“Something interesting in the corridor, James?” Skeeter asked, still looking back over her shoulder.
“No, ma’am,” James answered perhaps a bit too quickly, unable to completely hide the laughter in his voice.
She slid an eye slowly back at him, her head still turned toward the door. Impatient now, she slipped off her perch and stalked to the compartment door, shuttling it noisily open. She glanced along the corridor in one direction, and then the other. James watched, waiting for her to capture whoever it was that was putting on the private performance. Instead, she merely glanced back at him from the doorway, her eyes narrowed, as if she expected him of goading her somehow. Clearly, whoever James’ secret entertainers were, they were no longer present in the carriage. Again, Skeeter composed her features, closed the door much more gently than she’d opened it, and returned to the table, now merely leaning on it.
“A lot of wizarding families,” she said, ignoring the interruption, “struggle with accepting the idea that their children might choose to pursue vocations in the Muggle world. One doesn’t need to be of strictly pureblood heritage to see that many would view this as a step down, a denial of one’s magical traditions. Do you agree with those of your generation who believe that such attitudes are outdated and prejudiced? An outmoded view based on obsolete stereotypes?”
“Look, if you just want me to repeat a bunch of handbill slogans and Progressive Element posters, I can find one and just read it to you,”
James said, his annoyance finally overriding his sense of propriety.
“There are usually three or four of them on the notice boards, next to the Wanted Witch posters for Petra Morganstern. You don’t need to talk to me to find the stuff you want to hear.”
Skeeter’s expression of smug victory was just barely hidden beneath a mask of wounded shock. “Why James, I’ve no idea what you are getting at. I’m merely asking you to respond to the concerns of the day, the concerns that you and your classmates are most affected by—”
“The concerns you most want to pump up to make people as angry and afraid as possible,” James interrupted, rolling his eyes. “Sure.
Fine. So maybe a bunch of centaurs and giants and beasts will break out of their weakened boundaries and run through the Muggle streets.
Maybe the old wizarding families are chock full of stuffy, backwards elitists who think the Muggles are all lower class rabble unworthy of their marvelous magical kids. And maybe none of it matters because Undesirable Number One, Petra Morgantstern, will soon wipe us all out with some all new… doomsday… thingie…” He threw his hands up, growing flustered, but not losing his head of steam. “What are you doing about any of it? Getting people all in a lather? Selling fear and worry and suspicion like candy? Even if all that stuff is true, all you’re doing is making it worse. People like my dad and Merlin and Denniston Dolohov are working to make it better. But you’re just adding to the problems. You’re piling rubbish on the people trying to make a difference. And you,” he shook his head, suddenly realizing that he’d said far more than intended, not quite wishing he hadn’t, but knowing he probably soon would. He drew a deep breath and blew it out, deflating slightly. “You have the gall to stand there and look all superior about it.”
Behind Skeeter, the Snape, Dumbledore, and Voldy Hufflepuppets applauded, flailing their limp hands wildly but silently, seeming to leap up and down behind the glass window. James saw them and felt his cheeks redden in mingled anger and embarrassment. He’d had an audience for his final outburst. This reminded him, of course, that soon enough that audience would encompass most of the magical world.
“Thank you, James,” Skeeter smiled indulgently at him as the Quick-Quotes Quill finally finished recording his diatribe on the notebook behind her. “I think we’re done here. Good day.”
When James exited the compartment feeling prickly and disgruntled and yet somehow perversely satisfied, leaving Skeeter to pack up her Quill and notebook, he was bemused to see no sign of the Hufflepuppet Pals or their puppeteers. There was, however, a folded note lying on the floor of the corridor, flashing in the flickering sunbeams as the train passed through dense forest. His name was printed on the front in small, flowing script. He stooped to grab it, thankful that Skeeter hadn’t decided to accompany him back to his compartment, although even he knew how unlikely that was.
As he walked, nearly fleeing the staff carriage en route to his own, he unfolded the parchment and read the short note.
Good on you, James! You put that obnoxious twit in her place. Thank us later for the well-timed distractions.
Your friend,
Millie and the HufflePuppet Pals
James frowned at the note, blinking. He knew who Millie was.
Millicent Vandergriff was a Hufflepuff seventh-year with whom he’d had a few passing interactions over the last few years. Blonde and willowy with a surprisingly silly, quick wit, she had dated Graham Warton briefly late last term, breaking up with him after only a few weeks and leaving him in a morosely dejected mood for days. James knew almost nothing more about her.
Shrugging, curious about Millie but dreading the article that would likely appear in the next few days in the Daily Prophet, James refolded the note and stuffed it into his robe pocket.
Considering how everything could have gone if puppet Voldy and Dumbledore and Snape-a-doodle hadn’t shown up when they did, he decided that he did probably owe Millie and her friends his thanks the next time he saw them.
When James returned to his compartment, Albus and Ralph were tensely focused over Ralph’s traveling chess set, upon which Albus’ few remaining red pieces were dejectedly mounting a hopeless but stubborn defense against Ralph’s ivory army. Lily had left to find her friends elsewhere on the train, and Rose was buried in a thick new book.
James plopped onto his seat, thankful that no one was immediately asking about his interview with Rita Skeeter. For a minute, he watched the trees and fields sweep past outside the train.