’t a Gryffindor. With dark brown skin and black hair, he wasn’t a Weasley either. She walked over and carefully studied him. He snored slightly and she smiled. Dead to the world, he was probably one of Harry’s work colleagues suffering after the stag night.
“Well, Sleeping Beauty,” she whispered, “I’m sure as hell not going to wake you with a kiss “despite you being ab-so-lu-te-ly gorgeous.”
Reluctantly, she walked to the door. Now was not the time to be thinking about flirting with men; she had a job to do.
The Weasleys had erected a fine marquee in the field behind their garden. Romilda gasped as she saw it. Most marquees were white, but this was red and gold, the colours of Gryffindor proclaimed for all to see. She caught her breath, glorying in the memories of her school days, of House Cup victories, celebratory feasts, and ... She stopped, annoyed to find a tear falling down her face. She’d been too young to fight at the Battle, and had left with the other Gryffindors. If she’d slipped back, like Ginny, then she could have made her name, become a heroine.
“Weddings are supposed to be such joyful occasions, aren’t they?” murmured a low voice behind her, “but that’s not always the case.”
Romilda turned her head, surprised to see herself peering into the startling blue eyes of a man. He had red hair, and as she looked closer, she saw he had only one ear. George Weasley, she thought.
Aware of her scrutiny, he lifted a hand to that side of his head and smiled mockingly. “You obviously know who I am, yet I have no idea who you are.”
“Romilda Vane,” she said firmly. “I was at school with Ginny.”
“Funny, the name’s familiar, but I don’t remember Ginny talking about you,” he mused, a frown appearing on his brow.
“We’ve only just become re-acquainted, George,” she replied smoothly. “I think mine was a very last minute invitation.” She smiled her most becoming smile and then linked her arm in his. There was a faint smell of alcohol around him, but then it was a wedding. “They’re a very happy couple, don’t you think?”
“Are any of us really happy, Romilda?” he said, and pulled away from her. He swayed slightly, before continuing, “But Voldemort couldn’t keep them apart, so I doubt anyone else can.”
Trying to stop herself from betraying too much interest, Romilda took another sip of her drink. “I wouldn’t mind another glass, George. Could you show me to the bar?”
Half an hour later, Romilda escaped again to the Burrow. Locking herself in a bathroom, she listened to her magiphone, and hurriedly jotted down some notes with her invisible ink quill.
’George Weasley,’ she wrote, ‘once one-half of a pair of pranksters famed throughout Hogwarts, has been reduced to a shadow of his former self. Although he was always seen as the lesser twin, it is nevertheless a shock to see him descend into this rambling state of drunkenness.’
There was something else about George. Or rather not about him, but something he’d said. Voldemort could not keep them apart so he doubted anyone else could. She gasped. Was Harry fooling around with another woman? But if he were, why would George condone that?
Hearing some music, she unlocked the door, sped down the stairs and out into the garden. There were still seats at the back, so she slipped in quietly and began to think. She studied the guests. Five rows in front she saw Lavender her face turned towards someone. She couldn’t see who it was, but Romilda saw Lavender smile and assumed it was a man. She looked happy and far warmer than when she was working at the paper. Out of her normal work environment, Lavender was like the laughing girl she’d been at Hogwarts.
She scoured the marquee again. Harry stood at the far end of the aisle with Ron alongside him. Both were dressed in smart black robes especially for the occasion. Harry was twisting his hands nervously, whilst Ron was muttering a constant stream of words to him. Peering over the elaborate hat of a rather irritating woman in front of her, Romilda laughed as she saw Ron continually patting his side. She would bet her Gringotts Account that he had the rings stowed in his robe pocket.
The music changed and the hum of chatter suddenly ceased. All heads turned to the back, and Romilda turned also. Walking slowly down the aisle, she saw Arthur Weasley proudly clasping his daughter’s arm. Romilda opened her eyes wide. She’d never quite understood the appeal of Ginny Weasley, who apart from her red hair, had very little going for her. Yes, she was good at Quidditch, but was an athletic frame really that attractive? She studied Ginny closely, grudgingly admitting that the bride looked ... well, quite pretty, really. The dress clung to her in a subtle yet sexy way, emphasizing her curves. Holding a large bouquet of flowers, Ginny flashed smiles at all her guests, her happiness enveloping her like an iridescent beam of light.
Romilda scowled. No one could fake that much happiness, George must have been imagining things. Unless Ginny didn’t know! She barely listened to the Celebrant as he delivered his blessing. Although Romilda heard Harry and Ginny take their vows, she didn’t take in a word. She failed to laugh when Ron dropped Harry’s ring on the grass and two children (one a very blonde girl and one with strange turquoise hair) bumped heads in their eagerness to scoop it up.
Romilda was too busy plotting her next move. There had to be something there to mar this day. It couldn’t just be the talk of a drunk.
“I now declare you bonded for life!” announced the Celebrant. Following a loud cheer from the Weasley family, Romilda jerked her head up and joined in the applause, smiling inanely at her fellow guests.
She stood up, getting ready to find George again. Perhaps if she plied him with more drink, he’d spill some more secrets. But George, she saw, was now sitting with one of his brothers. A woman walked over to him and sat on his other side. He leant over and gave her an awkward peck on the cheek; she squeezed his hand and didn’t let go.
“Damn!” Romilda muttered under her breath. “That looks like Angelina Johnson. I doubt she’ll let me anywhere near him.” She cursed her luck, for only last month she’d unearthed a scurrilous piece of gossip about one of Angelina’s teammates, which had so upset him that he’d been, put right off his game. The Arrows had suffered their heaviest ever defeat and Angelina, as captain, was not at all happy with ‘Wizards to see, Witches to be.’
A movement to her right caused her to look around. Someone was walking quickly from the marquee, trying, she thought, not to be noticed. Quick as a flash, she slid out after the brooding figure
“It’s Dean, isn’t it?” she called. “Dean Thomas. I remember you from school.”
He turned his head. “That’s right,” he said curtly. “Should I know you?”
“I doubt you’ll remember me,” she said and giggled girlishly, “but I had a huge crush on you. Jemima Pearce, I was in Hufflepuff but a close friend of Ginny’s.”
He stared at her through narrowed eyes and then shrugged. “Nice to meet you, Jemima. Would you like a drink?”
She nodded eagerly and tripped towards him. Together they sat at a small table in the corner. Dean signalled to a passing waitress, and she brought over two more glasses of champagne.
“To the happy couple,” Romilda announced and raised her glass.
“Harry and Ginny,” Dean intoned in a flat voice. He took a gulp of the champagne and then pulled a face. “I prefer beer to be honest with you, Jemima. But today isn’t about me, is it?” He took another tentative sip. “Tell me, how did you get to be invited to this wedding? I don’t remember Ginny ever mentioning you.”
“Umm, well as I said we were close for a while at school. We had Herbology together and ... uh ... Charms Club. She used to talk about you all the time. I was so jealous when she started seeing you.” She sighed in what she hoped was a convincing manner. “That’s when we stopped being friends, Dean. I was just too upset.”
“Yet you’re here now,” he stated.
Romilda stretched out her hand and ever so lightly touched his palm with her fingertip. “Water under the bridge, Dean. We ran into each other two weeks ago, and she’s so deliriously happy that I couldn’t bear a grudge. Besides,” she peeped at him from under her fringe, and coyly fluttered her lashes, “she said you’d be here.”
Dean raised his eyebrows. He started to stutter something, but at that moment Harry and Ginny walked hand-in-hand to the top table. He stood up, saying he’d be back, but that he needed a beer. Romilda caught a stricken look on his face, and turned to follow his gaze. She pulled him back down to sitting. “You still like her, don’t you?” she murmured.
He stared at her coldly and then something seemed to give way in his eyes. His shoulder sagged and he put his face in his hands. “We went out for about ten months and then split up over something stupid. Something over me being too chivalrous ... or sexist ... or some other such garbage. Then she started seeing Harry and that was it really. I had no chance of ever getting her back, until-” Abruptly he stopped talking and instead looked at his hands on the table, at her hand sympathetically entwined with his.
“Until what?” Romilda interrupted eagerly. She leant forwards and stared right into his eyes, unable to stop the mounting excitement she always felt when she was on the verge of discovering something big. Dean flinched.
He extracted his hand and then folded his arms. “Romilda Vane,” he said scathingly. “I knew I’d met you before. You’re that stupid girl who tried to feed Harry a love potion.”
“N-no,” she stuttered. “I’m Jemima Pearson ... a Ravenclaw.”
He snorted. “You said you were a Hufflepuff before and your surname was Pearce.”He leant back in his chair. “You’re a journalist, aren’t you?”
She considered denying it, but knew Dean wouldn’t be fooled. Perhaps the truth was the best approach “ or rather some version of the truth. “You’ve got me,” she said. “I am Romilda Vane and I am a journalist.”
“Why did you lie?” he asked, a puzzled look on his face.
She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “You’ll think it’s silly,” she sobbed, “but all anyone ever remembers about me is that I tried to give Harry a love potion and ended up poisoning Ron Weasley instead. I didn’t want you, of all people, to laugh at me, Dean.” She took a sip of her drink, making sure he could see the delicate way she licked her top lip with the very tip of her tongue. “I didn’t lie about liking you.”
“Oh,” Dean replied, clearly embarrassed. “Um ... Romilda, I’m sure you’re a lovely girl, but I’m ... uh ... really not ...”
“That’s okay,” she whispered tearfully. Then she swallowed and sat up straight. “You still have feelings for Ginny after all.” She sniffed and forced a smile on her face. “Perhaps you should have one last dance with her. That way you can say goodbye.”
He stared at her, and then looked across at Ginny, who to Romilda’s surprise was looking their way. She half raised her hand in salute, and the gesture caught Harry’s eye who grinned across at Dean. “Perhaps I will,” muttered Dean. “I think it’s about time I accepted it’s over.”
Romilda reached out her hand and straightened the lapel on his robe. “I can wait here for you, if you’d like to talk some more,” she offered.
“Er,” Dean looked at her with a shifty expression in his eyes. “Well, okay then. Let me get a drink first though.”
Romilda smiled up at him. She watched him walk quickly to the bar, not looking back at her, and she chuckled to herself. Under his lapel, she’d slipped a miniature version of her magiphone. His conversation with Ginny would not be as secret as he thought.
Former boyfriend declares undying love for new Mrs Potter, she thought in glee. This will make me a household name.
When Dean plucked up the courage (after furious urging from Romilda) and asked Ginny to dance, Romilda snuck away. Slipping into the small room she’d found earlier, she carefully checked in case Sleeping Beauty was still there, and then grinned. He’d gone, which was a shame because he was very sexy and she’d like to make his acquaintance properly, but also necessary so she could listen in on the dance of the love struck Mr Thomas.
“Ginny,” she heard him say, “I need to tell you something.”
“Dean, don’t say it,”Romilda heard her reply. “It was all so long ago, and we’re different people now. You have to get over me. I’m with Harry.”
Romilda bit her fingernails, hoping that Dean wouldn’t be put off.
“I know,” he said. “I just needed this one last dance with you. Just needed to smell your hair, and hold you in my arms.”
“Oh Merlin, don’t make me vomit, Dean!” Romilda groaned.
There was a snuffling sound and she realised that Ginny Potter was crying. “I can’t do this, Dean, not after the last time. I can’t be with you ever again.”
“OOOH, interesting!” Romilda whispered. “What have you been up to, Mrs Potter?”
“You, Mildew, will never find out,” murmured a voice behind her.
Romilda looked up, to see Lavender emerging from the folds of a long, shimmering cloak. Beside her, looking solemn, was the man she’d seen in the armchair earlier. He had his arm draped over Lavender’s shoulder.
“Give me the magiphone, Romilda,” Lavender ordered. “I know you have one; you were seen earlier tucking it into your bra.”
“What, so you can scoop me? No way, Lav!” But she faltered as the man walked towards her. He had no wand but there was something about his presence, his confidence, and air of menace that stopped her. She could hear Ginny’s muffled words over the magiphone and strained to hear them, but as Romilda watched the man, Lavender pounced. Wrestling Romilda to the floor, she grabbed the magiphone and then threw it to her accomplice.
“You know what to do, Blaise,” she said quietly.
He smiled at her, and then pulling out his wand, he directed a blasting spell at the contraption. It shattered, leaving a pile of black and silver dust. “Not even Reparo will mend that,” he said smoothly.
“Blaise!” exclaimed Romilda. “You mean Blaise Zabini. How... why... I mean, What in the name of Merlin’s teenage training bra, is he doing here? He’s a Slytherin!”
Lavender stood over her. “We make strange alliances in times of trouble, Romilda. I learnt that in my seventh year. I also learnt a lot about loyalty. Oddly, I thought you, as a Gryffindor, would have learnt that as well, but it seems loyalty means nothing to you.”
“Loyalty!” Romilda exclaimed. “None of you ever bothered with me. I was just that stupid girl with a crush on Harry Potter. I bet you couldn’t even remember my name.”
Lavender smiled a touch sadly. “We’ve all been silly teenage girls with crushes. Some of us got over it, but you,” she crouched down by Romilda’s side, “you’re so determined to make yourself known that you’re forgetting about that girl who was resourceful enough to smuggle in a love potion and then hide it in a box of chocolates. You have brains, Romilda, just use them with a bit more purpose than trying to wreck people’s lives.”
“Use my powers for good, you mean!” Romilda scoffed and started to laugh. When neither Lavender nor Blaise joined in, she stared at them. “Ginny was about to confess to something. Doesn’t Harry have a right to know what she’s really like?”
“Is it really your call to decide that?” Blaise asked slowly. He was sitting on the arm of the chair now, his wand across his legs. “Sometimes it’s better not to know the truth.”
“Harry is happy,” Lavender added, “blissfully so. He finally has the family he’s craved all his life, yet you want to cause him more pain.” She walked across to the door and unlocked it. “You should go now. I’ll tell Preston you had food poisoning or something. He can use my article, instead.”
Realising that all was lost, her evidence had come to nothing, and Lavender had won, Romilda left. She walked through the marquee, taking in the sights. The guests were seated back at their tables, and Arthur was in the middle of his speech, fluffing his lines and laughing in a self-deprecating manner. Romilda stared at Harry who was smiling at his father-in-law. Ginny was holding Harry’s hand, leaning into him, and whispering something in his ear, love shining out of her eyes.
She saw George sitting next to Angelina. He looked happier now, relaxed, and more like the boy he’d been at Hogwarts.
Finally, her eyes sought out Dean. Their eyes met and he raised his pint to her. ‘Thank you,’ he mouthed, and smiled at her as he gestured for her to join him and Seamus. She did not deserve his gratitude, did not deserve to be here at all. Feeling tears sting her eyes, Romilda turned and walked away.
Much later, after Lavender had sent through her copy to McLaggen, she lay in bed with Blaise.
“So, are you going to tell me what did happen between Ginny and Dean?” he asked as he topped up her glass.
She took a sip, savouring the rich flavour of the wine. “Nice try, Zabini, but it’ll take more than a posh bottle of plonk to make me grass.”
“You know the truth though?”
Lavender sighed. Placing her glass on the bedside cabinet, she sat up and pulled her nightshirt around her. “I know a version of it,” she admitted.
He raised one eyebrow. “Whose? Ginny’s or Dean’s?”
She smiled sadly and then leant forward to whisper, “Harry’s.”