Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Early in her career, Rita Skeeter had bribed two dwarf security guards, disguised herself as a cleaner, and spent three hours hiding in a toilet cubicle for a chance to interview the wizard who owned the Firebolt broom factory. Screwed to the inside of the cubicle door had been a small brass plaque bearing the factory's slogan: Productivity is everything. The words had been right at eye level, presumably so the Firebolt workers could read them while they used the facilities. Rita had had plenty of time to consider the slogan herself as she sat there with her feet wedged against the wall, and by the time she'd heard footsteps and leapt out to ambush the unsuspecting factory owner at a urinal, she'd decided there must be a kernel of truth in it. Anyone who could afford to install gold-plated toilets in his lavatories had to be doing something right.

Since then, she'd tried to make every day a productive one, whether that meant mentally writing one story while she took notes for another, inviting the opposing sides of a bitter feud to be interviewed at the same time (a practice that often generated wonderful quotes as the curses and hexes flew), or bypassing interviews altogether and just making the whole damned story up herself. Today had been especially fruitful: she had spoken to six Hogwarts students, including a spoilt-looking blond boy and a fat little pudding with a toad that kept trying to hop away; had an early lunch at the Three Broomsticks; and capped off the afternoon by nipping into Gladrags and buying new dress robes in ruffled violet silk.

I'll have to change my nails to match, she thought, inspecting a handful of scarlet talons while her quill danced merrily across a notepad on the bench beside her. It had already filled several pages; the blond boy, in particular, had had a lot to say about his schoolmates, his lessons, and his teachers. That giant oaf and the old maniac, he'd called them, waving his arms with such wild abandon that he'd nearly hit his big brute of a friend in the head. Rita knew without having to be told that the "maniac" was Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, the retired Auror whom Dumbledore had called upon for mysterious reasons this year. She'd spied upon Moody once already, buzzing gently outside his barred and bolted window while he fussed with the locks of his trunk. She found him quite fascinating, really - that unnatural eye whirling around, and the mangled profile of his nose and chin -

Suddenly inspired, she snatched up pad and quill and began scribbling by hand. What dark history lies in the map of scars on "Mad-Eye" Moody's craggy face? This reporter can only wonder -

"Actually, I like to think of it as more rugged than craggy," said a raspy voice just in front of her.

Rita was rarely caught off guard, but this made her jump and drop her notepad. Moody already had his wand in hand; he waved it, and the pad sprang back into her lap.

"So that eye can see through paper?" she asked, recovering herself in professional style. "What else can it do?"

"I'll tell you if you tell me why you're sitting in the Hogsmeade village square, writing about my 'dark history,'" he said. His lopsided shape loomed in front of her like a monument to some unspeakable god, swathed in a cloak against the cold autumn mist. The magical eye swiveled to stare at her, and she realized suddenly that if he'd seen through her notepad, he could probably see right through her clothes as well. The idea filled her with a strange, molten warmth.

"Just doing my job," she said, sticking her quill behind one ear and crossing her legs to make the long slit in her skirt fall open a bit more, just in case he couldn't see what was underneath. "Making sure people know the truth."

Moody threw back his head and laughed. "The truth? You'd faint if you knew the truth about me, woman. That's a fact."

"I doubt that," said Rita, with a certain amount of pride. "I've heard a lot of stories. Nothing surprises me anymore."

"Oh really?" Moody's eye lingered on her exposed thigh with obvious intent, then rolled right up and into the back of his head, apparently focusing on the door of the Three Broomsticks across the street. "Looks like the kids have drunk up Madam Rosmerta's stock of butterbeer and moved on. Suppose I buy you something stronger and tell you a few things that'll surprise you?"

Rita nearly had to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream of delight. What an article she could make out of this man! Lurid tales of fighting Death Eaters ... a catalogue of his injuries ... perhaps even a quote or two about grooming young Potter for the Triwizard Tournament. And if she played her cards right -

"And after we're done, then what?" she asked.

Moody shrugged. "Who knows?"

Another trickle of warmth ran through her, coupled with a pleasant sense of danger - he was an unknown quantity after all, a former Auror who must have done all sorts of dreadful things in his life. It was terribly exciting, really. And she was no stranger to afternoon trysts, whether in the pursuit of a story or for other, more personal reasons.

She held out her hand.

"I haven't told you my name. I'm Rita Skeeter -"

"I know who you are," said Moody. His own hand shot out, and he pulled her to her feet as if she were a paper doll, letting her notepad fall to the pavement again. Suddenly they were face to face, close enough for her to feel his breath on her cheek, and she looked into his normal eye instead of his magical one for the first time. There was something wild and terrifying in its depths, something that made all her warmth turn to ice in an instant.

The false eye's not his mad-eye, she thought. This one is.

"Let's go," Moody said, jerking his head in the direction of the Three Broomsticks.

Over the years, Rita had developed a well- tuned sense of self-preservation that had saved her skin more than once. Now it was screaming at her to get away from Alastor Moody as quickly as possible. There was pleasant danger, and then there was the sort of danger that led to headlines the next day - nasty ones that said things like Celebrated Reporter Vanishes Mysteriously. And as much as Rita loved a good story, she had no desire to become the subject of one.

She forced her mouth into a false smile, wide enough to show her gold teeth, and took a big step back.

"On second thought," she said, "I just remembered that I've scheduled an interview for this afternoon. Very busy, you know ... deadlines and all that ..."

"You don't say."

"Oh yes," said Rita, aware that she was only seconds away from babbling incoherently and hoping that something would happen to stop it. "I've got an interview with - with - Cedric! Cedric Diggory!" She had just caught sight of the young man rounding a corner with his pretty black-haired girlfriend. They were laughing together, as if sharing a private joke, but stopped short when they saw Rita waving at them like an out-of-control semaphore.

"There you are!" she shrieked. "Stay right there!" Please don't go before I can get to you!

"Oh, Cedric, do we have to?" the girl asked plaintively as Rita scooped up her notepad and crocodile-skin bag.

"Just for a minute - I don't want to be rude," the boy said.

"Wellit''vegottorun," said Rita to Moody, and legged it toward the two teenagers as fast as she could.

"Cedric!" she said as she arrived, out of breath, at Diggory's side. "This is lovely, just lovely. I've been wanting to talk to you for ever so long - and you too, of course," she added, glancing over the girl's shoulder at the square. There were a few wizards hurrying along with parcels under their arms, and an old woman in a hairnet and slippers carrying a pair of Kneazles in a cage, but not a large, cloaked shape in sight. Moody had disappeared, so quickly that he must have Apparated. The reporter in Rita wondered briefly where he had gone. The woman who had just had a narrow escape told the reporter to shut up and count her blessings.

"Well then," Rita said, turning back to Diggory with a smile she did not have to force. "I think I'll just walk right along with you two and listen to what you have to say about the Triwizard Tournament. Of course it's really a sort of Quadwizard Tournament now, isn't it? How do you feel about that? It must be hard having to share the spotlight with the Boy Who Lived ...

Diggory turned red, and Rita's smile grew wider. Fumbling in her lacquered curls, she plucked her trusty quill from behind her ear and flipped open her notepad. Perhaps it was not too late to squeeze a bit more productivity out of the day.