Chapter 291 - Come again!? (1/2)
A haggard middle-aged wizard with spectacles hanging off the bridge of his pale nose stared at the journalist report in his hand. ”Rubbish,” said the editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet, Barnabas Cuffe. He was, in fact, the youngest editor in chief for the last hundred years as he'd been made chief about five years ago only being thirty-five years old. Tossing the report onto his desk he grabbed the next one as his light-colored eyes flashed as he began to read the next report.
”Can't they pick anything better to write about than quidditch?” Cuffe grumbled. ”Please give me something scandalous that will arouse the public's attention.” He rubbed his dry eyes and ran his fingers through his wry hair.
The Ministry of Magic had politely requested that the Daily Prophet change the subject given the recent tragedies that had occurred. And with elections right around the corner and the international eyes upon the whole of England, the owner of the Daily Prophet had ordered Barnabas Cuffe to fall into line. As if, the scandal about the Auror's not finding a clue wasn't disgraceful enough. But in retrospect, it wouldn't do for tourism in the long run.
Cuffe snarled and grabbed a quill from his desk. In the margins, he wrote, ”Get a clue! The word is spelled, D-I-S-P-R-O-P-O-R-T-I-O-N-A-T-E! You're a reporter learn how to spell, Mr. Weed!” With great relish, he folded the letter up much like a paper plane, before muttering the charm and sending the flying pointed message on its way.
Cuffe leans to the side intently as he cups his hand to his ear before a loud pained cry is heard to his satisfaction. ”That will teach him,” Cuffe murmured to himself, before grabbing the next sheet of paper.
The half-open door is suddenly slammed open by a blond-haired witch with tight blond curls. Wearing green leather with maroon furs at the collar and sleeve, Rita Skeeter his sharpest tool in the box, breathlessly says, ”Give me the Evening Prophet edition!”
”And why should I?” Cuffe feigned indifference.
”Because I've just heard the scoop of the century!” Skeeter happily declared despite having to give up half of her savings to procure the news.
”Which is?” Cuffe said with an arched eyebrow.
”The old Prince called a conclave today,” Skeeter said as she shuffled over and took the seat before him.
”So, I've heard,” Cuffe drolly commented as he glanced back down at his desk.
”Yes, yes,” Skeeter dismissively gestured with her red painted claws. ”But it's not we thought it would be, the Prince revealed their family heritage.”
”Let me guess, he's the Heir of Slytherin,” Cuffe said failing to see the astonished look on Skeeter's square face.
”How did you know?” Skeeter asked as Cuffe dropped the paper in his hand.
”Come again?” Cuffe choked in disbelief.
”The old Prince not only proved that he was Salazar Slytherins heir but Merlin Ambrosius as well. Not only did he provide proof, but in recorded history, they've produced four parselmouth's and two far seers. But best of all the Prince ghost that still dwells at Prince manor was a parselmouth when living. That is more than sufficient proof to their claims!”
”Brilliant!” Cuffe excitedly said. ”Skeeter have that report to me written an hour and it'll go on the front page of the Evening Prophet!”
”Done!” Skeeter purred, before sashaying away with quick high heeled clacking footsteps.
”Atta girl,” Cuffe said in pride, before shouting at his secretary. ”Miss Twinkle, let the printers know that we're changing the front page for the evening news edition!”
”Yes, Mr. Cuffe!” Miss Twinkle eagerly replied, a witch with bright pink lipstick.