The Legacy of Salazar

Gifts and Deals

As it turned out, Dumbledore couldn't hold back the press forever. Merlin had already decided with Silas not to talk to them due to the sheer number of things Merlin didn't want the magical community to know. Like the dragons, or how someone might figure out that Whomping Willow couldn't actually be used as wand wood. And anyway, the press had a reputation for skewing the facts.

Rita Skeeter being the chief culprit.

She turned up at the ice cream shop a few days later, a hungry glint in her eyes. Merlin had been sitting in one of the side booths, doing his history of magic homework when she walked inside. Somehow it was easier for him to concentrate when he had a wash of noise around him. Silas, on the other hand, focused better in quiet and had stayed up in the flat.

"Ah, and you must be Merlin."

Rita Skeeter didn't even bother waiting for him to respond. The blonde woman took a seat across from him, an acid green quill and notepad flying out of her crocodile-skin handbag. She smiled widely, bright cherry-coloured lipstick throwing her teeth into sharp contrast, and it somehow came off as feral rather than pleasant. Even though he hadn't yet replied, the quill was already scribbling away.

He raised his eyebrow. "And you are—?" he asked, even though he knew perfectly well who she was.

Her smile bordered on the too wide. "I'm Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent for the Daily Prophet." Her eyes darted to the scroll of parchment in front of him. "And you're already doing your homework; my, you are fastidious."

Merlin snorted. The quill danced across the notepad.

"Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?" she asked when the silence started to drag.

He knew he would mind when her article came out. "I can't discuss the case until it's over."

Skeeter waved her hand. Several gold rings with assorted gems glinted in the afternoon light. "Oh, the readers already know all about the case. They want to know about you."

"Yeah, I don't—"

"Is everything all right, here?" Florean had spotted the pair of them, and Merlin had to say that the man had impeccable timing. He stood opposite Skeeter, regarding her with curt politeness. "Can I help you, Mrs Skeeter?"

Her attention snapped to him and her quill jotted something else down. "Just having a friendly word with young Merlin here. You are his guardian, are you not?"

Florean nodded. Skeeter returned her gaze to Merlin. "Where did you stay before you came into this lovely gentleman's care?"

Maybe a few answers would satisfy her for now. Vague answers.

"Muggle London."

"Do you like living with Mr Fortescue?"

"Yes."

"What happened to your parents?"

Merlin frowned. "Take a wild guess," he shot, though as soon as he'd said it he had a feeling he might regret that one. He shook his head. Time to stop this before he did some real damage. "I don't really want to answer any more questions, Mrs Skeeter."

She looked surprised. "Everyone's just curious about who you are, Merlin. The boy who stood up to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and all that."

"Great for them." He smirked. "I like my privacy."

"But—"

Florean cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I must ask you to leave, Mrs Skeeter." His tone left no room for argument. "If Merlin changes him his mind, he will send you an owl."