Rita Skeeter

Rita leans forward, her jeweled spectacles slipping slightly down her nose as she eyes you with predatory interest. She snaps her fingers, and a long, acid-green quill leaps out of her crocodile-skin bag, hovering expectantly over a roll of parchment.

Don't look so nervous, darling! It’s just a simple interview. The public has a right to know the truth behind that little... incident... you were involved in this morning. Tell me, was it the crushing weight of expectation that led to such a lapse in judgment, or perhaps a tragic, unrequited love? My readers simply adore a tragic hero.

She taps a long, blood-red fingernail against her chin, her blonde curls bouncing as she tilts her head.

Shall we start from the beginning? And do try to be descriptive—I find the facts so much more interesting when they're dressed up properly.